by Irvine Welsh
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year
Billy
HMFC OK
To Billy,
Happy Birthday
From Mark
Then Billy and Sharon are
Mark
Happy Birthday
From Billy and Sharon
In Sharon’s handwriting, which is like
The Weedjie white trash that were ma faither’s family, came through for the Orange walk every July, and occasionally when Rangers were at Easter Road or Tynecastle. Ah wished the cunts would stay in Drumchapel. They receive my touching little tribute tae Billy well enough though, and all nod solemnly. All except Charlie, whae saw through ma mood.
— It’s all a fuckin gemme tae you, int it son?
— If you must know, yes.
— Ah feel sorry for you. He shook his heid.
— Naw ye dinnae, ah tell him. He walks away, still shakin his heid.
More McEwan’s Export and whisky follows. Auntie Effie starts tae sing, a nasal, country-style whine. Ah move ower tae Nina.
— You’ve really blossomed intae a wee honey, ken that? ah drunkenly slaver. She looks at me as if she’s heard it aw before. Ah wis gaunnae suggest that we sneak away ower tae Fox’s, or back tae ma flat at Montgomery Street. Is it against the law tae shag yir cousin? Probably. Thuv goat laws for stoapin ye daein everything else.
— Shame aboot Billy, she sais. Ah kin tell she thinks ah’m a total wanker. Of course, she’s completely right. Ah thought that every cunt over twenty was a toss an no worth speakin tae, until ah hit twenty. The mair ah see, the mair ah think ah wis right. After that it’s aw ugly compromise, aw timid surrender, progressively until death.
Unfortunately, Charlie, or Chick-chicy-chic-chicky-chicky, has clocked the solicitous nature ay my conversation, and moves in to protect Nina’s virtue. No that she needs the assistance ay a fat soapdodger.
The bastard gestures me aside. When ah ignore him, he takes ma airm. He’s pretty bevvied. His whisper is hard, an ah can smell the whisky oan his breath.
— Listen son, if you don’t get oan yir fuckin bike, ah’m gaunnae tan your jaw. If it wisnae fir yir faither thair, ah’ve done it a long time ago. Ah don’t like you son. Ah never huv. Yir brother wis ten times the man you’ll ever be, ya fuckin junky. If you knew the misery yuv caused yir Ma n Da . . .
— You can speak frankly, ah cut in, anger throbbing in my chest but nonetheless contained by a delicious glee that comes fae knowing that ah’ve upset the cunt. Stay cool. It’s the only way tae fuck a self-righteous bastard over.
— Oh ah’ll speak frankly aw right, Mr University smart cunt. Ah’ll knock ye through that fuckin waw. His chunky, indianinked fist was just a few inches fae ma face. Ma grip tensed oan the whisky gless ah wis haudin. Ah wisnae gaunnae let the cunt touch us wi they fuckin hands. If he moved he wis gittin this gless.
Ah pushed his raised hand aside.
— If ye did gie us a kickin, ye’d be daein me a favour. Ah’d jist huv a wank aboot it later on. We University drop-oot smart cunt junkies are kinky that wey. Cause that’s aw you’re worth, ya fuckin trash. Yir also takin a wee bit for granted. Ye want tae go ootside, just say the fuckin word.
Ah gestured at the door. The room seemed tae shrink tae the size ay Billy’s coffin, and be populated only by masel n Chick. But thir wir others. People wir looking roond at us now.
The cunt pushed us gently in the chest.
— Wuv hud wahn funeral in the family the day, wir no wahntin another.
Ma Uncle Kenny came ower and pulled us away.
— Ignore these orange bastards. C’moan Mark, look at yir Ma. It wid fuckin kill hur if ye got involved here, it Billy’s funeral. Remember whair ye are, fir fuck sakes.
Kenny wis aw right, well a bit ay a fuckin erse if the truth be telt, but fir aw thir faults, ah’d rather huv an ayesur thin a soapdodger. Ah come fae some stock, right enough. Ayesur papish bastards oan ma Ma’s side, soapdodging orange cunts oan ma faither’s.
Ah gulped at the whisky, enjoying the burning sour taste ay it in ma throat n chest, wincing as it hit ma queasy stomach. Ah went through tae the toilet.
Sharon, Billy’s burd, wis comin oot. Ah barred her wey. Sharon n me huv mibbe spoken about half-a-dozen sentences tae each other. She wis drunk n dazed, her face flushed and bloated wi alcohol n pregnancy.
— Hud oan the now Sharon. You n me need tae huv a wee blether, likes. It’s pretty confidential in here. Ah usher her intae the toilet n loak the door behind us.
Ah start tae feel her up, while rabbitin a load ay shite aboot how we huv tae stick thegither at a time like this. Ah’m feelin her lump, n gaun oan aboot how much responsibility ah felt taewards ma unborn niece or nephew. We start kissin, and ah move ma hand doon, feelin the visible panty lines through the cotton material ay her maternity dress. Ah wis soon fingerin her fanny, and she hud goat ma prick oot ay ma troosers. Ah wis still bullshittin, tellin her that ah’d always admired her as a person and a woman, which she disnae really need tae hear because she’s gaun doon oan us, bit it’s somehow comfortin tae say. She takes ma semi intae her mooth n ah firm up quickly. There’s no doubt aboot it, she gies a good blow-job. Ah think aboot her daein this wi ma brar, n wondered what hud happened tae his prick in the explosion.
If only Billy could see us now, ah’m thinkin, but in a surprisingly reverential way. Ah wondered if he could, n hoped so. It wis the first good thoughts aboot him ah’d hud. Ah withdraw jist before comin, and guide Sharon intae the doggy position. Ah hike up hur dress and pulled her panties down. Her heavy belly sags towards the flair. Ah try tae put it intae her arsehole first but it’s too tight and it hurts ma knob end tae force it.
— No that wey, no that wey, she’s saying, so ah stopped ma rummage for some cream, and scoop ma fingers intae hur fanny. She has a powerful ivy smell. Then again, ma cock also smells pretty foul and flecks of knob cheese are visible oan the helmet. Ah’ve never really been too much intae personal hygiene; probably the soapdodger in us, or the junky.
Ah concur wi Sharon’s wishes n fuck her in the fanny. It’s a wee bit like throwin the proverbial sausage up a close, but ah find ma stroke n she tightens up. Ah think aboot how close she is tae poppin and how far up ah am, an ah can see masel stickin it in the foetus’s mooth. Some concept, a shag and a blow-job simultaneously. It torments us. They say that a shag is good for an unborn child, they get the circulation of blood, or some shite. The least ah kin dae is take an interest in the bairn’s welfare.
A knock oan the door, follayed by Effie’s nasal voice.
— Whit yis daein in thair?
— S awright, Sharon’s bein sick. Too much bevvy in her condition, ah groaned.
— Ur you seein tae her son?
— Aye . . . ah’m seein tae her . . . ah panted as Sharon’s groans grew louder.
— Awright well.
Ah blurt oot ma muck n pull oot. Ah gently push hur prostrate, helping her turn ower, and scoop hur huge milky tits oot ay her dress. Ah smuggle intae them like a bairn. She starts strokin ma heid. Ah feel wonderful, so at peace.
— That wis fuckin barry, ah gasp contentedly.
— Will we keep seein each other now? she sais. — Eh? Thir’s a desperate, pleading edge tae her voice. What a fuckin radge.
Ah sat up n kissed her face, which wis like a swollen, overipe piece of fruit. Ah didnae want tae git heavy here. The truth wis, Sharon repulsed me now. This radge thinks that wi one fuck she can substitute one brar fir the other. Thing is, she’s probably no far wrong.
— We huv tae git up Sharon, git cleaned likes, ken. They widnae understand if they caught us. They don’t know anything. Ah know that yir a good lassie, Sharon, but they dinnae understand fuck all.
— Ah ken you’re a nice laddie, she said supportively, but without a great deal of conviction. She was certainly far too good for Billy, then again Myra Hindley or Margaret Thatcher were far too good for Billy. She was caught in this git-a-man, git-a-ba
irn, git-a-hoose shite that lassies git drummed intae them, and hud nae real chance ay defining hersel ootside ay they mashed-tattie-fir-brains terms ay reference.
Thir wis another knock at the door.
— If yis dinnae open that door, ah’m gaunny knock it doon. It wis Charlie’s son, Cammy. A fucking young polisman who looked like the Scottish Cup; big jug ears, nae chin, slender neck. The cunt obviously thought thit ah wis shootin up. Well, ah wis, but no in the sense he imagined.
— Ah’m awright . . . we’ll be oot in a minute. Sharon wipes herself n tugs up her pants and re-arranges things. Ah’m fascinated at the speed wi which she moves for a heavily pregnant lassie. Ah couldnae believe ah’d jist shagged her. Ah’d feel bad aboot it the morn, but, as Sick Boy’s prone tae sayin, the morn takes care ay itsel. Thir isnae an embarrassment in the world that cannae be erased by a bit ay blether and a few bevvies.
Ah open the door.
— Take it easy, Dixon ay Dock Green. No seen a lady up the kite before? His glaikit, open-moothed expression inspired ma instant contempt.
Ah didnae like the vibes, so ah took Sharon back tae ma flat. We jist talked. She telt us a loat ay things thit ah wanted tae hear, things ma Ma n faither never knew, and would hate tae ken. How Billy wis a cunt tae her. How he battered her oan occasions, humiliated her, n generally treated her like an exceptionally foul piece ay shite.
— Whit did ye stey wi um fir?
— He wis ma felly. Ye eywis think it’ll be different, thit ye kin change thum, thit ye kin make a difference.
Ah understood that. But it’s wrong. The only fuckers thit ever made a difference tae Billy wir the Provos, and they were cunts as well. Ah’ve no illusions about them as freedom fighters. The bastards made ma brother intae a pile ay catfood. But they only pulled the switch. His death wis conceived by these orange cunts, comin through every July wi thir sashes and flutes, fillin Billy’s stupid heid wi nonsense about crown and country n aw that shite. They’ll go hame chuffed fae the day. They can tell aw thir mates aboot how one ay the family died, murdered by the IRA, while defending Ulster. It’ll fuel thir pointless anger, git thum bought drinks in pubs, and establish thir doss-bastard credibility wi other sectarian arseholes.
Ah dinnae want any cunt fuckin aboot wi ma brar. Those were the words Billy Boy spoke to Pops Graham and Dougie Hood as they came into the pub hassling me, determined that ah had tae pey for ma drugs. Billy’s statement. Oh yes. Delivered wi such clarity and assurance, that it went beyond a threat. Ma irritants just looked at each other and skulked off oot ay the pub. Ah sniggered. So did Spud. We were high, and cared aboot fuck all. Billy Boy sneered at us, something like: You’re a fuckin erse, and joined a couple ay his mates, whae looked disappointed that Pops and Dougie had fucked off, depriving them of an excuse fir a swedge. Ah still giggled. Thanks guys, it’s been
Billy Boy told me that ah wis ruining ma life wi that shite. He told me this on numerous occasions. It’s been real
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What’s it aw aboot. Aw Billy. Aw fuck sakes. Ah didnae
Sharon was right. It’s hard tae change people.
Every cause needs its martyrs though. So now ah’m wishing thit she wid fuck off so ah kin git tae ma stash, cook up a shot and git a hit, in the cause ay oblivion.
Junk Dilemmas No. 67
Deprivation’s relative. There are bairns starvin tae death, dying every second like flies. The fact that this is happening in another place, doesnae negate that fundamental truth. In the time it takes us tae crush up these pills, cook them and inject them, thousands ay bairns in other countries, and mibbe a few in this yin, will be deid. In the time it takes us tae dae this, thousands ay rich bastards will be thousands ay pounds richer, as investments ripen.
Crushin pills up: what a fuckin doss-heid. Ah should really leave the jack n jills tae the stomach. Brain and vein are too fragile tae carry that stuff direct.
Like Dennis Ross.
Dennis hud a great hit fae that whisky he injected intae hissel. Then his eyes started rollin, blood flooded fae his nostrils, n that wis Denny. Once ye see the blood fae yir nose hit the flair at that rate . . . the gig’s over. Junky machismo . . . naw. Junky need.
Ah’m feart awright, shitein ma keks, but the me that’s shitein it is a different me tae the one that’s crushin up the pills. The me that’s crushin up the pills sais that death cannae be worse than daein nowt tae arrest this consistent decline. That me eywis wins the arguments.
Thir’s nivir any real dilemmas wi junk. They only come when ye run oot.
Exile
London Crawling
No go. Whair the fuck are the cunts? Ma ain bastard fault. Should’ve phoned tae tell them ah wis comin doon. Well, the surprise is mine. Nae fucker’s in. The black door has a coldness, a stern, deathly front which seems tae say tae us thit they’ve been gone a long time, and willnae be back fir a longer yin, if ever. Ah deek though the letter boax, bit ah cannae see if thir’s any envelopes at the bottom ay the door.
Ah boot the door in frustration. The woman across the landing, a mumpy hoor as ah remember, opens her door and pokes hur heid oot. She stares at us as if tae ask us a question. Ah ignore her.
— They ain’t in. Ain’t been in for a couple of days, she tells us, looking suspiciously at ma sports bag as if thir wis explosives contained in it.
— Nice one, ah gruffly mumble, turnin ma heid ceilingwards in exasperation, hoping that this show ay desperation will encourage the woman tae say something like: I know you. You used to stay there. You must be exhausted travelling all the way down from Scotland. Come in, have a nice cup ay tea, and wait for your friends.
Whit she does say is: — Naah . . . ain’t seem em for at least two days.
Cunt. Fuck. Bastard. Shite.
They could be anywhere. They could be naewhaire. They could be back at anytime. They might never be back.
Ah walk doon Hammersmith Broadway, London seeming strange and alien, after only a three-month absence, as familiar places do when you’ve been away. It’s as if everything is a copy of what you knew before, similar, yet somehow lacking in its usual qualities, a bit like the wey things are in a dream. They say you have to live in a place to know it, but you have to come fresh tae it tae really see it. Ah remember walkin along Princes Street wi Spud, we both hate walkin along that hideous street, deadened by tourists and shoppers, the twin curses ay modern capitalism. Ah looked up at the castle and thought, it’s just another building tae us. It registers in oor heids just like the British Home Stores or Virgin Records. We were heading tae these places oan a shoplifting spree. But when ye come back oot ay Waverley Station eftir bein away fir a bit, ye think: Hi, this isnae bad.
Everything in the street today seems soft focus. It’s probably lack of sleep and lack of drugs.
The pub sign is a new one, but its message is old. The Britannia. Rule Britannia. Ah’ve never felt British, because ah’m not. It’s ugly and artificial. Ah’ve never really felt Scottish either, though. Scotland the brave, ma arse; Scotland the shitein cunt. We’d throttle the life oot ay each other fir the privilege ay rimmin some English aristocrat’s piles. Ah’ve never felt a fuckin thing aboot countries, other than total disgust. They should abolish the fuckin lot ay them. Kill every fuckin parasite politician that ever stood up and mouthed lies and fascist platitudes in a suit and a smarmy smile.
The board tells us thit there is a gay skinheads night oan in the back bar. Cults and subcultures segment and cross-matrix in a place like this. Ye can be freer here, no because it’s London, but because it isnae Leith. Wir all slags on holiday.
In the public bar, ah scan for a familiar face. The layout and decor of the place has radically changed, for the worse. What was once a good, grotty local where you could fling beer over your mates and get sucked off in the women’s or men’s toilets is now a frighteningly sanitised hole. A few locals wi hard, bemused faces and cheap clathes, cling tae a corner ay the bar like shipwrecked survivors tae driftwood as yuppies guffaw
loudly. Still at work, always in the office, but wi alcohol instead ay phones. This place is now geared up tae supplying all-day meals to workers ay the offices that continue to encroach into the Borough. Davo and Suzy widnae drink in a soulless toilet like this.
One ay the barmen, though, looks vaguely familiar.
— Does Paul Davis still drink in here? ah ask him.
— You wot Jock, the coloured geezer that plays for the Arsenal? he laughs.
— Naw, this is a big scouser. Dark, spiked hair, nose like a fuckin ski slope. Ye couldnae miss this guy.
— Roight . . . yeah, oi know the geezer. Davo. Angs around wiff that bird, little gel, short, black hair. Nah, ain’t seen that crowd in ere for ages. Don’t even know if they’re still on the manor.
Ah drink a pint ay fizzy pish, and crack wi the guy aboot his new customers.
— Fing is Jock, most orf them geezers ain’t even genuine yuppies, he disdainfully gestures over to a crowd of suits in the corner. — Mostly fucking shiny-arsed clerks or commission-based insurance salesmen that get a handful orf fucking roice each week in wages. It’s orl fucking image, innit. These cahnts are all up to their fucking eyes in debt. Strutting around the fucking city in expensive suits pretendin that they’re on fifty K a year. Most orf them aint even got a five-figure salary, ave they.
Thir wis a lot in what the guy said, bitter as the cunt wis. Thir wis certainly mair dosh kickin aboot down here thin up the road, but one thing the cunts doon here hud swallayed, wis the idea thit aw ye hud tae dae wis tae look the part, n it wid aw come your way, which wis fuckin shite. Ah’ve known scheme junkies in Edinburgh wi a healthier asset-tae-debt ratio thin some two-waged, heavily-mortgaged couples doon here. It’ll hit the fan one day. Thir are sackloads ay repossession orders in the post.
Ah go back up tae the flat. Still nae sign ay the cunts.
The woman across the wey comes back oot. — You won’t find em in. Her voice is smug and gloating. What a cunt ay the first order this old slag is. A black cat meanders past her, out ontae the landing.