Authors: Irvine Welsh
— This is Lucia, he said, slurping on a pint.
— Hiya, Lucia, I said.
Lucia turned to The PATH. — Ye want ays tae suck yir mates oaf n aw? she said, in a high excited voice. I couldn't catch The
PATH'S
reply.
Then she put her hand on Roxy's thigh. — What's it they call you?
— Loads ay things, doll, he smiled. She felt him up for a bit through his troosers, his cock n baws. He seemed amused, yet unaroused. I was quite turned on. My head was starting to swim with the thought of the three of us fucking this big cow at the same time. The PATH gave me a lecherous wink.
Lucia then pressed her face close to mine and put a tongue which tasted of sick into my mouth. I sat transfixed as she slurped around inside my mouth. She flicked her tongue in and out for a bit, men pulled slowly away. — See you n yir mate here? she nodded at Roxy, — ah could bring yous oaf in nae time at aw!
— You already have, I told her.
She liked that, letting out pneumatic-drill laughter which cut through the loud buzz of the surrounding conversations. Then her elbows thrashed at The PATH, who had his hands up her skirt from the back, right between those meaty, cellulite thighs.
We drank on. The PATH told a joke about a guy who had an arsehole transplant and we all laughed loudly. I laughed, even though I'd heard it before. Lucia laughed the loudest. She laughed so much she started gagging. She drank back some Guinness from her pint, then threw it up, back into her glass. She looked only momentarily upset, then she slung the mass of blackened vomit back down her gullet in a oner.
— That's ma doll, said The PATH, and they French-kissed languidly.
I was into fours up, no question about it. I nodded to Roxy, — Your place?
— Like fuck, he scoffed. — Tell ays you're no sick, by the way. Ah widnae touch that wi a fuckin bargepole. Nae wey eftir The PATH had been thair.
That was a consideration. I got some more drinks up, and got some speed from a guy called Silver who was alright. I whizzed around the bar, talking shite. I was talking shite anyway, but now I was talking it with more purpose and conviction.
We didn't see The PATH go, but when we came up Anderson's Close we could hear his and Lucia's voices. He was bouncing on top of her like a football on a spacehopper. He's screaming:
TAKE THE FUCKIN LOAT YA BITCH! YE COULDNAE TAKE MA FUCKIN COCK! SPLIT YE IN TWO!
She's saying:
THIR'S FUCKIN WELL NOWT THAIR! GEEZ IT WELL! IS THAT YOU STARTED HA HA HA.
We walked past them, then stopped to watch for a while. Lucia rolled the PATH over and got on top. Her wobbly flesh hung over him.
—
MOVE THEN IF YIR GAUN OAN TOAP! MOVE, YA BASTARD!
he roared.
She shook her flesh over him, then looked up at us, — Yis want tae help urn oot boys?
— We'd nivir git in the wey ay true love, Lucia, Roxy smiled.
We walked up the close a bit and pished. Our two steaming rivulets joined together and sped towards them, around the
PATH
's head, neck and shoulders. They kept shagging. Two guys walked nervously past us.
— Depraved wee cunt, The PATH, Roxy shook his head.
— Yeah, real fuckin slag.
I was feeling horny, and I was tempted to go to Olly's. Roxy was into more beer. There was a way to kill two birds with one stone: Olly would probably be at this party a friend of her's was having, a trendy, posey cow named Lynne.
Roxy never let me down at the party; he detests that sort of scene. We installed ourselves in the kitchen and freeloaded as much drink as possible. When Olly arrived she was in the company of some cunts and cold-shouldered me. We'd been shagging during the day, now she treated me like I was a stranger. Yet it somehow made sense. Life was a weird gig.
I woke up on the floor the next morning, to the sound of people cleaning the flat. Roxy lay next to me.
— God, thir's some fuckin foul taste in ma mooth, he said.
— That's ma fault, I shrugged, — ah shouldnae huv given The PATH one up his shitter before ah goat you tae gam ays.
— So that's what happened. Well, that makes sense. There's fuck all memorable aboot gammin you.
Lynne was clearing up; throwing cans and emptying ashtrays into bin-liners, flashing us looks which said:
LEAVE IMMEDIATELY
.
A merchant-school voice pleads, — C'mon lads, get up and give us a hand with the tidying up.
— Suck ma fuckin cock, ya radge, Roxy snapped. The boy moved away, taking this as a sign that he was on his own with the tidying. — Tell ays that cunt wisnae wide. That's fuckin Edinburgh, fill ay fuckin English bastards and snobby rugby cunts. Treat ye like a fuckin peasant in yir ain toon. Well, fuck them, lit them clean up oor shite, it's aw the cunt's are fuckin good fir! he boomed.
I got to my feet and found some bottles of beer. We staggered out of the flat, down the stair and into the street, drinking. — Whair is this? I wondered.
— Stockbridge, Roxy said, — ah mind gaun through the New Town last night.
— Naw naw. I remembered. It was Lynne's. The South Side. We emerged onto South Clerk Street.
Roxy's mouth opened.
— Aye, Stockbridge, right enough! I said. — What are ye like!
We decided to head for the Captain's Bar, which opened at seven o'clock, about three hours ago. My nerves were starting to fray and I just wanted a few beers inside me to take the edge off things.
I was shaken to the core by a blood-curdling scream: — BRIAN!
Mad Audrey stood propped up against a bus-shelter. She wore a long black imitation-leather trenchcoat with padded shoulders. Two greasy flaps of black hair hung on either side of her white pimply face. Her sharp, vicious features contorted as she slurped from a carton of milk, some of which trickled down her front.
—
WHAIR'S THE FUCKIN PATH?!
— Eh, no sure Auds. We left him last night, at the Pelican.
—
TELL UM HE'S GITTING FUCKIN STABBED WHEN AH SEE UM! HE WIS WI THAT FUCKIN FAT SLUT! TELL UM HE'S FUCKIN DEID! N HUR N AW! MIND, YOU'D BETTER FUCKIN TELL UM!
— Eh, aye, ah'll mention it tae him, likes, I tell her. We don't stick around. The Captain's Bar had been calling loudly; now it was screaming.
—
MIND N TELL UM!
she shouted after us. —
N TELL UM TAE COME DOON TAE THE MEADOW BAR AT SEVEN!
I waved back at her. Roxy said, — When The PATH dies, aw the repulsive hing-oots in toon should git the gither n build a monument tae the cunt.
— Aye, wi a vibrating prick they can impale themselves oan.
A few in the Captain's did the trick. I went back to Roxy's and had a good long kip on his couch. When he woke me I was fucked. — The PATH phoned, he told me. — He's meeting us doon the Meadow Bar at seven.
— The Meadow? What did ye say that fir... you, ya bastard, I laughed. This would be a good one.
— Ah telt um tae bring big Lucia along n aw. Audrey versus Lucia, some fuckin swedge that would be. A dog-fight in the Meadows. Who needs Hank Jansen? Cannae wait tae see The PATH's face. Tell ays he'll no be shitein his keks.
I missed out on it, simply because I couldn't move. I got an account from The PATH though. Audrey was more vicious, and scored Lucia's face heavily, but eventually the larger woman used her superior strength and power to subdue Auds and pound her into the turf. She was lucky it was a square-go and Audrey wasn't tooled. Apparently, while the swedge was going on, The PATH was rubbing his crotch discreetly. He went home with the winner.
Cliff from London got in touch and told me that Simmy had got put away. Cliff himself had moved into a new flat, over in Hanwell. There was a space for me, he said. My bags were packed and I was back down to the Smoke.
It was a good gaff. I was on the floor in the front room for a couple of weeks, but I picked up a temporary job in the offices of Ealing Council. It involved keying information on planning applications into a VDU. They had put in all this new technology, but needed dogsbodies to key in all the manual records. Myself and four middle-aged women were taken on. The work was not interesting.
A bloke called Graham moved out of the flat and I got his room. He was a bit of an alcoholic and his mattress smelled badly of pish, so I got a new one on the Sunday, and was looking forward to a good night's kip before work on Monday. I'd never been able to kip properly in the front room; too many people coming and going at all hours.
— Wakey, wakey! Cliff shouted to me, poking his head around my door. I'd had no drugs the night before, not even hash. I'd gone to bed early and it was like I had only slept for an hour.
— It's surely no yon time already, surely tae fuck, I whinged.
— Yeah, seven-fifteen. C'mon mate, rise n shine!
I rose, but didn't shine. It was brutally cold as I made my way to the bathroom in my t-shirt and pants. I had to get to work on time. Gleaves, the office manager, was watching me. However, I was going to May and Des's for tea tonight, god bless them, so I decided to wash my cock, balls and armpits in lukewarm water. It wasn't a comfortable experience. I brushed my teeth, squeezed a couple of spots, pulled on my ripped jeans and my cashmere sweater. I laced up my Doc Martens and stuck on my Oxfam overcoat and my scarf and mittens. No breakfast; it's hi ho hi ho . . .
Work is a fuckin drag. Gleaves thinks I'm demotivated. That's how he describes me. Gleaves recruited me: rather than say I picked a duffer and couldn't pick my nose, he persists in this delusion that inputting into a VDU, stuffing papers in envelopes and photocopying will sort me out. I'd bought a guitar and was jamming with Cliff and Darren in the flat but this job was costing me valuable practice time. However, I need the money for that amp. Stardom is surely just around the corner.
When I get in May says softly to me, — Mister Gleaves wants to see you, love. As soon as you get in, he said.
Fuck me. What now? Is that cunt tapped or what.
Penny has a gleeful expression on her face. That cow has hated me since I was too out of it to fuck her at somebody's leaving party. Women hate these things. If they're going to lose control and go away with someone, they figure they might as well get a good shag out of it. If they go away with someone and the someone can't get it up, well that's a big fuck-up: the worst of all worlds.
Gleavsie, as I call him in a Chinese accent (the Slaint and Gleavsie), is a small, overweight man with glasses and a Russian-style beard. He has a small, stumpy cock, the kind that is practically all cherry, but which is hopefully more formidable when erect. (I stood next to him in the latrine in the staff toilets to check it out.)
— Mister Gleaves, I smile, taking a seat.
— I want to talk about your dress, Brian.
— Which one is that? The yellow chiffon one, or the blue print number, I ask rolling my eyes.
— I'm deadly serious, Gleaves sombrely informs me, sounding like a character in a middle-class soap opera. Big fuckin drama queen. — For God's sake Brian, the arse is hanging out of your trousers.
That was true. My purple pants were clearly visible. My bum was freezing. My cock and balls were shrivelling up. They'd invert to a fanny by the end of the month. Next pay cheque it's Carnaby Street. I shouldn't travel so light.
— Well, at least when I'm famous you can say with justification you knew me when the arse was hanging out of my trousers.
— I'm not sure you understand the gravity of the situation...
— Okay okay. It's healthy having this circulation of air. It keeps me ventilated.
— You're either deliberately missing the point or you've lost the sense God gave you. I'm going to have to spell it out for you. At Ealing Borough Council we try to maintain certain standards of dress and behaviour. The local citizen, after all, pays our wages and it entitled to ...
— I'm a local citizen n aw. I pay my poll tax, I lied.
— Yes, but.. .
— Whose standards are we talking about here? Just who's setting themself up as the big fashion consultant here?
— We're talking about corporate standards! The standards we expect from all employees of this authority.
— Listen, man, ah cannae afford tae buy a tin flute. Ah choose tae dress functionally, tae dress in gear ah feel comfort able in, soas ah kin perform better in ma joab. Ah couldnae hack wearin a tie, man, that's a pure phallic symbol, a compensatory psychological device for men who feel insecure about their sexuality. I cannae get into that sortay arena. I cannae be made to conform to the mass psychological hang-ups of Ealing Borough Council's male employees. What are yis like?
Gleaves shook his head in exasperation. — Brian. Please be quiet for a second. Look. I understand how you feel. I know what you're about. You're an intelligent guy, so don't act the fool. It'll get you nowhere. You've got the potential to get on within this organisation, he tells me, his tone changing to one of encouragement.
That was a statement which would have been humorous had it not been so frightening. — To do what? I asked.
— To get a better job.
— Why? I mean, what for?
— Well, he began in tone of slightly smug self-justification,
— the money's not bad when you get to my level. And it's a challenge being involved in the full range of council activities.
He stopped, sensing his growing ridiculousness in my eyes. - Listen, Brian, I know you think you're some kind of big radical and I'm some reactionary, fascist pig. Well I've got news for you: I'm a socialist, I'm a union man. I know you just see me as an establishment figure in a suit, but if the Tories had their way, we'd have kiddies down the mines. I'm every bit as anti-establishment as you, Brian. Yes, I own my own home. Yes, I live in a desirable area. Yes, I'm married with two children, I take two foreign holidays a year and drive an expensive car. But I'm as anti-establishment as you, Brian. I believe in public services, in putting people first. It's more than just a cliché for me. For me, being anti-establishment is not about dressing like a tramp, taking drugs and going to rave-ups or whatever they're called. That's the easy way out. That's what the people that control things want; people opting out, taking the easy route. For me it's about knocking on doors on cold evenings, attending meetings in school halls to get Labour back in and Major and his mob out.
— Yeah...
This guy makes the term arsehole redundant.
— Well, I've almost had it with you, Brian. Unless you buck up your ideas, your behaviour and your dress, you are on a disciplinary. Look at you. Worse than a tramp. I've seen better-dressed people in cardboard city.
— Listen. Are you talking to me as employer to employee, or as man to man? Cause if it's employer to employee I consider your behaviour insulting and harassing and I want my union representative in here to witness this victimisation. If you're talking to me man to man, then it's more straightforward. We can go outside and settle it. Ah'm no taking this shite, I said, rising. — If there's nothing else, I'd like to go and get some work done.
I left the shitein cunt red-faced behind his desk. He muttered something about last warnings. How many last warnings can you have? I swaggered back to my work station and plugged away for a bit at the NME crossword. I was entitled tae a brek, for fuck's sake.
At finishing time, May took me home to her and Des's. They were a lovely couple from Chester-Le-Street, Co. Durham, who had sort of adopted me. May would cook up a big scran, lamenting my thinness, while Des and I talked football over cans of Tetley Bitter. He was a great Newcastle United fan and he'd wax on about Jackie Milburn, Bobby Mitchell, Malcolm McDonald, Bobby Moncur and the like.
A normally very relaxed and laid-back couple, they used to fret a great deal over what I took to be their son. — Nae sign o the lad, Des would frown at the clock, — he's never normally as leet as this.
I knew they had four daughters between the ages of sixteen and twenty-two. The girls were always out, taking drugs, going to clubs, shagging guys, the things girls that age with any sense did. One of them went to the Ministry of Sound, which was sound. That was the one I fancied, the sort of New Age lassie, the youngest, I think. I fancied all of them really. However, Des and May didn't seem to bother about them, their chief concern was the welfare of the lad.
— There he is! Des exclaimed, as a noise came from the back door of the kitchen and a grumpy-looking selfish black cat meandered in through the flap. — C'mere lad, owah heah by the fyah! You moost be freezin! Tell us what you've been oop to then? Eeeh, you leetal boogah!
It is a good scoff and I get back to the flat a little bevvied. It's good to have a stomach full of stodgy food again. Best of all, Monday was cracked. Granted Tuesday was a cunt, but it got better on Wednesday. We all went down the local pub on Wednesday nights, me, Cliff, Darren, Gerard, Avril and Sandra. It was good living in the same flat as lassies; they kept standards high, well, higher than they would have been otherwise. It was a barry flat and everyone got on or got on most of the time. I thought of Simmy languishing in the Scrubs for housebreaking and felt pretty good about it. I tried not to think of her, of Blind Cunt, of my mum, of Scotland. We all did drugs here, but it seemed less desperate, more of a recreational thing rattier than a lifestyle. We'd sit in the pub on Wednesday and Thursday nights talking about what clubs, gigs and drugs we'd be into at the weekend.
After getting home from Des and May's, I went straight to my room. I put on a KLF tape and lay back on the bed feeling pretty pleased with myself. I thought of Des and May's daughters, then of Gleaves, and resolved to borrow a pair of strides from Cliff, to keep the tie-wearing penile-challenged toss-bag oaf ma case.
There was a knock on the door and Avril came in. I didn't really know her that well to talk to; she was far more self-contained than Sandra, though pleasant enough.
— Can I talk to you for a bit? she asked.
— Sure, sit down, I smiled. There was a basket-chair in the room. My spirits rose. It was fairly obvious that she nursed a passion for me and wanted to shag me. I should have picked up the vibes before. I expanded my smile and let a bit of soul seep into my watery eyes. This poor lassie's been besotted and I haven't even noticed.
— This is really difficult, she began, — but I just have to say it.
I felt for her. — Listen, Avril, you don't have to say anything.
— Darren ... Gerald ... they've told you? I told them not to tell you! I wanted to say this myself!
— No, no, they haven't.. . it's just. ..
—What? It's not you, is it?
This was confusing. — It's not me what?
She took a deep breath. — Listen, I think we're talking at cross-purposes here. This is very hard for me to say.
— Eh,but. . .
— Just listen. I want you to know I'm not accusing you of anything. Please understand that. I've spoken to Darren and Gerald. I've not had a chance to speak to Cliff yet, but I will. This is pretty embarrassing. It's just that some of my underwear's been taken from my drawer. I'm not accusing you, though. I want to talk to everyone. It's just that I don't like the idea of living with a pervert.
— I see, I said; hurt, disappointed but intrigued. — Well, I smiled, I'm certainly a pervert, but not that type.
That got a mild, brief laugh. — I'm only asking.
— Yeah, well it has to be somebody, I suppose. To you, it's as likely tae be me as anybody. I can't see Cliff or Darren, or even Gerard behaving in that sortay way. Well, Gerard would, but he widnae be sneaky aboot it. That's no his style. He'd go intae the pub wi yir knickers aroond his heid.
That thought didn't amuse her. — As I said, I only asked.
— You don't think it's me, do you?
— I don't know what to think, she said sourly.
— Well, that's fuckin' great. My boss thinks I'm a smelly tramp and someone I live with drinks I'm a pervert.
— We don't live together, she frostily corrected me, — we share a house.
— Well, I said, as she got up to leave, — if I see anyone behaving suspiciously, like not taking drugs, paying the rent on time, that sortay thing, I'll let you know.
She left, obviously unable to see the funny side. It made me wonder who was the pervert. I thought it had to be Sandra.
On Thursday I was back at May's for tea again. I stayed late because Lisanne, her youngest but one daughter was in. She was good to talk to and look at. Moreover, she didn't think I was a pervert, although, I suppose, she didn't really know me that well. Des was out, and May insisted on giving me a lift home.
This was unusual, but it was late. I thought nothing of it as I piled into the car. She was chatty, but nervously so, as we drove along the Uxbridge Road. Then she pulled off at a turning and stopped in a carpark at the back of some shops.
— Eh, what's up May? I asked. I thought something must be wrong with the car.
— Do you like Lisanne, then? she asked.
I felt a bit coy. — Eh, aye, she's a really nice lassie.
— Surprised you haven't got yourself a girlfriend.
— Well, ah'm no really intae getting too involved.
— The love em n leave em type are you?
— Well, ah widnae really say that. ..
I was more the love em and they leave me type.
She put her finger in one of the rips on my jeans and started stroking my bare thigh. Her hands were doughy, her fingers like stumps. — Mister Gleaves was right about you. You're going to have to invest in a new pair of jeans.
— Eh, ay, I replied. I was feeling uneasy. Not aroused, far from it, but gripped with a morbid curiosity as to what she was about.