Sunday, March 17, 2013

Bus to Blackridge by Alan Gardner

‘The fuckin’ cunt was just lookin’ at me, know wit a mean?’

I nodded, trying not to commit. In these situations it’s best to be blankly diplomatic.

‘Aye, so then as wiz like “the fuck’s he lookin’ at me fur, eh?’

He lit a fag and pocketed my lighter. I saw the driver glance at us in the mirror. He said nothing. Why invite more aggro into your life?

‘Blackridge cunts like me dinnae take shite aff nae cunt.’

He laughed and coughed up a little green globule of phlegm onto his sleeve. He wiped it away and continued.

‘So the cunt’s no getting’ away wae that. Wid you let some cunt pure stare at ye like that, wae yer fuckin’ burd right there anaw, mate?’

‘Probably no, mate.’ I laughed, as if I understood the code, and had taught it to more than one.

‘Aye, see, you know the fuckin’ score, this cunt didnae, but. Ah wiz like, “fuck the cunt!”, eh?’

There was a creeping tension, the other passengers, mostly old folk, and another guy who had had the sense to keep clear, who were trying hard to appear deaf or somewhere else, were transmitting that tension. Or perhaps I was sending it to them and they were then condensing it and sending it back. Maybe it was just my heightened sense of awareness, animal instinct. You know these situations can turn. I said just enough, and responded where necessary, trying hard to be very pro neutral.

‘Wit would you dae if you were me, mate?’

‘It depends…’

‘On wit?’

It could turn here, I thought. ‘Depends if the cunt wiz bigger than me ur no, eh?’ I laughed.

He laughed too. ‘Yer no wrang. Still, widnae matter a fuck tae me. Ah’d jist fuckin’ plant wan on um. That’s wit Ah fuckin’ did tae. BANG! Right on the cunt’s fuckin’ jaw!’

He was getting more and more worked up. He was spinning out to a thread that could snap at any moment.

‘Ah’m a schizophrenic by the way.’

Think. ‘My uncle was in Bangour with something like that…’

‘Fuckin’ Bangour, Ah wiz there fur two year. Fuckin’ slashed wan ay they cunts anaw.’

Do not ask me his name.

‘Yer uncle, aye? Ah’d probably ken the cunt, kent aw they cunts up there. Wit wuz e’s name?’

‘John Henderson…’

‘Auld John? Aye, Ah ken the cunt. Fuckin’ raped a wee lassie that cunt!’

‘Must be a different John Henderson…’

‘Gie’s a light again, pal, eh?’

I feigned a quick pocket search along with surprise and a smile. ‘I think you’ve still got my lighter.’

‘Oh, sorry, pal, so Ah huv tae! Aye, cannae put fuck all past you, eh?’

‘Just keep it, mate. I’m getting off soon, plenty lighters lyin’ aboot in the hoose.’

‘Getting aff in Whitburn?’


‘Fuckin’ slashed a cunt fae there anaw. Right on the Cross, cunts never got me fur that either. But that’s a different fuckin’ story. The cunt thit wiz lookin’ it me, Ah punched um right in the pus. Fuckin’ doon he goes. Ken wit Ah did then?’

‘What happened?’

‘Fuckin’ pished aw ower the cunt! Wiz fuckin’ burstin’ tae! Funny hing is Ah’d shagged e’s burd the week afore, maybe that’s how the cunt was giein’ me the fuckin’ daggers. Fuck um though, eh? Wee soft cunts like that deserve tae get thur burds shagged oot fae under thum!’

‘Hope you have a good weekend anyway…’

‘Ah ALWAYS huv a good weekend! Ah’m away hame tae get pished an’ shag the burd!’

I got off and watched the bus to Blackridge splutter up the hill, hoping that the slasher’s next victim would be the other guy who’d had the sense not to give him a light.

Alan Gardner lives in Scotland, where he does many things.  You may remember him as Bad Albert, if you happened to stumble across his Youtube channel back in the day. 

Copyright Alan Gardner
Artwork Remedios Varo

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