by Irvine Welsh
A metal clang comes fae above, soundin like the crashin ay a giant cymbal. Ah feel the engines below me pumpin up the ship, drivin it on across the North Sea. Ah hit the bottom, tae the rows ay vehicles. Ah’m well blissed out; it’s good gear, this broon. So ah’m sittin doon between some cars. Time passes, or it doesnae. Whae cares? Ah start tae idly key a smart estate motor then ah think, fuck it, the class war can wait, the class As cannae. Eftir a bit ah’m roused by the sound ay footsteps and chatterin as people descend and get intae their motors. Risin, ah haul masel up the metal steps back onto the decks and ah go intae the bar, which is totally trashed. — Have ah missed anything exciting? ah smirk at Sick Boy and Nicksy.
The Cream Shirt gadge is here, giein orders tae the staff whae ur tryin tae clean up. One ay the barrow girls is daein her Mrs Mop routine on a trail ay thick droaps ay spilled Roy Hudd. Cream Shirt’s taken a healthy lick across the snout. He clocks me and goes, — Where have you been? Then he inches closer, showin me his burst neb. — Have you been drinking?
— Ah felt really sick, ah say, aw torpid and heavy-eyed, — ah think it’s the flu. Had tae lie doon for a bit. Drank tons ay that Night Nurse. Tell us that stuff doesnae knock ye oot, ah say, lookin tae Sick Boy for backup.
He steps in wi a reluctant, — If you have a wee lassie’s constitution, then aye.
It just aboot throws Creambo off the scent. — If you were sick you should have come to see me or your supervisor.
— That’s the problem, ah concede, — ah dinnae seem tae be oan anybody’s list but, eh … wisnae sure whaire tae go tae, eh, no … ah tell the cunt, sliding intae the slack-jawed schemie defence ay contrived ignorance, a tried and tested method for exasperating authority figures.
— Julian! Cream Shirt calls over Beige Blouse and as sure as Songs of Praise comin oan the telly when you’re brutally hung-over, the cunts cannae reconcile ma name oan their poxy lists. — Right, well then, we’ll have you in the kitchen, working with Chef, the Cream-Shirt-lifting arse bandito pouts in petty triumph.
Aw-aw … hate comes tae toon …
Not good news. But I’ll sort that later, as now we have time off and ah want tae hit ma scratcher. Sick Boy’s hearin nane ay it but, he’s got his Amsterdam party heid oan. — We’re half an hour away from the most fun place on Planet Earth, and you’re going to lie in a box in the sweaty bowels of a docked ship, feeling sick and indulging in half-hearted, feeble attempts at masturbation? Fine. Be my guest. Lightweight!
Ah feel pit oan the spot, cause there’s a few gazes oan me, and that wee Fawcett-Plant’s one ay them, a twinkle in her eye and a crease on her lips.
— Okay, ah hear myself concede. — Ah need some speed but.
One–nil, Williamson.
Nicksy’s reluctant but Sick Boy’s leadin the charge wi gusto. Ah learn that the Fawcett-Plant lassie’s called Charlene, and she sleekitly says, — I’m up for it.
Ah realise that the spawny bastard’s probably went n pulled her. Ah suppose it wis inevitable.
— C’mon, you party-pooping cunts, Sick Boy says, — we’ll get some speed and suss out the situ.
— I dunno, Nicksy goes, — Marriott might want us to, you know … He looks towards Charlene.
She takes the hint and says, — Right, I’m gonna get changed. See you in fifteen minutes?
— Sound, Sick Boy says to her, then snaps at Nicksy, — Fuck Marriott. I’m no that sure about this deal, Nicksy, ah want tae check it oot first.
— Goat tae agree, ah’m noddin. — This is our first night off. Ah’m no hanging aboot wi that junky fag and listenin tae his gangster bullshit. Cunt’ll jist huv tae cool his fuckin jets fir a bit.
Ah thoat Nicksy might be miffed, cause he set aw this up, but he doesnae seem tae gie a fuck. — Okay, he shrugs. — I gotta say that he’s getting right on my farking tits, he looks around the bar, — in yer farking face all the time.
So we get changed, then we’re off the boat and oantae the choo-choo tae the Dam. It’s me, Sick Boy, Nicksy and the lovely Charlene, who’s all made up, and wearing what looks like really expensive threads. It’s like she’s some yuppie gaun tae a presentation or something, but she’s goat her Sealink holdall wi her. As she goes tae the lavvy, Sick Boy whispers tae us, — What’s gaun on there? She fuckin DS or what?
— Naw … dinnae be daft, ah goes.
He raises his eyes, then a slow look ay concentration creeps ower his coupon. — Anyway, listen, ma thinking is that we’re daein this erse about face. We should be punting Swanney’s white Edinburgh skag tae these trolls doon here.
Nicksy looks witheringly at him.
— Sorry, mate, nae offence, but ye ken what ah mean, Sick Boy smiles.
Charlene returns with some coffees, which is very thoughtful, as it helps get the speed doon. I crash a wrap, and we aw take a big dunt, except her, she’s content wi a wee dab.
We get oaf at Central Station. Like maist ay the tourists offay oor boat, we’re heading left, straight for the red-light district. It’s wild watching the lassies in the windaes and every cunt openly dealing gear in the streets aroond the Newmarket. We go tae a bar and me n Sick Boy order lemonade, Charlene and Nicksy settling for a beer that comes in a wee gless. We’re gabbing away, especially me and Nicksy, who’s recountin loads ay tales aboot us in that auld squat at Shepherd’s Bush wi Matty. Charlene seems tae be distracted eftir a while and she heads off.
— She must be an agency hooker, off tae pit in a shift on her back at some hotel, Sick Boy says, but he’s lost interest and quickly departs on ‘a spying mission’ wi instructions tae meet us at Central Station in a couple ay hours. He’s probably arranged something wi Charlene, the sneaky cunt. They dinnae huv tae be aw cloak-n-dagger aboot it. As if we care.
Nicksy’s drinking heavily, those empty beers lining up like sodjirs, and slavering shite. He seems a bit freaked oot. He talks about that Marsha lassie again, then his ma and dad, and how he’s ey fightin wi them, but how much he really loves them. That boy is one ay the best cunts ye could hope tae meet. It was excellent ay um tae pit baith me and Sick Boy up, when he barely kens Sick Boy n aw. Ah’ll make it up tae him one day.
But ah get restless and decide to pad the hoof fae a bit and leave him with his peeve. So ah’m ootside wanderin aroond the cobbled streets, watchin the drunks watchin the lassies in the windaes, thinkin how mental this place is. Ah’m headin doon this canal and end up in this big square they call the Leidseplein. Then ah check the time and realise ah should be gettin back. This wasted-lookin gadgie, whaes accent ah cannae place, starts gabbin tae us in the street. He sells us some speed. Ah take a dab and it’s surprisingly good. In fact, it’s fuckin rocket fuel and ah feel less slumpy and start tae enjoy the skag mair. Amsterdam fuckin rules! One day ah’m gaunny live here. The boy tells us he’s a Serbian, then says that if ah go up this narrow street ay shops, it’ll be quicker tae get back tae Central Station.
Even though it’s late and dark, aw the shoaps ur still open. Britain is a fuckin graveyard compared tae Europe. Headin up the street, ah run intae Charlene, who’s comin oot a lassies’ boutique. First ah clock the Sealink bag she’s carrying, then that hair. — Hiya, ah goes, and she looks aw wild-eyed and jumpy. — Where’s Sick Boy?
— Fuck knows, I ain’t seen him. He’s your mate, she says, chewing and looking busily aroond. She might have hud mair speed.
— Sorry, eh, ah thought you were … eh …
— With him? Do us a favour! He might really fancy himself, but not everybody does!
It’s impossible tae convey just what sweet, sweet music these words are tae ma ears. — Shopping? ah ask her.
— Something like that.
We go for a coffee in a side-street cafe and she’s askin us aboot Nicksy, who ah realise ah’ve loast, n Sick Boy: whae kens what the fuck he’s up tae. Ah decide no tae tell her about his rendezvous plans and we chat for ages, then jump back oan a later train. Ah’m wrecked but buzzing on the speed, as the train hurtles t
hrough the darkness. Judging by what ah saw comin oot here, we arenae missing much, the Dutch countryside is flat and shite. Ah’ve a terrible urge tae run ma fingers through that mad hair ay Charlene’s. Lassies’ hair totally rules; ah fancy that ah might train as a hairdresser, just a lassies’ hairdresser mind. Sick Boy did that eftir leavin school, his first n last legit job. His boss jist aboot tolerated his fingers in the female apprentices, then the customers, but he drew a fuckin line at the till.
Charlene, sweepin a hand through that mop, says, — I’ve got a cabin ta myself. They didn’t put anybody in with me. Come back for a smoke?
— Okay.
— When I say smoke, I mean shag, obviously, she smiles tightly.
— Sound, ah say, likin this burd’s style, but realisin that’s another reason why ah take drugs. If ah wisnae oot ma face ah’d huv goat a pure beamer at such a remark. Now, ah’m right in that zone. Ah’m sortay wonderin if ah should pit ma airm roon her or kiss her or something. Ah dinnae bother, in case ah picked her up wrong, or she wis takin the pish, n ah keep spraffin.
We get back oantae the boat. It’s pretty quiet and thankfully we dinnae see Sick Boy or any cunt, as we get tae her cabin and she immediately slips oaf her jaykit. — C’mon then, she says, and she’s unbuttonin her blouse. Fuckin hell, she’s no kiddin! Ah git ootay ma gear, worryin that ah smell because ah huvnae washed much ower the last few days and my breath is probably minging. Ah’m naked and ah must look like a flick knife, cause ah’ve a dirty hard-on, which seems tae be takin aw the blood fae ma emaciated frame. Ah feel like it’s gaunny brek off and slither away, a parasite leavin the host it’s sucked dry, ma body crumbling like a pillar ay ash.
Charlene disrobes methodically, hanging up her smart jaykit and skirt. She removes her blouse but keeps her bra and pants on; they’re a brilliant lilac see-thru, and you can see the nipples on her small breasts and make oot the bush, even though it looks natural blonde. She has a very small frame and she steps ower tae me and shimmies past my cock like Jimmy Johnstone, and embraces us. — You’re really thin, she whispers, her airms round ma neck and her small, almost oriental eyes, looking up at us.
Ah realise that she must get the hair thing aw the time, so ah start feeling her erse, easin us back oantae the bed. Ah slip her panties off, exposin a silky golden bush, as she says, — Doncha wanna snog first?
My breath might be a big turn-off but fuck it, Charlene’s hair’s spread ower the manky pillay and we’re kissing and she doesnae seem tae mind it, so ah say those magic words that kind ay work, even if they excite me mair than any lassie, — I want tae eat your pussy …
— I really don’t think so, she says, tensing up.
— How no?
— We’re not lovers. It’s just a shag. C’mon, Mark, fuck me!
— Later, ah mumble, movin doon and oantae her, tongue across her stomach, intae her navel and oantae what is a very fine, thin bush. — Mark … she protests, but ah’m on her clit and feel it stiffen under ma tongue. Her hands ur pushing at ma heid, but then she’s exhaling n gaun, — Oh fuck … do what you fucking well like … and ah can feel her beginnin tae loosen up and then suddenly tense again, but this time in a barry wey, and now ah couldnae get ma heid away if ah tried, as she comes ower n ower again.
She eventually pushes us away, then gasps, — I’m on the pill … c’mon, give it to me …
— Nae worries, like, ah goes, n ah push inside her, we fuck for a bit and she comes again; she’s oan the circuit eftir they clitoral orgasms. It reminds us ay …
Fuck … how long does this go oan?
Ah realise that the drugs, which can sometimes make it difficult tae get it up, have made blawing ma muck impossible. Ah pull out and she’s oan top, then ah’m giein it tae her from behind, then she’s on top again, and it’s best cause ah’m lovin the spread ay that big hair, n ah feel ah rampant tickle rising through the numbness in me n ah finally shoot ma load. It actually hurts ma cock, but it’s such a fuckin relief.
We collapse in a sweaty heap oan that single bed in the metal box ay the room. It’s barry that we’re baith that thin. Imagine the likes ay say, Keezbo n Big Mel fi Gillsand’s or one ay the barrow girls tryin tae shack up here. Nae fuckin chance! Must be a vicious circle for the cunts: hard tae git yir hole, so git depressed, eat too much, git fatter, harder tae git yir hole, git mair depressed …
— That was fantastic … fucking brilliant … she says, and that’s the sweetest symphony tae my ears cause ah’ve never had a lassie say that tae us before, well, jist once, and ah almost expect there tae be somebody else in the cabin she’s talking tae. — Where did ya learn ta give head like that?
Ah couldnae bring masel tae say an Ebirdeen hoor. — Oh, you know … jist got an aptitude for it …
— You certainly have, she purrs in appreciation, and the ego’s swellin up nicely, but ah’m sair as fuck in ma pish-tube. It burns like some cunt’s shot a laser beam up it, and ah’m way too buzzed tae sleep so ah ask her, — What did ye dae before ye worked here?
— Stole, she smiles, rubbing my earring as if she’s aboot tae thieve that. — Still do, and she points at the Sealink bag on the table.
Of course, the clathes; she’s a total pro tea leaf. Ah almost want tae tell her aboot the scam wi Marriott. But naw, ah leave it, and ah faw intae a weird, druggie kip in her airms, aware that the morning shift is gaunny come up soon and fuck us both.
Sure enough, the cauld morning brings in an atmosphere ay mistrust, poisonous hatred and paranoia. No wi me n Charlene, that’s barry, although she raises her knees intae ma chest tae effectively banish us tae ma ain cabin in the early hours. Ah climb ower Nicksy tae the top bunk n doze fir aboot forty minutes till the alarm pulverises me awake.
Naw, the bad vibes are roond the breakfast table in the canteen. Apparently, Marriott wis knockin oan ma door aw night n mornin. He’s no amused, his mawkit pus tripping him up. He lowers a tray containin a bowl ay cereal and a coffee oantae the table, then comes behind us and bends ower tae gie us an earfil. — I needed you cahnts around last night, he says in viper-like sibilation tae me, Sick Boy and Nicksy. — What would’ve happened if I had farking merchandise?
We look at each other, but say nothing.
— Keep on the farking case, he threatens, slidin intae a seat.
— Well, Sick Boy says, — a pleasant ‘good morning’ to you too!
Ah’m startin tae feel pit-oan n stalked-oot n aw. Like we’ve been railroaded intae this. Ah’ve been daein some calculations: amount taken through, time served if huckled and remuneration offered, n it aw jist disnae add up. This cunt seems tae think that he owns us. Well, he disnae fuckin own me.
— It ain’t meant ter be pleasant, Marriott says, and ah can see resentment burn in Sick Boy as the wasted auld skagbag looks searchingly at him tae make sure he can hud up his end. — Am I making myself clear, Simon?
— It’s this man you should be worried aboot. Sick Boy points at me, miffed that ah copped off wi Charlene, no doubt. — Mancanza di disciplina.
— What’s he on about? Marriott asks Nicksy.
— Fuck knows.
This cunt thinks we’re junkies like him. Dinnae think so somehow; there’s a big difference between a wee habit where ye smoke it and occasionally bang up, and being a total career drug addict, the soul-dead puppet ay some prick whae disnae gie a fuck aboot ye.
Marriott starts slavering on again, in that maundering self-obsessed smackheid wey. — As soon as you’re marked, you get the fuck back into town and start hustling for your fix, cause if you’re seen trying it on when Curtis is on shift, if he don’t get you, we farking well will, he says, bug-eyed, lookin and soundin about as intimidatin as Larry Grayson in a tutu. — Don’t give him any reasonable cause ta search yer or he’ll have you buck naked with his gloved hands up your arse pulling yer dinner through your intestines with half the Essex constabulary in attendance.
Ah catch Sick Boy rollin his eyes in a mock-theatrical gesture t
hat indicates the idea isnae withoot appeal. Marriott reacts tae the chucklin conspiracy and goes genuinely dark; he’s no messin around tae try n get an effect any mair. — Then it gets really messy, cause the chaps find out and you’re welded into a leaky oil drum and lost at sea.
If he was bullshitting or exaggerating aw ay us now feel disinclined tae call his bluff. Ah feel ma gaze shift tae ma lap, then tae Nicksy.
Marriott gets up, he’s hardly touched his cereal, but he rests ower the table, his knuckles white. — Keep in control or you ain’t gonna get any farking change outta me, he snorts and heads off.
Sick Boy’s shaking his head. — Who is that prick? What have you got us intae here, Nicksy?
— Well, you shouldn’t have signed up for it, Nicksy moans.
— I’ve signed up for sweet fuck all. The cunt outlined a proposition. It sounded good. Now it doesnae. End of. Ma buddy Andreas can get tons ay broon. If we’re haulin it through the customs for fuckin sweeties …
Sick Boy lowers his voice, as it seems it’s now Cream Shirt’s turn to hover. Presumably the boat is ready to fill up again and we should be preparing tae set sail on the high seas for merry England. He clears his throat, ubiquitous clipboard in hand, points to his watch, then pirouettes on his Cuban heels and heads off.
— Fuck, Sick Boy scorns, — cannae fuckin breathe on this boat without being accosted by faggots. The official economy, the underground economy, it makes nae odds; every cunt wants tae ram it up yir erse, he declares. — Aw well, better git moving. Another filthy morning beckons. Action stations!
Nash Stoorie Bomb
GRIM STUFF THIS wet and dreary morning, man, gaun tae see Franco in the nick, likesay. Ah’d arranged wi June, his ma n his brar Joe a time tae go in when naebody else wis thaire, ken. It’s a twelve-month stretch, but he’ll be oot in six. Aye, a couple ay Lochend boys were oan the peeve eftir the fitba, n Franco’s logic wis seein as Cha Morrison chibbed Larry, he hud tae slash two Lochend laddies. But the boy he goat wisnae really a mate ay Morrison’s n it turns oot that he’s Saybo’s cousin. So it’s caused a bit ay a split in the ranks, wi Saybo no gaun in tae visit the Beggar Boy in HMP Saughton. Aye, Ali saw um earlier that night, sais he wis defo oan the warpath.