by Irvine Welsh
Say naw.
Johnny still tap-tap-tappin like a patient old prospector looking for gold. He looks at me and shoots us a cracked smile. — You’ve goat shite veins.
Not too late! No too late tae make an excuse, he gied ye an out thaire, say no, no, no …
— Aye, ah cannae gie blood.
Say something else … say fuckin naw …
NAW, NAW, NAW …
— That might be just as well, he smiles as he stabs the needle intae my airm. Ah look at him petulantly, upset at the sharp pain, the intrusion. He smiles wi those rotten teeth and sucks some ay ma blood back intae the syringe. The word ‘dinnae’ briefly forms on ma lips but he pushes and empties the contents ay the barrel intae me. Ah look at the empty hypo. Ah can’t believe he’s just put that shit inside me.
Fear rises up ma spine like mercury touched by heat up a thermometer. Then it’s gone. Ah smile at Johnny. Just as the thought forms: is that aw there is tae it? ah get a sudden rush and a glow, then ma insides, body and brain, are like a fruit pastille, melting in a huge mooth. Suddenly everything that was burning in ma heid, every fear and doubt, just dissolves, ah can just feel them receding intae the distance …
Aye, Aye, Aye, Aye, AYE, AYE
In my mind’s eye, ah’ve goat an image ay ma brar Billy, when we were walkin along Blackpool prom, crossin ower the road n turnin intae a side street ay red-bricked guest hooses. It’s a hot summer’s day n ah’m eatin a 99 ice-cream cone.
Johnny says something like, — Good shit but, eh?
— Aye …
Aye …
Ah’m overwhelmed wi the sense that everything is, was and would be, completely okay. A state ay pure fuckin euphoric bliss passes through us, like sunshine ower shadow, makin things no only right, but just right.
Aye …
A sudden nausea curdles in my gut and ah feel this moist sickness risin up intae ma throat. Swanney sees me dry-retching and passes ower a sheet ay newspaper. — This shit’s strong, forgot ye were a novice, deep breaths … he says.
Oh aye, but nae fear now, Swanolito, ah’m fuckin flyin …
Ah swallow it back doon, ridin it oot, and ah feel great, propping maself up against the back ay the couch. Ah dunno what ah’d expected, mibbe acid-like hallucinations, but there’s nowt like that, everything is as it eywis wis, but it no sae much looks as feels beautiful, welcoming and just damn fine, like aw the sharp edges in the world have blurred and smoothed. Ma stiff and jagged spine is now like a bendy piece ay rubber. A polis baton would bounce right oaf it, smashing the cunt right back in the chops …
Oh aye.
— Good, mate, eh? Swanney says.
— You did something … interesting … there, John. Ah feel the words tumble slowly oot n we’re laughin softly thegither.
Sick Boy is next up, and watching me in wonderment. Then the tourniquet is oan his airm, and Johnny’s spike is gaun intae his big, dark vein.
— This is the best, ah say, as ah watch it hit him, and feel him slump against me, as warm and soft as a big stuffed toy.
— Oh … ya fuckin beauty … he gasps, then throws up onto the newspaper. When he sits up, he fixes me in a dopey smile. — The word … the ‘T’ word … ma dictionary … wis tourniquet … by the … by the Holy Papa’s sweet, low-swingin nutsack … that’s fuckin cosmic …
— Cosmic … ah parrot in slow laughter. We’re gaun naewhaire, we’ve scored a gram fae Swanney, which Sick Boy’s pocketed, and we’re sitting here for a wee while longer in the deep, dozy silence ay afternoon heat, broken only by a kid’s shout or passing car horn ootside. Swanney pits oan a Doors album. Never liked that shite before but ah’m sortay gittin it now. Maist ay aw ah’m enjoyin the slow stream ay delicious talk, wise and daft, posturings and retorts, and how ah’m baskin in the hypnotic afterglow ay ‘Riders on the Storm’, even as ah luxuriate in the track on the first side he’s pit back oan. As the darkness presses in tight around us, ah feel great. Fuck gaun intae toon, and the mean backstreets, where edgy club bouncers spar verbally wi sly, have-a-go drunks, cheered oan by underdressed, goosefleshed lassies wi cries as shrill as seagulls. I’ve nowt but a withering disdain for it all. Disnae matter if it’s Mickey Platini or Franco Begbie, they will aw just have tae wait.
Family Planning
BELLE FRENCHARD HEARD the retching sounds coming from the bathroom, as she advanced up the stairs with a cup of milky tea for her daughter. Instantly, she prayed that it wasn’t Samantha making those noises. Please let it be Ronnie, Alec or George, they were aw oot last night. But no Samantha.
When her daughter, grey and frail, emerged to face her, they exchanged a dark, slow acknowledgement, and Belle just knew. The words tumbled from her slack mouth. — Yir in the family wey …
Samantha didn’t try to deny it. She felt herself stiffening up as she faced the bull-like figure of her mother. She thought about the life growing inside her, and was startled by the absurd truth that she herself had emerged from Belle’s doughy, sweaty frame.
That wee bastard Sean … The first notion Belle settled on quickly crumbled. — But Sean’s been in the fuckin army for six fuckin months … she thought out loud, before demanding, — Whae’s is it!
Samantha glared back into Belle’s deranged eyes, wanted to truculently proclaim, ‘It’s mine.’ But all that spilled from her was a limp, — What d’ye mean?
— What the fuck d’ye think ah mean? Belle stood, hands on her hips, veins bulging in her neck. — WHAE’S THE FUCKIN FAITHER?!
At that point Ronnie, who had been slowly lumbering up the stairs, nursing a brutal hangover, shot into higher animation. A heavy-muscled gym rat, he rarely drank, and was glad of the rush of adrenalin supplanting the lethargy of the booze still clogging up his system. Cold eyes in tight focus, he asked in low, threatening tones, — What’s aw this?
— Tell um, Belle insisted, crossing her meaty forearms. — Tell us whae the fuckin faither is!
— It’s nowt tae dae wi youse!
— Aw aye? If it’s gaunny be livin under this fuckin roof it’s goat plenty tae dae wi me! Belle stridently trumpeted. — Thaire’s nae money comin intae this fuckin hoose! George’s idle; he’s idle. She pointed at Ronnie who felt a rage burn inside him. He hated the way his mother used that term for his employment status. — Alec’s idle!
And now George, lean-framed, with the piercing eyes of his older brother, and Alec, heavier, slower and softer, were up the stairs, lining up behind their mother, the judge, and brother, the sheriff, of the posse that had already decided it was a lynching party. Samantha felt the oxygen being sucked out of the air. — Ye dinnae ken um. He’s fae Leith.
— If we dinnae ken um, we soon fuckin will, dinnae worry aboot that, Ronnie said, voice low wi threat, tensing the muscles in his arm and back, enjoying the power he felt surge through his frame.
— He’s takin responsibility, whaever he is, Belle rasped, head shaking, hand squeezing the banister, then was suddenly zapped by an incredulous afterthought. — How the fuck did ye faw fuckin pregnant in this day n age?
Samantha chewed on her bottom lip, swallowed hard. — Ah wis oot drinkin with Wilma and Katie. Ah forgoat tae git ma faimlay plannin … wi Sean bein away … She cringed at the thought. — Ah met this felly. Wi goat pished, n then …
— Sean’s gaunny dae his nut, George said in malicious glee, savouring the thought, like a connoisseur does a drop of good wine, then added, — but ye ken that, eh?
Samantha half turned into the wall. Sean was not a comforting thought.
— What’s his name? Ronnie demanded.
Samantha’s thin jaw shot defiantly forward. — He’s goat a lassie, he’s no interested in us bein thegither, n he doesnae care aboot the bairn, she said in a righteous burst, feeling the sway and impact of her information. — Sais if ah try n claim it’s his he’ll git a dozen ay his mates tae stand up in coort n say they wir aw wi us n aw, she blurted out, then began to cry.
— Ye surely didnae �
� Belle couldn’t stop herself.
— COURSE AH DIDNAE! Samantha wailed at her mother. — What dae ye take us fir?!
— Well, this felly’ll huv tae stand by ye, Belle mumbled, a little guilty.
— He’s no gaunny but! He telt us!
— We’ll fuckin well see aboot that, Ronnie said in soft, measured fury.
Belle’s rage cooled, and she put her arm around the girl, all the time perfectly aware that her daughter was manipulating her. — There, there, darlin … we’ll git through this.
Ronnie, though, his huge muscles pumping up with blood, right in front of her, was like a superhero in transition. The way that Franco bastard had treated her had been an insult to him as much as her. He had ripped the pish out of her in that pub, and now he was going to fucking well get it. — Ah’m no gaunny ask ye again, Ronnie said in a low wheeze. — What’s his name?
— Francis, she said softly, — Francis Begbie.
The brothers looked to each other. — Dinnae ken um. Ronnie turned to George, estimating that his younger brother was more likely to be a peer of this boy who had disgraced their sister.
— He’s a wide cunt, George conceded warily, now concerned that he would be the one delegated by Ronnie to take revenge. He looked into his older brother’s murderous eyes, then considered the growing reputation of this Francis Begbie boy. Estimated the potential squeeze of being caught between those two forces.
George’s silent younger brother, Alec, who, due to his prematurely thinning hair, was often taken for the senior of the pair, suddenly spoke. — He’s a deid cunt, if he disnae dae the right thing by oor Sam.
— Too fuckin right, Ronnie snapped. — Youse two go and pey this Francis Begbie cunt a wee visit. Pit him in the picture. Sort it oot. Jist tell um he disnae want me comin n seein um!
With her mother’s arms around her slender body, Samantha unleashed another cataract of sobs, even as she cracked a smile, unseen and buried in that meaty bosom.
Way of the Dragon
WE FUCKING WELL shat ourselves this afternoon, the Rent Boy and me. We’re in the flat, me sprawled over my two corded black beanbags, Renton spreadeagled oan the couch, discussing the barry time wi the skag the other night; puffing Denis Law and watching Bruce Lee and Chuck Norris’s climactic fight scene in The Way of the Dragon. This gram bag wi goat fae Swanney’s fair burning a hole in ma pocket, but Rents wants tae leave it for a bit n we’ve made a pact that we’re daein it thegither. I’m about tae broach the subject again when there’s a hammering on the door. Then a voice, booming through the letter box down the hall: — Youse cunts! Open the fuck up!
We look at each other and the thought flashes between us: It’s Begbie! We stood the cunt up!
Neither ay us are in a hurry tae move. Renton can get it and take the blow across the chops. But he’s thinking the same thing. — We ignore it, ah whisper.
Rents eyes widen. — He’s probably heard the telly, but.
— Fuck! Right, we’ll both go. You talk … naw, I’ll talk … naw, you talk!
— What’s it tae fuckin well be!
— You talk!
We get up and head tae the door, mentally preparing excuses, and ah snip it open, and Begbie, excited, pushes past us intae the flat. He’s carrying six tins ay lager. — Sorry tae fuckin well stand yis up the other night, boys, a wee pressy tae fuckin well make it up likes, he says, as we follow him back intae the front room wi a glance ay bemused relief passing between us. Franco collapses oantae the couch. — Bruce Lee … fuckin barry! Aye, ah met this fuckin burd, eh? Mind ay that June, June Chisholm fae Leithy? Wisnae much back then but see the fuckin tits oan it now, ya cunt! Wisnae fuckin shy, tell yis that fir nowt …
— Aw aye, Rents sais, tentatively standing next tae him and springing a can. He chucks me one ower and ah crack it open, even though it’s Tennent’s pish, which ah cannae drink as the inside ay ma mooth instantly tastes like the tin. I slump back onto the bags.
— Hud that yin in ma fuckin sights fir donks, ya cunt. Franco rubs his baws through his jeans and treats us tae a pelvic thrust. — Saw her up the fuckin Spiral oan Friday night n ah jist fuckin well gits up n fires right in thaire! Anywey, been fuckin well nailin it aw weekend. Fill hoose, the loat. Wisnae even gaunny gie us a fuckin gam at first. Ah goes: ‘Ya cunt, giein us a fuckin gam’s the least yuv goat tae worry aboot!’ Aye, wisnae that fuckin shy once ah goat her gaun! And he thrusts forward on the couch, hudin his can up for clinking, so it’s toast time again. I stretch over tae oblige. I recall that Chisholm slag: a baboon-in-waiting. Our Francis is surely the man to help her fulfil her sordid destiny.
— You’re on a molten streak right now, Franco, Rents goes.
— Too right. Youse two probably ended up fuckin pished n shaggin the lovely ‘Pam’ again, he waves a hand in the air, — whin ah wis fuckin pulverisin that June’s pussy aw weekend. He slams his fist repeatedly intae his open hand. — Stick wi me, ah’ll git yis yir fuckin hole awright, ya useless cunts!
Ah force another slug ay what tastes like rancid, liquid aluminium. — I feel inspired by your success, Frank, I grin, rising and secreting the can and its vile contents onto the windae ledge behind the curtains. — I’ve a couple ay prospects so ah’m gaunny leave you boys and check them oot. Don’t wait up, Mark.
Poor Rent Boy. Not only have ah lumbered him with Begbie, he also has his video ruined at its climax. Fuck watching kung fu movies wi Franco, it’s as dangerous as it gets as he tries to demonstrate his versions ay the moves, usually on you. As Renton has moved into this flat, he can share the entertainment and hosting duties.
I’m off to see mama mia and, of course, our good neighbours Coke and Janey. I’ve been doing my fair share ay hingin oot down the Bannanay flats, and it ain’t just been for some of Mama’s home cooking. Yeah, life at the old place is better sans Cunty Fud, and my ma has heard the great news that she’s finally got that new Housing Association gaff in the South Side she’s been eftir for years. That will seeken his pus!
Enthusiastically trotting down the Walk to my old power base, I elect tae body-swerve Mama’s homestead for my neighbours’ identical abode. Janey, wearing a flattering blue top and tight black leggings, beckons me in and settles me doon in an armchair. Another Mogadon saga of Coronation Street, the British brain-dead’s perennial drug of choice, seeps intae the magnolia walls ay the Anderson household.
But Simone is finding it rather hard tae stay cool with Maria sitting opposite on the couch. My leg beats out an insistent rhythm as I sneak glances at her; blonde hair pinned back, but fringe cascading forward into those big blue eyes. With the heavy lids, long lashes and that hair flopping into them, they have a sleepy aspect that screams ‘bed’. That delectable honey-coloured flesh revealed as she’s wearing a backless one-piece brown dress, properly displaying that slender neck and strong limbs, covered in the faintest of downy blonde hair. The dress comes just above the knee, her long shapely legs tapering down to painted toenails and gold flip-flops. Then a sudden mock fight with wee Grant erupts; her magazine dropped and retrieved, the manoeuvre briefly exposing a sliver of white panties, so electric against those Majorca-tanned thighs that I almost cream on the spot.
Quit mitherin! Deirdre says on the box.
Those big full lips …
Thankfully, hatefully, Coke turns his wizened coupon tae me, chomping at the bit. — Ah’m thinking it might be time for a wee drink. Ye comin doon the boozer, Janey?
Am ah eckers like, rooster-puffs Ivy Tilsley, as Janey, curled up like a cat in the big chair, says, — Nah, I’m steyin in and catching up oan ma soaps. If ye go oot, bring us back a fish supper.
— Mince pie supper for me, wee Grant says in squeaky enthusiasm.
I look to Maria, buried in her magazine, ignoring everybody.
— You no wantin anything back fae the chippy later oan, hen? Janey asks her.
She looks up from the mag. That sweetly contemptuous pout: my God, I’m closer than I’ve ever been
to love. — Nup.
Coke raises his eyebrows, and signals for me tae rise. And so we depart. — Teenagers, he muses as we turn intae the stair.
— Aye, it must be hard, bringing up kids, like. Wouldnae be me, ah can tell ye. It’s aw my ma wants but; me, Carlotta and Louisa wi stacks ay bairns tae bring roond tae her place and spoil.
— Naw, stey young free and single for as long as ye can, Coke advises. — No that ah’ve any regrets, he qualifies stridently, though I know I’ll hear a fucking shedload of them in the pub once the drink starts to flow, — cause Maria’s a crackin lassie, never gied us a minute’s trouble. And the wee man, he’s brand new n aw.
Do you actually know how phenomenally fucking rideable your daughter is?
We emerge from the grey stairs intae blinding sunshine and take a stroll doon tae the Bay Horse in Henderson Street. Inevitably, Coke starts gabbing once the alcohol goes down. He has two moods: sober, morose and quiet, then drunk, slavering and noisy. — Heard that boy, the fitba player, your mate, took a bad doin in the Grapes.
That cunt Dickson again, I’ll wager. Still, it’s probably the one occasion it was warranted. — Rab McLaughlin. Second Prize, we call him, on account ay the number ay kickins he’s had. Always wants tae row when he’s pished. I’m sure he no only asked for it, but begged, I inform Coke, thinking that it’s only a matter ay time before he and Second Prize meet up and become best mates. I can see them now down at the hostel, swapping jakey tales of woe.
I’m getting a bit antsy. I should have called in at my mother’s, and I’m thinking ay daein some ay that gear ah got fae Johnny Swan. Rents made me agree we should wait a few days and shoot it together, but he’ll be stuck on the pish with Begbie now and probably heading for the cells in Queen Charlotte Street or the High Street with that psychotic wretch in tow. Now I’m wanting tae get shot ay Coke, but without alienating him, as I need tae maintain the open-house policy. That wee Maria is a frosty chicky, and I reckon it’ll take something special tae get intae those snooty wee keks. A case of the ugly ducking who becomes the swan overnight and starts tae sense her power. I see a Kathleen Richardson or Lizzie McIntosh No. 2 in the making; she needs tae get a taste of SDW meat before she develops the same cock-teasing habits. The fear that I might have missed the boat suddenly overwhelms me, and makes me think of how tae up my game.