by Irvine Welsh
It wis Lucy ah noticed first, her white-blonde hair glowing in the sun like science-lab magnesium ignited. Ah wish ah hud hair like it; white, aye, but wi that crucial tint ay blonde, which separates class fae semi-albino milk-boatil heidedness. She’s goat a fawn pair ay troosers oan, the kind that come up tae the mid-calf, n this yellay toap that ye kin see the bra through. Thir’s a white jaykit draped ower her wrist. Then ah looks tae her right and there’s that familiar big mass ay corkscrew curls. Thir walkin a bit apart fae each other, like thuv been arguin. Lucy’s face is set in that harsh, determined wey. The beauty n the beast, right enough. She could dae better, that’s for sure. Mind you, that’s jist jealousy talkin n ah suppose it means that she should be wi me, no wi that cunt.
They see me, n they start tae pull thegither a wee bit. — Luce. Tez.
Lucy’s got her hair tied back, n her skin looks as smooth as yir granny’s best china, that’s if ma granny hud any best china. — Awright, she goes, her eyes sharp and her bottom lip turned doon aw soor.
Terry makes a big fuss ay ays. Ye ken eh wants somethin. — Heeeyyy . . . Mr Ewart! It’s The Milky Bar Kid! Then, like eh’s jist thoat ay somethin, — Just the man! Tell her, Carl, eh sais, noddin at Lucy.
— Dinnae start, Terry, Lucy hisses at him, — jist droap it.
— Naw, nivir mind dinnae start. It’s you thit’s been makin accusations aboot me. Dinnae go makin accusations aboot people if ye cannae listen tae the truth!
The cunt’s gittin right oan ehs high hoarse here, pittin oan that big, hurt, outraged voice. Now ah ken eh wants something.
Lucy glowers at him n lowers her voice. — It’s no me, it’s Pamela, ah telt ye!
It comes oot in a low growl, n it makes ays think ay Piper Ross, the poodle ah droaped the boax oan.
GRRRRRRR!
— Aye, n ye believe that cow before me, before yir ain fiancé! Terry spits oot, hands oan ehs hips, shakin ehs heid, pittin me in mind ay an exasperated fitba player whae expects nae justice fae a biased referee.
Lucy looks steadily at the cunt for a second or two, then turns her gaze oan me. — Is what eh sais true, Carl?
Ah looks at thaim baith in turn. — It might help if ah kent what the fuck yis wir oan aboot.
— Him, she nods at Terry, still lookin at me, — eh went away wi a lassie at Clouds. A lassie fae your school!
Lucy went tae the WEC before she left last year, so she’ll probably no ken lassies at oors. A lassie fae oor school. Stuck-up Caroline fae reggie. In ma art class. Wee Gally’s eyes jist aboot pop oot ehs fuckin heid every time she walks intae a room. Dinnae really think much ay her, but she is a ride. Lawson is a lucky cunt.
Terry winks at ays fae ower her shoodir. Eh’s croassin the road, shakin ehs heid, blabberin tae ehsel, — Ah’m gaun ower here, ah’m keepin oot ay it, ah’m no sayin nowt . . .
— That’ll be the day, ah snorted tae Lucy, hopin she would git the joke, but she disnae. So ah clear ma throat and dae what ma auld boy always telt me tae dae when yir under pressure in negotiations and ye need tae bullshit. Look at the bridge ay thir nose, between thir eyes. Focus oan that. They think yir lookin at thum in the eye but yir no. — Tae be honest Lucy, ah start, realisin that wis a mistake. Ye never say ‘tae be honest’, cause it means straight away thit yir lyin. Ma faither taught ays that, aboot how union men negotiate. Ah carry on but. — Ah wish tae fuck eh hud’ve went away wi some lassie fae the school.
— What dae ye fuckin mean by that? Her gorgeous big eyes narrowed intae poisonous slits ay hate.
— Well, it would stoap ays huvin tae listen tae um gaun oan aboot you aw the time. It’s Lucy this, Lucy that, see whin we git mairried . . .
She looks back acroass the road at Terry, whae’s shakin ehs heid, lookin aw hurt n sad. Then she turns back tae me. — Honest . . . is that what eh sais?
— Gen up.
She stared hard at me for a second or two, and if she’d held it a bit longer she’d’ve saw ah wis bullshittin her. But she turned back tae Terry again. Ah wanted tae say tae her big, sad, lovely eyes; naw Lucy, Terry’s a cunt. Eh treats you like shite and makes a fool ay ye. But ah love you. Ah’ll treat ye right. Just let ays come hame wi you n ride yir fuckin brains oot.
Ye could never imagine somebody like Sabrina bein that gullible and undignified. Then ye realise what they say aboot love bein blind and ye ken that she probably does really love him: the poor, daft cow. Or, at least likes him enough tae believe that she loves him, which is as near tae the same thing as yi’ll git.
She’s movin acroass the road and ower tae him, n she’s tryin tae link airms wi him n eh’s jist turnin away, raisin ehs airms up soas she cannae git a hold ay them. He’s brushin her off and comin over tae me, as she follows tearfully. Terry’s ranting away: — . . . trust! . . . yuv goat tae huv trust whin yir gaun oot wi somebody! Whin yir engaged!
— . . . naw Terry . . . listen . . . ah didnae mean . . .
— Ah agreed tae everythin! That’s what hurts the maist! Ah’ve said thit ah’d stoap gaun tae the fitba! Ah’ve said that ah’d git another joab, even though ah like the yin ah’ve goat! Ah’ve said thit ah’d try tae save up!
— Terry . . .
Terry punches ehs chist. — Ah’m the one thit’s daein aw the givin, and now this! Ah’m supposed tae huv went away wi some lassie thit ah’ve never seen in ma puff!
— Ah’m tryin tae tell ye . . . Lucy tries tae get a word in, but she must ken by now that shi’ll never stoap Terry in full flow.
A mad gleam comes intae the cunt’s eye. — Mibbe ah should go wi other lassies if ah’m gaunny git blamed fir somethin ah didnae dae. Might as well jist dae it, eh sais, gaun aw rigid. Then eh looks at me. — Might as well just do it, eh Carl?
Eh makes the jussst seem like a long whisper.
Ah’m sayin nowt, but Lucy’s pleadin wi um now. — Ah’m sorry, Terry, ah’m sorry . . .
Terry stops abruptly. — Bit ah’ll no. Ken how?
Lucy glares at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed in shock and anticipation.
— Ken how? Ye ken? Ye ken how?
She’s tryin tae figure oot what the cunt’s on aboot.
— Ye want tae ken? Ye want tae ken how? Eh? Eh? Ye want tae?
She nods slowly at him. Thir’s a couple ay boys go past, n thir laughin tae thumselves. One catches ma eye n ah cannae help but lit a wee smile slip oot.
— Ah’ll tell ye how. Cause ah’m a mug. Cause ah love you. You! Eh points at her in accusation. — Naebody else. You!
They stand lookin at each other in the street. Ah move a couple ay steps doon the road, in case anybody else comes past. Thir’s a boy in overalls, like eh’s jist come fae the slaughterhoose, n eh’s lookin ower. Lucy’s lip trembles, n ah swear tae god, it’s like thir’s tears wellin up in Terry’s eyes.
They lock intae this embrace, right thaire in the street opposite the slaughterhoose. A van goes past and toots its horn repeatedly. A guy leans oot the windae n shouts: — SOMEBODY’S OAN THIR HOLE THE NIGHT!
Terry looks at ays ower Lucy’s shoodir, n ah expect a wink, but it’s like eh’s that intae ehs performance thit eh disnae want tae brek ehs rhythm. Lucy and him exchange deep and meaningful glances, as they would say in that Catherine Cookson book thit ma Auntie Avril gied my Ma tae read. Ah’ve hud enough ay this, n ah turns away n starts gaun doon the road.
— Carl! Stall the now! Terry roars.
In the distance ah see them kiss. When they break off, words are exchanged. Lucy goes intae her bag. Pulls oot her purse. Produces a note, a blue note. Hands it tae Terry. Another deep stare. A few mair words. A wee kiss oan the cheek. They walk away fae each other, both turning back tae wave at the same time. Terry blows a kiss. Then eh comes bounding ower tae me. Lucy glances back again, but Terry’s grabbed a hud ah me n we’re wrestlin n jostlin each other doon the road.
— You’re a star, Ewart! Ye deserve a fuckin drink fir that. You jist saved ma erse! C’moan, the Milky Bars’re oan me! Eh waves t
he fiver. — Well, Lucy really, but ye ken what ah mean, eh laughs.
— Jist dinnae pill that yin oan ays again, Terry, ah say, but ah cannae help but laugh, as ah grab ehs Levi’s jaykit collar and push him up against a lamppost. Then ah try tae be serious, — Ah’m no gaunny lie tae her tae cover up fir you.
— C’moan mate, you ken the rules, eh sais, loosenin ma grip and smoothin ehsel doon. — Yuv goat tae back up yir mates. It wis you thit taught ays that, eh goes. It’s aw bullshit of course, n eh’s bein wide tae git in ma good books. Of course, wi baith ken it’s workin and thir’s nowt ye kin dae aboot it. We’re mates. — So dinnae take the strop. Come tae think ay it, talkin aboot burds, ah heard that you did a sneaky yin fae Clouds wi this wee Ginger, eh sais, talkin aw creepy, like through ehs nose.
Ah say nowt. It’s the best wey. Lit the cunt read what eh wants tae in ma face.
— Aye! Different story now! Eh nods, aw that knowin wey. — So it’ll be you that’ll be needin the alibis soon, pal.
— How come?
— That wee Maggie Orr’s still goat the hots fir ye, eh winks, deadly serious.
— Bullshit, ah tell um. It wid be nice tae believe, but ye cannae kid a kidder, as the auld boy would say. — How’s it she knocked ays back n went wi you then?
Terry digs ehs elbays intae ehs side, thrustin ehs palms oot. — Gift ay the gab, mate, eh explains, — but you’re learnin fast awright. That wis a performance n a half thaire wi Lucy. Aye, you’ll git it offay wee Maggie soon. Guaranteed. Ah’m mair intae her mate, this Gail lassie. That wee four-eyes, you’ve seen her aroond. Wait till ye see the erse oan this. Whin ye git it stripped oaf . . . phoa ya cunt thit ye are, eh goes, drawin ehs tongue slowly acroass ehs lips. — Naw, the best arrangement tae suit aw perties; you n yir bird fae Clouds n me n Lucy gaun oot proper, then you n me ridin that Maggie n Gail oan the side. Sounds finger-fuckin good tae me!
Mibbe it’s jist the cunt’s big grin, the enthusiasm that eh hus fir everything, and, of course, the fact that ah’m completely desperate tae git me hole, but ah kin think ay worse arrangements right now.
The steeple ay the church comes intae view, and we’re back in the scheme. Terry insists we go tae the Busy Bee. Ah’ve no really been in pubs that much n ah’ve never tried tae git served in The Busy. — C’moan Wank-Boy, once yir a regular doon The Busy, aw they wee birds’ll be impressed by that. Ye cannae be a wee schoolboy aw yir life, eh smiles, then accuses, — They tell ays yir gaunny stey oan n aw.
— Ah dinnae ken, it depends oan ma . . .
Ah dinnae git a chance tae explain. — Then yi’ll go tae college, which is school, then become a teacher n be back in the school. So yi’ll end up nivir huvin left school. Yi’ll huv nae money, eh lowers ehs voice as we head up the hill, wi the shoaps n the low-rise pillbox ay The Busy opposite. Eh stoaps n pits ehs hands oan ma shoodirs. — N ah’ll tell ye one thing, pal, one wee formula thit they nivir bothered tae teach me at school. One wee fuckin mathematical sum that might’ve saved a loat ay time n trouble, n that’s: nae money equals nae fanny. Eh stands back, lookin aw pleased, lettin this sink intae ma heid. Then eh slips me the fiver that eh goat offay Lucy. — Go up tae the bar n ask fir two pints ay lager. That’s ‘two pints ay lager’ eh goes in a deep voice, no ‘two pints ay lager’ eh goes again, this time in a high, shrill tone. — Dinnae embarrass me like that wanker Gally did whin ah took um in there. Eh goes up tae the bar n sais: two pints ay beer, please mister, like eh wis askin fir sweeties.
Ah’ve been in pubs, n ah’ve been up the Tartan Club loads. — Ah ken how tae order a drink, ya fuckin wank.
So ah strides in wi um, n up tae the bar. It seems a long walk but, n every cunt’s lookin at me, like thir sayin, ‘he’s nivir eighteen’. By the time ah gits thair the barman’s noddin at me and ah feel like ma voice is gaunny crack. — Two pints ay lager please mate, ah goes, aw gruff.
— Goat a sair throat pal? the barman laughs, and so does Terry n another couple ay boys that are standin at the bar.
— Naw, it’s jist . . . ah goes aw high, n every cunt’s pishin thirsels.
The guys serves us but, n Terry sits in the corner. Ma hands are shakin n ah’ve spilt half the pint before ah gits tae the seat.
— Cheers Carl, nice one mate, eh toasts ays, takin a big gulp. Then eh shakes ehs heid. — That fuckin Pamela cunt, giein Lucy aw that shite aboot me.
— Aw she’s daein is backin up her mate but, Terry. It’s the same fir lassies.
Terry shakes ehs heid. — Naw, naw, naw, lassies ur different. You dinnae understand that cow’s game, Carl. She’s fuckin well gantin oan it, n nae cunt’s giein her it. So she’s gittin aw spiteful, jist cause ay Lucy gittin engaged. Bit it’s ma ain fuckin fault, ah should’ve soarted her oot.
— How?
— Should’ve gied her a length on the q.t., just tae shut her fuckin mooth. Needs rode, that’s her problem. That’s the difference between men and women. Any bird that isnae gittin it, it makes thum aw spiteful n jealous. We’re no like that, eh goes, takin another big gulp fae ehs lager. — Gie’s that change ya cheeky cunt, n ah’ll git thum in.
Ah hand ower the notes n coins, n eh bounds up tae the bar. Gulpin hard, ah try tae force the pint doon, or at least make some reasonable progress before eh comes back wi mair. When eh reappears wi the drinks eh’s obviously hud an idea. — So, Carl, ah wis thinkin, ah’ve either goat tae gie that Pamela yin, or git some other cunt tae. You’re spoken fir now, so mibbe ah should send fir Birrell. If nowt else, it’ll keep the cunt away fae oor Yvonne for a bit. Imagine that wanker’s chat-up lines but, Terry goes, daein a brilliant exaggerated Birrell impersonation, talkin in terse, clipped tones. — I am Billy. I live in Stenhouse. I play fitba and I box. I have to train very hard. It is brutal. The weather is nice. Do you want tae have sexual intercourse with me?
We’re sittin thair pishin oorsels n wir daein it ower n ower again fir ages. Me n Terry could write comedy scripts fir Monty Python when we git like this.
After the third pint ah phone hame n tell my Ma tae keep ma tea n ah’ll git it later. Ah tell her that ah hud some chips fae Star’s. She disnae say anything, but ah kin tell she’s no too chuffed. When ah sits back doon, this auld boy comes in. Terry gies ays a beamer by sayin that eh’s Maggie Orr’s uncle, and eh introduces me as a ‘close friend’ ay his niece’s. — Nudge, nudge, wink, wink, say no more! eh goes, impersonatin the boy ootay Monty Python. Cheeky cunt Terry: it’s him that shagged her and it’s me eh’s tryin tae git the blame fir it! This Alec gadge isnae bothered but. Eh seems a bit drunk.
The beers keep comin n ma face goes aw flushed n heavy. The next time ah go up, the barman’s smilin away, like eh kens ah’m really pished. When we get oot the pub ah’m fucked for a bit as the air hits ays. Ah mind ay singin Glorious Hearts n Terry singing Glory to the Hibees at each other as wir gaun doon the road, then nowt.
It’s morning n ah wake up oan Terry’s bed, oan the ootside ay the covers and fully clathed, thank fuck, in ehs Ma’s hoose.
Thir wis this noise in ma heid like a drill, n it’s Terry snorin ehs heid oaf. Ah look up n ah see that mop ay corkscrew curls. Eh’s right in the bed, but at the other end ay it fae me. Ehs feet’s next tae ma heid, n although they dinnae smell, the room’s boggin, it’s fill ay ehs fart gas. Ah woke up wi a hardo, which is mibbe cause ah need a pish n mibbe cause ah hud this strange dream aboot Sabrina n Lucy n Maggie last night. It wisnae through bein in the same fuckin bed as Terry anywey!
Ah hear fitsteps oan the stairs n Terry’s Ma comes through wi a cup ay tea in each hand. Ah’m kiddin oan ah’m asleep but ah can hear a gagging, chokin noise and the mad, uncontrolled rattling ay cup oan saucer. — My god, what huv youse been eatin . . .
She puts the saucers oan the bedside table. — Made a bloody mess in the bathroom, which ah hud tae clean up. It’s not good enough, Terry, it’s just not good enough.
— Geez fuckin peace . . . Terry groans.
Ah open ma eyes n sees Terr
y’s Ma standin at the door, fanning her hand in front ay her screwed-up face. — Hiya, Mrs Laws . . . ah mean Mrs Ulrich.
— Your mother and father are worried about you, Carl Ewart. Ah phoned up from next door and told them you were here. Ah said that ah would make sure you got some breakfast and got off tae school. As for this one, she looks at Terry, — you have to get up for your work. You’re late! You’ll miss that lorry.
— Aye, aye, aye . . . Terry moans as Mrs Ulrich leaves the room.
Ah gies ma nuts a scratch. Ah git up n nip through tae the bathroom, shieldin ma hard cock, clathed but still worried in case somebody catches me in the hall. In the bogs ah dae a long pish, huvin tae bend ma cock really sair soas ah dinnae pish oan the flair which smells ay sick n disinfectant. Ah go back through and Terry’s asleep again, the lazy cunt. Disnae like a kip much that cunt, eh no.
Ah head doonstairs for the front room. Terry’s Ma’s there, sittin in a chair, smokin a fag. — Awright, Mrs Ulrich, ah goes.
She says nowt but jist nods tae ays.
— Another night oan the tiles? this voice goes. Ah jumps, ah didnae see Walter, Terry’s stepfaither, sitting thaire in the corner, readin the Daily Record. Terry doesnae git oan wi the boy, but ah think eh’s okay. Eh cracks ays up, the wey eh talks, that German accent, in a mixture ay ordinary Scottish n posh, formal English. Terry hates the poor bastard though.
— Aw aye, Mr Ulrich . . .
Terry comes ben, probably worried thit we’d start talkin aboot the cunt behind ehs back which, ah suppose, wi fuckin well wid if eh hudnae come through. Eh goes past ehs Ma intae the kitchen n opens the door ay the fridge n pills oot a pint ay milk n starts drinkin it.
— Terry! ehs Ma goes. — Use a glass! She shakes her heid aw disgusted, then asks um if eh wants an egg roll n a sausage roll.
— Aye, Terry says.
— Same for you, Carl? she asks ays.