by Irvine Welsh
And fuck me, when the day came roond, ah did a double take when ah first clocked Joanne at Waverley Station, sitting in the big hall. She was reading Life & Times of Michael K by J. M. Coetzee, inevitably cause it had won some poxy prize and people like her, despite their free-thinker affectations, would eywis need tae be telt what tae read. We boarded the slick InterCity in an uncomfortable mutual antipathy; like me she wis probably wondering how the fuck we were gaunny stand each other’s proximity for four weeks. Thankfully, Bisto was waiting on the train, having got oan at Aberdeen, and he had a cairry-oot. We drank a beer or two each en route tae Newcastle, me electrified at the prospect of seeing Fiona, then forcing nonchalance when ah spied her at the platform, getting oan the train. Joanne suddenly screamin in that Weedgie voice, — Fiona, wur heee-ur!
Fiona looking so gorgeous, rubbing her tongue in concentration against her small, even front teeth, as she slung her bag oan the luggage rack and came towards us. Her presence and series ay movements casually ravaged everything inside us. — Hi, she said directly tae me, and ah’m sure ma skin went as rid as ma fuckin hair or the Aberdeen fitba strip Bisto wis wearin, wi the white pinstripes and 1983 ECWC crest. Aw ah could dae was tae coolly raise a can in a stagey toast, when ma insides were like chopped liver. She had on a black leather jacket turned up at the collar, and removed it tae display a Gang of Four T-shirt, while sweeping her hair back. Ah’d never fancied anybody so much in ma life.
We were on the road: London–Paris–Berlin–Istanbul.
Whaire else but Paris? Sittin at this pavement cafe in the Latin Quarter drinking Pernods wi chunks ay ice. It was warm and heady and we were getting rapidly pished. There was a flirty, sexy vibe in the air. Fuck knows how, but a daft drinking game started up, where we passed these chunks ay ice mooth-tae-mooth tae each other. This precipitated the performance ay deep kisses; Joanne and Fiona, tae me n Bisto’s open-moothed awe, then Joanne and me, and Bisto and Fiona as ah wept inside, then me and Bisto (we pushed stiff, closed mooths against each other, hamming it up), tae the cheers ay the lassies, then a quick bit ay musical chairs and ma heart poundin as me and Fiona looked at each other and in a suspended moment flashed a contract: I’m yours, your mine, before going at it. Eventually aware, wi the cheers turning tae groans, that the ice had melted, and it wisnae the only thing. Our faces stayed welded together as we ignored Bisto’s jocularly nervy comments and the controlling Joanne’s shrill protests. We’d gone and spoiled it aw for her. She wanted tae meet foreign boys, enjoy a splurge ay Continental cock before hooking some spotty bam at uni for life. Later on, Fiona even telt me she’d said, — This isnae how it was meant tae happen! Loved up, Fiona and me were an embarrassment tae Bisto and Joanne. They had nae interest in each other, but we were rubbing their faces in it, withoot meanin tae.
Like fuck.
Ah loved rubbin it in! It wis obvious that when we got back tae the hotel, near Gare du Nord, that we’d be sleeping thegither. It wis an Algerian grot-hole, but tae me the last word in sophistication. It was like livin wi a bird, but in Europe, which it was really. Growin up wi two brothers, a lassie’s simple domestic proximity fascinated me. Ah marvelled at her oan the edge ay the bed, in the surprisingly smart towelling robe they provided, sitting on the frayed and threadbare candlewick bedspread. Stepping oot ay the robe and intae the bath and shaving her legs. No just brushing her teeth, but daein something called flossing, wi this twiney stuff. Sittin at the table in front ay the mirror, putting oan make-up or idly filing nails, her wet hair wrapped in a towel.
Ah even took Parker’s advice and reread Tender Is the Night, fantasising about Mark Philip Renton and Fiona Jillian Conyers as a modern Dick and Nicole Diver, a bohemian couple travelling through Europe enjoying interesting adventures and making urbane observations oan the world at large. It was a big step up for me. My sex life had generally been a series ay bitter, sly and exceptionally swift copulations in stairs, family bedrooms or under grubby duvets in noisy squats. This wis pure decadence and it meant that poor Bisto and Joanne had to share the adjoining room wi its twin beds.
Then Berlin, and more of the same. Ah fuckin loved Berlin. There was this barry bit oan Line 6 gaun tae Friedrichstrasse, where the U-Bahn train went under the Waw, whizzin through a couple ay spooky abandoned stations on the Commie side that had been shut since partition, before re-emerging intae the western sector. Fiona and me sneaked away fae the others (we did that a lot) and got ower tae East Berlin proper, ah wis desperate tae see it. It wis much better than West: nae billboards disfiguring the beautiful auld buildings. A ginormous three-course lunch, fir thirty pence. A blow job in the park; clandestine spice added by the nearby presence ay armed guards. Almost missing the curfew, as we’d gone in through Friedrichstrasse and tried tae return via Checkpoint Charlie, clueless that we hud tae go back the same wey we’d gained entry.
Later, we sat in a cafe, drinking black coffee, as the sounds of the city – electric trains, car horns and people – buzzed around us, creating a strange but beautiful mood of relaxed excitement. Fiona’s eyes twinkled and wonderment leaked from her. — When we wur in Noel’s class, remember how white that room was?
— Aye, it always caught the light, and that blind was knackered.
— I mind one time when it was dazzling, it was in your eyes and you had your hand up to yer face n you were arguing wi Noel about the formation of capital in mercantile Europe.
— Eh … aye …
— I really wanted ter shag yer so badly …
Ah felt both elated and in despair at this revelation. — That wis six months ago … we could’ve been daein this for six fuckin months …
But we headed east with gusto, kite-aloft oan cheap wine and the buzz of our group. My heart was in a perpetual, turbulent riot, and Fiona’s was the same. We constructed this ineffable, giddy universe of celebration around us, pulling everyone and everything in our paths into it; singing the Istanbul and Constantinople song in cheesy American accents on the trains that rolled us through Europe.
Why did Constantinople get di woiks?
Ain’t nobody’s business but dem Toiks’.
By night, on our return to the hotel, blitzed by the sheer intensity of our togetherness, we’d gratefully fall into each other’s arms, coming explosively alive for another day’s sublime finale. Her sumptuous massages ay ma lower back, loving fingertips palpating that maltreated vertebrae, kneading out the pain inflicted by the state. We made up nicknames for each other; she called me her Luxuriant Leith Laddie, as ah loved tae steep in a bath. As we crawled into Turkey, Bisto and Joanne eventually cracked and goat oaf wi each other. There wis a gallows aspect tae it aw; they didnae really vibe n wir pushed intae it by the circumstances.
Istanbul was barry, full ay menacing squads ay uptight bams whae patrolled around lookin like they’d never seen a lassie before; it was just like Leith. Ah kept Fiona within airm’s reach. Wi ordered some mad stuff in a restaurant. The Aberdonian came out in Bisto when they put a plate ay koc yumurtasi, or ram’s baws, in front ay us; the cunt didnae ken whether tae eat thum or stroke thum.
The wildest time was crossing the city ower the Bosphorus by boat tae Besiktas pier. A fierce, punishing early-afternoon sun had sneaked centre stage, oppressing and saturating through a heavy haze ay cloud. Ma Fred Perry stuck tae me like a second skin. We decided tae droap this acid oan the way back, which ah’d scored fae a boy in a nightclub the previous evening, basically tae avoid buying the skag he’d offered me, which had tempted the fuck out ay us. The trip hit us like a ton ay bricks oan the deck ay the boat. It got tae me that we were crossing continents, leaving Asia and heading for Europe. As soon as that awareness kicked in, the boat’s narrow dimensions expanded beyond the range ay ma sight, which encompassed only Joanne. Ah couldnae see Bisto or Fiona, but she was attached tae me, ah could feel her, we were like a beast wi two heids. Her breath and blood pumping through us as if we were sharing veins, lungs and a heart. My life, past, present and future, seem
ed spread oot in a spatial panorama ower the extended deck; the bedroom in the Fort segueing intae the yin in the Housing Association gaff by the river, which suggested the Bosphorus, and ah turned back intae the East Terracing at Easter Road, then our Montgomery Street front room, which opened up into new vistas and nameless streets, which ah wis excited tae ken that some day ah’d walk doon …
— Will walk or have already walked in a previous life, ah whispered tae Fiona who was laughing loudly then saying repeatedly, — Fleegle, Bingo, Drooper and Snork.
Ah minded telling her that my ma called me, Dad, Billy and Wee Davie that, eftir the Banana Splits oan telly. Makin up a mess of fun, we thought in unison, as we regarded, now fae a single eye, Joanne having a shitey trip, and pleading constantly, — Ah’m tired ay this, when’s it gaunny stoap? When’s it gaunny stoap?
Ma one, sudden overwhelming insight that hit me like a baseball bat: Parker was right, as several books, flapping like birds, floated in front ay ma vision, mocking trompe l’oeils announcing his victory. — Ah get it aw now, ah conceded tae masel, my airm roond Fiona, as Bisto comforted Joanne wi ‘fit likes’ while the sea took oan the colour and texture ay a giant Hibs strip blowing in the wind, — ah understand how it’s aw fucked.
Fiona laughed again, an oddly mechanical sound like some device jamming, as ah pushed her hair tae the side and whispered, — Tender is the night, intae her ear, then locked ma numb lips oantae hers. The acid only complemented my love; lawless, winged, unconfined, crumbling the narrow barriers of my mind.
— When’s it gaunny stoap? Joanne kept moaning. — Ah dinnae like this any mair. Ah wahnt it tae stoap. When’s it gaunny stoap?
A gadge wi fantastic ink-black hair wi vivid blond tips, spiked up like an exotic Barrier Reef sea anemone, approached us. He wore mirror-lens shades that ah saw the Fiona-and-Mark Monster reflected back in. It had two zany heads wi protruding tongues, coming fae one body. The gadgie pointed tae the pier that had suddenly materialised at the side ay the now empty deck. — Are you not going to get off the boat, my friends?
Wi the trepidation ay pirates condemned tae walk the plank, we staggered, rubber-legged, doon the gangway tae dry land. — Fuckin … fuckin … amazin trip, min … Bisto gasped at me.
— No bad, ah conceded.
— A mezzur furn … Fiona purred.
— When’s it gaunny stow-oh-ohp …? Joanne bleated.
The answer was, like aw good things: too fucking soon. It was time tae return; our joyful sorrow ricocheting through the railway compartments across Europe as we headed back tae London town, fill ay song. ‘Istanbul and Constantinople’, ‘The Northern Lights of Old Aberdeen’, ‘I Belong to Glasgow’. (Delivered with surprising uninhibited gusto and not a little soul fae Joanne, who explained there was nae song for Paisley.) Ah wished there was yin for Leith, even Edinburgh would’ve done. But best of all, Fiona’s cheerful version ay ‘Blaydon Races’.
The sickening downer as the train crept closer tae hame; Fiona in my airms, heavy bombs ay tears rolling down her cheeks at Newcastle Station. Kissing her oily wee foreheid. Feeling in utter despair when she got off the train, wanting tae take her back hame wi us. But no tae a gaff wi Sick Boy in it, and never tae the parental hoose. Instead saying, as the red-faced cunt blew his whistle, — It’s only two weeks tae uni! Ah’ll come doon tae Newcastle next weekend!
We mouthed ‘I love you’ at each other like two goldfish through glass as the train separated us wi a slam ay its doors, then implacably removed me fae her, splittin us intae our separate daft wee countries.
— Aw, love’s young dream. Joanne’s bottom lip curled oot in couthy passive-aggressive bitterness as we headed north, a depleted trio. Then Joanne and me alighting at Edinburgh, leaving Bisto on his tod tae Sheepland. About tae issue her a cool goodbye salute at Waverley, but her lookin distressed and saying tae us, — Ah don’t wahnt everybody saying that Paul and me are gaun oot!
Ah departed wi a non-committal smile, and my holdall full ay minging clathes. Actually no … it didnae quite happen that wey, but that’s another story.
Is it? Be fucking honest.
Be fucking …
Enough.
Instead ay walking tae Montgomery Street, ah picked up an NME at the newsagent’s. It always made us think, wi some guilt, ay Hazel. Then ah jumped on a 22 bus tae get doon tae the old girl’s and dump off some washing. We didnae have a machine in Monty Street, and unlike Mrs Curran, ah hud nae desire tae take it up the Bendix.
When ah got hame, ah was so submerged in my own thoughts, it took us a while tae register that my mother was in tears. She sat doon oan the couch and let her heid faw intae her hands. Her thin shoodirs started shakin wi sobs. Ah knew. Instantly. But ah hud tae ask. — What’s wrong, Ma? What is it?
Ah looked tae Billy, sitting at the table. He gied us an enervated glance and said, — Wee Davie died in hoaspital. The night before last.
Ah felt a violent, jarring shock, at the finality ay it. The mantra it’s over playing in ma heid. A mess of fun. Lots of it for everyone. Snorky’s gone, from my ma’s Banana Splits, the silent yin. Fleegle the Hun, Billy Bingo and me, dear, dear Drooper, the cool but slightly socially inept lion, are aw still here. Ah felt a paralysis ay emotion as time stretched out. A pervading numbness was setting in, like a dentist’s anaesthetic, spreading through ma body. Then my faither emerging fae the kitchen: me, my ma and Billy aw suddenly looking up like a teacher had disturbed us daein something bad. Baith parents turning tae me, then tae Billy, then me again. Me just noddin back in slow acknowledgement, wi nothing tae say tae them. Never, ever having anything tae say tae them.
Misery Loves Bedfellows
I’VE BEEN HELPING my mother and sisters move intae their new South Side home in Rankellior Street, and, in the absence of the bold Marco Polo (and for all his substantial flaws, he’s the only cunt roond here on the same wavelength as me), hanging out at Janey’s place, hoping tae provide a bit ay support tae her and the kids. And also tae avoid the increasingly clingy Marianne. She told me that her friend April and some radge called Jim were now ‘going steady’, looking at me wi hopeful, needy eyes as she delivered this completely superfluous information. Going steady. A phrase guaranteed tae make ye run for the fucking hills!
So on this dull, dead, supposedly late-summer teatime, ah’ve arranged to take Janey tae see ma Uncle Benny at the Dockers’ Club. Ah find her mired in her perpetual daze, drinking heavily, a fuck-off glass of cheap red vino in front ay her. It’s almost like she feels closer tae Coke this way. Her face looks haggard under a feather cut which needs a stylist’s loving touch, and her eyes are dull and faraway, as she sits in faded grey tracky bottoms and a yellow T-shirt wi plastic lettering showing some bingo numbers around a bold slogan stating: I had the Full House at Caister Sands.
Janey has every reason tae be miserable. Officialdom has excelled in what it’s traditionally good at in Britain: screwing the lower orders. They closed ranks very fucking sharpish; the family wanted a murder conviction for Dickson, but that was quickly blown oot ay the water, and now he’s no even been done for manslaughter! The pathologist’s report had noted severe cranial injuries sustained in a fall as the likely cause ay death. They skated ower the wounds oan Coke’s face, focusing instead on his level ay intoxication. So Dickhead will be tried for serious assault, which carries a maximum sentence of two years (out in twelve months) if he’s found guilty.
With an offhand pull ay her cigarette, Janey drops a fucking bombshell on me, telling me that Maria has gone wi Grant tae her brother’s in Nottingham. — The kids are taking it awfay bad. Grant’s in a daze and Maria’s just gone bloody crazy! Keeps talking aboot killin Dickson. Ah hud tae git her away.
That wee beauty was in Simone’s fucking sights and now this daft auld hag has gone and ruined everything …
— Ye can understand her point ay view, I say, lamenting her absence so deeply ah feel like a wound has been carved right intae ma fucking chest.
&n
bsp; — Will ye come tae court wi me next week? Janey begs, eyes big and expectant.
Objection! Defence is emotionally blackmailing the witness!
Objection overruled.
— Of course I will.
Her big concern now is that she’ll lose Coke’s medical pension. Ah’ve checked it out with Benny, my dad’s older and better brother, an auld TGWU stalwart. Janey vanishes intae the bedroom and returns transformed; her features picked out by make-up as she wears a knee-length gold-and-black dress wi dark nylons, which I guess are tights but I’ll think ay as stockings. Impact-wise, it’s pretty devastating. I can’t believe I’m getting this horny vibe off an old baboon! Ah feel like we’re on a date, as we head down tae the architectural mishmash of Victoriana and seventies prefab that is the Leith Dockers’ Club, a building which encapsulates the area perfectly.
If my father exudes a repellent roguishness fae every pore, Benny is the polar opposite. He looks fifteen years younger than he is and drinks nothing stronger than Lothian’s tap water. He’s made it his life’s work representing others and he takes his role very seriously. — Sorry for your loss, hen, he says. Then, over pints ay Tennent’s lager for us and H2O for him, he expounds the gist ay the situ. Apparently, the Forth Port Authority rules stipulate that any pensions paid get reassessed when the relevant party passes away, not automatically passed on to the next of kin or the dependants. This was recently changed; every cunt is jumping on the Thatcherite cost-cutting bandwagon, particularly when applied tae ripping off the proles. It means that Janey’ll still get something, but it’ll be reduced tae almost zilch.
She takes this latest defeat on the chin and gracefully thanks a sombre Benny. Ah take her back up tae the flat and we’re soon settled doon on the pish, her in the couch, where she kicks off her shoes, me in the armchair opposite. When the vino’s tanned, we start drinking neat Grouse whisky. There’s a heavy, close atmosphere in the room, as the darkness falls in around us.