Doing the Right Thing Poorly

Get tae fuck outta mah face. That’s what ah said tae him.

Ah suppose yer probably wondering why ah’m writing this.

Well, without sounding all philosophical and all that pish — why does anyone dae anything? Anyone write anything?

A record. A mapping. A shot-in-the-dark attempt tae fucking matter.

That’s mah excuse, and ah’ll stick tae it.

Ah started writing it doon because ah didnae ken how tae say it tae ye.

Really, it’s some form ae clinical arrogance and self-masturbatory narcissism.

Look at me. Read me. Let me infect yer minds wi’ literary meningitis. Check yer wrist wi’ the glass test.

Just don’t use the remnants ae glasses strewn across the mahogany playing field ae this bar.

Unless ye plan, of course, on takin yer own life. Scratch up those wrists and bleed from within. Ah don’t care.

So, it all kicked off when ah was walking doon the street and saw some arsehole smacking around a clatty lassie who looked like she’d done as much meth and junk as she had cock and balls.

He was slapping seven shades ae shite oot ae her.

Ah’m no wan tae get involved in stuff that’s jsnae mah business, but mah ma didnae raise me too improper.

Ah shouted tae the cunt.

“Hawl, dickslash. Leave the lassie alone.”

The arsehole ignored me.

Fucking hell. Had tae cross the street.

Ah could see he acknowledged me, like ah was a piece ae trash that had just rolled oot ae his Mondeo.

Cheeky wee dick.

Ah grabbed him, gave him a Glesga kiss, and pulled the wee lassie tae the nearest café — Glen’s.

She was a mouthy bag ae bones. If ever she was pretty, it had been fucked oot ae her.

But even behind the dead eyes — beyond the ravaged body and psyche that aged her — there was something.

Ah’d say it was hard tae describe, but that’d be lying.

Ah kent exactly what ah saw when ah looked at her, and it made me uncomfortable.

“Why the fuck did ye even butt intae mah business? Yer no mah da. Did ye want a shag? Is that it?”

Ah could understand her dismissive attitude. Ah wasnae quite sure how tae answer her.

“Does it even matter now why ah did it? It’s done. Ah’ll order a full Scottish — and make sure ye eat it, hen. Sae ye want black puddin or naw?”

“And naw, lass, ah don’t wanna shag ye.”

“I widnae want ye near mah fanny wae yer barge pole,” she bit back as the waitress brought our cuppas.

“It’s nothing personal. Tell me — whit happened tae ye that yer in this sorry position, dealing wi’ pieces ae shite like that guy ah nutted? Whit’s yer name? Ah’m Alex,” ah asked.

Making polite conversation, ah suppose — but ah really was curious as well.

“Ah’m Milly. Ah’ll spare ye the gory details ae abusive parents, an abusive boyfriend in high school who got me hooked on heroin, and then — voilà.

About the guy: Mackie’s a piece ae shite, but he’s just a goon-level wanker. It’s McCarthy who’s in charge — and ye don’t wanna get in his way.”

“McCarthy, eh? The local hardman? Sounds like a pleasant fella. Whit does it matter tae him whit ye dae?”

Ah had a feeling, as the words left mah mouth, that ah already kent.

“I’m his property. A piece ae crap tramp. Ah’m sorry, but ye really shouldnae have interfered. Word’ll get back tae him. It always does. Maybe start prayin, if ye huv a religious faith or summit.”

She was genuinely scared beyond her tough-girl posturing.

It wisnae an act.

It was learned.

Ah’m no wan tae enjoy confrontations. Ah don’t scare easily, ah suppose. But really, ah’m just pissed aff — no at this wee lassie, but at the cunts who think they own her.

Ah finished mah cuppa when a burn ae acid hit mah gut.

Cunts.

Messing wi’ mah daily sink-intae-oblivion. Fuck sake.

Once she wis finished, ah offered her a shower and a change ae claes. Ah still had some ae mah daughter’s claes at mah shitehole that wid fit her.

Ah’d never thrown them oot. Didnae know why.

Maybe ah still kent.

She tried tae make excuses — said she’d be fine, said she didnae want tae be any more bother.

Ah pushed the chair back, stood up, and grabbed mah keys.

“Aye. Shower. Clean claes. Then ye can decide whit ye’re daein.”

She opened her mouth tae argue again, but ah was already heading for the door.

The fucking cat had taken a shite in the hallway, inches frae his litter box. Little fucker.

Ah showed her tae the bathroom and handed her a towel that passed the is-it-clean-or-naw smell test.

Ah told her ah’d stick the claes in by the door once ah’d cleaned up Elton John the ragdoll’s mess.

Ah wis making another brew when ah heard a knock at the door.

Ah looked through the peephole and saw the same wanker ah’d heid-butted earlier. He looked a bit pissed aff.

Before ah could open the door, he kicked it in and shoved me against the wall.

“Where is she?” he asked, spraying saliva doon mah face.

“The Queen? She died, pal. Sad occasion for all. Or something. Ah wisnae sad. She was somebody’s granny — ah respect that — but mah granny didnae get a big fuck-off state funer—”

The bastid cut me aff.

“McCarthy isnae someone tae mess aboot.”

“Ah, McCarthy. Ah want tae have a word wi’ yer boss. Tell me where ah kin find the shitebag and gie him a wee message frae me.”

“Who the fuck dae ye think yer talkin tae?” he snapped, more than a little irritated by how unimpressed ah was wi’ his stature or status.

Ah shoved him back and drove a quick knee tae his baws.

“Ah don’t huv time for yer pish. Tell McCarthy ah’ll be seeing him tae sort this mess oot. Now fuck off.”

He bolted doon the stairwell, dropping a business card on the floor.

MARK McCARTHY ENTERPRISES

07275 633451

“Now you’ve done it, arsehole,” said Milly.

She was standing behind me — hair still wet — wearing a pair ae jeans and a black T-shirt mah daughter Annie used tae wear back when…

Ach.

It disnae matter.

“Dae ye know where McCarthy is in the city?” ah asked.

“Aye. Only a couple ae blocks away frae here. Whit are ye going tae dae?” she said — sounding something like concerned, but maybe more acutely inconvenienced.

Before ah had any great big plan, ah was struck by the very youthful face hidden under all that venom and pain.

A frightened, lost wee lass stared straight through me, hoping ah wouldnae start empathising wae her.

“Don’t worry,” ah said. “Something fucking stupid and inconceivable in this day and age. Ah’m going tae get talkin tae the guy.”

She burst oot laughing. Ah didnae blame her. It was a shite plan.

When we got doon the stairs and intae the bright ae the day, the heid-butter was waiting for me.

Him and his fellow stooge — Gimpy — grabbed us and shoved us forward tae walk.

Ah guess we were all going in the same direction.

“Now you’ve done it, fuckwit,” was all Mackie said as we approached a posh block ae offices ah was aware ae — but had always stayed well clear ae.

Ah wisnae totally surprised when we got in the lift in the foyer and saw McCarthy’s office was right at the top ae the building, floor fifty-seven.

Standing inside the lift beside Milly gave me time for contemplation as Mackie and the other dickhead stood behind us, gripping us.

Mah whole day upended.

Ah almost wished ah wis hame rubbing wan oot or getting shitfaced drunk at the pub.

But there wis nae turning back noo.

Maybe McCarthy would be a reasonable man.

As the doors opened and we were forced intae a very classy-looking office where a bald man in a suit sat behind a desk overlooking the city, ah thought maybe Lady Luck — or that other lass, heavy-tits Happenstance — were finally oan mah side.

She stayed quiet after that — still tearful, still bitter — but calm as we took the train far away.

Ah’d written most ae it already — sitting miles fae hame — but ah’d never finished it.

And then we ended up here.

In your wee pub, Annie.