Authors: Irvine Welsh
Cal and Dad come oot, but I want tae leave them now, tae go n see Alexander or mibbe go tae Johnny’s and get sorted oot. Some hash or even a wee bit ay skag; anything tae take the edge off aw this crap. We stand ootside for ages, chattin aboot Ma, then I flag doon a cab and get them intae it, but I’m no getting in masel. Dad winds doon the windae. — Ye no comin back wi us the night? he plaintively asks.
He’s in such pain that I nearly change ma mind, but naw, it isnae gaunny happen. — No, I’m gaunny go hame tae bed n come roond early the morn’s mornin, tae try n take care ay aw the paperwork n stuff. Register the death n that.
Alexander or Johnny … cock or skag
…
My dad’s arms are stretching oot the cab, his hands are locked on mine. — Yir a good girl, Alison … he says, and starts tae sob. I’ve never seen him greet before. Mhairi comforts him and Calum turns away intae the windae tae be somewhere else.
— Goodnight … I hear masel weakly say as his hand slides, wet n
fishlike,
oot ay mine, and the cab moves off. I watch it rolling away, n suddenly want it tae stop.
Instead I turn n walk down towards Tollcross.
Cock or skag
…
When I get up tae Johnny’s I sees Matty, filthy and feral, lurkin outside the building. I come up behind him. — What’s up?
He vernear sheds a skin, the wee snake that he is. — Eh … Ali … eh … nowt … just gaun up tae see Johnny.
— Moan then, I tell him, pointing tae the wrecked intercom n the open stair door, — nae need tae hing aboot!
— Right, he goes, aw cagey, and we go up the stairs. Then Matty makes us stand in front ay the eye spyhole, as he rings the bell. — Cunt, they’ll no let us in, he says, in a low whisper.
— Well, I’m no your Trojan Hoarse, I tell um, really annoyed, as Raymie opens the door. He’s wearin a T-shirt wi
I Was Born Under a Wandering Star
oan it, but put on in that crappy home-made lettering, blue rounded plastic script against white.
— Paint your wagon … he says, — come on in, then sees Matty. — Naughty, Matthew, naughty, naughty, naughty, he says in the voice ay that wifie that trains the dugs oan telly.
— Gie a white boy a brek, Raymie.
Raymie shrugs and lets us in. I go tae the front room and Johnny’s sittin wi this guy I’ve seen before. It’s Alexander’s brother’s pal, the guy me n Simon caught arguin wi Johnny in the stair. He’s straight-lookin, dressed in ordinary clathes this time, n wi a shorter haircut. His face contorts when he sees me, as Johnny rises fae his chair. — The lovely Ms Lozinska! Always a pleasure, dar—
He stops deid as Matty shuffles in behind me.
— What the fuck are
you
daein here? Ye wir fuckin well telt!
Matty just sort ay looks aw sheepish and shrugs, but his presence, or probably mine, has made the guy in the chair jumpy. — What’s gaun oan here, Johnny?
Johnny’s inclined tae reassure him. — They’re sound … he says, turning tae smile at me, — although it would have been nice if Ali had brought some of her
female
pals along …
— So they can get leered and pawed at by you, I sortay half joke, but I dinnae feel like laughin, I’m mair chokin …
OH MY GOD
…
— Hi! The White Swan’s always a gentleman, and he stops, cause he
can
see the tears that I suddenly feel rolling doon my cheeks. — Hi! Ali! What’s up, darlin?
I tell them everything; where I’ve just been, and Johnny is just really
nice
.
— Fuckin hell, Alison, ah’m so sorry. He shakes his heid. — It’s a horrible disease. Ma faither hud it. It was heartbreakin: he battled every inch ay the way. Ah was pleading wi him at the end, just let go, but naw. It was terrible. Just the fuckin worst, he says, hugging me, then ruffling ma hair like I was a bairn. He moves intae the kitchen and sticks the kettle oan, wi Matty n me following him.
— Eh, ah wis just wonderin aboot gettin sorted oot, Johnny, Matty says.
— Her ma’s just fuckin died, ya dozy wee cunt, he shouts, pointing at me. — Have a bit ay fuckin respect!
— Right, eh, sorry, Ali, Matty says, and he gies my hand an awkward squeeze. It’s amazing tae think that we actually slept thegither a couple ay years back.
The other guy, Alexander’s brother’s pal, has got up and comes through, whispering something tae Johnny, who nods. Then he sais, — That’s me away then, but soas the rest ay us can hear.
— Righto, my bonnie lad, Johnny responds in forced cheer.
As the guy makes tae leave, Matty takes a step taewards him and says, — Sorry, mate, ah didnae catch yir name.
— N ah didnae gie ye it, the guy curtly responds, then he turns tae me. — Ah’m sorry for your loss, hen, but you can tell yir boyfriend that his brother’s a grassin little cunt and he’s fuckin well gittin it!
— Hi, c’mon, buddy, her ma’s just passed away, Johnny snaps, but he’s lookin at me aw quizzically.
— Ah dinnae like the company yir keeping, Johnny, ah dinnae like it one bit, the guy goes, n he walks oot really pissed off. Johnny is as well, and follows him. I can hear them exchanging urgent whispers oan the landing. I run ootside n shout at the boy: — I dinnae ken anything aboot his brother or your fuckin deals, aw I’m daein is shagging a guy who’s got a degree in botany and a high-up council job! Right?!
The boy looks at me, n goes, — Sorry, hen, mibbe it’s nowt tae dae wi you … sorry.
Johnny nods, n I go, — Well then, n head back inside.
They’ve heard the fuss, n Matty tries tae look nonchalant.
Johnny comes storming back into the kitchen. — Sorry aboot that, doll, he sais, then glares at Matty, totally livid, his hands ballin intae fists. — You are really fuckin pushin it the night!
Matty goes cowed n his eyes water, his voice droppin tae a high-pitched pathetic whisper. It’s that wee-laddie defence he uses, I’ve seen it before, n it gits borin awfay quick. — Cunt, how?
— Aw this ‘ah didnae catch yir name’ shite. Ah ken what you’re aw aboot, Matty; just keep yir fuckin neb oot ay ma business. Right?!
— Right, Matty shrugs, now a surly adolescent like our Calum, makin oot he doesnae ken what Johnny’s talking aboot.
And Johnny’s on aboot the time Simon brought that wee Maria roond here. I really hope he didnae mess that lassie aboot like Johnny’s hintin, n like Murray sais, but no Simon, I ken he’d really be tryin tae help her. I kinday wish he was here. I wonder if he’s thinking aboot me right now?
Northern Soul Classics
LUCINDA’S LUSTROUS HAIR
lifts in the breeze as we surface from Piccadilly Circus tube station into the chaos of the West End. Yes! This is the
real
London: Soho, that square mile of fun and debauchery. It’s a parky early evening but they’re all out and about on that grid ay narrow streets; advertising execs, record-company types, shop girls, ponces, hustlers and hoors, chancers and tourists. There’s a cheery Christmas vibe in the air, as drunken office parties lurch along in transit between restaurants and bars. The
ride-alert
button going off so much it’s practically on constant pulse. I watch in jealous awe as some short-arsed media-type scumbag nonentity struts intae a private club, no doubt tae be indulged and cock-sucked by a fawning hostess.
I want what you have and I
will
get it
.
Aye, this is London proper, no some fucking baboon-stuffed south Leith version full ay scum and lowlife going nowhere but fae their ghetto scheme tae bookie, pub, prison or hozzie ward. And my ticket to this urban paradise island could well be Lucinda. We’re walking arm in arm, sleazed up fae a day’s solid cunt-fucking at her place back in Notting Hill. Spunk and fanny juice everywhere, mind games and physical gymnastics, my cock going off like an AK-47 in the hands ay an epileptic. The carnage started when ah began my routine ay murmuring Italian phrases in her ear. The lassies back up the road love that, but she started begging me tae speak in my
Scottish
voice. Well, ah’d always suspected posh birds were as dirty as fuck, and that certainly confirmed it tae me.
Lucinda has the arrogance that wealth brings; ironic, then, that she was just one of the recipients ay the cards I randomly issued. Oh, that wonderful device! Ah wrote out another batch ay fifty last weekend:
Beautiful woman, I didn’t believe in love at first sight until today.
Please call me. Simon X
01 254 5831
Fifty handcrafted scraps of intrigue; through previous experience, they should net me around five or six sure-fire calls. Who can resist the prospect
ay
love and romance? All that’s needed are the cards and a certain equanimity, the designated word on this ‘E’ day.
They would never work in parochial Edinburgh or, indeed, any other population centre in the UK bar this yin. They are made for an alienated, spacious, disconnected, no-comeback metropolis. A fortnight ago, ah handed my first batch oot around Knightsbridge (striking gold with Cinders), where the best consumers are. Last week ah steamed selected targets in Kensington, St John’s Wood, Notting Hill, Primrose Hill, Canonbury and, striking out for the big time, Mayfair. The problem here is that ye get a lot ay good-looking chickies on
salary
, when I crave
trust fund
. Another curse is Nicksy’s phone number and its embarrassing 254 code, but only the clued-up relate those digits to the poisonous E8 postal district.
The one-in-ten rule generally works and it’s self-selecting. When ah told Rents about it, he started waffling on about statistics: correlation and regression, the bell curve. All ah was interested in was the
bell-end curve
in my troosers. This system is a magnet for either lovestruck idiots with truly unreal expectations ay life, or the most curious and daring. And that generally means a shag is about the worst you’re gaunny dae fae the arrangement.
Lucinda has been my best hit so far; not exactly a blue-blood Ingloid, but with St Martin’s College of Art and Roedean Girls’ School on her CV, plus a smart Notting Hill pad, she’ll do nicely till the opportunity to upgrade presents itself.
Across the street, a swarthy-looking chap emerges fae a sleaze shop door wi this washed-out, bottle-blonde bird. This fucker evidently kens how tae deal with damage.
Watch and learn, Simon
. Yes, I fucked up wi that wee gold mine back hame; got greedy, weak wi the skag, emotionally involved and overstepped the mark, even if Dickson did put in a good offer. No very nice, but ah went tae see Father Greg and it’s just another sin ah’ve cheerfully repented. With the gift of faith, we move on.
I want tae follow this Arab-looking cunt and his tattered squeeze, and ah’m almost replicating his movements, my arm roond posh Lucinda’s waist, guiding her intae the Blue Posts. — We’ve had the sex, perhaps some alcohol now, I whisper like a stereotype bad boy, with clandestine grin, and her fruity smile tells me she’s onside. Ah’m one step behind my man, and as he orders up and manoeuvres this powerless sow intae a seat, so too do I deposit Lucinda in the one next tae them, under a nest of tinsel and glitter balls.
Ah like the wey this boy moves; steely eye contact maintained, he has this chicky in his tractor beam and he’s no gaunny let go. Nae need for the iron fist, it’s aw velvet glove. S-T-Y-L-E, it sticks out a M-I-L-E. Ah’m
sold
that this boy is the real deal when ah hear him saying, — Of course I care for you, baby, but you is trying to use reverse psychology on me and it just ain’t on.
— I ain’t, Andreas … I ain’t … she pleads, shaking her head. She’s a looker in a trashy, deranged way. Ah cannae make out whether it’s jakey shakes or junky twitches but the brain is incorrectly wired tae the skin and the motor functions are a tad askew. — I just wanna know you care … she pleads.
— Ah brush back Lucinda’s hair and whisper in her ear. — I’ll wonder if one day that you’ll say that you care …
— I care, this Andreas the Arab sincerely says tae his dopey consort. You can tell that the first wideo that’s banged her on her ‘estate’, as the Ingloids ludicrously call their schemes, has left cock prints and fist prints all over her, like target signs for subsequent hustlers. You grow to realise, just through talking tae them for a few minutes: maist predators are pretty fucking thick. So for the system tae work, the prey hus tae be
really
fucking dim, desperate and needy beyond belief.
— Just please say you’ll love me madly, I’ll gladly be there, and I plant a little kiss on her cheek, as she grins at me. Ah have to listen attentively tae her slavering oan about her job and the dull office politics that so enthrals those involved, but bores the fucking shit oot ay every cunt else. Over her shoulder, as his train-wreck bird goes to the toilet, ah tip the swarthy Andreas a wee wink. He looks glacially at me for two dreadful Begbiesque seconds, when I think ah’ve called it wrong, as he takes in and processes a mental picture. Then a warm smile, like the sun coming up, splits his face. Tae Lucinda’s slight annoyance, we strike up a friendly conversation across her bows. The boy isnae an Arab, he comes fae Athens.
Lucinda chips in tae say that she visited his home town once, muttering something aboot the Acropolis. Andreas smiles tightly, flinty white-hot eyes full ay mischief, as they run a subtle check over her curves.
— The Edinburgh of the South, ah grin, as Train Wreck comes back doon and smiles at Lucinda, then looks a little harshly at my good self. — Hi, I’m Simon, ah nod at her.
— And should I care – this narky mare whinnies, but Andreas is already waving her intae silence.
— Like a puppet on a string … pup, pup, pup, I murmur to Lucinda, as Grecian 2000 Andreas talks over Train Wreck, with a fleeting, disdainful apologetic look, as she sits like a wayward schoolgirl who’s been ticked off by the teacher she’s got a devastating crush on. — You think? He asks, — Edinburgh and Athens? There is a connection?
— Defo. Twinned cities, ah’m led tae believe.
Andreas seems tae gie this some thought and scratches at a five o’clock shadow. — I must go there sometime; but only to visit. I love London. Where can you go after London?