by Irvine Welsh
— You’ll be in here a few months, Janey, he says, pulling up a chair, his glance at Maria giving her permission to do the same. — Somebody has tae keep an eye on Maria, he sniffs, in put-upon tones.
— Ah ken what you mean by keepin an eye! Janey gasps incredulously. — She’s jist a young lassie!
Simon, Sick Boy, she’d heard his nickname was, lowers himself onto the hard seat, grimacing in discomfort then adjusting his weight. He looks around the rows of visitors in their chairs in what Janey feels is nervous distaste, but this sensation soon diminishes as she watches him fill the room with his presence, as he sits up straight and stretches out. In the event it’s Maria who protests, — Ah’m nearly sixteen but, Ma.
A bolt of shame skewers Janey. Simon had been a wee boy when Coke and her moved next door to the Williamsons all those years ago. As a young mum, she’d openly flirted with his father. One time, at New Year …
Oh my God …
Then she slept with the son. And now he has her daughter, her wee lassie. — Look at ye but, look at the state ay ye! Ye should be back in Nottingham wi oor Murray n Elaine!
Maria suddenly focuses in loathing, the look on her daughter’s face chilling Janey. — Ah’m gaun naewhaire till ah git him! That Dickson! It’s him that’s ruined everything! It wis probably him that grassed ye up aboot ma dad’s money!
— She has a point, Janey, Simon Williamson agrees.
— You shut the fuck up, Janey snaps. Bulldyke Screw briefly stirs from her Ken Follett novel, looks out with pale blue eyes, deeply set into bulbous pink flesh. Janey lowers her voice and sits forward, scowling at him. — You … wi ma wee lassie! What kind ay a person are you?!
— I’m trying to take care of Maria, Sick Boy bites back, outrage in his big eyes. — You want her tae be on her ain, while you’re hanging out in this cosy little sorority? Cause she’s told you and me that she ain’t going back tae Nottingham, despite me telling her till I’m blue in the face that it’s the best place for her. So fine. I’ll just leave her, and he throws his hands in the air Italian-style, prompting Bulldyke Screw to lower Follett to her meaty thigh in warning.
— Dinnae, Simon … Maria pleads.
— I couldnae walk away now, babe, don’t you worry. He shakes his head, putting his arm around Maria and kissing her on the side of her face, all the time never taking his accusing eyes from Janey. — You need somebody to be here for ye!
Deflated, Janey can only bleat across the table, — But … but she’s just a bairn …
— She’s almost sixteen. I’m just twenty-one, Simon Williamson declares pompously, though he seems to sink slightly in realisation that Janey knows he’d recently celebrated his twenty-second. — I know how it looks, and I’m by no means proud of the fact that we’ve embarked on a relationship, but it’s happened. So deal with it, he commands, sitting forward towards her, then wincing on the hard seat.
Janey feels her essence crumble further under his unwavering gaze. She lowers her head, before whipping it up and looking into her daughter’s confused, tired eyes. The dread thought settles: the eyes of an old woman.
— I’m not a cradle-snatcher, Janey. Sick Boy keeps the cold stare trained on her. — As I think you know, ah prefer more mature women as a rule, and she feels herself drowning in her abashed silence.
The target of Janey’s silent wrath slowly shifts: in uncompromising clarity she sees again that Coke’s drinking had inflicted this misery on them all. Destroyed him, incarcerated her, sent her son to England, to relatives he barely knew, and delivered her daughter into the arms of this shady neighbour. Every glass his stupid, befuddled eyes had looked into and raised to those big, rubbery lips, had inched them all closer to this horrible destiny. Her feelings for her late husband, once shrouded in all sorts of ambivalence, crystalise into a searing hate.
Then Sick Boy gives her daughter another squeeze, this time on Maria’s thigh, evidence to Janey of a proprietary intimacy. — As awkward as this is, I love this lassie, and I’m going to do the right thing by her while you’re in here, he declares.
Janey glares at him again, then whiplashes to her daughter. — But look at ye! Ye look terrible!
Through her blouse, Maria claws at the skin on her arms. — We’ve picked up the flu –
— There’s been a few sleepless nights, aye, Sick Boy cuts in. — But we’re okay, aren’t we, babe?
— Aye. Honest, Ma, Maria contends.
Though far from convinced, Janey sees no gain in stoking her daughter’s alienation, or scuppering what gallingly seems to be her sole source of protection. And then there was Bulldyke Screw. Her nemesis had lowered Follett’s Eye of the Needle and was now slowly waddling down the lines of tables, lowering the volume like a hi-fi slide control, before settling at the doors, folding her meaty arms over a suitcase-like protrusion of bosom and gut.
The final phase of the excruciating visit is a stilted dance around banalities, as Janey aches for phone access to speak to her Nottingham-based brother, as much as Sick Boy and Maria do for gear. All parties are relieved when visiting hours are over.
— We need tae get busy-busy, chop-chop, Sick Boy tells Maria, as they prowl through the prison gates and the drizzle towards Stirling town centre, to the railway station and onto a Waverley-bound train.
A bus takes them to the foot of Easter Road, where they cut across the Links, shivering against a strong wind, which whips stinging layers of rain into them. Despite their discomfort, Maria looks around in a wonderment that stuns him, as if this sodden, manky walk is evoking the end of the school year, bringing with it the memory of a girlhood’s innocent summers; tumbling onto grass, head throbbing with the heat, the dazed, empty streets of breezeless afternoons, the gossip of radios from passing cars, the rich smell of diesel, the melancholy intoxication of her father, the husky voice of her mum, carrying over the balcony through a powdery dusk that would fall so slowly that you felt cheated by the light’s departure. All that gone with the onset of breasts and hips, which heralded newer, more dangerous games and the deployment of disdainful sneers and aloof postures, those paltry defences against the unremitting attentions of feral boys. He regrets his role in her recent string of tragedies, but shrugs it off by rationalising that if it wasn’t him, then some other, less caring predator would be keen to take up the assignment.
È la via del mondo.
Sabotaged by an emotion between euphoria and panic, Sick Boy fingers the pocket of his jeans. It wasn’t a dream! Those tenner notes he’d gotten from Marianne the other day were still there, sharp to his touch. She had opened the door, wide-eyed, and he’d stepped right into her, silencing her with a kiss. As she responded, his eyes picked out the boudoir, where her bag sat on the bed. He’d eased her onto it and slid his hand up her skirt, his fingers caressing her thighs, working inside her panties. He’d almost cheered out loud on discovering she was wet, gasping as his forefinger pressed against her angry clit. As he’d pushed her lips apart, his other arm, round the back of her neck, was reaching towards her bag. His hand had meandered into it, fingers deftly tracing the brass lips of her purse, moving north till he found that tight knot. Slowly pulling the sleek lips apart, he’d picked his fingers inside: it was fresh with crisp banknotes. He picked a couple from her tight, folded stack, mindful to keep slowly working her other lips with his right hand, his mouth on hers, pinning her to the bed. The two hands working two sets of lips, the right easing off, stopping her climax until the left had clipped the brass edges back together and exited from the bag, tugging, so slowly, the zip home. Then he pulled his arm back from behind her neck, and increasing the pressure on her vaginal lips he’d looked in her eyes, and declared harshly, — After this we will fuck, and waited for her to scream out, — Oh Simon, oh my Godddd … knowing he’d have to make good that promise when all he was thinking about was the notes he was slipping into his back pocket, and how he’d spend them.
Now, rubbing those notes, there is no question as to how they woul
d be disbursed. Maria sees the two tenners in the pornographic rub between his finger and thumb, catches his eye, and he’s about to explain, when a voice booms in his ear, — These’ll do nicely, and he turns to see the burly, slick-haired figure of Young Baxter has stepped out of the bus shelter right in front of him.
What the fuck! — Graham …
— I’ll take those, Young Baxter says, extending a leather gloved hand. — And I’ll have the rest by the end of the month, or you’ll find all your shit in the street and the locks changed.
— Right … Sick Boy swallows hard, looks into Young Baxter’s glacial eyes, then hands over the notes, his lips trembling. — I haven’t seen your dad around, I heard he wasn’t well … that’s why I’m a little behind with the rent. A bit of a communication breakdown between me and the flatmate –
— I couldnae give a toss about your bullshit, Young Baxter snaps, — You might be able to mess the old man around, but you’ll no dae the same wi me.
— I never –
— No rent, no flat, Young Baxter shakes a chunky head, — and I’ll be right in there, taking everything you’ve got and flogging it and then if that’s no enough tae reimburse me, I’ll be taking you tae a small claims court.
Sick Boy stands speechless in abject misery, as Baxter gets into his car and drives off.
— Who wis that? Maria asks. — What did ye gie um money fir?
— My fucking landlord’s son … he’s been stalking me! Jesus fuck!
— We’ve still goat money for gear but, Simon? Eh?
She reminds him of a crazed bird in a nest, frantically yearning for a feed. — Aye, we’ll get it. Stay calm, he says, though he himself feels anything but.
When they get back to the Andersons’ home, Sick Boy drinks some cold tap water, but a skull-splitting headache sets in. Thinking of Young Baxter with rancour, he delves into his small notebook and immediately sees the name: Marianne Carr. Guiltily moving on past the ‘C’s, he hears Maria in the toilet, wonders why can’t she be more like Marianne, with a job and money. Hunting for two is tiresome. He calls Johnny Swan but is dismissed outright. — Nae hireys, nae skag. Ah cannae dae tick, buddy, specially no whin thaire’s a drought oan.
Then it was back to ‘C’, but this time Matty Connell. Matty seems to be back in with Shirley, but Sick Boy gets the same forlorn tale. — No go, mate. The boy let us doon, eh, Matty says, — cunt, somebody got busted, a contact ay Swanney’s.
To Sick Boy’s pained ears his voice drips with wily bullshit. — I see, he replies, — catch ye later, and puts the phone down without waiting for a response.
So there had been some kind of a bust, and there was a shortage. But Swanney would have a personal stash to ride out the rough times. With a habit like his, he had to. Sick Boy calls him again.
— Sorry, mate, Swanney says, and Sick Boy can see his grin down the line, as if he’s sitting in the chair opposite, — when ah said ah cannae help ye, ah meant ah cannae help ye. Ah hate repeatin masel. Squawk. Ah hate repeatin masel. Squawk … and he hears Raymie’s hyena-like laughter, high-pitched and derisive, resonate in the background.
— Listen, Sick Boy’s voice drops, — ah’ve goat a wee bird back here in Leith, tidy as fuck n gantin oan it, but ah’m too skaggy-bawed tae ride her. She’s horned up tae fuck: wants tae perty big time.
He hears Maria slamming the bathroom door shut, heading into her bedroom.
— Aw aye? Johnny’s voice is cynical, and he responds in the parodied Crown Court tones now ubiquitous within their company: — I put it to you that this is nothing more than a tissue of lies, carefully constructed in order for you to get sorted out with free skag!
But Sick Boy can feel the hook’s tug, though he knows he’ll have to play the game. — Objection, Your Honour! I would humbly request that this hearing be adjourned for one hour, then reconvened at Tollcross, where Exhibit One can be presented to the court.
A silence. Then, — I would sincerely hope that for your sake, Mr Williamson, the said exhibit is up to scratch. This court takes a very dim view indeed of its time being wasted.
— Gen up, Johnny. She’s a very naughty wee raver. Sick Boy’s voice drops as he hears Maria going through the cupboards, rummaging, cursing. — You’re welcome tae a poke at that hot wee pussy. Fir a wee fix, likes.
The line goes quiet once again, for two horrible beats within which Sick Boy dies a thousand deaths. — Aye? Fit, is she?
— Johnny, this is a ballissimo wee angel. Pure as the driven snaw, till ah broke the seal myself, like, he lies. — Been teachin her some moves n aw, he expands, now enjoying his spiel, countering his own crushing need by trying to set up a greater one in his opponent. He reverts back to Crown Court-speak, this time casting himself in aggressive prosecution tones: — I put it you that you will be every bit as bewitched by this young vixen as I myself was, then adds, — She just wants tae perty.
— Well, we aw want that. So come on down, Johnny says expansively, before snapping like a sprung trap, — Just youse two, mind!
— Nae worries, telt her aw aboot ye, she’s keen tae meet up. Sick Boy fights back a gasp, watching Maria appear, ghostlike, in the doorway. He speaks to her, but into the phone: — We’ll see ye awright, eh, Maria?
The only response, though, is from Johnny. — Right then, see yis.
— See ye in an hour tops. Sick Boy rests the phone on its cradle. — Game on!
Maria greets this news with an ulcerated smile. Sick Boy heads into the bedroom to see that she’s taken everything from her drawers and wardrobe and dumped them on the floor. She follows in behind him. — Ah’ve goat nowt tae wear!
He manages to find an orange-and-white top in the laundry basket that isn’t too soiled, and coaxes her to change into it.
Soon they’re outside again, shivering at a bus shelter in Junction Street. They board the bus which wheels up Lothian Road. An amber-coloured sky hangs behind blue-grey ropes of smoky cloud. — No long now, Sick Boy says into the window, feet tapping on the floor of the bus, watching girls through the muck-streaked glass, imagining them naked, relieved to feel a twinge in his trousers. Resolves he’ll never let junk master his libido.
The bus wheels up Lothian Road and by the time it reaches Tollcross, Sick Boy is shattered. Maria is worse, shaking so much he’s moved to reach down and place his hands on her knees. Stepping off the vehicle, he affects nonchalance. — Mind, Maria, be cool. Flirty. Sexy. Dinnae think aboot gear n say nowt till Johnny mentions it. Did you, ehm … take the pill this morning?
— Course ah did!
— Ah’ll only be in the next room, so dinnae worry. Johnny’s nice, he says faithlessly, as they mount the stairs of the tenement dwelling.
Maria starts chattering, biting on her nails, but as they approach the black door, Sick Boy raises his palm to silence her. He tries to look into the letter box before he knocks, but it won’t yield to the push of his fingers. He bangs on the door and whoever opens it shouts, — Come in, and heads right back into the flat, and they follow. Sick Boy looks back, seeing that a piece of plywood has been nailed over the letter box.
In the living room, along with a couch and chair, a coffee table with a broken vase, an empty birdcage on an old sideboard, an advent calender with each day already opened and all the chocolates removed, and what appears to be a bloodstain on the battered floorboards, Maria registers two men and looks anxiously at Sick Boy, before he introduces them. — Maria, my good friend Mr Raymond Airlie, and our host, Mr Johnny Swan. This is Maria, and he steers her forward, both hands on her shoulders.
— Any gear? Maria begs.
Fuck, thinks Sick Boy.
From the armchair by the empty fireplace, Johnny laughs loudly. — Aw in good time, honeychile. The rules ay the house are: you be nice tae the White Swan, n the White Swan is nice tae you. Ah’m sure Simon here’s telt ye the drill.
Maria moves over and immediately disconcerts him by sitting on his knee. Her hand reaches up and strokes his
rough chin. — Let’s go tae the bedroom.
— That’s much, much better, Swanney says in a low growl, then motions her to rise, winking at Sick Boy who cringes as they step out together.
— The flowers of romance, Raymie says disdainfully, but Sick Boy notes, glory, glory, that he’s cooking up.
— You’re a prince, Raymie.
— Prince Buster Hymen, he laughs, nodding to the door, then singing, — This may not be downtown Lee-heeth, but we promised you a fix …
Twenty minutes later, Sick Boy emerges from his daze to hear shouting. It’s Maria. — Jist cook up! she shrieks, following Johnny into the front room. Her top is on inside out, thick braided orange seams running down her arms.
— The impatience ay youth. Let the White Swan have his wee post-coital moment, Johnny protests, clad in a red silk kimono, with golden dragons emblazoned on it. He turns to Sick Boy. — These moves ye taught her … that the best ye kin dae?
— Just gie the lassie her shot, Sick Boy responds with a mimimal shrug.
— Awright, Johnny says, briefly shamed, then starts preparing the shot in cold deliberation.
He insists on fixing for her, seemingly enjoying this penetration even more. As Maria gasps in gratitude, falling into his arms, he covetously strokes the girl’s tousled hair with a tenderness that disturbs Sick Boy.
So he’s over to them, thanking Johnny; begging, hustling and pleading for a ‘wee something’ to take away with him. Johnny stonewalling in response, delivering a smug lecture on the basic laws of supply and demand, but eventually succumbing and dangling a bag in front of a grasping, grateful Sick Boy.
A smile on his face masks the violence of his yank, as he pulls Maria to her feet. Despite Johnny’s mild, skagged protests, the wasted duo depart, heading off on the bus back down to Leith, Sick Boy with his arm around his girl. — Ah’m really, really sorry you hud tae dae that, babe.