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coughed up, and eh seems tickled. — Eskimos . . . snow . . . I’ll have to remember that one!
    So ah’m headin back intae toon. Ah picks up some mair posh fae Rehab Connor n droaps it oaf tae Monny in Leith. Connor’s probably aboot the biggest dealer in toon right now. Never touches it ehsel. In fact eh works as a full-time drug counsellor for the Social Work Department. Gies every cunt two numbers: one if yir clean but huvin a crisis and need tae talk tae somebody, the other yin if ye need sorted oot. Got the market fuckin covered, the snidey cunt! Telt ays once that eh wis counsellin some boy n the gadge goes, — Look, it’s no workin oot for ays, Connor, this sobriety, this counsellin. Ah really need ye tae sort ays oot. Connor goes, ‘Nae worries, mate, but ye really will need tae call ays oan ma other phone. Ah’ve goat ma reputation tae think ay. Have tae be professional but, ay.’
    Then ah decides tae call it a day n go tae the scheme tae visit the auld lady, Alice Ulrich, surname gied tae her by deceased German second husband. Ah’m parked up outside the Festival Theatre oan the Bridges, n this cunt taps the windae at the lights. Ah must’ve forgot tae switch the sign oaf. — Booked, mate, ah tells the boy.
    — You have your ‘For Hire’ sign on.
    — Forgot tae switch it oaf but, ay.
    — You’re obliged by contract law to take me.
    — Sorry, mate, would love tae, but jist had a job come in. Ah taps the screen. — Control, ay. Computerised.
    — That’s bloody nonsense!
    — Ma hands ur tied, mate. Nothin wid gie me greater pleasure thin tae take yir fare, but ah’m a slave tae Control, ay. Ye dinnae take the jobs they gie ye, they pit ye oaf line aw night as punishment, ah goes, startin up the motor n pillin away. Ah kin hear um still slaverin oan in the street about contract law, some cunts’ll no be telt. Anywey, ah pills up tae the lights n honks at this brunette in a long broon coat, gittin a saucy wee grin back. Nice tae be nice.
    So ah heads oot tae the auld girl’s at Sighthill. She ey sais she nivir goes oot but whin ah gits roond she’s goat her coat, hat n gloves oan. — Kin ye gie yir auld mother a lift, Terry son? Ah widnae ask, it’s jist the weather . . .
    — Whaire ye gaun?
    — The Royal.
    Jesus-suck-yir-baws-Christ, it’s miles away n ah jist fuckin well came fae way oot thaire. — What’s up – ye no well?
    — Naw, ah’m awright, she sais. Then looks ay ays that stubborn wey. — If ye must ken, ah’m gaun tae see yir faither.
    Ah fuckin kent something wis gaun on. — Right, so that’s been yir game, eh?
    — He isnae a well man, Terry. The big C. He’s no goat much time left.
    — Good.
    — Dinnae say that!
    — How no? Ah shake ma heid. — Ah cannae fuckin believe yir gaun up tae see him. Yir littin um take the pish again. Eftir aw they years that he humiliated ye.
    — He’s still the faither ay . . . he’s yours and Yvonne’s dad!
    — Whit the fuck hus eh ever done fir ays?
    She points at ays, wi rage burning in her eyes. — Dinnae start aboot him! What huv
you
done for
your
bairns? Yuv goat enough ay thum dotted aboot here, thaire n God knows where else! Donna says she’s no heard fae you in ages, she wis up here wi Kasey Linn yesterday.
    — Eh? What’s a case ay lin?
    — Kasey Linn! Your granddaughter!
    — Aw . . . the bairn . . . ah goes. Jesus fuck, ah nearly forgot oor Donna even hud a bairn . . . Ah should go n see it, but ah hate the idea ay bein a grandad. Tae burds ah’m a GILS but: a grandfather I’d like tae shag!
    But now she’s giein ays that eye. — You’ve no even seen the bairn yet, yir ain granddaughter, bichrist! Huv ye!
    — Ah’ve been a wee bit busy . . .
    — The bairn’s nearly a year auld! Yir a useless waster! Worse than Henry Lawson ever was!
    — Fuck you, ah goes, n ah jist steams oot the hoose. Auld boot kin git two buses!
    — Wait, Terry! Wait, son!
    So ah’m gaun away doon the stairs, n it’s started