by Irvine Welsh
Well, the chickens have come home to roost now, Daddy. This anti-drugs campaign is about to blow up in your face.
— Col! my dad shouts. — Come in mate, come in! Cassidy pushes past me. My auld man gives him a matey slap on the shoulder. — This is ma laddie, he says, — he's been in London.
Cassidy growls an incomprehensible greeting.
— Col's the secretary of Muirhouse Action on Drugs, he explained.
I might have guessed: the nutters will always take the side of the forces of reaction.
— We ken the dealers in this scheme, son. We're gaunny drive them out. The polis willnae dae it, so we will, my auld man says, seemingly unaware that he's talking in a low Clint Eastwood drawl.
— Good luck with your campaign, Dad, I said. I had no doubt that he, with Cassidy's assistance, would succeed; succeed in making every fucker's life a misery. I made to hit the town.
— Oh, son, remember mat wee Karen's got your old room. You'll be down here on the couch now.
Welcome home: evicted from your room in favour of some cretinous brat. I left and bounced up the town. The stag started off good-naturedly enough. Ronnie was jellied, out of his face, when we met up. Things were happy but uneventful until we met Lucia and a couple of her mates who insisted on tagging along with us. She got drunk and had a heavy spraff with Denise about who should get tae suck Ronnie off.
We went on to a few pubs, a couple of silly arguments started and a fight broke out. I swung at Penman who'd been on my case all night. I was held by Big Ally Moncrief while Penman danced away from me gesticulating sharply and breathlessly: — Moan then, moan then ... ootside ... think yir a wide-o . . . cunt thinks he's a wide-o . . . moan then, ootside . . .
Big Moncrief said that he hated to see mates fight, particularly on such an occasion. Denise said that we should kiss and make up. We didn't, but we did hug and make up. We did an ecky each and clung to each other like limpets to a rock for the rest of the evening. I'd never felt so close to anyone, well, not another man, as I did to Penman that night. It was a lovers-without-the-shagging type scene. Conversely, I've seldom felt so awkward as I did when we met up with Tina's crowd at the Citrus. Olly was there. Former lovers generally find these things a strain; too much ego, no too much id involved. Once you've been with each other in a primal, shagging state, it's hard to talk about the weather.
Olly called herself 'Livvy' now. She had been going through A Period Of Personal Growth and now seemed enough like her friends to want to be like someone else, someone they wanted to be like. She was painting now, she told me. It seemed to me that what she was actually doing was talking and drinking. She asked what I was doing. I told her and she said: — Same old Brian, in a condescending way, as if to make the point that I was a useless reprobate from a mildly embarrassing past she'd left behind; a figure of pity.
She then shook her head in contempt, though I was not her target. — I've tried to tell Tina that she's being stupid. She's too young and Ronnie ... well, I don't think I can ever comment on him because I don't know him. I've never seen him straight; never had a conversation with him. What the hell does he get out of being like that?
I thought about it. — Ronnie's just always enjoyed the quiet life, I told her. She started to say something, then stopped, and made her excuses and left me. She looked good, the way that somebody who used to be but is no longer into you can do. I was glad she'd left though. People who are undergoing Periods Of Personal Growth are generally pains in the arse. Growth should be incremental and gradual. I hate these born-again wankers who try to completely reinvent themselves, and burn their past. I went over and held Penman in my arms for a long time. Over his shoulder I cringed as I caught Roxy's malevolent gaze and I thought of Blind Cunt for the first time in ages.
I could see the stag passing into the next week. I'd be drunk and stoned the whole time, and it would roll seamlessly into the wedding. I was wondering whether or not I'd bother going back to London, my room in that flat, my arrears and my crap job.
The day after the stag, when I had been in the Meadow Bar with The PATH and Sidney, I ran into Ted Malcolm, a guy from the parks. He was at me to put my name down for a Seasonal Park Officer job. — You wir ey well thought ay in the parks, ken? he told me in the confidential bullshit manner that people associated with the council used. The culture of civic corrup-tion and innuendo permeated down from the shit-brains at councillor level to the ranks of the lowest official; Stalinism with a sweetie-wife's face, complete with headsquare.
— Aye, I said noncommitally.
— Garland always liked ye, he nodded.
Yes, in spite of it all, I'd maybe give Garland a bell. London had been starting to feel like Edinburgh had before I'd left it. Gleaves, May, even Darren, Avril, Cliff, Sandra and Gerard; they all constituted a set of expectations which snapped around me like a sprung trap. You can only be free for so long, then the chains start to bind you. The answer is to keep moving.
It was a nightmare getting Ronnie up and ready for the church. A total fuckin nightmare. His ma gave me a hand dressing him. She never seemed to show any concern at his state. — It must've been some night last night, eh? Well, ah suppose ye only git married the once.
I felt like saying, don't count on it, but I held my tongue. We bundled Ronnie into the car then into the church.
— Do you, Ronald Dickson, take Martina Devenney, to be your lawful wedded wife, to have and to hold, to love and to cherish, forsaking all others, so long as you both shall live?
Ron was jellied, but he managed tae gie the minister cunt the nod. It wasn't enough for this fucker though, he looked intently at him, trying tae elicit a more positive reaction. I nudged Ronnie harshly.
— Sound, he managed to mumble. It would have to do. The minister tutted under his breath, but left it.
— Do you, Martina Devenney, take Ronald Dickson to be your lawful wedded husband, to have and to hold, to love and to cherish, forsaking all others so long as you both shall live?
Tina looked a bit reluctant, as if it had at last dawned on her that this was serious shite she was getting intae. Eventually she managed to cough out, — I do.
Anyway, they were duly pronounced catatonic and wife.
We went to the Capital Hotel for the meal and Ronnie fell asleep during my speech. It wasn't a particularly inspired speech, but it scarcely deserved that sort of response.
At the reception I got a stance up at the bar with Raymie Airlie and Spud Murphy, two space cowboys of the highest order.
— Crimson style, bantam prince, Raymie observed, looking round the bar.
— You took the words right out of my mouth, Raymie, I smiled, then turning to Spud, — still skag-free, ma man?
— Eh, yeah... until there's free skag, ah'm skag-free, ken, catboy?
— Aye, me n aw. Ah went a wee bit radge the other week thair, but ah dinnae want tae git a habit, ken? Ah mean, how bad is that, right?
— Yeah, habits are nae fun, likesay. Sortay full-time occupation, catboy, ken? Sortay diverts the attention fae what's gaun oan.
— Mind you, it's the jellies that's fuckin every cunt now. Look at Ronnie. His ain fuckin wedding fir fuck's sake . . .
Raymie sighs and sings a chorus of Echo and The Bunny-men's 'The Cutter', then puts his tongue in my ear. I peck him on the cheek and pat his arse. — You're raw sex, Raymie, raw fuckin sex man, I tell him.
The PATH, Big Moncrief and Roxy come over to join us. I do some intros. — Awright boys, yous ken Spud n Raymie, eh?
Looks of suspicious acknowledgment are exchanged. My bevvy and druggy mates never really hit it off.
— Funny thing though, the marriage stakes n that, ken? Good if ye kin work it oot, likesay, Spud ventures, breaking an uneasy silence.
— The only thing that marriage is good for is sex oan tap, Moncrief says, with more than hint of belligerence.
Roxy puts on a Glasgow accent: — But ah like tae go oan the boatum sometimes.
W
e all laugh at this, except Moncrief. One thing about hard cunts that I've never understood: why do they all have to be such big sensitive blouses? The Scottish Hardman ladders his tights so he rips open the face of a passer-by. The Scottish Hardman chips a nail, so he head-butts some poor fucker. Some other guy is wearing the same patterned dress as the Scottish Hardman, and gets a glass in his face for his troubles.
We move onto television. — Telly's fuckin shite, says Mon-crief, — the only thing worth watchin oan the fuckin telly is they nature programmes. Ken wi that cunt, what's his name, that David Attenborough cunt.
— Aye, agrees Spud, — that cat's got the gig sussed, likesay. That's the kinday job that would be right up ma street, man, ken wi aw they animals, likesay. Freaky that would be, ken?
We spraff on all night, too drunk to dance with the wizened aunties and shaggable cousins. I drop some acid and note that Roxy's taken something. He's drunk, but he's taken something. Spud's given him one of those Supermarios. That's far too much for the Rox. He's an alcohol man. He's shaking his bowed head and babbling, — Ah kilt urn! Ah fuckin kilt urn, and he's close to tears.
I was struggling with the acid as well. It was not a good idea. These Supermarios; fuck me the whole world could be a hallucination the colours are clashing and reverberating and Tina's face is sick and vampire-like in that dress and Roxy's babbling and there's a polar bear running around on all fours...
— Spud, d'ye see the bear, man? I asked.
— It's no a bear, man, it's a sortay bear-dug likesay, sortay half-man half dug but wi a bit ay bear in it, ken?
— Raymie, you saw it, you ken it wis a bear?
— Yes, I personally thought it was a bear.
— Fuck me! Raymie! You've just said something straight, something sensible.
— It's just the acid, he tells me.
Roxy's still shaking his heid; — That perr boy . .. that fuckin blind boy... they took his eyes... ah took his life ... fool's fuckin gold . . . ma soul's sick, made sick for fool's fuckin gold ... tell ays that's no sick . ..
— This acid is mental shit... Spud says.
I see Moncrief, sitting beside this plant monster. Moncrief's face is changing colour and shape. I see that he's no a human being. Denise comes over: — Taken any ay they Supermarios?
— Aye ... too much, man.
He buys one from Spud. Eight quid for this. My skin's been taken off. Eileen Eileen Eileen the Montparnasse Tower I had and lost love cause I was too young too stupid to identify and recognise it as such and it'll never come my way again not ever in a million fuckin years and I'll never make three score years and ten and anyway I don't want to without her what a mess that would be without Eileen who's at college in London I don't know what which one or at least was last year I hope you're happy now happy without your old smart cunt boyfriend who thought he was being entertaining but was just being an exasperating immature selfish prick not exactly a shortage of them never is and you were right to leave him as a decision purely rational. ..
— Whit's up wi Roxy, Denise asks.
— Too much acid. They Supermarios . . .
I grabbed Roxy's face in my hands. — Listen, Roxy, you're having a bad trip. We've got tae git ootay here. There's too many malignant spirits aroond here, Rox.
We were out of our faces, but we had to get out into the air. Olly gave me a disgusted look, but mere was a little bit of pity in it. — Don't fuckin pity me, I shouted, but she couldn't hear me, or maybe she could but I got outside with Roxy, my legs rubber. The PATH tried to follow us but I told him it was okay, and he goes back inside to look for a shag.
It was a cold and crisp evening, or maybe it was just the Supermarios.
— AH KILT UM, AH FUCKIN KILT UM! Ah'm gaun tae the polis... Roxy was in torment. His face seemed to be folding in on itself. . .
I grabbed his shoulders. — Naw yir no! Think fuckin straight! Git a grip fir fuck's sake! Us gaun doon's no gaunny bring that cunt back, is it?
— Naw ...
— Then thir's nae sense in it. It was a fuckin accident, right!
— Aye ... He grows a little calmer.
— An accident, I repeat. — Yuv goat tae keep control ay yir tongue. It's that acid. Jist dinnae fuckin touch it again, it disnae agree wi ye. Stick tae the bevvy. Ye'll be awright whin ye come doon. Ye cannae go spraffin shite like that aroond. Yill git us fuckin jailed man. Thir's nae such thing as truth, Roxy, no wi these cunts. The polis willnae bother a fuck. It's jist another couple ay bodies fir thaim. Makes thaim look better, thaim n aw they slimy politician cunts, whae can say that the polis are winnin the war against crime; how sick is that? Blind Cunt's death wis fuckin tragic, let's no make it even mair tragic by giein they cunts what they want. Wise up! It wis a fuckin accident!
He looks at me with fear in his eyes, as if he's realised for the first time what he's actually been saying: — Fuckin hell, yir right man. What wis ah fuckin thinkin aboot spraffin away like that... nae cunt heard ays, did they, Bri? NAE CUNT HEARD AYS, BRI?
— Naw, jist me. No this time. But leave the fuckin acid alane. Right?
— Aye .. . this is mad. Ah took acid before, Bri, yonks ago. It was fuck all like this bit, this is fuckin mad. How fuckin mad is this, Bri?
— It's awright. Will go back tae your place and come down. Any bevvy in the hoose?
— Aye, loads ay cans. Whisky n aw.
It's strong acid, real head-fucking gear, but when we get to Roxy's we start drinking like there's no tomorrow. It's all you can do on acid, just thrash it out your system with alcohol. Pish is a depressant; it bring you down. You start to get control back.
It was imperative that Roxy didn't speak. I hadn't booted snow in Blind Cunt's face that night. I'd booted him in the face. The decisive blow was as likely to have been mine as it was Roxy's. It was wrong; just horrible, stupid, cowardly and reckless. I can't wreck my life for that one stupid mistake in the heat of the moment. No way. I just won't fuckin well do that. The Blind Cunt and the Smart Cunt; a tale of two cunts. Well that's that tale finished, I hope. Finished for good.
14
INTERVIEW
Fuckin hell, it's yon time again. I got a hell of a shock when Garland's signature appeared under the Edinburgh District Council logoed notepaper, inviting me along for an interview.
I had gone back down to London, but after the job at Ealing folded I did the Euro-Rail with Darren and Cliff. Darren and I ended up in Rimini. He's still there, doing barwork, security work, raving and shagging all the time. It was sound, but I had to come back for another wedding, my auld man's this time. They moved out of the scheme, into a Barratt box across the road in Pilton. It would be a slum within five years. The government wanted home-ownership to regenerate the area. It makes no real difference whether you pay rent to the council for a shit-house or mortgage payments to a building society for one. Stop paying the mortgage and you see exactly where the ownership lies. I had planned to head back to Rimini but got a chilly note from Darren saying that he had got into a big heavy lovey-shag scene with this woman and while I was welcome to stay in the gaff for a while ... blah blah blah. So I moved in with Roxy and put my name down for the parks.
— Hello, Brian, Garland extended his hand and I shook it.
— Mister Garland.
— Let me say, he began, — that the regrettable incident last year, I feel, on mature reflection, was a little out of character with you. I'm assuming that you've overcome all your, eh, depression problems?
— Yes, I feel on top of things now, Mister Garland. Health -wise, that is.
— That's good. You see, Brian, you were a model SPO until that little problem with Bert Rutherford. Now Bert is the salt of the earth, but I'm prepared to admit that he can be a zealot. The patrol needs Bert Rutherfords, otherwise the service would collapse into apathy and disarray. You've been at the coal-face, Brian; you know what a dull job it can be. You realise that the parks tend to attract disaffected groups of youths, who are not there
to use it as a place of recreation, but for more sinister purposes . . .
— I believe that to be the case, yes.
— That's why I want you back on the patrol, Brian. I need people this summer who know the ropes. Above all, I like you because you're a reader, Brian. A reader will never be bored. What are you reading these days?
— I've just completed Peter O'Toole's biography. I never realised he was from Leeds.
— Was he indeed?
— Yes.
— Good. So have you started on anything else?
— Yeah, I'm reading Jean-Paul Sartre's biography.
— Good. Biographies are good, Brian. Some seasonals read all those heavy philosophic and political works, books that by their very nature encourage discontent with one's lot, he said sadly. — After all, a beautiful day in a park. Life could be worse, eh!
— That's true, Mister Garland.
I was back on the parks. How weird was that?
15
PISH
I found myself in the City Cafe. I hated the place, but that's how it goes. The main reason I was here was that it was full of fanny and I hadn't had a shag in five months. That is far too long for someone my age; it's far too long for someone of any age. I always ended up here when I was feeling shite and wanting to feel better. That's probably why I hated it.
I'd been in there for about twenty minutes, drinking a coffee, when I felt someone sit beside me. I didn't turn around to see who it was until I heard the words: — No speakin?
It was Tina. I'd heard that she and Ronnie had split up recently.
— Awright, Tina?
— Aye, no bad. Yirsel?
— Sound, eh, sorry tae hear aboot you n Ron, but.
She shrugged and told me: — He goat really borin. It started when he goat that Nintendo system. Ah preferred it when he wis jellied; ye goat mair ootay urn then.
I knew that Ronnie had taken to that Nintendo game system like a duck to water. I thought that it was a positive step though, that it would give him an interest other man just being jellied all the time. — Did it no gie him an interest ootside ay drugs?