by Irvine Welsh
— Apparently there’s still a bit of a drought up the road, skag-wise,
Sick Boy says, absent-mindedly. — I called Matty the other day. He was rattling like a panda in a Chinese takeaway.
Matty: now there’s a top geezer. Wish it was him Rents brought down. Would’ve been like the old days back in Shepherd’s Bush. Good times, they was. Rents briefly turns to eyeball Sick Boy’s hawklike profile, then goes back to the book.
So I’ve been treading water: putting up with Scotch geezers, but thinking of Marsha upstairs.
I catch the bleedin awful pong coming from the kitchen. The flat smells like a farking bear pit, and that’s probably an insult to the ursine race, who seem quite a tidy bunch when all’s said and done. Mark puked in there, chasing too much brown, the cunt, and he ain’t cleaned it up, and him and Sick Boy are arguing about it. — I’ll sort it, he says, but without looking like he’s in any big hurry ta do it. Fucking well turned his nose up at the brown first n all, he did, said it couldn’t be proper skag; went on about how it was white back home. Can’t get enough now though, the cunt.
I’ve had it here; I leave my filthy Jock guests and exit into a cold, crisp, fresh day, filling my lungs with air and instantly feeling better. Heading towards the market, I scans Marsha’s sister, Yvette, a big fat gel, who looks nothing like her, outside the overland station on Kingsland Road. — Alright?
— Yeah, sound.
— How’s Marsha?
— She’s restin, innit. Ain’t been well. Yvette shifts her weight onto one leg and a heavy tit almost seems ready to spill out from her blouse like a slinky.
— Sorry to hear that …
Yvette’s got that Jamaican-London thing going on. — She naht told you, has she? she says, as she makes the reparations to her top, pullin her coat tight.
— Told me wot?
— Nothing … it’s nothing. Just women’s problems.
— She ain’t talkin ta me. I need ta see her. I just wanna know what I done wrong, that’s all.
Yvette shakes her head. — Leave it, Nicksy. If she don wanna know ya, she don wanna know ya. Ya won’t change her, she says, then gives a little chuckle to herself and repeats, — Nah, mon, ya won’t change her.
I shrugs and leaves the fat gel, thinkin that it ain’t as if I’m out for changin anybody, I’m a no-questions-asked sort of geezer normally. After all, I’m still a young man, and she’s a very young gel. Seventeen. Older in some ways, but younger in others. With a two-year-old son, little Leon. Lovely little kid.
I ain’t met the little chap’s old man, and maybe he’s back on the scene; I dunno if he’s got any claims on her. All she would say when I broached the subject was, — Nah, it’s all cool, man.
Cause I know the lie of the land; I certainly ain’t enough of a farking div to step on some big spade’s territory. The white man’s long moved out to the Shires; bar a few pockets like Bermondsey (and them Millwall cunts don’t count), inner London’s pretty much ruled by the spade and the yuppie. It sometimes feels as if the likes of us are just farking guests in our own city. You gotta behave yourself, and besides, wars over skirt: you can forget it.
But I really thought that me and her had something. Then I thought about how a lot of people, black and white, don’t like the idea of a white geezer and a black bird getting it on. One day it won’t matter a fuck; we’ll all be coffee-coloured with a tint of yellow. Till then we got a load of grief ta get through.
Bad Circulation
THANK GOD THAT wee Maria lassie is safely back at her Uncle Murray’s in Nottingham. I found her a couple ay weeks ago, a total mess, begging up the Bridges, when I was heading back fae work, so I brought her wi me tae Johnny’s. But she freaked when we got tae the stair; said she’d been here before, and was too feart tae go in. So I went up and sorted her oot something, then got her uncle’s number and phoned him. I took her hame wi me – I was shitein it that she’d rob us in the night when I left her on that couch – and the next day we went up tae St Andrew’s Square bus station. I bought her a Nottingham ticket and stuck her on that National Express coach n didnae leave until it pulled away. I called her Uncle Murray the next day, tae make sure she got there, and he telt me he was looking tae line up treatment for her. Murray was really tearing intae Simon, blaming him for Maria being on junk, but I didnae want tae get intae that with him. Sometimes families jist project their shit onto other people. Fair play tae her Uncle Murray but, he sent me up a cheque for the ticket.
The last thing I wanted was tae go oot the night after work. Alexander wis aw funny the day, probably because I’ve no been seeing him, outside the office, as much as he wants. Sometime I catch him watchin me, lookin out from his wee room aw sad-eyed and hopeful, like a dug wi a leash in its mooth. Ah like him but it’s too much right now, and that’s pittin it mildly. Toon’s cauld and mingin: thaire’s been a thaw, n the melting snow and ice has left the city like a giant ashtray ay fag ends, grit and dug shit. I even thought I’d gie it a miss going up tae see Mum the night, but Dad’s left a message on the answerphone, telling me to come up tae the hospital right away, saying he’d telt Mhairi and Calum tae get there n aw. I didnae like his tone. I get changed quick, all jumpy with nerves and head oot.
When I get tae the ward my mum looks like she’s sinking intae her bed. Wi her bandages she’s like her ain mummified remains, like she should be in an Egyptian tomb. I’m about tae speak when it hits me in stark horror: this isnae my ma. I realise I’m in the wrong room, and I numbly trot one down, where my mother looks almost exactly the same as the poor cow next door. It’s as if she’s leaking intae the mattress, like a deflating balloon. My dad’s by her side, his thin shoulders shaking, like he’s fighting tae control his breathing. He’s pale and his pencil moustache has been almost shaved off on one side, like he’s made a real mess of trimming it. I nod to him, and bend over Mum. Her eyes, dead and glassy, like my old teddy bear’s, stare vacantly up the ceiling. What’s left of her is pumped so full of morphine I doubt she even registers me as I bend tae kiss her papery cheek, smelling her fetid breath. She’s rotting away from the inside.
The ward sister comes in and puts her hand on Dad’s shoulder. — She’s going now, Derrick, she says softly.
He locks his hands roond my mother’s scraggy claw, and he’s pleading, — No … no … Susan … no … no little Susie … no ma little Susie … it wisnae supposed tae be like this …
I’m minding how he used tae sometimes sing that song, ‘Wake Up Little Susie, tae her, usually when he brought her breakfast in bed oan a Sunday. I’m doon beside her, saying tae her, — I love you, Mum, over and over again, tae this sack ay skin, bone and tumour, wrapped in bandages across the chest the surgeon’s made flat; hoping and praying for a God I’ve never really thought much about tae suddenly enter those wounds.
My dad rests his heid on her stomach, and I run my fingers through his still thick, spiky black hair, but wi some silver strands in it that look like ghosts, walking among the living. — It’s okay, Daddy, I say stupidly, — it’s okay. I realise I huvnae called him that since I was about ten.
Somewhere in all this, Mum convulses mildly, then stops breathing. I didn’t see her last breath, and I’m glad. We wait there in silence for a bit, my dad making groaning noises, like a small, wounded animal, me feeling guilt at the awful swathes of relief that cascade over me. It wasn’t Mum any more, she could barely recognise us on the drugs they were giving her. Now she’s gone and nothing can hurt her. But no tae see her again, ever, that’s just way too much tae get ma heid roond.
I’m twenty-one years old and I’ve just watched my mother die.
My wee brother, Calum, and wee sister, Mhairi, come in, both of them destroyed. They’ve got that condemning stare, like they think I’ve stolen something, as Dad rises, himself looking like a man pulling his body oot ay a grave, and hugs both me and Mhairi. After he goes over to Calum and tries tae dae the same to him, but Cal pushes him away and looks tae the b
ed. — Is that it then, he asks, — is that Ma away?
— She’s at peace now, she didnae suffer … she didnae suffer … my dad keeps repeating.
My brother is shaking his heid, as if to say, ‘She had cancer for four years, a double mastectomy and loads of chemotherapy, of course she fuckin well suffered.’
I’m gripping the cold metal bars at the foot ay the bed. Looking at the oxygen outlet in the wall. The plastic jug on the locker. The two stupid Christmas cards on the shelf by the windae. Focusing on anything but that corpse. I’m thinking about my mum’s morphine stash that I took fae the hoose and is in the bedside table back at mine. For a rainy day. Fucked if they’re getting that back, the hospitals; they owe us that, at least.
I take Mhairi ootside for a fag. — We shouldnae be daein this, I tell her, — no after Ma.
— It’ll happen tae us anyway, Mhairi says, silent tears ruining her eye make-up, faced scrunched in misery. — Tits cut oaf n dyin like that, like a freak! What’s the point?
— You dunno that’ll happen tae you!
— It gits handed doon!
— Ye dinnae ken that! C’mere you, ya dough heid, n ah wrap my arms aroond her. — We’ve got tae look eftir these boys in thaire, you n me, right? That’s what Mum would want. Ye ken how fuckin useless they are. Seen Dad’s tache? Christ almighty! She laughs in a painful explosion, then screws her face up n greets again. Ah kin smell the Coco Chanel on her, that stuff that went missin before ah moved oot, the fuckin wee thief, but it’s no exactly the time tae say anything.
Cal and Dad come oot, but I want tae leave them now, tae go n see Alexander or mibbe go tae Johnny’s and get sorted oot. Some hash or even a wee bit ay skag; anything tae take the edge off aw this crap. We stand ootside for ages, chattin aboot Ma, then I flag doon a cab and get them intae it, but I’m no getting in masel. Dad winds doon the windae. — Ye no comin back wi us the night? he plaintively asks.
He’s in such pain that I nearly change ma mind, but naw, it isnae gaunny happen. — No, I’m gaunny go hame tae bed n come roond early the morn’s mornin, tae try n take care ay aw the paperwork n stuff. Register the death n that.
Alexander or Johnny … cock or skag …
My dad’s arms are stretching oot the cab, his hands are locked on mine. — Yir a good girl, Alison … he says, and starts tae sob. I’ve never seen him greet before. Mhairi comforts him and Calum turns away intae the windae tae be somewhere else.
— Goodnight … I hear masel weakly say as his hand slides, wet n fishlike, oot ay mine, and the cab moves off. I watch it rolling away, n suddenly want it tae stop.
Instead I turn n walk down towards Tollcross.
Cock or skag …
When I get up tae Johnny’s I sees Matty, filthy and feral, lurkin outside the building. I come up behind him. — What’s up?
He vernear sheds a skin, the wee snake that he is. — Eh … Ali … eh … nowt … just gaun up tae see Johnny.
— Moan then, I tell him, pointing tae the wrecked intercom n the open stair door, — nae need tae hing aboot!
— Right, he goes, aw cagey, and we go up the stairs. Then Matty makes us stand in front ay the eye spyhole, as he rings the bell. — Cunt, they’ll no let us in, he says, in a low whisper.
— Well, I’m no your Trojan Hoarse, I tell um, really annoyed, as Raymie opens the door. He’s wearin a T-shirt wi I Was Born Under a Wandering Star oan it, but put on in that crappy home-made lettering, blue rounded plastic script against white.
— Paint your wagon … he says, — come on in, then sees Matty. — Naughty, Matthew, naughty, naughty, naughty, he says in the voice ay that wifie that trains the dugs oan telly.
— Gie a white boy a brek, Raymie.
Raymie shrugs and lets us in. I go tae the front room and Johnny’s sittin wi this guy I’ve seen before. It’s Alexander’s brother’s pal, the guy me n Simon caught arguin wi Johnny in the stair. He’s straight-lookin, dressed in ordinary clathes this time, n wi a shorter haircut. His face contorts when he sees me, as Johnny rises fae his chair. — The lovely Ms Lozinska! Always a pleasure, dar—
He stops deid as Matty shuffles in behind me.
— What the fuck are you daein here? Ye wir fuckin well telt!
Matty just sort ay looks aw sheepish and shrugs, but his presence, or probably mine, has made the guy in the chair jumpy. — What’s gaun oan here, Johnny?
Johnny’s inclined tae reassure him. — They’re sound … he says, turning tae smile at me, — although it would have been nice if Ali had brought some of her female pals along …
— So they can get leered and pawed at by you, I sortay half joke, but I dinnae feel like laughin, I’m mair chokin …
OH MY GOD …
— Hi! The White Swan’s always a gentleman, and he stops, cause he can see the tears that I suddenly feel rolling doon my cheeks. — Hi! Ali! What’s up, darlin?
I tell them everything; where I’ve just been, and Johnny is just really nice.
— Fuckin hell, Alison, ah’m so sorry. He shakes his heid. — It’s a horrible disease. Ma faither hud it. It was heartbreakin: he battled every inch ay the way. Ah was pleading wi him at the end, just let go, but naw. It was terrible. Just the fuckin worst, he says, hugging me, then ruffling ma hair like I was a bairn. He moves intae the kitchen and sticks the kettle oan, wi Matty n me following him.
— Eh, ah wis just wonderin aboot gettin sorted oot, Johnny, Matty says.
— Her ma’s just fuckin died, ya dozy wee cunt, he shouts, pointing at me. — Have a bit ay fuckin respect!
— Right, eh, sorry, Ali, Matty says, and he gies my hand an awkward squeeze. It’s amazing tae think that we actually slept thegither a couple ay years back.
The other guy, Alexander’s brother’s pal, has got up and comes through, whispering something tae Johnny, who nods. Then he sais, — That’s me away then, but soas the rest ay us can hear.
— Righto, my bonnie lad, Johnny responds in forced cheer.
As the guy makes tae leave, Matty takes a step taewards him and says, — Sorry, mate, ah didnae catch yir name.
— N ah didnae gie ye it, the guy curtly responds, then he turns tae me. — Ah’m sorry for your loss, hen, but you can tell yir boyfriend that his brother’s a grassin little cunt and he’s fuckin well gittin it!
— Hi, c’mon, buddy, her ma’s just passed away, Johnny snaps, but he’s lookin at me aw quizzically.
— Ah dinnae like the company yir keeping, Johnny, ah dinnae like it one bit, the guy goes, n he walks oot really pissed off. Johnny is as well, and follows him. I can hear them exchanging urgent whispers oan the landing. I run ootside n shout at the boy: — I dinnae ken anything aboot his brother or your fuckin deals, aw I’m daein is shagging a guy who’s got a degree in botany and a high-up council job! Right?!
The boy looks at me, n goes, — Sorry, hen, mibbe it’s nowt tae dae wi you … sorry.
Johnny nods, n I go, — Well then, n head back inside.
They’ve heard the fuss, n Matty tries tae look nonchalant.
Johnny comes storming back into the kitchen. — Sorry aboot that, doll, he sais, then glares at Matty, totally livid, his hands ballin intae fists. — You are really fuckin pushin it the night!
Matty goes cowed n his eyes water, his voice droppin tae a high-pitched pathetic whisper. It’s that wee-laddie defence he uses, I’ve seen it before, n it gits borin awfay quick. — Cunt, how?
— Aw this ‘ah didnae catch yir name’ shite. Ah ken what you’re aw aboot, Matty; just keep yir fuckin neb oot ay ma business. Right?!
— Right, Matty shrugs, now a surly adolescent like our Calum, makin oot he doesnae ken what Johnny’s talking aboot.
And Johnny’s on aboot the time Simon brought that wee Maria roond here. I really hope he didnae mess that lassie aboot like Johnny’s hintin, n like Murray sais, but no Simon, I ken he’d really be tryin tae help her. I kinday wish he was here. I wonder if he’s thinking aboot me right now?
&nb
sp; Northern Soul Classics
LUCINDA’S LUSTROUS HAIR lifts in the breeze as we surface from Piccadilly Circus tube station into the chaos of the West End. Yes! This is the real London: Soho, that square mile of fun and debauchery. It’s a parky early evening but they’re all out and about on that grid ay narrow streets; advertising execs, record-company types, shop girls, ponces, hustlers and hoors, chancers and tourists. There’s a cheery Christmas vibe in the air, as drunken office parties lurch along in transit between restaurants and bars. The ride-alert button going off so much it’s practically on constant pulse. I watch in jealous awe as some short-arsed media-type scumbag nonentity struts intae a private club, no doubt tae be indulged and cock-sucked by a fawning hostess.
I want what you have and I will get it.
Aye, this is London proper, no some fucking baboon-stuffed south Leith version full ay scum and lowlife going nowhere but fae their ghetto scheme tae bookie, pub, prison or hozzie ward. And my ticket to this urban paradise island could well be Lucinda. We’re walking arm in arm, sleazed up fae a day’s solid cunt-fucking at her place back in Notting Hill. Spunk and fanny juice everywhere, mind games and physical gymnastics, my cock going off like an AK-47 in the hands ay an epileptic. The carnage started when ah began my routine ay murmuring Italian phrases in her ear. The lassies back up the road love that, but she started begging me tae speak in my Scottish voice. Well, ah’d always suspected posh birds were as dirty as fuck, and that certainly confirmed it tae me.
Lucinda has the arrogance that wealth brings; ironic, then, that she was just one of the recipients ay the cards I randomly issued. Oh, that wonderful device! Ah wrote out another batch ay fifty last weekend:
Beautiful woman, I didn’t believe in love at first sight until today.
Please call me. Simon X 01 254 5831
Fifty handcrafted scraps of intrigue; through previous experience, they should net me around five or six sure-fire calls. Who can resist the prospect ay love and romance? All that’s needed are the cards and a certain equanimity, the designated word on this ‘E’ day.