Authors: Irvine Welsh
You could tell that the boy was suspect when he says, I've got to see a man about a brown-paper package. You could tell that the boy thought that I drought he was suspect. You could tell that he enjoyed the fact that I thought he was suspect. The problem was that I thought he was suspect not because, as he thought, I saw him as some big sleazy dealer or all that shite; I thought that he was suspect because I thought that he was a wanker.
Brown-paper package my Granny's sagging tits. What's he like.
Ronnie might have thought that the guy was a wanker n aw had he not, as the song goes, been so busy playing carousel. His pupils were like pin-pricks despite the heavy, hooded eyelids which hung loosely over them. The pint of poison which lay untouched in front of him was losing its chill and fizz, leaving it looking like the rancid pish it was. It would not be touched now.
I was continuing my successful boycott of Scottish and New-castle Brewers products, swilling away at my Becks. This boycott, which I tried vainly to pursue over a number of years, was now abetted by the stagnant mediocrity of the S&N products; they had stood still in the face of competition.
I wearily raised my hand in acknowledgement as the wanker departed; no doubt to procure the first ever quart of Edinburgh hash which came in a brown-paper package. As he said, — Cheerio boys, Ronnie managed to do something marginal with his eyes and lips.
— Jellied, Ron? I asked.
In reply, Ronnie rested his head in his hand, elbow propped up on the table, and allowed his lips to faintly crease.
I looked again at the pint before him; the dealers had no real competition from the legal drug sector. I resented more than ever the fact that S&N had managed to fight off that take-over bid from the Australian punters. I remember it being described as a hostile bid. Hostile to who? No me anyway. Surely no other race in the world put up with such crap drugs.
I get Ronnie out into a taxi, mildly resentful that we have missed an hour's worm of the mis-named happy hour, which is neither: a bit like the fuckin moral majority. Its duration was a five-till-eight weekday slot at this pretentious dive where they sold toxic chemicals at prices which were merely exploitative rather than criminal. Looking at the punters fighting for the attention of the barstaff, happiness was the last emotion on display. It should be renamed the desperate hours.
Ronnie flopped back into the taxi, his face slamming hard off a side window. — Stockbridge, mate, I shout to the driver, reasoning that Ronnie was suffering from chemical imbalance and what he needed was some amphetamine to get him back into some kind of equilibrium.
When we get to Veitchy's place Denise and Penman are there. They're all quite high, through snorting coke. Ronnie can go and get fucked. No way would we consider wasting coke on him. He'd have to sleep his way through this gig. Veitchy helps me to put him on the couch, and he just crashes out unconscious. Denise puckers his lips, — My my my, Brian's brought us a trophy. Is that what Ronnie is, Brian, our ain wee trophy?
— Yeah, that's it, I say, catching Penman's eye. He chops out a line for me and I go down on it like it was a fanny mat pished Becks. Suddenly, everything's better.
— What have we here? Denise has unzipped Ronnie's flies and taken his floppy dick out. It looks pretty repulsive, bouncing around on his thighs like a broken jack-in-the-box.
Veitchy laughs loudly, — Ha ha ha ha ha ha perr Ronnie ha ha ha ha, no real. Denise yir some cunt so ye are ha ha ha ha.
— Now that's a whopper, Denise pouts with a saucy wink, — but it'll be even bigger erect. Let's see if ah kin breathe some life intae poor old Ronnie.
He starts sucking on Ronnie's cock. Veitchy and I check Ron's face for signs of recognition, signs of enjoyment, but it seems dead to me. Veitchy then produces a magic marker and draws glasses and a Hitler moustache on Ronnie's coupon.
— Fuck sakes, I turn to Penman, — there's me lugged that cunt intae a taxi and brought him doon here tae look eftir him. Cannae leave the cunt in the pub like that, ah thought. Ah'll take him tae Veitchy's, he'll be awright thair.
— Yeah, typical ay they cunts, Penman snorts, then he picks a bogey out of his nose. He sees that there's a load of coke stuck to it, so he swallows it. — How ye livin they days anywey? he asks me.
— Shite, I tell him. — It's funny though man, but ah'm gaunny miss the parks this summer, ken? Shouldnae huv burned it doon. Gies me time tae write songs, for the band n that, ken?
A few of us had been thinking of starting a band. That was what I was into; being in a band.
— Well, ah'm pittin ma name doon fir the bins this summer. Intae that? The Cleansing Department, ken?
— Aye, mibbe, I said. It sounds a bit too much like work for me, too many people aroond. No enough time tae think, tae get in touch wi yirself, tae just enjoy the isolation. No like the parks.
Denise is having no luck with Ronnie's cock. It's still as jellied as the rest of him, but Veitchy's got the polaroid out and he's taking snaps of them.
— Ah wee bit ay love talk first, Denise, whisper some ay they sweet nothins intae the cunt's ear, Penman advises.
Denise puckers his lips and says, — Tsk, Penman, ye ken ah keep aw that talk jist for you. Ye think ah'm a slut or something?
Penman smiles, stands up and gestures me to the door. We go through to the bedroom. He stoops down at a chest of drawers; producing a box which he unlocks. It contains a plastic bag full of pills.
— Eckys? I ask.
— Snowballs, he nods, smiling. — Many kin ye punt fir ays?
— Ah could dae forty nae danger. Thing is, ah've nae dough up front.
— Disnae matter, he says, counting them intae a smaller bag. — Gies it when ye git it. Ah only want ten quid fir one. They'll go fir fifteen easy, eighteen if ye hud them until the week before Rezurrection. Square ays eftir. Veitchy's nervous wi the number ah'm hudin here.
— One question, Penman. How's it ye always stash them at Veitchy's gaff?
— Veitchy's a fuckin radge; he's he only cunt that'll let ays. Ah'm no gaunny keep thum at ma ain place, urn ah now?
It sounded logical enough.
A few minutes later, Denise's excited screams follow us into the bedroom. —
BRI-IN! PEEHN-MIN!
I return into die front room to find Denise and Veitchy straddling the back of the couch, facing each other. They have their cocks out, both erect. Ronnie is still slumped unconscious, his head resting on the back of the sofa. Denise and Veitchy have their erections poking into his ears.
— The camera, Denise hisses, — take a picture!
— This'll be a fuckin classic ha ha ha, Veitchy babbles.
I pick up the camera and get into position. — Whair's the fuckin button? I ask.
— The toap, Denise squeals excitedly, — press the fuckin black button oan the toap! Mind yir fingers oan the lens, daft radge thit ye are!
I take a couple of shots which come out well. They really capture the personalities of the three punters involved. That's surely what portrait photography is all about.
We pass the snaps around and laugh for a bit, men Denise goes: — Ah need mair coke. Any mair fuckin coke?
Veitchy says, — Naw man, that's it finished, likes.
— Could dae wi a bit mair but, Veitchy, Penman says. Penman and I have taken half an ecky each, but mair coke would be sound.
— Suppose ah could nick doon tae Andy Lawton's in the motor, Veitchy agreed.
That sounded okay. We sorted Veitchy out with some cash and he left us in the flat.
After a while I was getting a bit bored watching the telly. — Any fuckin beer in this doss? I asked.
— Yuv jist taken half an ecky. Ye no gittin a rush oaf that ecky yit?
I was getting fuck all off the ecky. I pretended I was though; it's crucial tae think positive on such occasions. — Aye, it's sound, but it's a bit mellow likes. Stick oan some techno. Git this telly shite oaf; kills the art ay fuckin conversation.
We ploughed our way through Veitchy's record and tape collection. I'd never seen so much shite.
— This is fuckin rubbish. Cunt wants his fuckin jaw tanned fir huvin shite like this. Nae fuckin house stuff at aw man, Penman moaned.
— Some ay this isnae bad, Denise opined.
— Stuck in eighties disco shite that cunt, said Penman bitterly. — That cunt is a fuckin erse. He always hus been an erse, he always fuckin will be an erse.
— C'moan, Penman, I said, — Git oaf the cunt's case. It's his hoaspitality wir enjoyin here.
— Aye, Penman, yir such a fuckin bitch at times, Denise said, kissing his cheek softly, — bit yuv goat yir bad side n aw.
— Well ah'm gaunny git a beer, I said. As I spoke I started rushing. What a fuckin waste, rushing like this here when I could be at a club.
— Dinnae take alcohol wi yir ecky, Denise says. — Ye cannae drink if yuv taken ecstasy, he minces smartly, — cancels oot aw the effects.
— That's a myth, I say.
— Tsk, listen tae yirsel, Brian! Mind the time at The Pure ye sais tae ays: Yir mad tae drink, bevvy n ecky dinnae mix, yill bring yirsel doon, Denise remonstrates.
— Aye, bit that's whin yir tryin tae dance, but. Dehydration n that. If ye jist want tae gouch, it doesnae really matter. Besides, ah've been oan the Becks maist ay the day.
— Ah'm no touchin the bevvy again, no fir ages anywey. Ah'm no takin any ecky either until ah find oot the coke situation. Ye should pick jist one drug n stick tae it. That's the lesson ah've learned. Last week ah wis up the toon pished ootay ma heid. Ah'd hud eight Becks n six Diamond Whites. Some cunt went n gied ays a tab ay acid. Then this radge wis hasslin ays in The Pelican so ah jist turns roond n sais: Dinnae fuckin bother ays man, kick yir fuckin cunt in! Anyway ah goat pure para so ah ends up in the City Cafe. Ken that goth burd, quite a hard-faced lassie?
— Her that used tae hing aboot wi that Moira? I asked.
— Ah think so.
— Moira. You legged that, did ye no? Penman asked.
— Aye, in the lassies' bogs at the Ceilidh House, I told him.
— Anywey, Denise snapped curtly, irritated by our interruptions and digressions, — this burd wis really fag-hagging ays oot, man. Ah goes hame wi her, she says she's goat some blow. Then she starts askin ays aboot ma sexuality, ken, aw mat how'd ye like tae come ower tae the other side, aw that vain crap that fag-hags come oot wi man, ken? Ah mean, as if ah've nivir fucked a lassie before! Stupid wee hoor!
— Ye gie hur the message? Penman asked.
— Hud oan, hud oan a minute, I cut in. I hated interrupting Denise in full flight, but something about this tale was disturbing me. I needed something clarified. — Lit's git this straight. Wir talkin aboot that lassie that hings aboot wi Moira n Tricia. Oily, or something doss like that, is it no?
— That's hur! Denise says.
— Hammer n sickle earrings? Oan some sortay Stalinist trip?
— That's the yin awright, Denise says. — So ah'm shagging her like, in the fanny n aw, he says, standing up and doing a theatrical pelvic thrust. — She kept they long black gloves oan, like a silly wee tart, n she's gaun:
AW THIS IS GREAT... THIS IS MAGIC .. . FUCK ME HARDER
n aw that. Then she comes n ah starts thinkin aboot Hutchie fae Chapps, this big fuckin piece ay meat ah've been cruisin fir yonks, n ah comes n aw. Then this daft hoor turns aroond n sais tae ays: Tell ays that wisnae somethin else, she goes, aw cocky like. Like she'd expected me tae throw away the tub ay KY n run doon tae St James's Centre fir a fuckin engagement ring! Well, ah hud tae pit hur in the picture; ah tells her it wisnae even as fuckin good as a bad wank, wi her ah hud tae use ma imagination mair, tae pretend ah wis shaggin something worthwhile. She goes aw fucked up and tells ays tae go. Ah jist sais: Dinnae you fuckin worry, hen, ah'm gaun.
This was a disturbing story. I remember being kb'd by that lassie. I think it was the City Cafe, but it might have been Wilkie House. I saw her a few times at 9Cs, even once at The Pure. As I smiled at Denise the phantom quiver of that woman's rejection slid through me, setting off that internal crumbling dam of self-esteem that our pals can seldom sense. However, I tempered that feeling with the thought of her humiliation at the hands of Denise. I felt a delicious vindication, followed by a vague sense of guilt. This is what being alive's all about, all those fucked-up feelings. You've got to have them; when you stop, watch out.
God, the telly was fuckin boring, and there were only two cans of McEwan's pish in the fridge. I couldn't bring myself to look at that shite. — Whair's fuckin Veitchy? I cursed, to nobody in particular. Chancellor Norman Lamont came on the telly.
— Ah'd like tae kill that cunt, if he wisnae already deid, Denise bitched.
I felt another ecky surge and got up and started dancing on the spot. I couldn't keep it going though; there was no fuckin stimulus. I fancied doing another one and heading up to the Citrus or 9Cs. — That cunt, I said, pointing at Ronnie, who was still slumbering with his flaccid prick hanging out off his keks like some dead surrealist snake, — what's he like: a fuckin liability. Cartin that tuck around, n he jist crashes oot aw ower the place!
In a surge of anger I pulled Ronnie off the couch onto the floor. He inspired a wave of disgust in me, his stupid glasses and moustache. — He's as well oan the flair, gie us a shot ay the couch. He's too fucked tae notice the difference.
The three of us sat on the couch, using Ronnie as a footstool. He was dead to the world. We were still bored, so I got up, brought some flour back from the kitchen and poured it over Ronnie. I gasped at a brief acid-style flashback of Blind Cunt lying in the snow.
— Hi, Penman guffaws, splitting his keks with laughter, — better mind perr Veitchy's cairpit.
— It's only flour, I said, but Denise had gone through to the kitchen and he returned with some eggs and started breaking them over Ronnie's prostrate body.
That was the cue for us to go mental, gripped by a collective hysteria. We went to the kitchen and saw what there was. We then systematically covered Ronnie with every sort of foodstuff, cleaning fluid and powder we could get our hands on.