Authors: Irvine Welsh
— Why is that poisonous minger always carrying a bagful ay washing? Sick Boy asks as she comes closer.
— She goes up the laundromat aw the time, jist soas she kin hing oot wi her mates, ah tell him, mimicking her voice: — Ah always take it up the Bendix, son.
— Oo-er, missus! Sick Boy goes.
Mrs Curran passes us and ah cannae resist it, n go, — Ye been takin the dhobi up the Bendix again, Mrs Curran?
— Aye, Mark, every day. It’s a never-endin struggle, even wi Susan movin oot tae get mairried. Ma Olly n Duncan get through a lot ay washin.
— It must be a bit sair, Sick Boy says, the bad bastard, — ah mean, a big load up the Bendix
every single day
.
She looks dumbfounded and hostile, her mooth curling doonwards, heid jerkin back like it’s oan an invisible chain, as if she’s tippled.
— Ah mean, yir hands n yir airms n that, he qualifies.
Ma Curran relaxes. — Naw, son, ah git a walk up thaire, n chat tae ma pals, n ah take the bus back tae the Fort, she explains, then looks at me in hostility. — So how’s the new place?
— It’s no that new. We’ve been thaire four years now.
— No bad fir some, she says bitterly. — They’ve goat thaime on D Landin now. She turns tae the Asians, climbin oantae the 16 bus. — A whole faimly, n the Johnstones’ auld hoose. She purses in disgust. — The smell ay that cookin makes ye seek. Bloody seek tae the gills, n it stinks the dryin green right oot. That’s how ah take it up the Bendix sae much.
— Any excuse, ah chide, noting that Sick Boy’s lost interest in the game and is now checkin oot this passing lassie; coupon, tits, erse, legs, but maist ay aw, handbag.
— Nae excuses aboot it, this country isnae fir the white people thit made it any mair. Mrs Curran shakes her heid, then turns and continues her goose-step up the Walk.
Sick Boy’s also oan his heels. — Listen, Mark, huv tae go, catch ye later, he says, off in pursuit ay the lassie. Ah watch him for a bit and he soon falls intae first step, then conversation, wi her. Cunt. If ah tried that wi some bird, she’d huv the polis right oan us in a second. Naebody could accuse him ay bein pusill-whatever-the-fuck-ye-call-it.
So ah’m left on ma tod, but ah’m quite chuffed aboot it. The sun comes oot and ah test ma back by grippin the bus shelter roof, n daein a couple ay pull-ups, before headin oaf doon the road.
Notes on an Epidemic 1
AT A NATIONAL
referendum on 1 March 1979, the people of Scotland voted by a majority to reinstitute a parliament. This would restore some degree of sovereignty to their country, after almost three hundred years of undemocratically imposed union with England. George Cunningham, a Scottish, London-based Labour MP, put forward an amendment to the Devolution Bill, which rejigged the rules so that this parliament would not be automatically offered to Scottish citizens.
The Conservative Party, led by Margaret Thatcher, came to power in May 1979. With a meagre percentage of the Scottish vote, it was thus argued that they had no democratic mandate, but they steadfastly opposed and vetoed the setting up of the Edinburgh parliament.
Too Shy
— THAT’S THE FUCKIN
tragedy ay Scotland. Frank ‘Franco’ Begbie, heavyset, with a number-two cut, tattoos on his hands and neck inching towards the light, makes the declaration from a bar stool in an austere Leith Walk hostelry, one never destined to feature in any Edinburgh Pub Guide. For emphasis he punches Spud Murphy’s thin biceps, the casual sledgehammer blow almost knocking his friend off his seat. — Nae fuckin qualification fir the European Nations Cup again!
In evidence Franco points to the television mounted in the corner of the pub, above the jukebox, which, through blazing luminous colours, shows two sets of Continental footballers taking the field. Tommy Lawrence tenses his tight, muscular frame, arching his neck towards the screen, and even lazy-eyed Mark Renton does too, because it’s Platini time again. They scrutinise the lines of alert players in mid-shot as the camera pans along their ranks, looking for clues as to how the game might unfold. From the shabby bar they find themselves in – nicotine-stained walls, cracked floor tiles and battered furniture – they’re wondering how it feels to be up there, chests expanded, mentally focused, ninety minutes away from at least some kind of immortality.
Spud, dirty-blond hair sticking up in tufts, grimaces, massages his injury, trying to dissipate that insistent throb Renton and Tommy knew so well. Regarding his near-tearful expression, Renton is moved to affectionately consider that if
Oor Willie
grew up in the Kirkgate, wore washed-out Fred Perry shirts, shoplifted and took loads of speed, he and Spud would be dead ringers. Apart from the Dudley D. Watkins scribbled golden smile, Spud has two expressions: totally-scoobied-as-to-what-the-fuck’s-going-on and the constantly-on-the-verge-of-tears look he is currently deploying. Assailed with self-pity and self-loathing, regarding his folly in sitting next to Begbie, he glances around. — Aye … it’s bad, likesay, he concedes, wondering how he can manoeuvre into another seat. However, Tommy and Renton particularly, himself suffering with an injured arm and back, are determinedly keeping Spud in between themselves and the animated Franco. Staring down the lighted barrel of Frank Begbie’s Regal King Size, the tip blazing like a
third
eye as inhalation hollows the smoker’s cheeks, an overwhelming sense of ‘what the fuck am I doing here?’ descends on Renton.
Tommy, meantime, takes in that bull-like neck and stocky frame. Franco isn’t that tall, about the same height as Renton, just shy of six foot, and thus smaller than him, though he’s brawny enough, his dense body seeming to aggregate the mass of the bar’s other occupants. He’s wearing a leather bomber jacket, which Tommy notes is a dead ringer for Renton’s, though he insists on getting complimented for it. — Aye … fuckin barry jaykit but, eh … suave as fuck, he announces yet again, as he hangs it carefully on the back of the stool.
Spud scans the twisting cables of Frank Begbie’s biceps and forearms, unravelling from under the sleeves of his white Adidas T-shirt, marvelling at their power in comparison to his and Renton’s thin, milky limbs. Tommy coldly eyes the expanse of Begbie’s ribcage, thinks of the pivoting right hook that would open it up and send Franco sprawling to the floor. The execution of such a blow is well within Tommy’s capabilities, and the follow-up of boot to head also inside his emotional and martial lexicon. But it was no-go, because with Begbie, that’s when the real problems would start. Besides, he was a mate.
A belligerent nod from Begbie to Mickey Aitken behind the bar, and the old boy moves like an oil tanker in a cardigan, picking up the handset and attacking the TV, ramping up ‘La Marseillaise’. Platini, a man-of-destiny glint in his eye, is giving it the big one as Keezbo’s ample frame swaggers jauntily into the pub. Tommy, Spud and Renton all share a solitary, unacknowledged thought:
Maybe that fat Jambo bastard can sit beside Begbie and take the pummelling
. In the sparsely populated boozer Keezbo instantly registers his friends at the bar, then Lesley the barmaid, who has emerged from the office to commence her shift. Forget Platini, she’s the obvious attraction here, with her ratty good looks, collar-length blonde hair and substantial cleavage, although it’s the tight jeans and exposed midriff that catches the sly eye of Mark Renton.
Keezbo takes in a more generic sweep of the barmaid before asking, — How’s the light ay ma life?
Lesley returns his evaluating look, though limits her scope to Keezbo’s strangely stirring pale blue eyes, framed by his black specs. Trying to ascertain where he is on the joking/flirting matrix, she keeps her tone pleasantly neutral. — No bad, Keith. Yirsel?
— In the pink, now thit ah’m feastin on your beauty, Miss Lesley.
Lesley’s smile contains that genuine flash of coyness that Keezbo often manages to kindle, even in the most seasoned girls about town.
— Sack it, ya fat cunt, Begbie says, — she’s mine but, eh, Lesley?
— In yir dreams, son, Lesley tells him, her buoyancy and swagger rallying after Keezbo’s wrong-footing.
— And wet as fuck they ur n aw, Begbie laughs, close-shorn head looking as hard as a crane’s wrecking ball.
Keezbo orders up a round of lagers. For a better view of the screen, they take seats near the corner, in a crescent-shaped booth of slashed leather seating, which spills its foamy guts around a Formica table. Renton has found an old wrap of speed in his jeans pocket and passes it round; each of them, except Begbie, whose eyes are still trained on Lesley, taking a dab. — She’s no shy, he observes on behalf of the company. There’s a big grin on Keezbo’s face as he comes over with the pints on a tray, his beaming expression conveying the eager glee of a man with an obsession to share. Setting the drinks down on the table, he takes his dab of amphetamine, moistened by fraternal gob. Wincing under the salty tang, he washes it down with a mouthful of beer. — Mr Mark, Mr Frank, Mr Tommy, Mr Danny, what about this yin: Leo Sayer versus Gilbert O’Sullivan?
Begbie looks to Renton in anticipation; in the relocation they’ve somehow ended up next-door neighbours. Renton goes to say something, then thinks better of it. Instead, he looks to Tommy, as he takes a sip of lager made even more rancid by the dregs of sulphate powder clinging to the back of his throat.
— It’s a good yin, Tommy concedes. Keezbo habitually invents imaginary square-go scenarios between unlikely participants. This time they seem well matched.
— Gilbert O’Sullivan wrote that fuckin nonce song aboot beastin bairns, Begbie suddenly snaps, — that cunt deserves tae fuckin die. Mind ay that? That fuckin video?
— Eh, ‘Claire’, aye, but ah didnae see it that wey, Franco, Spud ventures, — it wis jist a song aboot babysittin a wee lassie he kens, likesay.
Begbie dispenses him a trademark paint-stripping stare. Spud instantly withers. — So you’re the big fuckin music critic now, eh? Is it fuckin natural for a grown man tae write a fuckin song aboot a wee lassie that isnae even his ain? Eh? Answer us that if ye fuckin well kin!
Renton has learned over the years that the worst thing you can do is to make Frank Begbie feel isolated, so he feels it politic to join in on his side. — You’ve goat tae admit, Spud, that it is a wee bit fuckin suspect.
Spud looks crestfallen but Renton can detect the phantom gratitude in his eyes for the out he’s just given him. — Come tae think ay it, ah suppose so …
— Too fuckin right, Begbie sneers, — listen tae this rid-heided cunt. He points at Renton. — Cunt kens mair aboot music thin any cunt roond this fuckin table – him n Keezbo. The cunts wir in a band wi Stevie Hutchison, he contends, looking around to see if there’s any arguments. No takers.
— What d’yis think but, boys, Keezbo asks again, moving things on, — Leo Sayer or Gilbert O’Sullivan?
— Pushed, ah’d have tae go for Sayer, Renton ventures. — Thir baith light wee gadges, but Sayer’s a dancer, so he’s nippy on his feet, whereas O’Sullivan usually jist sits behind a pianny.
They ponder this proposition for a few seconds. Tommy thinks back to the days at Leith Victoria Boxing Club with Begbie and Renton, how it had been not enough for one and too much for the other, but just right for him. Dropping the fifteen-year-old Begbie in the ring after ‘mermaiding’ him; rendering his opponent apoplectic by tempting him out into deep water in pursuit of his would-be prey, before he tired in impotent frustration, unable to get past that cutting jab and catch Tommy. When he ran out of steam he was picked off, a street fighter given a lesson in the sweet science by a boxer. Tommy had thought at the time he’d pay dearly for that victory, but instead he’d gained Begbie’s respect, though his opponent took the opportunity to stress that any conflict outside the ring would be an entirely different scenario.
And Tommy, who with some regret had chosen football over boxing, had no reason to doubt this. He’d come to admit that Begbie was a more accomplished pavement warrior. Tommy could focus on one foe in the ring, but panicked in the hurly-burly of the urban rammy, where good peripheral vision was required to read what was happening with possible multiple opponents. Frank Begbie thrived on imposing himself on that sort of chaos. — It’s what Rent fuckin well sais, he decrees, — it’s a flyweight’s fight, n that usually goes oan speed. Sayer tae pummel the nonce in three. Tam?
— Aye, sounds aboot right tae me.
— Sayer, they toast, raising their glasses, with Spud adding, — The show must go oan.
— Well, if this show hus tae fuckin well go oan, you git up n git a fuckin round in, ya Jewish cunt, Begbie says, killing his pint in one extended swallow, forcing the others to keep up.
Spud pulls a sullen, petulant expression but complies. He’s still working in the furniture deliveries, though his employer has sold off one lorry, and there’s been talk of further redundancies. But he consoles himself with
the
fact that he’s been there since he left school: a good, reliable worker. Surely he’s safe. Keezbo hasn’t been so fortunate; he tells them he’s been made redundant from the building firm he works for as a brickie. — Ah’ll still dae some casual work for um, but he cannae afford tae send us tae Telford College tae finish ma City n Guilds.
— Whaire the fuck’s Second Prize? Begbie asks. — Heard the cunt goat a doin. They tell us he’s no sayin whae fuckin well did it.
— He’ll no mind, he went intae the club mingin eftir bein oan the peeve aw weekend. Dunfermline sacked him, freed the cunt. He went oan a bender n he’s been oan it since, Tommy explains, looking at Keezbo and Renton. — We shouldnae huv left him in Blackpool.
— He left us, as ah recall, Renton says.
— Mark’s right, Tommy. Keezbo takes of his specs and rubs at his eye. — Ye cannae nursemaid the boy.
— Cunt’s turnin intae a fuckin alkie, Begbie scoffs.
— Yir no wrong, Mr Frank, Keezbo nods, scoring the air with his specs to make the point.
As the conversation turns to wasted talent, Renton takes his chance to move. Almost to his disappointment, the speed is kicking in, everyone is gabbing with nobody bothering about the game. So he asks Mickey tae turn down the commentary for a bit, which he reluctantly does, but only after looking to Begbie to get the okay. The heads of some silently disgruntled drinkers pivot round to the other screen in the far corner by the entrance to the bar. Then Renton hits the jukebox and puts on Kajagoogoo’s ‘Too Shy’. Thinking of the line
Modern medicine falls short of your complaint
, he finds it amusing to consider Frank Begbie sporting a haircut like Limahl’s. As the refrain strikes up he flutters his lashes, like a roaring twenties chorus girl, at the back of Begbie’s bullet head, drawing nervous, pained expressions from the others.