If You Liked School, You'll Love Work

1. JASON AND SEXUAL JEALOUSY

YA HOOR, SOR; the conversation in this place wid make a pornographer blush. — You ken Big Monty, it’s no as if eh isnae well hung or nowt like that. Eh’d goat a hud ay that crystal meth fae some boy in Edinbury n it wis up like two fuckin cans ay Tennent’s, yin oan toap ay the other; his words, no mine, the Duke ay Musselbury says aw sagely, liftin the pint ay Guinness tae ehs lips n takin a swallay. Thir’s a ridge ay foam, or cream as the Porter Brewery chaps in Dublin wid like ye tae think ay it, hingin fae the dirty ginger mowser oan ehs toap lip. Early Seturday n we’re the only cunts in the Goth, wur local boozer. Great place, the Goth, an awfay warm howf, wi aw thon mahogany-coloured wood everywhaire. Thir’s a big screen opposite the bar for the fitba, usually just Scottish (borin, only two teams kin win), or English (worse, only one team kin win), bit they sometimes show Le Liga or the Bundeslegia. Thir’s a big partitioned pool room at the side, surrounded by gless, makin aw the bams in thaire look like goldfish.

No thit thir’s any in the day. The hale high street’s as deid as a Tel Aviv disco flair. Means thit the Duke’s goat a captive audience ay two fir ehs tale. — Bit eh’s cowpin ewey at this piece n she’s no jist takin the fuckin loat, it’s rattlin oan the sides, man! This is yin dirty hoor, wider thin the fuckin Nile, ya cunt. Aye, dinnae talk Mississippi tae me. So eh pills oot n turns ur ower n whaps it tae ur up the fuckin chorus n it’s as tight as a drum n eh’s gittin a decent ride oot ay it at last. The Duke lits oot a wee belch n settles ehs beer oan the bar.

— Phoa, ya cunt, thit ye are, says Neebour Watson, takin oaf ehs silver-framed specs for a wee polish.

The Duke ay Musselbury’s fair shakin yon big, baldy napper ay his; ehs ginger ponytail’s whippin acroass ehs back. — Naw bit, wait till ye hear this: it’s a fuckin total miscall, man, cause this bird’s been oot oan the fuckin peeve fir a few days ehrsel n as soon as ehs fuckin knob’s in her choc-boax aw this diarrhoea’s right under ehs foreskin, like fuckin chip shoap sauce, nippin away at the cherry n that, eh.

Ah sees the Neebour Watson’s eyes starin tae water under they specs, fair cascadin away n aw: like the contents ay a hoor’s gash at the end ay a line-up.

— She’s tweakin oan the crystal n aw, the Duke explains, — gaun fuckin mental, n she sais tae um, ‘Ah’ll fuckin bend it, ah’ll fuckin brek it oaf ye,’ n she’s backin intae the cunt n it’s like yon irresistible force n yon immovable object, eh.

— What happened? the Neebour Watson asks, pickin a bit ay crust ootay a nostril. Eh examines it, rolls it, n flicks it oantae the flair ay the Goth.

The Duke’s foreheid wrinkles in distaste. — Well, this is in the hotel, yon yin in Dunfermline thit thuv booked intae. Whit’s it called… glorified knockin shoap… the Prince Malcolm, that’s the yin. So Monty’s that aroused eh batters the gless on the fire alarm panel by mistake wi that fistfil ay sovies oan ehs mitt n it aw goes crazy…

Ya cunt! Ah’m thinkin: The Prince Malcolm Hotel. That’s muh ma’s power base. Works at the reception n everything, wi yon smarmy cunt she’s shaggin, Wee Shitey Drawers Arnie.

—… fuckin polis, fire brigade… the loat. An embarrassin situ fir every cunt. The Duke picks up ehs pint n takes another gulp.

Then the Neebour turns tae ays n goes: — Your ma no work thaire, Jase?

— Aye… ah goes. Wind-up bar steward kens full well what the situ is thaire.

But the Duke ay Musselbury inadvertently spares muh blushes as ehs no wantin the tale tae run away fae him. — So eh’s giein ur the message, the dirty wee hoor. N ken whae it wis? That hoarsey lassie n aw; the doctor’s daughter, her thit steys oot oan the road oot tae Lochgelly. That Lara Grant, eh sais, ehs chin juttin oot. Then ehs tongue lashes oot like a lizard’s, lickin the foam oaf ehs tash like the snaw oafay a car windscreen. My spine goes a bit stiff at this news, but the Duke jist looks slyly at ehs n sais, — Aye, you used tae sniff aroond eftir thon, eh, Kingy?

— Still stalks it, Neebour laughs.

— Jist tae keep muh haund in, ya hoor, ah explains, but it’s like aw yon fuckin oxygen in the Goth Tavern jist burns up cause thirs nane gittin intae ma fuckin lungs any roads. The object ay ma desire n that big ugly cunt Monty… and in muh ma n Wee Shitey Drawers’s fuckin hotel n aw!

This big-moothed baldy ponytailed ginger Duke ay Musselbury cunt wi the yellay teeth n the tash… disnae like bein the bearer ay bad news or nowt like that. — Aye, ah thoat that wis your wee floozy, eh goes tae me.

Well, ah kin feel muh haund tightenin oan yon gless n this cunt is gaunny git it fir spreadin lies, bit ah think, stoap, Jason, stoap n think… it isnae the wey, ye dinnae shoot the messenger.

But no Lara, fir fuck sakes, muh first girlfriend. Well, ah suppose Canadian Alison wis the real first, if wir talking ridin.

— Aye, wir you no knockin her oaf years ago whin ye wir daein the jockeyin? the Neebour enquires, sweetie-wife that eh is. Kin see thon cunt wi a heidsquare oan, up the street at the Premier Bingo, ya hoor sor.

Ah jist nods, — Aye, she’s right intae the showjumpin, so thir wis a mutual interest in the clop-clops, ken?

— Ye cowp it back then? the Duke asks.

— Wi went oot for a bit but she wis jist a wee lassie at the time, ah sais, outraged. Some company’s ye find yirsel in, yir better asking whae shouldnae be oan the register.

— No a wee lassie now but, eh. Pits it aboot big time by aw accoonts.

— Aye, pub accoonts, ah goes.

— Ah dinnae hud wi this virgin-hoor way eh classifyin lassies, Neebour goes, — fundamentally flawed, if ye ask me.

The Duke shakes ehs heid. — At least wi cannae git accused ay that in Fife. Thir aw fuckin hoors, n thir husbands, faithers, boyfriends, brothers n sons n aw!

N wi raise wur glesses in toast. The Kingdom: non-sexist as fuck.

Then the Duke says, — That Lara, but; hings aroond wi Tam Cahill’s lassie.

— Aye, ya cunt, ah goes, — Wee Jenni.

— Ye might no huv rode them but yuv been sniffin aroond enough, the Neebour says. — Hud yir forty wanks oot ay thaime, eh, Jase?

— Mair thin jist forty, ya hoor sor, ah’m in five figures. Hud mair pleasure oot ay they lassies thin any big lyin cunt like Monty, ah goes, drinkin up.

That leads the Neebour oantay some speculation. Eh takes ehs glesses oaf n polishes them n rubs at whaire thuv been indentin intae the side ay ehs neb. — Gits me wonderin whit lassies wid think if they kent thit we spent that much time wankin aboot thum? Aw that effort ay thought and willpower gaun intae creating they carefully constructed scenarios? Aw they fuckin Hollywood porn blockbusters that play in yir heid every other night, wi some dozy wee hoor that works in Greg’s cast as lead lady!

Ah looks at um as ah finishes muh pint. — Ye pit it that wey, ya hoor, thir bound tae be flattered! Fuck sake, ah wid be if ah found oot thit somebody ah barely kent existed wis spending aw that time n effort oan ays! Ah’d shag the cunts oot ay pity!

Neebour shakes ehs heid n pits the specs back oan. — Disnae work that wey, bit. They’d jist think thit ye wir a filthy fuckin perve whae led a sad life. Female sexuality, ya hoor: it’s different goods. It’s aw aboot ethereal forces n that; thaire fuckin frigs. Hoarses n Knights n castle towers n aw that shite. That’s how they posh burds are aw hoarsey types, eh goes, warmin tae ehs theme. Hus tae be said that the Neebour is the fanny expert here, being as eh wis once mairried. — Back at yon skill ah said tae that Irene Carmody lassie, mind ay her?

— A fit yin, as ah recall, ah nod, tryin tae conjure up an image.

Neebour’s face goes sad and doleful. — Tried tae be candid at the pleasure images in ma heid ay her in the buff n in threesomes wi me n yon Andrea McKenzie gied ays. Did ah git complimented oan ma taste n ingenuity? Like fuck. She only telt her faither n the cunt grabbed a hud ay ays outside the chippy n telt ays tae stop making lewd propositions tae his lassie! Some people, Neebour shakes ehs heid again, — think they’d nivir pilled the wire in thir puff.

As entertainin as the sexual politics ay the Central Fife male might be, ah’m fir the oaf.

— Where ye headed, Jase? the Duke asks.

— Might take a wee walk up the street, call intae muh turf accountant.

So ah heads outside intae the fresh air, and sets off doon the main drag.

The toon might huv seen better days but the high street still supports plenty a waterin holes. JJ’s and Wee Jimmie’s are the yins thit ah use, apart fae the Goth, which gits a rep as an auld boys’ pub n it is, ah suppose. N thir’s Partners Bar ower the road; might be a place tae take a burd at night, but no durin the day, no, sor.

Ladbrokes versus Corals, whae’s gaunny git ma cash? Corals is a Hun shop, but the toon’s long hud that sort ay Gers vibe in general, ever since Jim Baxter, accordin tae the auld man. Ah opts for Ladbrokes but thir’s nowt grabbin ays oan the caird. Ah realise thit ah’m starving but, so ah heads outside tae git a scran.

Ah’m huvin ma lunch in the Central Perk café, the one that they named the place in the telly series Friends eftir. Oor yin’s named eftir its proximity tae Central Perk, hame ay the Blue Brazil. Much, much aulder thin thon daft wee New York perk ay the same name.

Ah decides against the chips and peas n opts fir a fried egg and black-pudding roll n a mug ay tea. It’s empty, bar two young lassies wi a bairn in a pram. Funny March day: rainin but also surprisingly hoat. One lassie’s wearin a white anorak, n she takes it oaf n announces tae everybody, — Ah’m roastin wi sweat! The other yin’s jist goat a white cotton top oan n she protests, — What aboot me, but? Ah’m soakin wi rain!

Ah think it might be Soakin Wi Rain’s bairn, cause the waitress lassie goes tae talk tae Roastin Wi Sweat.

Ya cunt, ye couldnae sexualise they lassies wi Timmy Leary’s fuckin stash in ye. Ah only gits the horn oan whin this ridheided wifie wi front protrudin teeth comes in. It’s like some cunt’s tried tae pannel thum fae the inside. Thir’s that many dirty cunts aroond, ah’m thinking mibbe yin ay thum goat carried away wi the fistin, ya hoor sor, n somehow that made ays think aboot Big Monty n Lara.

Goat ays aw aroused n ah hud tae nip intae the bogs at the back ay the shop wi the obligatory ‘For Customers Only’ notice, soas thit ah could huv a wee chug tae masel. Hardly room tae swing a cat bit ah still manage tae bang oaf some paste intae the sink. Ya hoor, strikin a blow fir the oweraroused n undersexed everywhaire!

The heid’s birlin whin ah goes back oot, n the choppers woman’s standin thair lookin at ays, but thirs nae ming comin oot ay the bogs so ah’m awright. Fortunately maist people think thit yir jist daein drugs oan the premises.

Ah gits a T/5 bill and settles up.

Struttin doon yon high street oan a Seturday; creditors tae be avoided, debtors tae be pursued, n how thir nivir the same. Aye, ye find oot yir standin in the food chain in a place like this. The laddie King: constantly flirtin wi relegation, but somewhat above the likes ay Richey the Assaultee, whae ah see headin up the slope tae the station, nae doot huvin jist come oot the New Goth.

Cannae beat this toon though, chips n mushy peas for £1.90, keep ye gaun aw day. Mixed wi a couple ay black golds n even yon Gillian McKeith burd wid be cautious aboot cuttin intae yin ay they logs! Wid she no, but!

But ma egg and black-puddin rolls wi the mug ay tea set ays back £3.05, seriously eatin intae black gold funds. So ah heads ower tae the jobcentre tae check what’s up oan the computer, but thir aw minimum-wage jobs n thir aw nationwide. Thir’s only one thit’s local (if ye count Dunfermline as such which ah dinnae):

It’s 8–5 Monday–Friday wi nae weekend work, temporary fir six weeks. That’s two hundred quid a week before deductions ay tax, national insurance, which leaves 170, which is nae wage at aw. If ah dinnae gie the auld man rent n cut doon oan the black gold n avoid ma creditors (and new debtors) that means ah could save five hundred in six weeks. Ma hairy hole. They say experience no essential as trainin will be given but thill nivir huv a runt like me workin oan a site.

Ah comes out intae a surprisin sun glintin in ma eyes, n the first person ah sees sittin oan the waw is oor disgraced exminister, Jack ‘Jakey’ Anstruther, whae’s indulgin in a fortified wine ay some dubious vintage.

— Jason King! eh shouts at ays. — Any luck in the employment market?

— Naw, Jack, it’s jist no happenin, buddy. Nae vacancies for commie ex-jockeys.

Jakey laughs n the wey that probably causes another few blood vessels in ehs swollen rid coupon tae rupture. That hair’s still stickin up, like yon Don King boxin promoter hoor. Along wi the doolally eyes, it gies um a permanent air ay shock, like a bairn whaes fingers uv located they three wee holes in the waw. The auld coat’s seen better days; mair ripe thin the fruit oan sale at Central Perk merkit. — Funny, son, it’s the same fir commie ex-Church ay Scotland Ministers, eh laughs, hudin the boatil oot tae me.

— Eh, naw, yir awright, Jack, no ma tipple, ah tell um. Dinnae like tae refuse a drink, but ye are what ye peeve n despite ma financial worries ma position as a champion ay the black gold pits ays a guid few notches above the El-D and Buckie boys.

Ah leave the auld man ay the cloth tae ehs fun. Ah clocks wee Jenni leavin the leisure centre, the pride and joy ay the Beath, but like Lara, skilled in snobby St Andrews. Thaire’s a wee yin whae isnae half shaping up, ya hoor! Possibly been daein that Pilates class. That’s at the very same venue whaire ma grudge Scottish Cup tie wi the hoor Mossman will take place. Ya cunt, ah git a check ay thon rounded erse ay hers as it slides intae the front seat ay thon motor. Makes ays gled ay jist emptied the tank or ah’d be tempted tae fire yin oaf in broad daylight!

Instead, ah head back up the street. Ah wince every time ah pass thon Spider’s Web Tattoo Parlour. Saved up like fuck tae git the big hert wi ALISON oan it, jist afore the hoor kicked ays intae touch. The Canada boy, a Lochgelly cunt, hud sponsorship tae the colonial lands, n better prospects wi yon pipe fitter’s papers under ehs belt. Wisnae aw the cunt hud under ehs belt accordin tae her, a contention made in aggression whin oor parting goat a bit heated.

The Clansman’s ower the road, wi thir Crazy Vimto cocktail, or £2.50 fir a WKD Blue wi a shot ay port, n ahm fair tempted, bit that Big Monty jist might be in thaire. Instead ah head intae the bookies n look at the form, hopin tae crack the code tae untold riches.

2. JENNI AND DEATH

I RISE AND move over to my computer and spark it up, checking my emails. One from last night, from Lara, who in any case, is coming round later.

Cocky fucking bitch, but it perfectly encapsulates how I feel, not just about Cowdenbeath, but about this house. I update my blog in MySpace, checking out what some of the usual suspects have been up to. Then I pull on a sweatshirt, leggings and trainers, which are in a sports bag at the foot of the bed, and tiptoe downstairs.

I’d intended to sneak into the little gym and use his cardio equipment. But he was there with his new dog. It was harnessed onto the treadmill and running along. He spends all his time with it. He looks at me, and the dog mirrors his action, glancing sadly from the side. — Just building Ambrose’s legs up, he says, with some guilt. — He’s quite weak for the sort of dog he is.

— Why not just take him outside? I ask him. He looks repulsive and brutish in that vest and those uncool, old man’s tattoos. They’re so thuggish, and devoid of style: a dragon, a skull and crossbones, a saltire and my mother’s name in a scroll.

— He keeps me company when I work out, he says, moving across to the bench press by his multigym. — You’re welcome to join us, he says, noting my tracksuit.

— No… I’m going to the leisure centre.

He shrugs and starts to bench-press his weights. His round face goes an unfeasible crimson shade and his eyes bulge. The dog’s tongue is lashing out as it pants heavily. I find myself wondering which of them will die first. Then I get to thinking: Would I cry at his funeral? Probably. What a depressing thought.

I leave them and get into my Escort and drive down to the centre. I do some stretches, then twenty minutes on the treadmill and another ten on the Stairmaster. I check my weight: ten stone two pounds. A three-pound loss since last week! After a shower I have a coffee, read a section of my novel, Danielle Sloman’s Reluctant Survivor. It’s about a girl, Josephine, who is in a coma following a road-traffic accident. She’s willing them to pull the plug, but the doctors and the family refuse to do so. Now one of the doctors, Steven, has fallen in love with her. Meanwhile, Josephine is recounting her life from her vegetative state, little knowing that her fiancé, Curtis, who was HIV-positive, has perished in the crash. After a while, I drive home.

I have some gym aches so I run myself a bath, remembering that Lara’s coming over later and we’ll probably take the horses for a canter, the state of Midnight’s leg permitting.

I stretch out my own legs in the bath; they are so ugly and stumpy I want to die. No shape to them at all. I turn the jets on so I don’t have to see them through the frothy bubbles. I find myself contemplating the possibilities of suicide by wilfully drowning oneself. Yes, obviously, by jumping from a boat into a stormy sea. But could you drown yourself in a bath? Would this be possible with solemn intent?

It would take a Herculean exercise of will. We would really need to want to die, but for longer than the second that it takes to jump over a cliff.

I fall back, sliding down into the tub made slimy by the bath salts and let myself go under the two feet of water.

I want to die.

I can’t do it. I can’t open my mouth and swallow, can’t even stop expelling air out from the holes in my nose. I just can’t. Then I force myself to try to take it in, but as soon as a trickle of water hits my lungs my body shoots bolt upright as I cough and splutter it out. The bathroom floor is soaked. My eyes sting with the bath salts that have dissolved into the tepid water. I’m gasping, my body a machine, a biomechanism with a sickening power over my will, filling itself full of air, fighting back, overcoming my conscious desire. Surviving.

I gather my breath as the pounding in my head subsides. I write in the condensation steam on the blue tiles:

Then I obliterate it with a sweep of my hand. Cancel that thought: who would look after poor Midnight?

Downstairs I can hear my mother at the door. She shouts up the stairs: — Jenni! Lara’s here!

Best-friend Lara. Back from Ireland, basking in her triumph, coming round here to gloat. And then I hear his voice, a low grunt. He’ll be sniffing around her, his cock stiff in his trousers, his tongue hanging out. Just like his poor miserable killer dog that accompanies him everywhere.

I haul myself out of the bath and, wrapping a towel round me, I dry off, throwing on the clothes I looked out. Those green tight combat trousers Lara thinks are cool will do for me. I know this by the way she looks at them. If she didn’t like them the bitch would say, ‘Oh, they look so good on you.’ I hear my mum’s voice again; insistent and desperate, possibly aware that she’s two-thirds destroyed. (The best two-thirds.)

— Come on up, Lar, I shout.

— We’re going to the stable to check on Midnight, my father shouts in his gravelly tones, straitjacketed into an ill-fitting corset of nonchalance.

— Fun, I snort. Like he cares.

— Come down and join us, he shouts again, in a patently insincere tone. Of course, he doesn’t want me there. He wants to ogle Lara, maybe even feel her up. He’s scum. But so is she. She’s a slag. Once when we were drinking she even confessed that she ‘quite fancied’ him. I think she said it just to shock, but all the same, what a sicko way to talk about your friend’s dad.

All the more reason to spoil their party.

I leave it for a bit, waiting until they go outside. I can see in my mind’s eye the dog following them, always a few paces behind. Both the pooch and my dad from the back: squat, square, thuggish versions of their particular species.

I hear him shout, — Stay, to the dog. From behind the frosted bathroom mirror window, I see them joking and laughing in a nauseatingly flirtatious way, her anoraked and wellingtoned back following him into the stable. Then I creep downstairs and run out, suddenly joining them. — Hey, I say breezily, studying first his expression then hers, looking to see how my unwanted presence has impacted on them. They stand a little apart from each other, and it might be my imagination, but their faces seem eaten up with guilt and disappointment.

Lara has cut her brown hair short and slightly spiky on top. With her upturned nose and freckled face it gives her a mischievous, pixie-like look. Her eyes are her best feature, almond-shaped, glowing, a warm brown, that and her mouth, those full lips which hide small, white teeth, till she smiles. She’s seven stone and never had a spot in her life. She’s rich, an only child, and she gets everything she wants. She’s my best friend and I fucking hate her.

Midnight is in the stables, standing beside Clifford, Indigo’s pony, who is his companion animal. Originally bought for that purpose was Curran, the psychotic pig, who makes both animals lives a misery with his butting and nipping. Even the dog keeps away from Curran.

Lara explains to me that she’s driven over to give Scarlet Jester a break after his Ireland exertions. — He looked peaky and was a wee bit snottery. Fiona’s looking after him at the stables.

She keeps him at Fiona La Rue’s stables, which is only a mile down the road, out of town. They take better care of him there than we evidently do with poor Midnight. He’s strained a tendon in his front lower leg and has been on anti-inflamatory drugs. Dobson the vet came over yesterday to check it, massaging the tendons and ligaments and manipulating the foot to assess freedom of movement. Midnight hurt it when I was riding him over the boards at home a few weeks back.

As the vet urged, I try to replicate his actions. Then I put on Midnight’s harness and walk him around the field, leaving my dad and Lara in the stables. I can hear her laugh, shrill, insistent: desperate to affirm some comment he’s made in his phoney James Bond voice. I stroke Midnight’s long, velvet-smooth face and watch his nostrils flare. — It’s a good thing I’ve got you, Midders, I tell him in a whisper.

3. THE FIFE STYLE OF PLAY

BACK IN THE New Goth for the evening, enjoyin a decent pint ay the black gold. Now ah ken thit oor Celtic cousins acroas the Irish Sea will tell ye thit the black gold ower here tastes like it’s been strained through the bloomers ay a seasoned Lochgelly hoor, but this ey fair hits the spot fir me.

— The cunt’s mad. Stab-yir-faither n shag-yir-ma mad, Neebour says, talking aboot Monty. Aye, thon hoor’s a wrang yin awright.

Bit ah’m no wantin tae talk aboot bams, no the now, so when wee Reggie Comorton, Mister Reflected Glory himself, starts oan aboot this Mossman boy ah’m playin the morn in the Scottish, ah gits right intae the discussion. — Ya hoor ye, the cunt’s no goat a flick in um. Boy’s a fuckin slider, ahm tellin ye.

So Comorton, looking like auld Peter Falk’s Columbo in this dirty wee overcoat, turns tae me n says, — It’s the Fife style ay play. Yir still trapped in the Fife style ay play, Jason. The game’s moved oan.

— What ye tryin tae say Comorton?

— Eftir yon twa thoosand n twa World Cup they selt nearly one million table-football pitches in South Korea. Think wir gaunny huv it wur ain wey in Fife forever?

Ah looks tae the Neebour tae see if yon bourgeois revisionist sentiments are bein endorsed, but ehs goat that staney coupon oan. No thit it bothers me. As ah’m short ay black gold tokens, n ah’ve goat the big game oan the morn, ah takes ma leave n gits hame tae ma residence, jist roond the corner next tae the railway station. Central Fife: as central as it gits.

Ah gits up tae ma room n pits oan ma Cat Stevens album, skins up n starts tae huv a wank thinkin aboot yon Lara n her chunkier wee pal Jenni, jodhpur-clad erses bouncin oan yon saddles, sweaty wee minges batterin oaf yon hoarses’ backs as they brek intae a trot, n ah manage a fair auld spurt withoot video assistance! Whoa, ya cunt ye! Tea for the Tillerman. Aye, sor.

Some ay they equestrian-orientated lassies’ll take some satisfyin n aw, ah kin tell ye. Thir’s been a few thit huv hud that hymen burst acroass the back ay a hoarse, ahm stressing through sportin endeavour, nowt untoward, ya hoor sor! Been a guid few marital ceremonies throughout the ages declared null n void oan the absence ay thon elastic twang on the end ay the cherry oan the first night in yon marital bed, but it kin happen in pure innocence wi a sportin maid. Funny tae think ay that perr Princess Di as a wee thing huvin tae go through the indignity ay the ‘intact fud test’ before her marriage tae Prince Charles. Nae danger ay thon Camilla needin tae subject that aulder clam tae the same scrutiny! Progress, ya hoor, whin feminism finds its wey intae the royal gynecological services! Bit hoarses n lassies; aye, once yuv hud that sort ay power between yir legs yir standards might jist go up a wee bit!

That Lara; eywis tidy, but awfay snooty, even back in the day. Went oot wi her whin she wis fourteen n ah wis twenty-one. Ah hae ma doots thit her faither, Doaktir Grant fae yon practice oan the Lochgelly Road, wid huv blessed a fully-fledged sexual relationship back then. Academic point cause she gied ays ma marchin orders jist eftir the fuckin stable ah wis attached tae did, purely by coincidence ah’m sure! Ah reckon she still huds a candle fir me, but. But aw aye, sor, ya hoor ye, it wid take some satisfyin these days, by maist accoonts.

Mind you, thir aw boozer accoonts, and by thaime every cunt takes some satisfyin. Telt muh auld man aboot this n he sais it wis much different in his day. A lassie wis gled ay a length back then, n accordin tae the auld yins they aw went oaf like nuclear bombs. ‘A sexual fuckin utopia, right here in Fife,’ tae paraphrase the auld boy, ya hoor.

Ya hoor sor, ah’m better gittin back wi that Alison Broon, she wis the lassie fir me. Ah wanted tae git back the gither wi her, bit as Scottish Table-Football Cup Champion. Fower n a hauf inches didnae bother that wee yin. Or so she sais at the time. Mind you, she’s in Canada n she’s married. Three bairns n aw, they tell ays.

Too far away tae contemplate a visit oan the mere speculation ay a ride, so ah gits oot the table-football n practises for the game the morn. Ah’ve jist goat Cowdenbeath and Dunfermline set up whin the phone goes. Ah cannae hear the auld boy in the hoose, eh must be doon at the library reading socialist tracts, so ah runs doon n picks it up.

— Kingy! What kept ye? You been huvin a wank?

It’s ma auld mucker Kravy fae Spain. — It’s pointless lyin tae ye, buddy; aye, a substantial chug wi the usual suspects oan the jukebox.

— They hoarsey lassies? Dae you never change the record?

— If it isnae broke thir’s nae need tae fix it, sor.

— Sorry if ah put ye off yir stroke.

— Thir’s nae danger ay that, ah goes, n ah ken it’s just phone lines n thir aw the same, but ah git a wee hunch eh’s a wee bit closer thin Spain. — Whair ur ye?

— Jist this minute walked intae the New Goth, Cowdenbeath, Fife, Scotland. Where else?

— What aboot Spain, ya hoor?

— Hud tae come back tae look eftir the auld mare. She hud a faw while pished n smashed her hip comin doon they big steps outside the Miners’Welfare.

— The Fountain Bar n Pool Hall as we call it now.

A wee silence, then eh goes: — Aye, ah heard they hud changed it. Now thuv changed the auld mare’s hip n aw.

— Sair yin.

— Aye, but they reckoned it wis riddled wi arthritis anywey, so they stuck in a plastic joab, the hoor explains. — Ye comin fir a pint?

Ah’m thinkin aboot the contest versus Moosey-Face Mossman the morn. — Ah’m a bit short ay the sheckles, bro, the giro ay last week bein jist a nostalgic memory.

— Ah’m in the chair. Goat enough narks tae pit Boots oot ay business n aw.

Well, thir wis nae mair tae be said!

Jist then ah heard the door open n the auld boy came in wi a cairry-oot. — What up, bro? eh sais, then regards Cat Stevens oan the stereo n looks at ays, shakin ehs heid as eh lays the bevvy oan the table. — Nae cunt listened tae Cat Stevens, even back in the day. It wis wankers’ music, even back then. Thon 50 Cent boy’s the man.

The auld man listens tae the likes ay yon 50 Cent aw day. — How kin ye say that, Faither, eftir raisin me oan Eldridge Cleaver, Bobby Seale n Malcolm X? The black man’s loast it; jist wants the bling, the hoors n then tae off ehs brothers. Like the Fifer, ah suppose.

— The black cunt’s still goat the anger but, son, that’s what we Scots huv loast.

— Ah widnae be sae sure, Faither, the Young Team here are a bit fuckin radge.

— Bit it’s aw chivs, son, nae shooters like the black man in the USA, eh slurs. — Yi’ll never overthrow the white man in Westminster wi chivs.

Ah kin tell thit the auld boy’s been oan the sauce awright, n ehs goat mair, as eh reaches intae the bag n cracks open yin ay the hauf-dozen Tennent’s n thir’s a wee boatil ay the Johnnie Walker n aw.

Eh nods at me, as if ah’d want tae share it, n normally ah wid, but the day ah’ve goat a better offer n ah cannae be bothered listenin tae his shite.

So ah wis right roond tae the Goth, tae meet Ally Kravitz, ma handsome big biker buddy whae absconded tae Spain aw they years ago. N eh looks good n aw. Still goat that thick black mop ay hair n the skin nice n tanned; that Romany look thit the less charitable might — and do — describe as ‘gypo’. It’s great tae see um. Mind you, thir wis eywis a wee element ay betrayal in the friendship. Whin Kravy first goat the bike, the pair ay us wir gaunny head south tae Spain, n jist leave it aw behind. Then along came Shona Cameron n it wis nae contest. She goat the Spain berth oan the back ay the boy’s bike n ah started tae git served up the Miners’Welfare follayed by the Goth.

Twelve years doon the line but, ehs back. — What happened tae the jockeying? eh asks ays.

— Nivir took oaf. What aboot Spain then?

— A spiritual land, man, says Kravy takin a big gulp ay cider, — a deeply spiritual land. Shona never got it. Every land has its own voices, they just blow in the wind. Shona never heard the voices, ya know?

— Aye.

— The wind in her hair, she looked like a dream, but she didn’t hear the voices that carried on the wind, y’know?

— Fuckin right, ya hoor.

— Knew you’d get it, Jase, kent you’d get it instantly.

Kravy had only been back once, fir eh’s step-auld boy Coco Forsyth’s funeral, ehs de facto faither, the sperm and surname donator’s ID bein shrouded in mystique apart fae the name and nationality. Apparently, eh wis a Russian that docked in Rosyth fir a day n Kravy’s ma fir a night before settin sail fir the auld USSR, n leavin a free berth fir Coco Forsyth tae push intae. It wis a hert attack thit oaffed perr Coco. No sae much ay a drink or tabs man, but would stick a block ay Lurpak oan every slice ay toast eh goat doon ehs coupon. This bein Fife, thir wis nae shortage ay thon. Ya hoor, even yin vice kin be fatal if it’s taken tae thon extreme! If yir lucky ye might git away wi a yellay caird fae the referee wi the scythe afore the end ay the official three score n ten. If yir really spawny ye might even git a wee bit stoppage time oan toap, though no much ay thon gits played in the Kingdom, but, it has tae be said.

Eh takes me ootside and shows me the latest beast ehs been riding throughoot Europa, a Thruxton 900, a premium job fae the Triumph stable. — Great feel tae it, Jase, a responsive 865cc parallel twin engine, Kravy waxes. — Comfortable fir transporting fanny long-distance as well; preload adjustable front and rear suspension. Add tae that aluminium rims, grippy tyres and floating front discs and you’ve got the goods tae make any discerning buxom young peasant wench who is fed up wi her one-hoarse toon want tae jump on the back first and think about payment-in-kind eftir!

Ah’m impressed but even mair so whin we git back inside n eh sets up a couple ay voddy n Rid Bulls tae accompany muh black gold n the cider he’s oan.

— The mother awright, Kravy? Ah nivir even heard aboot her accident.

— Aye, she took a tumble oan the icy steps whin she wis pished ootside the Welfare. It wis the indignity ay it aw; ehr skirt rode up wi it aw displayed fir the whole ay Fife tae see! Ehs voice drops menacingly: — A couple ay the young team took some revealin shots ay her wi the cameras oan thir mobile phones. Posted thum oan YouTube n a Blue Brazil website n aw!

— That’s gantin, so it is, ya hoor, ah says, making a mental note tae check oot they sites oan the Net facilities up the library. They banned ays a few months back fir lookin at porn but they cannae git ontay ays fir a Blue Brazil yin. Ye might only git a few hundred along tae Central Perk tae see the boys play, but it sometimes seems thit jist aboot every single peyin customer hus ehs ain website. Once ah git money ah’ll be gittin ma ain computer then thi’ll be nae stoappin ays! Ah look ower tae Neebour and the Duke, in the goldfish bowl next door, oan the pool table, then droap my voice: — She wis wearin knickers, but, right?

Kravy pouts and shakes ehs heid. — Fuck sakes, Jason, it was a Seturday night up the Welfare n she’s a single woman!

That Blue Brazil site is gitting fuckin well checked!

— That fuckin Young Team need tae be taught no tae cross the bastard line, Kravy sais, then eh thinks aboot it n hus a wee laugh. — Fuckin Fife but, what ye gaunnae dae, man? Listen, gie’s five minutes tae drop the bike oaf back roond at the auld mare’s, then we paint this toon, nay, this coonty, a deep shade ay rid!

— Menstruatin gash rid, wi the commensurate touch ay darkness, ah venture.

The boy laughs. — You’re a bam, Jason, but you’re the only cunt in this place oan my wavelength, he smiles, slapping ma shoodir.

— Ah’m in thaire, bro, ah grin, watchin um depart. Soon ye kin hear the big metal beast striking up a roar outside n turbo-fartin its wey across toon.

Wi a jaunty spring in ma step, ah steal ower tae the pub noticeboard where ah find a new page fae the Central Fife Times and Advertiser stuck up oan it:

Aye did she no, ya hoor ye! 68.25% oan advanced test 106. Nae elementary, novice or intermediate crap for that lassie! Oan the back ay thon Scarlet Jester n aw!

The Neebour Watson comes ower. — Neevor mind the fuckin chuggin away tae posh lassies in jodhpurs that widnae gie ye the shite offay thir bits. Ah’m no wantin that table-football hand weakened fir the morn.

— Ya hoor sor, ah goes back tae the cunt, — it’s no like that at aw. It gie’s the hand fuckin strength.

Neebour looks at ehs gless in ehs haund. — Ah’ll tell ye what’ll gie yir haund strength sor, is diggin intae yir pockits n setting up another pint fir yir neebs here.

Ya hoor ye, n thaire ah wis wanting tae keep the last fiver fir a fish supper n a boatil ay Irn-Bru doon at Marco’s. Best-laid schemes, ya hoor sor. But Kravy sais thit eh wis wedged up. Aw the better fir yon Jocky Mossman laddie when eh goes tae the table. Fill yir nostrils wi that guff, ya hoor thit ye are!

Kravy comes back in, nods tae the Duke and Neebour, whae’s gone back tae join um at the table. Then eh drums ehs fingers oan the bar. — No that struck oan it here, Jase, eh sais in a low voice, — Fancy comin back tae mine? Fridgeful ay beer and a gram ay coke, n eh’s still lookin ower tae the pool room, —… which ey splits better two weys thin fower, man.

Ah kin hear the Fife slippin back intae Kravy’s accent, sneaky as a hoor oaf a shift intae a morning oafice cleanin job. — Bring it oan, big baws, ah goes, suppin up ma black gold. N wi head oot wi some wee waves tae the soor-faced cunts ower at the pool table. Good tae see yis, dinnae want tae be yis!

4. HIS GIRLFRIEND

THE SUNLIGHT SUDDENLY pours in through my window from behind a cloud, cutting across Lara in a dramatic sweep as she lies sprawled across the bottom of my bed. I sidle away from it in vampire panic, squinting as I move back against my headboard. I feel very spotty and it’ll show up everything. Touching my face, I wince as an angry boil throbs under my skin. I’m bloated and cramped and my period is due. I can tell that when it starts I’ll be bleeding for days like a stuck pig. One good thing is that it means I’ll drop another couple of pounds of repulsive girl-fat, hopefully ducking under the ten-stone mark, when it comes on.

Lara, or Ms Grant as I often call her, we use the liberated prefix with a compulsive irony that depresses us, takes one more puff on the joint and puts it in the ashtray, passing it over to me. — Do you think Will’s girlfriend is good-looking, Ms Cahill? she asks me yet again.

I take a long toke and settle back against my stacked pillows. — The point is he obviously does, I curtly inform her. I’m loath to go through all this tiresome ‘you’re much better-looking than her, if only he could meet you he’d realise there and then you’d be our next anorexic Queen’ shit with her. Aka the usual crap she evidently needs to hear so much. — Besides, Ms Grant, don’t you think he’s a bit young to be going bald?

— No, he’s so dishy, she says dreamily.

Lara floats in and out of people’s lives, well, my life, as it suits her. When she comes back into my orbit after living on Mars or wherever, I’m expected to kick everyone else out of it, in order to make room for her. She undermines my other friends, and does it very well, pointing out negative qualities I’d previously been blind to, but in a very benign way, making it hard to take offence. Then, once she has you all to herself, she vanishes. She stops calling and texting and is reticent about returning messages, making you feel very needy. If I challenge her about her disappearances, she’ll tell me that she has ‘boy issues’. She always has loads of boyfriends but is the kind of girl who somehow escapes the slag reputation. At least with other girls. Some of the boys she sees, I wonder what they say about her. — What about that big guy you’ve been seeing in Dunfermline, are you going to see him again?

— Yeah, for sure, she says, but in a very unsure manner, then ventures, — He’s kind of fun, I suppose, in a thicko sort of way. He’s uncomplicated, she thoughtfully states. — Confident. In bed, if you know what I mean, and her eyes charge with light and she looks searchingly at me.

I nod, too quickly. I don’t want to talk about sex or to hear her talk about sex and she knows that so that’s what’s going to happen. The sun’s gone behind a cloud. The room has turned a murky blue.

— But why are we talking about my sex life, Ms Cahill? she asks with glee. — You’re the one who so badly needs to get laid!

— I need to leave home, I tell her, passing the joint back.

Lara flicks the ash off the end of the joint. — Yeah, but not if you want to keep jumping. It’s hard to do equestrian sports in Fife from a flat in Edinburgh, she says, then considerately adds, — but not impossible. You could always put Midnight in stables.

— I couldn’t, not now. He’s not used to it. It would break his heart… and mine, I miserably concede.

— Well, that means that you’re basically tied to being here as long as you want to jump with him, she contends, and not without some smugness.

— I know, I know! I moan, pulling my knees up under my chin. — That’s the fucking choice! Riding horses and competing with no social life and living at home with my fucking parents in this shithole, or having a proper life somewhere, but giving up the horse.

— Put him in Fiona’s stables, Jen. It’s practically next door! Your dad wouldn’t mind shelling out.

I look evenly at her. — That’s the point. He thinks I can’t look after him. It would be a great victory for him, and confirm that I’m as useless as he thinks.

— Can you look after him?

— Yes! I snap, guilty at the thought of his damaged leg. — It’s all I do! I’m in the stable mucking out, feeding, every day. That’s why I packed in uni! That’s why I stay here in this shithole!

— I suppose Fife isn’t that bad. You just need to get out more, Ms Cahill, she says, looking over at the pile of CDs on my table. — Everything’s gloomy if you’re sitting in your room listening to Nick Cave and Marilyn Manson all day. Come out with me and Monty and his friend. We’re going somewhere special on Tuesday night.

— Where?

Lara glares intently at me, her eyes staring me down. A smile plays across her ruby-painted lips. — It’s secret, you have to promise that you’ll never tell.

I’m now interested in spite of myself, although I’m trying to affect bored. — Why the big mystery?

— Cause it’s not, well, it’s not strictly legal.

— Is it some kind of party or rave?

— No, don’t be daft, she says, looking at me in that patronising ‘I’m so worldly’ way that always nauseates.

— What then?

— Promise first.

— Okay, I say, — I swear on the life of both my parents.

She shakes her head firmly in the negative. — Swear on Midnight’s life.

No way. — Oh for fuck’s sake, either tell me or don’t, I snap.

Lara contemplates this ultimatum for a while, regarding me as if I’m an insolent wretch. And I can’t help feeling my growing discomfort at her impending disapproval. Just when it gets unbearable and I’m moved to apologise, her face softens. — Okay, she purrs, and then grins, — actually, we’re going dog fighting.

5. DISCIPLINE

THE LAST COUPLE ay days shot by like a crack hoor oan crystal. Partyin at Kravy’s aw day n night, shootin aroond oan the back ay ehs bike. Crashin oot n wakin up tae aw they takeaway cartons n empty cans litterin the flair. One or two auld Chinky tinfoil efforts, but mainly boaxes fi Sandy’s Pizza Hoose oan the High Street. Ah pit it doon tae Domino’s sponsorin The Simpsons oan Sky n Pizza Hut sponsorin it oan Channel 4. So wi went fir a few outlandish creations wi loads ay pineapple n that, aw inspired by the tarry.

But sometimes ye hae tae wrap it up, and just go hame tae sleep. So ah take that long walk past the auld Soviet-style building ay the now renamed Miners’ Welfare Institute. Aye, the Iron Curtain came doon in Central Fife as much as it did in East Europe and the frozen winds ay the marketplace huv been blastin us since. In capitalist development wir much mair along the Bulgarian-Romanian lines, thin the likes ay the Czech Republic or any ay they new trendy Baltic States. Mair cappuccino outlets in Tallinn or Riga thin Central Fife: that ah’ll wager!

Then ah come oantae the roundabout at the Bruce Hotel. It’s been a niggly hoor ay a winter but this is aboot the first real spring day. So ah’m oantae the high street and past the Goth, duckin doon the lane at the station intae the hoose. Hand trembling in the lock as the key goes in. Thir’s nae sign ay the auld boy thank fuck, probably doon the library again, readin the Marxist propaganda thit still slips through the cooncil’s net. Thank fuck fir dissidents! Thir’s a letter fir ays ehs left oan the mantelpiece. Ah open it up:

Fuck sakes! Ah cannae even mind ay playin thon tie! Ya hoor ye sor, fuck yir kip now, fuelled by outrage ah’m right doon the Goth n ahm showin thum aw the letter. The Neebour Watson screws ehs face up at ays n goes, — Ye no mind, ya daft drunken hoor, ye showed up wi Kravy, oot yir face. Ye broke two ay the boy’s players wi yir clumsiness. N eh kent ye wir coked up and oan thon base speed, it wis obvious!

— How the fuck wis it? ah plead.

— Chowin through yir ain bottom lip n drappin blood aw ower the pitch. Ye’d huv tested positive in a drugs test, ya cunt thit ye are!

Fuck aye, n if it wisnae aw comin back tae ays now. The leisure centre; ah hud that big half-time line fae Kravy. Ah won n aw! — That wis jist a wee tickle, tryin tae straighten masel oot, ya hoor ye. Beat the boy fair n square, two-nil.

— It wis three-two, Jason! For fuck’s sake, man, Neebour Watson goes. — Ye even ripped doon the big DAFC noticeboard in the corridor, sayin they shouldnae huv this in Cowdenbeath, thit it wis the unacceptable face ay globalisation.

Ya hoor: ah’m swallayin here like a Kelty lass. — That’s aw aboot security, a separate issue. The fact is thit ah won the game!

— Well, neebs, that’s no what the top brass say. The Neebour Watson shakes ehs heid like a dug comin oot ay the sea n Comorton’s noddin away like a toy yin in the back ay a motor.

— We’ll see aboot that, ya hoor ye. Ah stick the letter in ehs face. — It says ah kin still appeal.

— Naw, naw, naw, neebs, yuv goat it aw wrong; they jist pit that in tae cover thir erses. Tae thaim a successful appeal wid be like an admission ay defeat, the Neebour Watson contends n Reggie Comorton’s noddin like the wise auld sage. That’ll be right! That cunt, wi ehs degree in Wisdom-Eftir-The-Event, Skill ay Retrospection, University ay If-ah-hud-that-Prince-William’s-connections-up-in-St-Andrews-ah-widnae-be-sae-marginalised.

So ah state ma case, ay which ah’m certain. — What’s the point ay huvin agreed procedures, ya hoor, if yuv made up yir minds awready? Twa sides tae ony story, neebs. Ah’ll go roond tae the boy’s hoose, ya hoor sor, plead ma case. Fling masel upon the mercy ay the coort!

— Naw, naw, naw, Jase, the Neebour goes, — you’re talkin aboot how things should be, but the high heid yins, once they’ve made up yir mind, that’s you snookered wi a capital ‘S’. N the thing is, eh says, shakin ehs heid, — we cannae even gie ye a game wursels, even jist muckin aboot like, cause that’s in breach ay the association’s rules.

Ah cannae believe whit ah’m hearin here! The table-top version ay the beautiful game n ah’ve been frozen oot. — Ya hoor sor, ah tells thum, — ah’m still the best table-football player Fife’s ivir produced!

Neebour pills me taewards um, droapin ehs voice soas Comorton cannae hear um. — Everybody kens you’ve goat talent, neebs. Naebodies disputin that. But yir yer ain worst enemy. N ah’m no jist talkin aboot metters ay discipline.

N now eh stands away fae ays n looks at Comorton. Ah shot the hoor a look ay betrayal. Yir men Strachan and McLeish might say thit auld Jock Stein wid huv taken yir Auld Firm intae the English Premiership if eh’d goat the chance, but everybody kens thit the Big Man wis a true Scot n cut fae different cloth thin the modern-day money-mad charlatans wi thir ego n ambition. Ah’m bein punished cause ahm a purist, an idealist oot ay time! Ah look at Comorton, the moneyman, whae clawed ehs wey tae Kirkcaldy call centre supervisory level n now spouts the doctrine ay wur ain Adam Smith as corrupted by yon Nazi Hayek cunt n that English Thatcher hoor; a man whae wid destroy the table-top version ay the beautiful game…

— We’re also talkin aboot yir resolutely dogmatic adherence tae the Fife style ay play, the quisling hoor says. — Everybody in the modern game gits a wee bit ay purchase, a wee bit ay slide oan the baw. Aw aye, ye kin beat aw ay us easy enough, but at the highest level the boy thit kin dae a disguised slide hus a competitive advantage. End of.

So ah drank up, sure ah did, sor. Suddenly, ah didnae like the company nae mair. In the big picture bit, it wis a guid thing ah vacated the premises cause ah heads doon the street n ahm thinkin thit ah might chap oan Kravy’s door, see if ehs ma’s oot ay the hoaspital yit. Then ah catches sight ay the two ay thum, up oan thir hoarses, trottin doon yon lane: Lara Grant n Jenni Cahill. So ah crotches doon behind the bus shelter tae lit them go past soas ah kin mibbe git masel a wee deek at they tight jodhpur-covered erses but it’s a walk, no even a trot, far less a gallop, n thir’s nae sign ah yon mawkit jakits ridin up tae expose the peaches below. Ah huv a sneaky wee rummage in the doonstairs department, n couldnae even git the heid ay it up! Ya hoor ye; perr source material!

So ah follays them, keepin in at the big stane waw wi the overhinging foliage, blendin in like that big Predator cunt, thon crab-couponed Rastafarian hoor fae space. Ah’m thinkin aboot how drugs’ve ruined ma sportin career, ah’m no gaunny git any serious copy in the Central Fife Times and Advertiser now; naw, thill only be the wee blurb Jason King dsql v J. Mossman, ya hoor sor. Aye, right next tae they equestrian notices tellin us aw aboot yon Lara n Jenni’s ‘mare’ substantial achievements.

A bit ay jiggery-pokery wid dae but, aw aye sor. Nivir mind the edge ay sexuality thit sportin success brings, ah’ll cut tae the chase n git the wee felly sucked dry right noo in anticipation ay greatness tae come, if it’s aw the same tae youse!

Ya hoor sor.

Ah could fair dae wi a wash n a chenge ay clathes eftir fuck knows how many days oan the black gold, ching, base and takeaways, but ah elect tae keep up muh pursuit ay ma intendit. Mind you, it’s poor stalkin terrain; soon we’re oot ay toon n ah’m exposed, walkin behind thum doon the country road. Ah thinks, thill huv left that dykey La Rue’s ridin skill n be headin for yon big house, the auld ferm thit the Cahills boat years ago. New money thon; the haulage business. Scab lorries fae the strike back in 1984 some say, well, ma auld boy tae be specific. Aye, ya hoor ye. Mind you, any cunt wi money’s bad money tae the auld boy.

Funny, but wee Jenni’s the snootiest yin oot ay the twa, bit they eywis say that aboot new dosh. Bit it’s an awfay state tae git intae. Ah’m waitin fir thaime tae go intae yon Clark Gables wi the horses n mibbe git a peek at thum, yon Lara n Jenni huvin that dirty fun thit ye ken aw lassies secretly want tae huv. Mibbe wi the hoarses gittin involved n aw! Aye, yon Scarlet Jester n yon Midnight.

Gittin between thir legs but, ya hoor sor!

So ah’m walkin doon the side ay the barn on ma tiptoes, making sure thir’s nae light in the kitchen ay the Cahill hoose, a bad bastard yon auld Tam, whin the big door swings open n thaire they are staundin thair, watchin ays! Rumbled, ya cunt! That Lara gies ays a wee smile n looks at ays while Jenni goes that snooty wey, — What do you want?

Ah’m well flustered here but ah tough it oot. — Eh, saw yis gaun doon the road n ah came by tae offer muh congratulations, aboot yir win ower in Ireland, ah sais tae Lara. Might be nowt ay her, bit what thir is hus gone tae the right places. Aye, she’s filled oot yon jodhpurs n that blouse since her n me hung aboot the gither, ah’ll tell ye!

— Thanks, Lara goes. N ah’m sure that wee yin must be a bit guilty oan hudin oot oan ehs in the minge stakes aw they years ago. As an apprentice jockey ah wis the local hero; could’ve split every fuckin gash in the Kingdom back then, ya hoor sor. Bit no me; goat aw worried aboot the size ay the wee felly here, n it took a dirty big auld hoor fae Ballingry tae pop ma cherry! Said tae ays it wis best sex she ivir hud in her puff n aw! Even allowin fir hoor’s licence, it wis fair balm tae the auld ego, ah kin tell ye that! So if ah’m gaunny talk masel intae a threesome now, ah’d better git the auld gab gaun. — Aye, ah read aboot it in the paper. 68.25% oan advanced test 106! Oan Scarlet Jester thaire, ah nods ower at the hoarse.

The Lara lassie looks at her Jenni mate wi a wee smile, then back at me.

N ah’m jist staundin thair, ya hoor ye, cannae think ay nowt else tae say. — Did you go ower tae Ireland as well then, Jenni? ah asks in mountin desperation.

She looks at ays n sweeps her dyed black hair back fae her face. Liked that wee yin better whin shi wis a blonde. The burden ay bein a gentleman, ah suppose. Mind you, she’s fair shaping up n thon fat’s no hauf been trimmed back. — I wasn’t competing, she says like shi’s upset aboot that. — My horse was lame.

Felt like tellin her ah’ve hud ma share ay lame rides n aw, but thir’s Goth talk n thir’s posh fanny, and yuv goat tae keep that wee bit sophistication gaun. Ah feel a bit sorry fir Jenni bein Lara’s mate: that yin isnae hauf ‘filly’ hersel.

Ah notices thir’s one ay they wee studs in Jenni’s nose. Aw aye, ah bet that wee yin could yaze thon ridin crock, ya hoor ye. — Ah hud a guid wee win at the table-top beautiful game, ah tell thum, — Aye.

— That’s good, that Lara goes.

— Aye. Thing is, they might be takin it oaffay ehs. Thir wis a bit ay difficulty wi the discipline, ah telt thum, n ah cannae take muh eyes oaffay that ridin crock yon wee Jenni’s hudin.

Ah’m wastin ma time thaire, ah’ll never be popular wi thon family. Thir wis a time when her faither came intae the Goth wi a couple ay fellys, one ay them fae the cooncil. One ay the boys wis sayin something aboot Kelty n of course ah couldnae keep ma big mooth shut. Ah goes, ‘Ya hoor ye, only hoors n miners come fae Kelty.’ So big Tom Cahill, this Jenni lassie’s faither, he looks at me aw hard n goes, ‘Ma wife comes fae Kelty.’

Weel, sor, ah jist says tae um, what pit does she work in?

Thoat the big cunt wis gaunny banjo ays right thaire n then in the Goth but everybody starts laughin so eh hud tae climb doon n join in. But Lara’s faither, the doaktir, he never hud a high opinion ay ays either. Whin ah wis workin at the warehoose, the hoor wid peer at ays ower the specs n go, ‘Surely not more back problems, Mr King.’

Now that Jenni’s lookin at ays aw that impatient wey, the yin the successful ay the toon tend tae display in thir dealins wi the undercless. — So is there anything else, eh…

— Jason.

— Anything else we can help you with? she says again, n now that Lara’s starin right at ays, waitin oan a response, ya hoor sor.

— Eh, naw… ah’ll be oan ma wey up the street. Jist wanted tae say well done.

— Thank you, Jason, Lara sais, then turns tae Jenni quickly and goes, — I hope you manage to sort out that little discipline problem, and they baith huv a wee snigger tae each other.

Well, ah turns oan ma heel n ah’m doon that road aw hoat n bothered. If ah wis a sortay James Bond type ah’d uv went: ‘Well, there is a little something you could help me with, but I think we should all retire to the barn to discuss it, ya hoor sor.’

Oan the road back intae toon, it’s stertin tae pish doon. Thir’s some craws pickin ower a deid rabbit thit’s been blootered oaf by a passin car, so ah sooks doon a snottery gob n lits it fly n it slaps one craw oan the back ay the heid. They reckon (or at least the Neebour Watson does) thit it makes the other yins tear the cunt tae bits, bit the hoors’ve goat too much meat tae be bothered wi that the now so that particular hypothesis remains not proven. Disnae matter but, it wis a result, speed and accuracy, ya hoor, n ah sing in celebration: — Thir wis a wee cooper wha lived in Fife… nickity knackety noo the noo, eh goat ehsel a durty big hoor ay wife…

But then ah sees this van comin towards me n it’s slowin doon. It’s thon Tam Cahill, n the big cunt pills up n gits oot. — Aye, aye, eh goes.

Ah wanted tae say tae the boy that ah wisnae stalkin ehs lassie, it wis hur mate, ya hoor, strictly speakin it wis ma auld paramour Lara, but ah dinnae think eh’s the type whae worries about hair-splittin.

— You’re Jason, eh?

— Aye.

Eh nods n looks ays up n doon. — You trained as a jockey, eh.

— Long time ago now, neebs, ah tell um.

— What ye up tae work-wise these days?

— No much.

Eh does that slow nod again, but eh’s lookin at ays right in the eye. — How dae ye fancy daein some casual work for me? Nothin too taxin: jist some stable work, muckin oot, feedin n general stuff. Gie ye a bell when ah need ye, cash in hand, eh winks.

There wis me thinking ah wis gittin pilled n aw. Naw, but, it’s a fuckin stalkers’ paradise! Oan the firm, ya hoor! — Aye, sound.

— Geez yir mobile number, eh sais.

This occasions a wee bit ay embarrassment oan ma behalf. — Eh, muh mobby is oot ay commission right now. But ah’ve goat a landline.

The boy’s lookin at ays as if eh’s made a big mistake, seein the dirty drink n drugs grime oan ays, nae doot catchin the whiff fir the first time. — Geez it then, eh gasps aw exasperated. Kin awready tell eh’ll be a cunt tae work fir. But if eh’s daein ehs haulage shite n ah’m in the stables, it should be a sweet case ay neer the twain. — How dae ye git oan wi dugs? eh asks ays.

— Love thum, aw kinds, ah tell um. No thit ah hud yin since Jacob, the German shepherd-collie cross thit died wi a lump in ehs throat whin ah wis seven. Cut ays tae the quick, yon did. The auld girl said somethin aboot cross-breeds eywis dyin n wi should’ve went pedigree, n the auld boy called her a fuckin Nazi hoor. Aye, they wir nivir that close.

The auld boy said that she only wanted tae mairry him cause he’d goat her up the duff. She’d been dumped by this Greek waiter whae’d headed back hame eftir the family restaurant in Kirkcaldy went bust, brekin the auld mare’s hert. Eywis a speculative venture fir the seventies: back then the Chinky wis probably exotic. She suffered fae a bout ay depression but comfort ate her wey through it, pittin oan loads ay weight in the process. Then the auld boy fired intae her up the Miners’ Welfare and bairned the hoor n ah wis the result. So ah cannae really complain but what the fuck, ye eywis think thit what yir folks dae before ye came along is nowt tae dae wi you. Supposed tae be grateful tae them fir the gift ay life; fuckin nonsense. Wi aw intuitively ken that thir’s aw they souls in heaven thit ur gaunnae git allocated tae some cunts anyway, if they dinnae shoot one oaf.

So ah shakes Tam Cahill’s hand and ahm a semi-workin man again. Stable haundin wis nivir ma thing, but. Ah wanted tae be a jockey but ah wis never that keen oan fuckin nags; best appreciated fae Ladbrokes, they cunts. But it fair held ays back, that attitude did. N tae be honest ah eywis shat it when they bastards goat gaun fill pelt. Like Kravy oan thon fuckin Triumph Boneville bike; ah dinnae really like it oan the back ay that hoor.

Darkness faws like a workin hoor’s keks: sudden but yet predictable. Ah gits hame, n tae celebrate my new employ makes masel a fried egg sanny n hus a read ay the paper, which irritates the fuck oot ay me. The Central Fife Times and Advertiser says that Dunfermline Pathetic huv selt 3,500 season tickets so far. I’ll no be fuckin well addin tae that list any roads! Shouldnae be huvin information aboot they cunts in the Cooden media! Hoors’ve goat thir ain fuckin press!

The Auld Boy’s in; either here or the library ur the only places yill find um. The Goth n aw: but only around last orders. Nivir leaves the hoose much as eh’s badly disfigured oan yin side ay the coupon due tae a burnin accident. Back in 1989 eh set himself oan fire. He blamed the cheap, flammable shell suit eh wis wearin, while the auld doll blamed the fags. Dinnae think that the auld mare wis that sold oan ehs coupon any roads, so wee Shitey Breeks moved in n whisked her oaf doon the road tae a life ay Dunfermline decadence.

The auld boy looks at ays, then sits doon wi the Record and starts shakin ehs heid at the news. Eh’s soon back oan ehs favourite subject, the seventies and the betrayal ay the workin cless. — The tax rebate, ye nivir git thaim now. Eywis came at the right fuckin time n aw. Aye, the seventies. Great times, then along came that English hoor n fucked it aw up. It’s aw fir the rich now, the whole fuckin country. That’s nivir a Labour man, no wi a mooth like thon. That’s a hoor’s mooth thon. Must huv been worth a fortune at that posh Fettes school wi a mooth like that; aye, well sought eftir, ah kin fuckin well bet ye! That Eton Tory wanker that’s gaunnae replace um: a fuckin clone!

— Thir’s a loat tae be said fir progress but, Faither. Some ay they great auld seventies institutions wir bad bastards; like the chip-pan fire disaster. The microwave, deep-fat fryer n the late-night takeaway’s done fir aw that.

— Aye, ah suppose thir’s been some kind ay progress, eh sais as eh rips intae ehs Pot Noodles. — But ah blame Scargill, should’ve goat a fuckin mob doon they Hooses ay Parliament, torn it apart brick by brick and stoned every yin ay they public-skill cunts tae death wi the rubble.

— Elites’ll eywis try tae impose themselves ower time but, Faither. The day’s revolutionary vanguard are the morn’s rulin cless.

— Aye, bit that’s how ye need permanent revolution but, son; build a set ay non-hierarchical structures…

Ah’m lookin oot the windae n ah see thit the wheelie bins huv been left oot in the street n need pit back in the front gairdin. — Aw structures by thir nature ur hierarchical but, Faither. N people dinnae want permanent revolution, they want tae jist chill oot sometimes.

The auld boy slams the Pot Noodle carton doon on the table. Eh twists the fork tae gain control ay the stringy noodles thit dangle fae it. — So what’s the answer then? Drink, drugs, the chippy n mair Tory rule? The cornerstanes ay your life?

— Ah’m no sayin that.

— Defeatist talk, son, eh sais waving ehs noodle-filled fork around. — That’s the problem wi your generation, nae collective consciousness! Ye should be doon that library fillin yir heid wi political n social education soas yi’ll be well placed tae take advantage whin the upturn comes! The likes ay Willie Gallagher and Auld Bob Selkirk wid be turning in thir graves!

— Ah doubt they’d be much impressed wi your gangsta rap stuff either, Faither.

Eh turns they blazin een oan ays: — Thir’s mair real politics in yin line ay 50 Cent thin in a hundred albums ay that hippy poof that you listen tae!

Fuck sakes, thir wis me hopin tae enjoy my fried egg oan Sunblest n Lurpak, garnished wi HP Sauce and pepper, but that’s aw fucked now.

6. ANNIVERSARY

ONE OF THE saddest things imaginable is seeing my mother in her workout gear, putting on an exercise DVD, getting about five half-arsed incompetent minutes into the forty-five-minute programme, then switching it off and going into the kitchen. You see the tear stains on her fat cheeks and her flustered air as you approach her. Then you check the chocolate biscuits in the big, plastic Tupperware box and they’re about 50 per cent down.

— It’s our anniversary today, Mum almost absent-mindedly announces as she starts to tend the plants with her clippers and watering can. I can see from the display on the DVD that the recording is still in the machine, playing away to nobody. Out of boredom I’m sitting on the couch with Indy watching cartoons on another channel.

— So how many years have you been married? Indigo asks.

Just then my dad comes in. Mum’s about to say something when he replies, — Who cares aboot that? Love’s aw chemicals, he snorts. — It’s aw just a big con, like that Valentine’s Day.

My God, he’s so crass. — You don’t know what you’re talking about, I tell him. — Besides, you’re a hypocrite. You’ve got Mum’s name tattooed on your wrist.

He looks at his wrist, and then gapes stupidly at the cartoons, Scooby Doo and Shaggy running from a very unscary monster, then turns to me with a tight smile on his face. — You’re idealistic, you’re young. You’ll see sense and grow oot ay it.

I glance up at him. — Like you did when you were young? Indy looks at him too.

— I was never idealistic, always a realist, me. He shakes his head, collapsing into the big chair. — I was too busy making money so that you and your sister could ride horses and grow to hate me, he laughs, reaching across and flicking Indy’s long tresses.

— I’ll never hate you, Daddy! she screams and leaps from the couch and jumps on his lap.

My dad makes a big fist and plants it softly on her face. — Naw, no you, hen, cause you’re a wee smasher!

She reciprocates the gesture and they box and play-fight for a bit. I can’t stand this, because part of me wants to join in. I stand up and move off. — Give it five years, some hormones and a bit of perspective, I say, heading for the door.

— Who rattled your cage, Lady Muck? he bites.

Mum looks around slowly in stunned incomprehension as she skooshes the cascading spider plant. I point at my own forearm. — You read what it says on your own wrist if you think that you were never an idealist. You’re a coward, that’s all.

— Mind what you call me, hen, he snaps. — You’re crossing the line.

One of his favourite sayings. I get out and bound up the stairs, two at a time. I’ve become an outcast in this family. The little brat is the mainstay of their lives now; she’s like a drug, reducing them both to baleful, fawning idiocy as soon as she walks into the room. I’m the embarrassment, the troublemaker, and the one who reminds them of how they’ve failed. The money shelled out for Stirling University, which I flunked, now more for Midnight, who is probably fucking lame because of me forcing him to jump a fence that was too high for him just to keep up with that bitch Lara and Scarlet Jester, and I’m nowhere near as good as her.

I lie on my bed listening to Marilyn Manson’s, ‘(s)AINT’ from my favourite LP of all time, The Golden Age of Grotesque, and reading my Danielle Sloman. I saw that guy on his motorbike, the good-looking one, who lives in Spain. He had the creepy wee Jason stalker on the back with him. I wish it was me that was on the back, and my fingers rub against my crotch when there’s a knock on the door and he barges in, obviously still upset. I move my free hand to my book. — You should be oot in that stable kicking that horse’s erse instead of lying around here listening tae that crap.

I look up from Reluctant Survivor. — The vet said that Midnight was to rest. He’s not finished his course of anti-inflammatory drugs yet.

— Did eh say that you wir tae rest n aw? Eh should be in they stables ay La Rue’s, where eh kin git taken proper care ay.

God, change the fucking record! — I’ve done everything Dobson told me—

— Aye, that Dobson’s a waste ay space, he looks at me, — kens absolutely nowt. N how are ye gaunny beat that bools-in-the-mooth Lara wi a milkman’s hoarse like thon? Aw that parasite does is eat eat eat. Ye stick a nosebag in front ay him n eh’d keep eatin till eh burst. Ah hope you’re no overfeedin him.

— Oh please, do stop wittering on. I turn away. The coarser he gets the more proper I become. It’s practically the only game we play where I always win, as he ends up sounding like a village idiot.

But this time, he’s a thin smile playing across his face. — Tell ye what though, the weight’s fair flyin oaf ye, hen. That’s the wey tae beat that yin, ah kin tell ye! Keep up the guid work, he winks.

The horrible thing is that this is his way of trying to bond.

He leaves me and I feel defiled and unclean. I want to go out to the Burger King. He really knows how to get under my skin. What did my mother see in him? There’s nothing between them. I can’t even think what there once could have been. I think of the photos of them young, her pretty, him still the same. I try to imagine a man emotional and tender enough, even for a few fleeting minutes, to get a woman’s name carved into his skin. How I’d love to resurrect that man of then, if just for a day.

The alienation between him and my mother is such that he can’t even bear to spend any time alone with her on their anniversary. He’s therefore insisted that we all go out ‘to celebrate as a family’. He might have taken her, us, out to Edinburgh or Glasgow, or even Dunfermline or Kirkcaldy. Even the simple kindness of making that small effort is beyond him. He’s marched us down to La Ducal; the nearest you’ll get to fine dining in Cowdenbeath.

— Push the boat out, my tongue drips sarcasm at the news.

— La Ducal is lovely, Mum bleats in piteous gratitude.

— I cannae drive due to our friends in the Fife constabulary, he reminds me.

Funny, but it never seems to stop him when it’s work. I almost feel like volunteering my motoring services but no way: I’ll need a drink to get through this. — What about public transport? I ask.

— Ugh! Ming-ing! Indigo screws her face up.

— I cannae be bothered waiting on trains and the taxis are a rip-off, he explains. — It’s settled then. Cowdenbeath’s finest it is.

To be fair La Ducal is pretty good, a lot better than somewhere in a town like Cowdenbeath has the right to be. At least you have decent tapas and cappuccino. If you don’t look outside it’s possible to kid yourself on that you’re somewhere else. As the Sunday Post put it: ‘Good food, friendly service, nice surroundings.’ It’s a pity about the dining company, but you can’t have everything.

— This is nice, Mum says. If they stuck her in Auschwitz in the forties she’d say the same thing.

— So how many years have you two been married? Indy asks, crunching on a breadstick.

— Eighteen and counting, Dad smiles, knocking back his wine and refilling his glass. I hold mine out for the same treatment. He looks warily at me, but tops it up all the same.

When the main course arrives, Dad’s mobile goes off. — Oh Tom, Mum thinly protests.

— Have to take this yin, he winks at her. — Excuse me a tick, girls. How goes? his voice spits into the phone. — Just a minute, he tersely says as he departs out into the street. I see him through the window, holding the phone like it was a robot device sucking the life out of him, moving like he’s burning or badly needing to pee.

I don’t know what he’s up to but I know it’s no good. The only reason I care is not because he’s ruined this already fucked-up night, but that he’s dragged me out to make small talk with these two while he hatches his pathetic schemes. — Wonder what he’s playing at? I muse.

— Need you ask? my mum says, then adds, — Work. He never stops, she rolls her eyes wistfully.

I want to shout into her stupid face, ‘What he’s up to is fucking somebody else, and that’s if you’re very, very lucky.’ But I don’t. And the only reason I don’t, I consider with a reflective shudder, is because I don’t even care enough about their sordid business and their dull lives. I want to go. To get out of Cowdenbeath, Fife, Scotland, and out of that house for good.

7. APPEAL

THEY FAIR SET upon ays awright, yon time, they fuckin Dunfermline boys. Big Monty jist stood thair grinnin, n eh’s since goat mobbed up wi thum. A fuckin traitor as well as a liar. Accused ays ay instigatin trouble. Fair tanned ays in n it hurts ma pride as a Cowdenbeath man, tae come oaf second best tae they hoors. Aye, even if thir wis a tidy wee mob ay thum, it cannae be disputed thit me n Boaby Shek fae the Chinky took a hoor’s erse ay a panellin.

The kung fu films, ya hoor; when ah befriended um ah thoat thit the laddie Shek would be able tae hud ehs ain, mibbe ken some ay they moves. But aw eh does is read comic books n listen tae the likes ay Coldplay n Marillion n tell every cunt aboot the time eh studied engineerin at Heriot-Watt before eh flunked oot. Even hud ehs gaun doon tae Haddington wi um, n stalkin the lead singer Fish aka Derek Dick, at the boy’s hoose. Ah’ve ey been mair a fanny stalker thin a celeb stalker, but Sheky insisted. Worse thing wis thit ah wis the one thit hud tae go in n git ehs autograph, Boaby jist turned intae a twelve-year-auld lassie. Eh managed one partin shot, took um ages tae git it oot: — Any new… any new… new projects… any new projects in the offing? And then the cunt ran away wi embarrassment before the bemused Fish could reply. Left me oan the doorstep explaining tae the frontman thit it wis a minor form ay Tourette’s thit Boaby suffered fae, n the boy jist nodded sagely before eh goat shouted back intae the hoose by some supermodel bird.

But Haddington’s much preferable tae Dunfermline. Fife ma hairy hole; it’s an Edinburgh suburb. So even though ‘thon place’ hus bad memories, ah wants tae see what kind ay a gaff this hoor fae the East ay Scotland Table Fitba Association’s goat. So eftir a guid shower and change ay clathes, ah gits a quick one in the Goth. Thir’s a choice ay the 15, 30 or 19 buses tae Dunfermline up the road, but ah cannae be ersed walkin up thaire, so ah faw oot ay the boozer intae the station.

Ah keep tellin folks thit ah stey in Central Cowdenbeath. Ye kin gob n hit ma hoose fae the railway station platforms, ya hoor. Ye see the block ay cooncil dwellings wi the wheelie bins ootside, rubbish n recyclin; black for the black diamonds, blue fir the Blue Brazil.

Oan the choo-choo, wee Richey the Assaultee comes tae punch ma ticket. The boy’s a local legend; eywis in the Central Fife media fur gittin battered by youths, totally unprovoked, ah should say. Mind you though, some wid say thit the ginger heid wis provocation enough, no thit ah wid number masel wi they bad bastards.

When the boy goat a start at ScotRail the high heid yins couldnae believe thir luck. An abused ginger stepchild wi a pair ay een that made yon Bambi look like the shark oot ay Finding Nemo, and eh wis comin tae work fir thum in front-line employment! Of course, they wanted Richey as poster boy fir thir anti-violence against staff campaign. Telt the hoor ehs look possessed jist the right amount ay pathos. Said thit eh could be a celebrity, like thon black hoor wi the bottom-ay-coke-boatil glesses fae the Halifax.

Richey weighed up the proposal, balancing the pros and cons, but opted tae stey relatively anonymous. Said that eh didnae want tae be even mair visible tae ‘disaffected youth in the local community whae already see me as a bit ay an authority figure thanks tae the uniform’. His words, ya hoor, no mine.

Heard the story ay ehs stepfaither tons ay times, the boy wi the fast, hard hands. Even tried tae cooncil the cunt in the Goth oan mare thin yin occasion. In ma ain wey, ah wis yon Alexander Shuglin wi the black gold standin in fir the E. Anywey, Richey apologises fir stampin my ticket. — It’s no me that’s chargin ye, Jason, it’s ScotRail, the perr cunt pleads, big eyes waterin, like ah wis gaunnae machete um oan the spot. — See if it wis up tae me…

— Nae worries, man, ah tells um.

Eh looks at ays n goes, — You’re a true friend, Jason. Ah count you as a friend. Ah hope you feel the same?

— Aye, Richey, course ah dae, ah tell um. Thank fuck it’s time tae disembark. Thon cunt wid talk umsel intae a doin; ah wis feelin ma bile rise n ma fists involuntarily clenchin n unclenchin jist bein around the cunt.

Dunfermline. Oot the fuckin train n yir stuck at the bottom ay a fuckin hill ootside the toon. How kin this be Fife’s top toon whin it’s no even oan the main rail line? Ah’d rather huv one ay they Kirkcaldy cunts thin yin ay they hoors any fuckin day, ah kin tell ye.

It’s a big hoose, like one ay they granite-type yins they goat up in Ebirdeen. It’s jist gittin dark whin ah’m chappin oan the door n a fat wifie in a big print dress comes tae answer. She’s goat short, black hair n beady eyes n the sort ay voice thit says ‘see how superior ah am tae a wee dwarf ratbag like you’. — Yes?

— Eh, ah’ve come tae see her man. Mr Mason. Eh, Oliver, ah elaborate, thinking thit the hoor shouldnae pit ehs first name oan the paper if eh doesnae want ays tae yaze it.

She pits a lemon-sucker ay a coupon oan n goes inside and shouts, — Oliver! Someone for you!

A minute later this boy wi thinin grey hair comes tae the door. Eh squints at ays ower a pair ay glesses. Looks a wee bit like an aulder version ay the Neebour Watson. — Who are ye and what d’ye want? eh snaps at ays.

Ah shows um the letter. Eh takes ehs specs oaf n pits thum in ehs cardigan pocket. Eh reads it, then looks at ays wi disgust oan ehs coupon. — You come to my home, upsetting my wife, disturbing me with this trivial matter!

— Sorry, neebs, but yir letter says thit ah jist hud a few days tae appeal. Dinnae trust yon post so ah thoat ah’d come in person, ken.

— Channels, Mr King, channels! In writing and to—

Cause the boy minds ays ay the Neebour, ah git a bit emboldened and cut the hoor oaf. — Bit ah thoat, mibbe be mair civilised, meet the chap, take um fir a pint up the East Port or something, state ma case, man tae man…

Eh thinks aboot this fir a bit as eh looks ehs up and doon, then stares at ma feet for a second or two. Then eh looks ays in the eye. — Hmm… alright, I’ll be round the East Port in five minutes. The lounge. They do a nice pint of Guinness there. You a stout man, Mr King?

— I’m mair thin partial tae a wee drop ay the black gold, Mr Mason.

— We’re getting off on the right foot here, Mr King. See you in five, the wee boy winks.

So ah’m sittin in the East Port n ah sets up the Guinness and sure enough auld Olly Mason comes in. Ah points tae his settled pint and he smiles. — Sorry, Mr King, misjudged ye a wee bit there. Thought you were one of these maverick types. I’ve no time for those who would try tae ride roughshod over procedure, Mr King: a right way and a wrong way to do everything. Nonetheless, your presence here shows that you have passion for the game and we always need that in Scottish Table Football.

— It’s ma life, ah tell um, takin the opportunity tae move strategically closer tae um, tae make room fir a bunch ay workies that come in.

— Well, as irregular as this is, I’m prepared tae give ye a hearing.

— Yir a gentleman, sor.

Eh pits the gless ay black gold tae ehs lips n takes a sip. Ehs ratty wee eyes focus oan me. — One thing I will insist, though, is that due to the somewhat irregular nature of this appeal, everything that passes between us is treated by both parties in the strictest confidentiality.

— Goes withoot sayin, neebs. Ah’m sure thit yir gaun oot oan a limb here n ah appreciate it.

Eh nods impassively. — State your case please, Mr King.

So ah talks aboot the specifics ay the case, n aw the while ehs lookin at ays, like ehs measurin ays up. — If you don’t mind me asking, Mr King, what height are you?

— Five two, well, five one and a half if ye want tae split baw hairs.

Eh sits back in the chair n eh’s nearly purrin like a pussy. — Marvellous… and you’re so very slight and slender, I’m guessing around seven and a half stones?

— Nearer seven, ah telt the hoor. — Cannae pit oan weight, no fir the lack ay tryin. Used tae be a jockey, ye see.

— Ah… cut short by injury, was it, your career?

— Mair a wee growth spurt. At fower seeven ah could’ve been officially registered as a dwarf. Total short-ersed heaven, ah contends, enjoyin the black gold. Ah’m nae fan ay Dunfermline as a toon, but this East Port’s a fair auld oasis. — Aye, ah explains, — then ah hud this daft wee growth spurt n that wis me five two before ah kent it. Story ay ma life, the extra inches eywis gaun tae the wrang department!

Olly boy looks like eh’s sizing ays up again. — Yes… that’s about the same height and weight as my daughter was, he sniffs, lookin a wee bit sad. — The amazing thing is, you’ve even got the same colouring and similar features to her. Those eyes… gazelle-like, I always used to say…

— What happened tae her?

— A tragedy, King, a tragedy. Olly shakes ehs heid n sips at his pint. — A young girl cut down in her prime in a horrific road-traffic accident. She’d been at one of those bloody raves and the idiot driving the car was probably out of his head on drugs… well, he lost control and my Kathleen was taken from us, he sais aw wistful n pathetic, ehs voice brekin up.

What could ye say tae thon? Eh tells me thit she wis jist nineteen n aw, same age as Lara. She wis ehs pride n joy, the boy explains.

Then eh pills ehsel thegither. — Sorry to go on, he says then looks at ehs watch. — Listen, why don’t you come back to mine for a malt? We’ve still got lots to discuss.

Well, a huv tae say that ah’d kind ay thought that wis it, but obviously no. — I can ensure that the reinstatement takes place, he turns and looks at ays like a polisman as we walk past the Carnegie Halls lit up for a performance, — but I cannot condone vandalism. You had nothing to do with the damage to the noticeboard?

— Oan muh ma’s life, a plead in sincere tones addin, — Word oan the street is it wis a disgruntled element within the Cooden support, wi it bein a Pars noticeboard n aw.

Olly thinks aboot this for a wee bit. — Yes, sadly we in Dunfermline have our share of bad eggs too, Mr King. But I can see that you’re cut from different cloth.

So wi gits back roond tae auld Olly Mason’s n thirs nae sign ay the wife. Eh seems tae read ma mind. — June’s at the Rotary club, she’s always there. Eh leads ays intae this big front lounge. Then eh picks up a photae oan top ay the piannay. It’s a young lassie. — Kathleen, eh sais, hudin it in front ay ays.

Ya hoor sor, a lovely wee bird n aw. Life kin be gey cruel. — Aww… ah goes, soundin like muh ma hearin aboot a dug that’s been run ower.

— Follow me, Mr King, he says n then the hoor bounds oot and up a big auld staircase n ah’m strugglin tae keep up wi um. N thir’s nae sign ay that fuckin bevvy yit.

— Jason, ah goes.

Eh stoaps n looks doon at ays fae ower ehs shoodir. — Let’s keep it on a semi-formal basis until we’ve done business, that is if you are the type of person I can count on to do business with?

— For sure, ah sais.

Eh nods in conspiracy n wi go intae a bedroom. It contains nae Margaret Thatcher but thir’s loads ay lassies’ clathes hingin oan the racks. — Kathleen’s place… just as she left it… I never… eh starts sobbin softly, takin oaf ehs glesses n rubbin ehs eyes. Then eh picks up one ay the hangers wi a Next top oan it n holds it against ays. Lookin at ays for a second, eh pills it away. — You wouldn’t… no, I’m being silly… forgive me, King, put it down to the lunacy of the bereaved… when you’ve lost everything you go to a point beyond desperation, you’ll attempt anything to alleviate the pain… foolish, I know…

— Eh, what? ah hear masel say. — Ah’ll help ye oot if ah kin.

Auld Olly’s lookin at ays wi they big moist eyes n ah’m thinkin aboot yon Bambi film. Me n the auld girl watchin it thegither, that sad bit whaire the ma dies. Muh ma sayin, ‘That could be me n naebody wid care,’ n me gaun ‘Ah’d care, Ma, ah’d care, ah’m yir wee Bambi,’ n her replenishin her sherry gless n gittin aw tearful. Poignant times indeed, sor, afore she shunted ower tae yon Dunfermline four-poster n Shitey-Ersed Arnie, n the recollection ay thum fair gits me gaun. Perr auld Olly. — Anythin ah kin dae…

— Well, you could do me one hell of a favour Mr K—… Jason. You see, I never got a chance to say goodbye to Kathleen and you remind me of her so much… I know I’m being stupid and it’s such a self-indulgent favour to ask… but it would be very greatly appreciated.

I’m thinking, perr boy, if ah kin help him n help me at the same time, ya hoor sor, ah’m in thair. Ulster, Palestine, Fife; lit the healin process begin! — Anythin ye like, Olly.

— Well, I was thinking that if I could ask you to slip these clothes on… it’s crazy, I know, but if I could pretend that you were Kathleen, it would only take a few minutes, I would be so grateful… so that I could say goodbye and achieve, I don’t know, I think that ‘closure’ is the fashionable term these days.

— Well, aye…

— Like a glove, Jason, lad. These clothes would fit you like a glove.

Ah look thum up n doon. Some nice stuff here, awright. — That ah’ll wager, sor; that ah’ll wager.

So ah wis game, if it meant helpin the perr boy n at the same time silencin some ay the critics in the New Goth, who would jist love tae see the King ay Fife cast aside oan the table-football scrapheap. So ah’m intae the gear; blouse, short skirt, stockins, sussys the lot, and of course the high heels, the boy bein particularly delighted that the shoes fitted.

Then eh comes through wi a wig n a make-up box, which ah’m a wee bit perturbed wi. — I can’t believe it, you look just like her as she dressed in her final days as an insurance broker at Scottish Equitable… He hands ays the wig n the make-up, ya hoor. — To crave your further indulgence, Mr King, the uncanny resemblance you share with Kathleen would be completed with these accessories.

— Eh… okay… ah say tae the boy. In fir a fiver, in fir a score.

— Go easy on that make-up though, Mr King, let understatement be the watchword. My Kathleen was never a tarty sort of girl.

— Ay that ah’ve nae doots, Olly, ay that uv nae doots, ah tell um, n ah settle doon in front ay the mirror. — Tell ye whit, ye did mention a wee malt whisky, well, ah widnae mind yin now fir a bit ay Dutch courage!

— Of course, Olly says, exitin the room, — do forgive me… Jason. My manners are failing me.

Ah hear his clump doon the stairs n ah’m done n nae time n ah’ve goat tae say, looking no too bad in thon fill-length mirror. Ah head doon the stairs n Olly’s thaire wi two big Scotches.

— It’s amazing… I can’t believe it! You look more like Kathleen than… please, sit down.

So ah sits in the big easy chair n eh gits doon at ma feet n then eh starts kissin thum, in the shoes, n eh’s gaun, — I’m sorry, darling, so, so sorry, eh bleats, suddenly, loudly, then ehs heid’s buried oan ma lap!

Ah’m jist lookin at the tap ay the hoor’s heid, the shiny dome wi the strands ay grey across it, no kennin whair tae pit ma coupon.

Eh’s still gaun oan aboot how sorry eh is, so ah jist says softly, — It’s awright, Dad.

— Say it again… eh goes, aw urgent.

— It’s awright, Dad… Daddy… really, ah goes.

The Olly boy’s sobbin but ah feel ehs elbay digging intae ma leg. Eh seems tae go aw stiff fir a while, breathing heavily, then trembles and says, — Thank you… thank you, oh my God… in a long gasp.

For a few seconds eh’s lyin relaxed at ma feet, nae tension in ehs boady now, then thir’s the sound ay the key turnin in the lock n eh shoots bolt upright. — Jesus Christ! It’s her, back from that stupid Rotary club. He looks at me like eh’s aboot tae shite ehsel. — Look, you’ll have to go, an eh’s oan ehs feet n eh starts pushin ays oot through the kitchen and oot ay the back door!

— Bit ma fuckin clathes, ya hoor ye, ah canny go oot like this!

— Please, Mr King… Jason, my wife will… the trauma of seeing someone who looks so like our daughter, it would kill her, she wouldn’t understand. Do this for me and I’ll ensure that your appeal is successful, I promise!

N ah’m left standin ootside in the back gairdin, in fuckin drag, ya hoor sor, wi no even a light tae git back tae the Beath! Railway ticket in the fuckin pocket ay the jeans upstairs n aw, ya hoor! No thit ah kin git oan the train lookin like this; the pity displayed by Richey the Assaultee wid be bad enough, but huvin tae come doon the hill in fill view ay the Goth at closing time? Git tae fuck!

The only thing tae dae is try tae walk wi as much dignity as ah kin. Ah gits roond the side ay the hoose n intae the street and an auld wifie wi a dug looks at ays. Ah’m tryin tae think ay the body language ay lassies thit ah’ve stalked, n ah endeavour tae keep the erse wiggle tae a minimum n lit they fuckin heels dae the rest. So ah heads oot eastbound, past East End Park, towards the big roundabout where thir’s nowt tae dae but git the auld thumb oot cause it’s pishin doon ah’ll never make six miles in heels!

8. TRANSIT

THE BOYS MEET us in the café in Dunfermline Glen late afternoon. We’re all on the Kenco coffee, when one of the boys, the big one Lara’s been fucking, Monty, she calls him, pulls a small bottle of whisky from his pocket. He is wearing a T-shirt with Guns n Roses Appetite For Destruction emblazoned across it. With his huge hands, as big as my father’s, he pours some in Lara’s, and then does the same for this other guy, whom he’s introduced as Klepto. He gestures towards mine but I put my hand over it. — I don’t drink and drive, I tell him.

The big lad has grey skin with incongruous orange freckles peppered across it. He looks like a pitta bread with measles. His blond hair is cut short, greying at the temples. He’s a monster and I can’t help thinking about the sort of sex he and Lara have.

Monty shrugs and this Klepto character says, — Very sensible, with a wry nod. He’s a skinny, wiry boy with big buck teeth and very cold, dark eyes, which seem to permanently stare.

Monty leans back in the seat and stretches out, showing off his muscular build. He’s not overweight, but he doesn’t have the bodybuilder’s sculpted muscles like the guys I see in the gym, though his biceps are huge. I’ve seen it before in some of my dad’s acquaintances: it’s all building-site work. — So yis ur lookin fir a wee bit excitement the night then, girls? he asks like a threat.

It unnerves me, and I think even Lara as well, as she laughs a little, spitting out a defiant, teasing, — Come to the right place, have we?

— Defin-ite-ly, Monty smiles.

A little later, as we head out to the cars, I whisper to Lara, — He’s certainly no Prince William.

Lara’s features are set in neutrality. She’s freezing me out. My heart skips a beat as she gets into Monty’s car. I can’t disguise my apprehension, and Monty notes it. — Klepto’ll go wi you, make sure ye dinnae git lost, he says darkly.

The van sets off and after standing in the rain for a second or two, I reluctantly climb into the car, opening the passenger-seat door to let Klepto in, and we head off in pursuit. The rain is falling heavily now, thick dollops on the greasy windscreen, and I switch on the wipers.

Klepto sits back in the passenger chair. The seat belt runs in parallel with the diagonal line on his jumper. I can feel his eyes on me, sizing me up. — So what’s your story, then, Jenni? Ye goat a felly on the go?

I start to feel very cold, and I turn up the heater. — Yes, I’m seeing somebody.

My instinctive response tells me that I want to put some boundaries up between this guy and me. I obviously didn’t say it with much conviction, as he smiles and tells me, — Ah dinnae believe ye, then he adds, — Cause that’s no what yir buddy says.

That fucking bitch: trying to set me up with this loser. — I don’t really care what you believe, I tell him.

His voice rises slightly and I can see the menace in his eyes. — Hi, dinnae git snooty, hen, he snaps, and it now seems too hot here in the car. Thankfully, his tone goes back to playful. — Okay, if you’ve got a felly, what’s ehs name well?

— Jason, I say suddenly.

— Jason, Klepto says softly. — So where’s this Jason the night then?

— He had to go and see some friends, I tell him.

I’m hoping that this will stop his cross-examination. It’s a forlorn anticipation though. — Funny how yir mate disnae ken anything aboot this Jason felly, he grins. I can barely see the van ahead.

I decide to keep focused on the road and ask, without looking round at him, — Does your friend know everything you do?

— Monty? He laughs. — Aye. Pretty much.

This seems to spark off a thoughtful period and thankfully he’s silent for a bit. I turn the heating down and look out to the sodden brown hills that shiver in the rain. Just when I’m starting to relax, his eerie voice fills the car again.

— Bet you’ve got a few boyfriends though. Tidy lassie like you, they’ll be queuin up.

I try to ignore him, but I can’t help feeling sickeningly flattered. There are so many boys whom I’d like to hear say that to me, but him…

— Tell ye what though, Jenni, kin ah ask ye a question?

How can you respond to something like that? I can’t even shrug it off. I look straight ahead at the road through the wipers.

— Is that a yes or a no?

— Ask if you must, I huff in defeated tones. Then annoyed with myself for conceding ground, I snap, — I’m trying to concentrate on the road!

It doesn’t phase him as he advances his predictable but scary proposition. — Do you think if somebody is gaun oot wi somebody, they should be allowed tae snog other people. Jist snog, likes.

Even through my anxiety and distaste, I can’t help thinking how I’d actually enjoy this sort of flirting, if the guy asking the question wasn’t a gormless, chipmunk-toothed psycho rapist. — Depends, I spit out.

— On what? he says, his mouth hanging open.

I’m recast in the patronising moron’s role again. — On what both parties have agreed, on the type of relationship they have.

— Aye, he nods stupidly.

And there’s something about that stupidity, that level of predatory cretinism in my car, that makes me react in a way I shouldn’t. — Aye, I echo, — and whatever my circumstances, I can’t believe that there would ever be a time when I’d want to snog you. So I’d appreciate it if you talked about something else, or better still, just shut the fuck up.

I don’t look in his direction, but I hear his breathing change. It becomes laboured, as if forcing against the air conditioning of the car. Then his voice, strangled, throaty, rasping like a buzz saw rings in my car. — You think thit yir fuckin shite disnae stink, eh, ya posh wee hoor?

My confidence starts to evaporate. I shouldn’t have said that. I was winning. — Look, I’m trying to drive.

— Good, you jist keep drivin, he says and he leans across and puts his hand down the front of my jumper!

I fucking don’t believe it! — Fuck off! What the fuck are you doing! I slam on the brakes and thankfully there’s nobody behind us. I push his hand away. — Get out! Get out the fucking car!

— Make ays, he challenges, his eyes like that of a half-starved bear in a nature documentary.

I get my mobile phone from my bag. He snatches it out of my hand! — Give me that back!

— Uh-uh. Gie’s a wee flash ay the tit n ye git it back, he grins, putting it behind his back. I’m not going to wrestle this pervert for my phone. That’s what he wants!

Instead, I try to reason with him. — Look, Lara’s going to call me if we’re late.

— Naw, ah reckon thit her n big Monty’ll be gittin busy somewhaire, he grins. — C’moan, a wee flash ay the tit n ah’m happy. Ah’m a man ay muh word. Otherwise, he raises his voice, — it’ll just have tae be a smack across the fuckin chops.

For fuck’s sake, how can this be happening? I look at the door.

— Dinnae start wi that, he snaps. — Dinnae be silly, now. Aw ah want’s a wee flash ay yir tits. Ah’ll keep muh hands tae masel. Scout’s honour.

— If it means that fucking much to you, I curse in impotent rage. That fucking bitch Lara slumming it with psychopaths and dragging me into her shit! I open my blouse and pull up my bra. — There. You’ve seen my tits. Happy now?

— Ecstatic, he laughs, as I rearrange my clothes. — As ah sais, ah’m a man ay muh word. Just got muh rep as a ladies’ man tae think ay. Now, when ah’m sittin in the pub n if the talk gits smutty, ah’ll be able tae describe your paps. And that wee mole on the right tit.

— God, you’re so pathetic.

His smile vanishes again. — Shut the fuck up and drive.

I do exactly that, through my anger and humiliation. I hate myself for getting stuck with a psycho bully in my car, but most of all I fucking hate Lara. At least the moron shuts his filthy mouth, except to bark the occasional direction.

We cross into Clackmannanshire, pulling off at this farm near Alloa. It’s a slip road with an unmarked entrance that you’d pass without thought if you didn’t know it was there. Soon the asphalt vanishes and turns into a gravelly mud. The farmhouse looks run-down and has a big barn, with lots of cars parked outside it, many of them big 4x4s. I can’t wait to get out and I do it too quickly, my boots sinking into thick mud. I want to say something to Lara, but she’s got that nutter Monty with her. — Got a little bit lost, she smiles.

— See youse did n aw, Monty sniggers at Klepto. He has his hulky pitbull terrier with him, which is thankfully muzzled. It comes over to me and sniffs at my leg.

— A wee bit, but it’s the detour thit makes it worthwhile, that fucking inadequate sex offender, Klepto sneers. — Ah did see a couple ay nice wee hills on the wey oot, he bends down and slaps the dog’s muscled sides.

I swallow hard and move away from them, looking over to the barn. There’s a guy on the door, and Monty nods at him and we go inside. It’s packed. Old doors, turned on their sides, are bolted together to form a ring, which seems about twelve foot square. The ring is covered in old carpet, presumably to stop the dogs from slipping when they attack each other. I have to admit that the whole grotesque pantomime is oddly fascinating.

After a bit, the owners come into the ring with their dogs, a Rottweiler and an Alsatian. They hold them in different corners behind scratched lines, where they look at each other like boxers. Apart from a skinny man with slicked-back hair, who is presumably the referee, they are the only other bodies in the ring. The atmosphere is becoming murderous. The faces on the men in the barn are uniformly demonic, and I feel like I’m in the middle of a strange nightmare. Lara looks fascinated, yet as horrified as I feel. The referee suddenly barks: — Release your dogs!! And the animals charge towards each other, converging savagely in the centre of the pit, in a snarling, tumbling flurry.

A cheer goes up and the crowd scream rabid encouragement at the demented beasts. But there seems little action; it’s a strange impasse where it’s as if the dogs’ faces are superglued together. Then a chant — ‘fanged, fanged, fanged’ — starts up, gaining in volume and velocity. Monty puts his big face in between Lara’s and mine and explains, — When one dug bites through the other yin’s lip, they become fanged. Stops aw the action.

It didn’t stay stopped for long, as the handler came into the ring with a stick and puts it into the dog’s mouth, prising its jaws open. — The handler’s goat tae work the brekin stick intae the dug’s mooth tae brek the grip, Monty gleefully explains.

His muzzled dog is very disciplined and shows no reaction to the carnage in the ring as it stands by his side on a choke-chain leash. — Kenneth here’s a face dug, no a throat dug. A bonus, he explains with obvious relish. — Very few throat dugs are quick enough tae go for the kill and rip a throat oot. Some that git lucky might be able tae make the other dug pass oot if they kin git a guid grip ay its throat and cut oaf the oxygen supply, he explains, looking contemptuously at the dogs in the ring. — These urnae proper fightin dugs, he explains, — A pitbull worth its salt wid dae baith ay thaime at once.

Separated, the dogs charge again, converging into one snarling beast and whacking the door in front of our legs with force. They separate again and charge, the Alsatian seeming the more aggressive. After this exchange, the Rottweiler’s face is ripped and it whines horribly. I want to cry ‘Stop’. — See, Monty says triumphantly, — thon Rotty’s goat a grip three times stronger thin the Alsatian, but the cunt’s nae fuckin hert. Maist throat dugs git one shot n aw they git is a moothfae ay fur. Once the face dug starts rippin up thir coupon thir bottle jist goes n that’s thaime beat. It’s like a boxer wi just one punch, tryin tae land that big right aw night, but gittin picked oaf wi the jab n the combos. Pit bulls are the real fighters; the rest is just exhibition stuff. A freak show, he laughs, — we’re the main event. This is steeped in tradition; the rules have been set for years. It’s sport, jist like bullfightin in Spain, he says grandly.

Lara shudders. — I think it’s horrible, she says, and then looks at him and smiles. — But kind of fun, too.

The Alsatian has the whining and fretful Rottweiler in a grip in the back of the neck. The poor creature is paralysed with fear and just shivers and whimpers and cowers low as the Alsatian stands over it growling through its nose. One old guy, demented, scary, raising a half-empty half-bottle of whisky, roars: — Kill the cunt! A big guy with a shaven head and heavy black Stone Island jacket greets Monty and passes a ridged mirror to him. It has lines of cocaine chopped onto it. He takes one and passes it to Lara, who passes it to me. I decline, I want to get high, but not with these fucking people. I notice that Klepto takes a line.

— I think that’s the way it’s gaunny go the next round, Monty sneers.

Eventually, the owners pull the dogs apart. The Alsatian is muzzled and the Rottweiler’s owner looks at the dog in disgust. What I take to be some kind of disgraced vet, but I realise is actually the drunk with the whisky, is tending its wounds with some dark stuff from a bottle which I assume is an iodine solution. He applies it while the owner holds the dog’s face.

— Cunt cost me five hundred quid. Bastard, Stone Island moans. — Ronnie’s patter’s shan. That fuckin dug couldnae fight sleep.

— Eywis bet wi the puss dug, Mike. See how you fight whin yir face is gittin ripped oaf ye! Monty says.

I’m enthralled, even as the cold seeps into my bones and the shivers pulse with strobe light-like regularity through me. Lara, emboldened by the cocaine, now seems to be enjoying the carnage. — That was great, she says. Then she looks at me, and says, — What? That’s what they’re born to do. Like horses are meant to run and jump and be ridden, those dogs are born to fight. I don’t really see the problem.

— The problem, I start, dropping my voice and whispering urgently in her ear, — is not the dogs. It’s the people here, and as I study the faces of the men around me, one across the ring snaps into recognition. It’s my father, talking to a small, bald man! Thank God he hasn’t seen me! I step back in panic and pull Lara aside.

— I have to go. Now.

— Why? Wimping out, Ms Cahill? she asks smugly, — Monty’s dog’s fighting next!

— It’s not that. My dad’s here! I don’t want to see him!

Lara grinds her jaw and raises her eyebrows. — Well, I’m staying. This is fun.

— Don’t tell him I was here, I say, stepping back a bit more.

Klepto looks at me. — That’s your faither? Tam Cahill?

— Yes! I hiss. — Please, don’t tell him I was here.

The colour has drained from his face. — There’s nae danger ay that!

I push through the crowd. Somebody gropes my arse. I turn around to see Stone Island’s bullet head skewing with a saucy wink. I push on and an old guy laughs and says, — Aye, it isnae Crufts, hen! I get outside and into the car. As I drive off, I can see my father’s 4x4 is parked alongside some other vehicles, on a tarmacked forecourt on the other side of the barn. I head away from that terrible place, getting on the road back through Dunfermline towards Cowdenbeath. The drizzle has turned into a downpour.

I’m so glad to be on my own. I’m thinking about my dad and the dog. Oh my God. Surely not… Ahead, there’s a solitary figure standing half in the gutter, lurching into the road. Astonishingly, outside of Dunfermline, somebody is thumbing a lift. It’s a girl. I pull up and stop as she comes running towards me.

But it’s not a girl. It’s a guy dressed up in woman’s clothing and I know him!

I wind down the windscreen. — Why are you dressed like that? What are you doing out here?

He wraps his arms around himself. He doesn’t have a coat! — It’s a long story, could we mibbe no discuss it in the motor?

I open the front passenger seat. As he gets in, all I can think of is how womanly his legs look, in their soaked tights. I feel a wave of jealousy, my own are so shapeless and chunky under those jeans.

— Where ye been? he asks.

— Seeing friends, I say quickly. — More to the point, where have you been?

Jason looks at me with these almost permanently startled eyes of his. I consider, with a chilling realisation, that it was his name I used to try and get myself off the hook with that pervert. It was the first one that came to mind when he asked about my boyfriend! And now he’s dressed as a girl. — Ah goat involved in amateur dramatics. Ah wis playin a lassie in this drama. Up at rehearsals in the Carnegie Hall, likes. Aye, n ah went fir a wee swallay, n one became several, n ah goat masel locked oot! Thing is, aw ma clathes n cash were locked in the dressin room! Could only happen tae me, he smiles woefully.

As we drive into Cowdenbeath, I tell him about Hawick and my diminishing hopes of making the tournament. As we get down the high street he seems agitated.

— Eh… obviously, ah widnae mind if ye could droap me oaf right at ma door. People might, eh, misconstrue things…

I find myself laughing uncontrollably as he sinks down into the seat, directing me to the small housing scheme behind the railway station. — Fuck, and he ducks further down as he sees some people coming out of that dirty old pub on the corner. — It’s the Neebour Watson!

Once the guy he doesn’t want to see passes by, we pull up outside Jason’s house. — Jenni, could ah ask ye one mair wee favour? Wid ye mind tappin oan the door n askin ma auld boy tae git ma parka, trainers n tracksuit boatums?

I’m a bit reluctant to do this, but he seems so desperate. — Well, okay…

I get out the car and go down the path. Loud rap music blares from inside as I bang on the door. Eventually a man with a crumpled, yellow face opens up, it’s like it’s been burned down one side. On the other side he looks like somebody semi-familiar, but it’s not an older Jason. The noise is almost deafening, and he goes inside and turns it down. As he reappears, I tell him the story Jason told me. He shakes his head doubtfully but tells me to come into a hallway. Everything looks old and smells of deep-fried food. — Sorry aboot yon racket. 50 Cent, he nods, then complying with Jason’s request, runs up the stairs, returning with the items. I take the clothes out to the car. I stay outside as Jason struggles into the bottoms and trainers, and then wraps himself in the parka.

He gets out of the car, then stops to look at me. — Thanks for that, Jenni. Ah owe ye a favour. He smiles broadly and it transforms his face; all teeth, eyes and enthusiasm. — You’re a top lassie: too cool fir school, likes.

He goes into the house and I head home, thinking that Jason’s a lot sweeter and a damn sight more interesting than I gave him credit for.

When I get home my mind is turbulent with the events of the day, so I sit up to watch the repeat of a brilliant documentary on the death of Kurt Cobain. I like this time; when everybody else is in bed and I have the place to myself and the television is actually watchable. Cobain was a genius. To be able to choose death over adulation: isn’t that the ultimate moral courage, of the type we all want to possess? My eyes mist up. I fantasise about Kurt coming into Cowdenbeath on a big motorbike, taking me on the back, driving out of town and eventually travelling down dusty, southern European peasant roads, then stopping to make love on a Tuscan hilltop in the sun. I’m about to have a frig when I hear the front door opening.

It’s very late, who the fuck—

Then Dad comes in, with Ambrose, whose face is covered in bandages! Dad’s uncharacteristically coy when he sees that I’m still up. — Eh… awright?

I approach the dog, only one sad eye visible through the gauze. — What the fuck’s happened to him? I gasp, as if I didn’t know.

My dad looks down at the poor creature. — Some Rottweilers, two of them, they set on him in the Glen this afternoon. Poor bastard nearly lost an eye. Had to get his face stitched up at the vet’s.

— And you let that happen to him?

— What else could I dae? he bleats, then adds, as I spring off the couch, — Since when did you start tae care aboot the dug?

— Since you’ve been fucking exploiting him like you try to do with everything that comes across your path! I scream at him. I hear him protesting about waking Mum and Indy and I slam the door to drown him out.

Sure enough, Mum’s on the top of the stairs in her nightgown, pleading, — What’s wrong, Jenni? What is it?

— Ask the fucking monster you were daft enough to marry! I bark as I go into my room.

— You’ll respect your father and this house, young lady! she squeals and I hear him placating her on the stairs. I don’t know which of them is worse: him with the morals of a sewer rat or her, who possesses the brains of a gerbil.

9. IN THE GOTH

THE NEEBOUR WATSON is makin a guid point in the Goth, one that’s teased the mind ay the speculative-natured man fir a long time. — Ah dinnae see how lassies git aw funny aboot they VPLs; like thir no sexy, n a pair ay drawers wi a Calvin Klein label stickin oot ower the tap ay yir jeans is meant tae be.

— Ken full well whit ye mean thair, ya hoor ye; saw that Lara gaun ower yon hurdle oan Scarlet Jester, the black undies showin through yon white jodhpurs. Aye, ah played that yin back a thoosand times oan the DV.

— Whae shot it?

— Me, ya daft hoor! Fae yon Perth tournament last year, ah turns taewards um, — oan the video camera Sheky borrowed fae the local FE college. The main campus in Halbeath Road in Dunfermline, that is, no the poxy wee outpost the hoors have oan the industrial estate doon the road, ah explains tae the Goth guid n great.

The Duke ay Musselbury comes in, clocks ma near empty gless but makes nae move on ma behalf as eh sets ehsel up. Noted, ya hoor sor.

— Ah heard thit hur n yon Jenni Cahill ur gaun doon tae the Borders, Hawick like, fir the big tourney doon thaire, ah tells thum. Aye, she fair saved ma life wi her motor, that wee yin last night. Took ma explanation charitably n aw. Quality behaviour in a lassie, that.

The Duke looks at me like ah’m a bam. — Ye gaun doon?

— Well, aye. Ah mean, yuv goat tae support two guid Fife lassies against aw yon Perthshire rich-bitches. Patrotic duty as an ambassador for the Kingdom, ya hoor.

It’s guid tae git some peace, here in the Goth. The auld boy kept playin yon 50 Cent track ‘Many Men (Wish Death Upon Me)’ ower n ower again, louder every time. N him jist sittin in yon battered chair, aw teary-eyed, sippin a can ay Stella.

10. TANNING

I LIE IN late till the Bastard goes to his work and Indy goes to school and the Non-Event is at the shops, so that I don’t have to face any of them. I’m in a house of monsters, and they fill me with a sick loathing. When the coast is clear, I have a long and delicious frig, imagining myself on the back of the bike of Ally Kravitz, Lara said the dishy guy who hangs around with Jason was called. I can feel the Mediterranean sun on my face but it’s just my own blood rising to the surface of my skin as I come in jarring, violent convulsions. I’ve had sex with just two guys before; neither has felt as good as when I do it with myself.

I pull the duvet off myself to cool down. After lying in a dizzy stupor for a while, I get up and get ready. Then I’m off in the car and to my step class at the sports centre. The strange old drunkard who sits outside there says something to me or about me. Surprisingly, it didn’t sound that uncomplimentary. — Whatever, I shrug back, heading inside.

I put in a good session. Afterwards there’s a text message from Lara on my mobile and I meet her in the Alpha Leisure Tanning Studio in the high street.

We go into adjoining booths. There’s only a flimsy partitioning wall dividing us as we climb onto the beds and they start up with an almighty whirr and an intensive explosion of light that still bursts formidably from under my protective glasses. It’s okay at first, as I think of tropical beaches, and it’s hard to believe I’m on Cowdenbeath High Street. But after a while it gets really hot and I start to get a different image in my head. I see myself as a barbecued chicken on a spit. I swear I can even smell myself cooking. — I’m not sure about this, Lar, I shout through to her from under the banks of light, my bare arse hard against the cold glass. — I think I can feel myself burning. This can’t be good for you.

— Nonsense, Ms Cahill, comes her disembodied voice from the adjacent machine, — it’ll do you the world of good. Once you get rid of that white, pasty skin, you might be tempted to buy some more colourful clothes instead of black all the time. It’ll be great for Hawick.

— How will it? It won’t make Midnight’s leg any better or make us jump any higher.

— You want to look your best for the photographers there. I’ve heard that there might even be some TV cameras, for that STV show, Country Pursuits.

Afterwards we go to the leisure centre coffee bar. I’m thinking about that horrible Klepto, and Jason, the weird but sweet stalker, and my fucking father and poor Ambrose the dog. How it seems to be my lot to be surrounded by the creeps that Lara draws into her orbit.

When I get home and check on Midnight in the stable, Dad appears with Indy and he’s on one of his recurrent themes. He says I’m ‘overhorsed’ on Midnight. — He’s an experienced old stager but ye need a fitter, hungrier animal if you’re tae compete properly. There’s a well-schooled six-year-old for sale. See if you like him. He’s a gelding but he’s goat stallionesque spirit. The owners even said it was a mistake getting him done, as they should have bred from him. An Oldenburg warmblood. You cannae beat German horses. A thoroughbred as well. Horses like him dinnae come along every day.

Indy goes into the stable to check on Clifford the pony. My dad walks towards the fence and shakes it. Poor Ambrose trails pitifully behind him, face still taped together. — How is his face? I ask, following them.

— Twenty-two stitches. Looks nasty, but it’s superficial. He’s three-quarters pitbull. He ought to have fought back! He looks at the dog in an angry contempt.

I think of Monty, and Kenneth, his killer dog. — Funny how the dogs went straight for his face. There are no marks on his body.

— Aye… that’s dugs for ye. They dae that.

— Especially if they’re trained, eh?

He looks searchingly at me for a bit, then shrugs. — Best check up on that stable. Fuckin minging, he goes.

— I try, but it needs so much work, I protest. — And there’s Indy’s pony and the companion animals, and I’m lumbered with the lot!

— Thir’s a solution tae that, he says.

He’s going to go on about boarding Midnight with Scarlet Jester in La Rue’s stables again. How many times do I have to say it to get it through his thick skull that it isn’t going to happen! — I know what you’re going to say, I snort.

— I hear ye aboot the stables. He raises his palms. — I think we need somebody tae help us thaire. Ye cannae git staff they days, eh, he smiles, and I force a response. — I might just ken somebody, he winks at me.

— Okay, I say quietly back. I realise that I’ve just entered into a pact with him to say no more about Ambrose’s wounds, in order that I get him to pay somebody to skivvy in the stable. It dawns on me that I’m probably as shallow as he is, possibly even more.

11. EAST PORT

THE NEXT EFTIRNOON ah’m back in Dunfermline, sittin in the East Port wi Olly Mason, whae’s goat ma clathes in a placky bag n is aw fill ay apologies. — I’m so sorry, Jason, but my wife wouldn’t understand this need I have to seek a symbolic communion with my daughter. June’s a wonderful woman, but a terrible reactionary: not open-minded like you or me.

Fair kens how tae ego massage, thon hoor, ah’ll gie um ehs due. Thir’s geishas spent years learnin thir trade thit couldnae git that close. Things They Dinnae Teach Ye At Kelty Business Skill, right enough. Eh’s fair found ma clitoris, any roads. — Well, ah pride masel oan bein a free thinker in the best Fife traditions, ya hoor sor.

Olly nods in the gesture ay mutual understandin employed by learned men the world ower. — What you did yesterday helped me so much, eh says, liftin the black gold in a toast motion that ah’m moved tae reciprocate. — Consider the ban rescinded. I’ve been onto the committee and they’ve agreed with my recommendation that we acted too hastily and that the Mossman result should stand, and that Jason King will play Derek Clark from Perth in the next round of the cup! Cheers!

— Cheers! Delighted tae be ay service, Olly, but it wis an awfay loat ay bother gaun through the toon in drag.

The hoor’s brows knot, as weel they might. — Yes… I’m so sorry about that.

This is a rerr pint ay Guinness, though. Ah lick the inevitable foam mowser fae ma toap lip. — Aw’s well that ends well. Goat picked up in the motor by a nice wee lassie ah ken. A nae-questions-asked type. Wee goth bird, likes, but no in the sense ay the boozer, ah hastily add.

— Excellent… excellent. Listen, Jason, how would you feel about helping me out again? Olly pleads. — That last session, it was so… cathartic, a couple more at the same level of… intensity… would surely see me able to move on…

— Well, ah dinnae—

— Of course, I’d make it worth your while, the boy cuts in. — How does fifty pounds suit?

Ah thinks aboot this for a minute. Hermless stuff, by any just accoont, sor. — Ah’m game, but if thir’s any chuggin involved ah’m wantin a ton, ah tell um. — Nae offence, but bein in the presence ay another man’s climax disnae dae nowt fir ays; specially whin ah’m the only skirt in the room, ya hoor!

Olly looks sadly at ays as if tae acknowledge that it’s aw jist business. Aye, cash nexus, relationships, as auld Karl sais. Then eh gies a slow nod. — That would be fine, provided I can record the proceedings? They will, of course, be exclusively for my own personal… therapy only. This I guarantee.

Ah think aboot this for a while, n shrug. — Awright, cause auld Olly doesnae seem the sort ay felly whae’d want anybody else tae ken aboot this.

— It’s June’s shopping day in Edinburgh, eh explains in a low whisper as we kill wur pints n head back tae the hoose. What one does fir one’s love ay the beautiful tabletoap game. But if we huv tae prostitute wursels tae thon pimp commerce, then lit’s git the fill goin rate ay bawbees. Basic trade union principles, ya hoor.

Olly’s set up ehs camera n tripod n wir soon at work. Ah think ah pit the make-up oan a wee bit better this time roond, daein the lippy like the auld girl used tae. Olly’s stagin things much mair now n ahm fair huvin tae work fir ma sheckles. The hoor likes ays tae huv a faraway gaze, while hudin different books he’s gied ays like Little Women or Jane Eyre, like ah wis jist contemplatin a sentence in the work, likes.

Next thing ah ken is ah’m sittin oan eh’s knee, n eh’s goat ays reading passages oot loud tae um. Simulatin yon coachin gied tae the Kathleen lassie as a young thing, nae doot. Ah fair goat a beamer whin eh telt ays thit ah hud that ‘quality ay innocence’ aboot ays. Really made ays determined tae go oot n git ma hole, that yin did.

Olly’s breathin went as shallow as a hoor that says ‘ah love ye’ n ah wis certain thit perr Kathleen’s dress wid need a guid cleanin.

Whin ah gits back intae civvies n meets the hoor doonstairs, eh goes, — I think I’m almost there, Jason, negotiating those troubled waters of grief with that harbour of serenity almost in sight. Eh, any chance of just one more visit?

— Mibbe will cry it quits fir now, Olly. Ah mean, nae offence, everybody’s goat thir ain wey ay dealin wi bereavement, but ah’ll leave you tae sail this particular ship alaine, if ye dinnae mind, ah’m moved tae tell the hoor.

He nods in slow understandin, n coonts oot the notes, handin thum ower tae ays. — Fair enough, but if you ever change your mind, you know where to find me, eh sais, showin ays oot. Ah shimmy doon thon gairden path, giein um a wee wave, spankin that wedge in ma back poakit, n ah feels fabby, ya hoor sor.

Eftirwards ah stey in Dunfermline huvin arranged tae meet Kravy. We plan oan gaun up tae the Queen Margaret hospital tae see ehs ma. Ah takes a look around the centre for a bit but ah sees that Monty comin oot ay the newsagent wi two or three ay they boys that gied Sheky n me that skelpin thon time. Ah turn the other wey and thankfully the hoors are too loast in thir ain drama ay fag-crashin tae register muh presence. Close shave! Ah consider gaun tae see the auld doll at her hotel, but ah dinnae want tae risk bein frozen oot by the Sperminator, thon wee cunt Arnie. It’s gittin near time tae meet Kravy any roads. Darkness descends like a hoor’s proverbials as I get oot the centre and oantae the main drag. The city chambers looks like a fairy-tale castle wi its turrets as it juts oot intae the street. Ah turn doon the hill and git intae Tappie Toories, a hostelry kent way beyond the borders ay Fife as it wis once owned by the late, great Stuart Adamson, formerly fae Big Country and the Skids.

Ah’ve jist set up some black gold whin ah hears the roar ay a bike engine ootside n then Kravy walks in. Ah set um up a lager. — What’s in the bag, Jase? eh asks.

— Eh… set ay clathes. Left thum at this bird’s the other night whin ah hud tae dae a runner.

— Anybody ah ken?

— Ask nae questions yi’ll git telt nae lies.

So wi hus a quick Artooro, then ah climbs reluctantly oantae the back ay his bike up tae the hozzy.

Whin wi finds the ward ehs ma’s sittin up in her kip. Thir’s a congealed penne picante on a wheelie table by the side ay hur bed. Her beak’s streamin, like she’s been daein tons ay coke. — How goes, Mrs Forsyth?

— Ah seriously doot thit ah’m long fir this world, Jason, son, already spoke tae Faither Maguire. She looks tearfully at Kravy. — Ah jist wish thit muh boy wid come back hame n meet a nice Scottish lassie n settle doon.

— Ah prefer Spanish burds but, Ma, Kravy sais, — especially the chunkier yins. Eh traces oot a fill rather thin oorgless figure. — Barry rides; it’s the Latin spirit. Thir’s this chick ah’ve been slippin the doadie tae up in Setubal, intae threesomes, the lot.

Kravy’s ma sits up n pushes the trolley table away fae the bed. — Huh, we did aw that sort ay thing n aw, son. Hear him, she turns tae me, — thinks eh kin shock ehs auld mother.

It fair leads yin intae contemplation, but. — Funny, Mrs F, aw the auld yins up the Goth say the same thing. Tell ays thit pre-Aids, thir wis some vintage ridin gaun oan in Fife. The young team ur aw intae it as well; that Ballroom up the road, um telling ye, ya hoor, ye’d end up oan the register jist walkin in thaire oan a Seturday night! Aye, it jist skipped a generation, or at least ma pert ay the generation! Lorenzo’s n aw, ah tell thum, now in effervescent form, — the Miners’Welfare back in Cowden cannae compete!

— Aye, bit this yin here, she looks at her laddie, — still thinks thit eh’s invented sex. Besides, whin ye git tae ma age ye realise thit thir’s mair tae life.

Kravy looks contemptuously at his striken ma, gypsy-broon lamps risin up ehs foreheid. — Aye, n you’re tryin tae tell ays thit they injuries ay yours wurnae sustained in the hunt fir a lum sweep? eh sneers. Fuck me, ah widnae be able tae talk tae muh ma like that. The chops wid be mair fuckin tanned thin that wee Lara’s chorus eftir a session oan yon sunbed!

— I was having a social glass of wine on a night out with some of the lassies from the bingo, his ma protests in formal tones.

N that’s whit maist ay the evening consists ay: listenin tae thaime windin each other up. When we git oot, it’s brass monkey weather n ah dinnae feel like gittin oan the back ay yon bike. Ah’m almost tempted tae elaborate oan my porky pie aboot seein this bird in Dunfermline, tellin um ah’m gaunny meet her, then sneakin oan the 19 or 30 fae Halbeath Road, or even doon tae the station. But ah swallay hard and climb oan the back.

Kravy accelerates away that quick my bowels and hert are still in Dunfermline whin the outskirts ay the Beath ur comin intae view!

God, it’s great tae git oaf that fucker. Whin ah arrives hame, muh auld boy goes, — That gangster hoor, thon Tam Cahill, he wis oan the phone fir ye. Ye want tae keep away fae thon scum, thon’s a wrang yin.

— Thoat you wir intae gangsters?

— Gangsta’s son, thir’s a big difference.

— Aye, right, ah go, too tired tae argue, whit did eh want?

The auld boy forces oot some air as ehs lips purse. — Ah dinnae ken. Telt um tae fuck off.

— Ye didnae…

— Naw, bit ah felt like it, the auld man scowls at ays. — Dinnae be bringin trouble tae this hoose.

— It’s only aboot some stablework, ah tell um, raising they palms in appeal.

— Thir’s nae employment that’s stable right now, the hoor says, totally missin muh drift. — No fir the workin cless at any rate.

Well, ah didnae fancy another lecture oan politics oafay him, so ah flung oan the glad rags and opted tae go oot tae Starkers niteclub, owned by redoubtable Fife businessman, Eric Stark. When ah git thaire, the sign has been vandalised, the activity ay the Young Team ah’m wagerin, as the first ‘R’ hus an ‘L’ painted ower it. It’s an awfay young crowd. Thir’s two lassies sittin at a table aw made up n wi aw the slap oan it takes ays a while tae recognise thum as Roastin Wi Sweat n Soakin Wi Rain. One ay them waves at ays. — Ah ken you fae somewhaire, she threatens.

Ah fell like sayin, ‘Cowdenbeath, perchance?’ but ah sits doon cause tae muh surprise Roastin Wi Sweat looks the pert wi the warpaint oan. It wid take ah few mair nips inside ays before ah’d plunge thon pork bayonet intae that Soakin Wi Rain, but. Hobbies include: pregnancy, cigarettes and daytime television.

— Did you no used tae stey next door tae Alison Broon? ah asks Roastin Wi Sweat.

— Aye. Her wee sister Evelyn used tae be muh best pal.

Wee Evelyn, wi the braces oan the teeth. Doaktir Lecter, ah used tae call her; only in jest but, ya hoor.

— Thoat ah wis yir best pal, Soakin Wi Rain cuts in, really pit oot.

— Aye, but she used tae be, but. Yonks ago likes, Roastin Wi Sweat hastily pacifies her.

Ah’m thinking aboot they braces again. Wonderin if the grown-up Evelyn could be induced tae wear thum in a one-off, purely fir the purposes ay giein oral pleasure, ya hoor. It moves ays tae enquire, — Whatever happened tae wee Evelyn Broon?

Roastin Wi Sweat takes a fag oafay Soakin Wi Rain n lights up. — She went ower tae Canada wi Alison n her man. They sponsored her. Think she’s goat a felly now, ah ken she’s goat a bairn.

— What aboot Alison?

— Last ah heard she hud three bairns, Roastin Wi Sweat goes n Soaking Wi Rain nods approvingly.

— Aye, jist goes tae show, eh. So what aboot you ladies? Any of youse enjoying that fine institution of motherhood?

— What? Soakin Wi Rain goes.

— Youse goat bairns?

— She’s goat two, Roastin Wi Sweat points at Soakin Wi Rain whae glows in a bovine pride.

She’s giein me the look like ah’m now supposed tae say ‘ye dinnae look auld enough’. — Whaire ur they the night?

— Muh ma’s goat thum, she says. Then she screws her face up and goes to her mate, — Watch muh coat, um gaun fir a pish.

As she departs Roastin Wi Sweat turns tae ays n discloses, — She’s up the duff again. It’s his, she grasses, pointin ower at this wee guy fae the Young Team, whae isnae that wee. In fact, eh’s a monster; shaggy black hair, a white shirt and a bottom drawer ay a chin hingin open tae catch any stray flies. — Big Craig thaire. He screwed her when they wir baith steamin in the perk. That’s three bairns wi three different fellays, Roastin shakes her heid in somethin like disgust. — Ah mean, ah want bairns, but wi jist one nice felly, whae wants tae be wi me. She takes a drag oan her fag, and looks around hopefully. — That’s no too much tae ask, is it?

Ah’m thinking thit in this place, ye might as well wish fir the fill set ay lottery numbers.

Anyway, the stink ay desperation is social bromide, so ah move oaf patrolling the dance flair in search ay better prospects. Maist huv been sectioned oaf as Young Team property, bit. Every time ah try tae make eye contact wi something decent, a steely glint ay the type usually found sandwiched between two swathes ay Burburry check comes intae view.

Whin ah say thit the fanny isnae bitin, ah mean thit ah could be standin ‘starkers’ in an Edinburgh sauna wi a wad tied roond the wee fellay and ah’d still be oan a KB.

Ah git a bit humpty and order a lonely pint ay lager at the bar. Then ah hears this voice in muh lug. — Every cunt’s entitled tae a wee bit social exclusion, Jason, but there’s nae need tae monopolise it. Come and join us.

Ah turns roond tae see yon big Tam Cahill. Eh points ower tae the roped-oaf VIP section whaire some big hitters oan the Central Fife social scene are sittin gathered. Thir’s that boy Sammy F Hunter, him that wrote the science-fiction novel aboot the asteroid hittin Fife n nae cunt giein a fuck. That wis years ago, but jist whin ehs star wis oan the wane, along comes yon Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans n they call the cunt a visionary, sayin thit eh predicted exactly the American government’s response tae yon crisis! Thir’s a big Fife literary presence right enough; if ah’m no mistaken next tae Sammy we’ve goat the poet Ackey Shaw, reckoned tae be yin ay Jim Leishman’s greatest influences. Eh penned the pamphlet ‘A Hermless Cunt’ which the literary magazine Chapman gave positive reviews tae, aye sor.

Ya hoor, once ye go under yon rope ye step intae another world; a veritable galaxy ay champagne ice buckets, sunbed hoors n big deals talked, a wee bit ay Stringfellay’s relocated tae Fife Central.

— Jason King. Wur great white hope at the sport ay kings at one time, Cahill addresses the company. — Was formerly signed up to Cliff Redmond’s stable in Berkshire, right, Jason?

Ah hate this bit cause ah ey end up huvin tae explain why ah nivir ran, lit alaine won a pro race. What kin ye say whin yir life began at fowerteen n wis ower at eighteen?

— Aye, ah goes.

Fortunately, the onus is taken away fae ays as Tam Cahill turns roond tae Sammy F, n goes, — This man here wis an apprentice jockey n aw.

— Aye? Ah’m surprised, n the sci-fi scribe looks like he is n aw.

Tam pats the boy’s ample gut and goes, — An apprentice Jocky Wilson, that is.

Everybody hus a wee laugh, n ah’m thinking that old Tam Cahill isnae such a bad felly eftir aw.

12. TRADITIONS

I HAD TERRIBLE dreams last night. I curse myself and my stupidity and weakness with that Klepto idiot. I curse Lara, for getting me involved with scum like that. Most of all, I curse him. I won’t forget it either; one day, some way, I’ll watch the bastard squirm as I kick in his buck teeth.

I go downstairs to get some breakfast. I’m planning to head to the leisure centre for the kick-boxing introduction class. The steps are too boring, and I want to be able to punch and kick hard. It seems to be a required skill in these parts. I’m sitting at the breakfast bar and I start suddenly as I look beyond the partition into the lounge and see a figure rising in the semi-darkness from the settee. I’m about to scream, when I realise it’s that creepy wee Jason!

— Eh, hiya… he says, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. — Ah met Tam last night… we eh…

My dad appears in the doorway, trussed loosely in his dressing gown. He rubs at his eyes. — Morning, he says in clipped tones.

— Ah, Tam… wis jist telling Jenni here how I was a bit the worse for wear the other night and you played the Good Samaritan and took me back here tae crash on yir couch.

— Aye, my dad says, suddenly becoming animated, — but ma charity isnae boundless, Jason. So once you’ve hud yir slice ay toast or whatever that garbage is, he looks at my high-fibre cereal, — you can git tae work muckin oot in thon stable. Sweat some ay that bad beer oot ay ye!

— Ah’m oan the case, Tam, he says, rising, — ready for a fill day’s shift!

Jason helps himself to some coffee I made, and a couple of slices of toast.

— So, you’re going to work in the stable, eh? I ask.

— Aye… Tam… yir dad, reckons that I’ve a good wey wi animals. Ah’m cleaning them oot, feeding the hoarses and takin that dug fir walks. Yir faither reckons he needs mair exercise.

This is a double-edged sword. I’m far from happy that I have another weird acquaintance of Lara’s hanging about, without me even being consulted as to who looks after Midnight, but I have to say that I’m delighted at all the time this is going to free up for me!

My dad comes back in, with Ambrose on the chain leash. — Aye, yir a proper Dr Dolittle, Jason. Ah need your skills with animals, son, and he hands poor Ambrose over to him.

— He’s a beauty, Jason says, warily taking the leash. He looks shocked at the wounds in the dog’s face. — What happened tae ehs coupon?

I’m about to say something, but I stop myself, remembering the tacit pact, of which, I suppose, this Jason is now a part. As my mum and Indigo come through, my father repeats the lie.

— A sair yin, Tam, fir the boy, likes, Jason nods.

Mum picks up her coat and takes Indy out to the car to run her up to school in St Andrew’s. I start to head out after them, but I decide to hang around outside the kitchen door.

I hear my father’s voice, low, conspiratorial. — Three-quarters pitbull, one-quarter retriever; a killer with intelligence. You huv tae look eftir him while I’m no aboot. Ah dinnae trust the missus, fuckin shite-for-brains, tae dae tae it right, n ah widnae trust him aroond the wee yin.

— What aboot Jenni?

— She’s no interested, he scoffs dismissively. — Aw she cares about is that scabby auld hoarse ay hers.

— Eh… awright, Tam. Ye mentioned something else last night? this Jason tentatively asks.

— Aye… see how ye go wi this yin first, his voice rises, and I can sense he’s coming back out, so I head into the hallway and slip out the front door. I see Lara coming by on Scarlet Jester. I’d forgotten that we’d arranged to have a session with Fiona La Rue at the stables. — Hi, Lar! I shout, moving over to her. Jason and my father have appeared on the doorstep behind me and are both waving at us or should I say her, then they look at each other, each of them suddenly seeming uncomfortable.

— Hi, Jen! Hello, boys, she smiles, getting down from Scarlet Jester and putting him in the stable beside Midnight and Clifford the pony. Curran the pig scuttles to the back of the pen and they all seem pleased to see each other. Except for poor old Ambrose, whom my father ties miserably to the post outside. Then he goes inside and Jason starts cleaning out the stable. Lara and I talk about the forthcoming Hawick show and after a bit we harness up the horses for a light canter across the field, but Midnight is struggling and can barely break out of a walk. I can tell he’s distressed as he pulls forward, tearing the reins from my grip, which he never usually does. We decide to stay here and Lara calls Fiona La Rue to reschedule. Midnight and I have to watch Lara and Scarlet Jester flying over the small jumps.

I take him outside the stable, keeping on his halter and bridle, and clip him to the posts with the horse ties. Removing the bridle, saddle and saddle pad, I start to groom him. With the hoof pick that hangs on the post by the ties, I do his soles, one by one, taking special care with that sore front left leg. A heavy snort tells me he’s in discomfort, so I leave it. I get the curry-comb and start rubbing in circular motions. He loves this and settles down into a steady rhythmn of breathing, dozing contentedly.

I see Jason come out of the stable, big welly boots covered in horseshit. He looks at me and Midnight and his eyes are bulging out of his head. Then he gives me a strange wave as Lara comes over with Scarlet. — Hello, Jason, she smiles coolly as she dismounts in an easy athletic sweep. — Helping out here?

— Eh, aye. Hiya. Aye, a wee bit ay assistance, he says.

Thankfully, Lara wants to go into town, and we restable the horses and jump into the car. As we depart I look back to see Jason gaping at us open-mouthed and slack-jawed. My dad appears and shouts something at him and he springs to attention.

In the car, I turn to Lara: — It was Monty’s dog that did that to Ambrose, wasn’t it?

— Yes, but he didn’t know it was your dad’s dog at the time.

— What difference would that have made?

— Quite a lot, from what I gather. I think he’s a bit wary of your dad, Lara says, her eyes wide with excitement, — like he’s some kind of gangster.

I roll my eyes in disdain.

Lara seems impressed though. And I recall the satisfying fear that Klepto scumbag displayed when he found out who my father was. — Well, she contends, — it’s better than having a doctor as a dad!

But I think some people in this town have overactive imaginations. — He’s a boring old haulage contractor, I say dismissively, — and he’s too sad and depressing to be scary.

We do a workout at the centre, and then have a coffee. Lara’s self-obsession starts to niggle, and I soon find myself wishing I was alone so I could read the final third of Reluctant Survivor. I’ve got to the bit where the handsome Dr Shaw has kissed Josephine tenderly on the mouth. He becomes aroused by the action, and starts to shower her still body with kisses, eventually performing cunnilingus on her. She wakes up, stunned, shocked and ultimately relieved as an embarrassed Shaw has to tell her everything. It’s just getting really good. Instead I have to listen to Lara going on about this Monty, my stomach churning whenever that Klepto creature’s name is mentioned. I want to tell her, to tell somebody, about that bastard.

When we get back, Lara gets Scarlet and heads off home. Jason’s gone and Dad comes out as I’m putting Midnight back in the stable. — Ah want tae see you compete wi that wee yin wi the bools in the mooth. N that hoarse is fit fir the knacker’s yerd. Eh huds ye back.

I look at him in an angry panic, thinking about what he did to poor Ambrose. — If you ever hurt Midnight…

He extends his palms in a gesture of mock innocence. — Ah ah’m sayin is that we need a proper team, nae lame ducks… or hoarses. Ah mean, look at ma business. At ma place we’re a team. If somebody isnae pillin thir weight, then off they go: right doon the road…

— Midnight stays. He’ll get stronger, I know it.

— Mibbe, my dad says doubtfully, — but think ay what ah said aboot thon gelding.

13. EXILE ON HIGH STREET

A FIGHTIN DUG, ya hoor, that’s the furry Fife fashion accessory ah’m draggin aroond wi ays doon Main Street n up tae the High Street. Ambrose, they call him. N eh’s no that bad once ye git used tae um; thon nippy wee cunts ootside the chippy gied ays a wide berth whin ah strutted doon the street wi him on the chain, suren they fuckin did!

Cahill obviously thinks the jockeyin backgroond and the coort appearance that the Neebour Watson and me hud on thon hare-coursing rap a couple ay years ago (slipped through the hoor’s fingers as under Scots law ye kin only be prosecuted for poachin) makes ays a bona fide black-economy man ay sport. N whae am ah tae disabuse the hoor ay that notion? Specially whin it’s cash in hand fir me oan top ay the giro, jist fir cleanin oot yon stables n gittin a wee deek at ehs daughter’s tight erse as she pits yon big hoarse through ehs paces. Ah’m waitin fir her tae go ower they wee jumps, but she tells ehs thit ehs leg still isnae up tae it. Eh’s fuckin middle leg surely is, but. Ah couldnae believe masel the other day. Ah wis muckin oot in the stable watchin her groomin the cunt whin eh wis tied up under the canopy. Snooty wee Lara wis gaun ower they fences fir aw they wir worth n ah wis in stalker heaven.

Then ah sees Jenni rubbin the hoarse’s back wi the comb. This yon black cock starts tae telescope oot ay its sheath; like yon Darth Vader’s light sword, ya hoor. There wis me standin thair wi a daft wee smile oan ma face tryin tae git some attention, but thir’s nae wey a dwarf laddie like me could compete wi thon!

As guid as the stalkin at the Cahill ranch is, ah quite like taking Ambrose oot. The problem is thit walkin the dug stoaps ye fae indulgin in the key pleasures ay the socially marginalised; namely the lunchtime pint ay black gold doon the Goth. But then ah think, one swallay does not a summer fuck up; a quick yin, then wi kin mibbe head doon the coast.

The lads ur aw in, n thir pretty wary ay the dug. N ah’d like tae see Big Monty Fuck come ahead whin ah’m hudin this boy’s leash. — S’awright, ah says tae the Neebour Watson, — this boy widnae hurt a fly, eh no, Ambrose? Eh’d take your hee-haws right oaf but, wid eh no though, ya hoor sor!

The Neebour stands back n the Duke’s no gittin that loud in the mooth, tell ye that fir nowt.

— See that boy got done the other night there, that Mason felly, Neebour Watson tells ays.

— Whae? the Duke asks, keepin ehs eyes oan Ambrose.

— The table-fitba supremo, Neebour explains, then turns tae me n says, — Jist as well eh overturned yir ban first, Jase.

— Aye, right enough, ah goes, tryin no tae sound too concerned, bit ah feel ma haun tightenin oan the leash ay Ambrose, whae’s lyin doon, assumin the pub-dug position.

Neebour’s switchin intae sweetie-wife mode as eh cannily regards Ambrose. — Surprised thit Tam Cahill never mentioned it tae ye, neebs, wi you spendin that much time up thair thit yir vernear pert ay the faimlay!

— Specific tasks though, ya hoor, ah swings Ambrose’s leash, bit no enough tae disturb the boy oan ehs choke, — animal husbandry. Thir’s a wee oinker n a pony n a durty big hoarse wi the sort ay tackle ye neevir see made ower at Central Perk, if yis git ma drift. Gelding though, nae use tae um, but it doesnae look like that fae whaire ah’m standin!

Ya dirty big fower-legged long-faced hoarsey bastard that ye are!

— Aye, thir hung awright, they beasts, the Neebour says.

Ah’m tryin tae change the subject here, bit the Iron Duke’s oan yin, n eh goes, — Aye, that dirty Mason cunt wis grassed up by a couple ay wee laddies fae the skill. Eh used tae pey thum tae dress up as lassies n then eh’d go and huv a wank ower thum. Apparently some mair came forward eftir the other yins blew the whistle.

— Mingin hoor. The Neebour shakes ehs heid.

— Aye, says the Duke as ah keep ma cooncil, jist like auld Ambrose whae’s lyin thair quiet, nostrils gently expanding, making soft wee wheezy noises, almost like a cat purrin, — spun thum this story thit eh hud loast ehs daughter in a car crash n thit they wir the right height n weight n size n could they dae him a favour n dress up like her. Well, the gullible wee bams felt aw sorry for um, n went along wi it. Eh peyed some ay thum n aw, so eh wis at it fir ages! Took photaes n made films tae! Aye, Andy the polis, yon big Hun fae the craft: he telt ays they found tons ay material.

Fuckin hell. Uncle Davie’s a grandmaister up thon lodge. He’ll surely keep a lid oan it. Faimlay. Surely.

— They types are ey weird though, ah goes, — ah eywis thought thir wis a touch ay the Tam Hamiltons aboot yon yin, ah elaborates, feelin disloyal tae perr Olly, bit wantin tae lit the trail go cauld.

— Dirty bastard, exploitin naieve wee laddies like thon. Ah ken whit ah’d dae wi the hoor, the Duke goes.

— Eh nivir touched thum bit, jist hud a wank ower thum, Neebour sais, turnin tae me wi a big grin splittin ehs coupon. — Mind you, Jase, what did you huv tae dae fir um tae git that ban overturned fir ye? Your size ah’m bettin ye could’ve fitted easily intae they lassie’s clathes! Did eh huv a wank ower you n aw, ya hoor ye? Eh laughs, but eh’s starin at me and the Duke’s lookin wi serious intent n aw n ah’m thinkin: muh whole credibility and future in the Kingdom is determined by muh next response. It’s like huvin the baw in the shooting area oan the football table, the game’s tied n thir’s jist time fir this yin shot. Stey cool, Jase. — Nowt like that, ah goes. — Ah jist sucked ehs cock, that’s aw.

The Duke lits oot a volley ay laughter n Neebour does n aw, then pats ays oan the back n sais, — Ah widnae fuckin well pit it past ye; anything tae git that ban rescinded, eh!

— Ya hoor, ah wish ah’d hud the option ay suckin ehs cock or gittin dragged up, insteed ay haein tae listen tae the hoor gaun oan aboot proceedures and protocol and standards ay behaviour. Wid’ve been a loat less fuckin demeanin, ah kin tell yis.

Thir cacklin away n ah gits the round in. Bit that wis a narray escape, n ah wis tempted tae make another joke bit it’s best no tae owerplay the auld haund. It’s time tae look forward wi focus, and the main thing is thit ah’ve goat that Perthshire cunt Derek Clark in the next round. A hame tie n aw fir the laddie Clark, the venue bein the Salutation Hotel in the Fair City. St Johnstone v the Blue Brazil; mair thin a clash ay two individuals, toons or coonties. Nothin mair thin a desperate battle fir supremacy between two diametrically opposed philosophies ay life!

Bring it oan, ya cunts!

Neebour sterted gaun ower auld times, talking aboot the Horse ay the Year Show at Wembley Arena, when wi baith worked doon thair oan the caterin. — Caroline Johnson oan Accumulator; now there was a filly worth ridin.

Of course, ah’m moved tae reciprocate the inane grin oan the hoor’s coupon.

— Accumulator of course, wi bark in unison.

It fair gits me in recall mode. — Ya hoor ye, thaire’s me tryin tae dae muh best wi the grub n aw they posh cunts ur giein ays it tight. Ah mean ah ken the Hoarse ay the Year Show’s thir big bash n that but thir’s nae need tae git as wide as thon. The old colonel boy wi the tash started bellowin at me like eh wis muh auld man n it wis last orders at the Goth, ya hoor ye!

— Aye, some gey nippy fuckers thair, Neebour agrees. Ah nivir said nowt, ya hoor ye, but ah kin fuckin well tell yis ah wis straight tae that packet ay rat poison thit they’d pit doon in the stockroom, n ah goat chefin fir the Kingdom, did ah no, but.

Couldnae believe the read in the paper the day eftir:

Commander Lionel Considine-Duff, OBE CBE RN (ret) was discovered dead at his home in Belgravia in the early hours of this morning. His maid, who alerted police and ambulance services, found his body when she went to wake him for his morning breakfast. Considine-Duff had been complaining of chest and stomach pains following an enjoyable evening at the Royal Horse of the Year Show at Wembley Arena. Formerly a keen equestrian himself, he retired from political life after having suffered two mild strokes.

Political correspondent Arthur McMillan writes: ‘Buffy’ Considine-Duff was a knowledgeable, compassionate backbencher whose distinguished military and sporting careers meant that he was disinclined to climb to the top of politics’ greasy pole. Having previously been satiated with the demands of high office and the spotlight, Buffy was happier to stay in the background and serve. A tireless lobbyist for the oil industry, he also strived ceaselessly on behalf of his Wessex constituents. His personal life was colourful. Thrice-divorced Buffy was prone to admitting that the type of filly that gave him most pleasure invariably had four legs. When having quaffed a little too much of his favourite tipple he was prone to loudly exhorting ‘two legs bad, four legs good’ at anybody from the two-legged variety who incurred his displeasure…

N it went oan like that, so it did, ya hoor ye.

Ah sup the last ay the black gold and gie Ambrose a very gentle tug, and low and behold the boy’s oan ehs feet n wir oot the door. Goat the hoor eatin oot ay muh hand here!

14. VET DOBSON

DOBSON HAS JUST finished another examination of Midnight’s leg. The trot was too much for him, now he’s hobbling again. I phoned Fiona La Rue who came round straight away, then on her advice, I called Dobson. Now it’s not looking good. The vet’s face briefly crinkles in distaste as the horse excretes. Clifford the pony brays as Curran the pig (named by my father after the policeman who busted him for drink-driving) headbutts the back of his legs. — Will he be okay for the Hawick competition? I ask, knowing what the answer will be.

He looks sombrely at me, then at my father. — I’m afraid not. Look, Jenni, I’m sorry to say this, the words spill grimly from those rubbery lips in that hangdog face, — but I think we may have to face up to the fact that Midnight’s leg makes him unsuitable for showjumping. It’s a very high-impact sport, and it’s only going to make this weakness worse.

Clifford the pony makes a playful whinny, as if in celebration of the news.

My father has been standing over us; one hand stuffed into a pocket, the other pulling on a cigarette. Rolls of fat hang from his chin. It’s as if seeing him from this angle is showing me how much he’s aged and I now feel a strange tenderness towards him. Which evaporates instantly when he opens his mouth. — Telt ye, he says, shaking his head knowingly, a sneer cutting his face, igniting his features, pulling them north. — That hoarse is gaun naewhaire but intae Spiller’s pet foods.

I swallow hard and look in appeal to Dobson, who shakes his head in disgust. — He’s a perfectly healthy horse, Tom, there’s absolutely no question of him having to be put down. It’s only tendonitis, but he needs much more rest and another course of anti-inflammatories will do wonders. I would say, though, that competition jumping is very unlikely.

— So eh’s washed up, that’s what yir sayin? My dad looks aggressively at the vet.

— I wouldn’t put it like that, Tom, Dobson whines. — He might still be suitable for lighter use; pleasure or trail riding, hunter-jumper, dressage and such. It’s just that showjumping is very hard on horses and his leg has a weakness.

My dad flicks the cigarette out of the stable. — Dead wood, that’s what I call him. He shakes his head. Midnight looks so depleted, his eyes so sad, I almost want to scream at my father to shut up. — We bought him as a jumper, a competitor. Now he’s going tae be another parasite whae does nowt but drain resources, he says, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jacket and looking around in contempt.

Who the hell does he think he is? What does he know about horses?

— Midnight’s a Cleveland Bay, I protest, — they’re really carriage horses, I explain to the old fool as I stroke Midnight’s face and whisper calmingly in his ear. My dad and that pig, the one that’s supposed to be a companion, they spook him. It’s funny, but he’s okay around Ambrose the dog.

— Aye? Well, ah’ll mibbe buy ye a carriage fir um, he says facetiously, — then ye can dae they horse-drawn tours ay the Beath. That’s aboot his dead strength n you might even make some money instead ay spending aw ay mine on lost causes!

I’m outraged at his crassness and selfishness and all I can think to say is, — I didn’t ask to be born!

— It’s aboot the only thing ye huvnae asked fir, he scoffs.

Dobson the vet looks nervously at us and says, — I think I should be off. And I’m thinking to myself what a fucking good idea that is.

15. PERTH PACK

MINDFUL AY THE lessons ay previous abuse, ah took it easy in preparation fir the next roond ay the Scoattish. Ah goat a nice bit ay haddock fae Boak’s at the Central Perk market: protein, ya hoor. The laddie even dressed it up in breed-crumbs, so ah fried it up at hame, mine in a sanny on Sunblest, Lurpak, pepper n HP, in front ay Scotland Today, the auld man, a traditionalist, at the table wi ehs Pot Noodles oan the side, hummin yon 50 Cent’s ‘What Up Gangsta’ under ehs breath.

A double feast n aw, cause later that night Kravy treated ays tae a big curry at the Shimla Palace. The only time ah’ve been in whin it wisnae thir eat-aw-ye-kin Sunday buffet. Felt like a fuckin sultan whin ah got back hame. Fir synergy purposes, ah hud a guid auld ham shank tae some Asian porn, blawin muh load as the vindaloo still bubbled in ma belly wi the lager. Nae black gold or grinnin Scandinavian sirens wi a curry: a chap needs a sense ay propriety.

The next morning ah’m oan the back ay Kravy’s bike n wir tearin through the Beath high street like a thirsty Kelty hoor oaf the backshift wid a six-pack. Wir gauny hit the trail fir Perth n ah feel like tellin the Kravitz laddie tae cool they proverbial jets, but it wid be an exercise in futility. Thankfully, eh does slow doon though, whin eh sees the twa lassies gaun past oan the hoarses.

— Better no spook they gee-gees, eh shouts, or something like thon as eh slows tae a halt beside the lassies.

— Hi, Lara (whae’s clad tae chug tae, by the way) shouts at us, — where are you off to?

— Perth, ah goes. — Goat a result. Common sense prevailed at administrative level n ah’m back in the cup. Gaunny progress fir the Kingdom, show thum whaes philosophy ay table fitba will win through in the end. When’s yir Borders tourney?

— Thursday, Lara goes.

— Might even take a wee jaunt doon thair oorselves, eh, Kravy, support the lassies, likes, ah ventures. Kravy jist shrugs non-committally. Eywis been a cool yin. Bit ye kin tell thit they dark, broodin looks huv goat the birds’ gashes fair waterin. N ah’m thinkin it widnae be a bad result if ah jist left the field clear fir him wi Lara, n concentrated ma efforts oan that wee Jenni Cahill lassie; peach ay an erse oan it! So ah says, — Ye headin doon then, Jenni?

— I’d entered but I’ve had to scratch. Midnight just isn’t ready, she says sadly. — The vet has even said he might not be able to jump in competition again.

— I’m sure he will, Lara smiles.

— Right, Kravy goes, — hud on tight, Jase, you’ve got a tourney to win, n eh kicks oot n wir tearin up the road n by the time ah’m relaxed enough tae look back the lassies n even the hoarses ur jist dots.

Ya hoor, ah dinnae like aw this swervin in n oot ay traffic oan the motorway! Thir’s nowt ye kin say but, ah jist try n think ay the next life, wonderin if thir might be some sortay arrangement whereby Fife becomes the new Sussex, a county ay affluence within the realm and Scots withoot sectarian leanings can sing ‘God Save the Queen’ wi an absence ay irony! N ma dreamin works tae an extent, bit whin wi stoap oaf at the Little Chef for a coffee b/w one ay Mr Kipling’s fir the sugar hit, ah’m shakin like a Hill ay Beath hoor thit’s been gittin pleasured wi a pneumatic drill insteed ay a vibrator.

— Ye okay, Jase? Kravy asks.

— Nerves, ah tell um, — no through bein oan the bike, ah lie, — ah’m an ex jockey eftir aw, well, trainee, bit it’s this forthcomin game wi Clarky. The boy’s good, n ah’m feelin the weight ay the coonty’s expectations oan they shelpit, roond shoodirs ay mine. Bit the better the stage fright, the better the performance, ya hoor.

Kravy looks deeply intae ma eyes. — You’ve goat the spirit, the soul n the passion. Eh’ll no live wi you, Jase.

— Steady on, ya hoor, ah sais, a bit embarrassed by the emotion oan display in the Little Chef. That’s the problem wi we bonnie laddies: cannae trust oorselves around sports. Ah think it wis the great bard Rabbie Burns that once said: ‘Cocaine n fitba mak homosexuals ay us aw.’ Or mibbe it wis this coonty’s ain Ackey Shaw.

Whin we rolls intae the ancient toon ay Perth, the sickenin wealth oan display makes ehs want tae git a squad roond fae Cowden wi a few vans, tae start instigatin oor ain form ay socialist redistribution ay loot. Fuck thon pie-in-the-sky promises the frocked n collared defenders ay the status quo advance (auld Jakey Anstruther excepted): lit’s hae it here and noo. But ah huv tae admit thit ah wis partial tae yon Salutation Hotel; mahogany wid everywhaire, as auld skill as a Kelty hoor that utters thon reassuring words ‘whin ye talk size in oor game, it’s eywis wad rather thin willy’. N ye’d hae tae huv a harder hert thin mine no tae appreciate thon portraits oan the waw ay several recent VIP visitors; Sir Bob Geldof, MPs Boris Johnson and Tommy Sheridan, Clarissa Dickson or whatever ye call thon fat yin that cooks, the yin that didnae die, n Frank Bruno. Nae Jason King yit, bit that yin’s impendin, ya hoor; aye, impendin.

N whin wi gits tae the Moncrieffe Suite, where aw the tables ur set up fir this round ay the contest, thir’s a buzz ay expectancy in the air. Pure sporting theatre! Ah’m stridin around, sizin up ma fellow gladiators whin ma hert twangs as ah sees the disgruntled collaborator Mossman, well in the Clark camp, rootin fir yon Perth cunt, ya hoor. Fuckin Dunfermline: the capital ay Vichy Fife. As ah head tae the toilet ah’m even treated tae Mossy’s wee stage-whisper tae Clarky, intended fir ma ain delicate lugs: — Ah hope ye annihilate that dirty wee jockey.

Ah turn tae Kravy in the bogs as wir sprayin the porcilin wi urine. — Did ye hear that Mossman cunt callin ays a ‘dirty wee jockey’? At least some ay us tried tae make wur mark in the world ay sport!

Kravy shakes it oot n zips up. — Ah thoat eh said ‘dirty wee jakey’, Jase.

— That’s awright then, ah goes, thinking again ay wee Jack ‘Jakey’ Anstruther, n hopin, in spite ay muh Marxist-Leninist leanins, that if thir is a god, then the hoor’s a Fifer rather thin a Perth cunt.

Bit fuck divine assistance: that Mossman’s ungracious behaviour wis aw the motivation ah needed. Ye could breeng in wi the likes ay him but Clark wis a different matter: the laddie hud some talent. Ma tactics wir tae play the passin game, retain possession, jist keep the Clark fellay away fae the table soas eh couldnae establish any momentum, thus frustratin the hoor. Ah kent the boy hud cavalier tendencies and thit eh goat a bit nippy if eh went too long without gittin a flick.

So ah did jist that; keepin the baw, no in situations ay threat at first, but slowly weavin muh men intae place, n waitin till ah wis in a good position afore any goal attempt. Muh first yin came whin ah deflected a shot oaf his defender (meant, by the way) tae take the lead. The second wis a long-range strike fae the midfield whaire the baw wis jist oan the shootin line n the player trundled intae the net eftir it. Ya beauty! The Clark felly showed ehs displeasure in thon second concede, knockin ehs goalposts n net aboot, forcin the ref tae huv a wee word.

Ah kept hud ay the baw n ran the clock doon, and it steyed at two-nil.

The cunt nivir even accepted my gracious offer ay a pint ay black gold at the bar eftir. The drink eftir the contest is the symbolic cup ay friendship; even Sir Alex and thon wee fuckin dago cunt’ll share a bottle ay rid wine eftir a game, win, lose or draw. Nae time fir thon unsportin behaviour.

16. GYPSY BOYS

I’M PLAYING MARILYN Manson in my room, thinking about how I can get out of ‘supporting’ Lara in this Hawick competition. I’m zoning out to ‘Better of Two Evils’ and I hear a strange whistling then a clearing of a throat, noting that my father has materialised before me. He didn’t knock; he just opened the door and came inside. Now he’s standing at the bottom of my bed. — Can ah have a wee word?

Try stopping him. — Whatever, I shrug.

He turns down the sound on the stereo and lowers his bulk into my big wicker-basket chair. It creaks under him. In the last week or so, he’s talked to me more than he’s done in years. Evidently, he now considers me worth saving. Of course, it’s what he considers me worth saving for that’s the big worry. However, I cross my legs and make a passable stab at being all ears.

— Ah’m hard on you, he concedes, then adds with a surprising degree of conviction, — but it’s only cause ah dinnae want tae see ye waste yir life.

— It’s my life, is all I can think to say in retort.

— Dinnae gie me that, he says gravely, as if he expects more understanding. — I’m hard on you, only because ah ken you’ve got what it takes.

In spite of myself I feel the nauseating elation of his flattery rising up through my frustration. At least in his own inept way he’s trying. — I’m not a showjumper, Dad, I tell him, the words almost choking in my throat. — You can get me the best horse in the world and I’ll never be as good as the likes of Lara.

— Aye ye will, my father retorts with a calm, empathic certainty that annoys me. — Ah’ve been watchin you lately, the way you’ve slimmed doon. The weight’s been fawing off ye!

— I don’t want to talk about it—

— Your mother goes on about anorexia and all that pish. That’s jealousy talking, that’s aw that is. She couldnae pass the confectionary coonter in that newsagent, and ah’ve seen her, at thon supermarket checkoot, he says in a derisory manner, — crammin they chocolates intae her puss, never able tae git enough, like some demented junkie. It’s sickening. That’s somebody that’s no right in the heid, that!

It’s his wife he’s talking about. But he’s right. He is so fucking right. — Dad—

— Ah ken that you’re different, Jenni. Ah know that ye go tae that leisure centre regularly and work oot.

A spark of pique ignites in me. — Is nothing fucking private in this fucking place?

— Hey! Mind the language! He pouts, then says in placating tones, — I’m no criticisin ye. It isnae meant tae be a criticism. Ah think it’s great. N it shows you’ve got discipline and pride. Cause you’ve got me in ye, his weather-beaten, leathery face crinkles. — You’re a Cahill, he boasts proudly. — Yir always welcome tae use my gym, you ken that though, eh?

My stomach is churning. Observing my dad trying to be nice is much more disturbing than watching him being obnoxious. He just isn’t cut out for it.

— You’ve got to think of your future, Jen. If you don’t think you’re gaunnae do it in showjumping, then you could do worse than learn the ropes ay the haulage business.

What a truly fucking sickening thought. — I doubt that it would be my thing, I quickly respond.

He laughs derisively and lights a cigarette, ignoring the No Smoking signs I’ve put around the room. The big pub ashtray is under the bed, where it’ll stay. I’ll not have him smoking filthy minging tobacco in my room. — Too common for ye, is it? Aw they nasty trucks n sweaty drivers? Dinnae forget that it was that business that put food on your plate and fed that useless four-legged parasite in that stable doonstairs. Aw they trips abroad, aw they tourneys, aw that equipment, aw this land. Ah dinnae see ye turning yir beak up at that! Ah blame masel fir spoilin—

He stops mid rant, seeming to see what he’s doing. — Thanks, I say.

— For what?

— For reverting to type. You actually were starting to sound like a decent human being for a second or two there.

— You… look, he says, fighting down his exasperation, as he stands and looks around for an ashtray. He gestures towards one of my plants and I shoot him a look that says ‘don’t even think about it’. He moves to the window, takes two quick puffs and flicks the cigarette outside. — Dinnae be like that. C’mon. Gie it a try. At least come in wi me and see how the business works.

— I’ll consider it, I tell him, basically just to get him to go.

— That’s ma girl, he says encouragingly. I lean over to the stereo and turn up my music and he takes the hint and leaves, screwing up his face and putting his fingers to his ears.

17. BIKE CRASH

SO WIR COMIN tae the outskirts ay the toon, and ah’m thinking again, thank fuck we’ve made it, that Kravy cunt is fuckin fearless, weavin in n oot ay traffic, aw they fuckin lanes, like we were icons oan a PS 2 game, but now Cooden is in sight! Wur tearin roond the bend at high speed… but then wir gaun naewhaire…

… ah’m oaf the bike n ah’m sortay flutterin through the air like a butterfly, n ah seem tae be gaun that slow that whin ah come tae rest it’ll be like oan this bed ah pillays but then ah feel this impact, it’s like an explosion but yin comin fae inside ay ma boady! Then, for a bit, thir’s a strange peace. It’s like huvin aw the rest ah’ve ever been promised, before ah n git woke by a rustlin sound aw ower n aroond ays. Eftir a bit ah realise thit ah’m lyin stuck in the branches ay a tree.

Ah look doon n thair’s Kravy sitting up, but slumped forward at the bottom ay this big oak tree next tae mine, like ehs huvin a wee nap. Thir’s like this big streak ah dark rid paint runnin up the tree above him. It looks fresh. Ah cannae see whaire it’s come fae. Ah hear a craw screechin. Then ah see where the stuff oan the tree’s come fae, Kravy’s neck. Cause thir’s jist a rid stump wi a bit ay bone in it comin oot ay the boy’s shoodirs. Cause the hoor’s heid’s missin.

Fuckin

Eftir checkin baws, eyes, airms, legs n that order, n aye, thir aw thair, ah starts tae climb doon. Muh hands are tearin and bleedin oan the branch n the foliage but it disnae bother ays as ah feel fuckin weird: sortay numbed and wired at the same time. Ah gits tae the bottom ay the tree tae git a right look at Kravy. Ah moves closer.

Aw ya hoor, aye, ah wisnae seein things.

Eh’s nae fuckin heid.

Thir’s jist a stump ay neck, ah kin see the spine, it’s been severed cleanly like by a fuckin guillotine, blood still bubblin fae it, pumpin up oot ay the body which is twitchin away like eh’s comin up oan a pill. It’s still like eh’s muckin aboot, playin some sort ay daft trick, n ah’m looking around fir the heid, expectin tae see it wi a big grin. Thir’s nowt but, Kravy’s gone.

Ah feel rain droplets hittin my heid n shoodirs, n ah look up. Yin lands rid oan muh white T-shirt. It’s Kravy’s blood, sprayed up intae the leaves n branches ay the tree, now droapin back doon oan ays.

Turnin roond n lookin up the bankin, pittin ma hand ower muh eyes tae keep the sun n blood oot ay thum, ah see the bike lyin oan the road where it skyted ower. A car’s stoaped and cause ah’m covered wi Kravy’s blood this auld boy in a checked jaykit’s goat oot n eh’s shoutin at ays, sayin, — Ur ye hurt?

— Naw, ah’m awright, ah shouts back.

— But you’re covered wi blood!

Ah start tae laugh at that. — Aye, ah say, for some reason thinking ay the lassies Soakin Wi Rain n Roastin Wi Sweat. Ah could be the felly fir the threesome wi thaime, right enough. — Ah’m Covered Wi Blood, ah admit, lookin at the claret oan my ripped airms n no really kennin or carin whether it’s mine or muh boy’s. — But muh mate… eh’s loast ehs heid.

— It’s easily done, the speed those things can get up to, the auld boy goes. — It’s so dangerous driving a motorbike. Was he on drugs?

— Jist a wee bit ay tarry n a pint at the Sally up in Perth, ah say as the boy moves ower tae the verge. Eh sees Kravy’s body and goes, — Oh my God… it’s a real person, his head’s missing… oh my God… n eh starts tae boak n lurches back tae the motor. Then eh’s straight on the mobby.

Aw ah kin think ay is ehs ma in the hoaspital, n for some reason her gash that Kravy came ootay aw they years ago, so cruelly exposed by the Young Team oan thon Blue Brazil website.

N ah kin see whit’s happened, ya hoor; the sharp edge ay that road sign thit says ‘REDUCE SPEED NOW’ hus been bent ower, by some Young Team vandal, nae doots, n Kravy’s come oaf the bike at speed wi me n ehs heid’s been in line wi it…

Aw naw.

The sign has an edge ay rid blood oan yin side, specklin oot across it. Like a fuckin guillotine; Central Fife, totally fuckin medieval, ya hoor.

But whaire’s ma boy’s heid?

Ah dives right intae the thick bushes and rows ay nettles, lookin for the heid, it’s still gaunny be in the crash helmet, it’ll no huv gone far, surely. Then ah hears the cloppin ay hoof oan the road n voices n the auld boy’s sayin, — Don’t look, girls, come away…

N ah hears Jenni, — But it’s our friend… then she shouts, — Jason! Are you okay!

— Please, stay back, there’s been a terrible accident! the old felly says.

Ah’m waist-high in jaggy nettles but turns n looks up n ah sees Lara’s hudin back, looking aw shocked but Jenni’s comin forward. — JASON!

Ah goes, — Aye, ya hoor, ah’m awright, bit ah cannae find ma mate’s fuckin heid, eh no.

So ah’m still rummagin aroond in the big forest ay jaggy nettles lookin fir Kravy’s heid in the rid helmet, but ah feel muh legs gaun n ah try tae squat doon for a bit, jist like, tae rest fir a bit, but ah feel ma stomach risin up n me cowpin forward, n when ah wake up ah’m in the fuckin hoaspital, ya hoor!

18. HEAD

HIS FRIEND WAS so good-looking; the beautiful boy who left this town on his motorcycle and made a new life in Spain. I had visions, dreams, of him taking me there with him, on the back of it, or anywhere away from here.

But to my great surprise I’m relieved that Jason’s alright; that it’s his friend who’s gone and not him. — I’m going to go and visit Jason up at the hospital, I say absent-mindedly, as I load some crockery into the dishwasher, first pushing Indy out the way to get the door open, as she’s slumped over the worktop, reading a comic.

— That ham shanker. It would have been better off if he’d went the same wey as his daft mate, my dad moans, as he spreads himself some peanut butter on his oatcakes.

I don’t rise to his bait, but then my mother, who is sitting at the kitchen table doing her nails, chips in. — He has a family and friends of his own, Jenni. You have to wise up to people like that. They do tend to take advantage. They just can’t help themselves.

— Like Dad did with you, I respond.

— No! You don’t know what you’re talking about — she trills as I head out towards the door, then screeches in panic, — Come back here when I’m talking to you!

I laugh loudly, continuing my exit. — Under no circumstances. You’re so inherently trivial and inconsequential!

— What does inconsequential mean? Indigo asks, looking up from the comic. She’s now sprawled right across the worktop, like a cat.

— It doesn’t mean anything, my mother shrieks. — It means that Jennifer thinks that she knows best, as usual! And you: get down from there and sit on the chair!

I hear Indy saying something under her breath as I depart, then voices getting raised. I enjoy a buzz of gleeful satisfaction, happy that I’ve wound them all up. Outside, it’s a miserable day, dirty rain falling in sheets and you can feel the bronchitis incubating in your chest. So I drive up to the hospital in Dunfermline, where I went with Jason when he was admitted yesterday. When I get onto the ward there are screens around his bed. I feel panic rising inside of me, envisaging him fighting for his life, but they’re suddenly whipped open as a red-headed nurse appears. As she removes Jason’s bedpan I catch his bulging eyes ogling her.

He registers me and breaks into a big, if slightly guilty smile. — Jenni!

— Hello, Jason, I grin back. He doesn’t look too bad, apart from one side of his face, which has come up in big, blotchy white spots where he collapsed and fell into the stinging nettles.

— Sit yirsel doon, he urges. — Heather wis jist seein tae muh, eh, pressin needs, if ye ken whit ah mean.

— How are you? I ask, looking at the steady beam that ignites Nurse Heather’s face as she goes about her duties.

— Ah’m brand new, but thuv telt ays tae keep still till they git the rest ay they X-rays back. Aye, Heather, fae Tayport, he says as the nurse smiles thinly at me and departs with the bedpan, Jason’s offerings covered by a paper towel.

I sit down in one of two hard red plastic visitors’ chairs. Jason’s locker is stocked with Irn-Bru and grapes. He seems better than when they brought him in yesterday, a lot more settled. He thought he’d fractured his arm, but the X-rays revealed that it was just bad bruising. He had some lacerations on his back that needed stitches, but it was a really remarkable escape. — I can’t imagine what it must be like, I’m asking him, — to survive when your friend dies… tell me again exactly what happened.

— Ah appreciate ye comin, Jenni, he says, — but ah’m no gaun through aw thon again, ah telt ye it aw last night.

— Of course, of course, I nod sternly. — You have to rest, it must have been a terrible shock, I appreciate, looking at his big, confused eyes. — Still no word about his head?

Jason suddenly slaps his own forehead with his good arm, and seems in real distress about this. — Nup, thuv hud Fife’s finest oot aw night n aw mornin combin the area n thuv still found zilch. Ah cannae believe it; it’s in a rid crash helmet, for fuck’s sake!

There’s something that’s so wonderful, magnificent and symbolic… about such a death. It excites me. — I love the idea of his beautiful head, like that of a disembodied angel, floating around looking down on us all. That perfect, wonderful face that won’t age or be corrupted by life; he’ll stay as beautiful as Kurt, Princess Di and Jimmy Dean, forever young!

But this thought doesn’t seem to console poor Jason, who is so upset. — Aye, but ehs ma’s a green grape n shi’s wantin a fuckin open-casket joab! So ah’ve got tae find that heid. If the fuckin bizzies cannae dae it, n ah hae ma doots aboot Fife Constabulary’s commitment tae this case, then ah’ll need tae get oot thair masel!

— You can’t, Jason, you have to rest, I urge.

— Aye, ye talk aboot ehs beautiful heid, but it’ll no be that beautiful once the craws n rats n worms git a haud ay it, he says in horror. And it is such a terrible thought. — Yuv goat tae help ays, Jenni, ye huv tae dae me a big favour, he begs.

I’m looking into those crazed eyes, which remind me of the fighting dogs back in the barn, and I feel that I can’t really refuse. — What?

— Go tae ma hoose n tell muh auld boy that ah need some clathes. Then bring thum back here fir ays.

I know where his house is, from when I dropped him off when he was wearing the sort of clothes I don’t think he’d appreciate me getting him now. He tells me the exact address again. — Okay, but on one condition, I tell him, — I come with you and help you find the head.

It takes him all of two seconds to agree to this. — And see if ye kin git hud ay a pair ay gairdin shears.

— That shouldn’t be a problem. But why?

— They jaggy nettles ur fuckin gittin it, he says angrily, fingering his lumpy face.

I prepare to depart, and feel moved to give him a chaste kiss on his sweaty brow. Just then, a painfully thin woman with made-up eyes and long, brown hair, comes hobbling in on a walking frame. — Mrs Forsyth… Frances… Jason says sorrowfully.

She moves over to the bottom of his bed. She looks at me, then at him, and then bites her lower lip for a bit. Then she speaks in a slow, sad voice. — This coonty took muh son, Jason. It took muh laddie. Ah ask masel, why did eh come back, whin thir wis nowt fir um here…?

— Eh jist wanted tae be wi ye whin yir wirnae well, Jason says sadly.

— Aye, that’s what ah thoat. So it wis ma fault. Ah kilt um! Muh ain flesh n blood, and she looks from Jason to me.

— Naw… ye cannae say that, Jason gasps. — You ken Kravy, ehs a free spirit. Naebody ever telt him tae dae anything eh didnae want tae dae. If anything it wis ma fault, fir littin um run ays up tae Perth fir that daft table-fitba game. Ah should’ve goat the train or bus!

The woman, Mrs Forsyth, looks so spectral, as if she’s just emerged from a three-thousand-year entombment. — They said eh hit a road sign that wis buckled, she sadly muses, — bent back by human hand, she almost howls, the lips in her ash-grey face trembling.

I feel moved to say something, so I cut in. — The kids do that. Vandalism. They twist the road signs.

— This horrible coonty swallowed up ma bairn, she cries in pain, then turns her walking frame and starts moving away. She twists her head round, — Get oot ay here, Jason, you n aw, hen: git oot while ye still kin.

— Mrs F, Jason pleads, — lit me dae one thing fir Kravy… n fir you n aw.

She stops and turns at an angle, so she can bend round to see him.

— Ally’s funeral. Eh wisnae intae aw that Christian shi—nae offence. Aw ah ask, is let me organise a send-off the boy wid be proud ay.

— Dae it, son. Any kind ay service ye want. Aw ah want is tae see um one mair time, in an open coffin.

— But Mrs F… Jason begs.

But she’s manoeuvred her frame round, and she’s off.

As she departs, Jason says to me, — Ah’ve been thinkin aboot that fir ages. Gittin oot ay here, ah mean. In fact, that’s jist aboot aw ah think aboot.

— It’s all anybody thinks about, I tell him. — That was his mother? Ally Kravitz’s mum?

— Aye.

— What a terrible way to lose your own flesh and blood. Something you’ve grown inside you…

— Aye, perr hoor’s hud nae luck at aw, Jason observes, and he now seems tired as he stares off into the distance. — First her man Coco Forsyth cashes in ehs chips, then she’s caught compromised oan the steps ay the Welfare, and now this… He suddenly stares intently at me. — I need one mair favour.

— What?

— Ye ken yon auld boy that sits oan the bench ootside the sports centre?

— The tramp? That disgusting old man?

Jason seems a bit upset at my description of this down-and-out. — That’s the boy, he says glumly.

The nurse enters to check his charts and Jason lowers his voice, forcing me to move in closer. He smells of a sweet, fresh perspiration, almost like girls’ toiletries. And he tells me what he wants me to do.

— You can’t be serious, I gasp.

— Nivir mair, he says earnestly.

When I get home I check on Midnight in the stable. A sinking feeling hits me as I can sense that something isn’t right. The stable door is open. A wave of panic moves through me. I go in and for less than a second I’m relieved, as he’s in the stable, but he’s lying down, on his side. Something horrible rises in me. I fall onto my knees and burst into tears. His breathing is shallow and he’s making a horrible dry wheeze.

The feed hatch has been left open.

I run into the house and scream at my mother to call the vet. Indigo comes running back out with me to the stable. Dobson soon comes by, but by the time he does Midnight’s gone. I hold Indigo in my arms, we’re both in tears. Clifford the pony sniffs at Midnight’s body, then lets out a distressed bray. After examining him, Dobson puts his hand on my shoulder. — It looks like extreme colic; he’s eaten himself to death.

A car pulls up and my father gets out and comes across to the stable. He puts on an expression of contrived shock and I can’t look at him. — I’m sorry, hen, he says.

— Keep the fuck away from me, I snap, pushing him in the chest. — You did this! You wanted Midnight dead! I’ll never ride another fucking horse as long as I live!

— But, princess…

He’s giving me Indy’s title now, he hasn’t called me that in years, probably since I had a period. — Do fuck off! I storm away and head to my car.

— Go then, my dad shouts, — go away and greet like a daft wee lassie tae that dippit boyfriend! If you’d let me pit him in La Rue’s stables where he could have been looked after this would never have happened!

As I head to the car I can hear Indigo bursting into tears and my father comforting her. — It’s okay, hen, it was an accident. There, there. He’s at peace now.

I drive off and I’m crying and laughing at the same time. I think about Jason; how if he’d been there he would have noticed that my dad or somebody had left the feed hatch open. After a while I just seem to find myself in the B&Q garden centre, looking at shears, thinking about the damage you could inflict on somebody with them.

I have a coffee at the new Starbucks as darkness falls. I get into the car and I drive into Cowdenbeath. I’m thinking of my dad, a man who loves himself, but who’s a parochial failure, never leaving this place, never really testing what he’s got inside; just content to lord it over the people he works and drinks with. Or the uptight Dr Grant with his practice on the hill, like his father, the one who sent all the silicosis-ridden miners back down the pit to dig up more coal as they coughed up their lungs. Then there’s snotty Fiona La Rue: all those so-called successful people in this town; as beaten and insignificant as the supposed plebs they despise.

I feel a burning rage against everything and everyone in this world, and somebody’s going to pay. I realise that I’m carrying the shears with me. And there he is, right by the leisure centre, still barely compos mentis. That disgusting, foul old tramp.

I’m breathing heavily with the horror of what I just had to do, when I get to Jason’s house, right behind the railway station. I ring the bell and his father comes to the door. That terrible mark on the side of his face: I can’t help but stare for a second. — Aye?

— I’m Jenni, I gasp. — I’m a friend of Jason’s. I was here before.

— Aye, ah mind.

— He said I was to come and take some clothes into the hospital for him. They said he can wear his own clothes.

He looks doubtfully at me for a second, — You his official fashion consultant? Cause yir no daein much ay a job.

— No, I start, — I’m only trying to help.

Mr King graces me a sympathetic nod. — Okay, hen, ye’d better come in. Ah’ve no long done a washin.

I follow him inside and through to the kitchen, where he starts laying out some clothes: jeans, T-shirt, jumper, socks, underpants. — Right, thanks, I say, as he puts them into a plastic Co-op bag.

— Ah think ehs shoes are still in the hospital, but thir’s trainers here onywey, he says. — Tell him I’ll be in the morn tae see him.

— Righto, thank you, Mr King.

Jason’s father is very chatty, but he’s quite eccentric and has some strange ideas. He tells me that he has ‘irrefutable evidence’ that the council had got a team of trained cats to rip open bin liners so that they could introduce wheelie bins to the area. Apparently a contractor who manufactures them is a business partner with a prominent local councillor. — It’s aw profit n personal gain. Ah’m gonnae write tae Gordon Broon, ya hoor. If wi still hud the likes ay Willie Gallagher in Parliament n Auld Bob Selkirk up the toon hall…

Midnight’s gone.

Midnight was all that was keeping me here. I can see that with him around I would never leave. My father… he did me a fucking favour! He set me free!

… so if ah wis any young person, n ah keep sayin that tae oor Jason, ah’d git right oot ay here. It’s no a place fir the young. No now. As 50 Cent said: Git rich or die tryin. What huv they goat tae keep thum occupied here but mischief?

— Yes. I think you’re right, Mr King, I struggle to break him off, making my apologies.

I get into the car and drive back out to Dunfermline and the hospital. Back on the ward, the visiting period is just about over as I hand the bag to Jason.

— What took ye? he snaps.

I look tearfully at him. — It’s Midnight, he’s dead. Somebody left the feed hatch open. It should never have happened. We all knew he was prone to gluttony with feed…

— Aw naw… ah’m sorry… he says.

— If one of us had been there we could have saved him. It takes a long time for a horse to die of colic. I should have checked on him! I as good as killed him!

— Naw, Jenni, it wis probably jist an accident…

— My father said that he should have been in La Rue’s stables where they would have regularly monitored him! He was right. I fight against a sob. — I’m just a selfish, spoiled brat; insisting I had my own horse at home! I fucked up. I failed to look after him like I’ve failed at everything else!

— Naw, Jenni…

— It was my father that did it; I know it was! He killed Midders to replace him with a stronger horse so that I could compete with Lara. I now let the tears come. — I used to have a silly dream, Jason… I hear myself ranting, — I dreamt about riding Midnight out of Cowdenbeath for good… right away from this place…

— Aye… riding fantasies… Jason says, his mouth hanging open. — I’m sorry, he goes, and he looks so distraught. — Ah blame masel, ah mean, if ah hudnae been in here he’d huv been looked eftir.

— No, it was him, that bastard. Indigo’s pony was fine!

Jason gets out of bed and moves over to me in his striped pyjamas. He puts an arm round my shoulder, then steps closer and he hugs me for a bit. It feels good. He smells nice. I could stay like this forever. Then he pulls apart and looks around and whispers urgently, — We’d better nash, visitin time’s up.

He tells me to keep a lookout, as he gets dressed. I comply, but I have a strange and strong urge, which I resist, to turn round and watch him changing.

Oh, Midnight. This fucking place! I’m getting out of here! For good.

— C’mon, he whispers, and we creep along the hospital corridors. As we go outside an orderly approaches and at first I think he’s going to stop us, but he merely asks for a light. Jason hastily obliges and we head out and across the car park into the motor.

We drive back into Cowdenbeath and through the town and back out to the bend in the Perth Road. I pull the car into a gravelly lay-by beside the turn and climb out. I get the torch I keep in the breakdown kit in the car boot. We vault the crash barrier, Jason with a wince as he put the weight on his bad arm, and I shine the light into the nettle bush. There’s nothing visible for yards and yards besides these big plants, some of them shoulder-high to us both. As we start to push through them, I realise too late that their foliage has concealed the fact that they’re on a slope and I feel myself being propelled forward and I grab out at Jason. Then I scream as I think that we’re both going to fall, but he steadies us. — Fuck! he snaps. — Muh fuckin airm!

— I’m so sorry, I forgot, I gasp, my breath steadying.

— Slow… he pleads, as he swings the shears and starts chopping through the nettles. He’s panting and sweating as he hacks deeper into the growth. The moon casts a silvery light over the fallen plants who lie like stricken soldiers on a battlefield. — There! he shouts, as my beam illuminates something red.

Then his face suddenly creases up in anger. His boot swings at the object, launching a traffic cone into the air, which flies a few yards, landing deeper into the back rows of the nettles.

We plough on for what seems like ages, but uncover nothing. I’ve been stung in the hands and ankles through my gloves and socks and I detest nettle stings from my childhood. In the numbing cold a despair almost overwhelming at the futility of it all sets in, and I’m about to suggest packing up and trying again in the morning, when something reflects off the torch beam.

There it is: the back of the red helmet.

And we know what’s on the other side. — Look, Jason, I urge, but I don’t really need to bother. He’s seen it and I swear that his eyes could light up this wasteland.

Jason looks at it in a powerful reverence, then bends down and slowly picks it up. — It’s heavy, it’s…

He turns it round. I shine the torch into it. The face is white and blue around the lips and eyes. He rubs some leaves and dirt from it. It hasn’t been eaten though; it’s still recognisable as Ally Kravitz. — Sorry, mate, Jason says, and cradles it to his chest.

I see what look like drops of rice falling from the bottom of the helmet, onto the ground. I shine my torch and see them wriggling under its beam. — Jason!

He turns the helmet over and the red-bloodied stump is crawling with maggots. — Ya fuckin… ya fuckin hoors! Jason wipes them off with his bare hands, then hugs the helmeted head again. — Ah’ll no let these cunts get ye, mate, ah’ll fuckin no, he sobs, tears splashing from his big eyes onto the top of the red crash helmet. After a passage of time he looks at me miserably, and nods, then he puts the head into a bin liner.

— Let me see him again, I beg.

— Naw, Jason says, tears streaming down his face, — naebody’s seein um. Ah dinnae care what they dae wi the rest ay um, but this heid’s gaun back tae Spain, wi me!

I put my arm around his shoulder as he sobs heavily, keeping his grip on the bin liner. I realise that I’m crying too, thinking of my beautiful horse.

19. FUNERAL

SUNDAY AH FELT it aw comin oot; the aches, pains, nettle stings n the dirty black depression. That wis the worst of aw: like yir giein some invisible fat cunt a collie-buckie. The auld boy goat a prawn vindaloo takeoot fae the Shimla as a treat, but muh hert wisnae in it. Ah brightened up a bit when yon wee Jenni Cahill came roond, even if she kept askin ays whit ah’d done wi Kravy’s heid. Ah kept ma cooncil, ya hoor, but it wis hard as she’s a persistent yin. Whin she left ah wis even too doon and exhausted tae entertain masturbatory thoughts, n her wi that scarlet-rid lipstick oan n aw. The only thing thit cheered ays up wis the browse through Central Perk merkit, n the big styrofoam boax fir keeping beer n sandwiches thit ah picked up at the stall.

— Be good fir the summer, fir picnics, Mrs McPake fae oor wey said tae ays as ah went doon the road wi the hoor.

— Aw aye, ah nodded.

Monday ah felt better. Ah hud tae: thir wis Kravy’s funeral tae organise. Jenni let ays yaze her computer tae send emails tae Kravy’s mates in Spain. Ah found some addresses in this book eh’d left at ehs ma’s hoose. Ah didnae think they’d make it at such short notice, but they hud the right tae ken. It took ays a while tae git the two grams ay coke n the big lump ay base that ah needed for wur boy’s gig. Hud tae go ower tae the city, the fuckin loat. Ah dinnae like gaun ower the brig at aw. The city’s fine but as soon as ye leave the centre in search ay collies it’s a different place aw thegither; fill ay psychos whae kin smell the fuckin coonty offay ye fae fifty yerds.

A joab well done, but. So Tuesday morning saw the funeral take place at Kirkcaldy Crematorium. Ehs ma wanted the Dunfermline Crematorium, same 310 quid tae the council hoors, and easier tae git back tae the reception at the Welfare, but ah talked her intae Kirkcaldy. Ah couldnae huv lived wi masel if the laddie hud been sent off oan Vichy soil.

It wis a weel-attended do, right enough, ya hoor sor. Kravy might huv turned ays back oan the Beath but the Beath nivir turned its back oan him. Besides, naebody likes tae see a young cunt die. Nae Spaniards made it ower, but thir wis stacks ay wreaths sent through Interflora n loads ay touchin messages oan Jenni’s email, which she goat printed oaf n stuck in a folder wi a big Spanish n Scottish flag oan the front, which she then presented tae ehs ma. Ah huv tae hand it tae wee Jenni, she played a blinder. She wisnae pleased at aw at huvin tae approach Jakey Anstruther, especially wi upset aboot her perr hoarse huvin jist kicked it, but she helped ays git the auld minister oanside.

The boy’s sermon wis the undoubted highlight ay proceedins. Ah hud tae git um a wee bit tanked up first, but no sae much that eh widnae be able tae perform. Whin eh staggered up tae the lectern at the chapel ay rest, ah feared the worst. — Hullo… eh slurred. — Gid tae see yis aw… one or two auld friends… n some strangers…

Thir wis a deathly silence. Kravy’s ma looked at ays fir a second or two. She wis still nipped that the heid hudnae been recovered, so thir could be nae open-casket viewin. Hud tae keep it fae her; couldnae lit the woman see the maggots eatin intae um. Jakey, though, soon started tae find ehs stride.

— The aulder yin gits the less yin is taken by aw this churchy shite. It’s aw driven by fear; thon fear that wuv no been guid enough tae git selected fir the trophy-winnin team n need tae stey in a satanic version ay this doss. But Ally Kravitz wis nivir plagued by they fears. They cried him a free spirit, but what in the name ay sufferin fuck is that? Ah cry him a Fife spirit, eh bellows, now it’s like the auld felly’s never been away fae the pulpit. Ah saw a tear run doon Mrs F’s cheek at that yin.

The nods ay approval ur enough tae send Jakey intae oratory hyperdrive. — Think aboot this coonty, a place what gied the world capitalism, and yit wis one ay the first places tae realise thit capitalism wis shite and steadfastly opposed it. For mair thin any ay they Weedgie chancers wi thir Paddy-teuchter pish, or they snobby English connivin Embra hoors, this coonty is a microcosm ay the true spirit ay Scotland. N Allister Kravitz, a bold, internationalist laddie ay passion n soul, wis, ah’ll declare, a microcosm ay this damned coonty, a place thit yit might huv the key tae baith global and national salvation within its borders!

Kravy’s ma is smiling through her tears and the place is now a furnace ay emotion. — Ah want yis now tae pray fir the soul ay Ally Kravitz, especially if ye urnae given tae prayer. Cause ma God might jist listen tae ye! Ma God will be seek tae fuck ay hearin the same voices; askin um fir a new car or hoose or speedboat, or tae endorse another fuckin barbaric war fir eyl!

Thir’s a huge cheer echoes round the chapel ay rest. Even the Iron Duke’s goat a tear n ehs eye, ah swear tae fuck. Ah cannae see Call-Centre Comorton, but it’s ma belief thit the revisionist wee Tory cunt is hudin ehs dippit heid lower thin a snake’s erse right now. Jakey’s still daein ehs nut n aw. — Ma God wants a bit ay a fuckin change, n eh wants tae hear fae somebody whae wants nowt in return except they wee things wi cry liberty, justice n equality! eh roars, then wheezes a bit, takin a swig ay Buckie tae calm um doon. — Jesus fuck almighty, eh smiles, — ah’d forgotten how guid it wis tae be up oan this pulpit wi a fuzzy heid fae the night afore n bolstered by a few drams ay the Deevil’s elixir. It’s in this state — jist a baw hair fae demonic possession — that ah feel closest tae Oor Saviour, n ah’m talking aboot God, no that wanker Jesus fuckinerse Christ. N as a last broadside against they snooty cunts doon in George Street, ah’d like tae thank Jason here, fir giein ays the opportunity tae stand n dae this at a Fife pulpit in honour ay yin ay its finest sons, Allister Graham Kravitz. Ay-fuckin-men, ya hoor, sor.

N eh steps doon tae a massive applause and a standin ovation that goes oan till eh left the chapel, as the coffin went doon.

Ootside, it’s me n Kravy’s ma sayin thanks tae the mourners. — It wis Jason, ah hear her say tae muh auld man, — he wis the one that made the whole thing special.

It’s back tae the Miners’Welfare fir the do eftir; sausage rolls, egg n cress, fancy cakes, tea, whisky, the fuckin loat, wi pit oan a guid spread. The wee collections in the toon’s boozers peyed fir it aw. Jakey is in ehs element; people ur plyin um wi drink, telling um tae stert ehs ain church; a real Church ay Scotland. N it hus tae be said, eh’s scrubbed up well fir the do. Thir’s nae whiff oaf ay um but wino n eftirshave. Ah wrap an airm roond ehs auld shoodir. — Ye took the words oot ay muh mouth, ah telt him. How dae ye follay thon?

Jakey winks at ehs. — The laddie might huv been a fickle, drug-dealin hoormaister, but, n here’s whaire it gits crucial…

Ah join in chorus: — Eh wis oor fickle, drug-dealin hoormaister!

Jakey laughs n ah pat um oan the back again. — Whit ye gaunny dae, Jack? Ye canny sit oan that bench the rest ay yir days.

Eh gies a wee shrug. — No that bad a place tae be, Jason. Still goat the C of S pension. Huv tae confess thit since ay loast yon tenure ay the Manse things huv been a bit slack.

— That wis ower ten years ago, ya hoor.

— Eleven n three months, son, and it’s flown like a hoor’s bloomers off a washin line in March. But what can ye dae against the Calvinist repression ay the Kirk?

— It wid huv helped if ye believed in Jesus Christ, though, Jack. They wir bound tae git upset wi that.

— Nonsense! Very few ministers, when ye get them on thir ain, will admit tae believing aw that Christ-wis-the-son-ay-God garbage, eh snaps in scorn. — Wi aw huv tae go along wi this Hans Christian Andersen-Lewis Carroll shite world view tae appease the brainless elements, but maist ay us are educated enough tae ken that’s jist wee bairns’ nonsense. Besides, it wis the hoorin thit finished wi me n the Church, no a disbelief in some moanin-faced auld hippy!

Ya hoor, ah wis nearly compelled tae rise tae Cat Stevens’ defence thair, till ah realised eh wis talking aboot that other cunt. Ah wis intrigued tae ken a bit mair, but eh wis gittin loud n thir wis duties tae attend tae, so ah made ma excuses n mingled.

Mrs F, as wis her due, goat a wee bit drunk n emotional, n the auld boy wis gallant or opportunistic enough tae take her hame (delete tae taste, ya hoor), nae doot keeping a guid tight hud ay her gaun doon they steps ay the Welfare.

So later ah hud thum back upstairs at mine; me, wee Jenni, the Duke n Neebour Watson, wi the remains ay Kravy in the urn, well, maist ay um. Aye, the open casket wis nivir gaunny play. Snooty wee Lara nivir showed up fir some reason, Jenni reckons she wis oot wi thon Big Monty cunt.

— This is sick, Neebour Watson goes, as ah mix up some ay the boy’s ashes wi the coke n speed n rack up the lines oan ma copy ay Tea for the Tillerman.

— Sick yir minging furry hole, ah retaliates, savourin the delicious feedback ay a sexy wee giggle fae Jenni. — Kravy wis a free spirit; he wid huv goat aw the New Age significance ay wir ceremony, ya hoor, ah explain tae thum.

— I think it’s so beautiful, Jenni says, squeezin ma thigh, n thir’s a wee bit ay blood rushin tae the auld hee-haws here. — I wish I could have done something similar for poor Midnight.

— Ye cannae compare a hoarse wi a human being, the Duke goes.

Wee Jenni shakes her heid emphatically. — We all love beautiful souls, primal souls, whichever vessel they’re housed in, she says. Sweet wee chick, but mibbe a wee bit oan the doolally side. Kent ay should huv gone the fill hog n pit thon new Marilyn Manson CD ah boat oan display.

— The boy will live oan in us aw, ah sais, gaun doon oan the first line.

Well, it wis no a bad hit but ah huv tae say thit it might huv been a bit better without Kravy bein in the mix. Awfay rough oan the beak n the lungs. No thit ah wis grudgin the boy, likes.

Ah gies Jenni the second snort, n she fair hoovers it aw up. Eftir, she throws back her heid, wrinkles her beak fir a bit n her eyes water up, but she fights it back.

— Awright? ah asks.

— Yeah… it’s quite nice, she grins, taking a big breath. — I just find the idea of him being inside us all really exciting! She sneezes, then squeezes ma leg again.

The Neebour n the Duke take thir shoat. Eftir a decent passage ay time, ah say tae thum, — Right, folks, ah’m gaunny huv tae chase yis oot. Aw except you, Jenni, we’ve goat a wee bit ay private business tae discuss, ah explain, as the lads file despondently oot, nae doot Goth-bound fir last orders.

Once thir oot the road, ah git tae the wardrobe. Ah take oot the styrofoam beer-carrying box. Openin it up, wi look at wir boy again, liberated fae the middle ay some shoodir-high jaggy nettles. Ghostly white, but blue aboot the eyes n lips, like a plasticine model ay ehsel, n startin tae seriously ming now.

— What are we going to do wi him? she gasps.

— Ah’ve goat an idea. N it’s goat tae be done soon. Eh’s in bad shape n ah’m sure thir’s still some ay they maggot hoors in the neck. Bit first wi hae another line, in tribute.

As she goes doon oan it and gits the buzz, she says, — I haven’t done coke for ages; not since Lara and I went up to St Andrews and tried to gatecrash Prince William’s graduation ceremony. She had a friend who graduated at the same time. We didn’t get near the Prince, though.

— A sensitive laddie, ay that ah’ve nae doots, ah tell her, but muh eyes nivir leave perr Kravy’s deid lamps in that rid-helmeted heid.

20. FLOORED

I WAKE UP on Jason’s floor. I think it’s the next morning. He’s lying next to me and we’re both fully clothed. So nothing went on. My sinus stings with the speed, cocaine and ash mix, and my throat feels like sandpaper.

I stand up and crouch down over him, kissing his forehead, but he’s dead to the world. I go downstairs and head out into the street, just as his dad is coming round the corner, and he looks as sheepish as I feel as we give each other a thin grin of acknowledgement.

I’m suffering badly with this hangover and I know that it’s going to get much worse once the cocaine and alcohol still in my system start to wear off. I recall Jason playing some interesting music, the likes of which I’ve never heard before. I climb into the car, which has been parked outside all night.

As my backside makes contact with the seat I feel wetness on my arse. I’ve probably been sitting in something. My armpits whiff a little. I should go home, shower and sleep, but I’m restless and excited and I go up to see Lara. When I get to the house, Dr Grant answers, his face lined, lean and tubercular. It’s as if the respiratory diseases he diagnoses in the district’s former mineworkers have somehow, by a strange osmosis, filtered into his own lungs. You can see why Lara loves to go out and fuck cavemen. How else would she get a reaction from this repressed, stoical figure? Despite the fact that she’s ‘grown out’, as she puts it, of Marilyn Manson, there’s still an anger in her that runs deep. Her habits are still the same and they’re worse than mine. She’s just good at the civilised veneers. Fuck that, I’ve seen what that shit does. My mother being a case in point.

— Is Lara in? I ask him.

Dr Grant looks through me. This man loathes himself and the world in equal measures. He just nods at the stairs and I go up. I wonder if he can see the sticky wet patch on my bum.

I knock and go right in to her bedroom. Lara’s sitting up on the bed reading her magazine and a purple-and-black eye looks out from over the top as she lowers it. — I can’t go into Dunfermline today, she says.

— What happened?

— What do you think? she challenges, and then adds cheerfully, — My bastard went psycho on me. I told him it was over. We argued. He wanted, you know, one last time.

I think about that scumbag Klepto, and how far evil trash like that would actually go. — Oh my God! Did he, you know—

— It wasn’t rape, far from it, she says, now smirking. — I was quite turned on at the idea. More than him when it came down to it. She shakes her head contemptuously. — He couldn’t perform. I was a little too scathing, and well, he didn’t take it so good. She now stifles a sniffle, seeming flooded by a rush of angry despair.

— Oh love, I cry and I open my arms and take her in them.

— You’re sweet, she says as she breaks off our hug and looks miserably at me. — It’s my own fault. I should have known better. He’s bad news. So is his friend. You just think, I don’t know…

I’m almost going to tell her about that horrible Klepto, and I can’t help but finish the sentence: — That you can change them?

Lara laughs loudly at me. — Fuck, no. I’m not that stupid, Ms Cahill, she snorts, as I realise that I’ll never confide anything of importance to her, ever again. — You just think that they might be a little grateful to spend time with somebody who has an IQ and who doesn’t want to be pregnant. I was wrong. Now this fucking bruise won’t go down for Hawick. I’ll look like some schemie crack whore from Glenrothes!

— It isn’t so bad, I tell her, getting out my make-up bag. — Let’s see what we can do.

21. JASON’S MUM

THE AULD GIRL’S gittin gey meaty: especially roond the airms. She’s still goat that stiff blonde hair piled up and lacquered in place n thon foundation thickly caked in layers oan her coupon. She’s an awfay short-erse though; ah take thon vertically challenged gene offay her n it’s a persistent but disturbin thought that ah wis ripped oot ay her gash ower a quarter ay a century ago. — What the hell huv ye done tae yir airm?

— It’s jist bruising, ah explain, n tell her the story about perr Kravy.

She listens in open-moothed silence, eyes bulging oot like she’s done a strong line ay coke. — Are ye happy, son? she keeps askin ays. — N ah’m no meanin just aboot perr Allister; ah mean apart fae that. Are ye happy in general?

— Aye, too right, Ma, ah tell hur. Then she gies ays that look and goes, — But ur ye really happy?

When ah say nowt, she does as she eywis does n blames ma faither. — That man spreads misery like ah spread butter on toast when ah dae the breakfasts here. Wanted a Marxist state which wis bad enough, but eh wanted everybody else tae bring it intae being. He wouldnae git oaf his erse though, no Alan King. It was aw ah could dae tae get him up in time for the bus for the picket line.

— How’s this new yin treatin ye then? ah ask hur, even though eh’s no that new now; its been fifteen year, longer thin she wis wi the auld boy. But ah still cannae even bear tae say the wee cunt’s name. Ah like the fact that even though eh’s bigger than me, every hoor prefixes his name wi the term ‘wee’. Ah mean, ah git called ‘wee man’ sometimes, but naebody gies ays that ‘Wee Jason’ treatment. Ah call it r-e-s-p-e-c-t, ya hoor.

Muh ma looks balefully at ays. Ah suppose yon Bambi moment wis the high-water mark ay wur relationship n yin that wir eywis baith subconsciously strivin but failin tae recreate oan oor very occasional meetings. — Look, Jason, ah’m no sayin that Wee Arnie’s perfect; ah mean, whae is, n what relationship is? But he’s been here fir me when ah needed um, n she sortay looks doon at her missin tit, no thit ah kin mind ay which yin they loped oaf, n they baith look the same wi that big rid jumper ower thum. Suckled oan they hoors ah wis; in a bizarre wey it makes ays gled thit ah goat ma share before they surgeons did thir deed.

— Listen, Ma, ah need a wee favour.

— Thoat that’s how ye might be here, she says tartly, gaun tae her handbag.

The alarm bells tell ays it’s time fir Alan Wells meets Davie Hulme in Fife Centrale, as a wee sprint tae yon moral high groond is called fir. — Naw, it’s no that, ah goes. — Ah need tae borrow yin ay they big pots fae yir kitchen.

She looks a bit relieved, then guilty, then perplexed. — Yir no plannin oan cookin soup, ur ye? Mind the last disaster whin ye tried tae cook soup? Still, ye wir jist a wee thing then, she goes wistfully. Then she looks up at ays wi interest. — No nestin ur ye? Nae sign ay a girlfriend?

Thinkin ay thon wee Jenni, whae left early this morning eftir ‘steyin the night’, ah goes, — Well, thir is a wee romance, fledglin ah stress, but, fledglin.

— When dae ah git tae meet her?

— Soon, if ye lend ays a pot, ah tell her. Aye, wee Jenni went right oot fir the coont last night. Apart fae thon wank wi the cum splatterin across the tight buttocks ay thon stretch black troosers, ah wis the perfect gentleman. Went back oot like a light masel eftir that yin. Heaven through a haze that smoky rid thit it might huv been the other place, ya hoor sor.

So wir doon in yon big kitchen n ah gits a hud ay this big cracker ay a pot thit’s hinging up oan the waw, ideal fir ma needs. Ah pits it ower ma heid n it fair rattles.

— Git yir heid oot ay thair, laddie, it’s fir food!

— Sorry, jist messin aboot, ah tells her in echo, then pills it oaf.

— What ye wantin wi a big stockpot like that? You openin a soup kitchen fir aw the deadbeats back in Cooden?

How soon they forget. A wee bit ay the sophisticated life in Dunfermline, n thir soon throwin thir loat in wi the bourgeoisie. This toon got airs n graces whin they opened that Costa Coffee. Ah kin jist hear her and the Wee Shite now — thon Wee Spermin Rhino — wi thir M&S cairryer bags under thir airms, makin a pit stoap before loadin up yon hatchback. Aye, thon stage whisper, ‘Make mine a large mocca!’ Ah’m no risin tae nae fuckin bait here, but. — Ask nae questions n ah’ll tell ye nae porkies.

She rolls her eyes and lights up a fag and takes a big drag oan it. — What ur you up tae, laddie?

— Nowt dodgy, n you shouldnae be smokin thaim, no eftir yir cancer.

She shivers at ma use ay the word. — It wis tit Big C, no lung Big C.

— But it’s no gaunny help.

She shakes her heid. — Ah reckon ah’ve hud aw the Big C ah’m gaunny git. The breast thing wis ma ain fault, gaun oan aboot gittin they implants aw the time.

— But ye nivir actually goat nae implants, did ye?

— Naw, but ah thoat aboot it, she looks skywards, — n it wis His wey ah mindin ays thit ah’d been thinkin aboot frivolous empty things. For that ah gie thanks.

The Wee Shite got her intae God-botherin years ago. — Mair likely it’s his wey ay mindin ye that ye bide in Fife, ah tells her, grabbin the pot.

She gies ays a sour pout at that yin, n nods tae the pot. — Well, jist you mind n bring it back!

— Course ah will, Ma.

— N in the same nick that ye took it away in. N if ye want a hat ah’ll buy ye a baseball cap, right?

— Aye.

— Mind then. Wee Arnie’s a stocktaking demon and Chef’s a stickler for cleanliness.

— Nae bother.

She sticks a bin liner roond it fir ays. — How ye fixed for money, son?

— Brassick, ah instinctively goes, although ah’m flush right now wi Cahill’s pey-oaf fir special services rendered and the auld ‘Egyptian fae Cairo’ hittin the mat yisterday. Even sorted masel oot wi a second-hand computer for a hundred quid fae Ideal Computers, next tae the toon hall. An investment awright: new(ish) technology, ya hoor.

She fishes oot her purse, lookin sharply at ays, thon flinty gaze fair mindin me ay the times back in the hoose whin its contents wid miraculously vanish. At the same time ah’d be aw emotional as ah stockpiled loads ay model-aircraft perts nivir tae be assembled. — Take this, son, and she hands ays two twenties.

— Ma, ah goes in gratitude, — ah dinnae ken what tae say, so ah’ll keep it short n sweet: awright.

N wi that ah snaffle the auld hoor’s guilty pey-oaf n pick up the pot n head back tae the Beath.

22. NEW HORSE

LARA HAS TAKEN my advice and come out with me to the leisure centre. At first she was reluctant, and she refused to remove her dark glasses till we got there. I half expected her to emerge from the changing room into the gym with them still on, but they’ve been replaced by blobs of foundation. We do a full session; weights, step class, Stairmaster and the exasperatingly boring treadmill. It takes ages as she vanishes to apply fresh makeup before every new activity. Thankfully, she’s knackered and has to stop long before I run out of steam, something we’re both silently aware of! Afterwards, we go to the tanning studio. I’ve been telling her about my dad going on about this new fucking horse, and Indigo’s moaning about it all the time as well.

We’re both a reddish brown, and when we get back to the leisure centre sit at the coffee bar with still mineral water. Lara plays with a choc-chip cookie she’ll never eat, and she’s another one who won’t let the new horse thing go, venturing, — Indigo has a point. You’ll need to get something anyway, as a companion to her pony. Therefore, it might as well be a horse you can ride and you like. If you leave it, that spoiled little bitch will probably end up getting another pony!

I bristle at that comment. Indy is a spoiled little bitch, but she’s our spoiled little bitch. The terms ‘pot’ and ‘kettle’ spring to mind.

— It’s too soon, I say harshly, — and I don’t think I want another horse—

Lara raises her eyebrows in exasperation. — At least come and see what this gelding’s like, she argues.

I shake my head and watch a girl I used to go to primary school with struggle with a pushchair, toddler and a tray with two plates of chips and two cans of Coke on it. — You’re not listening to me. I want to get out of this place. I’ve had it.

— It’s the same everywhere, Lara says. — You’re just feeling a bit down.

— No, I need to get out, I state emphatically. I can’t believe her great love affair with this town, county, country all of a sudden. All she usually does is criticise the place and everyone in it. In fact, I learned this all from her. It’s how we became friends! Whatever became of Virginia Woolf?

— But you’re an excellent jumper. With this new horse—

— No way. You know as well as I do that I’m a shite showjumper. I was just doing it to please my father, and to please you in some way, cause you’re my friend. I scrutinise her for a reaction to that statement but her caked and tanned face is Botox immobile. I smile grimly and tell her the truth that I, and everybody around me, needs to hear. — I love horses and I loved Midnight, but I am not, and never have been and never will be, a jumper. And you know why?

I look searchingly at her. She’s all ears and I really do believe she expects me to say something like ‘because I’m too fat’.

And she’s obviously irked when I tell her, — Because I simply don’t want to. I love horses, being out with them, riding them, but I’m just not interested in showjumping. I’m not bothered about pushing them or myself to go faster, turn quicker, jump higher. Actually, I don’t give a flying fuck, I pompously contend. — In future I’m only doing shit that I want to do.

She looks at me in open-mouthed incredulity for a few seconds. I’ve never seen her look so dumb. When she finds her voice, she moans, — But everybody wants you to do well!

— Fuck everybody. I’m only going to turn into my mother if I don’t get of here.

— But you can’t leave me here! Lara wails. — I can’t go. I’ve got Hawick, then Bedfordshire, then—

— You’ll find other horsey friends, Lara. Don’t worry about that, I tell her. — It’s not like I’ll be vanishing off the face of the earth. We’ll still be mates, I say and I feel giddy with exhilaration as I realise that I will, soon, actually leave here; that it’s gone from being a fantasy to an inevitability and I’m not in the least bit scared about it.

— How do you fancy going out clubbing tonight? Lara says, more needy than I can ever recall her. — Just you and me? In Edinburgh? We can stay over at Sophie’s and—

— Nah, I can’t, I tell her with great satisfaction, — I’m meeting somebody later.

There is a pout of hurt sadness on her face. How many times, I consider, must I have looked so equally pitiful to her?

23. TREVLIN

SO AH’VE GOAT wee Jenni Cahill sittin in the Goth wi me, n it’s like wir an item, gaun oot n that. So ah should be chuffed, but ah cannae stoap thinkin ay perr Kravy, the laddie thit came back tae Fife tae look eftir ehs ma n ended up decapitated. Nine years in Spain, tearin like a hoor through Europe, then back in Fife fir yin week, takin a nice and easy bend (wi me oan the back) n the bike jist leaves the fuckin road n that’s it; baw oan the slates, game a bogey.

The road must huv been fucked; surely groonds fir a claim ay compo against ma injuries, afore ye even accoont fir the emotional damage incurred through the loss ay ma best buddy. Perr Kravy. Ah’m sittin here wi it aw; the posh bird by ma side, place in the table fitba semis, the money in the poakit, the pint ay black gold in front ay ays, n they two jealous auld celibates the Neebour Watson n the Duke ay Musselbury standin miserably up at yon bar, forced tae contemplate ma success. But in ma ooir ay triumph, thir’s nae satisfaction.

Aw ah kin dae is talk aboot the perr laddie. — The Kravy fellay’s words wir prophetic, ah tells Jenni. — Once eh says tae ays, ‘If ye want tae live a long life keep away fae the blaw n dae plenty trevlin. Otherwise it’s far too short.’

— I’d say ironic rather than prophetic, wee Jenni speculates, — with his own life being so short and…

— Naw bit, hear ays oot, ah insist. — Aw they years thit eh trevild roond Europe oan thon bike wir marked by the concept ay difference. By new experience, the assimilation ay different sights, smells, sounds. Aw that ingestion ay new lingo, new culture. Burn the different neural canals. That disnae happen if ye git stuck own the blaw in an auld cunt’s toon like the Beath. Ye cash in the ‘Egyptian’ n live fir the weekend, n very soon aw the weekends ur just the same. Eh’s awready hud a longer life thin me if ah lived tae be two hundred! Smokin dope n steyin in the same place compresses time. Trevil, n meetin new people, eywis expands it. Ah widnae say it’s physics but it’s true aw the same. Dae you want tae stey here aw yir puff?

Jenni rolls her eyes. — Certainly not. I’ve no intention whatsoever of doing that. Do you?

— Naw, bit ah probably will.

She looks a wee bit pit oot by that. — Why?

So ah try tae explain, without seemin too sorry fir masel, thit ah’m jist no like her, or even Kravy. — Cause ah’ve no been able tae accrue the type ay skills thit might help ays function somewhere different. Ah’m jist a short-ersed wee bampot fae Fife thit cleans oot stables.

— Well, I think you’re cute, she says, like she’s a wee bit drunk. No used tae black gold or tarry, ah’ll wager. Well, no in the quantities we’ve been daein it ower the last few days. Ma quantities.

— Aye, but in a short-ersed wee bampot fae Fife thit cleans oot stables sort ay wey, ah laugh, then git serious. — But ah’m gaun tae Spain, ah’ll tell ye that much. That’s fuckin defo n—

— Shh, you talk too much, she says, n ah’m aboot tae take umbridge when she goes, — Kiss me, and her lips brush against mine n then wir snoggin. Ya cunt, it’s like ah’m gaunny shoot ma muck thair n then, in ma troosers in the corner ay the Goth!

Whin we back off, ah glimpses across tae see certain parties at the bar tryin tae look everywhaire but wir wee corner. Then Jenni picks up the vibe cause she says tae ays, — I don’t suppose we could go back to yours?

N ah croaks oot, — Aye, n ah’m worried aboot bein able tae staund wi this thing in ma troosers — fower n a half inches muh erse — but ah gits tae muh feet. Ah dinnae look acroas tae the bar as we leave the Goth (ah even leave half a pint ay black gold!) but ah’m hopin thit the boys huv clocked everything. Jason King, Depertment S, ya hoor: the ‘S’ bein fir Shaggin!

Wi git intae the hoose n ah pops muh heid intae the front room where the auld boy’s watchin the eftirnoon nags on Channel 4, racin pages oan ehs lap. — Dae you never git any tips fae thon stable ye wir attached tae? eh asks, turnin roond tae regard ehs sole offspring (or so ah’ve been telt).

— Naw… no fir a while… eh, look, Faither, jist gaun upstairs wi Jenni tae listen tae some sounds.

— Christ, Jason, yir twenty-six years auld, eh scoffs. — Ye dinnae need tae use bairns’ euphemisms fir sweepin lum!

Ah’m hopin thit Jenni didnae hear or pick that yin up, but wir up the stair n intae the King boudoir n things ur movin fast. Wir pillin oaf oor clathes n she’s goat wee spots on her chist but no the actual tits, if ye ken whit ah mean, n a big mole oan one ay the paps. She’s goat that wee rid thong oaf n aw; game as a partridge, this yin, n thir’s a hoor ay a sight mair bush thin ah’d speculated aboot; bit ay a surprise, thon. Still mibbe it wis Kravy’s ma’s shaved blat that pit they thoughts intae muh mind.

Ya hoor, it’s a wee bit ay a sensory overload…

24. SNOGGING

I JUST WANT to fuck him, I like him and I want him: his skinny light body, his crazy eyes and his barely repressed air of madness. Also, the history with the bitch Lara makes him even more appealing. She confessed that when she was younger she actually wanted to shag him.

But Jason seems a bit weird, like he doesn’t want to get undressed, and I’m sitting here in the nude and he’s not even made an attempt to take his clothes off. I’m wondering if he finds me too fat, too repulsive, because he’s so thin. — Don’t you like me? I ask.

— Naw… you’re gorgeous… he pants, open-mouthed.

— Get undressed then, I urge.

— Thir’s somethin thit ah want tae show ye first, somethin thit ah did for ye, he says, and he opens this large cupboard which houses a water tank but he reaches down to a boxed-in shelf underneath. He pulls out what looks like a human skull!

Of course…

— Alas, poor Kravy, he says, then he lights a candle on a plate and carefully places the skull on top of it. The flame burns through the eyes, sending a yellow glowing light across the room. It looks beautiful; the amazing light is back on in Ally Kravitz’s eyes. — It’s… so… lovely, I tell him. And it is.

— Ah hud tae dae it, Jenni. Jason’s dark eyes glint in the candlelight. Yon blue flesh wisnae daein um justice. Eh wis mingin. The maggots… it wisnae him. Ah biled they hoors tae death. The skull, but. It hus a kind ay… purity.

— It does, Jason. It’s what he’d have wanted. I know it. But what did you do with the flesh, brain, eyes… all that stuff?

— Took it in a Co-op bag n buried the hoor under the turf behind yin ay the goals at Central Perk, Jason smiles sadly, then falls back on the bed. He kicks off his shoes and pulls down his jeans and shuts his eyes.

I move over to him and pull off his T-shirt in one motion. His body is the colour of milk. He’s shivering, trembling, but still just lying there. As the light glows and flickers around us, I suck at his nipples, biting into one until he gives out a sharp yelp of pain and the dark red blood trickles down his chest.

Then I pull off his pants and take his penis in my mouth. It firms up under my touch, and I can feel it expand in my head. It tastes briefly salty but that goes as I work it, tongue on its tip, mouth and hand moving down the shaft. After a bit I think he’s going to come so I stop and whisper to him, — I’m the jockey, and I can’t make out his gurgled response.

I climb on him and edge him into me. I start to ride him slowly, taking him further in, moving up and down on him in the candlelight from Ally Kravitz’s burning dead eyes.

Jason is the most passive boy I’ve ever been with, although, I suppose, he’s only the third I’ve had full sex with. He lies back muttering deliriously and I ride him until I start to come in small bursts, ending in a demented crescendo. I want to just keel over but Jason holds me up under my armpits (he’s deceptively strong and the sinew and muscle strains in his lean body) and then he comes in juddering, eye-popping convulsions, so violently that for a second I worry that he’s having some kind of fit. — Ya hoor… he gasps.

As I feel his spent prick deflating inside of me and falling out, like a ripe piece of fruit from a tree, I roll off and curl him into me, wrapping his thin frame in my arms. — That was… so… good, I tell him, as we cuddle together on the single bed.

— Ballingry lass… she once said the same thing, he mumbles, drifting off into sleep.

25. TWELVE INCHES TALL

AH WALK INTAE thon Goth Tavern, a guid twelve inches tawer in height n jist aboot the same again in the trooser department, ya hoor ye! Ah’m at the bar but no really listenin much tae the Celibate Club ay Neebour Watson, the Duke ay Musselbury n Reggie Comorton cause ah’ve made a connection wi Auld Erchie the bigamist, whae normally drinks in Jimmie’s.

Erchie wis a long-distance lorry driver. Eh hud twa faimlies fir years, yin here in Fife, the other one doon in Hull. Hud tae come clean, whin Kenny, ehs son up here, met this bird oan holiday in Tenerife. They goat it oan, wir drawn tae each other beyond the usual hoaliday romance, so she came up tae see um. Erchie’s jaw fair droaped awright whin Kenny brought her hame; turned out it wis ehs daughter fae Hull! Aye, Nadia, her name wis. Sparks fuckin flew awright, but baith wives reasoned thit as eh wis the breedwinner thir wis nae point in grassin the cunt up. So they basically shared um; kept the same arrangement gaun, half the week each. They agreed thit Erchie wis awright fir half the time but any mair wid’ve been too much.

Erchie’s tellin ays about history, it’s ehs favourite subject, or ‘Scottish History S’ as eh calls it. The boy’s a fuckin PhD in post-war ridin in Caledonia. — When they hud that Cuban missile crisis the number ay illegitimate births nine months later went through the roof. Bastard bairns everywhaire!

— How come?

Eh coughs n swallays doon what wis comin up, the hoor stickin in ehs gullet like a cat’s furbaw. Once ehs eyes stoap waterin eh goes, — Well, they reckoned it wis aw comin tae an end. Wi aw they Yank bases in Scotland, wi wir in pole position fir a tannin fae they Soviet ICBMs. So every fucker went mental. Strangers jist went hame n shagged each other daft. Lassies banged any cunt they could git thir hands oan.

Aye, it came back tae me that fuckin instant; as soon as they fuckin Twin Tooirs went doon ower New York, ah wis right roond tae Lara’s wi ma new Slipknot album, six tins ay Rid Stripe n a chicken jalfrezi fae the Shimla. N Cat Stevens n aw, jist as backup. She wis oan fuckin hoalidays in the south ay France, nae doot in the airms ay some garlic-smelling Froggy cunt fill ay insincere fears ay impendin apocalypse!

— Apparently that Lara wis even gaun up tae St Andrews tae stalk thon Prince William, ah’m telling the boys, drawin in Neebour Watson n the Duke tae the fold. Eftir whit Jen’s telt ays, it’s open season oan yon hoor. — Aye, ah goes oan — she’s goat a big fancy fir um. That wid be some foursome right enough, though wir talkin aboot outside the duvet here; nowt against the Windsor boy; a sensitive laddie, ay that uv nae doots, jist dinnae like the idea ay other cock sharin ma kip!

Erchie hus a laugh at that yin, n the Neebour gies a peely-wally smile while the Duke signals up a round ay black gold. Fuckin wonders’ll nivir cease!

— Imagine if yon Lara ended up banged up but, Wills takin the responsibility n the ensuin male child becomin heir tae the throne, the Neebour says, — but then an even bigger shock if eh’s a wee cunt thit wants tae ride hoarses, aye, but hus innate skills at table fitbaw as well as as penchant fir the tarry!

The Duke guffaws at that yin, n ah hae tae admit, ah’m no above haein a wee chuckle masel.

— Aye, ya hoor, ah sais, — the Kingdom is right; pump in some Fife DNA tae perk up that stagnant auld aristocratic gene pool. Been done in the past. Perr midwife wid fuckin feint when she saw the bastard hud a chin like Dan Dare! Aye, mibbe ay wis too hasty in rulin oot two-a-sides under the duvet!

They aw huv a giggle at that yin n wi bang the glesses ay black gold thegither like in days gone by. But no quite, cause eftir this scoop ah’m gittin picked up by Jenni n wir gaun through tae Kirkcaldy tae thon poetry slam thit she’s goat ma name doon fir. Showed hur some ay the stuff ah’d been writin whin ah wis tarried up; cathartic originally, helped ays tae git ower the shock aboot Kravy. She takes a wee sketch at it n says ah’ve goat talent. Ah’ll take that, ya hoor.

Even the auld man’s comin roond. Showed um the poems n aw, n eh wis well impressed by some ay the political content in a few ay thum. — Fuck me, eh goes, ehs eyes bulging, — ye do listen tae ays eftir aw!

— Nae fuckin option, huv uh, ah sneers, but it fair made the auld cunt’s day. Mine n aw, hus tae be said.

26. FIFE POETRY SLAM

THE HALF-FILLED HALL is still implausibly smoky. My feet stick to the worn carpet as I pass several trophy-filled cabinets and settle in my seat at the bar. Jason’s very nervous. — You’ll be fine, I tell him.

His eyes have never left a skinny anaemic-looking guy with black hair, who sits over in the corner. — Aye, but Ackey Shaw’s readin the night n aw. Ma debut, n ah’m oan the same bill as ma mentor, ya hoor.

As the MC announces him, Jason stands up and makes his way past the tables to some cheers as he skips confidently onstage up to the mike and adjusts it down to his height. With his mittened hand, he pulls a pair of reading specs from a case in the inside pocket of his overcoat and puts them on. Then he goes back into a small leather case he’s been carrying and produces a sheath of pages. — This yin’s fir the soccerati, he announces. — It’s called: ‘John Motson on the Death of Sylvia Plath’.

There is respectful silence. Jason starts to read from the first poem, reciting in an exaggerated English accent:

I don’t get it myself as I haven’t a clue as to who John Motson is. But quite a few people in the crowd laugh. I watch the guy he calls Ackey Shaw, who is nodding in quiet endorsement. A studenty couple at the bar I talk to seem to think that Sylvia Plath would see it as a tribute, so that’s good enough for me. Jason’s obviously a talented wordsmith and it’s evident that he loves the applause. Seeming to grow in stature, he looks over to me and smiles. — Thanks tae Jenni ower thaire for encouraging me baith tae write, but also tae perform.

And he gives me a wee wink, which makes me blush.

I now realise that I was so wrong about him. To think I thought that he was just a sleazy wee pervert. He’s not; he’s excellent. Even more forceful on his next poem, Jason clears his throat, letting the chatter of the audience subside into a hush, then states with strident pride: — This yin’s called ‘Eulogy Fir Robin Cook’, whae last year, or wis it the year afore that, anywey, whae tragically passed away.

The crowd really seems to lap that one up, especially Jason’s dad, who is at a front-stage table with some of his friends drinking. He claps in a demented manner, whooping and cheering his son. — You is ma niggah! he shouts, pointing at Jason.

Ackey Shaw gets up and graciously says, — Excellent stuff from Cowdenbeath’s very own Jason King there, before launching into his own set.

After the event, Jason greets me at the bar, ordering drinks for us both. He opts for whiskies, not his usual tipple. He tells Ackey Shaw, who looks a little bit bemused, — One ay your best lines: whisky n freedom gang thegither, then announces, — Slainte!

People are coming over to congratulate him on his performance. His father seems to be holding back, then steps forward. — Ye made me proud up there, son, he says, all watery-eyed. Jason seems bowled over by this. — Well, ah’ve no eywis been a source ay that fir ye, Faither.

His dad’s eyes widen, and for the first time the father and son look very similar. — What d’ye mean?

— The jockeyin wis a failure. The hingin aboot here oan the dole. The lack ay interest in the political struggle.

His dad shakes his head sorrowfully. — Aw, son, ah’m sorry. Dinnae listen tae the likes ay me. These are different times. You always make ays proud, and he looks over at his friends, — me wi aw ma homies here n aw. Now you git oan through tae Bathgate the morn and git in the final ay that cup.

Jason’s face scrunches up in pain, like he’s eaten something nasty. — Faither, ah’m thinking ay blowin that yin oot.

— Whit dae ye mean, son?

— Wi reference tae one ay yir ain great literary heroes, Faither, Alan Sillitoe: The Loneliness ay the Long Distance Runner, ya hoor.

— A great book, son, his dad acknowledges as he hands me a pint of lager I didn’t even see him getting up. — Excellent film n aw; Tom Courtney, ah think ah’m right in sayin.

Jason nods at a settling Guinness, blackening up on the bar. — Aye, bit mind the central thesis ay thon work but, Faither: sometimes ye kin only win by no takin part.

I take a sip at the lager. It’s very gassy, but I can’t stomach that gut-rot Guinness Jason loves so much.

His father smiles at me, then nods back to Jason in enthusiasm. — Whin the odds are stacked against ye, optin oot ay the system is the only wey. Like the boy in the book that won yon race but refused tae cross the line. The ultimate rebellion, son, n yin muh man 50 Cent understands only too well, he says, and then asks in concern, — What you goat planned?

— Dad, Jenni n me ur thinking ay gaun tae Spain. Fir good, likes. Kravy’s got mates ower thair, Jason explains, — n ah’ve been in touch wi thum… on the Net, likes.

— Go for it, son! That’s excellent. His father takes a swig of his pint, gulping it back. — Ah wid n aw if ah hud ma youth, n if ah hud a wee belter like this yin, he smiles at me, — aye, ah’d be right oaf tae Spain in a flash!

I feel my face igniting in a smile. — Your dad is so sweet, Jason, I say, and Mr King goes a little coy.

— Ye’ll be awright oan yir ain? Jason asks in some concern.

A mischievous glint comes into his father’s eye. — Whae says ah’ll be oan muh ain?

— Aye?

His father winks and lets a smile mould his face. I notice that there’s something different about him. It’s the burn mark, it looks faded, but I can see he’s just put some cosmetic foundation on it. — Maybe this old niggah got moves too. Watch this space, but ah’m sayin nae mair except: oot ay adversity wi can find triumph.

— A sentiment ah hertily endorse, Faither, a sentiment ah hertily endorse, he says and puts his arm around me and we have a little snog.

— Enough ay thon! Mr King snaps. — Mind, this is Fife! Dampen yon ardour n buy yir auld felly a beer. Ah saw that boy slip ye a double score fir this gig!

— It’s my shout, I say, pushing up to the bar and shouting them up. Before I leave this town I want them all to know that I’m Jenni Cahill, not Tom Cahill the haulage guy’s daughter!

27. DEMISE OF AMBROSE

THAT WIS A great yin in Kirkcaldy last night, then ontae that perty in Glenrothes. Wee Jenni liked it n aw; hud plenty joints and even a couple ay lines. Glenrothes isnae Fife, but. They filled the place up wi Weedgies back in the sixties. Three tae fower generations doon the line thir still no assimilated intae the local population. Insteed it’s real Fifers thit gie it aw yon ‘by the way’ shite n swan aroond in Auld Firm replica tops. Some social experiments ur doomed tae fail here, like the preservation ay the native rid squirrel fae yon incomin American grey hoors.

Ah also git the wee notion thit Tam’s beginnin tae suspect that somethin’s cookin wi me n ehs firstborn, cause eh gies ays a call first thing in the morning. So ah huv tae head up early doors. Ah mind ay Jenni no being happy aboot cutting oot early, but she said she hud tae drive her ma tae the city.

Ah lits masel in the hoose wi the spare key Tam gied ays, hopin a might catch Jenni fir a wee grope and snog. But thir’s nae cunt hame; she’s already gone intae Edinbury shoapin wi her ma n yon wee spoiled Indigo. Thir’s a note n a pair ay car keys.

So ah borrow her motor, thinkin thit ah’ll take the dug doon tae the seaside at Abby-Dabby, cause it’s a hoat yin awright, sor. Mair like a summer’s day!

The water wisnae even like thon oily pish thit ye normally git in the Forth Estuary, it wis St Andrews-style; cobalt blue and as calm as a well-shagged, wedged-up hoor wi hur purse in her drawers. Tae ma mind then, thir wis nae bother aboot flingin yon bit ay stick in; jist a wee bit driftwid fir the boy tae fetch. Cool doon the pantin beast, likes. Didnae want um gittin aw nippy in yon heat n takin a chunk oot ay some cunt’s weddin tackle. Like mine. Aye, ye kin git awa wi murder wi fower n a hawf inches by flingin hawf a dozen Bicardis intae the mix, but three n a hawf n ah’d nivir work again. No in this fuckin coonty any roads!

Aye, Ambrose is gaspin in yon heat. Felt fair sorry fir um, so ah did.

So ah picks up a long, slimy bit ay driftwid n birls n launches the fucker oot as far as ah could. Afore ye could say ‘Jim Leishman’ the dug’s flyin off intae the sea eftir it, bobbin up n doon, that retriever gene still active even eftir three generations, ya hoor ye!

Thing is thit perr auld Ambrose nivir looked back once, even wi me shoutin the bastard’s name at the top ay muh voice. Jist that wee heid bobbin away, gaun up n doon like a… well, then thir wis nowt.

Ah’m standin oan the beach oan muh Jack Jones n big Tam Cahill the haulage gangster’s pride n joy, ehs fightin dug, is oan ehs wey tae bein washed up in an Amsterdam canal!

Ridin ehs daughter, now ah’ve fuckin drooned the cunt’s dug!

Ma heid’s birlin. The only thing ah kin think ay is thit nae cunt saw ays come or go; ah hud the run ay the hoose. They’d aw left early tae go tae the city n Tam wis at ehs work, leavin Ambrose tied up in the back gairdin. Ah drives right back tae Cowden n perks Jen’s motor. Ah steels masel up fir a performance, then bells Tam at the yard. — Awright, Tam? Whaire’s yon dug ay yours? Naebodie’s aboot n ah’m twiddlin ma thumbs here. Will ah pick um up at the yard, aye?

Thir’s a wee silence, then eh goes, — What… eh’s no here, eh’s tied up at the back. Left um thair this mornin!

— Eh’s no thair now. Would the lassies no huv taken um wi thum tae Edinbury?

— Would they fuck! Fucken do not believe… is Jenni thaire?!

— Naw, they wir aw away by the time ah goat roond; hud a wee bit ay a late yin last night. Ah couldnae see them takin the dug so ah assumed you hud um.

Another silence, then, — That wee hoor’s done somethin tae ma Ambrose! She accused me ay fuckin oaf that useless kerthoarse ah hers n she’s done somethin oot ay revenge!

— Ah widnae be jumpin tae they conclusions, neebs, ah say. Then ah ask, aw uneasy, — Ye dinnae really think she suspects onything aboot yon hoarse, dae ye?

— Ah dinnae ken that ungrateful wee bitch’s state ay mind… n eh stoaps fir a bit, — you fuckin tell me, Jason! N it’s a voice ay accusation right enough, ya hoor.

— Hud yir hoarses! What ye oan aboot, Tam?

— Well, yir ridin her, aren’t ye?

— Whoa, Tam, hud oan thair, man—

— Dinnae deny it, lover boy. Ah ken; ah’ve seen her fuckin diaries, eh sais, then adds, —… which wis an accident, as ah wis lookin for information about what she kent aboot that hoarse, right?

— Eh, aye, fair enough, Tam, ah goes, but that cunt’s oot ay order. Nae wonder Jenni wants oot ay thon hoose.

— So you say nowt tae her aboot it or the twa sides ay yir jaw’ll nivir meet again!

— Ah widnae say nowt, Tam—

— Mr Big Shagger. Eh makes a fartin noise doon the phone, then ehs tone changes. — Ye fair surprised me. Ah thoat ah kent everything thit went oan in this toon, he says in disappointment. Then ehs voice goes aw stroppy again. — Ah gie ye a key tae ma hoose n ye repey me by knobbin ma wee fuckin lassie!

— It wisnae like that, Tam, it jist happened, wi jist started seein each other.

— You kin ride whae ye like but ye dinnae fuck wi Tommy Cahill!

— Ah ken that, Tam, fir fuck’s sake, ah’d nivir dae that! You’ve been good tae me n ah appreciate it.

— Gled some cunt does, eh sais, awfay piteously in ma book. Eh might be a bastard but ye git the impression thit eh’s quite lonely and a bit sad underneath it aw. No thit somebody like him wid ever admit it, but. — One question. Did you and her touch ma dug?!

— Naw! Ah’ve grown awfay fond ay Ambrose! Ah’d nivir dae nowt tae um, ah squeal in ootrage. One thing the auld boy taught ays: if yir gaunny lie make it as close tae the truth as possible.

— Right. Hopefully ye ken better.

— Too right ah do, Tam. Ah work for you.

— Aye, and dinnae forget it, the hoor threatens. — Now ah want ye tae find that fuckin dug. Some cunt’s taken um n you’d better find oot whae!

— Dinnae worry, Tam, ah’m right oan the case, ah say, then ah git a wee thought. — Jist thinkin, Tam, whae wid it benefit if Ambrose wis oot the wey?

— Jenni!

— Ah hae ma doots, Tam, ah’m sure she’d huv said something tae me, or ah wid huv kent if somethin wis up wi her, ah endeavour tae explain. — Whae else? Mind, Ambrose is a fightin dug…

Thir’s a long silence.

— That big fuckin scrotum-faced Montgomery cunt… he fuckin dies! Eh started knockin oaf that posh wee Lara whin ah wis aboot tae move in…

Ah think ay thon Calculon, the robot actor oot ay Futurama and his barry catchphrase: ‘That’s what I wanted you to think.’ — Dinnae jump tae conclusions, Tam, lit me investigate, ah tells um, leavin the haulage man seethin oan the end ay the line.

Still, the wee seed’s been planted. No even sae much ay a seed as a hoor ay a field.

But ah go back intae toon wi a heavy hert. Ah nivir did tell Jenni whit happened tae Midnight. The hoarse might no huv been much ay a performer but the hoor wis certainly fuckin well hung. So ah suppose thit ah agreed wi Tam Cahill’s course ay action, cause ah wis jealous. His big back between her legs, n her gaun, ‘Midnight fuckin this, Midnight that,’ aw the fuckin time. So ah thoat that wi yon hoarse away the lassie might huv peyed a wee bit mair attention tae me. Worked a fuckin treat n aw! Soon forgoat about perr Midnight whin she hud a new pet!

She’s been tryin tae git ays intae aw thon pseudo goth stuff; read Sylvia Plath poems, Anne Sexton, and that kind ay gear. Does nowt fir me, bit ah go along wi it soas tae git her intae ma twin interests ay ridin n Cat Stevens (pre-Islamic incantation, ah stress), ya hoor. One thing she did gie ays thit ah loved: that novel Reluctant Survivor whaire the boy brings the bird back tae life by lickin her oot. Ah think she might be tryin tae tell ays somethin here. Thir’s yin chapter thit’s practically a guide tae cunnilingus, n it’s goat a fuckin dog-ear, ya hoor!

Steven hadn’t told Josephine, that although he did find her body irresistible, he prided himself on his ability to give good head. Eating pussy was an obsession for him, and he boasted to Tom in the locker room after the workouts or squash games that there was no woman he couldn’t get a response from. So, to some extent, she was a vanity project for him. Nobody was more surprised and delighted than he was when his skills proved to be effective.

Ah read oan, thinking aboot aw the stages. Spread the flaps tae isolate the pubic hair n git it oot the road. Save up a loat ay gob n splash it oan, letting it roll fae yir tongue oantae the pussy. Keep the first licks nice n slow, n dinnae be feared tae git a bit vocal tae show thit you’re intae it. Test the clit softly fir sensitivity reactions, seein if the burd goes nuts the first time ye hit the spot, then it’s game on, or if it might be a longer haul. Dinnae be worried aboot gittin the fingers gaun; thir’s a loat doon thair tae play wi!

Ya hoor; ah nivir kent thir wis that much in it!

So ah’m sittin at hame, watchin eftirnoon telly, wi a hard-on. It’s yon Richard n Judy; husband-n-wife team; aye, ya hoor. Could even see a wee future fir me n Jenni in a similar kind ay role, though mibbe jist Scotland rather thin UK-wide.

Whin ah hears a knock oan the door ah ken it’s her. She gies ays a kiss n the wee felly doonstairs is right up oan parade. Ah dinnae ken if it’s pressure on the thigh or the light in ma eye, but her ain een fair sparkle wi shaggers glint n wir helpin each other oot ay wur clathes as we head up the stairs tae ma fusty single kip.

Aye, ya hoor, nae wonder she gied ays that fuckin novel!

Eftir the event wir makin post-coital plans fir a sportin double-heider. Wir gaun doon tae Hawick tae see Lara in the event the morn, then back up tae Bathgate that evening fir the semi against the hoat tournament favourite n current holder, Corstorphine’s ain Murray Maxwell. They say thit whae wins this yin wins the cup. But Jenni’s a wee bit contemplative. She’s gaun oan aboot Tam n the dug, Ambrose; him n yon other dug fightin. She tells ays how she wis thaire wi Monty n thon chipmunk-toothed hoor fae Dunfermline.

— I hate these bullies. I wish somebody would put them in their place. All of them, n she’s lookin at me wi intent.

— Eh aye, nivir liked that Monty or ehs mate, ah goes weakly. But the thoat ay fightin Big Monty. Back at the skill ah’d uv raised they white pair ay hoor’s knickers up the figurative flagpole in the gesture ay surrender, afore ye could say Mixu Paatelainen. Big Monty, Wee Jason. The fitba player, the ugly, craggy centre half, versus the wee jockey. It wid be ‘attach yir teeth tae ehs baws n hud oan fir dear life’, like that nippy wee dug in the news thit saved its owner fae gittin mauled by a bear ower in America. Yir one chance in they circumstances, aye, ya hoor, sor.

Aye, they halcyon days back at Beath High. No that snobby wee Lara n Jenni went thaire but; bussed up tae St Lenny’s for Posh, Rich Bairns up in St Andrews. Mind ay thum climbin intae that Mrs Grant’s motor in they school uniforms. Ya hoor, ah used tae mind ay it every night!

28. HAWICK AND BATHGATE

WE’RE HEADING DOWN to Hawick in the car, following the horsebox driven by Dr and Mrs Grant, and containing Scarlet Jester. Jason was sweet to volunteer to sit in the back and let Lara and myself be up front together, not that I particularly wanted to be beside her.

When we get down to the showgrounds, we head to the tented marquee café to relax for a bit. Well, Jason and I relax. Lara goes up to get some coffee; she’s nervy and antsy. Jason’s been strolling around, checking things out, letting on to everybody. I saw him introducing himself to an old couple: — Hello, I’m Jason King, he says, flashing a toothy smile and extending a hand that they feel moved to take. I can’t stop sniggering at his antics, but perversely, he seems sincere enough. — Goat tae make an effort tae be social, likes, especially wi the auld folks. Thi’ll no be oan this planet much longer; aw that accrued wisdom gaun tae waste, he says sadly. Then he looks up at the blackening Borders sky. — Thir’s some big cumulus clouds ready tae pish doon oan thir parade. Hope Lara’s ready tae gie thon hoarse the ride ay its life, he winks at me.

I nudge him in the ribs and we both get the giggles, then go for a little stroll. I stop and say hello to Angela Fotheringham and Becky Wilson. Becky isn’t competing either. — To be honest, she tells me in hushed conspiracy, — it was all getting a bit too much like hard work.

— Tell me about it, I grimace, looking over at oddly nervous Lara, who’s networking like her life depended on it.

Becky and I swap numbers on our mobiles: hers is a new one. Jason is watching them depart. — Stop checking out their arses, I chide, — you’ve got a girlfriend now. At the very least I expect you to be subtle in your leering.

Jason looks sorrowfully at me. — Sorry, doll, force ay habit.

— Well, cut it out. You don’t catch me staring at boys’ packets, I tell him, ‘you don’t catch me’ being the operative part of the comment.

Poor Jason just says, — Right enough.

He’s such an innocent, deep down.

We come across a big, beautiful-looking bull at one of the shows. Its intelligent stare seems to unnerve Jason. — What’s up?

He shakes his head. — Yon bull’s giein ays some fuckin look awright; sly, evaluatin, wise. Last time ah saw yon expression wis the face oan muh ma’s fancy man in yon snobby wee hotel, ya hoor, he nods at the bull. — Ah ken you awright, Wee Arnie, ya cunt, he says. Then he turns to me and adds in conspiracy: — Yon look thit sais ‘it might be a good idea tae discourage Jason fae comin roond sae much’. Aye, aye, ah ken.

— Don’t be so paranoid, Jay, I laugh, grabbing his bony arse. — When you win at Bathgate tonight, I’ll fuck you senseless.

His eyes bulge out so severely it’s like a movie computer-generated special effect. — But what if ah git beat?

— Then you can fuck me senseless.

His jaw drops to compound the effect of the eyes.

The buzz goes around that there’s free champagne in the sponsors’ tent, so Jason and I are right across. We’re enjoying the bounty with restraint as I have to run Jay to Bathgate for the tournament, but Lara’s appeared and she’s still a suffering bag of nerves. I hear her going on to some toff about Princess Di. — The latest theory is that she was murdered because of her views on Palestine.

Jason’s picked this up and looks aghast. — What fuckin views oan Palestine? Git tae fuck! he snaps in irritation like a little terrier. Suddenly it’s all very testy between the two of them. The toff takes his leave, and not very discreetly either, swanning off in disdain.

— Thank you, Jason! Lara spits. — Do you have any idea who that was?

— Some hoor, says Jason, mimicking the toff’s arrogance and heading off himself, circulating like he’s to the manor born.

That’s my boy!

It becomes more than apparent that Ms Grant is not pleased with my choice of partner. — I’m trying to get in with the sponsors and you bring him along! She squeals as Jason shamelessly steals over to her uncomfortable-looking father and mother, engaging them in conversation. Dr Grant is looking away, while Mrs Grant is struggling with a pained face. What’s even more delicious is that I know Jason knows just how much he’s winding them up, and is thoroughly enjoying it! So am I.

— But he’s fun! I protest, enjoying her discomfort. The bruise has faded a bit, but you can still see it. Of course, I’d previously told her that it was completely invisible.

— You haven’t been, you know…? she asks.

I shrug nonchalantly. — I’m saying nothing, Ms Grant.

— You have! With a stable boy! With a failed jockey! A stalker midget, a drug addict… how horrible… Then she sees I’m not amused. — But Jen, you could do better. You’re so pretty.

— Don’t worry about me, I tell her. — I’m fine. I’m getting shagged. That was my big problem, remember? Well, problem solved.

— But Jason… he’s stalked us both all over the fucking country! Lara gasps.

I stare into her bruised eye. — Yes, I know that I don’t have your immaculate taste in the opposite sex.

— Gosh! Her hand instinctively goes to her eye. — It really doesn’t show, does it?

Then a voice booms through the tannoy, telling Lara to go to the paddock and ready Scarlet Jester.

— Maybe a little, I concede, — but it’s really nothing to worry about.

She looks wanly at me, touching her face, and heads off in trepidation.

— Good luck, Ms Grant, I shout.

I have to hand it to Lara; she is a good horsewoman, and a gutsy competitor. In spite of everything, she pushes Gillian Scott all the way for the cup. But Gillian is gangly, spotty and an awkward mess out of the saddle. Her teeth are more prominent than those on any horse in the tournament. The television people go through the motions with her, but what they really want to do is talk to the sexy, feisty loser, Lara Grant. No, you can’t worry about our Ms Grant. She’s a Nazi monolith and some day she’ll rule the world. But I have to admit to being concerned when she comes storming up to us, in a real state of agitation. — It’s a disaster! she shrieks, tears in her eyes.

— Second to Gillian Scott isn’t a disaster, Lara. She’s won—

— No! The interviewer made a joke about my black eye! On camera!

— Thi’ll edit that oot, surely, Jason says, strutting over, champagne glass in hand. Lara’s bottom lip trembles and she breathes heavily through her nostrils like a snorting dragon. I doubt she’s ever hated anybody in her life as much as she detests Jay right now, although the TV presenter must come a close second. — Never mind though, second isnae bad, Jason says at that moment, and I have to stifle a chuckle. — Better tae huv fought n loast, that’s ma stance. He turns to me with a thoughtful nod, his bottom lip curling out. — Onywey, we’d better be shootin oaf, if yi’ll pardon the expression!

— You going to come along to Bathgate with us? I ask Lara.

She bubbles back at me: — I can’t go to Bathgate… to some table-football game! Don’t you see! Everything’s ruined! And she runs across to Dr and Mrs Grant, collapsing sobbing into her father’s thin chest. Her mother strokes her hair, looking accusingly over at us.

— My God, she’s such an emotional retard! How old is she! I find myself squealing with sheer, unbridled delight, and utter shock. — What an outburst! I never, ever knew that she was such a daddy’s girl!

We go to take our leave and Jason waves and shouts over at them, — See yis, well! As we head to the car he says to me, — Never liked thon Doaktir Grant. Eh wis ey a right tight hoor wi they lines whin ah worked in the warehoose.

Climbing into the car, we set off for Bathgate. The second glass of champagne was a mistake and I drive slowly and with great deliberation. I keep thinking about something that’s been concerning me and I decide to raise it with Jay. — She was only fourteen when you went out with her. Wasn’t that a bit dodgy?

Jason does that crazy thing with his eyes, then hunches his shoulders back. — Whin ye pit it like that, mibbe it wis, but ah nivir saw it that wey at the time. Ah mean, thir wis nae hanky-panky, it wis jist a friendship brought aboot fae a mutual love ay the hoarse. Besides, she wis probably mair experienced thin me at the time!

That’s the amazing thing about Jason, he actually boasts about his celibacy. This marks him out from any other boy I’ve ever met. — I wouldn’t doubt that. I don’t mean it as a slur on you, Jay, but Lar’s always been a busy slut.

— Aye, but thir wis nowt like that wi us. The odd wee snog, but maistly, as ah sais, it wis the mutual love ay the hoarse thit brought us thegither. The rest wis aw platonic.

I look steadily at him. — She’d have fucked you back then if she thought you were up for it. I turn back to the road, then accelerate past a camper van. — She told me that.

I watch his eyes bulge out a little further as he sits in silence.

We get into Bathgate and on the Whitburn Road stands the rather imposing Victorian building, the Dreadnought Hotel, with its five spires and five bay windows. We go inside and a receptionist ushers us through to the nightclub, which is the venue for the semi-finals.

This guy Maxwell is the tournament favourite, and he’s brought a few supporters from Corstorphine with him. They wear maroon Hearts football tops with ‘Maxwell No 1’ in white letters on the back. However, some of the Fife boys from the Goth pub are over, and Jason’s dad is down with some friends. One of them is the old down-and-out minister, who seems to have got himself together a bit. I catch his dad looking at the confident, swaggering Maxwell, and saying to Jason, — Niggah don’ fool nobody. I can see the pussy in his eyes.

Jason doesn’t respond, just clenches his jaw.

The crowd is fired up. They’ve obviously been drinking, especially the Fife contingent. I change my mind about the disgraced minister as he slurs something I can’t understand at me. At least he doesn’t smell too bad, though. Jason is obviously nervous. — Okay? I ask.

— Ya hoor, ah dinnae want tae lit every cunt doon, he says to me, holding out trembling hands.

— It’s okay, Jay. Just do your best, I urge.

He nods tersely and heads to the table.

It’s a very tight game but Maxwell seems to be at the table more and Jason is finding it hard to keep possession. His jaw is tight in concentration, but he gives out the odd exasperated ‘shite’ or ‘fuck’. It’s just a hiss, really, and it’s at himself rather than his opponent, but the referee gives him some disapproving glances. Then Maxwell opens the scoring and there’s gloom and doom in the air from the Fife camp, as several overweight, bespectacled guys in maroon tops jump around.

Then suddenly, Jason is awarded a penalty, which Maxwell hotly disputes. Jason converts it and we all go crazy, setting up a chant of ‘Blue Brazil, Blue Brazil, Blue Brazil…’, which we’re told to cease by the officials. For the first time, I realise, I really feel like I’m part of my town, like I belong. And that’s not something to be celebrated; in fact, it’s the saddest thing I can think of: enjoying myself with a bunch of strange permanently pre-adolescent misfits at a table-football tournament. And worse: I feel anything but sad at the moment.

— Eh’s takin a pummellin, but, his friend Colin Watson, or ‘Neebour’ as they call him, whispers in my ear. But Jason’s goalkeeping is inspired and he makes several brilliant saves as Maxwell’s shots rain in on his goal. They go into extra time and still can’t be separated. It comes down to the penalty shootout.

At first I thought I was imagining things, but now I’m sure that Maxwell’s been staring at my tits before and during the game. It has to be the case; I’m the only female here. Inspired, I take off my jumper. Underneath it I have the sleeveless T-shirt and the Wonderbra, showing the rack off at its best.

I’m standing behind Jason, who’s positioning his keeper for Maxwell’s penalty. I can see Maxwell looking from me to the goal and back to me. I look straight at him and slowly lick my lips. He shoots, and Jason saves! I make sure I stay behind Jason as he converts to Fife cheers at the other end. Already, the poor Corstorphine lad is almost in tears at what he perceives as the injustice of it all. — This is nae wey tae decide a place in the final ay a major tourney, he bleats. — It’s a joke!

He scores his next one, but he’s still disconsolate, as Jason converts to go two-one up. Maxwell seems to sink into a seething depression and the referee urges him to take his third kick. He thrashes it and it rebounds straight off Jason’s keeper and bounces right down the table. After a cheer, there’s a ghostly silence, then a roar as Jason coolly converts, punching the air, and it’s three-one. Chants of ‘so fucking easy’ come up from the Beath mob, only to be silenced by officials making disqualification threats. We all shut up.

The referee gets the broken Maxwell to take his fourth. He needs to score his last two and hope that Jason misses his last pair, just in order to force more penalties. Maxwell scores, and it seems to energise him as he forces his face into a twist of defiance. It’s now in Jason’s hands. This for the game. Our hearts sink as he blasts high and wide.

Maxwell goes up to the table. I’m right over the defending Jason’s shoulder, looking at Maxwell. He won’t look at me. I wait till he goes to take the flick and I quickly pop out my breast, hoping that the umpire doesn’t see. As my cleavage is hastily secured the ball flies wide and the Fife crowd celebrates, with chants of ‘Blue Brazil’ filling the air, and Jason is in the final of the Scottish Cup!

He gets up and shakes the hand of the referee, then the disconsolate Maxwell, who reluctantly proffers his mitt, but can’t look at him.—A wee announcement, Jason says suddenly, raising his voice, as shushing is urged by the Beath boys, and the crowd falls silent. — Ah’m no gaunny take part in the final ay the Scottish Cup. He shakes his head to incredulous gasps. — It’s up tae youse what ye dae, he says, turning to the officials. — Ah hereby forfeit this game in favour ay ma very gifted opponent, Murray Maxwell. And ah take the opportunity tae wish Murray all the best fir the final.

Maxwell is walking away, shaking his head. A fat guy tries to lift his arm, but he brushes it off.

An official comes up to Jason, obviously panicky. — But this is most irregular, Mr King! We at the East of Scotland Table Football Association—

Jason cuts him off. — Youse at the East ay Scotland Table Fitba Association need tae git laid. It’s a bairn’s game fir retards. Grow up, ya fuckin tubes!

— Mr King — the official briefly blusters, before walking away, shaking his head in disgust.

Jason’s dad grins and looks at his son in admiration. — Ain’t cutting no deal with that muthafuckin DA, he shouts. Neebour and the Duke are looking at each other, nodding in agreement. Everybody in the Fife squad laugh, as the Corstorphine lads hang their heads and start to sneak out.

I see Maxwell turning away, shaking off the overtures of another official. — I’m no taking part in this disorganised crap, he spits. — You let people into this tournament who bring it into disrepute! I lost under the association rules! It’s over, do you hear?! Over!

In the pub across the road, Jason’s dad approaches with some drinks he’s got up. — Well done, son.

— Aye, ah held ma bottle in the shoot-oot, Faither.

— Naw, son, thon speech, he says, all misty-eyed, and the disgraced minister nods in approval. — Pure James Connolly or John McLean. A sort ay ‘I stand here as the accuser, not as the accused’ speech fae the dock, pittin authoritarian structures oan trial in thir ain fuckin coort, he turns to me, raising an eyebrow, — if yis’ll pardon my French. Aye, he says to Jason, — ah saw the spirit ay Auld Bob Selkirk and Willie Gallagher thaire, son. The very spirit we need tae turn yon so-cried Kingdom intae the fully-fledged Soviet Socialist People’s Republic it wis destined tae become!

Jason looks at the dirty reverend. — It wis Jack here that wis the inspiration, he says, and the drunk ex-man of the cloth beams.

We slam our pint glasses together and toast the forthcoming communist revolution. If my father could see me now!

29. OLD FOUR-LEGS IS BACK

SO AH’M BACK in the morn and it’s a nippy heid wi aw last night’s champers n lager: the tipples ay the workin man n wummin. But even though ah’m ridin ehs lassie, thir’s nae escaping merkit forces: Tam Cahill still wants a fill shift in the stables. Ah’m graftin like a hoor servicing a trainload ay tweakers, only the odd glad eye fae Jen brightenin up the day.

But we couldnae believe it whin the RSPCA boys showed up at the Cahill hoose n opened the back ay the van. There wis auld Ambrose in a cage, but still wi thon bit ay driftwid in ehs mooth! Eh widnae lit it go!

Evidently the daft mutt jist kept swimmin, driftwid wedged intae they jaws like a hoor’s haund intae yir pocket, n the current fae the tidal Firth took um as far as Leith whaire eh washed up. The polis n the authorities wur alerted by a lone angler whae saw um paddlin, cream-crackered, intae Newhaven harbour.

So Tam Cahill’s gaun, — That’s him! That’s muh boy! N they opens the cage n the dug ignores um, jumps oot n bounds ower tae me droapin the bit ay driftwid at ma feet.

Ah bends ower n pats the laddie’s heid. — There’s a boy, there’s a boy, ah goes n looks up at the rest ay thum.

— He never let thon bit ay wid oot ehs sight, even when he was eating, one RSPCA man, a boy wi a military tash, goes. — Woe betide ye if ye tried tae take it oaf him!

— Aye, ah looks roond nervously, — ah used tae chuck um things tae fetch.

Tam disnae notice but, eh jist goes doon n leads up the dug.

The other RSPCA boy, a clean-shaven hoor, goes tae Tam, — Those scars on his face and body, sir, how did he come by these?

— Mauled by Rottweilers, Tam tells them sadly, and this cunt is yin plausible hoor, ah’ll gies um that. — Two ay thum set upon him in Dunfermline Glen; the mess they made ay him. Eh turns tae the dug as if lookin fir backup, — Thought wi wir gaunny lose ye… again, ya wee rascal! Aye, they fair made a mess ay um, eh, boy? eh sais sadly, then turns tae the uniformed men. — They pit thum doon, of course. It wisnae the dugs’ fault; ah blame the owners.

The clean-shaven RSPCA boy disnae look impressed, mind you.

Tam seems tae recognise this and changes tack, gaun intae ehs wallet. — Right, chaps, how much is it ah owe yis?

Clean-Shaven shakes ehs heid. — It’s all part of the service.

— Then it’s an excellent service, neebs, Tam says, — but what aboot a wee drink oan me? Ah really cannae thank yis enough for finding him and bringing him back tae ays.

Clean-Shaven looks at ehs mate Tashy for a second. The hoor looks like some cunt’s rammed a white-hoat poker up ehs erse. — Thank you, sir, but there’s no need. However, if you want to make a donation to the RSPCA, that would be most welcome.

— Coont ays in, Tam beams in contentment.

— Unfortunately, we can’t take cash here, Clean-Shaven says, — but we do have forms for you to complete.

— Right… Tam says deflatedly, cause the cunt kens that ehs been huckled!

Tashy goes back intae the car and comes oot wi a set ay forms which Tam fills in, ehs jaw droapin a wee bit, then the boys take thum n jump back intae the motor n speed oaf.

Once thir oot ay sight Tam boots the dug in the side n perr Ambrose lits oot a sad yelp, n cowers away. — See what you’re costing me, ya cunt! Fuckin twelve quid per month on direct debit! He wellies the perr boy again n muh hert rises tae muh mooth.

Jenni jumps across in front ay um. — Fucking leave him! You did that to his face, at the dogfight! I know because I was there!

She picks up Ambrose’s leash. Tam’s just standin thaire, glaring daggers at me.

— What? ah goes, in appeal. — Ah didnae take her. Ah’ve no been tae any dugfight in ma puff!

— Let’s get away from this psychopath, Jenni shrieks and pills Ambrose doon the path n ah look back at Tam, shrug n follay.

— Whair ur you gaun, lover boy? You’ve goat work tae dae!

— Sorry, Tam, ah’m wi Jenni, ah say, and ah feel a bit bad cause it’s goat tae be said that Tam’s treated me awright.

— Fuck off then! Pair ay yis! See how long ye last without me peyin for everything! Fuckin parasites, the lot ay yis! N eh turns n heads back intae the hoose.

Jenni’s takin Ambrose tae the car n ah’m followin. It hus tae be said thit ah’m happy tae get in as ah dinnae fancy stickin roond here wi him in that mood. Naw, sor, ya hoor. Jenni starts up the motor, n pulls oot ay the drive. Whin wi hits the road she says, — He’s an animal. I have to get out of this place now. We have to take Ambrose with us or he’ll go the same way as Midnight!

— Aye… lit’s git back tae mine. Ah’ll say goodbye tae ma faither. Tell um wir away. Tae Spain!

— I can’t fucking wait, Jenni hisses, then breks intae a big smile. — Oh Jase, it’ll be so fucking excellent!

We drive intae the toon for a bit, stoapin at the offie fir a wee boatil ay champers tae celebrate. Headin back oot ontae the street, wee Jack Anstruther’s there, lookin a bit pished, but definitely smarter in ehs appearance. Showin ehs face in the Goth a lot, by aw accounts. — Awright, Jack? Mind ay Jenni?

— I certainly do, eh smiles, n lifts her mitt fir a kiss oan the back ay it. Fair play tae her, she manages tae maintain a smile. A lassie pushin a pram passes ays, n Jenni lits oantae her n thir soon bletherin. Just then, the Neebour Watson comes intae view, carryin what looks like a box ay tools.

— Awright, Neebour? Moonlightin?

— Jack, Jase, eh goes. Then eh moves in closer. — Ask nae questions n ah’ll tell yis nae lies, ya hoors.

Ah asks Jack in a low voice, — Ah nivir goat the real story as tae how the Kirk gied ye yir marching orders. It wis hoorin, right enough?

Jack shakes ehs heid in disgust. — Despite ma detailed citations ay scripture that made ridin hoors acceptable, it fell oan deef ears in George Street.

The Neebour looks outraged at this. — But no in the church, durin the Sabbath, in front ay the congregation!

Ah laughs loudly, noddin ower tae Jenni and the bird, who ur startled. Jakey resolutely shakes ehs heid at the Neebour. — Ah’d peyed fir tweenty-fower ooirs n tweenty-fower ooirs ay wis gaunny git. Ah couldnae help it if yon snooty Elders came in early wi thir fuckin wives tae arrange flooirs n caught ays wi the bird in midcowp across the altar. Tell ye whit, but, Neebour, Jason, eh sais tae ays, ehs wee face gaun aw lecherous leprecaun. — It wis worth it. The best ride ah hud, n the lassie, she even said the same hursel. Nice young lassie; Ballingry, if ma memory serves ays right.

Ah jist aboot felt thon boatil ay champagne ah wis haudin slip through ma fingers. Ah made ma apologies n goat Jen, n wi piled back intae the motor.

Whin we git back thir’s nae sign ay muh faither, but thir’s a note oan the kitchen table, written oan a Ladbrokes’ bettin slip.

Miners’ Welfare at eight the night, a surprise party. Got some news.

— What the fuck’s gaun oan here?

— I don’t know, but we have to go to the party, Jenni says. — We’ll take the champagne. Then we get out of here, just driving through the night… on the motorbike.

Ah dinnae really like the sound ay that. Temptin fate big time, especially eftir Kravy. Dinnae want tae be seen as an unromantic shitein cunt, but. — Eh… what aboot Ambrose?

— I know somebody who’ll look after him. We can send for him later. I want to get out of this place on Kravy’s bike. Her wee lamps light up like a Kelty hoor thit’s goat a Christmas bonus. — It would be so symbolic, don’t you think? It’s what he’d want, I’m sure of that!

How the fuck does she ken what eh’d want? She nivir even spoke tae the boy. Still, ah’m no arguing; she’s the one wi the tits n fanny, n it’ll be a long time afore ah’m satiated enough tae turn ma nose up at thon currency! Ah’d defo rather go by the fuckin motor masel, but it isnae the time tae discuss the issue. Ah’d been hopin, as should uv happened, thit the bike wid uv been written oaf, but the fucker hud an even mair miraculous escape thin me. Wi pit the champers in the fridge n leaves Ambrose doonstairs n head up tae ma scratcher fir a bit ay recreation. It takes a bit ay pleadin, but eventually Jenni lits ays go oan toap, eftir the fourth go.

Ah’ve worked oot thit if ah achieve five orgasms a day till ah’m thirty ah’ll huv hud a roughly average sex life. Cannae make number five though, that wid require chemical assistance, cause ah fair shoot ma load ay gravity-assisted spunk intae her. That’s whit gaun oan top does fir ye!

Sleep hits ays like a sledgehammer. Ma last thought as ah drift under: Ballingry? Whaire the fuck’s that!

Whin ah come to, thir’s still nae sign ay ma faither n it’s dark outside. My eyes are blurred wi too much sex-sleep, that comatose state when yir plunged right doon intae deep sleep n come up quickly, like a diver thit gits the bends. Ah kin make oot the digital crystal display oan the cloak:

8:57

— Wake up, Jen, ah shout in panic, — we’ve goat tae be up the Welfare!

She rolls ower. — For fuck’s sake, Jason, give me five minutes to revive!

But ah gits right up and whips oan the keks, strides n then the rest ay the clathes. Fair play tae her, she follays suit. Ah’m watchin her gittin dressed n it turns ays oan that much ah feel the wee fellay risin again, but ah decide tae hit the bog n gie they choppers a brush tae git rid ay the scum ay sleep.

Ah cannae believe ma eyes whin wi git up the Welfare, Ambrose oan the leash. The place is mobbed n thir’s a big banner up, a sheet wi words in black paint which spell:

Aw ah kin think is thit one’s the auld man’s name n the other’s the name ay Kravy’s ma! Muh freaky speculations git confirmed whin she waltzes ower drunk, n flashes a ring oan her engagement finger. The auld cunt’s been oan that bus tae Dunfy visitin HM Samuel, the hoor!

— Spur ay the moment, homes, the auld boy says a wee bit coyly, his airm roond Kravy’s ma. — Thir hud ey been a spark, but we wir eywis baith involved. Then ah stoaped leavin the crib… the auld boy involuntarily touches his foundation-poodired puss.

— Thoat this stallion had broken ootay the stable n taken the high road, Kravy’s ma, Frances ah’ll need tae start callin the hoor, goes. — It wis only whin Ally came back, n she smiles through hur tears, — thit eh telt me thit yir faither wis still in toon!

Ehs mates hud a whip-roond, aw the auld miners, n pit oan a rare spread; aw different sannies, sausage rolls n a karaoke wi tons ay booze. Ah cracks open a can ay lager, n Jenni does the same. — This is great, she sais, — my family would never do anything like this!

Ah dinnae think she kens her auld boy aw that well. Big Tam wis never shy aboot pittin ehs hand in ehs poakit, n eh’s no bad company oan a night oot. That wis a guid yin at Starkers, ah’ll gie the hoor that.

A nice buffet, but, ya hoor. As a sweet-tooth, ah’m fair taken by the big Black Forest gateau, so ah cuts masel a piece ay thon action. Ah pick up a fork n lift a wee stodgy chunk ay nirvana intae ma gob. Jenni smiles at ays. — I need to pee, she says, risin and headin fir the bogs as ah clock that erse feelin like ah’m in Eden.

Jist then a viper enters paradise. That big cunt Monty comes in n looks aroond. The punters that notice him are a bit wary, but maist ur jist absorbed in ma auld man’s mate Alec’s rendition ay ‘The Green Green Grass of Home’. Big Monty comes up tae me, n bends doon, stickin ehs face in ma ear. — Hear you’ve been makin insinuations aboot dugs, eh sais, ehs breath stinkin ay something. — Lit’s step outside, the hoor threatens softly, — or I bring some ay the boys in. It wid be a shame tae see this happy occasion git ruined, eh smiles, lookin doon at perr Ambrose in disgust, whae’s under the table, chowin oan some quiche.

Ah cannae really say that much, as ah’ve goat a bit ay gateau in ma mooth. Ah forces it doon n turns tae the Duke whae husnae heard what he said but whae looks awfay unhappy. — Jist sortin something oot, ah explain wi a wink. — it’s aw cool, ah’ll be back in a minute.

N ah gits up n the big cunt n me baith start walkin tae the door, mair like wi were best mates thin gunfighters.

The funny thing is thit ah realise that ah dinnae feel scared at aw. Ah’m jist ready tae take a slap, n that’s aw it wid be here, wi aw they cunts around; mibbe a couple ay digs. Ah’ll go doon, listen tae the hollow threats n thir honour will be restored n the perty willnae be disrupted.

Whin ah gits outside ah see that Pars cunt Klepto’s thaire n aw. The hert’s flutterin a wee bit now. A big cunt like Monty’ll jist gie a wee cunt like me a couple ay wee digs. Eftir aw, honour will only be compromised by a sustained liberty-takin dwarf massacre. A vicious wee bastard like Klepto though, that hoor will go slutty oan ye. Ah actually feel masel shrinkin fae him, movin taewards Big Monty like eh wis ma protector, hopin eh unloads first tae pit ays oot ma misery. Eh susses muh game, steppin back, littin that Klepto cunt take ower. — Ye obviously didnae git the message, jockey, you n that Chinky mate ay yours, the hoor sneers, n eh pushes ays in the chist, workin up the boatil tae dae something mair. Ah takes a step back, jist as Richey the Assaultee comes oot the Welfare tae stand by ma side.

— Whae the fuck ur you? Monty asks incredulously.

Richey goes, — Look, this is a very good friend of mine, n ah hear Monty laugh behind ays.

Ah’m aboot tae tell the daft hoor that ah’ve everything worked oot and that ehs blowin it aw n eh should go inside, when Klepto says tae Richey, — What the fuck ur you sayin? Eh? Eh?

But the daft cunt stands ehs groond. — Ah’m jist sayin thit this is a good friend ay mines. I think we all need to calm doon here, eh sais, straight oot that ScotRail staff trainin manual, the chapter oan diffusin violence, written by so-called behavioural experts whae’ve never faced a radge doon in thir puff.

Of course, it disnae impress the Klepto fellay. — What…? eh gasps in outrage, like Richey hud accused um ay shaggin ehs kid brother.

Daft hoor thit Richey is, eh’s still puffed up, rooted tae the spot. — Look, mate—

— Ah’ll fuckin mate ye! Klepto roars, n eh rams ehs nut intae that ginger puss. N as Richey faws tae the groond ah’m sure thir’s a big smile playin acroas ehs lips.

— Whae’s next? Klepto says in excited satisfaction, lookin right at me. — You want some then, ya cunt? Eh?

Ah glances roond at Big Monty, almost in appeal, then at perr Richey, lying spreadeagled. — Nup, ah goes.

This sort ay stops Klepto in ehs tracks. Eh disnae really ken what tae say fir a bit, so eh opts fir, — Shitein cunt!

— Sorry, mate, ah’m no much ay a fighter, ah explain, stickin ma mitts intae ma jaykit poakit, soas eh kin see ah’m no aboot tae swing. Ah feels something blunt and metallic in thaire. It’s yon fork. Ah dinnae even mind ay slippin it in thaire. Probably no very sherp, but.

— Whaire’s yir posh wee burd then? She no here tae look eftir ye? eh goes, pushin ays in the chest. — Wee hing-oot wis—

Blunt or no, eh shouldnae be giein it loads tae a tooled man, n ah whip the fork oot n ram intae ehs puss. N fuck me, it’s no that blunt, like a silver bullet oan a vampire, ya hoor! It’s stickin oot the side ay ehs face, embedded in ehs imitation Fife cheek. Ah backs away, but ehs paralysed wi the shock. Whin the hoor finds ehs tongue, it’s like a bairn greetin, — Eh chibbed ays! Eh fahkin chibbed ays!

— It wis jist a fork, ah protest, stepping back. Ah looks at Monty whae’s jist standin thaire. — Ah telt um that ah cannae fight. What else am ah meant tae dae? ah appeal again.

Monty’s aboot tae drop-kick ays when thir’s a cry fae across the road n a healthy mob ay the local Young Team led by yon big Craig, wi some lassies in tow, aw come chargin ower. — That’s the big cunt, Soakin Wi Rain points at Monty. — Gied ays a bairn n did a runner! The CSA’s gittin tae ken you’re in Dunfermline, son! she screeches.

Monty snarls something n slaps Soakin, whae owerdramatically faws tae the groond bawlin hur eyes oot. Craig fae the Young Team shouts, — That’s ma fuckin bairn she’s cairryin! n leathers Monty, whae gits intae him, but the Young Team swarm in, n the Dunfy boys are drowning in a sea ay Burberry. Ambrose steps oot the doors ay the Welfare wi Jenni, n ehs goat that ‘dinnae look at me, ah might be maistly pit bull, but ma soul’s pure retriever’ expression. Ah’m wonderin if thir’s some sort ay command wi kin use tae activate the boy, but the Young Team huv goat it aw in hand n Dunfy take a bit ay a splatterin, or the stragglers dae, cause the rest ay the cunts ur oan thir toes, heading back at speed taewards thir scabby toon. The Young Team gie chase but let it go, preferin tae panel the slowcoaches and the wounded. A mature mob thuv bested, quite a result fir thum, n fir me n aw! Monty’s got away, but yon Klepto’s taken a bad yin n ehs left groanin at the boatum ay the Welfare steps.

Jenni’s now flanked by the Neebour n the Duke, whae fair fly oot the doors ay the Welfare. — What’s going on? she asks, then she sees Klepto takin a fair skelpin fae two young boys at the boatum ay the steps. Ah catch something skite through the air and ah realise that the fork’s been punched ootay ehs puss! She’s right doon, n she pushes past the boys n fair boots the buck-toothed cunt right in the chops! Ya cunt, muh erse fair tightens, nivir mind his. Mental note made: no tae mess. Standin ower um, she shouts, — Ma dad’s Tam Cahill. We know where you live and you are fucking dead!

The boot goes in again. Ah gits doon n pills her oaf um. — Steady, Jen, ah goes, pickin up the bloodied fork fae the groond. Eh looks up at us, as if beggin fir mercy. The Young Team boys stand ower um, open-moothed, waitin fir the signal tae indulge in mair pavement opera. — Ye’d better git doon the fuckin road, pal, ah tells um, mercy bein an underrated quality in this world.

The cunt staggers tae ehs feet, wobbling doon the street like a new-born calf, tae the laughter n cheers ay every cunt. The mobile-phone cameras uv been trained oan um fir some time, documentin the proceedins wi cauld insect eyes; a global media democracy where nae cunt hus a private life n nae cunt escapes humiliation. The only bone ay contention is the size ay the audience tae witness it.

Big Craig shouts in triumph, — The Cowdenbeath Casual Firm came ay age the night! Dunfy pricks! Let’s git this posted up for they Methil wankers tae think aboot next Saturday!

As they congratulate each other, Craig goes, — Kent you wir the man, Jase! eh sais, giein ays a big hug. — Stuck the cunt wi a fork! Right in ehs Dunfy chops!

— I saw the blood, it was spurting from his face like a fountain, Jenni says admiringly, n ah feel like the fuckin King ay Fife awright. Whaever said that violence was shite has never been in that satisfyin position ay vanquishin a bad cunt ay an adversary.

— This is the fuckin man! Craig shouts again, n some wee jailbait neds gie ays pats oan the back.

— Thanks, boys, ah say. — Aye, ah think ye cawed it right, big man, ah tells Craig. — Wi fair witnessed the birth ay a formidable wee mob the night.

— Whaire wir the auld team? Inside wi thir beer n sannies! Craig laughs, lookin at Neebour n the Duke, whae’ve goat the guid sense tae smile n take it aw in jest.

Aye, thir’s cackles aw roond, so ah decide tae chance ma luck. — A wee question, ah whispers tae the wee big cunt. — Did youse buckle thon sign at the Perth Road? That ‘REDUCE SPEED NOW’ hoor?

Craig looks at ays wi ehs mooth open, thinking fir a bit, then ehs eyes come intae slow focus. — Aye. That wis us. How?

— Jist wondered, bro, ah say, slappin the big wee cunt oan the back. — Thanks again fir the backup, likes.

— Nae problem. We Beath boys huv tae stick thegither, Craig says, in a passionate address tae the rest ay the Young Team, then adds, — CCF!

— Fife Central, ya hoor, ah nods.

— That’s right… Ah hear a semi-breathless groan n turn tae see thit perr Richey’s goat tae ehs feet.

A fist tae the side ay ays coupon followed by a boot in the kidneys shuts him up. — Git fucked, ya tube, a hard-faced wee Young Team boy says.

Richey staggers oaf doon the road, groaning in agonised ecstasy. — See ye later… Jason… eh gasps.

— Is that your mate? Craig nods. — Cunt’s eywis gittin wide wi us oan the fuckin train… Anyway, see ye, Jase, Craig says, gesturin tae ehs posse tae head oaf. We see a stunned Klepto still haudin ehs face as eh staggers doon the road. Ehs powerless as a wide wee cunt ay aboot twelve runs eftir um n boots um up the erse, tae the laughter ay the mob, whaire still filmin proceedins wi thir phones.

— Whaire ye gaun! Soakin Wi Rain shouts eftir the departin Craig.

— Ah’ll phone ye! eh sais, hudin up ays mobile, then laughin as eh retreats, exchanging play kung fu kicks n a big laugh wi one ay ehs mates whae made some comment. Soakin Wi Rain turns tae these other two lassies, urgin thum tae follay the Young Team. Thir fair takin thir time respondin tae the lassie’s request, but.

Ah well, that’s young cunts fir ye. They dae what they dae; 80 per cent ay thum’ll grow oot it, the other 20, well, that’s why yuv goat prisons n cemeteries n drug overdoses. Ah wis thinking, anwey, thit Kravy wid huv bit the dust if eh’d hit the unbent sign, perhaps no quite as spectacularly, mind you.

So that night, n it’s been an exhaustin yin, n it’s good tae git tae kip eftir sayin goodbye tae ma Fife buddies. Thought the Neebour n the Duke wir pretty graceful aboot it aw, mair so thin Reg Comorton, whae skulked away doon the street. The auld man didnae seem too bothered, but ye could tell thit aw eh wis thinking aboot wis gittin Frances back hame n roadtestin yon new placky hip ay hers. A win-win situ fir sure; if it doesnae stand the punishment, then it’s surely grounds fir a big compo claim against the NHS. But eh’s left us the hoose, n wi git in, too shagged oot fir any ridin, passin oot in the bed.

It’s a murky dirty morning n wir oan the back ay the bike, ridin oot ay toon, hurtling doon a road, jist passin the spot where Kravy went oaf the bike. N ah feel free, cause the speed doesnae worry me, ah’m drivin us oot ay here n ay kin feel Jenni hudin oantae ma waist but as soon as ah appreciate the sensation wir no longer linked or even oan the bike cause wir fawin through blackness, hurtlin through space…

30. TRIP

I ELBOW JASON in the side. He wakes up with a start. — We’re in the motor, he gasps in a happy relief. How he can sleep through Marilyn Manson blasting out ‘This is the New Shit’ on the car stereo is beyond me.

I rub his head, tousling his hair. — You don’t say. Where else did you think we were?

— I had a terrible dream… it wis awfay…

— I heard you mumbling in your sleep. C’mon, Jay, how do you expect me to stay awake and drive when you keep dropping off? I moan, looking quickly back to a drooling Ambrose. — Just as well I’ve got you here, isn’t it, boy?

Poor dear doesn’t know he’s going to be banged up in quarantine for four months. Jason catches him sniffing at a ‘Northern Soul — Keep the Faith’ holdall on the back seat. He leans over and pulls it onto his lap. — Fuck off, Ambrose, ya cunt, he shakes his head, — yir no gittin that, ya hoor ye. He unzips it and looks again at Kravy’s yellow-white skull.

— Keep that zipped up, I urge him, — it’s a bad habit to get into, looking at it all the time.

He quickly complies, nodding and fixing me with those big, stary eyes. — Aye. Right enough, he stretches out and yawns. — Tell ye what but, ah’m gled thit Neebour Watson wanted tae buy yon bike.

— Yes, it was good to be able to offer your dad and Mrs Kravitz the money.

— Aye, n it wis even nicer ay thaime only tae take half!

— Maybe we should treat ourselves to a sleeping berth on that ferry, I squeeze his leg. — I think that we’re due a wee bit of decadence.

I watch his eyes extend, almost to the point that you feel they’re going to fall out of his head, like the robot in Futurama. — Aye, right enough, ya hoor ye. Adventures oan the high sea, goat tae be hud. Take turns tae play cabin boy n captain! Aye, oan yon Pompey tae Cherbourg ferry! He turns round to the dog. — Auld Ambrose here kin git intae the gender-bendin or species-bendin spirit ay things by playin the ship’s cat, eh, auld felly, he says, rubbing a panting, excited Ambrose’s scarred, slavering chops.

That crazy boy just cracks me up.

31. SPANISH POSTSCRIPT

YA HOOR, KRAVY wisnae half right aboot Spain. Ah fuckin well love it. Eh wis also right aboot the bird fae Setubal’s prediliction fir threesomes n aw; first thing ah did wis insist tae Jenni thit wi looked her up. Unfortunately, she nivir shared the enthusiasm; so that yin wis snookered. Cannae moan but, life isnae sae bad.

Wi goat a joab in they stables. Jenni loves it and ah think ah might finally be gittin used tae hoarses. Nae bikes fir me, but, that’s a definite non-starter. Spanish doaktirs’ll amputate yir leg if yuv goat an itch oan it. Ah’ve kept Kravy’s skull. Fir a while ah wis stuck as what tae dae wi it. Ah tried tae bury it in wur wee patio gairden but Ambrose kept diggin it up. It now sits in the bathroom. See um every morning; whin ah dae a crap, take a shower, or brush the choppers. It’s only a piece ay auld bone, but ah sometimes think thit it smiles a bit mare broadly thin before. That’s probably jist me, but.

Ah still think ay masel as the King ay Fife, but ah’m a king in exile, voluntary exile, n ah’m in nae hurry tae git back. Ye kin caw it the Kingdom ay Fife if ye like; ah prefer tae cry it the Fiefdom ay King, ya hoor, sor!