by Irvine Welsh
Spud’s eyes drip with need, as large, luminous and haunted as the most pathetic Disney character. — Ah wis jist wonderin … could ah crash at yours? Jist for a few days, likesay man, till ah git back oan ma feet …
Sick Boy graciously hands him the keys, to Spud’s visible shock. — Course you can, mate, any time, ye ken that. You get up there and get that fire started and I’ll be roond later. I have tae go up the South Side tae my ma’s, he says as Spud’s grubby fist cagily takes them, half expecting them to be cruelly pulled away.
— Cheers, catboy … you’re one ay the best, he says, in a gasp of relief.
You have to back up your mates, Sick Boy thinks, not without a satisfying tickle of virtue, as he heads up the Walk, reappraising his own strategy. Now he’ll tap up his mother and sisters, go to Johnny Swan’s, get sorted, then head back down to the port, hitting a boozer to procure a punter for Maria. He glances back at the grateful Spud, shambling down towards Constitution Street, probably heading for St Mary’s Star of the Sea to light a candle and pray for forgiveness for his friend, and to ask God for some skag. No doubt he’ll spy a distracted Cathy Renton, Sick Boy thinks, trailing caramel fingers in the holy-water font.
Sick Boy has just enough small change for the bus up to the Bridges and his mother’s house. But reaching her new home, as he walks in, he feels something perish inside him. His father sits there, in his old armchair, like he’d never left it; stolid, transfixed on the television cop show. And his mother, wearing a big, contented smile.
— Nice billet, eh? Davy Williamson grins at his son.
— Ye took him back in … Sick Boy gasps at his mother. — I can’t believe it. He turns the full glare of a favoured only son’s accusation on her. — You took him back in. Why? Why did you do that?
She can’t speak. His father plays an invisible violin, a spoof tortured look on his face. — That’s the wey it is. Dry yir eyes, boy.
— Son, me n yira faither … in halting protest his mother finds her tongue, before being gently hushed by her husband.
— Shh, shh, sweetheart, Davy Williamson’s finger at his lips. Having silenced his wife, the father then turns to his son, addressing him in a steady tone. — Keep it oot. He taps his own beak, an impressive hook of broken blood vessels. — Keep that fuckin neb oot!
Sick Boy stands rigid, his fists balling up. — You fuckin –
In a grandiloquent, dismissive gesture, Davy Williamson slowly outstretches an arm and upturns a palm. — Ah dinnae git involved in your love life, so dinnae you be botherin yirsel wi mine, he smiles, cocking his head to the side, his face clownish. His mother looks bewildered, as an involuntary gasp explodes from Sick Boy’s chest. This cunt knows everything. — Aye, ye didnae like that, did ye? his father confirms with a smile. — Well, mind, keep yir neb oot ay ma business!
— What’s aw this aboot …? his mother asks.
Davy Williamson, in mock-formal tones, declares, — Nothing at all, my darling, in control of them all, yet again. He fixes Sick Boy in a coothie grin. — Isn’t that right, my bambino?
— Fuck off, Sick Boy shouts, but he’s the one leaving, his departure soundtracked by his mama’s pleas and his father’s derisive laughter as he vanishes onto South Clerk Street.
Confusion reigns on his burning-necked march down the Bridges; he’s still skint and unsure of whether to stop off at Montgomery Street and see Spud, or to carry on right down into Leith for Maria. That’s the one. He’ll go there and he’ll take her to bed, and hold her and protect her and love her; the way he was meant to, the way he should have done all along. No trawling pubs for dirty tramps to take back to her; they’ll lie in bed for days together, sweating the shit out of their system, holding each other, looking after each other, till the nightmare passes and they finally wake up into a new, golden era.
It’s the only way tae move on …
Then a car horn sounds, as a ruined Datsun pulls up. It transits the corpulent figure of Jimmy Caldwell, who rolls down the window. — Some perty the other night but, eh? That wee bird ay yours. Ah wis tellin Clint here aw aboot it, he nods to a jagged-featured accomplice, riding shotgun, who flashes a lascivious smile. A lone gold tooth gleams like a mansion erected in the centre of a crumbling scheme.
— Youse up for another one right now? Sick Boy says, stooping, thought instantly short-circuited by need.
— Hop in the back, Caldwell flashes an affable smirk, — wuv goat the hireys. The lure ay the lira, eh, Si?
— Aye, says Sick Boy, in an absent-minded fug, as he swings inside the cramped space, feeling his aching bones protest against the hard leather seats. — Le cose si fanno per soldi …
Heavenly Dancer
AH’M SITTIN IN the hotel bar waitin oan Fiona. Thinkin aboot her heart-melting smile and that sexy, concentrated frown when she evaluates books and the comments made by lecturers. Whenever she comes into a room, ma spirits soar. What ah feel is delight, pure and simple. Our life is all passionate kisses and soft wells of laughter. Ah love watchin her in class; even though we’re shaggin, it’s still great tae just look at her.
We’ve been thegither almost four months. If you dinnae count the weird relationship ah have with Hazel, it’s the longest ah’ve been wi a lassie. But ah still ken next tae fuck all; cause tonight it’s over. Tonight, in this hotel bar, ah’m gaunny dump the best girlfriend I’ve ever had; the prettiest, brightest lassie ah’ve ever known. Okay, so thaire might no be that much competition, but it still holds true.
This is a wee bar in a wee hotel, ah suppose in a wee country, but Scotland’s always felt big tae me, cause ah’ve really only seen my ain wee corner ay it. The gaff has a travelling salesman vibe. A shiny blue cairpit spread apologetically thin across the flair; built-in seats line the waws, wi distressed copper tables and stools positioned aroond them; above the fireplace a signed, framed picture ay Martin Buchan in an Aberdeen strip.
A barman is polishing wine glesses. The door’s opening n ah see what looks like a female figure, briefly hesitating behind its ribbed glass. At first ah think it’s Fiona, but it’s an aulder woman. Probably about ages wi muh ma; forties, wearin a tight black skirt and a white blouse.
Fiona Conyers. The courage tae be cruel. Tae say goodbye. Thoughts in ma heid that cannae be shared. The pint ay lager untouched in front ay me. It isnae what ah want. What ah want’s doon the docks at Don’s. Or back in Edinburgh. At Johnny Swan’s.
Where is she? Ah check the cloak oan the wall; fast, like aw pub clocks, surely. Maybe she’s dumped us first. Hopefully. Problem solved.
Fiona willnae be oan the market for long. She’s a looker; moreover she’s a student wi a fanny, livin away fae hame. She’ll find somebody whae’s proper boyfriend material, as fuckin manky Joanne might say. Mark was okay, but not exactly PBM.
The woman at the bar is chatting tae this mannie … Naw, man. Ah’ve been in Sheepland too long. Ah see it now; she’s a prozzy, a hooker, a dirty big hoor. Ya cunt ye, ah dinnae believe it! Ah love the wey she’s hudin that fag, the manufactured smile, the deep throaty laugh, straight oot ay Hollywood film noir, where the women were hard-arsed, dirty rides with fast, trashy gobs.
Ah’ve decided that this woman is the coolest fucker in the world. A middle-aged Aberdeen prostitute in a hotel bar full ay travelling salesmen whae huv tae haggle wi thair employer for every sandwich oan thair expense account. Do you accept Luncheon Vouchers? Look at the boy. Like me n Fiona in years tae come. Fuck that, ah’ll never be like that. Never, ever.
The prozzy laughs again, loud and proud. Ah love that big, fuck-you laughter in people. In lassies in particular. Fiona n me laughed a lot thegither. She still does. Laughs for two.
Eywis thaire for me. The funeral, Wee Davie n that.
The sex wi Fiona might no have been particularly adventurous, but it was the most emotionally intense ah’d had. She helped us git ower that slightly squeamish thing ah’d eywis hud aboot shaggin. Mind you, jist gittin oot the hoose did that, cause ah’
d always associated sex wi spasticated lunacy. Ma n Dad bathin Wee Davie n jokin aboot his erection. My spazzy wee brother’s cock had tae be grotesquely outsized, another cruel joke on us aw, something that he’d never get tae use, in spite ay ma assistance wi Mary, but bigger than anything me or Billy wir packin.
The shame. The embarrassment. The horror.
The postural drainage.
Doof.
Doof.
Doof.
Clear the lungs. Paint the Forth Road Bridge. Patch up the sinking boat.
It’s done.
Dae it again.
No more. I’ll never have tae hear that horrible thumping, wheezing, coughing and gasping again.
Ah never, ever brought a lassie back tae the hoose: only ma closest mates that knew the score. Sick Boy, surprisingly, would be pleasant tae Wee Davie, and effortlessly charmin tae ma folks. Tommy was decent, he’d engage wi the wee fucker, joke aroond and laugh. Keezbo tae. Matty looked embarrassed, but he put up wi Wee Davie drooling and snottering ower him. Spud would attribute Davie wi mystical powers believing he saw mair thin he could express. Begbie was honest; he’d just sit in the kitchen wi Billy, puffin tabs, blowin the smoke oot the windae, ignorin the wee cunt as he twitched and gurgled while my ma constantly beat his back tae stop the build-up ay fluid in his bronchial tubes.
How did I feel about him …?
N ah’m sittin here in this hotel bar aware thit it’s aw bullshit. Tracin a line fae Wee Davie tae aw this; the junk habit, the soon-tae-be-single status when Fiona walks through that door. Cause Sick Boy, Matty, Spud, they nivir hud a Wee Davie. Nivir needed yin tae git oan the gear. Ma big brar, Billy, he hud yin, but he’s nivir even smoked a joint. Cunts that try and psychoanalyse the fucked-up miss the crucial point: sometimes ye jist dae it cause it’s thaire n that’s wey ye are. Ah watched my mother and father tear themselves apart and rip each other’s family trees up at the roots, trying tae work oot where all Wee Davie’s bad genes came fae. But in the end, they grew tae accept that it doesnae matter. It just is.
N here comes Fiona. A dark green hooded top. Tight black canvas troosers. Black gloves. Purple lipstick. Makin me feel like greetin wi her big, easy smile. — Sorry, Mark, me dad was on the phone – She stops abruptly. — Wharrisit, love? What’s wrong?
— Sit doon.
Dinnae say it …
She does. Her face. Ah cannae dae this. Ah need tae dae this. Because somehow ah sense that it’s the very last unselfish thing I’ll ever be able tae dae. Ah can’t stop. Now ah’m gaunny hurt her but it’s for her ain good. Weed-like fear creeps through me. — I was thinking we should go our separate ways, Fi.
Fuck … did ah really say that?
— What? She tries tae laugh in my face. A bitter laugh, like it’s a sick joke ah’m makin. — What’re ya ahn aboot? What d’ya mean, Mark? What’s wrong?
It is a joke. Laugh. Tell her it’s a joke. Say, actually, I was wondering what you thought about us gittin a place together …
— You n me. Ah jist think we should split up. A pause. — Ah want tae split. For us tae stoap gaun oot thegither.
— But why … She actually touches her chest, touches her heart, and at that moment mine nearly breaks in unison. — There’s somebody else. In Edinboro, that Hazel lass …
— Naw, thaire’s naebody else. Honest. Ah jist think wi should baith move oan. Ah’m no wantin tied doon. See, ah’m thinkin ay packin it in, the uni n that.
Tell her you’ve been depressed. You don’t know what you’re saying. TELL HER …
Fiona’s mouth hangs open. She looks dafter and more undignified than ah could ever have conceived. That’s my fault. It’s me. It’s me that this is aw doon tae. This shite. — We wor merkin plans, Mark! We were ganna travel!
— Aye, but ah need tae git away oan ma ain, ah say, feelin masel settlin intae a rhythm ay cruel apathy. Finding the cuntishness ye need, tae go through wi something like this.
— But why? Summat’s wrong wi yer, you’ve been really weird. You’re always sick with the cold, you’ve had it ahl winter. Yor brootha –
Yes … yes … that’s it. Tell her it’s him. Tell her SOMETHING …
— It’s nowt tae dae wi ma wee brar, ah say emphatically. Another pause. Confession time. — Ah’ve been usin heroin.
— Oh Mark … Ye can see her workin it aw oot. The scabs on the underside ay ma wrist n the crook ay ma airm. The constant sniffling. The fever. The lethargy. The mingingness. The paring back and avoidance of sex. The secrets. She’s almost relieved. — Since when?
It feels like since always, though it isnae. — Last summer.
Something sparks in her eyes and she pounces, — It’s yor Davie’s illness … and him passing away. You’re just depressed. You can stop! We can get through this, pet, her hand shooting across the table, grabbing mine. Hers warm, mine like a slab ay troot oan ice in a fish shoap.
She isnae getting the big picture. — But ah dinnae want tae stoap, ah shake ma heid, pullin ma hand away. — Ah’m sortay intae it, but, ah confess, — n ah cannae keep a relationship gaun. Ah need tae be oan ma ain.
Her eyes bulge out in horror. Her skin glows a pink flush. Ah’ve never seen her look like this; it’s like an extreme version of when we’re in bed and she’s startin tae get there. Finally, she erupts. — You’re dumpin me? You’re dumpin me?
Ah glance ower her shoodir at the reaction ay the barman. He pointedly turns away in displeasure. A tight sneer ah’d never thought her capable ay disfigures Fiona’s face. It husnae taken long fir some arrogance tae come tae the fore. But ah’m gled ay it. — It’s just me, ah tell her, — thaire’s naeboody else. It’s jist the junk.
— You … you’re packin me in, cause you wanna spend more time doin fuckin heroin?
Ah look at her. That’s it, in a nutshell. Nae sense in denyin it. Ah’m fucked. — Aye.
— You’re runnin away, cause you’re a fuckin coward, she spits, loud enough for a few mair heids tae turn. — Go on then, ya crappin bastard, she says, standin up, — pack it in, pack me in, pack us in, pack in the uni! That’s ahl ye are, that’s ahl ye’ll evah be. A COWAHD N AH FUCKIN WASTAH!
Then she’s off, slammin the frosted-glass door behind her. She briefly turns, as if to try n look back in. Then she’s gone. The hooker, her cunty-bawed John and the cocksucker barman look briefly roond as she vanishes. In her rage, ah see a different side tae this gentle, loving girl and, although it shocks me, ah’m glad it’s there.
Ah thoat it went quite well.
Supply Side Economics
RUSSELL BIRCH, DRESSED in a white lab coat, clipboard in his hand, strode past Michael Taylor, clad in his customary brown overalls, on his way into the plant’s largest processing lab. The two men ignored each other, as was their custom. They’d both agreed that it was better if all factory workmates remained unaware they had any relationship.
As he punched the security code into the new lock system, Birch satisfyingly reflected that Taylor would now be unable to access this area. Opening the door and stepping into the blindingly white room, he recalled the time he’d caught his partner red-handed here, about to fill up a plastic bag. No, Taylor, as a storeman, shouldn’t have been there at all, but as Russell Birch was stuffing his own bag into his trousers at the time, they’d gaped at each other in mutual guilt, for a few stupefying seconds. Then both men had looked shiftily around, before their eyes met again and made an instant pact. It was Taylor who had seized control of the situation and spoke first. — We need tae talk, he’d said. — Meet me in Dickens in Dalry Road after work.
The entire scenario would not have looked out of place on the stage of a West End farce. At the pub, as the pints had flown nervously back, they’d even joked about this, before coming to the arrangement that Birch would get Taylor the bags from processing, which he would then smuggle out of the plant in canteen meal containers.
The instruments on the console blinked and moved slowly to a dull hum under the fluorescent
strip lights above. Sometimes the room seemed as stark and white as the synthetic powder it produced, in this, the newest and most lucrative part of the plant. But Russell most reverently regarded the precious white powder, running in a steady, abundant stream from the tube into the perspex cases on the automated but almost silent line. His eyes traced back to the big bowl of cloth filters, then the ammonium chloride tank, where the solution cooled, back to another set of filters and the giant hundred-gallon steel drum. Into this drum, every hour, went sixty gallons of boiling water, to which thirty kilos of raw opium was added. The impurities would rise to the top and be filtered out. Then the solution passed into a smaller adjoining tank, where slaked lime – calcium hydroxide – was added to convert the water-insoluble morphine into water-soluble calcium morphenate.
After some drying, dyeing and crushing, the end product comes pouring out, pristine white, into the plastic containers. And it was Russell’s job to test the purity of each batch. So easy, then, for him to scoop a load of the merchandise into a plastic bag, and stuff it down his trousers.
Russell Birch felt the satisfying padding in his groin. He was keen to leave, take that trip to the toilets, ensuring it was all Taylor’s responsibility and risk from there on in. But he dallied for a while, taking some samples and readings. It seemed beyond belief, what people did for this stuff. Then, as he turned to go, the door suddenly flew open. Donald Hutchinson, the head of security, stood before him, backed by two guards. Russell read the discomfit on his long, drawn face, but then witnessed the steel in the man’s eyes.
— Donald … how goes … what’s up … Russell Birch felt himself run down like a record player suddenly switched off at the mains.
— Hand over the stuff. Donald stretched a hand out.
— What? What are you on about, Donald?
— We can do this the hard way if you like, Russell. But I’d rather spare you that, Donald Hutchinson said, pointing over Russell Birch’s shoulder, at a black camera mounted on the wall. It was looking right at them, a red dot blinking by the side of the lens.