by Irvine Welsh
. . . where to go . . . work up a sweat in the multigym at the club, they’ve got a sauna and a sunbed now . . . get the muscles toned up . . . the smack heebie-jeebies are now just an unpleasant memory. The Chinky chickies, Marianne, Andrea, Ali . . . which lucky ride will ah stick it intae the night? Who’s the best fuck? Why me, of course. I might even find something at the club. The dynamics are magic. Three groups; women, straight guys and gay guys. The gay guys are cruising the straight guys who are club bouncer types with huge biceps and beer guts. The straight guys are cruising the women, who are into the lithe, fit buftie boys. No bashturd actually getsh what they want. Exshept ush, eh Sean? Preshishly Shimon.
I hope ah don’t see the buftie that cruised us the last time ah wis in. He told me in the cafeteria that he had HIV, but things were cool, it was no death sentence, he’d never felt better. What kind of a cunt tells a stranger that? It’s probably bullshit.
Sleazy fuckin queen . . . that reminds us, ah must buy some flunkies . . . but there’s no way you can get HIV in Edinburgh through shagging a lassie. They say that wee Goagsie got it that way, but I reckon that he’s been daein a bit ay mainlining or shit-stabbing on the Q.T. If ye dinnae get it through shootin up wi the likes ay Renton, Spud, Swanney n Seeker, it’s obviously no got your name on it . . . still . . . why tempt fate . . . but why not . . . at least ah know that ah’m still here, still alive, because as long as there’s an opportunity tae get off wi a woman and her purse, and that’s it, that is it, ah’ve found fuck all else, ZERO, tae fill this big, BLACK HOLE like a clenched fist in the centre ay my fucking chest . . .
Growing Up In Public
Despite the unmistakable resentment she could feel from her mother, Nina could not fathom what she had done wrong. The signals were confusing. First it was: Keep out of the way; then: Don’t just stand there. A group of relatives had formed a human wall around her Auntie Alice. Nina could not actually see Alice from where she was sitting, but the fussing coos coming from across the room told her that her aunt was in there somewhere.
Her mother caught her eye. She was staring over at Nina, looking like one of the heads on a hydra. Over the there-there’s and the he-was-a-good-man’s Nina saw her mother mouth the word: Tea.
She tried to ignore the signal, but her mother hissed insistently, aiming her words across the room at Nina, like a fine jet: — Make more tea.
Nina threw her copy of the NME onto the floor. She hauled herself out of the armchair and moved over to a large dining table, picking up a tray, on which sat a teapot and an almost empty jug of milk.
Through in the kitchen, she studied her face in the mirror, focusing on a spot above her top lip. Her black hair, cut in a sloping wedge, looked greasy, although she had just washed it the night before. She rubbed her stomach, feeling bloated with fluid retention. Her period was due. It was a bummer.
Nina could not be a part of this strange festival of grief. The whole thing seemed uncool. The act of casual indifference she displayed at her Uncle Andy’s death was only partly feigned. He had been her favourite relative when she was a wee lassie, and he had made her laugh, or so they all told her. And, in a sense, she could remember it. These events had happened: the joking, the tickling, the playing, the indulgent supply of ice-creams and sweeties. She could find no emotional connection though, between the her of now and the her of then, and therefore no emotional connection to Andy. To hear her relatives recount these days of infancy and childhood made her squirm with embarrassment. It seemed an essential denial of herself as she was now. Worse, it was uncool.
At least she was dressed for grief, as she was constantly reminded by everyone. She thought that her relatives were so boring. They held onto the mundane for grim life; it was a glum adhesive binding them together.
— That lassie never wears anything but black. In ma day, lassies wore nice bright colours, instead ay tryin tae look like vampires. Uncle Boab, fat, stupid Uncle Boab, had said that. The relatives had laughed. Every one of them. Stupid, petty, laughter. The nervous laughter of frightened children trying to keep on the right side of the school hardcase, rather than that of adults conveying that they had heard something funny. Nina consciously realised for the first time that laughter was about more than humour. This was about reducing tension, solidarity in face of the grim reaper. Andy’s death had put that topic further up the list of items on the personal agenda of every one of them.
The kettle clicked off. Nina made another pot of tea and took it through.
— Nivir mind, Alice. Nivir mind, hen. Here’s Nina wi the tea, her Auntie Avril said. Nina thought that perhaps unrealistic expectations were being invested in the PG Tips. Could they be expected to compensate for the loss of a twenty-four-year relationship?
— Terrible thing whin ye git problems wi the ticker, her Uncle Kenny stated. — Still, at least he didnae suffer. Better than the big C, rottin away in agony. Oor father went wi the ticker n aw. The curse ay the Fitzpatricks. That’s your grandfather. He looked at Nina’s cousin Malcolm and smiled. Although Malcolm was Kenny’s nephew, he was only four years younger than his uncle, and looked older.
— Some day, aw this ticker stuff, n cancer n that, will aw be forgotten aboot, Malcolm ventured.
— Aw aye. Medical science. How’s your Elsa by the way? Kenny’s voice dropped.
— She’s gaun in fir another op. Fallopian tube job. Apparently what they dae is . . .
Nina turned and left the room. All Malcolm seemed to want to talk about were the operations his wife had undergone to enable them to produce a child. The details made the tips of her fingers feel raw. Why did people assume that you wanted to hear that stuff? What sort of woman would go through all that just to produce a screaming brat? What sort of man would encourage her to do that? As she went to the hall, the doorbell rang. It was her Auntie Cathy and Uncle Davie. They had made good time from Leith out to Bonnyrigg.
Cathy hugged Nina. — Oh darlin. Whair is she? Whair’s Alice? Nina liked her Auntie Cathy. She was the most outgoing of her aunts, and treated her like a person rather than a child.
Cathy went over and hugged Alice, her sister-in-law, then her sister Irene, Nina’s mother, and her brothers Kenny and Boab, in that order. Nina thought that the order was tasteful. Davie nodded sternly at everybody.
— Christ, ye didnae waste any time getting oot here in that auld van Davie, Boab said.
— Aye. The by-pass makes a difference. Pick it up just ootside Portobellah, git off jist before Bonnyrigg, Davie explained dutifully.
The bell went again. This time it was Doctor Sim, the family GP. Sim was alert and businesslike in stance, but sombre in expression. In his bearing he attempted to convey a measure of compassion, while still maintaining a pragmatic strength in order to give the family confidence. Sim thought he wasn’t doing badly.
Nina also thought so. A horde of breathless aunties fussed over him like groupies around a rock star. After a short time Bob, Kenny, Cathy, Davie and Irene accompanied Dr Sim upstairs.
Nina realised, as they began to leave the room, that her period had started. She followed them up the stairs.
— Stay oot the wey! Irene, looking back, hissed at her daughter.
— Ah’m just going tae the toilet, Nina replied, indignant.
In the lavatory she took off her clothes, starting with her black, lacy gloves. Examining the extent of the damage, she noted that the discharge had gone through her knickers but had not got into her black leggings.
— Shite, she said, as drops of thick, dark blood fell onto the bathroom carpet. She tore off a few strips of toilet paper, and held them to her in order to stem the flow. She then checked the bathroom cabinet but could find no tampons or sanitary towels. Was Alice too old for periods? Probably.
Soaking some more paper with water, she managed to get most of the stains out of the carpet.
Nina stepped tentatively into the shower. After splashing herself, she made another pad from bog-roll, and quickly dressed, leaving
off her pants which she washed in the sink, wrung out, and stuffed into her jacket pocket. She squeezed the spot above her top lip, and felt much better.
Nina heard the entourage leaving the room and going downstairs. This place was the fucking dregs, she thought, and she wanted out. All she had been waiting for was an opportune moment to hit her mother for cash. She was supposed to be going into Edinburgh with Shona and Tracy to see this band at the Calton Studios. She didn’t fancy going out when she was on her periods, as Shona had said that laddies can tell when you’re on, they can just smell it, no matter what you do. Shona knew about laddies. She was a year younger than Nina, but had done it twice, once with Graeme Redpath, and once with a French boy she’d met at Aviemore.
Nina had not been with anyone yet, had not done it. Almost everyone she knew said it was crap. Boys were too stupid, too morose and dull, or too excitable. She enjoyed the effect she had on them, liked seeing the frozen, simpleton expressions on their faces as they watched her. When she did it, she would do it with someone who knew what they were about. Someone older, but not like Uncle Kenny, who looked at her as if he was a dog, his eyes bloody and his tongue darting slyly over his lips. She had a strange feeling that Uncle Kenny, despite his years, would be a bit like the inept boys that Shona and the rest had been with.
Despite her reservations about going to the gig, the alternative was staying in and watching television. Specifically, this meant Bruce Forsyth’s Generation Game with her mother and her silly wee fart of a brother, who always got excited when the stuff came down the conveyor belt and recited the items quickly in his squeaky, quirky voice. Her mum wouldn’t even let her smoke in the living-room. She let Dougie, her moronic man-friend smoke in the living-room. That was alright, considered to be the subject-matter of light humour rather than the cause of cancer and heart disease. Nina however, had to go upstairs for a fag and that was the pits. Her room was cold, and by the time she’d switched on the heating and it warmed up, she could have smoked a packet of twenty Marlborough. Fuck all that for a laugh. Tonight, she’d take her chances at the gig.
Leaving the bathroom, Nina looked in on Uncle Andy. The corpse lay in the bed, the covers still over it. They might have closed his mouth, she thought. It looked as if he’d expired drunkenly, belligerently, frozen by death as he was arguing about football or politics. The body was skinny and wizened, but then again, Andy always was. She remembered being tickled in the ribs by these persistent, ubiquitous, bony fingers. Perhaps Andy was always dying.
Nina decided to rake through the drawers to see if Alice had any knickers worth borrowing. Andy’s socks and y-fronts were in the top section of a chest of drawers. Alice’s undies were in the next one down. Nina was startled by the range of underwear Alice had. They ranged from outsized garments which Nina held against her, and which almost came down to her knees, to skimpy, lacy briefs she could never imagine her auntie wearing. One pair were made of the same material as the black lace gloves Nina had. She removed the gloves to feel the pants. Although she liked these ones, she picked a pink flowery pair, then went back into the bathroom to put them on.
When she got downstairs, she noted that alcohol had displaced tea as the gathering’s principal social lubricant. Dr Sim stood, whisky in hand, talking to Uncle Kenny, Uncle Boab and Malcolm. She wondered if Malcolm would be asking him about fallopian tubes. The men were all drinking with a stoic determination, as if it was a serious duty. Despite the grief, there was no disguising the sense of relief in the air. This was Andy’s third heart attack, and now that he had finally checked out, they could get on with their lives without jumping nervously whenever they heard Alice’s voice on the phone.
Another cousin, Geoff, Malky’s brother, had arrived. He looked at Nina with something she felt was akin to hate. It was unnerving and strange. He was a wanker though. All Nina’s cousins were, the ones she knew at any rate. Her Auntie Cathy and Uncle Davie (he was from Glasgow and a Protestant), had two sons: Billy, who had just come out of the army, and Mark, who was supposed to be into drugs. They were not here, as they hardly knew Andy or any of the Bonnyrigg crowd. They would probably be at the funeral. Or perhaps not. Cathy and Davie once had a third son, also called Davie, who had died almost a year ago. He was badly mentally and physically handicapped and had lived most of his life in a hospital. Nina had only seen him once, sitting twisted in a wheelchair, mouth open and eyes vacant. She wondered how Cathy and Davie must have felt about his death. Again sad, but perhaps also relieved.
Shite. Geoff was coming over to talk to her. She had once pointed him out to Shona, who said that he looked like Marti from Wet Wet Wet. Nina hated both Marti and the Wets and, anyway, thought that Geoff was nothing like him.
— Awright, Nina?
— Aye. It’s a shame aboot Uncle Andy.
— Aye, Whit kin ye say? Geoff shrugged his shoulders. He was twenty-one and Nina thought that was ancient.
— So when dae ye finish the school? he asked her.
— Next year. Ah wanted tae go now but ma Ma hassled us tae stey.
— Takin O Grades?
— Aye.
— Which yins?
— English, Maths, Arithmetic, Art, Accounts, Physics, Modern Studies.
— Gaunnae pass them?
— Aye. It’s no that hard. Cept Maths.
— Then whit?
— Git a job. Or git oan a scheme.
— No gaunnae stey oan n take Highers?
— Naw.
— Ye should. You could go tae University.
— Whit fir?
Geoff had to think for a while. He had recently graduated with a degree in English Literature and was on the dole. So were most of his fellow graduates. — It’s a good social life, he said.
Nina recognised that the look Geoff had been giving her was not one of hate, but of lust. He’d obviously been drinking before he had arrived and his inhibitions were lowered.
— You’ve really grown, Nina, he said.
— Aye, she blushed, knowing she was doing it, and hating herself for it.
— Fancy gittin oot ay here? Ah mean, can ye get intae pubs? We could go ower the road fir a drink.
Nina weighed up the offer. Even if Geoff talked student shite, it had to be better than staying here. They would be seen in the pub by somebody, this was Bonnyrigg, and somebody would talk. Shona and Tracy would find out, and would want to know who this dark, older guy was. It was too good an opportunity to miss.
Then Nina remembered the gloves. Absentmindedly, she had left them on the top of the chest of drawers in Andy’s room. She excused herself from Geoff. — Aye, awright then. Ah’m jist gaun up tae the toilet.
The gloves were still on top of the chest. She picked them up and put them in a jacket pocket, but her wet pants were there so she quickly removed the gloves, and put them in the other one. She looked around at Andy. There was something different about him. He was sweating. She saw him twitch. God, she was sure she saw him twitch. She touched his hand. It was warm.
Nina ran downstairs. — It’s Uncle Andy! Ah think . . . ah think . . . ye should come . . . it’s like he’s still thair . . .
They looked at her with incredulous expressions. Kenny was first to react, springing up the stairs three at a time, followed by Davie and Doctor Sim. Alice twitched nervously, open mouthed, but not really taking it in. — He wis a good man . . . nivir lifted his hands tae me . . . she moaned deliriously. Something inside her drove her to follow the herd upstairs.
Kenny felt his brother’s sweaty brow, and his hand.
— He’s burnin up! Andy’s no deid! ANDY’S NO DEID!
Sim was about to examine the figure when he was pushed aside by Alice, who, having broken free of her constraints, fell upon the warm, pyjama-clad body.
— ANDY! ANDY, KIN YE HEAR ME?
Andy’s head bobbed to the side, his stupid, frozen expression never changing, his body remaining limp.
Nina giggled nervously. Alice was seized and held l
ike a dangerous psychotic. Men and women cooed and made soothing noises at her as Dr Sim examined Andy.
— No. I’m sorry. Mr Fitzpatrick is dead. His heart has stopped, Sim said gravely. He stood back, and put his hand under the bedclothes. He then bent down and pulled a plug out of the wall. He picked up a white flex and pulled a hand switch which was attached to it, out from under the bed.
— Someone left the electric blanket on. That explains the warmth of the body and the sweating, he announced.
— Dearie me. Christ almighty, Kenny laughed. He saw Geoff’s eyes blazing at him. In self-justification he said: — Andy would be pishing hissel. Ye ken whit a sense ay humour Andy had. He turned his palms outwards.
— You’re a fuckin arse . . . thirs Alice here . . . Geoff stammered, enraged, before turning and bolting from the room.
— Geoff. Geoff. Wait the now, mate . . . Kenny pleaded. They heard the slamming of the front door.
Nina thought that she would piss herself. Her sides ached, as she struggled to repress the spasms of laughter which shook through her. Cathy put her arm around her.
— It’s awright darlin. There ye go hen. Dinnae worry yirsel, she said, as Nina realised that she was crying like a baby. Crying with a raw power and unselfconscious abandon as the tensions ebbed from her body and she became limp in Cathy’s arms. Memories, sweet childhood memories, flooded her consciousness. Memories of Andy and Alice, and the happiness and love that once lived here, in the home of her auntie and uncle.
Victory On New Year’s Day
— Happy New Year, ya wee cunt! Franco wrapped his arm around Stevie’s head. Stevie felt several neck muscles tear, as stiff, sober and self-conscious, he struggled to go with the flow.
He returned the greeting as heartily as he could. There followed a round of Happy-New-Years; his tentative hands crushed, his stiff back slapped, his tight and unresponsive lips kissed. All he could think of was the phone, London and Stella.