by Irvine Welsh
Me n Sick Boy head oot n tae whaire Begbie’s waitin in the hallway. — So now the daft cunts’ve went n revived a fuckin witness that can finger us aw bein in a QC’s hoose. Brilliant, Si snaps.
— Shut up, Franco goes. — Start gittin the fuckin stuff doonstairs.
— Like what? Sick Boy shrugs.
— Like they rugs oan the fuckin waws, fir starters. Any cunt thit pits a fuckin rug oan a fuckin waw is fuckin well beggin tae git it fuckin chorried!
Ah’m away back intae the bedrooms. Man, ma airm’s killin us thanks tae Begbie, so the jewellery’s totally ma speed.
— Keep that burd in thaire, Begbie shouts tae Tommy n Rents. — If she clocks ma coupon she’ll git mair thin a few fuckin pills n some voddy doon her fuckin gullet!
They ken he’s no jokin, so it’s pure, likesay, ‘we obey, oh master’.
In another bedroom, like a teenage lassie’s, thaire’s some nice wee pieces, n ah’m gittin thum in ma jayket poakit. But it’s aw awkward wi one airm, and Sick Boy comes in. He’s caught us as rid-handed as an East Belfast march, but he says nowt cause he’s pure ragin. — Did you hear that fucking psychopath? Him, he goes in a low, hissy whisper, — passing judgements on other people? And Tommy, Mr Straight Cunt; so desperate tae join the ranks of the Perfect People.
— What d’ye mean, likesay?
— You ken them, Spud. The Perfect People. Never takin drugs, unless it’s hash or alcohol, which doesn’t count. Always saying the right things. Never stepping out of line. He’s just dying tae be one ay them.
— He’s only tryin tae help the lassie, but, Si.
— And that fucking smarmy little poof Hamish and his poxy van … who the fuck does he –
Well, thaire’s nae reasonin wi the cat whin he’s like this, so ah’m relieved when we hear Begbie’s voice blastin up the stairwell: — SICK BOY! GET YIR FUCKIN ERSE DOON HERE! YOU N AW, SPUD!
— Fuck, Sick Boy snaps, but he’s headin doon anyway, n ah’m right behind um.
So we’re loadin up, me daein wee bits, n eftir a while Rents comes doon n helps. Ah’ve fair cleaned up wi the auld tomfoolery, but it’s makin a jangle in ma poakits, so ah sneak back up tae the bog n relieve Tommy, whae’s been watchin the lassie. She’s sittin oan the lavvy seat, gittin her breath. — Eh, yir muscle’s needed, Tam, ah point at ma airm.
— Right … Keep an eye oan her, Tommy goes. — When she’s strong enough tae stand up, get her back intae the bedroom so she kin lie doon.
The lassie looks at us, n she’s sobbin softly, pillin this gown somebody’s brought for her roond herself, sippin a gless ay water. Thaire’s something aboot her face, round, kind, n wi big, dark eyes; she’ll no grass us up. Ye kin pure tell. Wi gits chattin n she tells us that she felt depressed bein here, away fae her family.
Eftir a bit ah helps her stand wi ma good airm, n takes her back tae her room n tells her tae lie doon, then ah goes n lits the boys ken the score. We decide that Tam’s gaunny leave separate wi her n me, n git us a cab up the hoaspital. The story’ll be she’ll be thaire when the doss goat turned ower, n it’ll pure be oan the hozzy records. When she comes back, she’ll sortay discover the burglary n call the polis. The lassie’s totally game for this: ye kin tell thaire’s no much love loast wi the employers.
— She sais she’ll no grass us up, but whae kens what the sow’s gaunny be fuckin sayin tae other people up thaire, in fuckin Spanish? Franco goes.
— She’s just properly seen me n Tommy n Spud, we’re really the only yins at risk, Rents says. — We just fuckin well saved her life, so ah’m happy tae take a punt thit she’ll keep stumpf.
— Awight, but it’s your fuckin sentence, Begbie snorts but thankfully seems tae agree, n they git back tae loadin up the vans.
Eftir a bit, me, Tam n this Carmelita lassie, wearin jeans, trainers, a jumper n a big black coat, step oot intae the evening. It’s dark under the orange street lamps n it’s goat tons caulder. We’re walkin slowly up tae the main road, whaire Tam flags doon a cab.
— Hurt ma airm … eh, arm, ah explains tae the Carmelita burd.
— Ye awright? Tommy asks her.
Carmelita nods aw sortay ashamed, letting her hair faw ower her face, as Tommy opens the cab door. Me n her gits in. — You two be okay? Tam asks.
— Aye, sound, Tommy.
So it’s me n Carmelita sittin up in the A&E. It’s fill ay the usual bams, maistly catnipped-up felines whae’ve hit the food bowl at the same time, hud a wee spat n clawed each other crazy. — Ye must miss bein hame, in Spain likesay, ah sais tae her. — Be barry in Spain.
— Yes. This winter was so cold, much colder than Seville.
The lassie’s quite sound; aye, it’s sad tae think ay a young burd tryin tae dae that tae herself. It just goes tae show that naebody really kens what’s gaun oan in somebody else’s heid. It’s pure answers oan a postcaird time, ken? — Dae ye no like workin here?
She’s lookin straight ahead, then she turns tae us. — My mother is ill back home, my boyfriend … he is killed in a motorcycle accident. The family here do not treat me in a good way. I got so drunk and I feel so very, very down … thankfully you and your friends were sent by God to find me.
— Eh, aye, right, ah goes. It wis mair like wi wir sent by Begbie oan the chorrie, or, in the case ay Rents n Sick Boy, sent by skag tae find her. Ah suppose the gaffer in the sky works in mysterious weys but, n we could’ve likesay pure been His agents. Him as that Bernard Lee gadge n us as Bond n Carmelita as the exotic foreign spy that pure gits saved. Sent by skag tae save her. The way this airm’s nippin, ah widnae mind a wee shot ay the Salisbury right now, ken?
Whoa, man, a wide-eyed honey ay a nurse wi blonde hair pinned back n a sexy fringe comes ower tae us. There’s a kitten ah widnae mind sharing a basket wi. — Carmelita Montez?
Carmelita looks at us wi big tearful eyes, n goes tae shake hands. Ah awkwardly take her hand in ma good yin. — Thank you, Dahnee … she sobs, as the ultra-fit nurse leads her away tae a treatment room.
Nice lassie, n she isnae gaunny grass us up, ah jist ken that. Ah ken it’s wrong tae hud oot oan the boys wi the coos and bulls, but they’ve plenty other loot tae divvy, ken? Thing is, ah’m jist wantin sorted oot up here cause ah’m feelin bad, bad, bad, man. Ken? Ye sortay wonder if the cats’ll gie ye morphine fir a burst airm. If no, ah’m pure hightailin it doon tae Johnny Swan’s, wi aw these rings, neckies n bracelets in ma poakit.
The Hoochie Connection
ALEXANDER IS BARRY in bed. Makes love like he wants you tae enjoy it, no like he’s just there tae dae his business, like some laddies I could mention. It freaks us but, when he starts telling me that I’m beautiful, n that he wants tae see more ay me. He’s my boss, we see each other every day, I tell him. Not what I mean, he goes.
Beautiful. What Dad often said: when I first saw your mother at the Alhambra, not the pub, the dance hall, he’d always add, I’d never seen anything so beautiful.
I ken I’m no bad and I can make masel look dead smart, but when a guy tells you that you’re beautiful, what’s aw that aboot? Freaks ye oot, n that’s pittin it mildly.
I want to explain tae him that it’s a nice diversion, but that’s all it is. Trouble is, he is my boss. I swear tae God, I excel in making things difficult for masel. He steyed round at mine the other weekend. It wisnae a good idea. He’d left this bag in the bathroom, wi his shaving gear in it; a razor, stick and brush. I keep meaning tae bring it in for him, but somehow I cannae. Dunno why. Maybe cause it would be tacky taking it intae the office. It’s no cause ay him, anyway! Aye, he’s just a diversion.
Anyway, after this evening’s session, I head up the Hoochie to meet Hamish. He’s mad intae poetry and he likes ma stuff. I ken it sounds wanky, but we meet up, drink coffee, get a bit stoned and read each other’s shit. Hamish and I never fuck; I don’t know if he’s queer, shy with lassies or just sees me as a mate, cause he’s a strange guy, hard tae read, but I like him. ‘I hate it when friends fight
and I hate it when friends fuck,’ he once said, though it was like a sort ay rehearsed speech. I used tae ask him if he was gay, but he maintained he wisnae interested in sex wi other men. He’s no really ma type but I’d probably bonk him; he has a certain charisma, and that goes a long way. A couple ay years back, him and me went tae Reading for the festival, then oantae Paris for a few days. It was weird tae sleep in a bed wi a guy withoot shagging him, even though I once woke up with his hand on my tit.
That makes me think of my mother, sitting at home, titless, both breasts removed by the surgeon’s scalpel. Androgynous and skeletal; I swear tae God she looks like Bowie on the cover ay David Live. I should be spending time wi her but I can hardly look at her. Now I know that I’ll do anything: cock, drugs, poems, films, or just work, tae avoid thinking about her.
Back to Paris back to Paris back to Paris …
… I met a French guy at a disco, whae I got aw horny wi, which seemed tae upset Hamish, but no enough to make him try and ride me. He’s a skinny wee bitch of a laddie (as Simon once described him), with his small girly eyes, which tear up when he reads his poetry, and he goes a sortay pinky orgasmy colour. The sort of guy who’d be sought-after in prison, n that’s pittin it mildly.
I got dead pissed off when Mark Renton and Keith Yule joined Hamish’s band, because they started hanging about the Hoochie and I suppose I’d kind ay looked on that as my scene, and didnae want loads ay Leith keelies mucking about there, lowering the tone. (Cept Simon, that is!) People fae Leith look doon oan every other part ay Edinburgh; they think that if you arenae born a Leither, then you’re nowt. I might have been brought up in Leith, but I was actually born in Marchmont, which makes me total Edinburgh. Another thing is I sortay went oot wi Mark’s brother Billy, for a bit, though I was still at school then. But I swear tae God I never let him shag me though everybody thinks I did, or assumes I did. But that’s Leith and laddies, and, I suppose, lassies tae, for ye.
Any roads, I get up the Hoochie, that wee space above Clouds where ye always hear the best sounds, and meet interesting people, and the first faces I see are Mark (boo!), shuffling around in that crafty way of his, then Simon (yum!), hair swept back, but who’s at the bar talking tae that Esther bitch, an arrogant cow who thinks she shites roses.
Please don’t be fucking her please don’t be fucking her …
I swear tae God I never get that jealous ay who Simon shags, cause we go our ain weys and dinnae make demands on each other, even though I’ve always sortay fancied him fae way back at Leithy. Well, maybe sometimes, cause there’s some hoors ye jist cannae fuckin well stick and that Esther falls intae that category. I see that Hamish’s wi Mark, they’re gaun up tae two lassies I vaguely ken. Ah think one ay them’s this bird that was meant tae have gied Colin Dugan a gam, but ah could be mistaken. Whatever, the poor cows’ve nae chance ay getting a length in that company!
As I move ower tae them, I kin hear Hamish seamlessly fib, — Wendy, Lynsey, meet my very good friend, Mark. A highly talented bassist.
Highly talented my arse: he sacked Mark fae two fuckin bands cause ay his lack ay competence on that instrument!
Mark, aw hoody-eyed n snottery-beaked, goes, — How’s your music gaun these days, H?
— Don’t do it any more, Mark. Hamish shakes his head, aw full ay pomp, as one ay the lassies, blonde bob, cool made-up eyes, looks devoured by this affay news. — All I do now is write poetry. Music is a crass, vulgar and commercial art form. It’s spiritually bankrupt.
The blonde (Lynsey, I think) bats her eyes in rough grief, while Wendy-the-possible-blow-job-specialist stays neutral. Hamish sees me standing beside him and kisses me on the cheek. — Hey … Alison. How goes?
— No bad, I smile.
Mark’s slavering away tae the lassies, the usual sortay bullshit he comes oot wi. — Myself and some friends in London are involved in this industrial art-rock project, he speed-lies, droppin me a wee wink. — It’s sort of Einstürzende Neubauten meets the early Meteors, ‘In Heaven’ rather than ‘Wreckin Crew’, but with a four-four disco beat and big ska influence, and featuring a Marianne Faithfullesque vocalist. Think of a Kraftwerk who had loads ay sex in their teens and hung around Scottish and Newcastle brewers’ chain pubs listening tae Labi Siffre and Ken Boothe on the jukebox and dreaming ay well-paid jobs in the Volkswagen factory in Hanover.
— Sounds cool! this blonde-maybe-Lynsey lassie goes. — What are you called?
— Fortification.
Cue for a slightly wrong-footed Hamish tae deftly change the subject back tae his ‘Baudelaire-, Rimbaud- and Verlaine-influenced’ poems, and for one ay the lassies tae say something aboot Marquee Moon. And for me tae elbay Mark, tae git his attention. — Fort chancer, lowerin the tone!
He looks me up n doon. Even though Mark’s wasted, he fixes me in an appreciative stare I haven’t seen from him before. — Wow, Ali. You’re lookin very gorgeous.
No the compliment I expect fae him, but it fair puts Hamish on his taes, as his heid swivels taewards us. — And you’re looking very … Mark.
He laughs at that, and gestures me to move aside, as Hamish havers oantae the girls aboot some gig he n Mark once played at the Triangle Club in Pilton. — How’s it gaun?
— Fine. You?
— No bad. The bouncers widnae lit Spud in though, jist cause he hud a sling oan his airm.
— Poor Danny!
— Aye, he hud tae head hame. But ah saw Kelly in here earlier. Wi Des.
— Right.
He lowers his voice and leans intae me. Mark’s a laddie who’s taller than he first seems. — Anything gaun oan?
— By that do you mean what I think ye mean?
— Aye, ah think so.
— Naw, I called Johnny earlier, but he wisnae in or wisnae picking up.
— Aye, me n aw, he goes. Then there’s a silence, and he asks, — How’s things wi yir ma?
— Shite, pittin it mildly, I goes, no wanting tae talk aboot it, but it’s good ay him tae ask.
— Right … sorry tae hear it. Ehm, if ye hear anything fae Johnny or Matty or that, gies a shout, he requests.
— Thanks, right, you n aw, I says.
Hamish breaks off fae Wendy and Lynsey n hands me this slim book ay poems. — Life-changing, he says emphatically, as Mark rolls his eyes.
— Right … ta … I goes, but ma attention’s oan Simon, who’s still chatting tae that horrible Esther at the bar. Lynsey’s asking Hamish aboot the book, and he starts going on aboot Charles Simic’s work. — Can you believe that at one time he couldn’t speak a word of English?
I turn tae Mark. — At one time nane ay us could speak a word ay English, n he grins back, as I nod ower tae Esther. — Do you think she’s good-looking? That platinum-blonde Simon’s chattin tae?
Mark looks across, almost drooling. — Marianne? Aye, as fit as a butcher’s dug.
— That’s no Marianne, it’s Esther.
— Aye? They look jist the same.
— Believe it: totally interchangeable. Lit’s go n say hello, I suggest, slippin Hamish’s thin book ay poems intae my bag. As soon as Simon meets my eye, he’s right ower and we throw our airms roond each other and his head’s buried in my neck. — Hey, gorgeous, he whispers, — don’t say a thing, just let me hold you.
I do, but cannae resist cracking an over-the-shoulder smile at Esther who’s been lumbered wi manky Mark! Ha! I swear tae God she looks a broken woman as Simon and me snog, and ah hear Mark rabbiting tae her, first aboot the Minds’ New Gold Dream album, then his fictitious industrial rock-n-roll project, adding some new components as he goes. As Simon’s tongue and scent fills ma heid, ah hear Esther’s fractured voice moan how it must be hard tae get aw they different elements tae work thegither. Simon and me come up for air, and watch the show. Mark’s agreeing wi her: — This is essentially the main challenge we face, but also what makes the assignment so intrinsically rewarding …
When she asks what it’s called he tells her, bu
t under the jaw-clicking roll ay the amphetamine, he’s wasted and mumbly and it comes oot something like ‘Fornication’ and Esther thinks he’s being fuckin wide, and looks tae us in appeal! Mark just shrugs and ditches her as this cute Asian lassie, but wi a total schemie accent, comes ower n announces, — Ah’m speeding oot ay ma nut!
— Me n aw, Mark eagerly goes, as Esther realises that even he’s KB’d her!
She goes to say something tae Simon, but he cuts in, — To be continued, and tugs on my wrist and we head intae a corner for a cosy wee chat! I look back at Esther: take that, ya fuckin trampy posh bitch! Let’s just keep the best Leith lengths in fuckin Leith!
The music’s a lot louder than usual for the Hooch, and the speaker’s close tae our seat, so Simon n me have tae sort ay shout intae each other’s lugs. As I tug the back ay my belt tae ensure my arse-crack’s covered, I ask him about Spud no gittin in, just cause ay his airm bein in a sling.
— I’m with the door staff on that one, he sniffs. — An unpardonable lapse in style. The fact he looked like a jakey probably didn’t help.
Then we start talking aboot that wee Maria Anderson, cause my brother and his pals hang about with her and her mates fae the school. People’s been saying that Simon and her are gaun oot thegither. I can’t quite believe that cause she’s just a wee lassie, and why would he when he’s got loads ay girlfriends?
He pins me wi his big sad stare, telling me he’s walked intae a nightmare. — It’s a mess, he moans over Prince urging the revellers tae go crazy. — I’m her neighbour, and with her dad deid and her ma in the jail, I felt kinday responsible cause she’ll no go tae her uncle’s doon in Nottingham. He draws in a deep breath and looks tae the ceiling. — The problem is that she’s formed a big attachment tae me, and worse, tae the skag. Ah’m trying tae keep her away fae it, but it’s aw she wants.