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— Ah didnae ken either, ah sais. — Whit the fuck is it?

— Aw, it’s fuckin horrible, man. It’s likesay brain abscesses, ken?

Ah shivered, n felt a crushin weight oan ma chist, thinkin ay perr Matty. Ah hud an abscess oan ma knob once. Imagine huvin one oan yir fuckin brain, inside, yir fuckin heid bein full ay pus. Fuck sakes. Matty. Fuckin hell. — So whit happened?

— He starts gittin heidaches, so he jist uses mair; tae blot oot the pain, ken? Then he hus, like a stroke. A boy ay twinty-five; a fuckin stroke, it’s no real. Ah didnae recognise the cunt eftir it. Nearly walked past um in the street; this is doon the Walk, ken? He looked fuckin ancient. He wis aw bent tae one side, hobblin like a cripple, wi his face aw twisted. He wis only like that fir aboot three weeks; then he hud a second stroke n died. He died in the hoose. The perr bastard hud been thair fir ages before the neighbours complained aboot the kitten’s miaows n the stench thit wis comin fae the place. The polis broke the door doon. Matty wis lyin deid, face doon in a pool ay dried vomit. The kitten wis fine.

Ah thoat aboot the squat Matty n me shared in Shepherd’s Bush; that wis him at his happiest. He loved the whole punk thing. They loved him doon thair. He shagged every burd in that squat, includin that lassie fae Manchester thit ah’d been tryin tae git oaf wi fir donks, the spawny wee cunt. It aw started tae go wrong fir the perr bastard whin we came back up here. It nivir stoaped gaun wrong eftir that. Perr Matty.

— Fuck sake, Gav muttered, — that cunt Perfume James. That’s aw we fuckin need.

Ah looked up n saw the open, smilin face ay Perfume James comin taewards us. He hud his case n aw.

— Awright James?

— No bad boys, no bad. Whair ye been hidin yersel Mark?

— London, ah goes. Perfume James wis a pain in the erse; he wis eywis tryin tae punt perfume tae ye.

— Romantically involved these days, Mark?

— Naw, ah took great pleasure in informin him.

Perfume James frowned and puckered his lips: — Gav, how’s your good lady?

— Awright, Gav mumbles.

— If ah’m no mistaken, the last time ah saw ye doon here wi yir good lady, she wis wearin Nina Ricci, yeah?

— Ah’m no wantin any perfume, Gav states with a cold finality.

Perfume James twists his heid tae the side n extends his palms. — Your loss. Ah kin tell ye though, thir’s nae better way tae impress a lassie thin perfume. Flooirs are too temporary n ye kin firget chocolates in these figure-conscious times. Still, nae skin oafey ma nose, Perfume James smiles, opening his case anywey, as if the very sight ay these boatils ay pish’ll make us change oor minds. — Ah’ve done well the day though, ah cannae complain. Your mate, Second Prize, as a matter ay fact. Ah ran intae um in the Shrub an hour or so ago. He wis quite bevvied. He sais: Geez some ay that perfume, ah’m away doon tae Carol’s. Ah’ve treated her like shite, it’s time tae spoil ur a bit. Boat a fuckin stack, so he did.

Gav’s chin visibly droaps. He clenches his fists n shakes his heid in angry resignation. Perfume James bounds over tae the lounge in search ay another victim.

Ah flings back ma pint. — Let’s see if wi kin find Second Prize; before the cunt drinks every bit ay yir money away. Much did ye gie um?

— Two hundred sobs, Gav sais.

— Doss cunt, ah sais, sniggerin. Ah couldnae help it, it wis jist nerves.

— Ah want ma fuckin heid looked at, Gav concedes, but he cannae force a smile. Ah suppose, whin all’s said n done, thir isnae a fuckin loat tae smile aboot.

Memories of Matty

1

— Awright Nelly? Long fuckin time no see, ya cunt thit ye are, Franco smiled at Nelly, who looked incongruous in a suit, with a tattooed snake coiling up his neck and a palm-treed desert island with the sea lapping up drilled onto his forehead.

— Pity it hus tae be under they circumstances likes, Nelly replied soberly. Renton, who was talking to Spud, Alison and Stevie, allowed himself a smile, upon hearing the first funeral cliché of the