by Irvine Welsh
— Day-vie. Cah-thy. Loo-kin-gor-jis-the-night-doll. Din-nae-you-be-tur-nin-yer-back-Ren-tin-or-ah’ll-be-ruh-nin-ah-way-wi-her! Gles-kay-kee-lay-thit-ye-ur. Jocky spat out his syllables Kalashnikov style.
The auld girl tries tae look coy, her expression makin us feel a bit queasy inside. Ah jist hide behind a pint ay lager and fir once in ma puff am gled tae observe the total silence that the club bingo game imposes. Ma customary irritation at huvin ma every word policed by morons is now a replaced by a feeling ay sheer bliss.
Ah should have hud a house, bit ah didnae want tae speak, tae draw any attention tae masel whatsoever. It seemed though that fate — n Jocky — wir determined no tae respect ma desire fir anonymity. The cunt notices ma caird.
— HOUSE! That’s-you-Mark. He’s-goat-hoose. OWER-HERE! Wis-nae-eve-in-gaunn-ae-shout-oot. Cu-moan-son. Git-a-fu-kin-grip-ay-yir-sel.
Ah smile benignly at Jocky, all the time wishing a prompt and violent death oan the nosey cunt.
The lager is like the contents ay a bunged-up latrine, shot through wi C02. Eftir one gulp, a violent, wretching, spasm seizes us. Faither slaps ma back. Ah cannae touch ma pint eftir this, but Jocky n the auld man are flinging them back steadily. Margaret comes in, and before very long, she and the auld girl are makin good progress oan the vodka n tonics n the Carlsberg Specials. The band strikes up, which ah at first welcome as a respite fae talkin.
Ma Ma n faither git up tae dance tae ‘Sultans Of Swing’.
— Ah like that Dire Straits, Margaret observes. — They appeal tae young ones, but aw ages like them.
Ah’m almost tempted tae vigorously refute this cretinous statement. However, ah content masel wi talking fitba wi Jocky.
— Rox-burgh wants shoot-in. That’s-the-worst-Scot-lind-squad-ah’ve-ivir-seen, Jocky states, jaw jutting forward.
— S no really his fault. Ye kin only pish wi the cock yiv goat. Whae else is thir?
— Aye, right-e-nuff . . . but-ah’d-like-tae-see-John-Raw-birt-sin-git-un-ext-ten-did-run. Des-erves-it. Scot-lind’s-maist-kin-sist-tint-strik-ir.
We continue our ritualistic argument, me trying tae find even a semblance ay passion which would breathe life intae it, and failing miserably.
Ah note that Jocky n Margaret hud been briefed tae ensure thit ah didnae try tae slip away. They aw took shifts tae mind us, the four ay them nivir up dancin at the same time. Jocky n ma Ma tae ‘The Wanderer’, Margaret n ma faither tae ‘Jolene’, Ma n faither again tae ‘Rollin Down The River’, Margaret n Jocky tae ‘Save The Last Dance For Me’.
As the fat singer launches intae ‘Song Sung Blue’, the auld lady pulls us oantae the danceflair like ah wis a rag doll. Sweat spills oot ay us under the lights as Ma struts her stuff n ah self-consciously twitch. The humiliation intensifies as ah realise that the cunts ur daein a Neil Diamond medley. Ah huv tae go through ‘Forever In Blue Jeans’, ‘Love On The Rocks’ and ‘Beautiful Noise’. By the time ‘Sweet Caroline’ comes oan, ah’m ready tae collapse. The auld lady forces us tae ape the rest ay the radges in the place by waving ma hands in the air as they sing:
— HAAANDS . . . TOUCHING HAANDS . . . REACHING OUUUT . . . TOUCHING YOOOU . . . TOUCH-ING MEEE . . .
Ah glance back at the table, n Jocky is in his element, a Leith Al Jolson.
Eftir this ordeal, thirs another tae follow. The auld man slips us a tenner and tells us tae git a round in. Social-skills development and confidence-building training are obviously on the agenda tonight. Ah take the tray up tae the bar n join the queue. Ah look over tae the door, feeling the crisp note in my hand. A few grains worth. Ah could be at Seeker’s or Johnny Swan’s, the Mother Superior’s, in half an hour; shootin ma wey oot ay this nightmare. Then ah clock the auld man standing by the doorway, looking us ower like he wis a bouncer n ah wis a potential troublemaker. Only his role was tae stoap us fae leavin, rather than tae fling us oot.
This is a perverse gig.
Ah turn back intae the queue n ah see this lassie Tricia McKinlay whae ah’d been at school wi. Ah’d rather no talk tae anybody, but ah cannae ignore her now, as her smile is expanding in recognition.
— Awright Tricia?
— Aw, hiya Mark. Long time no see. How ye daein?
— No sae bad. Yirsel?
— Ye see it aw. This is Gerry. Gerry, this is Mark, he wis in ma class at school. Seems a long time ago now, eh?
She introduces me to a surly, sweaty gorilla who grunts in ma direction. Ah nod.
— Aye. Certainly does.
— Still see Simon? Aw the manto ask eftir Sick Boy. It makes us ill.
— Aye. He wis up at the hoose the day. He’s away tae Paris soon. Then Corsica.
Tricia smiles and the gorilla looks on in disapproval. The guy has a face that just disapproves ay the world in general and looks ready for a square go wi it. Ah’m sure he’s one ay the Sutherlands. Tricia could definitely huv done better for herself. Loads ay punters at school used tae fancy her. Ah used tae hing aroond her in the hope that people would think ah wis gaun oot wi her, in the hope that ah would be, by a sortay osmosis. Ah once started tae believe ma ain propaganda, and goat a healthy slap in the pus when ah tried tae put my hand up her jersey when we were up the disused railway line. Sick Boy fucked her though, the cunt.
— He eywis goat aroond did oor Simon, she sais wi a wistful smile.
Daddy Simone.
— Sure did. Stoat the baw, pimpin, drug-dealin, extortin money fae people. That’s oor Simon. The bitterness in ma voice surprised us. Sick Boy wis ma best mate, well, Sick Boy n Spud . . . n maybe Tommy. Why am ah giein the cunt such a bad press? Is it solely because ay his neglect ay parental duties, or indeed his lack of acknowledgement ay parental status? It’s more likely because I envy the cunt. He doesnae care. Because he doesnae care, he cannae be hurt. Never.
Whatever the reason, it freaks Tricia.
— Eh . . . well, right, eh, see ye Mark.
They leave quicky, Tricia cairryin the tray ay drinks and the Sutherland gorilla (or ah think he wis a Sutherland) lookin back at us, his knuckles nearly scrapin the varnish oan the dance flair.
It wis oot ay order bad-mouthin Sick Boy like that. Ah jist hate it whin the cunt gits oaf scot-free and ah’m painted as the big villain ay the piece. Ah suppose that’s jist ma perception ay things. Sick Boy hus his anxieties, his personal pain. He also probably hus mair enemies thin me. He undoubtedly does. Still, what the fuck.
Ah take the drinks tae the table.
— Awright son? Ma asks us.
— Brand new Ma, brand new, ah sais, tryin tae sound like Jimmy Cagney n failin pathetically; like ah dae wi maist things. Still, failure, success, what is it? Whae gies a fuck. We aw live, then we die, in quite a short space ay time n aw. That’s it; end ay fuckin story.
Bang to Rites
It’s a beautiful day. That seems to mean
Concentrate. On the job at hand. Ma first burial. Somebody sais: — C’moan Mark, a gentle voice. Ah step forward and grab a length of the cord.
Ah help ma faither n ma uncles, Charlie n Dougie, tae lower the remains ay ma brother intae the groond. The army’s pit up the hireys fir this do. Leave it to us, the softly-spoken Army Welfare Officer told Ma. Leave it to us.
Yes, this is the first burial ah’ve been at. Usually it’s cremations these days. Ah wonder what’s in the boax. No much ay Billy, that’s fir sure. Ah look ower at ma Ma n Sharon, Billy’s burd, who are being comforted by an assortment ay aunties. Lenny, Peasbo n Naz, Billy’s mates, ur here, along wi some ay his squaddie pals.
Billy Boy, Billy Boy. Hello, hello, we are the. It’s nothing tae dae wi
Ah keep thinking ay that auld Walker Brothers number, the one Midge Ure covered: There’s no regrets, no tears goodbye, I don’t want you back etcetera, etcetera.
Ah cannae feel remorse, only anger and contempt. Ah seethed when ah saw that fuckin Union Jack oan his coffin, n watched that smarmy, wimpy cunt ay an officer, obviously oot ay his depth here, tryin tae talk
tae ma Ma. Worse still, these Glasgow cunts, the auld boy’s side, are through here en masse. They’re fill ay shite aboot how he died in the service ay his country n aw that servile Hun crap. Billy was a silly cunt, pure and simple. No a hero, no a martyr, jist a daft cunt.
A fit ay giggles hits us, threatening tae completely overwhelm us. Ah nearly cowped ower laughing hysterically, when ma faither’s brar, Charlie, grabbed us by the airm. He looked hostile, but that cunt always does. Effie, his wife, pulls the fucker away sayin, — The boey’s upset. It’s jist his wey Chick. The boey’s upset.
Get a fuckin wash ya soapdodgin Weedjie cunts.
Billy Boy. That’s what these cunts called him as a laddie. It wis: Awright Billy Boey? Wi me, skulking behind the couch, it wis a grudging: Aye son.
Billy Boy, Billy Boy. Ah remember you sitting oan toap ay us. Me helplessly pinned tae the flair. Windpipe constricted tae the width ay a straw. Praying, as the oxygen drained fae ma lungs and brain, that Ma would return fae Presto’s before you crushed the life oot ay ma skinny body. The smell ay pish fae your genitals, a damp patch on your short troosers. Was it really that exciting, Billy Boy? Ah hope so. Ah cannae really grudge ye it now. You always had a problem that way; those inappropriate discharges of faeces and urine that used tae drive Ma tae distraction. Who’s the best team, you’d ask us, crushing, digging or twisting harder. No respite for me until ah sais: Hearts. Even after we’d fucked yous seven-nil on New Year’s Day at Tynecastle, you still made me say Hearts. Ah suppose ah should have been flattered that an utterance from me carried more weight than the actual result.
Ma beloved brother was on Her Majesty’s Service, on patrol near their base at Crossmaglen in Ireland, the part under British rule. They had left their vehicle to examine this road block, when POW! ZAP! BANG! ZOWIE!, and they were no more. Just three weeks before the end ay this tour of duty.
He died a hero they sais. Ah remember that song: ‘Billy Don’t Be A Hero’. In fact, he died a spare prick in a uniform, walking along a country road wi a rifle in his hand. He died an ignorant victim ay imperialism, understanding fuck all about the myriad circumstances which led tae his death. That wis the biggest crime, he understood fuck all about it. Aw he hud tae guide um through this great adventure in Ireland, which led tae his death, wis a few vaguely formed sectarian sentiments. The cunt died as he lived: completely fuckin scoobied.
His death wis good fir me. He made the News at Ten. In Warholian terms, the cunt had a posthumous fifteen minutes ay fame. People offered us sympathy, n although it wis misguided, it wis nice tae accept anywey. Ye dinnae want tae disappoint folk.
Some ruling class cunt, a junior minister or something, says in his Oxbridge voice how Billy wis a brave young man. He wis exactly the kind ay cunt they’d huv branded as a cowardly thug if he wis in civvy street rather than on Her Majesty’s Service. This fucking walking abortion says that his killers will be ruthlessly hunted down. So they fuckin should. Aw the wey tae the fuckin Houses ay Parliament.
Savour small victories against this white-trash tool of the rich that’s no no no
Billy being tormented by the Sutherland Brothers and entourage, who certainly made him quiver ha fuckin ha as they danced around him singing: YOUR BROTHER’S A SPASTIC, one of the great Leith street hits of the seventies, generally performed when the legs got too tired to sustain the twenty-two-a-side game ay fitba. Were they talking about Davie, or perhaps even me? Didnae matter. They didnae see me looking doon fae the bridge. Billy, your head stayed bowed. Impotence. How does it feel Billy Boy? Not good. I know because
It’s weird by the graveside. Spud’s here somewhere, clean, jist oot ay Saughton. Tommy n aw. It’s crazy, Spud lookin healthy, n Tommy lookin like death warmed up. Complete role reversal. Davie Mitchell, a good mate ay Tommy’s, a guy whae ah once worked wi oan site as an apprentice chippy way back, hus shown up. Davie caught HIV fae this lassie. Brave ay the cunt tae come. That’s fuckin real bravery. Begbie, just when ah could make use ay the cunt’s evil presence and capacity tae cause chaos, is oan hoaliday in Benidorm. Ah could do with his immoral support vis-à-vis my Weedjie relations. Sick Boy’s still in France, livin oot his fantasies.
Billy Boy. Ah remember sharing that room. How the fuck ah did it for aw they years beats
The sun has a power. You can understand why people worship it. It’s there, we know the sun, we can see it, and we need it.
You had first call on the room Billy. Fifteen months ma senior. Might is right. You’d bring gaunt-faced, vicious-eyed, gumchewing lassies back to fuck, or at least heavy pet. They’d look at me with android contempt as you banished me, whoever was with me, and my Subbuteo into the lobby. Ah particularly recall the needless crunching of one Liverpool and two Sheffield Wednesday players under your heel. Unnecessary, but then total domination requires its symbolism, eh no Billy Boy?
Ma cousin Nina looks intensely shaftable. She’s goat long, dark hair, and is wearing an ankle-length, black coat. Seems tae be a bit ay a Goth. Noting some ay Willie’s squaddy pals and ma Weedjie uncles gettin oan well, ah find masel whistling ‘The Foggy Dew’. One squaddy wi big, protruding front teeth, cottons oan and looks at us in surprise n then anger, so ah blaws the cunt a kiss. He stares at me for a bit, then looks away, shit up. Good. Wabbit season.
Billy Boy, ah wis your other spastic brother, the one who’d never had a ride, as you’d tell your mate Lenny. Lenny’d laugh and laugh until he’d almost have an asthma attack. It wisnae particularly Billy no you stupid, fuckin cunt
Ah give Nina a broad wink and she smiles, embarrassed. Ma faither’s been clocking this and he steams ower tae me.
— Wahn fuckin bit ay crap oot ay you n that’s us finished. Right?
His eyes were tired, sunk deep intae thir sockets. Thir wis a sad and unsettling vulnerability aboot him ah’d nivir seen before. Ah wanted tae say so much tae the man, but ah resented him fir allowing this circus tae take place.
— See ye up the hoose, faither. Ah’m gaun tae see Ma.
An overhead conversation in the kitchen, fuck-knows when. Faither goes: — Thir’s something wrong wi that laddie Cathy. Sittin in aw the time. It’s no natural. Ah mean, look at Billy.
Ma sais back: — The laddie’s jist different Davie, that’s aw.
Different fae Billy. Not a Billy Boy. You won’t know him by his noise, but by his silence. When he comes for you, he won’t come screaming, announcing his intentions, but he’ll come. Hello, hello. Goodbye.
Ah git a lift fae Tommy, Spud n Mitch. They urnae fir comin in. They depart quickly. Ah see ma auld lady, delirious, bein helped oot ay the taxi by her sister Irene, and sister-in-law Alice. The Weedjie aunties are clucking around in the background, ah can hear these horrible accents; bad enough oan a man, fuckin revolting oan a woman. These hatchet-faced auld boots dinnae look comfortable. Obviously, thir mair in their niche at the funeral ay an elderly relative whin thir’s goodies up fir grabs.
Ma grabs the airm ay Sharon, Billy’s burd, whae’s goat a big bun in her oven. Why the fuck dae people ey grab each other’s airms at funerals?
— He wid’uv made an honest wimmin ay ye hen. You wir eywis the one fir him. The wey she sais it, it was like she was trying tae convince herself as much as Sharon. Perr Ma. Two years ago, she hud three sons, now she’s only got one, whae’s a junky. The game’s no straight.
— Dae ye think the army’ll huv anything fir me? ah heard Sharon asking ma Auntie Effie, as we got intae the hoose. — Ah’m cairryin his bairn . . . it’s Billy’s bairn . . . she pleads.
— Dae ye think the moon’s made oot ay green fuckin knob cheese? ah remark.
Fortunately, everyone seems too loast in thumsels tae pick it up.
Like Billy. He started to ignore me when I became invisible.
Billy, ma contempt for you jist grew over the years. It displaced the fear, jist sortay squeezed it oot, like pus fae a pluke. Of course, there’s the blade. A great leveller, very good at negating physical assets; as Eck Wils
on found oot tae his cost in second year. You loved us for that, once you got ower yir shock. Respected and loved me as a brother fir the first time. Ah despised you mair than ever.
You knew that your strength became superfluous once ah’d discovered the blade. You knew that, ya crappin bastard. The blade and the bomb. Just like the Naw. No the fuckin bomb. No
Ma embarrassment and discomfort grows. People fill their glasses and say what a great cunt Billy wis. Ah cannae really think ay anything good tae say aboot him, so ah shut up. Unfortunately, one ay his squaddy mates, the rabbit-toothed punter ah blew a kiss at, sidles up tae me. — You wir his brother, he sais, choppers hingin oot tae dry.
Ah might’ve guessed. Another Weedjie Orange bigot. Nae wonder he’s hit it oaf wi faither’s side. It put us oan the spot. Every cunt’s eyes focus oan us. Dwat that pesky wabbit.
— Indeed I was, as you say, his brother, ah jocularly agree. Ah can feel the resentment mounting up against us. Ah huv tae play tae the crowd.
The best way ah knew tae strike a chord without compromising too much tae the sickening hypocrisy, perversely peddled as decency, which fills the room, is tae stick tae the clichés. People love them at this time, because they become real, and actually mean something.
— Billy n me nivir agreed oan that much . . .
— Ah well, vive le difference . . . said Kenny, an uncle oan ma Ma’s side, tryin tae be helpful.
— . . . but one thing we hud in common wis thit we both liked a good bevvy and a good crack. If he can see us now, he’ll be laughin his heid oaf at us sittin here aw moosey faced. He’d be sayin, enjoy yirsels, fir god sake! Ah’ve goat friends n family here. We’ve no seen each other fir ages.
An exchange of cards:
To Billy
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year
(except between 3.00 and 4.40 on New Year’s Day)
From Mark.
Mark