by Irvine Welsh
— But what’s aw this got tae dae wi you? It’s no fair that you’re lumbered like this!
— It’s my ain fault. I stupidly … aw shite, he groans, — we ended up in bed … ah slept wi her. I was trying to comfort her and she was aw that needy, desperate wey and one thing led tae another. It was a big mistake.
— Fuckin hell, Simon, I tell him, trying tae tick him off without sounding jealous, cause I am a wee bit. Still, ye cannae blame the lassie for bein oot ay control wi everything that’s happened tae her.
— She was way too young and distressed, and I can see now that ah was weak and stupid, and took advantage ay somebody in a bad situation. Now she thinks we’re gaun out thegither. Ah’m gaunny see her mum in prison wi her next week, hopefully tae convince her tae go back doon tae her uncle’s and get hersel sorted oot. This mess … it’s just taken ower my life! I only wanted tae dae the right thing, but it’s backfired big time. He draws in some breath, staring oot vacantly across the dance floor. — The thing is, even now, I’m worried sick about her being alone in that flat; you dunno what a young lassie in her state’s gaunny dae. She’s already had a dash at the boy that killed her faither, that Dickson fae the Grapes. I worry that she’s jist gaunny end up like her ma or her dad: in jail or six fit under. She’s been hanging aroond wi some sleazy creeps; I’m tryin tae keep her away fae them, but I cannae be around her every single minute ay the day, it’s sick … twisted … he shakes his heid, — and I cannae keep sleeping wi her and bringing her fuckin skag, but it’s aw that calms her doon … She should be sitting fuckin O grades, he gasps miserably, then looks intae my eyes. — God, here I am going on about my stuff, when your mother … he grabs my hand and squeezes it.
I feel myself tearing up. — Sorry, Simon, I … and I cannae speak, as music and people swirl roond us. Eventually I hear myself think out loud: — Why is life such a fucking mess?
— Search me, he says, gripping my hand tighter, his own eyes misting up. Then he looks around in distaste as the Style Council’s ‘You’re the Best Thing’ comes on.
— Dae ye no like this tune?
— I like it too much – it’s far too good for the poseurs and pricks in this dreary howf, he spits. — I hate that these people are actually allowed tae listen to music like this.
— Ah ken what ye mean, I nod, bewildered; lookin ower at Esther, I sortay git the gist. She’s makin her escape fae the rabid bluster ay Mark and that wee Asian lassie, whae I remember is called Nadia.
— Listen, I’ve a suggestion. Why don’t we go round to Swanney’s, get a wee something, then head back tae yours or mine and have a little of what we fancy and just hang out and talk? We’ve both got a lot ay shite gaun oan and this crowd in here are startin tae dae my nut in. Mark’s going a bit crazy wi the skag n the Lou Reed; I’m no saying I’m an angel, but he’s got so fucking myopic …
We watch Mark rantin away wi that mental wee Nadia, baith ay them aw ower the place on the speed.
— Now there’s a marriage made in powder, Simon smirks, then says, — I’d rather get sorted before he shows up at Johnny’s, or we’ll never get rid ay the fucker.
I don’t take any persuading at all. A coffee and poetry night wi Hamish will have tae wait. And Alexander had left a message sayin he wanted tae hook up, but now that’s off tonight’s agenda n aw. — Sound. Let’s go.
We walk outside into a chilly night. Something unnameable turns behind my eyes. Simon’s hand feels warm and his hot breath is like the whisper ay angels in ma ear.
Johnny’s stair door’s open; somebody’s blootered in the lock and the security intercom – a spaghetti of wires spews oot a black hole where the aluminium grille box used to be. We can hear him on the first-floor landing, arguing with this guy, who shouts back in a voice I sortay recognise: — You’ve nae fuckin idea, mate!
Simon pulls me back into the shadows at the bottom of the steps.
— Yir mate’s been huckled, Michael, we hear Johnny’s low heckle, — you’ve no, you’re still in the game. Find another fuckin wey tae git it oot!
— Ah telt ye: that cunt’ll grass us right up. Watch this fuckin space, the boy half whispers, turns away, then we can hear him comin doon the steps. He stops, cranes his neck and shouts back up the stairs: — It’s game ower, and he twists roond and nearly walks intae us, pushin past us wi a nasty look on his face, but daein a quick double take when he sees me. Johnny’s followed him doon the stairs tae the first bend. He looks a bit surprised tae see us, then shouts a stagey cheerio tae the boy, who doesnae answer back. Thing is, ah ken where I’ve seen that guy before: in this pub in Dalry Road wi Alexander’s brother.
— Fuckin business, Johnny shrugs at us, but he’s aw tense and bothered. — It’s gettin like Waverley Station up this fuckin gaff. How we’ve no been busted by the polis, ah dinnae ken.
— This is Edinburgh, Simon laughs. — The cops in this city aren’t particularly big on law enforcement.
We go up tae the flat and make the deal. Johnny wants tae dae some wi us right now, but we’re anxious tae get away. Then the door bangs and it’s Matty. Johnny cheerlessly lets him in and heads back through the front room. Matty follows him like an anxious lap dog. — Ali. Si.
— Matteo, says Simon. — How goes? Lookin a wee bit peely-wally there, my old chum.
— No bad, he says, n he does look terrible, his eyes are rid n it’s like the side ay his face is streaked wi dirt. He barely acknowledges us as he glares at Johnny. — Cunt, ah need sorted oot, Mikey Forrester tae.
— Let’s see the colour ay yir dough then chavy, Johnny says coldly.
Simon gies me a ‘fuck this’ nod and we’re off. As we depart Johnny and Matty start arguing and it seems tae get mair heated as we head doon the stairs, where we run right intae Mark, charging up towards us wi demented octopus eyes as we hear Johnny’s door slamming shut. I wonder which side ay it Matty’s oan. — Marco … Simon says, raising a brow, pointing at his ghastly green fleece. — What the well-dressed man about town isn’t wearing … No luck with the girlies, I take it?
— Whaire are youse gaun?
— A party. For two. As in you ain’t invited, Simon emphatically says. Then he nods upstairs, adding, — If you want sorted oot, I’d get in there sharpish. Young Matteo’s just arrived wi a horse-choker ay a wad, dropping Forrester’s name like it was premium acid. I think he wants tae sort oot the whole ay Muirhoose.
Mark needs nae mair encouragement, pushing past us and storming up the stairs. We hear him hammering on Johnny’s door, stifling our laughter as we exit into the street.
We walk for a bit, step by step across the black pavements in the incessant rain. We’re soaked through by the time we get a cab doon tae my place at Pilrig. I put on the fire and go to the bathroom tae get some towels. Alexander’s shaving bag is still sitting there on the cistern. I put it in the linen press, in case Simon sees it. Heading back into the front room, a towel wrapped round my heid, I hand him another and switch on the answerphone messages.
— It’s Dad, princess. Just tae let ye know that Mum had a good night last night. Very peaceful. She was a wee bit agitated and confused cause ay the stuff they’re giving her …
Sweet Simon tightly grabs my hand.
—… but she sends her love and she’s looking forward tae seeing ye. Bye then, darlin … love you.
Simon intensifies his grip and kisses the side of my face.
— Hi … it’s me …
Alexander.
— … I was wondering if you’re around … Obviously not. Not to worry. Anyway, see you Monday.
Simon lets go my hand. An eyebrow raises, accompanied wi a wry smile, but he says nothing. Kelly’s up next, sounding squeaky and excitable.
— Whaire did you get tae? Saw Mark at the Hooch. Had a bit ay a fawoot wi Des. Too radge! Call us when ye git this message!
Simon looks at me, but we both know there’s no way I’m calling Kelly or anybody else right now. — She’s still with Des, th
en?
— Aye, but guess what? She telt us she kind ay fancies Mark!
— Hmm, says Simon, — the words frying pan and fire spring immediately tae mind.
I’m noddin in agreement as I go tae the fridge n pour some neat voddy ower they rocks ay ice, so cauld they make a sound like bones cracking. I look at the white powder in the placky bag Johnny’s gied us.
— You desperate? Simon asks.
— I’m okay, I tell him sharply. I like a bit ay skag now and then, but it’s no like I’m some fuckin junky like Johnny, Mark or Matty.
— I think it would be great tae go tae bed first, he says. — Make love.
I’m right into that. We go through tae the bedroom, and I’m taking my damp clathes off, struggling with this top, it’s stuck tae me wi the wet. Then it’s gone and I’m watching Simon slowly undress, carefully folding each garment, and thinking how, apart fae him, the best sex I’ve had is with Alexander, who’s aboot thirty-four or something. Older guys are better cause they really ken their way aroond a lassie’s body, but it took me ages to get him tae ride me. He let me suck him off, but it was like he kinday thought a blow job didnae constitute infidelity. Then he went doon on me, which was good, but I thought, ‘Fuck sakes, it’s Nora aw ower again,’ but the first time we shagged it was barry (as first times go). Then he sortay ruined it by talking about his separated wife eftir, and I telt him straight, if we’re daein this again, I didnae want tae hear any ay that shite. I don’t know if it’s because he’s no been with many women, or not for a long time, but it’s like he thinks I expect him tae fucking well mairry me! He’s giein his mind a wee treat, n that’s pittin it mildly. A barry lay, though. But Simon fucks like an aulder guy, like he’s got aw the time in the world, and he gets ye in a fair auld lather before he pits it up ye. He switches fae making love tae fucking and back again, so you’re eywis oan yir toes. Ye spend a night wi him, ye git yir money’s worth. And ye don’t think ay anything else for a while, and that’s what I need: no tae be thinking ay anything else.
We start snogging; dirty, wet kisses, and I feel something red and inviolate gather force within me. He whispers in my ear, — Ever had a guy make love tae you in your arse? I really fancy daein it that way.
I feel myself being pulled right oot ay the horny zone cause that doesnae appeal tae me at all. In fact that’s pittin it mildly: the idea of Simon’s big, fat cock up ma bahookay makes me feel queasy, but then that dildo that Nora left behind pops inspiringly intae my mind. — You can fuck me up the arse if I can dae it tae you first!
— What … Don’t be … how can you …?
I leap offay the bed, go over tae the wardrobe and pull the dildo doon fae the top shelf, strapping it on like Nora did, positioning the base on ma pubic bone.
Simon’s black pupils expand and gleam. — Where in the name ay fuck did you get that?
— Never you mind! I want tae fuck you up the arse first, I tell him. I swivel my hips, watching my big placky plonker move fae side tae side.
He raises a doubtful brow. — Aye, that’ll be right. You’re no putting that up ma erse!
— It’s only the same size as your cock, I tell him, though I think the dildo’s a bit bigger. But this flattery seems tae appease him, and his mouth twitches, and I see a germ ay contemplation spark in his eyes. So I’m imploring him: — C’mon, it’ll be fun. You can dae me after.
— Eh … I dunno about this …
— C’mon, Simon, it’ll be an experience. You’ll enjoy it much mair than ah will.
— Aw aye, he says, — how d’ye reckon that?
— Cause you’ve got a prostate gland tae stimulate and I dinnae. The male prostate gland’s a sensitive zone. My pal Rachael’s a nurse; she telt us aw aboot it. You’ve much mair going on up there than I have. Look at homo guys; they get off on receiving as well as giving, you know.
He thinks about this. — Gen up?
— Aye, I contend, as I start to slather the Vaseline onatae the dildo. — I willnae hurt ye.
He grinds his jaw, scoffing as if that prospect was impossible, — Awright, I’m game, let’s dae it. I’ll try anything once … obviously no wi a guy but!
— You’ll love it.
— Aye, right, he says doubtfully.
So he’s on the bed, crouching, legs apart, and his protruding bum is like a girl’s except that it’s a bit more muscly and hairy in the arse-crack. No that I’ve experienced lassies’ arse-cracks, but mair hairy than I can imagine them as being. I line up the end ay the dildo and push it in. His arsehole seems to give way a bit tae allow the bell-end entry, and then tighten around the top part ay the shaft.
— Oh … fuckin hell …
— You okay?
— Course I am, he snaps.
I push in a little more. Then pull out a bit, then back in …
— Oh … aw … that’s well nippy …
I push against him and he lets himself sink slowly doon oantae the mattress, and I’m oan top ay him, pushing in, and pulling out, fucking him slowly, more of the dildo vanishing up his arse as his body tenses and relaxes, then tenses again. He groans away, grippin the bedspread tightly wi baith hands, but he’s no the only yin intae this. — Fuckin good this, eh; me fuckin you up the erse like the wee Bannanay flats bitch ye are, I spit, enjoying it, turned on like fuck, dripping, working my clit with my fingers, the other hand clamped oantae his shoodir.
With my fingers and the dildo base rubbin against me, I’m bringing myself off while fucking him, a boy, and I swear tae God this feels so good, to be able tae totally control the pace, tae penetrate …
We’re at it, we’re at it, we’re at it …
— EUUHHHGGGGGG! Simon suddenly convulses, stiffens up, and then collapses into relaxation. Soft groans bubble from him, like they’re half trapped in his throat.
I’m pulling away at my clit, rubbing it, N I’M ABOOT TAE FUCKIN EXPLODE! – YA FAHKIN BEAUTY … WHOA … whoa … whoa … ohhh … EEEGGGH …
I faw oan toap ay Simon. We’re like a heap ay Alexander’s felled trees, ready tae be incinerated. I stay prone on him for a bit, feeling the knobbly bone and muscle of his back on ma squashed tits n belly. Then I push myself up, no so much pulling the dildo oot ay his bum, as watching him eject it, as if it was a shit, as he lies sprawled on the sheets. I clip off the device and hold it up tae the light. It glistens with the Vaseline, but there’s nae trace of shite on it. — You okay? Did ye enjoy that?
— It was … sort of medical … he half mumbles intae the sheets.
I throw the dildo onto the floor and pull him over on his back. He rolls compliantly for me, and his eyes stay half shut. Then I spy sticky patches ay cum on the bed sheets and oan his stomach and chest. — You shot yir load!
— Did I …? His eyes snap open and he sits up aw agitated. — I didnae realise … He turns from the mess tae me, his eyes bulging. — Listen, Ali, ye willnae say nowt aboot this, will ye?
— Of course no, I dinnae kiss n tell, this is between us!
— Right … right … he says, and we pull back the covers and get intae bed. — It was a bit intense, but that was cause it was with you, he says, pulling me close tae him. I love the way he smells; some boys are mingers but Simon has this sweet pine-like smell, like how I imagine an expensive cologne.
— It was intense for me n aw, cause it wis you, I tell him. — I couldnae stop touching myself … I grab his cock and it’s stiffening in my hand, prising my fingers outwards. — Fuck me, I whisper in his ear, — fuck me really hard in my cunt and tell me you love me …
Simon’s face takes on a dumb, cruel twist and he looks at me like he’s going to remember our pact, but instead he’s on me and slowly pushing inside my fanny and every fibre ay me aches for more as he rides us really good in that way of his, first slowly, then hard, and he says ‘I love you’ which I ken he doesnae mean, and then stuff in Italian, and I’m swimming through mists as I’m orgasming time and time again, and I’m so demented that it’s actu
ally a fucking relief when he finally blows and screams, — Avanti!
As we hud each other in a sweaty grasp, he thankfully seems tae have forgotten all about ma arsehole, but only cause I suspect he’s thinking ay his ain, or mibbe the gear.
Skaggirl
TOWARDS THE TROSSACHS, pillows of snow, like fallen clouds, cling snugly to high hills and the roofs of good homes. Some windows are already ablaze with Christmas tree lights. From her cell inside the women’s prison, Janey Anderson looks out at the big flakes tumbling from the sky, wishing she could see more. Snow had never been an enemy. But what sort of a Christmas could this be?
Janey grows animated as she leaves her cell and walks down the corridor in a line of women, led by a solitary uniformed one, who opens a series of locked doors. Eventually, they reach the visiting room, where each prisoner sits at one of the desks, lined in neat rows. After a few minutes, the visitors start to file in, and there’s Maria, walking towards her, acknowledging her with a strained smile.
Janey Anderson’s limited experience has already shown her how the women’s prison can be as much a haven as a place of incarceration. Maria looks menaced and in need of protection. Dark circles smear under her eyes like bruises. Her hair seems matted in some parts, lank and greasy in others, and two angry spots flare on her chin. It wasn’t her child, more a Bizarro version; some refugee from that parallel world in the DC Comics her brother Murray used to collect. Maria remains standing, so Janey instinctively rises and reaches out to her. — Sweetheart …
A heavy-knit screw with short-cropped hair, who’d seemed to take a dislike to her, perhaps on account of their similar ages, pounces to warn Janey about touching. Bullneck craning round, she barks, — Enough! Ah’ll no tell ye again!
And crumbling back into her seat, Janey can’t believe her eyes when she sees him, standing behind Maria, with a sense of prerogative that revolts her to the core. Now Coke’s gone, she’s locked up in here, and this usurper has his arm around the fragile shoulders of her daughter, her Maria, who was meant to be safe at Murray and Elaine’s in Nottingham! The letter he had sent her! — What’re you daein here? She looks at her former neighbour, the friend of her deceased husband, and briefly, shamefully, her lover.