Authors: Irvine Welsh
Nelly looks a bit scoobied but nods in agreement.
The instruments are oot, n we start fuckin aboot. It develops intae a wee jam, Nicksy strummin Matty’s acoustic guitar wi a competence its owner cannae match, as Franco sings about drinkin wine and feelin pretty damn good about it, in a strong, clear voice, rich in evocation.
Me n Keezbo pluck and pound, tryin tae keep in time wi each other, n gie Franco n Nicksy some backin. Franco’s voice is something tae hear, it’s like wi it bein Hogmanay, he’s absorbed just the right amount ay alcohol n good vibes and they intersect at this wonderous vector as he briefly becomes something else, this force ay grace and soul.
Ah’m looking roond at aw the candlelit faces; Nicksy, Keezbo, Tommy, Spud (wi his sling now off), Alison, Kelly, Franco, June, Matty, Shirley, Nelly, n some frazzled burd wi long, raven hair that Nelly’s wi but husnae bothered tae intro. The social skills ay a stormtrooper, that cunt. We’ve got a big roaring coal fire blazing away; the council can stick their smokeless zone pish up their erses, and everybody is visibly moved by Franco’s singing. We join him in the chorus and we’re aw the gither as one, sharin that broken dream …
Begbie’s that wrapped up wi the performance, he almost whispers, through his half-closed eyes, about the time people go tae thir kip …
Poor auld Spud, the sentimental cunt, he’s tearin up as Franco croons deeply. Matty’s still mumpy, despite Shirley smilin and shakin his shoodir, and ah’m watchin Kelly and Alison lookin at June, whae’s gapin up at Franco like he’s a rock-n-roll star, and the night he sortay is. Aye, Franco has the flair and Nicksy’s strummin wi tight concentration. Keezbo’s keepin a soft beat n ah’m lulled intae a low-key, simple rhythm on the Shergold fretless, wishin ah hud the Fender, cause it’s hard tae see the locatin dots in this meagre candlelight, as Begbie fills his lungs wi air fir the big climax, that final refrain in the song, which really is pure him.
We wind up tae cheers, which Franco just aboot takes. Ah gie him a subtle wink, which ah can tell the cunt loves best for the understated appreciation it conveys. Ma puny pinkie is numb and dead fae tryin tae hud those octaves.
Spud’s eyes are red and wet. — Franco, man … that wis likesay … amazing, he goes, but his comments make everybody look tae the singer.
— Aye, Begbie goes, but ye kin tell Spud’s annoyed him by makin that fuss, — ye cannae beat Rod Stewart at fuckin New Year, and he fills Spud’s glass wi whisky, tae divert everybody’s attention.
Poor Spud’s too pished tae pick up the vibe but, n he’s still gaun on: — Naw bit that wis amazing, see if ah could sing like you, Franco –
— Shut the fuck up, Begbie says wi soft menace. Nicksy looks ower tae me wi a fraught, raised brow.
— But ah’m jist sayin – Spud pleads.
— Ah sais tae fuckin well shut it! Right!
Spud falls silent, as does the rest ay the room. We all instantly understand how Begbie sees that this wee fragment ay beauty in his soul has been exposed, and how even through his ain ego and the flattery received, he looks on it as a potential weakness, something that might one day compromise him.
— It’s jist fuckin singin, right.
Nicksy puts Matty’s acoustic in its zipper bag. Ah makes a show ay lookin at the clock on the mantelpiece and goes, — Right, we’d better git a bend oan if we’re gaunny git tae Sully’s perty for the bells!
We’re aw relieved tae huv a change ay scene. We get oot oantae the street, intae the cauld, still air. The toon is locked in ice; like a paperweight ay trees, waws and snaw. Everybody else is headin up the Walk tae the city and the Tron for the bells. We’re gaun doonhill though, soles slidin n cracklin oan the icy pavement, Leith-bound. Kelly and Alison have locked airms oan either side ay us, jist for safety oan the treacherous path, but it feels good anyway. Kelly’s heid whips roond lemur-like, her gaze taking a quick snapshot ay me before turning tae Ali. Inside me, ah feel the pulse ay the magnesium scar left by her smile. — Ah’m really sorry aboot your ma, ah whisper intae Ali’s ear, — n aboot no bein up for the funeral. Ah didnae hear till it wis aw ower.
— It’s okay. Tae be honest, it’s a relief, cause she wis suffering that much at the end. Ah ken it sounds horrible, but ah wis willing her: just let go.
— Well, ah’m really sorry ye lost her, and that ye had tae go through aw that.
— Isn’t Mark sweet, says Kelly, looking at me, exciting another tweak in the pit of my stomach, before turning tae Ali.
— He has his moments, Ali acerbically concedes, but gies ma airm a tight squeeze. A big smile ignites Kelly’s face n for a second ah think she’s game for some ginger baws, but it’s a ridic notion; she goes oot wi that Des Feeney gadge, this boy who’s some sort ay relative ay Spud’s.
In your rents, Dream Boy
.
The girls look ethereally beautiful in half-profile as they talk tae each other across me, the sodium lamps twinkling in Kelly’s mischievious and Ali’s forlorn eyes. Enobled by ma status as consort, a wasted grace settles
in
my soul through the whisky’s warm glow. It’s a raw night, but wi nae wind, as ah look back tae see that Nicksy’s bonded wi Spud n Tommy in wild-eyed laughter, while Franco, June and Keezbo are up ahead. — He’s fuckin well tapped, n that’s pittin it mildly, Ali whispers, noddin in Begbie’s direction. — Danny wis only tryin tae compliment him!
Ah’m gaunny say something but decide no tae as Begbie suddenly stops dead, violently hauling June intae a doorway. We walk past them, and hear her saying, — Dinnae Frank, in a loud, scared laugh, — no here …
The manky fucker’s gaunny knee-tremble her oan the spot.
— He’s a total starry-eyed moonlight serenader, ah offer, once we’re safely past them. Alison rolls her eyes in disdain and Kelly tilts her head tae the side, smilin in that cute, sexy way ay hers. She’s such a good-looking girl, her face covered in freckles, with short browny-blonde spiky hair, exuding the quirky new confidence ay somebody who’s grown intae her skin nicely. That’s what the auld boy sometimes says, n ah never got it till now. She’s asking us aboot Aberdeen, telling us she’s started daein this access course for Edinburgh University. Ah tell her ah’ve taken a year off n thit ah’m thinking ay gaun tae Glesgey or doon south.
The rest have stopped tae let us catch up, but there’s nae sign ay Franco, whae’s probably banging June wi extreme prejudice in that scabby stair.
We carry on taewards Easter Road as Sully’s gaff’s at that end ay Iona Street. The derby game’s oan the morn, so we’re well set. — These cunts have no beaten us on New Year’s Day since 1966, Matty, brandishing a bottle ay whisky, declares, lookin challengingly at Keezbo.
— That record’s gaunny go the morn, Keezbo says.
— Beat it, ya mongol, is it fuck, Matty spits, then snipes under his breath, — fuckin fat cunt.
That’s a bit nippy and uncalled for, but Keezbo lets it slide. Shirley pouts n looks at the pavement. Matty’s eywis oan Keezbo’s case. One ay these days the big felly’s gaunny turn roond n lamp that stroppy wee fucker. N ah fir one will shed nae tears when it happens.
We see Begbie and June emergin fae the stair. They head taewards us, Franco wi a dirty smile oan his chops, June lookin awkward n coy as they come up the road. We wait for them in silence. Franco has picked up the vibe. Despite bein willy-nilly aboot causing aggro, he kin git awfay sensitive when some other fucker creates an atmosphere. Maybe Sick Boy’s called it right wi the festive plans eftir aw. — What’s up wi every cunt?
Matty breaks the silence, and points at Keezbo. — Cunt, jist telling this fat Jambo fucker that his team’s pish!
—
Ah’m
no arguing wi ye aboot fitba before the bells, Matty, Keezbo goes.
— Aye, Franco asks Matty, — what ye oan fuckin Keezbo’s case fir, ya fuckin radge?
— Cause he’s a fat Herts cunt.
Franco’s airm whips oot n smacks Matty roond the heid. It’s quite a sair yin, but also a fuckin humiliation cause ay it bein in front ay Shirley. — Shut yir fuckin mooth! Wir aw fuckin mates the day, fitba or nae fuckin fitba! He looks tae Keezbo wi a predatory grin. — If ah see this fat ginger cunt the morn, ah knock his fuckin teeth doon his throat, He turns to Matty. — But the night wir best fuckin mates, right?
In the absence ay any argument tae the contrary, we swing roond tae Iona Street n climb the stairs in a close jist doon fae the Iona Bar. Ah cannae wait tae get intae the warm. Sully greets us aw; a big, gruff genial host wi craggy features and slick-backed rockabilly haircut that ah ey think belongs oan an aulder dude. Ah hit the kitchen and see Lesley, Anne-Marie Combe, a skinny, short-haired brunette, who inevitably works as a hairdresser n whom ah felt up in the Goods Yard years ago whin wi wir fill ay voddy, and Stu Hogan, a chunky blond gadge wi a penchant for practical jokes, whae pours us a nip ay whisky. Ah much prefer voddy, but somebody says something aboot it bein New Year, n everybody’s gittin yin. Ah’m no touching skag right now, or even speed. Gittin masel thegither a bit. Stu’s askin us aboot London, telling me that Stevie Hutchison’s been doon thaire, n gies me a number fae a tatty auld address book. That’s good news; Stevie’s a sound cunt, decent singer n aw, or at least he wis whin we wir in Shaved Nun thegither. Like anybody wi talent, he outgrew us. — He’s in Forest Hill, Stu tells us, — is that near you?
— Aye, quite near, ah goes. It isnae really but. Well, it is and it isnae, in that London sortay wey. — Is he still seein that dozy fucker?
— Sandra? Stu goes.
— Aye, that’s her, Chip Sandra, they used tae call her. Liked eatin thum n wearin thum oan her shoodir.
— Naw … they split up before he went doon tae London.
— Good, she’s a fuckin sour-faced hoor. Ah fuckin cannae stick her. Did ah tell ye the story ay – ah goes, then ah hesitate as Stu’s face has gone aw serious.
— Actually,
ah’m
seein Sandra now, he cuts in. — She’s jist oan her wey roond here. In fact, before ye start making any mair snidey comments aboot people, ah’d better lit ye ken that we jist goat engaged the other week.
Fuck
…
— Oh … ah mean … ah dinnae really ken Sand—
Stu’s face lights up as laughter erupts fae somewhere deep in the cunt’s chist. — Goat ye, he grins, slappin ma shoodir n headin off.
— Bastard! Ah’ll fuckin remember that yin, Hogan!
Fuckin nailed tae the waw big time thaire, but whae cares, the perty’s in fill swing. Tommy’s toppin up a half-pint gless wi a big dash ay whisky. — Whaire’s Second Prize?
— Fuck knows, no seen him. He’ll be lyin in a gutter somewhaire.
Tommy grins in acknowledgement n tops up ma gless, but ah’m no fuckin well enjoying this drink. It burns ma guts. Lesley notices me wince, n as Tam looks eftir Nicksy, she sidles up tae us. — Any skag?
— Naw.
— Want a hit?
— Aye, ah say. Ah’ve been tryin tae avoid the Scottish skag n the bangin up, cause it’s fuckin lethal shit, n ye kin really feel it gittin a hud ay ye. The broon’s easier: doesnae seem tae cunt ye up sae much. But fuck it, ah’m sortay oan hoaliday … oan hoaliday at hame …
We troop off through tae a bedroom and sit cross-legged oan this big, tartan duvet-covered brass bed, as Lesley starts cookin. It shocks me, as ah thoat she jist chased, but she’s goat a fill set ay works n she’s highly competent. She lights up a candle, stickin it in a baccy tin, and switches off the main light. We fix up wi oor separate equipment, me gaun first. Ma vein sucks the shit in so greedily, it’s like ah barely need tae put any pressure oan the plunger.
Ohhh … YA FUCK
–
Ya fucker … aw man … oooh … nice, nice, nice
…
Ah forgot the power ay this shite. Lesley never prepped up that much but ah collapse back oantae the Royal Stuart …
— Ah found this the other day in ma jeans poakit, she explains, pushin her blonde hair behind her ears n tappin patiently before fixin, as ah lie back melted. — Forgot aw aboot it fae weeks back. Ah took it up the Bendix, n vernear put it through the wash, jist as well ah didnae, cause thaire’s a drought oan … What ye giggling at?
…
aw ya fuckin beauty
…
Ah try tae tell her the Bendix joke, but ah kin barely speak, n in any case, she’s banged up hersel and a few seconds later she’s in the same state.
Mother of Bendix, wash house gods, ah give youse thanks for king heroin; thank you for that whiter than white wash
…
The candlelight goes oot n we’re baith spangled oan the bed, then
hugging
each other, wi emotion, but sortay chastely. Lesley’s wearing a blue slidey-material top, which feels like silk but isnae. Then we’re sort ay crashed out, me restin my heid oan her stomach, her top rolled up, listenin tae the sounds her guts make. — Bubbles n sizzles, bubbles n sizzles, ah goes.
— Ah’m wasted …
— Me n aw. It’s cauld … Ah kick oaf ma trainers n pill oaf ma jeans n git under the tartan duvet. She does the same, scrambling alongside me, kissin us coolly on the lips. Then she puts her index finger inside ma jumper n traces it ower ma ribcage. — You’re that thin, Mark.
— Ah’ve kind ay lost a bit ay weight. Fast metabolism, ah suppose, and ah props masel up on ma elbaws tae look at her.
Lesley smiles grimly at me through the semi-dark. There’s light pouring in fae under the door, and through the curtains fae the street lamp ootside. — Skag metabolism, mair like. You’re a pretty weird guy, she goes, still outlining ma ribs.
— How? ah ask, interested tae ken if she means cool weird or geeky, spazzy weird. No that ah’m bothered either wey, cause ah’m feelin fuckin barry.
— Well, maist guys, ye kin tell if they fancy ye. Lesley’s pupils seem slitty n catlike in this meagre light. — But ah dinnae ken wi you …
— Course ah do, ah tell her, — everybody fancies you. You’re a beautiful girl, ah go, pushing her hair behind her ear, the wey she did when she prepared the gear. She is. Kind ay.
— Aye, right, she says doubtfully, but she’s sort ay flattered. So her hand suddenly reaches doon tae ma groin, inside ma pants, and grabs some playdough. — So how come we’re in bed thegither n yir no hard?