Pedro Lenz - Naw Much of a Talker

So yir back in business again, Goalie. Didnae take ye long, eh?

Forgive me fur sayin so, Herr Gross, ah dont want tae make nae fuss — if ye compare whit ah get oan payday tae whit you get but, an’ if ye add yir pension oan an’ aw the paid holidays, ye’ll see which ae us two is in business an’ who isnae.

If ah wis you, Goalie, ahd keep ma patter in check so ah wid.

An’ whit if ah tell ye ah hivnae done nuthin? Look at me, Herr Gross, dae ah look like a gangster? You’ve a guid nose fur folk. You’re a guid judge ae stuff like that.

Ah’ll be expectin ye at the station at hawf eleven themorrow.

So Pesche fuckin squeaked. Fuckin rat. How dis the cunt hiv tae bring ma name intae play, jist cos some cunt stashed some drugs in his shitin pub an’ the cops heard aboot it? Cunt mentions ma name jist so he kin say he’s answered their question. Total fuckin tube.

Ahd tae make a statement at the station an’ sign it. Gross, the plain-clothes guy, wis furious: thought ah wis lyin through ma teeth. When ah held ma haun oot but as ah wis leavin, he took it, shook it an’ gave it: guidbye an’ thanks an’ aw that.

Mibbe Gross wisnae furious at me at aw, but at himself — cos he’d the kinda joab he his: gets tae spend long eftirnoons wi the likes ae me discussin a few fuckin grams. Tae think ae aw that talent! He kid be daein summit mair meaninful wi his life.

Okay, so if yiv hid enough run-ins wi the polis an’ the judges an’ the authorities an’ the like, it disnae fuckin matter any mair whether yir tellin the truth or naw. Nae cunt’s goney believe ye any mair anyhoo, cept mibbe yir cat — if yiv got wan, that is. Cats ur the only fuckers that still believe ye: believe that ivry time ye come hame, yir goney feed them.

Anyway: ah lied tae nae fuckin cunt. Ah tellt Gross that an’ aw. The truth’s always relative, ah went. An’ if some cunt says: Goalie, be honest tae me noo, ahm bein honest tae you arent ah, ah aye ask first whit exactly he means by that.

Whit’s honest? Is it honest if ye say tae some cunt who his a really ugly rash oan his face, eh excuse me, yiv got a really ugly rash oan yir face. Is that bein honest? Lookin at it objectively, it mibbe is. At the same time but, it’s totally fuckin unnecessary. If some cunt assures me, afore he gets tae the point, that he wants tae be honest wi me, that he’s aye fuckin honest, summit goes ping in ma brain, an’ ah tell masel, watch oot, Goalie, it’s wan ae they honest cunts, get ready, mate, all hell’s aboot tae break loose.

It’s the same thing wi the truth. If ah tell Gross, the plain-clothes guy, that ah personally hiv fuck-aw tae dae wi the few grams they found at Cobbles, then that’s ma truth. Course, there’s mibbe anither truth an’ aw: course, ah fuckin know whose they kid be an’ who — in the Fog — is a drug dealer an’ how much business they dae an’ whit the street value is an’ where they get it fae an’ aw that. That much wis clear, it wisnae whit we wur talkin aboot but. Course Gross knew that an’ aw, whit wis he goney dae aboot it but? Stuff dis get shifted here, aye — an’ he’s chasin the crumbs an’ if he dis actually catch some cunt, it’s probably jist some layaboot who wisni smart enough. See even the wans, the wans jist wan level higher than the tubes oan the bottom rung but — Gross cannae get near them, even.

Ye know summit, Goalie.

Ah know less than nuthin, Herr Gross. Ahm extremely sorry, that’s the wey it is but.

Dont gi’e me any ae yir crap, Goalie. Ah know ye know summit.

Ah know ah kid kill a coffee an’ a smoke.

If ye tell me whit ye know, ah’ll get them tae fetch ye a coffee. An’ mibbe ah’ll make an exception an’ let ye smoke in ma office.

If ah knew summit, ahd hiv tellt ye it long ago, Herr Gross. Ah widnae want ye hivin tae dae overtime cos ae me, whit wi yir wife awready waitin fur ye, wi the dinner ready. Ahm naw comfortable eether wi the thought ae ye bein late an’ disappointin yir wife cos ae me. Bet ye, she’s an amazin cook an’ aw.

Gross his tae stop himself smilin. Mon, Goalie, go fur it, jist tell me the truth jist. Cannae be that hard, can it?

Which truth dae ye want tae hear?

There’s only wan truth.

That’s a bold proposition, Herr Gross. Will ah tell ye summit? See when we played fitba as schoolboys, back in the day, o’er at the Reitplatz, we used tae use oor schoolbags as goal-posts. How often dae ye think — when a shot wis waist-high, say — we didnae know hid the baw went in or naw?

That wis in! the guy whose shot it wis wid say.

Naw, it hit the post, whoivver wis in goal wid answer.

Aye, the inside ae the post an’ then it went in, the first guy wid make oot.

Naw, it hit the post an’ went oot furra bye-kick, the keeper wid say.

Baith o them wur tellin the truth as they seen it. Yet they accused each ither ae bein bare-faced liars. Untruthmongers. It wis a problem wi the truth, that. It wisnae their fault but. Naw, it wis the fault ae the council that widnae think ae pittin up a couple ae real goal-posts fur us weans back then. That’s how oor generation nivver achieved fuck-aw. When it came tae sport, at least. That’s a truth an’ aw. Know whit ahm sayin?

Wance again, Gross hid tae stop himself laughin, ah reckoned. Then he got aw serious but again. Ye talked nuthin but shite the last time ye wur here an’ aw. It didnae get ye anywhere but. If yid at least behave normally when ye wur in wi me — at least a bit, at least — ah kid mibbe help you. Honestly, Goalie. Know summit? Wi you, ah aye hiv the impression yir coverin fur someone else. Ye think yir morally obliged tae or summit. There’s wan thing ye hivnae unnerstood but, an’ that’s: the guys yir coverin fur hiv nae morals. They’re laughin up their sleeves at ye.

Oho, Herr Gross, that’s Manitou speakin noo. Lord hiv mercy. If we want tae discuss morals but, we first need tae think aboot whose morals we mean. Ur we talkin aboot the morals ae the wans that invented the bloody things in the first place, or the morals ae the wans who end up payin fur ither folk’s morals?

At that point, he lost his patience wi me an’ said ah wis tae sign the statement an’ go. We’d be hearin fae each ither.

Okay: guidbye, in that case, Herr Gross. Thanks fur yir patience.

Bye.

Here’s anither truth while we’re at it: try leavin the police station in the Fog in daylight wi’oot any cunt seein ye who knows ye. Naw, yir right: for-fuckin-get it.

Hello, Frau Hofstetter.

Hello, Goalie, how’s things?

Guid, thanks. Things ur guid. Always on the go. Ahv jist been pressin charges.

Ye dont say! You? — Yiv filed a charge?

Aye, that’s whit ah done, ah filed it.

Course, nae cunt’ll believe ye when ye say that. That Hofstetter wan definitely willnae. She’s the last person who’d think anythin guid aboot me. Whit kin ye dae. Whit will ah dae? Nowt. Jist dont think aboot it.

Aw that shite meant ahd tae leave ma work an hoor an’ a hawf early an’ aw. Sorry, but nae cunt’s goney pay me fur that time, ur they? An’ goin back in thenoo, tae show ma face like, is fuckin pointless. So ah jist leave it jist.

Ah hitch-hike tae Olten insteid. Olten’s a sad toon, a really sad toon. It’s a bit better than the Fog but cos in Olten naw ivry cunt knows me. It disnae bother me if a toon’s sad. Oan the contrary. Toons ur like stories, the sad yins urnae always the worst.

Eftir aboot hawf an hoor, a Renault finally stops tae gi’e me a lift. Guy looks like a teacher. Later but, when ahv been talkin tae him a bit, it turns oot he isnae. He’s a rep furra watch-makin company in the French-speakin pairt. Someone who says he occasionally gi’es folk lifts cos it’s borin aye bein oan yir ain in the car.