Ecstasy (22 page)

– The Victim’s bulimic! She’ll clean oot aw that fuckin shoppin! Ye shouldnae huv left her oan her ain!

We hurried back to find that The Victim had eaten and vomited up the three raw cauliflowers ah had earmarked for Mrs McKenzie’s soup.

Ah had to hit the Asians for some rotting overpriced ingredients – but fair enough ah suppose as the cunts’ve pulled ays oot a hole wi bevvy and skins many times – and then it took me ages, half pished, tae make the soup. The Poisonous Cunt had some tabs ay acid which she gave me in lieu of cash the scabby hoor owed ays. – Go lightly wi this stuff, Lloyd, it’s the fucking business.

She played around on the decks with the phones for a while. Ah had to admit it, The Poisonous Cunt wisnae that bad, she seemed to have a good feel for it. Ah noted that she had a ring through her navel, exposed as it was by her short T-shirt. – Cool ring, ah shouted at her, and she gave me the thumbs-up and did a strange wee dance and flashed me a weird, ugly smile. If a Hollywood special effects department had been able tae reproduce that rictus grin it would have made several careers.

The Victim sat and sobbed at the TV, chain-smoking. The only thing she said to me was, – Any cigarettes, Lloyd … in a breathless, hoarse voice. Eventually they left and ah took the tupperware bowl down to Mrs McKenzie. Ah was heading through to Glasgow for the weekend to see some mates there. Ah was looking forward to it, fucked off as ah was wi Edinburgh. The thing was that ah had said tae ma mate Drewsy that I’d help him out the morn’s morning which ah wisnae really up for but it wid be cash in hand and ah needed hireys for the weekend.

7 Heather

Happy families.

Me and Hugh and my Mum and my Dad. My Dad and Hugh are talking politics. My Dad’s saying that he’s for the NHS while Hugh’s saying that we need to build a:

– … responsibility-orientated society. That’s why people should be free to choose the sort of health care and education they want.

– That’s just Tory rubbish, my dad says.

– I think we have to face facts – that old-style socialism, as we used to perceive it, is long dead. It’s now about appeasing different interest groups in a more diffused society; about taking what’s best from both traditional right and left philosophies.

– Well, I’m afraid I’ll always be a Labour man …

– I’m Labour as well, always have been, says Hugh.

– You’re New Labour, though, Hugh, I say. My mum looks disapprovingly at me.

Hugh looks a bit startled. – What?

– You’re New Labour. Tony Blair Labour. Which is the same as Tory, only Major’s probably further left than Blair. Blair’s just a snidier version of Michael Portillo, which is why he’ll do better than Portillo will ever do.

– I think it’s a wee bit more sophisticated than that, Heather, Hugh says.

– No, I don’t think it is. What’s Labour planning to do for working-class people in this country if they get back in? Nothing.

– Heather … Hugh says wearily.

– Well, I’m afraid I’ll always vote Labour, my dad says.

– Labour and Tory are now both exactly the same, I tell them.

Hugh rolls his eyes in the direction of my mother as if to apologise for my behaviour. We agree in silence to change the subject and my dad says, – It wouldnae do if we all had the same opinions, would it?

The rest of the evening is pretty uneventful. Outside, in the car as we leave, Hugh says to me, – Somebody was a bit bolshy this evening.

– All I did was to say what I believe to be true. Why such a big deal?

– I wasn’t making a big deal. You were. There was no need to be so combative.

– I wasn’t being combative.

– I think you were a little, honey, he smiles, shaking his head. He looks that kind of wee-boy way and I want to kill him because of the horrible tenderness I feel inside towards him. – You’re some broad, baby, he then says in an American gangster accent, and squeezes my leg. I’m happy to seethe inwardly as the tenderness evaporates.

8 Lloyd

Drewsy and me are in this Gumleyland ghetto. Ah think it’s Carrick Knowe but it could be Colinton Mains. Ah was fucked and hungover in the van. – It’s just a skirtin job, Lloyd. That and new doors. Take nae time at aw, he telt ays.

Drewsy always seems to be smiling because he has laughing eyes and Coke-bottle glasses. The thing is that he is a very happy cunt and gives off a good vibe. Ah worked with him ages ago out at Livingston in a sweatshop where we built house-panels, and since he went tae graft for himself he always puts a bit of casual my way if he can; which was champion the fuckin wonderhoarse fir the Double L. Oh. Y. D.

At the house, the boy, a Mr Moir, makes us a cup ay tea. – Anything you need, lads, just give’s a shout. I’ll be in the garden, he told us cheerfully.

Anywey, wir knockin oaf the rooms finestyle, and I’m starting tae feel better, looking ahead tae the night oot wi the weedgie cunts. Drewsy and me are in this room which is like a young lassie’s bedroom. There’s a big poster ay the boy fae Oasis oan one waw, one ay the gadge fae Primal Scream and one fae the dude oot ay Blur oan the other. Close tae the bed, though, is the boy oot ay Take That, him that went and left. There’s a few tapes thair n aw. Ah pit oan Blur’s
Parklife
, cause ah quite like the title track where ye hear the boy that wis in
Quadrophenia
spraffin away. That wis a fuckin good film.

Ah start singing along as ah rip oot the old skirting-board.

– Hey! Phoah … look at this! Drewsy shouts. He’s rummaging through the lassie’s chest ay drawers and ah know which one he’s looking for. He locates the underwear drawer pretty sharpish, pulling a pair ay panties oot and sniffing at the crotch. – Wish tae fuck ah could find the dirty laundry basket, he laughs, then, suddenly
inspired
, goes out into the hallway and opens a few presses. There’s nothing there though – Bastard. Still, some nice wee panties here, eh?

– Fuckin hell, man, ah’m totally in love wi this wee chick, ah tell him, hudin up a pair ay scanties tae the light and trying to mentally visualise a nice fuckin hologram tae fit intae them. – How auld dae ye reckon she is?

– Ah’d say between fourteen and sixteen, Drewsy smiles.

– What a fuckin ice-cool wee bird, ah say, looking through the spot-on-sexy collection of undies. I take out Blur and put on Oasis who are giving it laldy and ah don’t really like bands being mair ay a club sort ay cunt but ah decide that I’m up for this. Ah go back to my skirtings but Drewsy’s still intrigued.

Ah look up and jump as Drewsy’s dancing around tae the music, but he’s goat a pair ay the lassie’s knickers stretched ower his heid and his glesses oan toap. At that point ah at first think then I definitely know that I’m hearing something from outside and before ah can shout tae Drewsy the door opens and it’s the guy, Mr Moir, standing there, in front of Drewsy who’s dancing away. – What’s going on! What are you doing? That’s … that’s …

Poor Drewsy pulls the pants off his heid. – Eh, sorry, Mr Moir … jist huvin a wee joke, eh. Ha ha ha, he says adding a playful, stage laugh.

– Is that your idea of humour? Going through someone’s personal belongings? Acting like an animal in my daughter’s underpants!

It was that bit that got me. Ah started laughing uncontrollably. Ah had the Flight Lieutenant Biggles in a big way. Ah was contorting like ah was having a fit and ah could feel my face reddening. – Heagh heagh heagh heagh …

– And what are you sniggering at? He turned to me, – You think that’s fuckin funny! This … fuckin sick imbecile rummaging through my daughter’s personal items!

– Sorry … Drewsy weakly lisped, before ah could speak.

– Sorry? Fuckin sorry are ye! Have you got children? Eh?

– Aye, ah’ve got two laddies, Drewsy said.

– And you think that’s the way a father should behave?

–
I
’ve said I’m sorry. It was a stupid thing tae dae. We were just having a laugh. Now we can stand here and discuss how faithers should behave or me and my mate can get on and finish the job. Either way, you get billed. What’s it to be?

Ah thought Drewsy was cool, but the cunt Moir didnae think so.

– Take your tools and leave. I’ll pay ye for the work that you’ve done. You should think yourself lucky you aren’t getting reported!

We tidied up, the cunt coming back in and moaning at us occasionally, oblivious tae the fact that he was carrying his daughter’s underpants around with him, clenched tightly in his hand.

Drewsy and me hit the pub. – Sorry ah couldnae tip ye oaf in time, Drewsy. It wis the music. Ah never heard the sneaky cunt. One minute nae sign, the next the cunt wis standin over ays watchin you daein yir wee dance.

– One ay they things, Lloyd, Drewsy smiled. – Good fuckin laugh though, eh. Did ye see the cunt’s face?

– Did ye see yours?

– Right enough! he exploded with laughter.

Drewsy peyed ays and we drank up. Ah got a taxi up tae Haymarket and got oan the train tae Soapdodge City. When ah got off at Queen Street ah took a taxi up tae Stevo’s flat in the West End, travelling the same distance as in the Edinburgh taxi but for about a third of the price. It reminded me what cunts Edinburgh taxi drivers were. Ah wis nearly fuckin well cleaned oot already. Ah would have tae try tae flog they shitey E’s ay The Poisonous Cunt’s.

Claire, Amanda and Siffsy were at Stevo’s and they were all getting togged up. – What the fuck’s this fashion parade fir, man? ah bleated nervously, checking the inadequacy ay ma ain togs.

– Wir no gaun tae the Sub Club now, cause Roger Sanchez is on at the Tunnel, Claire said.

– Fuckin hell … ah whinged.

– You’re awright, Stevo said.

– Ye think so?

– Aw aye, Claire nodded.

Siffsy kept buttin in and oot ay the front room, treatin it like a
fuckin
catwalk. He wis takin ages. – Ah don’t know about they shoes n strides wi this toap, eh said.

– Naw, ah said, – the strides dinnae really go wi the toap, eh no.

– Ah cannae no wear the toap though, man. Sixty-five bar oot ay X-ile. Thing is, if ah wear they broon strides they’ll clash wi the shoes.

– We need tae go, said Claire rising, – c’moan.

Amanda and Stevo followed her lead. Ah couldnae get it together to stand up, it was a cracker ay a couch, you just sank doon intae it.

– Hud oan a minute! Siffsy begged.

– Get tae fuck, Stevo shook his head. – C’moan, Lloyd, ya fuckin east-coast poof. Ye fit?

– Aye, ah said, rising.

– Ah’ll no be a minute … Siffsy pleaded.

– See ye in the next life, Stevo said, exiting, as we followed. Siffsy came behind feeling self-conscious about the Gordon Rae’s.

His embarrassment evaporated at the Tunnel. They Es Stevo had got were shit-hot, much better than the crap I’d brought through if the truth be telt. Roger S was on fine form and we were well away with it when we headed back to Stevo’s the next morning. Siffsy started tae get self-conscious again as the E ran down, and fucked off hame tae get changed. Ah dropped one of The Poisonous Cunt’s ‘business’ acids back at the gaff on the proviso that if her eckies were shite then her acids wouldnae be too hot either.

Ah took out my plastic bag of Es from doon my baws. – These are shite, ah said holding them up to the light. Ah’ll never fuckin well sell these. Ah stuck them down on the table.

None of the poofy Weedgie cunts were into daein trips. Stevo stuck on the telly while Amanda and Claire started spliff-building.

The acid wasn’t up to much at first. Then it kicked up. Then it kicked up some mair.

9 Heather

I don’t want a baby.

Hugh’s ready. He’s got the wife, the job, the house, the car. There’s something missing. He thinks it’s a baby. He doesn’t have a great deal of imagination.

We don’t really communicate so I can’t actually tell him that I don’t want a baby. We talk all right, talk in that strange language we’ve evolved for the purposes of avoiding communication. That non-language we’ve created. Perhaps it’s a sign that civilisation is regressing. Something is anyway. Something is.

The only good thing about this is that Hugh can’t actually tell me that he wants us to have a child. All he can do is smile at little kids when we’re out, make a fuss of the nieces and nephews he never had any time for before. If only he could say: I want a baby.

If only he could say that so that I could say: no, I don’t want one.

NO.

NO.

I don’t want a baby. I want a life. A life of my own.

Now his fingers have gone to my cunt. It’s like a child trying to get into a jar of sweets. There’s no sensuality to it, it’s just a ritual. I feel a
sick
tension. Now he’s trying to get his prick inside me, forcing his way through my dry, tight, tense walls. He’s grunting. He always grunts. I remember when I first slept with him at university. My friend Marie asked, – What’s he like?

– Not bad, I said, – bit of a grunter.

She laughed loud and long at that. She meant what was he like
as a person
.

I used to think like that a lot. I was sassy, in my own quiet way. They all said it. That was what I was like. I’m not like that now. But I am. I am in here.

My mother always said that I was lucky to have found someone like Hugh. Someone ambitious. Someone who could provide. – He’ll be a provider that one, she told me, as I held up Hugh’s sparkler for her inspection, – Just like your father.

If Hugh provides everything, what do I have left?

Nurture.

Nurture Hughey-wooey.

Nurture Baby-waby of Hughy-wooey.

Nurture resentment.

– … Ohh … you sexy fuck … he gasps, shooting his load inside me and moving off me and collapsing into a deep slumber. Sexy Fuck. That’s what he calls me, me underneath him like a piece of meat, gripping the bedclothes with tension.

Sexy Fuck.

I habitually leave
Cosmo
open strategically on the coffee table and watch Hugh squint at and then recoil from its headlines:

the vaginal and clitoral orgasm

is your partner good in bed?

how’s your sex life?