Ah keep thinkin back tae Easter n that fuckin nonce animal. Thir wis a bit aboot it at the time, but jist the usual shite: did anybody see a group ay youths leavin the fuckin pub blah blah blah . . . Good time tae dae some cunt, a public hoaliday. People’s goat mair tae think aboot thin a fuckin stoat. Sometimes ah fuckin think but, ah’d better see Charlie again, n they auld cunts, make sure that naebody fuckin blabs.
Cause ah’ve made the fuckin world a better place, cause they fuckin things deserve tae die, that’s the wey thit ah fuckin well see it. Too right. The polis, if they wir bein honest, wid tell ye the same thing. Ah agree wi the paper, the
News ay the World
. Tell us whaire aw they cunts live n wi’ll go roond thaire n fuckin well exterminate thum aw. Solve the whole fuckin problem straight away. Like that twisted cunt Murphy . . . suppose tae be a fuckin mate . . . like Renton wis . . . ah’ll fuckin rip his hert oot n pish in the hole.
Then ye git worried. Worried thit yir turnin intae one ay thaime. Aw they fuckin weirdos n that, like in America. That’s how they talk.
Then ye look at that fuckin book, that fuckin Bible. Plenty ay thaim in the fuckin nick. Dinnae ken how any cunt kin read that shite; doth this, begat that, it’s no even in the Queen’s fuckin English. But they tell ays thit the Bible says thit God made man in ehs ain image. So ah take that as meaning thit
no
tae try tae be like God wid be a fuckin big insult tae the cunt, that’s the wey ah see it. So aye, ah wis playin God whin ah wasted the nonce cunt. So fuckin what?
Ah switch channels bit it’s ivraywhaire oan the telly; nonces, paedophiles, stoats, the fuckin loat. Thir’s some fuckin radge psychologist cunt sayin thit thuv aw been abused thirsels, that’s how they dae it. Fuckin shite. Tons ay cunts ur fuckin well abused n it disnae make thum go like that. So ye could say thit ah took fuckin pity oan that cunt, cause eh’s jist gaunnae git abused again, n the nick n that. Best fuckin deal aw roond.
The hoose is daein muh fuckin nut in, n fuck knows whair she’s goat tae, so ah nips doon stairs fir a
News
. It’s fuckin freezin oot here, so ah’m right back up again wi the paper. Thir’s the usual shite, but then ah see somethin thit makes ays stoap.
CUNT.
Muh hert bangs in ma chist as ah read:
NEW LEAD IN HUNT FOR CITY KILLER
Police still searching for clues in last month’s murder of a city man in a Leith public house disclosed that they had received a tip-off from an anonymous caller which yielded ‘promising’ information. They appealed to the caller to get back in touch.
On the Thursday before the Easter holiday, Edinburgh man Gary Chisholm (38) was found bleeding to death on the floor of a Leith pub by the owner Charles Winters (52). Mr Winters had been downstairs in his cellar changing the barrel when he heard shouts and a scream from the bar. He ran up to find Mr Chisholm lying with his throat cut on the floor of the empty pub and saw two youths aged between fifteen and twenty fleeing from the scene. He went to Mr Chisholm’s aid, but it was too late.
On the new information, investigating officer DI Douglas Gillman said: ‘It’s true that we have received some additional information on this case which may or may not be of use to us at this point in time. We are appealing for a male caller, who phoned on Tuesday evening, to get back in touch.
Meanwhile, the victim’s grieving family endorsed the police calls for members of the public to come forward. His sister Mrs Janice Newman (34) said: ‘Gary was a great guy who didn’t have a bad bone in his body. I can’t understand how anybody could be covering up for the monster who killed my brother.’ If anybody has any information about this case, the number to contact is 0131–989 7173.
That’s fuckin shite. That’s the first thing they tell ye in the nick, if the polis start daein that thir fuckin desperate, it’s jist thir wey ay pittin the fuckin heat oan. Then ah starts thinkin aboot that cunt Second Prize, aboot how the fuckin cunt’s no been in touch. That fuckin pish-heid mooth, gabbin shite . . . another fuckin so-called mate . . .
FUCKIN GOD . . .
No thit ah believe in that religion shite, these cunts uv caused mair bother thin fuckin nonces, ower in Ireland n that. N it’s been proved thit they priest cunts ur the biggest fuckin nonces oot the loat, so the whole fuckin thing aw fits thegither when ye think aboot it. That Murphy’s fuckin deid. That’s the problem wi some cunts but: they nivir just fuckin take the time tae fuckin well sit doon n think aboot things. Nae fuckin brains.
Kate comes in, n eftir she’s made the tea n pit the bairn doon, she starts washin her hair. Now she’s blow-dryin it. Dinnae ken what she wants tae wash ur fuckin hair fir whin shi’s steyin in. Mibee it’s fir the morn, fir hur shift at that fuckin clathes shoap. Ah bet thir’s some cunt workin thair or in some ay the other shoaps in that fuckin centre thit’s goat thir eye oan hur. Some fuckin wide cunt thit thinks thir it. One ay they pretty-boy, fanny-rat types like Sick Boy, cunts wi nae fuckin conscience thit’ll jist yaze a lassie.
As long as she’s no goat
her
fuckin eye oan the likes ay him. That gits ays thinkin. — Mind what happened wi you n me, whin wi first goat thegither? ah goes.
She looks up at ays, clicks oaf the dryer. — What dae ye mean? she sais.
— Mind, in bed, n that?
Now she’s lookin at ays like she kens whit ah’m talkin aboot. That means she thinks aboot it n aw. — That was ages ago, Frank. Ye wir jist oot ay jail. It disnae matter, she goes, screwin up her face a bit.
— No now it disnae, bit it fuckin matters tae me what cunts ken aboot it. You’ve no said nowt tae nae cunt aboot that, huv ye?
She pills oot a fag n lights it up. — What . . . of course no. That’s between you n me. It’s naebody’s business.
— Too right, ah goes. — Yuv no said nowt but, huv ye?
— Naw.
— No even tae that fuckin Evelyn? ah asks hur. Before she answers, ah goes: — Cause ah ken what happens when burds git thegither. Yis talk. Eh? Aye, yis fuckin dae.
Ye kin tell this hus goat her fuckin well thinkin. She’d better fuckin no be lyin tae me, no for her sake. — No aboot that but, Frank. That’s private n aw that wis ages ago. Ah nivir even think aboot it.
Aw, so shi disnae even think aboot it. Disnae even think aboot the fact thit she spent two weeks kippin up wi a boy thit couldnae fuck her. Like fuck she disnae think aboot it. — So yis dinnae fuckin well talk then, you n that fuckin Evelyn, n that other fuckin mate ay yours, her wi the fuckin hair . . .
— Rhona, she goes, aw wary.
— Fuckin Rhona. Yir tryin tae fuckin well tell ays thit yis dinnae fuckin well talk. Aboot yir fellys, likes?
Her eyes’ve went aw wide, like she’s feart. What’s she fuckin well goat tae be feart aboot but? — Aye, wi talk, she goes, — but no aboot that sortay thing, likes . . .
— No aboot what?
— No aboot intimate stuff, stuff thit goes oan in bed n that.
Ah looks her right in the eye. — So ye dinnae talk aboot stuff thit goes oan in bed like, no tae yir mates?
— Of course no . . . what is this, Frank, what’s wrong? she asks.
Ah’ll tell ur what the fuck’s wrong awright. — Right then, what aboot the time whin a bunch ay us wir oot, doon the Black Swan, mind ay that time? That Evelyn wis thair n her wi the hair, what’s it ye call yon piece again?
— Rhona, she says, aw worried. — But, Fran . . .
Ah snap my fingers. — Rhona, that’s the yin. Right, now, see that cunt ye wir wi before me, the cunt ah fuckin panelled up the toon? ah asks n hur eyes go wider. — Ah mind wi wir in the pub that time, the Black Swan, n you says thit eh wis shite in bed anywey, that’s what ye fuckin well sais aboot the boy that time, mind?
— Frank, this is silly . . .
Ah points at her. — Answer the fuckin question! Did you fuckin well say that or did ye no fuckin well say it?
— Aye . . . bit ah wis jist sayin that . . . cause ah wis relieved tae be away fae him . . . ah wis relieved tae huv you!
Relieved tae fuckin well huv me. Relieved tae be away fae that cunt. — So ye wir jist fuckin sayin it fir effect. Tae impress me n yir fuckin mates.
— Aye, that’s it! she nearly sings oot, like that’s hur oaf the hook.
Disnae fuckin realise thit she’s jist fuckin catchin hursel oot wi aw that crap. Jist like aw they cunts thit cannae keep thir fuckin mooths shut; jist talkin hersel intae a deeper fuckin hole. — Right. So then it wisnae true, eh wisnae fuckin shite in bed. Eh wis brilliant. Eh wis much fuckin better thin me. Is that the fuckin truth then now, is it?
Now it’s like she’s jist aboot fuckin greetin. — Naw, naw . . . ah mean . . . it disnae matter what eh wis like in bed, ah wis jist sayin this cause ah hated um . . . cause ah wis gled tae be rid ay um. It disnae matter what eh wis like in bed . . .
Ah gies a wee smile at that. — So, ye wir jist sayin it cause it wis fuckin ower, cause yis wir fuckin history.
— Aye!
She’s talkin fuckin shite. It disnae add up. — So, what happens if
we
split up? If we’re fuckin history? Ye jist start sayin they things aboot me, roond every fuckin pub in Leith? That’s it then, eh?
— Naw . . . naw . . . it’s no like that . . .
Ah git her fuckin well telt. — Better fuckin no be! Cause see if you ivir breathe a word ay that, thi’ll be nowt fuckin well left ay ye eftir it. Thi’ll be nae fuckin trace thit you ivir fuckin existed . . . right?!
She fuckin well looks through tae the bairn’s room n then looks back at me. Then shi bursts intae tears. She thinks ah’m gaunnae hurt her fuckin bairn like ah’m some kind ay a nonce cunt. — Look, ah goes, — dinnae greet, Kate, c’moan . . . look, ah didnae mean it, ah says, n ah’m ower n ah’ve goat ma airm roond her n ahm gaun, — . . . it’s jist thit thir’s a loat ay people thit hate ays, ken? Some cunts’ve been sayin things, behind ma back n that . . . n huv been gittin stuff . . . stuff through the post . . . dinnae gie thum weapons . . . that’s aw ah’m fuckin well sayin . . . dinnae gie thum weapons tae yaze against ays . . .
N she’s goat ah hud ah me n she’s sayin: — Naebody’ll hear a bad word aboot ye fae me, Frank, cause yir nice tae me n ye dinnae hit me, but please dinnae make ays feart like that, Frank, cause he used tae dae that n ah cannae live like that, Frank . . . yir no like him, Frank . . . he wis rubbish . . .
Ah sit up straight n pill her heid intae ma chest. — S’awright, ah goes, bit ah’m thinkin: you dinnae fuckin well ken me at aw, hen. Bit ah kin feel muh heid startin tae nip n muh fuckin hert startin tae beat hard. Ah’m thinkin aboot thum aw: Second Prize wi ehs loose mooth, Lexo, that cunt Renton, n fuckin Scruffy Murphy. Aye, that cunt wis lucky eh didnae fuckin well git it good. Still fuckin well might. Tryin tae fuckin set me up! That’s thinkin like a fuckin nonce. He wis fuckin lucky.
N that cunt seems tae ken aboot that Chizzie nonce n aw. Ah’ll find oot whair eh kens aw that shit fae n beat it oot ay him. Thinks cause wi go back that’ll save um.
Will it fuck save um.
No fuckin wey am ah gaun back inside but, that’ll be the fuckin day. But ah huv tae watch ma step here. It’s like every cunt kens, n even though ah ken masel it’s jist ma fuckin mind playin tricks oan ays, ye jist ken thit thir aw startin tae close in. N ah’m strokin Kate’s hair bit ah’m tensin up n ah need tae git the fuck oot ay here cause ah cannae be held responsible for what ah might dae. So ah sits up n tells her thit ah’m gaun oot tae watch the fitba.
— Right . . . she goes, lookin ower at the telly, as if tae say, ye kin watch jist as easy here.
Ah nods tae the screen. — It’s better doon the pub wi the boys. Ye need tae git the fuckin atmosphere.
She thinks aboot this for a while, then goes: — Aye, it’ll dae ye good, Frank. It’s aboot time ye goat oot instead ay jist sittin in that chair.
Ah’m tryin tae think what the fuck she means by that. Mibee it does look fuckin suspicious steyin in aw the time, but ah hud that wee Philip cunt screwin a hoose in Barnton fir ays. Gave the cunt another two sovies back fir ehs trouble. Ah should git oot but. Mind you, she’s awfay fuckin keen tae git ays oot. She cannae go oot cause ay the bairn, but she kin huv some cunt up though. — You jist huvin a quiet night, aye?
— Aye.
— No huvin nae cunt roond? That fuckin Rhona?
— Naw.
— No huvin that Melanie hing-oot roond? She’s doon Leith aw the time.
— Naw, ah’m jist steyin in n readin ma book, she goes, showin ays this book.
Readin fuckin books. Thir aw shite, jist put ideas in cunts’ heids. — Huvin nae cunt roond at aw?
— Nup.
— Right, see ye then, ah goes, flingin oan muh jaykit n headin oot intae the cauld. Just as well thit nae cunt’s comin roond. Cunts like Sick Boy, ye ken the wey his mind works. Sayin tae that fuckin Melanie, ye must huv plenty tidy wee mates whaire fuckin game tae be filmed gittin rode by . . .
FUCKIN . . .
Ah fuckin punch the waw in the stair . . .
Cunt kens what eh’d fuckin well git if eh ivir tried that.
Oan the wey doon tae the boozer uh sees that cunt June gaun along the Walk, n ah makes oot like ah’m croassin the road eftir her. Ah’ll gie the cunt restrainin order; cheeky fuckin cunt, ah widnae go within twenty-five fuckin yards ay that sow. Aw ah’m daein is tryin tae fuckin tell her it wis Murphy n Sick Boy’s fuckin fault, gittin aw fuckin mixed up, bit the cunt turns n runs doon the road! Ah shouts eftir her tae fuckin stoap, soas ah kin explain, bit the daft cunt’s away. Fuck that dozy hoor!
Ah snap oan the fuckin mobby n remind the cunts tae git doon thaire, Nelly n Larry, cause ah ken thit Malky’ll be thaire awready, hudin up the fuckin bar. Malky the fuckin alky. Sure enough, the cunt is thaire n Larry n Nelly urnae fuckin far behind. Thing is, it’s the fuckin same vibe in here. Every cunt seems tae gie ye the look thit fuckin well goes ‘aye, ah ken you, ya cunt’. N this is mates thit wir talkin aboot here, or so-called fuckin mates.