by Irvine Welsh
Ah’m totally done for, man, what am ah gaunny say tae the polis? An auld Dutch singer flung ma clathes oot the windae cause ah tried tae stick ma cock up her erse? Ah’ll pure git the jail! So ah jist goes fir it, man, totally bolts across the reception hall, no lookin at anybody, keepin the tin covers held close, n ah kin hear aw the gasps as ah git tae the door.
The doorman boy wi the top hat says, — These dish covers are hotel property!
But ah’m ootside, n ah sees ma jaykit lyin in the wet, oan the pavement by the taxi rank, n thaire’s ma Fred Perry in the gutter … but whaire’s ma jeans? … Aw, man; ah looks up n the keks are caught roond the flagpole, but thir gaunny come doon any second … Ah hears shriekin lassies’ laughter comin fae the boozer across the lane … it’s the Rutland, man … worst place ah kin be … but here come the keks … there’s only one trainer, so ah leave them n drop the dish covers n bundle the clathes up. The doorman, whae’s been shoutin aboot polis, comes eftir us n picks up the dish covers, n ah’m runnin bare-ersed doon the side street, clathes bunched in front ay us. One cabbie, whae’s been watchin n laughin, shouts some encouragement fae his taxi, as ah bounds doon Rutland Street, doon a flight ay stairs intae a mingin auld basement. Ah’m no bothered but; ah pill masel intae the troosers, ma feet cauld n wet oan the rain-soaked, mucky groond cause its been pishin doon, n ah gits ma shirt n jaykit oan. When ah git back up tae street level, ah cannae face gaun past the Caley or the Slutland tae the bus stoap, so ah heads doon the street taewards Rutland Square. Ma bare feet are freezin as ah walk past aw they snobby solicitors’ buildins and posh offices oan the Georgian square wi its big pillars, n ah’m gled that it’s late n naebody’s aroond. Ma paws are black wi the dirt, and cauld and sair, n ah’m gaunny git pneumonia here n be back in yon hoapsital, ah kin jist pure tell. Ah’m jist lookin at the cracks oan the pavement, mumblin that auld playgroond rhyme:
Stand oan a line n brek yir spine
Stand oan a crack n brek yir back.
Never goat the difference between the two cause yir snookered either wey, but mibbe that’s what it’s aboot; sortay pure life in Scotland, likesay. Ah gits roond the corner tae Shandwick Place n ah cross ower the road at the Quaich Bar n stand at the bus stoap ootside that big church, St Dodes, people lookin at ma bare feet like ah’m some kind ay community-care radge. A 12 bus comes and thank God that ah’ve got enough change in ma poakit, that it never fell oot when she flung the keks oot the windae. The bus stoaps n ah pit ma dosh in the slot. The driver looks doon at ma feet. — Bad night?
— Aye.
N as ah’m sittin oan the bus, ah git tae thinkin, mibbe it’s sortay karma. Mibbe God never intended for birds’ erses tae be used fir that sortay thing. In Through the Out Door as Zeppelin might huv pit it. So ah gits back doon tae Monty Strasse n up the stair, n intae the hoose. Sick Boy, they nice burds fae backstage at the gig n the guitarist boy ur there, chasin broon. Rents is thaire n aw; he looks bombed n gies us a lazy wave. He’s wi Hazel, whae isnae touchin the gear n doesnae look awfay happy.
Sick Boy’s pittin some mair skag oan the foil. — You’re back early, superstud. Still, ah kin see why ye didnae want tae stey the night! Gory details then, cunt, he snaps.
— Heard ye goat a result … Mark slurs, laughin softly.
— Hi, man … how wis rehab?
— Ye see it aw, he shrugs, lookin aw apologetically tae Hazel, whae turns away.
— Not a kisser n teller, eh? Ah admire that. Shows class in a man, Sick Boy says, comin up tae me wi the foil pipe. — Have some ay this, buddy. Whaire’s yir fuckin shoes, ya radge?
— Long story, man, ah goes, takin the pipe, cause ah’m no really in the mood tae refuse anything, ken?
In Business
IT HAD BEEN a long, disquieting drive, visibility hampered by the lashing rain against his windscreen. Now fatigue hit him, rapid and unforeseen; his awareness that the thump and swish of the rubber wipers was having a lulling, heavy-eyed effect only became apparent when a series of yawns tore through him. He shook his head, blinked rapidly, and tightened his grip on the wheel. A road sign, flashing luminous green under his headlights, told him he was close to his destination.
Russell Birch had never been to Southend before, and he’d heard it could get lively, but as he came into the Essex seaside town, it was evident that the bad weather had dampened weekend festivities. As he left the A13, drove past the railway station and down onto the Western Esplanade, the world’s largest pier still flashed its attractions, but it was almost deserted. It seemed that people had largely reached where they wanted to go and had holed up in the pub or club of their choice. Only a few brave, underdressed revellers, lashed by rain, scurried down the streets, stoically heading for another port of call.
Russell was driving slowly along the esplanade, looking for his turn-off, stopping at some lights, when two girls, like saturated tea bags hoisted from a pot, suddenly swung from the wet darkness out in front of him, forcing him to brake. — Giz a lift, one shouted, her bottle-blonde hair cascading down her face in soaked ringlets. He was almost tempted; had he not been in a hurry or carrying his disturbing cargo, he probably would have. Instead, he moved on, forcing them over to the side in their heels. — You cunt, he heard one of them screech into the grim night, as he sped away from them.
It took him a while to find the rendezvous point. It was a little out of town, a rather prim alehouse with the rustic pretensions characterising many such places in suburban England. He turned into a small car park at the back of the pub, surrounded by trellis fencing which struggled to hold back the encroaching hedges and trees of the neighbouring gardens. A few lights cut through the almost pitch blackness, showing him only one other car, a black BMW. Russell parked a discreet distance from it. It had to be them, and they would be inside. He opened the door and stepped out into the rain, aware that his hands were shaking.
Would, these men he was preparing to meet be hardened criminals or, more likely, just dogsbodies like him, burdened with someone fearsome on their backs, compelling them to do this, just as he was with the ex-brother-in-law?
He walked into the pub via the rear doors, going through a narrow conservatory and coming into a large, low-ceilinged lounge bar. Although comfortably shy of six foot, Russell still had to duck to avoid some overhead beams. The pub was practically deserted. Even with the monstrously inclement weather, it seemed inconceivable that a bar could survive such minimal trade on a weekend night. The only other people he could see were two men, standing by a roaring fire, and a barman engrossed in the mounted television, who, in profile, looked the double of the actor who played Arthur in On the Buses.
Russell decided not to approach or acknowledge the men by the big stone fireplace straight away. It might be bad form, if there was any etiquette in this sort of thing. He assumed there would be; everything else had its codes, so why should this business be different?
When the barman turned face on to take his order, the Arthur effect was reduced, but not completely dispelled. Russell ordered a pint of London Pride, and was disappointed to note the man’s north of England accent, rather than Arthur’s rasping cockney. He tried to think of the actor’s name: nothing came to mind.
The two men were looking over at him. One of them, thin, with a duck’s-arse haircut, approached him, moving in a jerky manner. This puppet-like wretch seemed to have been sent by the other man; a portly, menacing figure who smiled at him with gleefully psychotic bonhomie. Russell briefly thought he knew him from somewhere, but realised it was just the grin. It belonged to every thug and bully he’d ever met.
Neither of them seemed to be carrying anything, making him glad he’d left his own package in the car boot. It would be sensible to make this transaction outside, in the dark, secluded car park. He began to feel a bit pleased with himself, growing in confidence as the first man drew alongside him.
— How d’ya do, the man lisped, in a soft but metallic voice. His accent was slightly camp, and the sickly weakness he exuded bols
tered Russell’s morale further.
— Not bad. Yourself?
— Can’t complain. You come far?
— Edinburgh.
The man’s face twitched slightly in register. It was evidently some test, as meagre as it was. The man introduced himself as Marriott, making Russell immediately think of Steve Marriott from the Small Faces, a band he’d always liked. — Join us for a drink.
He could see no good reason, after that drive, not to do so. The fire was inviting, though on Russell’s approach, the other man gave out mixed signals. He didn’t extend his hand, merely acknowledged Russell with a mean smile, then moved up to the bar. He returned with three large whiskies. — Scotch. Scotch for a Scotchman, he observed, seeming pleased with himself as he settled them down on the mantelpiece.
Russell could have done with a brandy, but as he sipped the amber fluid, realised it was a decent malt, the smoky, peaty aroma perhaps indicating Islay. It warmed him, like the fire that roasted at his legs. His pint sat on the bar; he wasn’t bothered about it. — Cheers.
The stocky man finally introduced himself as Gal. — Some say it ain’t professional, this socialising lark, but I don’t agree. It’s nice to put a face to a name. Ya gotta know who yer dealing with. You need trust in this business. A covert menace bubbled under the surface of his tone. His lively tongue didn’t match his deep-set eyes, slanted at the extremity of the brows as if to suggest inbreeding. Being in his very presence caused Russell to silently curse his ex-brother-in-law, his stupid sister and his own weakness, for once again putting him in this situation. He knew his parents now regarded him as a loser like Kristen, rather than a mover and shaker like Alexander. But, and Russell gained succour from the notion, they didn’t know what he did. The other week he’d been driving up Leith Walk and he’d seen that young girl his brother was fucking, heading up into town. She’d looked different; scruffy, damaged, an obvious junky, like this Marriott character. Perhaps that was curse of his family: fatally drawn to lowlife.
After the relatively effusive welcome, Marriott now seemed to be cold-shouldering him, like he’d decided Russell wasn’t important enough to try and keep on the good side of. Then he suddenly announced, — I ain’t all that keen on people from Edinburgh. I had a bad experience with some people from Edinburgh once.
Russell looked at him, unsure of how to respond, but Gal was definitely the one calling the shots, and he gazed coldly at Marriott. — We’re talking about Seeker. He’s a friend of mine.
Marriott fell silent.
Gal kept his stare trained on him for a couple of seconds, before turning to Russell, the smile of genial menace back on his face. — You know The Man then?
— He’s my brother-in-law, Russell said. It seemed sensible to omit the ‘ex’.
Gal looked him up and down, seeming disappointed, certainly in Russell, and perhaps also, he fancied, in Seeker. — You poor sod.
Russell kept his face neutral, feeling that either a collusive smile or disapproving frown might be taken the wrong way.
— Anyway, Gal went on impatiently, — we can’t sit here jawing all night. Let’s get it over with, and he downed his whisky in a single gulp that strong-armed the others into doing the same. Russell noted that Marriott was struggling, his hand shaking, but Gal’s raptorial leer wouldn’t leave him till he’d finished. — That’s good Scotch, he said accusingly to his associate, who was painfully trying to fight back a gagging reflex.
The walk outside to the car park was torturous. Russell felt a creeping dread that the next thing would be a skull-splitting blow to the back of his head, the prelude to him being bundled into the boot of the BMW like a sack of coal. He’d lie briefly alongside the package in the holdall that had been gift-wrapped in birthday paper (a touch he’d almost felt moved to comment to Seeker about, but had resisted), en route to the bleak wasteland that would be his final resting place. Or perhaps he’d have Seeker’s money taken from him with force, and have to explain it all. Every heartbeat-measuring step across the dark, barren parking area seemed part of a doomed procession to the grave.
But Gal just casually went to his car, returning with a box, wrapped up in identical gift paper, and made the exchange. Russell wasn’t going to open it up and check the contents; there could have been anything in either of the packages. Both parties behind this transaction evidently held each other in a high degree of confidence.
— Safely home now, but don’t spare the horses. I hear ya got a lot of customers waiting for ya back in Edinburgh, Gal smiled again, now reminding Russell of a jaunty travelling salesman, — and tell Seeker that old Gal said hello. Then he turned to the hapless-looking Marriott. It was soul-destroying to Russell how much he empathised with this broken figure, another fellow stooge who had overstepped the mark. — Right, you cunt, let’s farking move.
Russell walked stiffly to his car with the package, leaving it on the passenger seat. He watched the BMW pull off and roll out of the car park. His hands were wet on the wheel and trembling, but elation quickly took over him. It was finished. He’d done it. It was a triumph. Now Seeker really owed him, surely. He’d get his cut and they would be all square.
He started the car up and drove out of the car park, heading away from town, north towards Cambridgeshire. He stopped at an old phone box, outside a garage it pre-dated. He put the package in the boot, lest a potentially fatal temptation to examine its contents grip him.
On the Buses.
The star was obviously Reg Varney. Stan. Who played his sidekick, Jack? Blakey, that bus inspector, that actor’s name was Stephen somebody, he was sure of it. And Olive, Arthur’s wife, was played by Anna Karen. This stuck in his mind, unusual in that it was two female first names. He dialled a number on the old, black Bakelite phone, a device from another era, grimly hanging on to its tenuous commission. His ex-brother-in-law picked up. — Aye?
— It’s me. It all went okay. I mean, I never checked what was in it, I just picked up the package, like you said.
There was an unnerving silence on the other end of the line.
— Eh, Gal sends his regards.
— Fuck Gal. Get back up here, right now, wi that gear.
He spoke as if Russell was just down the street instead of over four hundred miles away. He was exhausted; he had to rest. It was dangerous, he’d be sure to draw police attention in this condition … — Look, I’m knackered. If I get pulled over or in an accident, it isn’t going to do either of us any good, he protested.
— Just get the fuck back up here now. Or thi’ll be an accident awright. Dinnae make us repeat masel again.
The alcohol burning in his gut and brain, Russell wanted to shout, ‘Fuck you! Fuck you, ya fucking ignorant bag ay shite!’ But it somehow came out as, — Okay, I’ll be as quick as I can, as the line went dead, and in tears of exasperation, Russell Birch contemplated the exhausting drive back up to Edinburgh. As he rested the phone down on the cradle, the name of the actor who’d played Arthur in On the Buses tauntingly popped into his head.
Junk Dilemmas No. 4
AH KNOW THAT ah’m the one. Ah can take these circumstances and transcend them. Ah ken this because no only can ah conceptualise everything, ah can also feel it in my fibre, emotionally. Emotional and rational intelligence: ah can dae that shite. Ah’m no a fuckin junky, ah’m just playin at it. Real junkies are mugs like Swanney or Dennis Ross, or even dirty wee Matty Connell. Mingers whae’ve been intae it since the year dot. Tom’s right, it’s a phase, and ah’m jist a young gadge, fuckin aboot. Ah will grow oot ay it.
Ah’ll be okay.
Ah’m too brainy, too fuckin clued-up tae faw intae that sort ay trap. It sounds arrogant, aye, but it’s fuckin true. Ah ken that a certain kind ay bird fancies me and that ah can – if ah choose tae try hard enough – make other types be bothered.
This shite is nothing tae me. Ah ken everybody says that; that’s the allure, aye, but in ma case it’s true, cause ah’m the real deal. Ah can fuckin well dae this and d
ae it easy. Ah can stop aw this at any time, through the sheer fuckin exercise ay my will.
Just end it.
But no right now.
Soft Cell
THE CUNT TRIED tae say thit he wis jist inside fir a fuckin traffic offence, bit ye ken they fuckers, they lie through thair fuckin teeth cause thir no gaunny fuckin well turn roond n say thit it wis fir noncin a fuckin bairn. Ken what they’d fuckin well git, the cunts. Bit thaire’s eywis weys n means ay findin oot aboot they cunts, fuckin surein thaire is. N ah goat the info fae a fuckin reliable source, a real fuckin mate. It wisnae jist jail gossip. Ah dinnae pey any fuckin heed tae yon shite.
N ah wisnae the only cunt thit thought he wis fuckin well dodgy; whin ah fuckin telt that wee fuckin Weedgie cunt, Albo, thit he wis sharing a cell wi a nonce, he fuckin well set it right up fir us, quick style. Aye, naebody took that much fuckin convincin aboot that cunt. Tae me that fuckin well tells ye somethin right away, fuckin right it does.
It wis easy. We’d arranged it wi the screws thit they’d turn a blind eye, they fuckin well hate nonces n aw. So ah slips intae Albo’s cell eftir dinner, n sees the Beast jist sittin thaire oan that fuckin bunk readin a book; cunt looked as plausible as fuck. Well, he wisnae foolin me, fuckin well tell ye that fir nowt. N ah kent awright, cause it wis Rents thit telt us aboot the cunt, n Rents widnae make up a fuckin tale like that, he’s no that sort ay a gadge.
So ah says tae this cunt, ‘So yir in here fir a traffic offence, aye?’ N he looks up n goes, ‘What? What d’ye want … what is this?’ his face aw that wey cunts look as if thir gaunny fuckin well try n catch flies in thir mooths, n he pits his fuckin book doon. Ah lits um stand up n ah goes, ‘Tamperin wi fuckin bairns, yir ain wee lassie n aw,’ n rams the nut oan um. Goat the cunt a fuckin beauty; ah hears the bone crack n that squeal like ye kin imagine a fuckin pig must make whin it gits its fuckin throat slit in the slaughterhoose. Well, ah wanted tae damage the cunt, tae slash his fuckin chops n carve up his fuckin noncey coupon, but withoot a chib ah jist hud tae stomp n stomp at that stoat heid, hearin the cunt still squealin, but then the noise changin intae a soft groan as he passed right oot. Ah took a pish oan the cunt, then ah felt bad aboot perr Albo’s fuckin cell so ah sais tae him oan the wey oot, cunt’s only went n pished hissel but, eh.