pumping through their bodies. Masters and his crew sensed that they had been preparing themselves all their lives for something like this to go off, and they were determined not to let the colours down.
15
The chippy was doing great business. Not from the travellers who were barred by the growing number of police from crossing over the flyover, but from the reporters and camera crews who had come to observe the phenomenon. However, Vincent, the proprietor, was still a far from happy man. There had been a break-in the other night. The fags and cash had been secured in a strongroom and the lock was intact. The thieves, in their frustration at only being able to get some confectionery, had splashed the contents of industrial-sized chip-sauce containers all over his shop. He had an idea who the culprits were. It had to be that Ian Simpson and that Jimmy Mulgrew. He'd see Drysdale about this.
16
The energy was there. It was telling them to come to Scotland. In London, in Amsterdam, in Sydney, in San Francisco, the posses on their comedown heard the message. They would all head to Rosewell in Midlothian for the greatest ever gathering of human spirits. The energy crackled in the air. Posse leaders, seemingly driven, pointed the way to this small settlement on the fringes of Northern Europe. The authorities, sensing something was in the air, watched and waited.
At the chippy, Vincent was dumbfounded. The lock for the strongroom was intact and all the cash was present, but, miraculously, the cigarettes seemed to have vanished.
17
It's almost 4 a.m. and Andrew, Jimmy's dad, feels that his son should be asleep and his mates should be home, instead of upstairs in Jimmy's room playing those cheap tartan techno tapes which they buy in the Asian discount store up the South Bridge. Parental control had become a blurred concept since Jimmy had filled out and met his old man's warning gazes with challenging, hardened eyes.
Jimmy's dad is not too sensitive though, and as long as it's low enough for him to hear the telly, then it's not a problem. The doctor's Valium has taken the edge of Andrew's pain. His wife is long gone. She got fed up with Andrew's depression, impotence and lack of cash since his redundancy from Bilston Glen, and went to live with a day-centre worker in Penicuik.
Jimmy should be sleeping. Fuckin school, Andrew thinks, then remembers that his son left last year. Andrew feels that Jimmy's mother must be giving their son money. Money which goes on drugs, when Andrew finds himself lucky to manage a fuckin pint down the club on a giro day. That selfish wee cunt and his mates were always off their tits on something or other. Like the other night; they had come back in some state. Acid. He knew what it was. These wee cunts thought they had invented drugs.
It's ten years since he was made redundant from the pit. History had vindicated Scargill, sure, but that counted for fuck all. The era had been about selfishness and greed and Scargill was simply out of time and Thatcher was in. Andrew had put in his shift on the picket lines, went on demos, but had sensed from the off that it wasn't going to be a glorious time for the old industrial proletariat. The vibe was important. The vibe then was small and petty and fearful, with too many people eager to embrace the false certainties their masters and assorted lackeys bleated out.
In a way it is healthier now: nobody believes in anything these lying bastards ever spout. Even the politicians themselves seem to rap out the old bullshit with more desperation than the traditional smug conviction everyone's grown accustomed to. The vibe is changing alright, but what is it changing into?
Boom boom boom. The tartan techno beat thuds insistently. Boom boom boom. Andrew hits the volume button on the handset, but the fuckin tartan techno, it's moving up too, keeping pace. Then Mrs Mooney next door is thumping on the wall. Andrew lets his knuckles go white on the rests of the
15
The chippy was doing great business. Not from the travellers who were barred by the growing number of police from crossing over the flyover, but from the reporters and camera crews who had come to observe the phenomenon. However, Vincent, the proprietor, was still a far from happy man. There had been a break-in the other night. The fags and cash had been secured in a strongroom and the lock was intact. The thieves, in their frustration at only being able to get some confectionery, had splashed the contents of industrial-sized chip-sauce containers all over his shop. He had an idea who the culprits were. It had to be that Ian Simpson and that Jimmy Mulgrew. He'd see Drysdale about this.
16
The energy was there. It was telling them to come to Scotland. In London, in Amsterdam, in Sydney, in San Francisco, the posses on their comedown heard the message. They would all head to Rosewell in Midlothian for the greatest ever gathering of human spirits. The energy crackled in the air. Posse leaders, seemingly driven, pointed the way to this small settlement on the fringes of Northern Europe. The authorities, sensing something was in the air, watched and waited.
At the chippy, Vincent was dumbfounded. The lock for the strongroom was intact and all the cash was present, but, miraculously, the cigarettes seemed to have vanished.
17
It's almost 4 a.m. and Andrew, Jimmy's dad, feels that his son should be asleep and his mates should be home, instead of upstairs in Jimmy's room playing those cheap tartan techno tapes which they buy in the Asian discount store up the South Bridge. Parental control had become a blurred concept since Jimmy had filled out and met his old man's warning gazes with challenging, hardened eyes.
Jimmy's dad is not too sensitive though, and as long as it's low enough for him to hear the telly, then it's not a problem. The doctor's Valium has taken the edge of Andrew's pain. His wife is long gone. She got fed up with Andrew's depression, impotence and lack of cash since his redundancy from Bilston Glen, and went to live with a day-centre worker in Penicuik.
Jimmy should be sleeping. Fuckin school, Andrew thinks, then remembers that his son left last year. Andrew feels that Jimmy's mother must be giving their son money. Money which goes on drugs, when Andrew finds himself lucky to manage a fuckin pint down the club on a giro day. That selfish wee cunt and his mates were always off their tits on something or other. Like the other night; they had come back in some state. Acid. He knew what it was. These wee cunts thought they had invented drugs.
It's ten years since he was made redundant from the pit. History had vindicated Scargill, sure, but that counted for fuck all. The era had been about selfishness and greed and Scargill was simply out of time and Thatcher was in. Andrew had put in his shift on the picket lines, went on demos, but had sensed from the off that it wasn't going to be a glorious time for the old industrial proletariat. The vibe was important. The vibe then was small and petty and fearful, with too many people eager to embrace the false certainties their masters and assorted lackeys bleated out.
In a way it is healthier now: nobody believes in anything these lying bastards ever spout. Even the politicians themselves seem to rap out the old bullshit with more desperation than the traditional smug conviction everyone's grown accustomed to. The vibe is changing alright, but what is it changing into?
Boom boom boom. The tartan techno beat thuds insistently. Boom boom boom. Andrew hits the volume button on the handset, but the fuckin tartan techno, it's moving up too, keeping pace. Then Mrs Mooney next door is thumping on the wall. Andrew lets his knuckles go white on the rests of the
Similar Books
