Authors: Irvine Welsh
Albert Black, who from his seat at an adjacent table under a palm tree, was compelled to observe this scene, mirrored the bouncer's bemused rage. He had been moved to strategically pull the panama hat down over his eyes as Carl Ewart had scanned around in embarrassed response to Lawson's oafish behaviour.
Why was somebody famous and successful like Ewart still
friends with this fool?
Settling his bill with haste, Black stealthily followed Lawson and Ewart through the crowds to a smart-looking boutique hotel a couple of blocks up Ocean Drive. As they disappeared into the lobby, the retired teacher felt a surge of euphoria, a bizarre sense of purpose. He tried to tell himself that he was pathetically stalking two ne'er-do-wells from his old school: the troublemaking malcontent and the promiscuous thug. But still the charge of excitement wouldn't leave him.
Lawson was beyond redemption, he had nothing to offer anyone,
except trouble. But Ewart, what had been the role of the school, of
the Scottish education system, in his development?
Albert Black decided that he had to confront Carl Ewart, to call him to account for his comments in those trashy music magazines.
Comments that young people read and are influenced
by!
In his mind, Black was tracing a mental line back from a classroom in a west Edinburgh comprehensive school, almost thirty years ago, to the performance of fellatio by a young Latina on his only grandchild in Miami Beach.
Tonight, Ewart is speaking at this Cameo place. Well, so too will
Albert Black!
But now it was time to go and make his peace with his family. Thinking of the sin committed so casually by Billy and his slut of a girlfriend made his guts ache. Well, he could do nothing but pray for them both.
Hate the sin, love the sinner.
Ah could handle this fuckin heat aw year roond, eh. A lot ay cunts in Scotland would fuckin moan aboot aw this, n go: aw it's
too
hoat. They'd rather freeze thair fuckin baws oaf thin lap this up. Fuck that. So wir headin back tae the hotel n ah'm tellin the Kid aboot everything thit's wrong wi Scotland. Wi him kickin back n forward between London, Sydney n the likes ay here, eh nivir gits the chance tae keep up tae date wi what goes oan in the real world. Course, it brings it aw intae focus whin yir somewhaire like this: home thoughts fae abroad. — Scotland's too fuckin conservative, ah tells the cunt. That's the wey ower thaire; keep the movers n shakers doon, soas thi'll fuck off n leave the place tae the deadbeats. Ah've jist aboot hud it wi that doss masel, man.
— Seriously?
— Too right. A man ay ma talents wis meant fir the New World. Fuck Scotland.
— Aye, that's gaunny fuck things right up back hame; the production ay gonzo porn fae Wester Hailes'll grind tae a halt. Surprised Alec Salmond n Gordon Broon huvnae been compelled tae take action.
— Take action? In Scotland? That'll be the day.
— Stop badmouthin Scotland, Terry. Ah dinnae want tae hear it, eh goes. — Thaire's nowt wrong wi it, eh contends.
Aye, Scotland eywis looks better fae a Carribbean island or a boutique hotel in Miami or an apartment overlookin Sydney Harbour. — Thaire's fuckin plenty wrong wi it!
— Specifically?
— Well, take oor national industry, whisky. Ah wrote tae some ay the big boys, Grouse, Dewar's, Bell's, n goes: what aboot whisky alcopops? Yis jist gaunny sit back n lit the Russkis huv it thair ain wey wi the fuckin voddy? Ah mean, whisky n lemonade, whisky n Coke, guaranteed successes wi the alcopop generation. But naw, ah jist gits they snooty letters back gaun oan aboot 'tradition' n aw that shite. What aboot fuckin choice but? Ye dinnae see they Smirnoff cunts hudin back n whingin oan aboot tradition.
— So?
— So, ah'm tellin um as wi gits tae the hotel, n ah gie the doorman a wee wink, — they whisky industry cunts'll be fucked in twenty years' time. You jist wait till thair auld cunt market's six fit under. They think thit vision's what ye git fae Specsavers. Vision
isnae
what ye git fae Specsavers. Nae good huvin
these
, ah taps ma eyebaw, — if yir no usin
that
, ah taps ma nut.
Carl wanted tae git the heid doon cause ay the jet lag n wi us gaun right oot oan the pish yesterday, but ah clocks some ay they DJ boys fae Chicago through in the bar, the cunts thit eh introduced ays tae last night. — Thaire's yir buddies, ah tells um, — they black cunts. Lit's go ower n say hiya.
— Terry, ah need tae hit the hay fir a bit. Yesterday was mental, n ah'm oan the night, mind.
— Fuck that, ah sais tae the cunt, cause they boys look like thir huvin a good time. — Whatever happened tae N-Sign, the super caner? Pansy. Fuckin lightweight. That bunch ay black septics are huvin a proper perty. C'moan, one drink; nice tae be nice!
Ah ken that callin Ewart a lightweight is like a rid rag tae a bull, so pretty soon the peeve's flyin doon again, they margaritas n aw . . . ya cunt, ah could git used tae this . . . n ah'm arguing wi this tall gadge called Lucas aboot sport. — Yuv goat tae admit but, mate, basketbaw's a game fir faggots.
— Whaaat the fuck . . . the boy goes.
— That Michael Jordan's a big fuckin poof, aw they cunts that play that game must be –
— Bullshit, man, you are talkin outta your ass. That's the people's game in the ghetto, everybody shoots the hoops, every block in every 'hood has its courts, man . . .
— Awright, ah admits tae the cunt, — but that's the likes ay America, whaire they ken nowt aboot sport.
— What the fuck you talking about, Terry man?
— Awright, ah explains tae the cunt, — take that World Series basebaw. Two fuckin countries, youse cunts n Canada. Now compare that tae the people's game, fitba, played everywhere, right roond the globe; that's how it's called the
World
Cup. Cannae be denied.
Another gadge, a boy they call Royce, is pishing ehsel n shaking ehs heid. — Japan, Dominican Republic, Cuba . . .
Then the big Lucas cunt goes, — But basketball's played all over the world, man, and we kick ass at basketball.
— Cause it's a bufties' game, ah pits thum right, n turns tae Carl, but thaire's nae backup fae the Milky Bar Kid, the cunt's turned away n ehs resumed ehs discussion wi this DJ called Headstone, talking aboot thair old school influences, aw they DJs, whae wis the coolest motherfucker, the meanest dude, the fiercest honcho n aw this Americanied pish. So ah jist goes, — Ah'll tell ye the meanest mutherfucker fae the old school.
— You gotta be talking Frankie Knuckles, Headstone goes, n Lucas nods tae back um up.
— Naw, man, that's Chicago. In Edinburgh, the baddest fucker fae the old school was Blackie, eh, Carl?
— Aye. Carl plays it deadpan, but wi a wee smile creasin ays lips. — That boy was fierce.
Lucas goes aw thoughtful, then eh drops another couple ay DJ names. But ah'm gaun back tae ma main point here. — When we wir at school, whae played basketball? Carl? Eh's still no gittin intae this, no that it bothers me. Ah jist turns turns back tae big Lucas. — Wee fuckin lassies, only they called it netball. We
kicked
the fuckin baw, n only wee lassies picked it up and ran wi it n bounced it n threw it, ah explains, bendin muh wrist in a throwing motion. — Ooh, ducky, ah've flung ma wee baw intae the net, ah jist sortay lisps at the boy. — It's a game fir closet buftie boys, mate, cannae be denied.
Fair play tae they Chicago boys but, they jist took it aw in good hert, eh.
Then Carl, whae's been yawnin like a lightweight turns roond n goes, — I'm heading upstairs for a bit of kip. Before Helena gits here.
— Awight, me n aw, ah agrees, cause the late nights n the jet lag ur kickin in big time, n thaire's shaggin tae be done; a new bird tae be inducted intae Club Lawson. — Catch yis later, boys, n they gie ays they high fives, n ah jist go along wi it; nice tae be nice but, eh. So we heads up the stairs, and ah'm telling the Milky Bar Kid, — Sound gadgies. Ye can crack on wi they boys n they ken yir takin the pish, but they dinnae take the strop like some cunts.
— Probably cause they never understood a fuckin word ye said.
— How dae you ken they nivir understood a word? So you're the expert oan black Americans now, eh, Ewart? A Jambo tryin tae be fuckin cosmopolitan, that's a fuckin laugh n a half!
— Mibbe no, but mair thin you. Ah hing aboot wi they boys a lot. N it's got tae be said, Terry, that they came across as a lot mair dignified than you.
— Dignity? Fuck dignity! Dignity's for poofs, ah tells the cunt. — Ah'm intae huvin a good time, n tae dae that ye need tae git yir hands dirty. Take that shite elsewhere, Ewart. Another track if you please, Mr DJ, cause that yin disnae play doon at Club Lawson.
— Fair dos, Carl goes, yawnin n openin the door ay eh's fuckin suite, much bigger thin mine, by the way. Fair enough, he's peyed fir it n eh's goat ehs betrothed comin along, but ah've big shaggin plans ay ma ain, n ye kin fit mair fanny intae a king-sized bed thin a queen-sized yin. — See ye, Tez.
— Aye, lit's hook up again eftir forty wanks. Pleasant dreams, ah goes, cause the Kid is one sound cunt gittin ays oan the ticket n oot tae Miami. Aye, it'll be nice tae hit the hay. Mibbe even git some sweet dreams in aboot that Brandi ride thit's gittin the pummellin later oan! Ya fucker!
It could never really work out; they were kidding themselves on. Her constantly in flight from their Sydney apartment back to Wellington: just to be closer to her mum. Since her father's illness and death, she needed her, would need her, till she got over it. And would she ever really get over it?
Carl was off to London most of the time, then Edinburgh to see his own mother, in between travelling around the world with that box of records. How she'd grown to detest that gleaming metal box, to loathe watching him load it up, carefully selecting the tunes from his racks that took up a whole room in the apartment.
It had been so good with him, but it couldn't last. They weren't able to make the sacrifices they needed to, in order to be together; couldn't make that commitment and the compromises it entailed that would enable them to move beyond a long-distance relationship, which was therefore doomed to fail. The engagement had been an empty romantic gesture, a triumph of hope over expectation. Alternatives to the current impractical status quo had never been discussed or negotiated around. He would eventually meet somebody else on the road.
She owed telling him face to face that she wanted them to finish. Just like she owed telling him about her pregnancy and her termination of it. But could she really do either of these things? She looked at her engagement ring; thought about putting it in her purse. But she found that she couldn't bring herself to remove it.
As he walked home, Albert Black was moved to console himself by reminiscing about his life role as a Christian evangelist. But this was soured when he recalled his bitter conflict with the authorities at the Education Department. A scandal and a staff revolt against his discipline and methods. Under the hot, incessant sun, he considered his growing respect for Islam. How
they
didn't mess about with the satanists, how we'd lost the crusading zeal in the Christian world, and tolerated, even
indulged
blasphemers. He suddenly thought of Terry Lawson.
His mouth cursing, with fraud, deceit, is filled abundantly; and
underneath his tongue there is mischief and vanity.
When Black arrived home he was surprised to find his grandson sitting with that shameless jezebel, and their sin apparently endorsed by his own parents! To all intents and purposes it was like a normal, cosy family scene!
— Hi, Dad, William Black greeted his father.
Albert nodded curtly at his son, who rose and beckoned him aside, guiding him through the conservatory and into the garden. — I understand there was a bit of embarrassment earlier.
— So you were informed of the sin that was taking place under your own roof. Well, at least there was some sense of contrition. Satan has –
William raised his hand to silence his father. Albert contemplated the indignant expression on his son's face. — Look, Dad, Billy and Valda are sensible and mature kids. They've been going out together for eighteen months, and they are in a committed relationship. They're doing what young people in love have always done and it isn't your or anybody else's business to interfere.
— I see.
— What exactly
do you
see, Dad? William challenged. — I really wonder.
Albert Black bristled and looked witheringly at his son. It was an old expression that had never failed to induce deference in William as a boy. But his son was no longer that, and he met his father's stare with an even gaze, and a slow, contemptuous shake of the head that acknowledged the sadness of the game. It humiliated Black, who could hear his voice rising in a recalcitrant squeak, — I see that you've wanted to make this sort of speech to me for a long time!
— Yes I have, and it was my mistake not doing so, William said. His voice jumped an octave and there was both wrath and scorn in the son's eyes. — And before you call me 'gutless' or 'yellow' like you used to when I lived at home, let me tell you now that I only kept quiet for Mum's sake. All your nonsense . . . he shook his head again, —. . . it was Victorian, fascist bullshit. It held me back, Dad, it embarrassed the crap outta me, he said, in an American voice.
Black stood watching his son, unable to respond. And he realised William wasn't lying. He had long since ceased to fear his father, and his deference had only been due to his respect for Marion's feelings. Now that she had gone, there was no need to continue this charade. His wife had protected Albert Black from William's contempt; the boy had held off and kept what was left of the family together, simply for her.
— Believe it or not, I still consider myself a Christian, and I think I must be a real one, as you did everything in your power to put me off it.
— I did my best, Black felt himself gasp, his voice soft, high and holy. — I put food on your plate, clothes on your back, paid for your education –
— Yes you did, and I'm grateful. But you never gave me a chance to be myself and make my own mistakes. You didn't want that. You wanted me to be a clone of yourself, and Chrissy one of Mum.
— What's so wrong with being like your mother?
— Nothing at all, but she isn't.
— If she found the right chap, and settled down –
— She's a lesbian, Dad! Open your eyes!
William walked away, head shaking, leaving his speechless father to ponder his words and stew as the sun went down behind the distant skyscrapers of downtown Miami.
Christine . . .
There followed a long spell where Black just stood, feeling a throb in his knee as he looked out onto the bay. Then he heard a conciliatory voice behind him say, — Come on in and eat, Granpa.
He turned to see Billy framed in the doorway of the conservatory. He was wearing the panama hat that Black had been using. He realised that the one he'd been given was not his son's, but his grandson's.
— I'd prefer not to, Black sniffed, painfully aware of an unedifying regression back into childhood, but unable to tear aside the shroud of pettiness that hung over him.
— I'm sure there's a stand-up guy in there somewhere, Billy said, — but you can sure be an asshole.
Rage welled inside Black and he moved with menace towards the youth, only to stop as William stepped outside onto the porch and stood between them. — You will never raise your hand to my son, Dad. I will not permit that.
Humbled to ignominy by this declaration, Albert Black pushed past two generations of his descendants and went to his room.