by Irvine Welsh
Marilyn Monroe, Doris Day, Vera Ellen; she’d hinted at them all with one hairdo after another, but none more than Dorothy Malone in Written on the Wind. What a joke. Of course, she’d never known about this moniker at the time, at the Cappy concert and places like that. If she had, she’d’ve been so insufferable, Sandra conceded to herself. It was only Wullie that had told her, not long after they started going out, that he was dating the lassie all the other guys knew as ‘The Hollywood Blonde’.
With sudden violence the rain thrashed like stones on the window, so hard that her heart seemed to split in two, one part rushing for her mouth, the other to her stomach. There was a time, she thought, when it all meant nothing; the wind, the rain, the drunks outside. If only Wullie would wake up and take her in his arms and hold her and make love to her, like they used to, sometimes all through the night. If only she could close the distance between them, just shake him awake and ask him to embrace her. But somehow, these were not the words either of them expected to come from her tongue.
How had the few inches between them become such a chasm?
Lying in the bed gazing at the featureless ceiling, with panic slicing through her in waves, a dazzling fissure opened up in Sandra’s mind. Through it, she could almost feel her sanity sliding into an abyss, leaving her a zombiefied shell. And she was on the verge of embracing it, comfortably, just to be like her husband, Wullie, who would sleep and sleep and sleep right through the mayhem until morning.
Terry Lawson
Juiced Up
Stevie Bannerman can be as wide as fuck. It’s awright fir him sittin in the van aw day, it’s me that’s oot in aw weathers humpin fuckin crates oaf the back ay this lorry in the rain, stoapin at the pubs and clubs, then door-tae-door back roond the schemes here. Cannae complain mind you; thir’s loads ay birds gaun past, and bein oot here n the fresh air, checkin them oot, it’s the spice ay life. Too right.
They wanted ays tae stey oan as well, sais ah could dae a couple ay O grades if ah pit ma mind tae it. But what dae ye want tae stey oan at school fir when yuv already rode jist aboot every bird thair that’ll go? Waste ay fuckin time. Ah’ll huv tae git ma mate, the Milky Bar Kid, telt aboot that.
Goat the horn bigtime this mornin. Eywis the same eftir ah’ve been up the Classic the night before, watchin the dirty movies. Ah wanted tae go doon tae Lucy’s eftir, but her auld man’ll no lit me stey ower. Supposed tae be fuckin well engaged n aw. Time enough fir that whin yis are mairried, the cunt goes. Aye, like him n Lucy’s ma ur bangin away aw day?
That’ll be right.
We’re back at the scheme n Stevie’s stoaped the lorry at the waste. Ah couple ay auld fuckers come up tae ays. Thuv goat they toothless mooths thit pit ays n mind ay that pair ay worn oot auld dessy boots ah’ve goat in ma wardrobe, the one’s wi stitching burst in thum. Ah boat a new pair wi ma first week’s wages but ye cannae bring yirsel tae chuck the auld yins oot. — Two boatils ay orange, son, one wifie sais. Ah pull oot a couple ay boatils ay Hendry’s fae the toap crate, n take the pound and gie the change back. Sorry, missus, ah ken the juice you’re needin pumped intae you n it disnae come in fuckin boatils.
Yir no gittin it offay me anywey, missus!
They git oan thir wey n then ah see yin thit might be gittin it offay ays. Ah ken yon bright wee face next tae ays, it’s Maggie Orr. She’s wi ehr mate, another ride whae ah’ve seen aboot but whae ah dinnae ken. Well, no yet anywey.
— A boatil ay lemonade n a boatil ay Coke, wee Maggie sais. The year below ays at the school. Mair meat oan a butcher’s knife. Used tae feed her up whin ah wis monitor oan the school dinners. Ma mate Carl, the Milky Bar Kid, he’s goat the hoats fir her bigtime. Thoat eh wis in thaire cause eh wis hingin aboot wi her n Topsy wi that daft band that thir meant tae be in, n aw that crowd fae the Herts bus. Heard eh made a bit ay a cunt ay ehsel in front ay her last Setirday. Mibbe that’s how eh’s aw keen tae come wi us tae Hibs oan Setirday. Ye ken the wey ehs mind works, that cunt.
— They tell ays ye like yir Coke right enough, ah goes tae her.
She sais nowt, disnae really git the joke, but blushes a bit anywey. Her mate does n aw, but makes oot she’s squintin in the sun, pittin her hand up tae her face. Long black hair, dark eyes, n thick, full rid lips. Aye . . .
Good bit ay tit oan it.
— Youse should be at the school, ah goes, — wait till Blackie hears aboot this.
Maggie frowns at the mention ay that cunt’s name. Nae wonder.
— Aye, ah goes, — me n Blackie still keep in touch, ye ken. Good buddies, now thit wir baith workin men thegither. Eywis asks ays tae keep um informed aboot which ay ehs pupils urnae behavin themselves. Ah’ll keep ma mooth shut cause it’s you, but it’s gaunny cost ye mind.
Her mate’s laughin at this, but perr Maggie’s half sortay lookin at me as if ah’m serious. — Ah’m oaf sick. Ah’m jist oot fir some juice but, she goes, like ah’m gaunny grass her up tae a fuckin truancy officer or something.
— Aw aye, ah laughs, n looks at her pal, thir is a barry bit ay tit thair awright. — N your sick n aw, eh.
— Naw, she’s left, she wis at Auggie’s, Maggie explains before her mate can answer. She’s aw nervous n bothered, lookin aboot tae see whae’s watchin her bein oot.
Her mate’s much cooler. Ah like they big eyes n that long, black hair. — No workin doll? ah ask the lassie.
This yin wi the tits gits tae speak up fir the first time. — Aye, at the baker’s. But it’s ma day oaf, she says.
The baker’s wir gittin now, is it? Well ah’d pit a fuckin bun in the oven for her anywey. Nae danger. Nah, she’s no fuckin shy, no way, she’s jist workin ays oot.
— Veh-ry nice, ah say. — So’s that youse in aw oan yir lonesome? ah ask them baith.
— Aye, ma Uncle Alec’s oot n muh Ma n Dad are doon at Blackpool, Maggie tells me.
Blackpool. Fuckin barry doon thaire oan that Golden Mile, aw the pubs n that. Plenty fuckin shaggin doon thaire. Me n that bird fae Huddersfield, n the yin fae Lincoln n aw. The Huddersfield yin, Philippa, she wis the best but. Banged that much wi broke the fuckin bed. Cheeky bastard wanted tae charge us fir it, an auld chipboard kip half smashed tae fuck awready. Ah telt the wanker tae fuckin blow. Malky Carson wanted tae knock ehs cunt in. The breakfast wis shite n aw; they gied ays a sausage oan ma plate like Wee Gally’s tadger.
That Pleasure Beach wis brilliant but. Ah wis right up the tower n aw. The third thing ah goat right up whin ah wis doon thaire! Fuckin cauld though, that wind oaf the sea. N the scabby Orrs’ve went south n left wee Maggie oan her tod. — They no take you doon thaire wi thum? ah ask.
— Nup.
— Aye, ah smiles, — they ken thit they’d huv tae keep an eye oan ye. Ah’ve heard aw aboot you!
— Git away, she laughs, n her mate does n aw.
So ah turns tae this black-haired yin. — So she’s lookin eftir ye then, Maggie, eh?
— Aye.
Ah winks at her mate, then turns back tae Maggie. — Well ah’ll need tae come by, later this affie whin ah’m finished. Visit the sick patient, likes. Bring ma ain special remedies.
Maggie jist shrugs. — Up tae you eh.
— Aye but, ah tells her, — thorough examination. Second opinion, ah sais and points at masel. — Doctor, then at her wi the black hair, — nurse, then at Maggie, — patient.
The black haired yin’s aw hoat n bothered cause she’s jumpin oan the spot n she’s goat they tits jigglin away in that lilac toap when she moves. — Whoa Maggie! Hear that! Doctors and Nurses! Yir favourite game!
Maggie looks back aw cauld at me, her airms still crossed, and puffs oan her fag, brushin her floppy broon fringe oot her eyes, — Aye, you jist keep oan giein yir mind a treat son, she says turnin away.
They walk away aw snooty fir a bit, but ye kin tell the wey they look back sniggerin that they wee cunts are as shag-happy as fuck. Baith ay thaim are gittin it later oan, that’s fuckin well guaranteed. — Aye, ah kin dae that awright,
just thinkin aboot you fine ladies, ah laugh. Then ah shout, — See yis later but, jist fir a fag n a wee cup ay tea but eh.
— Aye, right, Maggie shouts back, but she’s laughin now.
— See yis, girls! Ah wave, watchin thum go. That Maggie, if they Biafran cunts saw pictures ay her oan thaire news, they’d be huvin a whip-roond tae git some crates ay rice shipped ower here. Tidy erse oan that mate ay hers but; it’s like two bairns fightin in a pillaycase in they white troosers.
A total fuckin pump.
That Stevie’s some fucker. Cannae pass a bookie’s. Aw eh does is flick through the racin pages. Eh’s an edgy cunt wi a big dago moustache. One ay they boys that’s aw serious n nippy at work, n disnae lit ehsel go until eh’s finished n eh’s in the boozer. Ah dinnae hud wi that sort ay patter: as if ye huv tae be aw torn-faced tae drive a fuckin lorry the right wey. Ah’m wantin tae take ma test n git masel a motor, jist fir the shaggin likes. Birds eywis go for the guy wi the motor, no thit ah need one tae git ma hole, unlike some ah could mention. A van’s eywis useful but.
When wi knock oaf, Stevie wants tae go tae the Busy Bee for a pint. — Naw, ah’ve goat other plans, ah tell um.
— Suit yerself, eh goes. Eh starts gaun oan again aboot the round no makin money. Who gies a fuck aboot that? Ah git enough money oot ay it, n ye git roond tae check oot aw the fanny. That’s mair important than money, gittin the chance tae chat up different birds n find oot which ones go n which ones dinnae. Ye want clathes, ye snowdroap thum offay some cunt’s line, or git a wee fucker tae dae it fir ye.
But the main thing fir me is fanny. Ah gied wee Lucy a ring oan her finger, jist tae keep her quiet likes. She’s eywis gaun oan aboot ays bein oan the juice lorries like it’s no good enough fir her. Ah ken whaire it aw comes fae: her auld man’s a snobby cunt n aw. Drives a fuckin bus for the corpie n thinks eh’s middle-class. Cunt only goes n says tae ays one time, — Juice lorries, thir’s no many prospects thaire, is thir?
Ah jist sat n said nowt, but ah wis thinkin tae masel, yir fuckin wrong pal, ye git tons ay prospects in that joab, n your wee lassie wis one ay them. Ah cannae fuckin well move fir prospects! Spice ay life!
Well that Maggie’s a prospect awright and ah’m straight roond tae her hoose when ah finish. She’s in the same stair as the Birrells but she’s one flair up, so ah git the gen oan her auld man n auld girl offay Billy. Fuckin pish-heids. Ah sniff the airmpits tae make sure ah dinnae smell fae luggin they crates, then ah knock at the door.
She comes tae answer n she’s standing thair, her airms folded, lookin at ays as if tae say, what are you wantin.
Ah ken what ah’m wantin awright. — Can ah come in fir a cup ay tea well? Sustenance fir a thirsty working chap?
— Awright, she goes, lookin ower ma shoodir, — but jist for a cup ay tea, n jist fir five minutes.
We go ben the front room and it’s jist her n the other lassie hame. — Ye ken Gail, Terry? Maggie asks as ah crash the ash.
She’s goat that ‘ah’m sure ah ken you fae somewhaire’ look oan her face.
— Ah’ve no hud that pleasure, ah say, noddin ower at Gail n winkin. — No yit, anywey, ah add, as Maggie sniggers and Gail hud’s ma gaze fir a bit. Birds like laddies wi a sense ay humour, n see me, ah’ve goat that Monty Python-type sense ay humour. At the school whin me n Carl n Gally started fuckin aboot nae cunt could understand us. They aw thoat wi wir mental n ah suppose wi wir. The thing Carl doesnae ken but, n that’s how eh disnae git ehs hole, is thit, aye; ye need a sense ay humour but yuv goat tae be mature aroond lassies n aw, no like the daft laddie aw the time. Look at they Monty Python cunts; they might be mental, but thir no like that aw the time. They aw went tae fuckin Cambridge or wherever, n ye dinnae git in thaire unless yuv goat brains. Ye kin bet they didnae start daein silly walks n aw that shite in thir exams. Naw. The thing is, ah am mature n aw. Ah mind ay that one teacher in art, that Miss Ormond, she says tae ays, — You’re the most immature young man I’ve ever taught. Ah hud tae jist tell her straight, ah am mature miss, ah’ve been fuckin well shaggin fir years n ah’ve shagged mair birds thin any other cunt in this school. Nippy cow only went n sent ays tae Blackie’s fir the fuckin web.
They’ve goat the efternoon telly oan, some repeats ay The Saint. It’s the other cunt, the one that looks like the real Saint’s wee brother. Ah settle doon oantae the couch and Gail sits in one armchair n Maggie oan the airm ay the other. Ah’m lookin at the show ay thigh comin fae under Maggie’s wee tartan skirt and ah’m thinkin aboot that American Express advert: that’ll dae nicely. — So, tell ays aw yir adventures girls, ah ask, takin a long draw ay ma Embie Regal. — What yis been up tae? Mair importantly, ur yis gaun oot wi anybody? Ah’m wantin aw the scandalous gossip mind.
— She wis gaun oot wi Alan Leighton, Maggie says, pointin tae the Gail bird.
— No now though, ah hate um, Gail goes.
— Dinnae really ken the boy, ah smiles, thinkin that Leighton’s a mate ay that Larry Wylie’s so she’s double-bound tae take the doady if she’s been knockin aboot wi yon crowd.
— Eh’s a wanker, Gail says, in a wey which ye’d be daft no tae read as: ah’m no shaggin him anymair, but ah need a length ay cock pretty bad, so come ahead big yin.
This is Terence Henry Lawson, interpreting for the badly needing shagged.
Spice ay life.
Funny aboot this Gail lassie, ah’m still tryin tae place her. Ah think she might be one ay the Bankses. Ah’m sure she’s a mate ay Doyle’s sister. Nah’m sure she used tae wear glesses, nice gold-rimmed glesses that made her look even dirtier and sexier than she is now, if that’s possible. Mibbe it wis her mate ah’m thinkin aboot. But aye, she’ll go, nae bother, ye jist git soas ye kin tell. Ah turns tae Maggie, whae’s lookin a bit left oot. — Surprised that you’re no spoken fir Maggie, ah say, watchin her blush a bit again. — Ah mean, ah’m no complainin, mind you, it’s great news fir me. See, ah’ve eywis fancied ye!
Gail throws back her heid n laughs. Then she rolls her eyes n goes, — Whae-hae!
Wee Maggie though, she sortay joins her hands thegither n lowers her eyes aw shy n says, her voice gaun aw low, — But you’re gaun oot wi Lucy Wilson.
Fuck me, it was like she wis in a church or something. She’s foolin nae cunt wi that shite. She’s a proddy, which means ye nivir go tae church. — Naw, that’s aw past now. So if ah wis tae ask ye tae go oot wi me, wid ye?
She looks aw crimson. She turns tae Gail, n laughs, no sure whether ah’m takin the pish or no.
— Terry’s askin ye a question, Maggie! Gail says aw loud.
— Ah dinnae ken, she says back aw irritated, but a wee bit coy at the same time.
The thing is thit thir’s gaun oot n gaun oot. Sometimes whin ye say yir ‘gaun oot’ wi somebody it jist means thit yir ridin thum. Other times it’s a bit like ‘gaun steady’. That’s fuckin daft, like ye wir gaun crooked before. Naw, Lucy’s a bird ye go oot wi, eywis well-dressed n a virgin until ah goat a hud ay her. Thir’s birds like her, the ones ye go oot wi, n thir’s ones like Maggie n that Gail, ones ye jist ride.
— Well if you dinnae, naebody else does, eh Terry, Gail says and gies me a wee wink.
She’s a fuckin ride awright. Ah’m really no that bothered aboot Maggie now, ye eywis go wi the goer, n even though they’ll baith go, that Gail’s defo. Ye kin tell right away.
The thing is but, it’s Maggie’s hoose, n wir no wantin flung oot. — Mibbe ah could convince ye, ah sais tae her. — Ye no gaunny sit oan ma knee?
She looks aw doubtful.
— C’mere, ah say. — C’moan, ah twist ma heid.
Gail looks up at her, eggin her oan. — Eh’s no gaunny bite ye, Maggie, she tells her. Ah like this lassie, fill ay mischief. Exactly ma type. Mind you, thir aw ma fuckin type.
— Dinnae kid yirsell, ah laugh at them. — C’moan Maggie, ah say, a wee bit mair impatient. A lassie gaun aw shy’s nice for a wee while, but then it becomes borin n ye want them stripped fir action. Naebody
loves a cockteaser eftir aw. She comes ower and ah pill her doon oantae ma knee n start movin ma legs, rockin her thin wee body up n doon. Ah gie her a wee kiss oan the mooth. — There, that wisnae sae bad. Ah’ve wanted tae dae that for a long time, ah kin tell ye that.
Tae any fuckin mooth that is. Humpin crates aw day when ye should be humpin fanny. Maggie’s intae it, she pits her hand roond ma neck and runs her fingers through the hair at the back ay ma heid. Ah’m lookin at the auld tiled fireplace wi the gas fire that aw they scruffy auld tenement hooses huv goat. No aw modern n electric, like us, the snobs, ower in the new flats.
— Ah like the wey yuv goat yir hair, she goes.
Ah smile, that wee shy smile that ah’ve practised in the mirror every day, n ah kiss her again, a longer, slower yin this time.
Ye kin hear a loud breath as Gail stands up. We brek oaf fir a bit. — Since you two are gittin aw lovey-dovey, ah’m gaun upstairs fir a bit, tae play that tape, Gail says aw snooty, but it’s sort ay pit oan, cause ye can tell that she kens that her length is as good as guaranteed, which it is, if no now then eftir.
Ye see, ah ken every baker’s shoap in West Edinburgh. That’s the beauty ay workin oan the juice lorries.
Maggie sort ay half-heartedly protests as Gail goes. — Goan pit the kettle oan, she asks, but Gail’s already oot the door, cause ah watched that tight erse in they white troosers vanish oot ma sight n aw ah wis thinkin aboot wis gittin a hud ay it later oan.
First things first but. That wis one thing ah did learn at the school, way back in the primary. They daft sayins thit they gied ye. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. Ah make it different but; a bird’s bush in your hand is worth two wi thir clathes oan. — Ah’ll pit the kettle oan, ah say tae her, — but only if ah git another kiss first.