by Irvine Welsh
— Sound, Mrs Ulrich, ah say, giein her a wee smile, aw cheery likes, bit ah dinnae git one back fae her.
— You go round and see your mum before you go to school, she warns.
Ah laughs a wee bit, cause ah’m still pished fae the other night. Drinkin in the Busy! Me n Terry! Pished!
Ah kin tell thit Terry’s Ma’s no too chuffed n thit she’s workin up tae say somethin. She’s aw tense, Terry’s Ma is. Ye kin feel the fuckin atmosphere a mile away. Sure enough, she lits rip, jist whin ye think ye might huv goat away wi it. Aw Mas dae that, mine is really good at it. Think yir gaunny git away withoot gittin yir heid nipped, then boom! The fuckin knockoot punch! That’s you well snookered. Yir ma’s the best friend yi’ll ever huv in yir life but. Ah could never say whae ah loved best between my Ma n Dad. It must be pretty horrible for Terry, huvin another guy sittin where ehs real Dad should be. It would just kill me. — That wis a terrible bloody racket you made last night, Mrs Ulrich says tae Terry. — Woke up the whole bloody block wi yir nonsense.
— Aye, Terry says.
— Mr Jeavons next door was banging through!
— He’s gittin fuckin blootered, that cunt, Terry goes under his breath.
— What? She pops back oot fae the kitchen like a fuckin jack-in-the-box.
— Nowt.
— It’s just not good enough, Terry! Mrs Ulrich goes, then heads back intae the kitchen.
— Aye, awright then! Terry snaps. Disnae like ehs heid bein nipped, Terry doesnae, n ye kin see ehs point cause wir feelin rough here. Ye jist want tae take it easy for a bit. She’s well oot ay order showin Terry up when eh’s goat mates in the hoose. Terry’s hands ur white grippin the chair airms.
His Ma’s back oot again. — This isnae a doss house, Terry! This is a home!
Terry looks aroond, hacked oaf, like eh disnae believe this. — Aye, some fuckin hame.
Mrs Ulrich comes oot, her hands on her hips. Terry must git that offay her, cause he stands like that a loat n aw. Aye, ah’m still well pished fae last night. It’s funny the things thit ye notice whin yir pished, no like actually drinkin, but recoverin fae the drink, likes. — We’re only tryin tae get a wee bit peace, your stepfaither and I . . . she turns to the Gerry boy . . . — Walter . . .
— Aw, leave them, Alice, they’re jist bloody daft, eh says.
— Jist shut the fuck up n gies a wee bit ay peace then, Terry shouts, lookin up fae the paper, — ma heid’s fuckin nippin!
She turns oan him screamin, — This is yir mother speaking! she points at hersel. — Your mother, Terry! She sortay implores, like she wants him tae ken whit she’s gaun oan aboot, n eh does in a wey, bit she’s well oot ay order embarrassin Terry like that in front ay a mate. Ah looks at him n nods ower at her, as if tae say, dinnae take that shite.
Tae gie Terry ehs due, eh’s no fuckin well takin it. — Shut the fuck up. Gaun oan n oan . . .
Terry’s Ma jist goes aw stiff n stands thaire, like she’s in shock. Fuckin rigid she is. Ah’ve goat that semi back again. Ah look ower at Walter n ah wonder if he’s giein Terry’s Ma the message. Ah’m thinkin tae masel, wid ah shag Terry’s Ma? Mibbe aye n mibbe naw, bit ah’d like tae watch her oan the joab, jist tae see whit she acted like whin she wis gittin rode. She vanishes back intae the kitchen.
Terry’s stepfaither pitches in, cause eh feels eh hus tae back up Mrs Ulrich, but ye kin tell eh disnae gie a fuck. Terry wid take um in a square-go. Easy. Walter kens that Terry’s gittin bigger n stronger n he’s gittin aulder n weaker, so it’s no fir him tae try anything oan. — It’s no that we object tae your drinking Terry, Mr Ulrich goes, — I mean, I also like a drink. It’s this excessive drinking all the time that I cannae understand.
— Ah jist drink tae firget, eh, Terry goes, smirkin at ays, n ah starts n aw.
Terry’s Ma’s jist come back oot, wi some rolls oan a plate. They look good. She goes, — Don’t be so bloody stupid, Terry, what dae ye mean forget? What the hell dae you have tae forget!
— Fuck knows, cannae remember but, eh. Must be workin! Terry goes, n ah gies um the thumbs up. Ya beauty! She fuckin well walked right intae that yin! Ah’m wishin Gally wis here now tae see that. A fuckin classic: the best ever.
— You can laugh, Terry, but it’ll catch up wi ye, his stepfaither goes.
— It’s no as if wir drinkin aw the time, Terry laughs, — sometimes wir oan drugs n aw, eh.
Ah start sniggerin away, a low-level laugh, vibratin like that new electric shaver ma auld boy goat fir ehs Christmas. The Remington, as advertised by Victor Kiam, the cunt that boat the fuckin company.
— I hope that you’re no intae any ay that nonsense, surely you’ve got more sense than that, Terry’s Ma says, shaking her heid and puttin the rolls doon in front ay us. — Dae ye hear that, Walter? Dae ye hear it? This is what Lucy’s getting. This! She points at Terry.
Walter looks across at him, aw stern. — That little girl will not stand for that kind of nonsense if you marry. If you think this then you are living in the paradise of a fool.
— Leave her ootay it, eh sneers, ehs teeth aw bared, — she’s goat nowt tae dae wi you.
Walter looks away. Terry’s Ma shakes her heid. — Perr wee Lucy. She wants her heid examined. If eh wisnae ma ain flesh and blood . . .
— Aw, will you jist fuckin shut it, Terry goes, tossin ehs heid back in disgust.
Ehs auld girl’s shakin, like she’s huvin a stroke. — Hear that? Dae ye hear that? Walter!
The auld boy’s jist noddin ehs heid fae behind the paper, usin it like a shield, tae black oot the scene in the room.
Mrs Ulrich turns tae Terry. — This is your mother speaking! Your mother! Then she turns tae me. — Dae you talk tae your mother like that, Carl? Then, before ah kin say anything, — No. Ah’ll bet you dinnae. She looks at Terry. — N ah’ll tell ye why. Cause he shows some respect, that’s why. That’s why!
Terry just shakes ehs heid. Eh bites intae the egg roll n the yolk squidges oot ower the cairpit.
— Look at the mess! Walter! Ehs Ma’s ragin.
Walter looks across and does a pathetic ‘tut’ but eh’s goat a ‘what the fuck dae ye expect me tae dae’ look oan ehs face.
— Ye should’ve fuckin well cooked thum better, Terry sniffs. — Ah goat some ay it oan ma new cords. It’s no ma fault if you cannae fuckin well cook an egg.
— Try cooking them yourself! Try that!
— Aye, that’ll be the day, Terry laughs.
Walter looks over. — Aye, I am thinking that the sea would be the life for you, Terry. You could at least learn how to bloody cook there. That would be the making of you and would be giein ye the discipline that is needed.
— Ah’m no gaun tae sea, fuck that. That’s a poof’s game, that. Stuck oan a fuckin boat wi aw other guys? Aye, sure, Terry scoffs, moppin up some ay the yolk oan ehs plate wi the roll.
Tryin tae keep it aw light n pally, Walter goes, — Naw, it is not like that. Have you not heard of the saying, ‘we are for having a burd in every port?’
Terry jist sneers in contempt and looks at Walter harshly, then ower at his auld girl, as if tae say, ‘aye, n look what you ended up wi’. Ah’m gled eh didnae say nowt but, cause it’s ehs Ma, n ye do need tae show some respect.
Yvonne comes through, wearin a pink dressin gown. She looks aw sleepy n really young withoot any make-up, but strangely mair beautiful, in a wey ah’d never seen before. Thir’s a tug in ma chist, n for the first time ah really envy Birrell for huvin shagged her. — Any fags? she asks Terry.
Terry pulls oot his packet ay Regal. Eh throws one tae Yvonne, then one at me, then one at ehs Ma, which bounces off her tit. She looks at him and picks it up oaf the flair.
— You gaun tae school, Carl? Yvonne asks.
— Aye.
— What youse goat this mornin?
— Two periods ay Art. That’s the only reason ah’m gaun in, ah tell her.
Mrs Ulrich shakes her heid and says something aboot how we th
ink that we can just pick and choose these days, but naebody’s really listening tae her.
— Aye, Yvonne nods. — We’ve goat Cookery, then English, so it’s no bad. She pulls her dressing gown tight tae her, in case ah goat a flash ay tit. Yvonne’s no goat that much tit but. Barry legs though. — Ah’ll git ye doon the road, ah’ll jist git ready, she says.
— Awright, but wi’ll huv tae watch whae sees us leave yir hoose thegither, ah goes, laughin, — dinnae want anybody tae git the wrong idea. Ah kin tell this makes Terry uncomfortable, n ah’m enjoyin every minute ay it.
Yvonne smiles n sweeps the fringe oot ay her eyes. — Ye kin cairry ma books fir ays, like in they American films, she says, n heads back tae the hall.
Of course, ah ken thit aw ah’ll git fae her oan the wey tae school is Birrell this n Birrell that, but it seems a nice idea.
Terry’s Ma’s still no happy. — She’s no long fifteen and she’s smokin like a bloody chimney. You shouldnae encourage her by givin her thum, she goes tae Terry.
— Shut it, Terry goes through ehs clenched teeth, it comin oot aw t’s. — Who’s encouragin who? You’re the cunt thit’s nivir goat a fuckin fag oot thir mooth. Who’s the great influence thair then?
Mrs Ulrich takes a deep breath and looks at Walter. It’s like she’s gone beyond annoyance and disappointment and is now just resigned tae her fate. — Ah used tae think that eh talked tae me like eh talked tae ehs mates in the pub. Ah really did believe that. But ah wis wrong. Now ah see that eh would never disrespect thaim that much. Eh talks tae me like ah’m his enemy, Walter. She slumps down in the empty chair, aw stunned and deflated. — Ah jist dunno whaire ah went wrong, she sais tae herself.
Ah clock Mr Ulrich looking at her and ah kin tell that eh hates Terry’s Ma. Hates her fir pittin him in the position ay huvin tae go against Terry.
We’re no giein a fuck but, we’re jist gittin stuck intae they rolls. Sets ye up nicely for the day. Ye need a nosh eftir a drink the night before.
Terry leans across tae Walter n snaps his fingers, — Gie’s a deek ay that paper then. We’re oot ay here in a minute.
Mr Ulrich looks at him fir a second or two but eh hands it ower.
Terry throws back ehs heid and lits oot a loud, throaty, evil cackle ah’ve no heard fae um before. It hits ays that it’s like a war zone in his hoose and that they perr auld cunts are nae match fir him. Right now ah love the bastard, ah love the power eh’s goat, n ah love bein ehs mate. But ah don’t really think ah’d ever want tae be like um.
Well, apart fae the shaggin, that is.
Debut Shag
Yvonne and me went tae my Ma’s that morning, and she made us some porridge, tea and toast. Ah wis embarrassed, as poor Yvonne tried tae explain that she never ate breakfast, but my Ma went on about it being the most important meal of the day and practically force-fed the lassie. Ma told us that Billy hud just gone, which disappointed Yvonne. So we really hud to nash otherwise thir could be mair aggro wi Blackie. It’s weird, but you can take periods, or even days off and naebody seems tae gie a fuck, but if you’re two minutes late in the morning they dae thir nut.
As we were gaun oot, my Ma said, putting oan the same, fake sugary smile lassies at the school dae when thair windin ye up, — Oh, some girl was on the phone for you last night. She didnae leave her name, she just said she was a friend, and she arches her eyebrows and makes her voice go aw suggestive at ‘friend’.
— Ohhh! Carl Ewart! Ah ken ye now! Yvonne goes, n my Ma laughs cause she kens ah’m embarrassed.
— Naw . . . it’s just eh, ah stammer. — Eh, what did she say?
— Oh, she was nice, my Ma tells us, — she just said she’d phoned up for a chat, and that she’d see you when you’d arranged.
— Wey-hey-hey! Yvonne goes.
— That was aw, my mother laughs, then she seems tae remember something else. — Oh, and she said thank you for the lovely flowers you sent her.
— Ohh . . . Mr Romantic, Yvonne elbows me in the ribs, — flooirs n aw!
What the fuck’s this?
Ah looks at my Ma, then at Yvonne, then back to my Ma.
Sabrina. Some other cunt’s eftir her.
Ah never sent her any flooirs. — But . . . but . . . ah didnae send her any flooirs . . . ah whinge.
My Ma just shakes her heid and laughs at me. — Naw, you’re right, you didnae. I made that bit up. Then she smiles. — It’s something tae think aboot though, isn’t it?
Ah stand there dumbstruck wi Yvonne n my Ma cackling at me. Gittin the pish ripped oot ay ye by yir mates ootside’s bad enough, but in yir ain hoose, fae yir ain Ma, ah mean, moan tae fuck! Sometimes ah think ah’ve been put oan this Earth fir other people’s amusement, which is fine, as long as ah get plenty of ma ain. N that’s no happening, well, no the kind ah really want.
So we headed off tae school: me and Yvonne; her six months younger than me, a second-year lassie, and she’s the one gaun doon the road wi a daft wee virgin. She didnae talk aboot Billy that much but, she talked aboot how it sometimes goat her doon in the hoose, aw the arguments. She said that even though Terry was her brother, she wished that he’d just get married tae Lucy and move oot the hoose. Walter was awright, he treated her and Terry’s Ma well, but Terry just couldnae take tae um. Called um the Auld Nazi aw the time.
Ah could see Yvonne’s point. Ah lapped aw that up this mornin, but ah couldnae live like that day in, day oot. It wid fuck ma heid up. Anywey, we were a bit late but thankfully Blackie wisnae oan duty, just Mrs Walters, who didnae bother.
— C’mon you two!
— Right Miss.
Ah goat up tae reggie n wis still half-pished at the school maist ay the morning. Billy wis thair, n it wis strange thit thir wis nae Gally. Ah farted aroond in the art class, showin oaf tae aw the lassies thair. Funny thing wis, ah’d always been quite quiet and conscientious in that class before, always keen tae get oan wi ma paintings or pottery. It’s like that it just dawned on me, through the drink, that the art class really did contain the maist shaggable lassies in the school. The ones that ye always felt were way in the top league, gittin shagged by aulder guys wi wages n motors. Amy Connor, Frances McDowall, Caroline Urquhart and, best of all in my opinion, Nicola Aird: all of them in this class. It’s like the catwalk at a top show and you really just come here tae paint and collect wanking material. They’re up there oan a pedestal as far as shagging prospects go, but they’re nice lassies, except Urquhart who’s stuck-up and overrated in the shaggable stakes. No that ah’d say ‘no’ tae her suckin ma cock, and ah think aboot Terry, n her bein wi that filthy cunt. Perr wee Gally, those lamps ay his jist blazed whenever she was aroond. Eh even tried tae change tae art tae be nearer her, but they widnae pit um in the O grade class wi us.
Ah look ower at her n hud the gaze, cocky in drink, and she looks away, kennin that ah’m Terry’s mate, kennin that ah ken. Later oan Nicky and Amy are lookin at the paintin ay ma album sleeve, for the first record our band Snap does. Ah get a deek ay Amy’s tits and imagine gittin ma knob between them, like Terry says his mate fae Leith done.
— What’s that, Carl? Nicola asks.
— It’s the sleeve for the album for our band. If we ever get tae make an album, that is, ah laugh. Of course, ah kin laugh aboot it because ah know that we will. It’ll happen, ah jist ken it. I’ll make it happen. If ah could only be sae confident aboot other things.
Nicola smiles at me like ah’m her dotty auld grandfaither.
— Ah seen you wi yir guitar the other day, Amy goes. — That Malcolm Taylor’s in your band, Angela Taylor’s brother.
— Aye, eh’s the drummer. Good drummer n aw, ah lie. Malky can barely play. Still, he’ll learn.
Amy looks at me, pushes in closer. Her hair is almost brushing my cheek. Nicky gets in as well, and she puts her arm on my shoulder. I can smell the perfume from them and that crazy fresh girl smell and I feel like the oxygen has gone from the air, cause thir’s certainly nane in ma brain. Ah think it
wid be a great name fir a track: Crazy Fresh Girl Smell. Bit too heavy metal though.
— Where did ye get the name Snap from? Amy asks.
Ah’m worried that if ah start talkin now, my lips’ll jist flap thegither like an auld gate in the wind. Tryin tae compose masel, ah start telling her the story about Topsy n me playing cairds oan the Last Furlong bus, going to see Hearts away. Then a fight ower a game ay cairds, snap, and one boy bursting another’s nose. We’d been looking for a name and when one aulder guy started shoutin, — Ridiculous, fightin ower fuckin snap, n we just looked at each other n that was it.
— Ah’d like tae hear yis sometime, Amy says. — Ye got a tape?
— Aye . . .
Then Mrs Harte comes ower. — C’mon you lot, these paintings aren’t going to finish themselves.
Ah was so close tae sayin, come roond tae mines. Fuckin hell, imagine that: Sabrina, Maggie and Amy, aw oan the go!
That chance goes wi the period bell. But later oan ah would ask her, and ah ken she’d just say ‘aye’ or ‘naw’ or: just bring the tape in here. Her mates would aw be cool, they widnae go aw that ‘whooo-hooo’ way that some birds would, and ah’d be cool n aw. If ah could jist git ma fuckin hole, jist once, then the pressure wid be oaf, n ah’d rule this fuckin world!
In Geography ah forget aboot the Ganges delta, in order tae pen some lyrics for a new song. And Geography’s the best subject ever. Aw they places tae go tae and see. One day ah’ll visit them aw. But now I’m in a songwriting mood. Ah start oaf thinkin aboot Crazy Fresh Girl Smell, but ah’m gittin a hardo.
Eftir some lyrical composition, McClymont catches me. — Well, Carl Ewart, would you like to share with us what you’ve been doing?
— Awright, ah shrug. — It’s just a song ah’m workin oan for the band ah’m in. Snap. It’s called No Grades. It goes: Ah don’t want O grades, ah don’t want low grades, cause all ma friends get by with no grades . . . you see S.C.E. ain’t my S.C.E.N.E. . . .
There’s a bit of laughter, though most ay it goes tae McClymont, tae gie the cunt ehs due. Eh goes, — Well, Carl, I was going to advise you that you’ll never make it big in Geography. But after hearing your attempts at songwriting, I reckon you should really stick to this.