We ran
and ran until our legs would carry us no more – our pursuers had stopped
chasing us a mile back – but we were running for the joy of it. We were gasping
and panting for breath as we laughed uncontrollably. I thought I might
asphyxiate from laughter. I tried to speak to Bell, but could only muster some
wheezy vowel sounds. He was on the ground now in paroxysms of mirth.
“I think the whole pub was chasing us!” I
exclaimed - once I’d caught my breath.
“It might have been something that I said,” replied
Bell.
We
went into convulsions of laughter once more; he laughed the way I imagine
coyotes laugh with sniggers and whimpers and howls. It was typical of Bell that
after a few drinks his impulse control completely deserted him. We were on a
pub crawl down Leith Walk and went into the Central on a dare. It was the
roughest pub on the Walk in those days. I would never have gone in there
normally, but Bell urged me on. The place was mobbed, but Bell managed to grab
a tiny space on a bench next to this middle aged bird, to tell the truth she was
quite tasty. She and Bell were soon wrapped in conversation, her husband who
was sat next to her kept a leery eye on proceedings. Then it happened – I knew
it would. Bell had to push things too far.
“You make a handsome couple” he said.
“Thank you” she replied flush of face.
“Any chance of a wee kiss?” he
enquired lecherously.
“Oh, no” she answered shyly.
“Just a wee peck maybe?” he insisted gently.
“Oh, alright then” she puckered her lips.
“Oh, no you hen – I mean yer man” the
company went quiet and her man glowered at Bell. We split laughing and I broke
into a run with Bell trailing behind. Sure enough a crowd of tough looking
radges followed us from the pub.
“Do you all want a kiss?” taunted Bell as I dragged
him away.
“You have to stop antagonising the heterosexual community
Bell –
before you get your head kicked in” I warned him.
“You know the difference between straight and queer Johnny?” he
asked.
“Enlighten me Bell.”
“Six pints of lager.”
“I only drink special.” I quipped.
“Maybe you never gave lager a chance.”
That
last comment hung in the air between us and we let it die there. We were headed
back to my place and a fridge full of beer when Bell suggested we make a
detour.
“Let’s go wind up Buddha. I could use a line of speed.”
“Okay, but go easy on him. He’s a good mate of mine.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” replied Bell; “I’m
a perfect gentleman around your friends.”
I
rolled my eyes, but said nothing. Bell seemed contemptuous of anything straight
and his behaviour around my hetro friends was often a bone of contention
between us. We arrived at Buddha’s place and made our way up the three flights
to his flat. Buddha seemed glad to see me, but was a little more reserved
toward Bell.
“Come in lads and take a pew. Anyone fancy a cup o’ chai?”
Once
the tea ceremonial was dispensed with Buddha set about sorting out three
generous lines. He assured us that this gear was the bee’s knees and that we’d
be flying in no time at all.
“Ye’ll be rabbitin’ awe night wi this stuff – guaranteed.”
“You only serve the best Buddha,” replied
Bell; “That’s why you’re my favourite pusher.”
Bell
had that glint in his eyes. He was out to provoke Buddha who bristled at the
word ‘pusher’.
“I’m nae pusher – get that straight. I never pushed anything on
anybody in my life. My clientele don’t need pushin’ they jump o’ their own
accord. I’m a dealer and a bloody good wan. I deal in entertainment of the
highest quality and have never had any complaints. My deals are spot on and my
gear is clean, never trod on. People are never pushed in my direction – in fact
I never heard of anyone being pushed into takin’ drugs – it’s always been on a
strictly voluntary basis. Take yer average junkie – naebody forces them into
it. Yer junkie gets up every morning and decides that today he’ll be a junkie
an’ he’ll be a fuckin’ junkie til he changes his mind. That’s what separates
the casual user from the addict – greed and will power. Naebody makes them
junkies – they jump o’ their own accord.”
I
agreed wholeheartedly with what Buddha said; though I thought there was a
certain irony in his saying it. Buddha had been doing speed for ten years or
more and as far as I knew he did it every day. We snorted our lines and snorted
some more; sure enough we were talking and philosophising into the small hours
and beyond the dawn.
“You like it then?” asked Buddha.
“Aye we like it alright – its rocket fuel.” I
replied.
“I could do you a lay on” he offered.
“I don’t know...”
“Take a couple of ounces – pay me next week – ye can flog it at a
tidy profit and still have a bit for yersels.”
And
so I left Buddha’s with two ounces of pure amphetamine sulphate and an ounce of
sticky black hash in my pocket. Had I been pushed into it? No, I think I
jumped, with a little persuasion.
“Well, where are we goin’ now?” enquired Bell.
“Back to my place,” I replied, “I just
want to put my feet up and relax.”
“Let’s go for a drink,” suggested Bell.
“It’s six in the morning Bell.”
“I know a place that opens at six”
“I suppose I could use a bite to eat to settle my stomach.”
“Fuck that – I’m buying you six pints of lager!”
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