by Irvine Welsh
And I realise I want another n all, in fact I feel like a starving Russian peasant in a well-stocked French patisserie, cause we got ta start farking work on Monday morning.
Waters of Leith
THE LIGHT CAME back. It always came back. Lizzie remembered him from school, the football player. He had always seemed like a nice guy, and he was good-looking. But she had been an aspiring artist, continuing her education past the mandatory sixteen, and moving in different circles. From an early age, an invisible membrane of aspiration had been crystallising between them.
Just back at the College of Art, New Year resolutions still intact, Lizzie McIntosh had had been dealt a crippling blow. Taking her portfolio to her tutor’s room, she had heard Cliff Hammond in conversation with another male lecturer. About to knock on the half-open door, she had frozen at the mention of her name and had stood listening to them tearing up her life. — … stunning-looking girl, but with absolutely no talent whatsoever. I’m afraid people have indulged her, by leading her to believe that she has technical skill and something to offer, when, quite frankly, there’s nothing … Hammond had said, in those tones of tired disdain she’d heard him deploy on others, without ever believing she’d hear them used about her.
Suddenly, the glass floor Lizzie had built was cracking under her feet and she had felt herself falling. Blood pounding in her head, but a numbness pervading her limbs and face, she’d yanked her hair back into a ponytail, holding it with her fist. Then she’d turned, wondering if she’d find the strength to get down the corridor. She’d left her portfolio against the wall outside his office and walked back down the stairs and out of the college building. It was cold, but Lizzie had been only vaguely aware of this as she’d sat down on a bench in the Meadows, looking at the mud on the shiny leather of her boots. As she’d lifted her head, Lizzie had regarded the weak glow of the moon, waiting impatiently to displace the fading late-afternoon orange sunlight, which shone in spokes through a darkening sky. Could she consider herself an artist now? All that vanity and fanciful indulgence!
She’d barely taken in the football game finishing a few yards away from her. But he’d noticed her, lost in herself, and prayed her distraction would last till the ref blew his whistle and he could quickly ready himself and emerge from the changing room. Tommy Lawrence had sensed that this was his chance, and the fates had been with him; a perfunctory shower, quickly knocking back drinks invitations, and shooting across the park to her lonely figure. Then he was standing over her, his face earnest and handsome under a wet mop of crayon-brown hair.
Lizzie hadn’t argued when he had said she looked upset. They had gone for a coffee, and he’d listened. He had noted there was no ire in her tone; she had told her story with a detached grace, or perhaps it had been the shock. Tommy had instinctively known he had to enable Lizzie to find her anger and arrogance again. — It’s just his view, one person, he’d told her. — He sounds a right slimy creep. I’ll bet he fancies you.
An understanding had started to dawn. This was Cliff Hammond. On more than one occasion, he’d asked her to come for a drink, or a coffee. He had a reputation. It all made sense. She’d rebuffed this egotistical fop, this wrinkly old predator, and now he was striking back in his pathetic, bitter way.
— Well, he’s no exactly impartial, is he? He’s a sleazebag, Tommy had declared. — You cannae let a wanker like that put ye off!
— No way, Lizzie had said, — no fuckin chance, suddenly realising that this boy had reaffirmed and restored her.
— We should go and get your folder.
— Aye, too fucking right. Lizzie had risen. It all seemed important again. Thanks to Tommy Lawrence from Leith.
The folder had been right where she’d left it the corridor. She had picked it up, just as Cliff Hammond had emerged from his office. — Oh … Liz … there you are. Didn’t we have an appointment over an hour ago?
— Yes. I was there. But I heard you talking to Bob Smurfit.
— Oh … Realising Lizzie had an escort, Hammond’s face had taken on a paler hue.
Then Tommy had stepped uncomfortably close to him, and Hammond had tensed up, involuntarily taking a backward step. — Aye, we heard a lot ay stuff fae you, Tommy had accused, eyes narrowing.
— I … I think … there’s been a … mi … Cliff Hammond had stammered, the word ‘misunderstanding’ caught hopelessly in his throat.
— It’s rude tae talk about people behind their back. Especially when it’s shite. Do you want tae repeat what ye were sayin?
For a man who stressed art’s visceral power, who loved the clutch of young painters currently emerging from Glasgow, Cliff Hammond was devastated to be confronted by his own weakness in the face of righteous indignation. Had Lizzie been alone, he’d have tried to explain, to work something out, but now he felt small and puny beside this tall, fit-looking youth, whose bearing and accent suggested harsh places Hammond had previously just seen as peripheral names on the city map, the terminus on the front of the maroon buses, or settings for a seedy newspaper story; places he would never be inclined to go to. One side of his face had broken into a twitching spasm.
It was that uncontrollable reflex that had saved Hammond from physical violence. Tommy’s contempt for Lizzie’s tormentor’s cowardice had quickly turned into self-loathing at his own bullying. Both men had stood paralysed, before Lizzie had said, — Let’s go, Tommy, pulling his sleeve, and they’d left the college for a nearby bar.
So Tommy had come into her life two weeks ago and they’d been inseparable. But any speed Tommy Lawrence had was confined to the football field. So last night, Lizzie had taken matters into her own hands, suggesting they went out drinking, then dragged him to her place and bed. It had been so good to get that out of the way.
Now the late-morning light is shining through the curtains, spreading across them. Lizzie looks at Tommy asleep, his smile a glaze of contentment. Like the books on her shelves and prints on her walls, he promises some sort of paradise. Yet the things she’d heard about him had not been unambiguously good; she knew some of the people he associated with, mainly by reputation. Goodness was not the first quality that came to mind when she thought of them. It might have been the post-coital situation, but could anyone look bad in sleep? Even evil bastards like Frank Begbie probably attained an angelic innocence when they were out for the count. Not that she’d ever want to find that out. It’s hard to imagine that Tommy, being such a nice guy, was friendly with a nutcase like Begbie. Lizzie can’t see why he would associate with people like that.
A pigeon coos noisily from the window ledge and Tommy’s eyes spring open. He gratefully fills them with Lizzie, sitting up next to him reading Slaughterhouse-Five. She wears reading glasses; he’s never seen her in them before. Her curly brunette hair is pinned back. She has a T-shirt on, and he wonders how long she’s been awake and if she’s somehow put her blue knickers back on. — Hiya.
— Hiya. Lizzie looks down at him with a smile.
He pushes himself up on his elbows, to better take in the airy, scented room.
— Ye want some breakfast? Lizzie asks.
— Aye … he hesitates. — Ehm … what d’ye fancy?
— I think I’ve got some eggs in the fridge. Scrambled egg and toast?
— Great.
Then a sudden loud, truculent bang on the door. — Who the fuck can that be? Lizzie angrily wonders aloud, but instantly rises and pulls on a dressing gown. Looks back at Tommy, to catch him looking at her. She is wearing her blue knickers but the sight of her still makes his lips sting.
— Leave it, he pleads.
She considers this. Then that knock again, insistent like a polisman’s. — It sounds important.
Lizzie momentarily wonders if her flatmate Gwen will get it, before recalling that she’s away for the weekend. That’s why she brought Tommy back. She finds her cat-face slippers and goes through to the hallway, as the pounding on the door starts again, matching the rhythm of last nig
ht’s red wine in her head. — Alright! Ah’m coming!
She opens the door and is astonished to see Francis Begbie standing before her.
— Tommy here?
Lizzie is briefly rendered speechless. She brought Tommy back and now this nutcase knows where she lives!
— Sorry tae disturb ye. Begbie cracks a facsimile of a smile, evidently not sorry at all.
— Wait here, she says, turning away.
Begbie keeps his foot in the door so it won’t spring shut on him. Lizzie can feel his eyes tracking her as she moves down the hallway. She gets into the bedroom, where Tommy is getting dressed. He thinks he heard Franco’s voice; surely not. But Lizzie’s scowl, it tells him, surely yes. — It’s for you.
As Tommy departs, Lizzie seethes, rethinking everything.
— Fuckin result, Tommy boy! Franco bellows as Tommy moves down the hallway. It totally disarms his anger, and Tommy has to fight back the urge to smile.
— What you daein here?
— Thoat ye’d fuckin well be here, ya cunt! Ma cousin Avril steys in this stair: nowt thit fuckin well goes oan in Leith gits past Franco, mind ay that, ya cunt. Fill hoose fuckin last night then, Tommy, eh? Oafay wee teeny drawers n aw! That’ll seeken Sick Boy’s fuckin pus, ya cunt!
Tommy smiles, glancing back down the hallway. The cold stings his bare arms in his T-shirt. Begbie, though clad in an Adidas tee and thin jacket, doesn’t appear at all uncomfortable. — What d’ye want, Franco?
— What the fuck d’ye think? What wis ah fuckin well sayin aw this week, ya daft cunt? Heid too fill ay aw this fanny nonsense, that’s your fuckin trouble! Ebirdeen! The day. Easter Road. The YLT: show they wee casual cunts how it’s done. You, me, Saybo, Nelly, Dexy, Sully, Lenny, Ricky Monaghan, Dode Sutherland, Jim Sutherland, Chancy McLean n loads ay other cunts. Larry’s oot ay hoaspital! Some fuckin mob! The auld school ur back oan the rampage! Cannae git a fuckin hud ay Spud but he’s jist like Renton n Sick Boy doon in London: nae fuckin loss. Fuckin liabilities whin it comes tae the fuckin swedge, they cunts.
Tommy stands agog, listening in disbelief to Franco’s spiel.
— Aye, wir aw doon the Cenny right now. Even Second Prize! No drinkin n aw. Meant tae be oaf the peeve; like that’s gaunny fuckin last! Hates a bevvy, that cunt. That’ll be a laugh, him n that fuckin Ebirdeen cunt that looks like Bobby Charlton, rollin around in the fuckin gutter thegither! Mind ay him, the cunt thit’s baldy as fuck at twinty-two?
— Scargill, Tommy says, remembering this plump guy with a frizzy comb-over, leading an Aberdeen ambush in King Street from the Pittodrie Bar. — Ah’ll see yis doon thaire later, he says with as much enthusiasm as he can muster.
— Be sure ye fuckin well dae. Franco looks on in accusation. — Thuv brought doon a big fuckin mob, n it’s aw hands oan the fuckin deck. Thir no fuckin swaggerin aroond Leith, fuckin well surein thair no. A bunch ay fuckin sheepshaggers wi thair diddy European Cup Winners’ Cup, comin doon here, drinkin in oor pubs, chattin up oor … Franco hesitates, looks at Tommy.
Tommy can’t resist it. — Sheep?
Franco just shuts down for a few seconds. He goes still and silent and the oxygen seems to leave the stair. Then a thin smile dances on his lips. He laughs loudly, allowing Tommy to expel the air he hasn’t realised he’s been holding on to. — Good yin, ya cunt! Right, mind, jist be thaire, Begbie says, turning abruptly and bouncing down the stairs. He looks back up at Tommy from the stairbend and says in a low, even growl, — Mind, dinnae keep us waitin.
Tommy shuts the door and tries to gather himself. Lizzie’s quick appearance with her hands on her hips, and that expression on her face that says, well? It shunts him from despondency to desperation. — Franco … ah forgot ah’d arranged tae go tae the game with the boys.
— Ah dinnae like fuckin psychopaths comin tae ma door in the morning, Tommy.
— Franco’s awright … he says half-heartedly. — His cousin steys doonstairs. Avril.
— Aye. I know who she is. Three kids and aw wi different faithers … she begins in disapproval but his wretched, cartoonish expression of repentance under that chestnut wedge of hair softens her. — We’ve nae milk.
— I’ll go doon for some, he volunteers.
Tommy sticks on his jumper before venturing outside. There is a skip in his step as he emerges from Lizzie’s stair. But one thought ignites inside him: me and Lizzie. Even Franco can’t dampen that. It is a result.
The street is slowly coming to life, as bleary party heads who’ve stayed up all night merge with those making a fresh assault on the weekend. As he passes a phone box, Tommy feels a surge of inspiration, as Franco’s words, sly and crass but also thoroughly vindicating, ricochet inside his lit-up skull. Fill hoose fuckin last night then, Tommy, eh? Oafay wee teeny drawers n aw! That’ll seeken Sick Boy’s fuckin pus, ya cunt!
He double-backs to make a call to London. A faraway voice answers, as he drops in the coins. — Hello, hello, it’s good to be back …
It’s Renton. He sounds wasted. — Mark.
— Tommy … yir nivir gaunny believe it, ah wis jist gaunny phone ye … what did ah jist say tae you, Nicksy?
A cockney voice, which Tommy recognises; the wee guy we met at Blackpool, the boy that was up at New Year. Nicksy. — Olroight, Tommy mate? Come dahn ere n take these cunts back up ta Jockoland … we gotta bitta farking graft lined up tamorra and them fuckahs ain’t able …
— Naw, mate, you’re stuck wi them now. We dinnae want these bams back up here!
— Another flaming cross ta bear … Alright, geezer, see ya …
— Cheers, gadge …
And then Rents is back on. — How goes bonnie Scotland, Tam?
— The usual. Begbie’s oan the fuckin warpath again.
— Aye … the boy just needs a wee bit ay love …
— Wantin tae go battlin at the fitba wi Aberdeen. It’s bad enough wi Lochend n that, now he’s wantin us tae fight wi cunts ah dinnae even ken! What’s it tae me if these Aberdeen boys batter some gadgie fae Granton or somewhere? Begbie’s aw fired up by aw this casuals shite. He’s six or seven years aulder than these wee cunts. It’s pathetic.
— Ye ken the Generalissimo. Any excuse for aggro. It’s his thing … Renton collapses into a strange laughter Tommy hasn’t heard from him before. — Heuh … heuh …
— What was that?
— Sick Boy’s sayin that he needs tae git rode.
— Makes nae difference. That Samantha Frenchard tramp fae Pilton’s hud his bairn and now he’s goat that June Chisholm up the stick.
— Aye, but they’d need tae a bit fuckin doolally lettin Franco ride them in the first place. So what aboot youse then? Any serious girl action? Or is it aw still drugs?
A pause. Then Renton says: — Ah ha! Guess whae’s shaggin and phonin up jist tae rub it in oor faces!
— Well, aye, ah met somebody the weekend before last. And it’s aw goin pri-tay fuckin sweet if ah say so masel.
— Aboot time you got yir Nat King. Anybody we ken?
— Lizzie, Lizzie McIntosh.
— No way!
— Aye way. We’re proper gaun oot.
— Jammy cunt! Snobby ultra-shag Lizzie fae ower the Links –
— Whaat … he hears Sick Boy saying, — Tommy’s riding Lizzie Mac?
— Aye, it’s mental, Rents goes, then says into the phone, — Ah used tae wank aboot her … Did ah tell ye aboot the time ah once caught Begbie wanking ower her at the school sports – no wanking ower her physically, or like ower her in porn, wanking aboot her –
— Ah sais we’re gaun oot, Mark! Tommy protests, remembering how Rents and Sick Boy together are often a devastatingly cruel combination. While professing to get on each other’s nerves, they constantly egg each other on like malevolent twins fixated on the woe of others.
There follows another uncomfortable hiatus on the line, which Renton eventually ends. — Aye … eh, sorry, Tam, we should be mair, eh, mature … nice yin. Result. Na
e riding gaun oan wi me, but Sick Boy … well, Sick Boy’s Sick Boy, eh?
— Ingloid fanny-fest! Sick Boy shouts defiantly into the phone.
— We’ve goat a dug but, Renton continues. — Nicksy wanted tae call it Clyde, eftir Clyde Best, cause he’s a black Lab, but me n Sick Boy started callin him Giro n that’s what he answers tae –
The pips start to rattle. — Right. See ye later, Mark.
— Right … Tell Swanney … Rents starts to ramble and Tommy enjoys the sensation of the line going dead before he lowers the phone to its cradle.
In the shop Tommy buys some milk and a newspaper. His inclination is the Record, but he thinks the Scotsman might impress Lizzie more. He picks it up and is about to hand it over to the shop assistant, then decides to swap it for the Herald on last-minute considerations of sexism. He doesn’t know whether Lizzie is a feminist of some sort, but this early in the gig, it pays to tick every box.
Lizzie versus Begbie. Could anything be less of a contest? At twenty-two he’s too old to be fighting boys from Aberdeen, or Lochend for that matter. It’s nonsense. You grow out of that shite. That Kevin McKinlay boy from Lochend’s sound. He met him recently, playing football. They crossed swords before and on seeing him in the changing rooms at the Gyle, Tommy was geared up for a confrontation or at least a hateful stare and a snub. But the McKinlay boy just nodded and smiled at him, as if to say: Water under the bridge. Silly boys’ stuff. All over now.
It’s different with bams. There’s never any water under the bridge. There are no bridges. One day they’ll be MALT: Middle Aged Leith Team, and still fighting the old battles of their youth. Not him. Now, for the first time, he’s seeing that there really is a way out of this, and it’s all so simple. You don’t have to run away. You just meet somebody special and step sideways into a parallel universe. Tommy has never been in love before. He’d wanted to with previous girls but he hadn’t felt it. Now it’s squeezing at every part of him; beautiful, silly, obsessive and taking up all his time and thoughts. He’s hungry to get back to Lizzie, with a desperation that completely unnerves him.