Then thir finishin thair drinks, oan Squiggly’s instructions, n movin away, n Nicky looks sadly at me, n says, — Ah feel bad us leavin ye here, Danny –
— C’mon, Nicky! Squiggly shouts.
— It’s awright, ah’ll catch up wi the boys ower oan the Walk, thi’ll be in the Cenny or the Spey or the Volley or somewhaire like that, inching upwards taewards toon and oblivion, man. You ken, the usual circuit.
She smiles, n her n Ali baith sais cheerio. They aw head oaf, leavin ma hert in a million pieces. It’s shite when birds take a shine tae ye, but as a mate. Happens tae me aw the time; pure cast in the role ay the nice guy that they dinnae want tae ride. Ah’d love tae play the bastard that they bang senseless, but the likes ay Sick Boy’s goat that market sortay cornered in this neck ay the woods, ken?
So ah’m headin doon Gordon Strasse tae cut fae Easter Road oantae the Walk, and as ah’m crossin ower the grand thoroughfare ah clocks two boys leavin the Volley n headin up the street quite sharpish. Next thing ah ken is that Begbie’s ootside behind them, shoutin eftir them, — Youse cunts want a fuckin photae?
Uh-aw … puppies, kittens n bunnies … puppies, kittens n bunnies …
The boys turn roond n look the Beggar Boy up and doon. One’s a bit feart, he’s a chubby boy, n young, but still sortay spamy-heided. The other gadge’s goat the swagger, but, wi this killer glare comin oot fae under that that flouncy light broon hair. This laddie isnae a closet poof, frontin it fir aw he’s worth; thaire’s evil intent in they eyes. — You wir muckin ma sister aboot …
Domestic affairs, man. So ah’ve crossed the road n ah’m alongside Begbie. Goat tae at least provide moral support likesay. The Beggar Boy’s ma mate; besides, ah huv tae see him nearly every day, unlike those stranger dudes. Baith the feral and fat domestic cat glance at us, n baith seem tae decide that ah’ll mibbe no make much ay a difference. Cannae sortay really argue wi that likes.
No that the Beggar Boy’s actin like he needs assistance. — Ah’ve mucked a few cunts’ sisters aboot, he laughs. He turns tae me n goes, — If thir game thir gittin banged, right? Then back tae the boy, — You goat a fuckin problem wi that, cunty-baws?
Well, ye kin see that this cat really hates his sister at this point in time, man, wishin that the lassie had gied her hole tae anybody but Franco or hud swallayed the auld Jack n Jill wi her cup ay English Breakfast that fateful morning, ken? Fair play tae the gadge but, he takes a step forward n says, — Ah dinnae think you ken whae yir fuckin aboot wi here!
Aw naw, man, ah feel ma eyes quiver n water like thaire’s grit in thum. Ah’m wonderin: whaire’s the rest ay the boys?
But Franco stands his groond, in fact ye kin tell he’s chuffed tae fuck, cause that cat jist loves a row n they boys huv sortay played intae his swipey, swipey paws. — See the fuckin jealousy ay some cunts, eh, Spud? Ah’ve jist been gittin you boys’ sloppy seconds, or so yir hoor ay a sister fuckin well says!
That does the trick: the radge boy flips oot n runs up n swings at Franco, hittin him on the shoodir. Begbie gits a hook in at his side, and the boy thinks he’s been punched, but ah see the glint, n his next blow’s square intae the laddie’s gut, which stops um in his tracks. As he looks doon at the blood soakin his blue shirt, the gadge’s face is frozen in horror. Begbie’s pocketed the blade but he’s jist standin thaire, coolly appraisin his work, like a foreman oan a site checkin the quality ay the job. The chubby boy comes forward n ah’m movin slowly taewards him, but wi ma hands oot, cause it’s a square-go n thaire’s need for us tae go at it …
Uh-aw …
But now Tommy n some ay the boys have come oot, and Tommy runs up and smacks fatboy in the chops. — Git the fuck up the road, fir yir ain good, he sais, then as the boy staggers away, hudin his burst mooth, Tommy looks at the other gadge bleedin, n jumps oot intae the Walk and flags doon a taxi.
The cab stops and Tommy is sortay escortin the chibbed psycho boy intae it, telling um, — Git that seen tae right away, the gut’s no that bad, but the side yin, he might huv hit an organ, and ah’m worried, man, now thit ye kin see the fear oan the boy’s face, he disnae look mental now, jist a scared laddie, as Tam’s shuttin the door behind um, n the cab speeds oaf.
The chunky, spammy gadge is staggerin up the Walk, hudin his face as he looks back. We’re aw laughin, then git back intae the pub. Ye kin tell, though, that Tommy’s pissed oaf wi Begbie. Eventually he says, — What wir ye fuckin thinking aboot, bringin oot a fuckin chib in the Walk? Thaire wis nae need. They came in here, clocked us, n they didnae fancy the odds.
— Wisnae gaunny go swedgin wi the cunt in the fuckin Walk, wis ah? Franco sneers. — So ah jist plunged the radge a couple ay times, gie um something tae fuckin well think aboot oan the wey hame, eh?
The gadge makes it aw sound so reasonable.
Tommy’s bitin doon oan his bottom lip. — Well, we’ll huv tae move oan and you’ll need tae sling that chib in case the polis come roond.
— It’s a fuckin barry chib but, Franco protests, — best bit ay Sheffield ah’ve hud in fuckin yonks, so he turns tae an auld boy whae’s on the wey oot, — Jack, goan take this hame wi ye n ah’ll git it oaf ye the morn.
— Nae bother, son, the auld gadge sais, poakitin the blade and shufflin oot ay the pub.
— All solved, Begbie smiles. — Calls fir a wee peeve. He turns tae the bar. — Les, nips ay Grouse aw roond, then, hen! Yin fir yersel n aw, princess!
As Lesley nods and starts firin up the shorts, Tommy’s shakin his heid. — Fuckin madness, he goes.
Nelly’s hearin nane ay it, but. — Franco’s fuckin right. It’s between him n the burd, these cunts should have kept thair fuckin nebs oot, faimlay or nae faimlay. Consentin fuckin adults. Cunts start tae make it thair problem, we make it oor fuckin problem.
— Too fuckin right, Franco goes. — The wey things ur gaun these days, ye cannae fuckin well hud back. Cunts jist try n take the fuckin pish if ye dae but, eh?
Tommy sees thit thaire’s nowt tae be gained in discussin it further. — Cunt’s face wis a treat gittin intae that taxi, right enough.
Franco slaps um oan the back as Lesley lines up the nips. Ah’m no really wantin whisky, rum would suit me, bein mair ay seafarin man ay the port, but the Generalissimo’ll get humpty if ah refuse. — That wis good thinkin but, Tam, he says, — gittin that fucker intae the taxi. Dinnae want him bleedin up n doon the Walk, drawin polis eyes.
— That’s what ah thoat: git the cunt oot the road.
— Anywey, Nelly goes, passin the nips around, — cheers.
We aw toast Franco n that awfay whisky burns like a poker as it goes doon, but it leaves a nice wee glow. Ye kin feel it whin ye git outside.
N we head up tae Tommy Younger’s en route tae Edinburgh, aw buzzed up, n it’s the same excitement that ah used tae feel when ah goat up fir work oan a good mornin at the furniture deliveries, where ye wondered if ye were gaunny dae a big run, maybe up tae Perth or even Inverness or somewhere like that, or if it wis jist gaunny be local, and aw the laughs ye’d huv wi the boys. Now thaire’s nowt like that, nae work fir the unskilled man like me. But this feels good, no chibbin boys likes, Tam’s right, Franco’s oot ay order, but bein part ay a team, huvin somethin tae talk aboot, a tale tae tell. Cause wi aw need that; wi aw need something tae dae n a tale tae tell.
Freedom
THEY SAY THAT freedom never came free. My grant’s soon tae be abolished and made intae a loan, then it’s game over. Fuck accruin arrears ye’ll never be able tae pey oaf. Might as well have a baw n chain fastened tae yir ankle aw yir puff. When the likes ay Joanne and Bisto get hitched, become teachers or local government officers, they’ll spend the rest ay their lives rackin up shitloads ay debt; student loans, mortgages, car payments. Then they’ll look back on it aw, n see they were fuckin conned.
Why should the future matter? Ah’ve got my ain place, a lassie wi her ain place, even if we kip ower at each other’s aw the time. Sitting in the college library thegither
, debating, discussing our assignments, sourcing texts for each other, until we go back to her book-filled wee room or mine. We cook for each other; she’s got me into vegetarianism, which ah’ve been interested in for a while. Ah like meat, but unless ye kin afford really decent stuff it’s just fuckin poison. Fuck eatin aw that processed shite they pit in pies and fast food.
Most importantly, we shag at least twice a day. It’s proper sex, relaxed and unhurried, no done on the sly. The sublime luxury ay removin aw yir clathes and no rushin tae put them back oan again. It strikes me that although I’ve shagged eighteen girls, Fiona’s the only yin that’s really seen us naked for any length ay time. Even now ah still feel as if some cunt’s gaunny intrude. Ah have tae keep telling masel: take yir fuckin time.
But afterwards, when ah’m in her airms, like now, ah feel like ah’m trapped in a vice. Ah want tae get up, tae go oot for a walk. — You’re so restless, Mark, she says. — Why can’t ya evah relax?
— Ah kind ay fancy a wee walk.
— But it’s freezin outside.
— Still but. Might go tae the shops. Get some stuff fir a stir-fry.
— You go, she says dreamily, loosening her embrace, turning and fighting her way back intae sleep.
And ah’m intae my clathes and oot the door. How can ye explain tae somebody ye love that ye still need mair? How dae ye dae that? Love is supposed tae provide aw the answers, tae gie us everything. All you need is love. It’s fuckin bullshit though: ah need something, but it isnae love.
The communal phone in the residences’ corridor is inviting. There’s usually a mad Greek burd on it aw the time, spraffin fir ooirs. But now it’s free, so ah call Sick Boy at Monty Street. He was up in court the other day, giein evidence. He answers, aw chary, — Whae’s this?
— Mark. Call us back, the pips ur gaunny go, and ah shout oot the number, then again, as the line goes deid.
Sure enough, the Greek lassie appears, ghostin doon the institutional white corridor. Pus as tense as a plate at her sister’s weddin. — You are going to use the phone?
— Aye, somebody’s just calling me back.
She tuts loudly, cheeky fuckin monopolisin hoor, but sits doon on one ay the row ay three seats n pulls oot a book.
A minute later the phone rings. — Awright, Rents. Nae fuckin change, ya tight cunt?
— Naw … they phones just eat it up. How did it go up the coort?
— As bad as it possibly could have. A fuckin nightmare. As soon as I walked in and saw the coupon oan that judge, I thought: this isnae gaunny play oot well. Me, big Chris Moncur and another guy called Alan Royce aw said roughly the same thing. But it was Dickson’s word against a deid man’s as tae what actually happened. They bought aw his bullshit; an argument, an exchange ay blows, Coke fell, smashed his heid and died. An ordinary assault conviction wi a poxy five hundred quid fine. Nae jail, no even gaunny lose his fuckin licence.
— You are fuckin jokin …
— Wish I was. Janey’s in shock, and wee Maria was greeting and started shouting at them in the court, she had tae be taken oot by her auntie. All the time the judge sat thaire wi that stony, arrogant coupon. Then he went oan aboot drink being the root cause ay this tragic accident, about how landlords continually have hassle fae drunks, and how Coke was a known pissheid … The family are devastated, Mark. I’m telling ye, it was the most fucked-up day of my life …
Sick Boy goes on and on, and although ah never kent Coke well, ah mind that he was always a happy, singing drunk; an occasional string vest, but never violent or aggressive. — The game’s rigged, ah tell him, lookin doon at the Greek bird, who gies us the evil eye ower the top ay her book.
By the time ah put the phone doon ah’m despondent, n head ootside and walk for a bit. The hammering rain has given way tae a pearly mist that wreathes over the city. Ah prowl for ages, the cold slowly biting intae ma face, then get back up tae Fiona, who’s awake n dressed, n ah tell her aboot Coke. She’s talking about how we should get a campaign going, a campaign for justice, on behalf ay an unemployed alkie, against an ex-cop, Freemason and publican, and a High Court judge.
Ah’m listenin tae her gaun oan, indulgin her, aw the time thinkin: That’s no how it works. Then it’s time for her to go. Ah’m meant tae be going ower tae hers later oan the night. Pulling oan her long, brown coat, Fiona places her loving fingertips oan the back ay my neck. Her eyes so serene ye could get lost in them forever. — What time do yer wanna come owah?
As ah consider this simple question, it seems tae widen until it splits ma thoughts open. What time?
Notes on an Epidemic 3
IN 1827, THOMAS SMITH, a graduate of Edinburgh University’s renowned medical school, took over his brother William’s pharmacy. They started manufacturing fine chemicals and medicines prepared from plant sources. Ten years later, they would turn to alkaloids, particularly morphine, which they began to extract from opium.
John Fletcher Macfarlan, an Edinburgh surgeon, had taken over an apothecary’s shop in 1815, establishing a substantial trade in laudanum. Later he made morphine, for which demand rose due to the development of the hypodermic needle. This increased the drug’s effectiveness by allowing its direct injection into the bloodstream. Macfarlan’s trade subsequently flourished and he also made anaesthetics (ether and chloroform) as well as surgical dressings. In 1840 he opened a factory and by the 1900s J.F. Macfarlan & Co. had become one of the largest suppliers of alkaloids in the country.
Both businesses continued to develop through takeovers and acquisitions, and in 1960, they merged to form Macfarlan Smith Ltd. The company was taken over by the Glaxo group in 1963. It still employs over two hundred workers at its plant in Wheatfield Road, in the city’s Gorgie district.
The heroin that flooded the streets of Edinburgh in the early 1980s was widely believed to have been sourced from opiate-based products manufactured at the plant, through breaches of security. When these security issues were resolved, the huge local demand for heroin was satiated by cheap Pakistani product, which by this time had flooded into the rest of the UK. Conspiracy theorists point out that this glut of heroin importation occurred shortly after the widespread rioting of 1981, in many poorer areas of Britain, which was given most notable media attention in Brixton and Toxteth.
It Never Rains …
JANEY CAN’T SAY she wisnae warned; you’d need tae have been on Mars no tae have noticed that the Tories were cracking down on benefit fraud. So the courts make an example ay her. After issuing the six-month sentence, the judge describes himself as ‘only being moved to leniency’ by her tragic circumstances. He isnae the same yin who’d let her husband’s murderer off with the fine.
That panicked bovine-to-slaughterhouse expression as they cart her away! She’s begging them, imploring those stone faces to exhibit some kind ay mercy. The do-gooding, legal-aid vegetarian they appointed tae defend her looks almost as traumatised as Janey, and is probably already thinking aboot a career in company law. Maria, by my side, is once again in disbelieving tears. — They cannae … they cannae … she dumbfoundedly repeats. Elaine, her auntie and Janey’s sister-in-law, a thin, bloodless woman who looks like a kitchen knife, dabs at her eyes with a snot-rag. Thankfully Grant, as with Dickson’s trial, is kept oot ay the court, ensconced doon in Nottingham with Janey’s brother, Murray.
I never thought it would work out like this. I’m quivering myself, as ah escort a lifeless Maria and Elaine intae Deacon Brodie’s Tavern on the Royal Mile. The pub is like an annexe ay the court a couple ay doors along, full ay criminals and the odd barrister, and mair than a few tourists wondering how they’ve stumbled intae this weirdness.
Ah’ve set up a wee too risky for myself and Elaine, wi a Coke for Maria, who, tae our surprise, quickly throws one ay the nips back.
— What are ye daein? You shouldae even be in here, ah tell her, looking aroond, scanning the joint, as Elaine says something insipid in her East Midlands accent.
Maria sits in the high
-backed seat, smouldering wi rage. — Ah’m no gaun back tae Nottingham! Ah’m steyin here!
— Maria … loove … Poor Not-ink-goom, Elaine begs.
— Ah telt ye ah’m fuckin steyin! And she seizes the empty glass, her knuckles gaun white as she tries tae crush it in her hand.
— Let her stay here for a few days, at my mother’s, I urge the bemused Auntie Elaine, and then murmur, — then I’ll talk her intae goin back down on the train. Once she’s a wee bitty calmer.
You can see a spark ignite in the sister-in-law’s lifeless, beady eyes. — If it’s no trooble …
It isnae exactly like cold-calling tae flog double glazing on a Barratt estate. Ah don’t think Maria has been a particularly endearing house guest. Any roads, it’s time tae get the fuck ootay here. As we head down the Mound to Princes Street, Maria’s a wreckage; spewing vitriol about Dickson through her tears, causing passers-by tae steal furtive glances at us. We accompany the insubstantial, anaemic Elaine back tae the bus station, and watch her gratefully climb on the National Express coach. Maria’s standing there on the concourse as the bus pulls away, arms again folded across her breasts, looking at me as if tae say, ‘What now?’
I’m no taking her tae my mother’s place. Too much disruption wi their recent move. We jump in a taxi and head back tae her now parentless parental home. Of course, ah ken the best way tae get her tae dae something is tae simply suggest the opposite. — Ye huv tae go back tae Nottingham, Maria. It’ll only be for a few months, till yir ma gets oot.
— Ah’m no gaun back! Ah need tae see muh ma! Ah’m gaun naewhaire till ah git that fuckin Dickson!
— Well, ah suggest we pick up some stuff fae your place, then head up tae my mother’s.