by Irvine Welsh
— Ta. Alison stretched her legs out, staring at the fur trim at the top of her boots. She looked up the Walk. The rim of a full moon shimmered over them, opening up the layers in the dense, smoky sky, casting curious shadows. Queen Victoria towered above, partly concealing them from the street lamp. — Where ye been?
— Dockers’ Club. Some ay the boys ur still in thaire. Frank Begbie cast a brief glance towards Constitution Street. — Jist came oot cause a couple ay cunts wir gittin oan ma fuckin nerves. A bunch ay us went doon eftir the fitba n got stuck intae the peeve. Ah wanted tae go up the toon, but they wir jist sittin thaire. Playin at bein two-bob gangsters, acting like an auld-fashioned pagger wi some wide cunts wis fuckin beneath them. Especially Nelly wi his fuckin Davie Power this n Davie Power that bullshit!
Alison could see them all, sitting round a table in the club; the stylised movements and slick gab. No wonder Tommy wasn’t into that any more. No wonder Simon and Mark had left for London. Under the amber glow of the street lamp, she thought of Calum again: saw what her gangly, dopey young brother might become. She wanted to ask Franco about the game, whether there was any trouble.
— Nearly smashed a fuckin tumbler intae that cunt’s face, Francis Begbie snarled — jist went ootside tae git some air n clear ma fuckin heid but, eh. Aye, it’s aw changed now. Nivir fuckin well see Rents or Sick Boy, eh, no. Dinnae ken whaire Spud is. Every cunt’s oan that smack. Tommy never even fuckin showed up fir the fitba.
As Franco spat out his bitter litany of grievances, the air seemed to gather mass, like a barometric dip before the descent of a thunderstorm. Alison felt herself wincing inside.
— It wis London that fuckin ruined the likes ay Rents n Sick Boy; they cunts doon thaire, Begbie declared. — They wir fine till they went doon thaire; nae airs n graces. That wee cunt they broat up, he wis awright, ah’m no sayin nowt against him, but it wis London that fucked wi thair heids.
It was unmitigated nonsense, but Alison didn’t feel like arguing. Nutters. How did they keep it going? Sustain the energy levels required to fuel all that rage and indignation? Didn’t they ever just get tired?
— Ye git a laugh wi Rents n Sick Boy n that. Nelly n Saybo n they cunts dinnae git ma sense ay humour, Begbie said sadly. Then he looked pointedly at her. — June loast the bairn.
— Aw … I’m really sorry, Franco. Poor June … ah didnae even ken shi wis … how long … is she okay?
— Aye, course she is. Franco looked at Alison as if she was crazy, then explained, — It’s the bairn that’s no okay, she’s fuckin fine. He lit up a cigarette, then as an afterthought, offered her one. She hesitated for a second, then took it and leaned into him to accept a light. Franco took a drag, filled his lungs with smoke and sat back. — Aw she hud tae dae wis keep the fuckin thing up thaire, n she couldnae even dae that! Fuckin useless. Tae me that’s murder, or as fuckin good as; murder by peeve, murder by snout! Ah telt her that, n she sterted fuckin greetin, showin us aw this rid-brown stuff in her fuckin pants. Ah jist took thum n rubbed thum in her fuckin pus. Telt her it was her fault: telt her she wis a fuckin murderer!
Alison stared at him in disbelief.
— Aye, ah caught her puffin oan a fag the other week. Whae’s tae say it wisnae that thit made it fuckin well fire oot before its time?
Alison felt a gasp of incredulity tear from her. — It doesnae work that way, Frank. It’s a terrible thing for a lassie. Naebody kens why it happens.
— Ah ken! Ah ken awright; it happens cause ay snout! It happens cause ay peeve, he moaned, his brown and yellow fingers pointing with the fag in them up the Walk. He suddenly shook his head with implausible vigour, reminding her of a dog emerging from the sea. — Maybe it’s the best fuckin thing thit could’ve happened, cause if she’s that bad now, what kind ay mother would she have fuckin well been whin the bairn wis born? Eh?
— It’s no her fault, Frank. She’ll be in bits. Ye should go hame n comfort her.
— Ah’m nae good at aw that shite, he shook his head.
— Just go tae her, Frank, she’ll appreciate it.
For a second, Alison almost entertained the notion that the blurred reflection of the burning sodium light was a tear in Franco’s eye, but it was probably her own. Then he said in cold certainty, — Nup. It’s doon tae her. She’s goat mates n sisters for aw that shite.
Alison stood up. She’d grown to believe that suffering only led to more suffering. There was just comfort, it was the only thing we could offer each other. Yet her hand, hovering in stasis over Franco’s dense shoulder, couldn’t quite bring itself to land. She saw they were fated to their separate pains, and was relieved by the discernment. — Right, Frank, take care ay yirsel, ah’ll see ye.
— Aye, see ye.
And she marched up the Walk, now too numbed to feel the cold’s burn. She could see the sparkle and hear the occasional crunch of the spring frost under her feet as she looked for the night bus that would take her to Tollcross and Johnny Swan’s place. Closer still was Pilrig, and her dead mother’s morphine. She’d quickly, instinctively, expropriated it, telling her dad it was going back to the hospital, and her friend Rachael, who was a nurse, would know what to do with it. To his befuddled, grateful mind, it had just been another practical task she’d completed, like registering the death, booking the crematorium, the Dockers’ Club for the do, arranging the catering, putting the notice of the death and funeral in the Evening News, taking her mother’s old clothes round to the charity shop.
The Walk was filling up with singing, wolf-whistling drunks spilling out of the pubs. Then, from some distance behind her, she heard glass shattering and shouting followed by a terrible stillness in the air, which was dramatically breached by screams more animal than human. Alison kept walking, knowing who would be responsible. Yet she was afflicted every step of her journey home by Begbie’s pained, malevolent spirit. In her own psychosis of loss, his was the devil’s voice, permeating all the other sounds; the grinding of cars down the street, the shivering of the bare trees in the wind, the guffaws of drunk girls, the shouts of men weaving in and out of the public houses. Her brain was blackened with remorse, gummed up like damp, dirty amphetamine powder in a wrap. She thought of June’s pain, the death’s head of her mother, then the women at the poetry group, those lassies who seemed like they’d graduated from a finishing school on some far-off planet. Making love to Simon, to Alexander, then that guy she’d met the other night at the Bandwagon, Andy? No, Adam. For a second she sensed that if she just closed her eyes, something like a pattern, a semblance of order, might insinuate itself, but she was too scared to try.
From out of the darkness, a wailing police car, followed by its bigger sibling of an ambulance van, tore past her at speed.
Ocean
Sea Dogs
1. Customs and Excise
SICK BOY, RUCKSACK on his back, considers his friend Renton really is a skinny junky cunt; that even Spud or Matty might now appear sprucer. Walking quickly through the brightly lit customs area, every fibre in Sick Boy’s being screams: he is not with me. The air hangs heavy with old sweat, augmented rather than buried by the tang of cheap, noxious deodorants. The thickset official, tattooed spiderweb straddling the bridge of one hand, pulls on a cigarette, feigning disinterest, but Sick Boy can tell that he’s clocked them. He’ll have to pass through this gate every day, and, if Marriott has his way, sometimes with a sizeable packet of class-A drugs sweating in his underpants.
Nicksy, carrying a large imitation-leather travel bag, mirrors Sick Boy’s decline. He’s conversing with Marriott but focused mordantly on a trickle of spittle coming out of his gob, which slops down the older man’s chin. Nicksy is transfixed by the horror of his private dilemma; if he suffers this for just one more second then he feels death will surely follow but, if he breaks off, he’ll never work in this town, sordid as it is, again.
In the event, Renton, with two plastic carrier bags, is the only one detained and searched. He wears a goofy, nervy
smile as the grim-faced customs men tip some faded T-shirts and underwear onto a table for inspection. Meantime, his personal stash burns his toes at the bottom of his trainers. He took a fortuitous late decision to leave his spec-case works at home, and gives thanks with an awkward nod as he’s waved on. Nicksy’s way up ahead, not looking back.
They move outside the customs area, a set of glass doors transiting them to the dock where they’re lashed by a viciously bitter wind. Bloated, slate-coloured clouds suck the light out of the sky as they head onto the gangway to board the large white ship, renamed The Freedom of Choice, following privatisation, from its former designation, The Arms Across the Sea.
Though imposing enough from the outside, the interior of the vessel seems a charmless warren of green-and-white-painted steel decks, cabins and stairways. Manoeuvring through several sets of hostile swinging doors, they descend a nightmarish staircase, proceeding deeper and deeper down towards their billets.
Renton inspects the narrow coffin of the cabin he’s to share with Nicksy (ensuring that his cockney friend is in the bottom bunk as he’s detected a bit of the bed-wetter about his persona), and craves getting his head down. But they’re swiftly whisked back up those stairs to a deck – sweating, lungs punching for air and calves burning – for a potentially torturous induction. Here they get issued with reasonably smart blue holdalls, bearing the Sealink logo. Each bag contains a red waistcoat and silk tie or scarf and either two shirts or blouses, depending on the gender of the ‘operative’. (In the post-privatised, non-union epoch, they are all referred to in this way rather than ‘stewards’. Operatives are paid less.) The supervisor, a thin, short, bespectacled man of around thirty, sporting a neat Beatle cut and resplendent in his own cream shirt, is telling the dozen-strong group of new recruits how it’s their responsibility to make sure that the issued attire gets washed, and that they’re wearing a clean top at all times. — This is of paramount importance, the overseer they’ve instantly dubbed Cream Shirt lisps, focusing on Sick Boy, who stands at the rear of the assembly with Renton and Nicksy, — do I make myself clear?
— Affirmative, Sick Boy barks, causing the assembled inductees to whirl round, before adding, — Can’t run a ship if we’re not shipshape.
Cream Shirt looks at him as if he’s taking the piss, then thinks he might not be, and lets it slide, escorting them on a tour around the vessel. Renton and Sick Boy simultaneously recognise the wild-haired girl from back at the interview. — The only half-decent bird on offer, Sick Boy says to Renton in disdain. — I got a smile fae those chunky Pauline Quirke barrow girls, he nods towards two women moving in coy, close proximity to them, — but sorry, girls, you’re destined for a life of kitchen sweat, as opposed to the bedroom variety!
Renton looks over cursorily, thinking that one isn’t too bad, before his eyes flick back to their original position. — You gettin the baboon vibe?
— Don’t be so immature and sexist. Just cause a chick’s had a kid doesn’t mean thir written off, Sick Boy scoffs.
Renton chooses to ignore him. — That wee honeybunch, he licks his lips, again acknowledging the girl with the big hair, his eyes pulling around in a guileful way that Sick Boy almost appreciates, — she’s gorgeous, he whispers, as they ascend another narrow set of stairs.
— She’s acceptable, Renton, no gorgeous. Sick Boy sucks more air into his chest, hoping some of it will reach his legs.
— Get tae fuck. Check that Robert Plant hair, Renton says, as the inductees struggle onto the next deck, fanning out in assembly. He sees Nicksy, scratching at one really red ear, but can’t locate Marriott anywhere.
— You are a highly disturbed young man, Mr Renton. You would say Robert Plant; I’d prefer to think Farrah Fawcett-Majors, Sick Boy tells him, as Cream Shirt, grasping a clipboard, glances their way. He’s started his spiel and, in face of the competition from the back, raises his voice a decibel, picking them out as potential troublemakers. — So when the alarm rings, we all have to be fully pursuant with our evacuation duties.
— Aye, but great hair, Renton nudges Sick Boy, — however ye look at it. Besides, fuck Farrah Fawcett-Majors: Kate Jackson’s the sexiest Angel. That husky voice …
Sick Boy looks to Cream Shirt, still blowing compressed hot air through those tight, pursed, cock-sucking lips that would undoubtedly make him a hit in fagland, now whingeing on about what to do if the boat sinks. Fuck aw that baws, if such an event occurs ye run tae the nearest lifeboat elbowing every cunt in your path ootay the fucking road. He edges closer to Renton. — We’re talking about a woman here, Rents. A sexy woman. We can debate Fawcett-Majors versus Jackson, or Plant versus Page, but the analogy you used in this context was disturbingly homosexual. Are you getting curious being on this boat, Rent Boy? he asks, as Cream Shirt stiffens, and once again picks up his volume. — … to know exactly where each evacuation station is situated …
— Fuck off, your cock would be the last yin ah’d suck, Renton says, and the Girl With the Big Hair hears this, placing her hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle.
— The last, perhaps, but I notice that you still fall short of ruling it out. Kind ay makes my point for me, wouldn’t ye say?
— Ah deployed a fuckin figure ay speech, ya cunt, Renton whispers. — Ah’m happy tae rule it oot, one hundred per cent.
The Girl With the Big Hair again looks round, this time checking them out, forcing Cream Shirt once more to raise his voice. — … under the 1974 Health and Safety at Work Act …
— Delighted tae hear it, Sick Boy says to Renton.
— Dinnae sound sae hurt then.
— Oh God, Sick Boy retorts in bitter sarcasm, — see it fae my point of view. I’ve always wanted tae gaze doon on your badly dyed heid wi the ginger roots while your rotten teeth grate on ma baws. That’s been a fantasy ay mine since ah was knee-high tae a grasshopper. Now it’ll never be. Boo-hoo. Woe is me!
His indignant tones soar further on this tirade, attracting the laughter of more inductees, and Cream Shirt has had enough of the distraction. — Perhaps … he looks at Sick Boy with what the recipient worryingly sees as bend-over-and-spread-em eyes, then back to his list, — Simon … might share his little joke with us? Seeing as it’s obviously more important than our health and safety on this ship!
— No joke, ehm … Martin, the self-styled Scots-Italian Renaissance man suddenly recalls how the overseer had introduced himself, — I was just saying to my friend that, as a son of a seafaring community, whose family have taken to the ocean for generations through whaling, the trawlers and the mercantile fleet, just how great it feels to be given this opportunity by Sealink.
Cream Shirt’s expression indicates that he again suspects he’s being messed with. However, Sick Boy remains poker-faced to the extent that the supervisor is actually moved. — Thanks, Simon … it might not be the best job in the world, he declares, with emotion, — but it’s not the worst. But this part of the induction is particularly important so I would urge everybody to give it their full attention.
— Of course, Martin, I let my excitement get the better of me, he smiles sweetly, — please accept my humble apologies.
Cream Shirt flashes a brief dinner-invitation grin that makes Sick Boy’s guts flip, before he drinks in Renton’s whispered admiration. — Vintage Sick Boy, especially the term ‘mercantile fleet’ instead ay merchant navy. I’ll jot that yin doon!
Nicksy has sidled up to Renton, going on about the meaning of life. — Wot’s it all abaht, Mark? Eh?
A good question, Renton thinks, as Cream Shirt drones on. – … the legislation was framed largely as an enabling act. It aims to place the responsibility for health and safety at work on every individual employee. Therefore, we are all, in some sense, health and safety officers, with the responsibility to …
We all have tae take responsibility, he recalled his dad saying, concerning Wee Davie. A thump of death’s uncompromising beat in Renton’s chest: the knowledge that he’d never see, or hear
his brother again. He swallows a ball in his throat that isn’t there: you really were a long time deid, as the old saying went.
Thinking of Wee Davie makes him consider Giro the dog. He’s started barking in the night; a sharp, oddly rhythmic sound, suggesting Wee Davie’s cough. It’s taken over from that noise as the source of something beyond torment for Renton, more like a peculiar attestation. Now he’s the only one who’ll rise in the darkness to scoop food into the pup’s bowl. One night he realised Giro had been at the wraps of speed on the coffee table. — It’s no good you living with us, pal, he’d said sadly, lamenting that he was getting too fond of this animal. Renton admired the way that Giro could just get up; no need to wash, brush teeth, dress, he was just instantly ready to go out to the park. And he loved the attention the dog got him from girls in London Fields. Ain’t ee luverly!
That dug will get me a ride, almost in spite ay masel.
But Nicksy is bugging him. — What the fark are we doin here, Mark? I mean … really?
What the fuck does that cunt ken aboot the meanin ay life? Renton thinks, as Marriott’s now in his sights, standing motionless, hands clasped together in front of him.
— … so the first thing we need, Cream Shirt is saying, desperate to engage with a dozen pairs of eyes, — are two volunteers to be our designated health and safety officers … on the basis that a volunteer is worth two pressed men – or women, of course … he scans the blank faces, — … so please raise your hands if you’re interested …
All hands resolutely stay down and most heads bow to regard the green-painted metal floor of the deck. — C’mon, Cream Shirt begs, aghast, — it’s health and safety! It affects us all!