by Irvine Welsh
People are filing intae the chapel ay rest, but we’re no late, we’re just eftir the hearse n coffin, so they make wey fir us. There’s a few ghouls who love this part ay the proceedings, but maist writhe uncomfortably inside their ill-fitting black garments in nervous anticipation ay the peeve tae follay. My ma and dad baith look massively relieved tae see me, as we get intae the seats kept for us, in front ay the Glasgow and Midlothian relatives and assorted friends n neighbours. A drooling simpleton doesnae make a busload ay sentient chums but naebody likes tae see a young cunt stiffed and there’s a healthy turnoot. Ah can see ma mates; Begbie, Matty, Spud, Sick Boy, Tommy, Keezbo, Second Prize, Sully, Gav, Dawsy, Stevie, Mony, Moysie, Saybo and Nelly, as well as Davie Mitchell, Young Bobby and Les fae Gillsland’s. Nae Swanney. Ah clock Hazel, she’s wi Alison, Lesley, Nicky Hanlon and Julie Mathieson, another old tape-trading pal, who had a bairn wi some gadge, and whae’s lookin like two big eyes oan a stick. There’s grandparents, uncles and aunties and some mair auld relatives ah cannae quite recall, aw locked intae a grim, formless dotage. Sometimes a set ay fiery eyes within a puffy or scraggy white heid offer a clue as tae their previous identities as real people; but Schopenhauer was right: life has tae be aboot disillusionment; stumbling inexorably towards the totally fucked.
The service is conveyor-belt pish; the radgeworks God-botherer half-heartedly saying something aboot mysterious ways, as ah clock him glance at his watch a couple ay times. Then ah find ma eyes locking oantae the sealed coffin; even with the attentions ay physios and Ma and Dad’s maist sterling efforts, Wee Davie had spazzed up that much that they’d have needed tae brek his airms n spine in a couple ay places tae get him tae assume the position in thaire. Nae wonder the auld boy drew the line at the open-casket pape ceremony the old girl craved.
Some strange things happen, but. On the wey oot the chapel, headin tae the cars in the drizzling rain, eftir pressin cauld, bony flesh wi the mourners, my dad kisses us oan ma cheek. It’s the first time he’s done this since ah wis at early primary school. The whiff ay his aftershave and his big gravelly chin against ma skin is infantilisin. Then, when we get in the motor tae go along Ferry Road tae the do at the Ken Buchanan Hotel, my ma crushes my hand and sais, through a blindin mask ay tears, — You’re ma wee baby now. Ah put it down tae grief talkin, but part ay me is thinkin: This woman is fucking insane, as resentment and tenderness battle inside me.
At the hotel, as ah drink a whisky and eat a gut-blistering sausage roll, Hazel comes ower tae me and Fiona. Something seems tae flash between the lassies, but this time ah’m too deflated tae feel awkward. — Hi, Haze. Ah kisses her chastely on the cheek. — Thanks for comin. Eh, this is Fiona, then ah add, in stupid, ham-fisted formality, — Fiona Conyers, Hazel McLeod.
Hazel shakes Fiona’s hand. — I’m a friend of Mark’s, she sais. Whatever passes between them is dignified, almost touchin, and ah feel masel briefly openin up inside. Ah take a hard swallay ay the burnin whisky tae snuff the emotion.
Fiona said what people always say under these circumstances: it’s nice tae meet you but it’s a pity it has tae be under these circumstances. Circumstances. Ah’ve goat Hazel’s Fall tape in ma poakit, a mix ay ma fave tracks fae Slates, Hex Enduction Hour and Room to Live, and aye, ah was planning tae gie it tae her. But it disnae seem right in front ay Fiona. Schopenhauer said male relationships are defined by a natural indifference, but female ones typified by antagonism. Then again, he wis a really cynical cunt.
The Hazel tapes.
Hazel and me were friends fae school. Since second year. We listened tae music thegither; Velvets, Bowie, T. Rex, Roxy, Iggy and the Stooges, Pistols, Clash, Stranglers, Jam, Bunnymen, Joy Division, Gang ay Four, Simple Minds, Marvin Gaye, Sister Sledge, Wire, Virgin Prunes, Smokey Robinson, Aretha Franklin, Dusty Springfield and not Beatles, Stones, Slade, Springsteen, U2, OMD, Flock of Seagulls, Hall and Oates, thegither, in our respective bedrooms. Ah liked her, but fancied other girls; sluttier yins, ah suppose. Girls wi high shrieking laughter who said ‘beat it, son’ or ‘dinnae bother us’ when ye made yir move. Whae gied ye measured looks and said ‘mibbe’ when ye said ‘you n me then’, like ye were offering them a square-go. But even though it was an obvious imperative, ah never wanted tae just plunge ma cock intae a lassie. Ah was always looking for something mair complicated; possibly drama, mibbe even love, whae the fuck kens?
My mates refused tae believe that Hazel and me wirnae fucking. She’s good-looking, in a depressive sort ay way. A goth in spirit, if one wrapped in straight disco-girl clothing; those incongruously bright pastels ay Top Shop on weekdays, pushing the boat oot tae Etam at the weekend. Then one time ah was playing her a Stranglers album, Black and White, and we started necking. Ah think ah initiated it, maybe ah was fed up wi the doss cunts’ assumptions, or it could be ma mind is playing tricks oan us as it often does. Perhaps the Stranglers lyrics gied us a sense ay entitlement. But whoever started it, it stoaped when ah tried tae go further. She had what could only be described as a panic attack, and the ferocity ay it shocked us. She went intae these convulsions, couldnae breathe for a bit, n started gaun rid. It was like an asthma attack ay the sort Spud used tae get, or Wee Davie, spazzing oot …
Postural drainage … doof-doof-doof, like strength-sapping body punches intae the big bags at the Leith Victoria gym.
As those teen months progressed, ah tried a few mair times, oddly, usually at her instigation. But the same thing happened. She would just freeze up, then have a violent reaction; it was as if she had a physical allergy tae sex. She wouldnae even gie us a blow job, though she did J. Arthur me off, focused oan ma cock like a scientist conducting an experiment. Once, when ah shot ma duff, the spunk went in her ear and oan her hair at the side ay her face. When she touched the stringy paste, she said, — That’s horrible, that mess … and started mair convulsive heaves, before gaun away tae wash her face. When she came back her hair was wet, she’d washed that n aw. Ah mind ay really desirin her then, wantin tae ride her so bad, just seeing her standin there wi the wet hair. And I’d only just blown a wad.
But there wis nae wey.
When we eventually did shag, it was grim, but that’s another tale. Nowadays we dinnae see each other for yonks, then end up back thegither oan the pretext ay gaun tae a gig or listenin tae some sounds, and have bad sex. Really bad sex. We baith think ‘never again’ till one ay us, usually her, picks up the phone.
Stevie Hutchison and his bird are talkin tae my ma n dad. He comes ower in that kind ay shufflin walk, shiftin weight fae one leg oantae the other, n pits his arm roond ma shoodir. — Bearin up, bro?
— Awright, Hutchy, aye, jist huv tae git oan wi it but, eh? How’s you?
— Seek tae fuck, he goes, his big eyes burnin. — Peyed oaf fae Ferranti’s. Applied tae Marconi’s doon in Essex. Thaire’s fuck all up here. Anywey, ah fancy giein London a wee crack. Mibbe git involved wi a band doon thaire. He glances at his bird, Chip Sandra, whae’s chattin tae Keezbo. She’s quite a bam, nae way good enough fir Stevie, n ah sortay blame her a bit for brekin up oor auld band, Shaved Nun. — She’s no keen tae go, he says wi a crinkly smile. — Elbay time, ah reckon, he winks.
Ah smile back. Aboot time n aw.
— What’s up, Stephen? Chip Sandra goes, pickin up the vibe.
— Jist music talk, you ken us. Stevie winks at me again, turning tae her. — C’mon, lit’s git a peeve, n he steers her away tae the bar wi the vickies placed against her back soas ah kin see thum.
Chip Sandra goat her name cause she wis eatin chips while gittin rode by Matty in a knee-trembler up the Goods Yard. That wis yonks ago. Embarrassing yin fir Matty, huvin a burd eatin chips ower yir shoodir, while you’re banging her up against a waw. Even mair so when aw the boys came filin past. Ah cheekily asked Sandra fir a chip n she extended the packet tae us, so ah took yin. Matty wis shoutin, — Fuck off, Renton! Ah didnae ken that aw ay thum – Begbie, Nelly, Saybo, Dawsy, Gav n some others – hud formed a queue n wir helping themse
lves tae chips as perr Matty thrusted hopelessly oan, his bare erse poking ootay the shadows. Ah mind ay Saybo sayin tae us, lickin the broon sauce fae his chops as we exited oantae the Walk, — Best line-up for the boys that cow’s ivir done, ya cunt!
Franco and that June Chisholm bird he’s riding are ower, and she’s talking tae Hazel. The Beggar Boy digs us in the ribs wi a jab fae the fore-knuckles ay his chunky fist; that yin’ll leave a bruise the morn, although it’s meant in affection. — Git this doon ye. He hands me a large whisky. You fuckin well hudin it thegither, mate?
— Aye, ah tell him, takin a sip.
My auld man shoots us a glance as if tae say, ‘Bad form, with these two ladies, old boy.’ The disapproval is tinged wi qualified relief as ah can see that, in his eyes, ah’ve just gone fae possible buftie boy tae philandering rogue.
Franco looks tae Fiona, then turns tae me. — Introduce us then, ya rude cunt.
— Fiona, this is my mate, Frank Begbie. Or Franco.
Or Beggars. Or the Beggar Boy. Or the Generalissmo. Or Psychotic Bullying Prick. I was the bony bag that took those strength-sapping body punches at Leith Vic. Doof-doof-doof …
— Hello, Frank. She goes tae shake his hand but is rewarded wi quite a sophisticated peck oan the cheek. The cunt can occasionally pull oot a welcome (non-violent) surprise. Nice one, Beggars. — Mark talks about yur a lot.
The nutter’s para glint ignites in Begbie’s eye. — Aw does he now? He gazes right intae ma soul, or what’s left ay it.
— In very complimentary terms, I might add, Fiona says, wi relaxed grace.
Begbie’s coupon softens and humanises in a light smile. Fuck me, she’s even managed tae charm that cunt. He drapes an airm roond ma shoodirs. — Well, wir best mates but, eh, Mark? Kent him since fuckin primary. Five years auld.
Ah smile tightly, takin a good blooter ay whisky back, n feelin the burn. — One ay the best, this man, and caught in the moment, ah totally believe it as well. Enjoying a certain licence, ah pump a reasonably heavy dig intae his chist.
Begbie doesnae even notice; he’s in his element, particularly good at funerals in the way a lot ay psychopaths tend tae be. Ah suppose if bringing death and despair is yir life’s work, then being somewhere like this must feel like a result; the job’s already done and you can just kick back and relax. He tightens his grip oan us, n pushes his face psycho-affectionately intae mine, his hot, dark, smoky essence assailing ma senses. — Ye nivir come roond fir us, tae go oot fir a fuckin peeve, jist the two ay us like wi fuckin well used tae.
Because you eywis end up batterin some cunt. — Ah’m in Ebirdeen maist ay the time, Frank.
— No aw the fuckin time, but. It’s probably cause wi eywis end up batterin some cunt!
What d’ya mean ‘we’, ya fuckin bam?
— Naw … we eywis huv a barry laugh whin we go oot, the two ay us, like.
— Too right wi fuckin well dae, he announces tae Fiona, then sweeps an airm roond the room, huggin me tighter wi the other yin. — Nae cunt’s git oor sense ay humour, eh, no, Rents? Ye cannae fuckin explain it tae maist cunts, pardon ma French, he apologises, then indeed does attempt tae elucidate tae her this unique style ay jocular absurdity that only he and I share.
Hazel’s heard it aw before n turns tae us. — Ah made you a tape ay that live Joy Division album.
— Still?
— Aye.
— Barry, thanks. Ah hear there’s a great version ay ‘Sister Ray’ oan it, ah smile in gratitude. Ah’ve hud the album since it came oot but ah’m no gaunny tell her. Wi made-up tapes, despite what Sick Boy says aboot it bein a covert act ay aggression and egotistical mind control, it’s the kindness ay compiling that counts. In my mind’s eye ah can see it written oot oan the index caird spine ay the cassette in Hazel’s neat handwriting:
An awkward moment passes between us as ah smile n kill the whisky, while Hazel blinks, lowering her heid demurely, excusing herself and headin tae the buffet table. Ah catch Fiona’s eye and we circulate, me pickin up another nip, talkin first tae Keezbo’s ma n dad, Moira n Jimmy, then some ay Ma’s relatives, the Bonnyrigg–Penicuik crowd, who comfort her.
Ah see Alison headin tae the buffet table and intercept her. — Ali … really sorry tae hear aboot yir ma. How bad is it?
— This is me getting intae practice. She gies us a Stanley-knife smile. — No be long now, ah think. Thanks for askin, but, and she sidles oaf taewards the bar, whaire the rest ay the lassies are standin. Then she seems tae think ay something n turns. — Kelly sends her commiserations, she’s sorry she cannae be here, but she’s got exams aw next week.
— Sound, ah goes, watchin her depart, makin her wey taewards Matty n Gav. Ah see Fiona’s talkin tae Tommy and Geoff, so ah sits beside my ma. She’s wearin a daft hat as she husnae dyed the grey-broon roots ay her hair in a while. As she pulls oan her tab, sweaty, peroxide locks cling tae her foreheid and her make-up’s been running wi her tears. Grief’s weight n chain-smoking have gied her a stevedore’s rasp. — Ah sometimes think it’s God’s wey ay punishin me, she sais.
— For what?
— Ah turned against ma faith tae mairry yir faither.
A beam ay smoke streams fae her puckered lips. Her hollowed-oot cheeks and wild stare suggest mental derangement. — Ye honestly believe God’s punishing ye cause yir a Catholic that mairried ootside yir religion?
— Aye. Aye, ah do, she says emphatically, her eyes aw pupils. She’s nipped we never had a service at St Mary’s Star ay the Sea. She’d ey take Wee Davie there when he was younger and easier tae cart aboot.
— What aboot Dad? The auld man’s wi Andy and his Weedgie family, Granny Renton and his brothers Charlie and Dougie. Ma whisky’s tanned in and ah dump the empty gless oan the table. — He’s a Protestant and Wee Davie’s his son n aw. So that means at least God’s even-handed: he hates yis baith.
— Ye cannae say that, Mark, dinnae say that …
— Or mibbe, jist mibbe, he couldnae gie a flyin fuck aboot either ay yis. Ever thought ay that yin?
— No! she shouts, as ah’m thinking, how barry would a God like that be; one that hates fucking Christians, Muslims, Jews and any other cunts that bother Him. And even, or especially, these caste-system justifying cunts: the fuckin Buddhists. But my wee outburst has been picked up and ah’ve inadvertently created a display ay Christian unity. — C’mon, Mark, shape up, son, Kenny goes, n ma dad and his brothers are right ower wi Billy. Dougie’s no sae bad but Charlie’s a vacuous, toxic bigot; it was him that got oor Billy intae aw that Orange shite, and ma faither kens it tae. He scowls at me like ah’m the filth of Hades; ah’m sure Billy’s telt him the story ay Davie’s hand job. They start tae circle roond like vultures. Ah’m lookin for Franco, but he’s ower at the bar wi June. Then Fiona’s by ma side, makin excuses, effortlessly charmin them all. — He’s upset. How, pet …
Upset my hairy ersehole. It’s this shite that upsets me. The proddies and the papes; the lowlife rump ay losers, distilled fae the dregs ay European Christendom’s two most blood-simple white tribes. Sneering, rabid vermin who intuitively know they’re at the bottom ay the trash pile at the scabbiest end ay a bunch ay frozen rocks in the North Sea. Aw they can dae is think ay whae tae scapegoat for thair shabby plight, and when the monster that was ma brother came along, it was a (Christian) God-sent opportunity fir them. The fact escaped them that Wee Davie was probably the nadir that only those sectarian spastics could ever have produced, because whatever pigeon-shit colours they drape aroond their slopin shoodirs, or the crappy one-note ballads of loyalty or rebellion they sing, they’re aw cut fae the same manky cloth ay noxious idiocy.
Ma lettin me n Billy help her make chocolate cake, in that upstairs kitchen at the Fort. Us aw huvin a barry laugh. Then Wee Davie’s screams; aggressive, demanding, violating. Me n Billy lookin at her as if tae say ‘leave him’, but first her, and then us, hopelessly remembering whae we were. The slow surf ay oor breath drawing in unison as she tore doonstairs. Ou
r fingers gaun intae the chocolate mix in bitter consolation.
Wee Davie’s death doesnae upset me. When ah think ay him, aw that comes tae mind is the monstrous, the grotesque. The thing was that he looked like me; sandy rid hair, boatil-white skin, wild blue eyes. Ah used tae think that people just said it tae take the pish, but it was true. Tae poor Billy’s Orangeman shame, it was him who looked like the squat, dark-heided, mono-browed Connemara farm boy transported tae the Midlothian pits, just like aw the male papes oan my ma’s side.
As a boy ah used tae beg tae get taken tae Porty open-air pool wi Wee Davie, Billy and Dad. Porty wis eywis fuckin freezin and ah hated it n Billy’s bullyin seemed tae reach mair psychotic levels there, but gie me that any time before the humiliation ay bein seen oot wi them at Leith Vickie baths.
Ma starts shouting at Margaret ‘Bendix’ Curran, our embittered ex-neighbour, whae believes that we used Davie tae get the Housing Association place wi the main door, then dumped him in a residential care centre for the handicapped. — Aw ah’m sayin is thit thaire wis others oan that list before you, Cathy …
— We never pit um in a care centre! Eh died in the hoaspital, in the Infirmary!
— But now that he’s no here, ye should be giein that hoose up, that’s aw ah’m sayin, n at that point she clocks ma mate Norrie, whae works for the Housing Department. — Aw aye, what’s he daein here? It’s no what ye ken, it’s who ye ken, right enough!
— Get away fae me! my ma shouts, and my auld boy n Olly Curran, the thin racist whae looks like an undertaker, are ower and joining the argy-bargy, as ah skip across tae the bar where Spud queues up tae buy us a pint. Ah eywis like tae avoid other people’s social conflict; ah much prefer tae start ma ain trouble. As ah watch Spud trying tae get the barman’s attention, ah feel some airms around me, circling us fae behind. At first ah think it’s Fiona, but ah can see her chattin tae relatives, and then ah wonder that circumstances might have made Hazel uncharacteristically tactile. Ah look round n it’s Nicola Hanlon. — I just wanted tae gie ye a wee hug, she says, pecking us oan the cheek.