Glue by Irvine Welsh Page A

Ma’s moanin again, so ah hud a quick splash; face, airmpits, baws n erse n ah pilled oan the clathes, still munchin at the toast. — C’moan laddie! she shouted. Ah checked ma drawer by the bed; makin sure the knife wis still thaire. Ah mind ay pickin it up n stabbin that cunt fae The Jam n the poster oan the waw. Ah regretted it a wee bit, cause it’s a good poster n that boy’s awright. The cunts in The Jam wear barry clathes. English poofs but.
    Ah cannae stoap takin the blade oot tae look at it. That Friday ah wis tempted tae take it tae school, but ah didnae want any mair bother. Ah stick it in the drawer. Ma shouted ays again. Running doon the stairs n ah nearly tripped ower the dug, eh wis jist lyin thaire in ma wey, no movin. — Oot ma fuckin road, Cropley! ah roared at um, n eh sprung up n we wir oot the door n headin doon the road.
    Billy wis nashin like fuck that mornin n eh wisnae happy at aw, but eh didnae say nowt at first. We croased ower the dual carriageway. — Kin you no git ah fuckin bend oan, Carl went tae ays, bit that cunt’s no really bothered aboot bein late, eh wis jist tryin tae wind up Birrell.
    — See if Blackie’s oan late duty . . . Billy went, bitin ehs bottom lip.
    — Blackie’s nivir oan fuckin late duty oan a Friday! Eh wis oan yisterday whin eh nabbed Davie Leslie, ah telt thum.
    It wis a dull mornin even though it wis summer, n it looked like it wis gaunny pish doon later. Still, it wis as close as fuck n ah wis sweatin like a pig jist cause ay the rate wi wir walkin at.
    We heard a horn fae this lorry jist as we croassed the sliproad. We looked up n it wis the juice lorry and thaire wis Terry in the passenger seat, that mop ay curly hair stickin oot the windae. — Hurry along now boys, you’ll be late for school! eh goes n a high, pit-oan posh voice.
    We gied um the v’s back. — Jist you be thaire the morn fir the game! Billy shouted. Terry made a wanker sign oot the windae.
    Thinkin aboot the morn made us feel good, so wi hud a bit ay laugh on the rest ay the wey tae school. Setirday the morn! Fuckin barry!
    But Blackie
wis
oan the fuckin late duty whin we got tae the school. We peeked roond tae check fae behind the hedges that grew up alongside the school fence. The cunt wis thair awright: standin aroond oan the steps wi ehs hands behind ehs back. Billy couldnae resist it, eh pushed Carl oot intae ehs view. Carl jumped back but the cunt clocked us and shouted: — You boys! I see you! Come here! Carl Ewart! Come here!
    Carl looked back at us and walked oot aw that feart n sleekit wey, like the dug whin it’s goat oot n steyed oot fir ages chasin aw they bitches in heat. Ah ken how the perr cunt feels, but ah hope he hus mair luck thin me!
    — There’s others! I know there’s more! Come here or you’ll be in serious trouble!
    Billy and me nodded tae each other and shrugged. Thir wis nowt that we could dae except tae jist walk right through they school gates n acroass that tarmac playground at the front doors whaire that cunt wis standin lookin like fuckin Hitler. Bastard and a half that eh is, ehs wee moustache n specs. Thank fuck ah minded tae take oaf that earring.
    — I will not tolerate lateness, Blackie went, then eh looked at Carl. — Mr Ewart. I might have guessed. Eh looks at me for a bit, as if eh’s tryin tae place ays. Then eh goes tae Billy, — It’s Birrell, isn’t it?
    — Aye, Billy said.
    — Aye? Aye? he sortay shrieks, pointing tae his specs. It sounded like some cunt hud grabbed ehs baws. — Eyes are what you have in your head you stupid boy! We speak the Queen’s English here. What do we speak?
    — The Queen’s English, Billy said.
    — Do we indeed?
    — Yes.
    — Yes what?
    — Yes, sir.
    — That’s better. Right, inside, the lot of you, Blackie went, and we follayed intae the school hall and corridor.
    Whin wi gits ootside the cunt’s office eh stoaps us by grabbin ma shoodir hard. Eh looks at Billy n goes, — Birrell.