by Irvine Welsh
— Ye'll huv tae learn tae fuckin well stick up fir yersel, Roy. Yir a Strang, or supposed tae be, he told me wearily, shaking his head in contempt.
I swore I'd get revenge on that cunt Hamilton, but I never did, the cunt goat sent tae the approved school at Polmont, then just vanished off the scene. Gilchrist, his sidekick, moved to another school in another part ay the toon. That cunt I did meet up wi again. Him and the slags.
That wis later but.
Things at the school were easier though. While the news went aroond that Hamilton had gubbed ays, as he was a third-year cunt and hard, that was no disgrace. Indeed, the fact that I hudnae really shat oot increased my stock. In school and roond the scheme it was basically just me, Dexy, Willie, Bri, Monty and Penman that hung arrond thegither. Nae cunt really bothered us and we never really bothered any cunt.
This lasted for a long time. We had a good laugh thegither. Once we broke intae the school at night, intent on turning the place over. We got intae a class that wis our redgie class, whair ye went first thing in the mornin tae git checked in, and we found our redgie teacher Miss Gray's belt in the toap drawer ay her desk.
Wi started giein each other the belt, really fuckin thrashin each other's hands, much harder than when Lesbo Gray or any ay the other teachers did it. The thing wis, wi wir aw jist pishin oorsels n it seemed tae hurt a loat less. Then Bri had a barry idea. He pulled oot the top drawer n goat that daft cunt Willie tae dae a shite in it. Willie goes n droaps this fuckin steamin crap intae the drawer: then Bri pits it back in the desk. We laugh like fuck fir a bit then Bri goes: — The morn wi come in n noise up that carpet-munchin cunt Gray. She reaches in fir her belt . . .
— Ohhh . . . ya fuckin cunt! Penman laughed.
— Right then, lit's no brek anything. . . make it soas nae cunt kin see thir's been a brek-in. Ah jist want tae go up tae the library but, eh, ah telt them.
Ah poackled a couple ay bird books fae the library: The Urban British Bird and Sherman's Encyclopaedia Of Tropical Birds Vol. 1.
The next day we noised up Dykey Gray. We just shouted: 'Let's be friends' at some lassies in the class, and kept it up until it became: 'Lesbee Friends.' That sort of thing would have got on Gray's tits if she'd had any: as it was it just pissed her off. She reached into her drawer for the belt. Gray always smashed it oan the table and we were all supposed to shut up and pay attention after this gesture. Gray always said the same thing: The first thing on a Monday morning or the last thing on a Friday afternoon or the middle of the week isn't exactly the best time to try somebody's patience! Always the same bullshit.
— Right! she shouted, opening the drawer and sticking her hand in, — a dreadful, wet morning is not the time to try somebody's. . . She felt for the belt and froze. She pulled the drawer open slightly with her other hand, looked in and then started retching and choking. We were pishing our keks. Bri's face was crimson, his eyes watering. Miss Gray took the drawer out and stuck a bit of A4 paper on top of the shite and her messy hand. She stormed out the room holding the drawer in her free hand. — Bloody animals! Fucking little animals, she sneered, as we let out loud ooooohhhhhsss at her language. Gray then shouted on this snobby lassie called Bridget Hyslop, who Bri had nicknamed Frigid Pissflaps, to open the door and she vanished doon the corridor towards the staff toilets.
Fuckin barry.
Good times for a while, but then came a problem I hud tae deal wi.
But I dinnae want tae talk aboot that yet. I want tae go back, back tae what happens wi the Stork. DEEPER likes, cause Sandy and me see, we managed tae get some mair supplies fae Dawson. . . no. . . that's not right, DEEPER
DEEPER
DEEPER– – old 'Fatty' Dawson furnished Sandy and I with bountiful extra supplies of equipment and tuck, as we'd demonstrated to him that the flamingos were being displaced by the Marabous.
— Watch yourselves on that road, Dawson boomed as we left, — there is an abundance of terrorist activity.
Once again we were off in the jeep, and feeling pretty pleased with ourselves. — This is fun, isn't it Sandy?
— Yes, Jamieson said, smiling at me. — And I want you to know Roy, that whatever happens from here on in, I've had the best bloody time of my life.
I blushed with embarrassment and, to deflect this, bade Sandy to tell me another lion adventure.
— Well, there was the occasion when I went into a village completely terrorised by an insatiable maneater. The poor villagers were literally too frightened to leave their tents and food supplies were short, with conditions increasingly insanitary, the rubbish just being thrown outside. One couldn't really blame the villagers, after all, the poor buggers had lost three people in a month to this beast. Anyway, it was about three in the morning and myself and my team were soundly asleep in our billets, when the door was violently burst in and before my chaps knew what had hit them, one of the men, who went by the name of Mojemba, was seized by a large lion who proceeded to drag him out of the hut by the thigh. Anyway, I was in a tetchy mood, awakened by the blasted commotion, so I quickly grabbed my rifle and dispatched a bullet into the region of the brute's heart. I was very lucky, obviously haste rather than accuracy had been my priority at the time.
— Nonsense, Sandy, I told him, — you're a bloody good shot.
— Nice of you to say so Roy, but I was never particularly renowned for my shooting ability. This one, though, was certainly on target, because the animal instantly dropped Mojemba and bolted into the surrounding bush.
Villagers found the beast's body at the break of dawn; it was some seventy yards from the hut. It was nothing more than a mangy old lioness, driven to maneating by desperation. But the thing about this episode was that poor old Mojemba saw this attack on him as a sign of his own failing, a lack of vigilance on his part.
— But surely that's exactly what it was, I said.
— Yes, but I couldn't simply leave the fellow there, bleeding to death and bleating away at me; sorry Bwana this and sorry Bwana that . . . so I told everyone else to leave us while I personally tended to the poor wretch's wounds. I cleaned his thigh with hot water and syringed the lacerations with disinfectant to prevent blood poisoning setting in.
— Good show.
— Thankfully, in this case the precautions proved effective and within six weeks the boy was able to walk again. Hunting duties proved too arduous for him after such a trauma, so I made the lad my personal manservant . . . he was a damn good one too, Sandy's long forked tongue . . . wisnae forked, it was a normal tongue.
Caroline Carson. She had always acted as if her shite didnae smell, but she never bothered me. I thought she wis a nice lassie. It was about a year later when I was in the second year and was put in one of her classes, English, I think. She must've been minding about the time she was there wi Hamilton n Gilchrist n The Big Ride when they terrorised me. Every cunt fancied her and she must have thought her looks bought her immunity, like she could dae what she wanted. One time in the class, she flicked the back of ma fuckin ear. It wis sair, bit it wis mair the humiliation. I was always sensitive about my ears.
It wis they laughs in the class. Always they fuckin laughs.
Nae cunt laughs at Roy Strang.
I knew where she steyed and I followed her hame eftir school. I ran ahead ay her, cutting through the back of the supermarket and across the back greens and I was waiting for her in her stair. I heard her talking to another lassie for what seemed like ages, but eventually she came into the stair alone. I was straight on her and I had her pinned against the wall of the darkened stair recess with ma Swiss army knife (again purchased from Boston's of Leith Walk) pressed at her throat.
— What ur ye daein? What ur ye daein, Roy? she whimpered, fuckin shitein it. That wis the first time she'd spoke tae ays: the first time the cunt hud said ma name.
I enjoyed the look in her eyes. Enjoyed having the knife at her throat. Enjoyed the power. That was it wi the power, I remembered thinking, you just had to take it. When you
took it, you had to hold onto it. That was all there was to it. My cock was stiffening in my pants. Everything seemed to be so bright. There was no sound. I seemed to smell pish, then burning. My mouth, chin, lips, hands, feet: they all seemed to tingle. — You fuckin flicked ma ears! What dae ye say!
— Sorry . . . she bleated softly.
I spoke slowly into her ear as she cringed away from me, too immobilised by fear to try any more ambitious movement. — Roy Strang is ma fucking name. Nae cunt fucks aboot wi me . . . lift up yir skirt, I commanded, pushing the blade tighter against her thin, white throat;
She lifted it.
— Higher!
I put my hand inside her cotton panties and tugged them down onto her thighs. It was the first fanny I'd seen in real life, though I'd seen plenty in wank mags. — A ginger minge. Jist as ah fuckin well thought. Ah'd wanted tae see if ye hud ginger pubes like, ah smiled.
The daft cunt produces a forced, wretched parody of a smile back for me.
— What's fuckin funny? Eh? Think ah'm fuckin funny? I spat through clenched teeth, pointing at myself.
— Naw . . . she pleaded.
I stood close to her then moved onto her, and started rubbing up against her till I came, talking like they did in the wankmags, my hot breath on her frozen, terrorised face: — Slut . . . slut . . . dirty fuckin slag . . . you fuckin love it ya dirty wee cunt . . . I felt like Winston Two. My hot wallpaper paste filled my pants. That was it; I'd had my first ride, even if it was only a dry ride. A dry ride was what the aulder laddies in the scheme called it when ye didnae get it up a lassie's fanny, ye jist rubbed up against them.
I stood apart from her saying, — You say anything aboot this ya fuckin ginger-pubed wee cunt n you are fuckin well deid! Right!
She stood rooted to the spot with her hands covering her eyes. — Ah'll no say nowt . . . she gasped with fear, nearly greetin, as I departed. I turned back to look at her pulling her pants up. To think I'd wanked over that. She was just a daft wee lassie: hardly any tits, barely any hips. I was going to get a proper ride soon, and it wid be with a real woman.
That was another problem sorted.
I found schoolwork easy and nobody fucked me about. I'd occasionally skive off to watch Wimbledon or the World Cup if my auld man was on the dayshift. It was great having the hoose tae masel. I remember I got really into Wimbledon that summer: this unseeded big cunt with a powerful serve, I cannae remember his name, he was just blowing away all the top seeds. He got as far as the semi-finals. I remember that snobby auld Dan Maskell cunt referring tae the boy as a 'dangerous floater'. That was me, at the school and the scheme: a dangerous floater. I was too anonymous to be one of the big hard cunts, but I carried an air of menace and I was a risky prospect to fuck aboot with. The hard cunts knew this, and so did I.
Rather than stake my place as a top dog in the school or scheme crews, I avoided them, assembling my own team. I wanted to be the top fuckin brass. The punters I hung around with were misfits. They were either too cool, like Pete, too smart, like Brian, too spaced-out like Penman, or too scruffy and thick like Dexy n Willie to fit in with the other crews.
That summer I was desperate for a ride. I must have been really desperate because I captured this baby-faced cunt called Alan or Alec somebody. . . Moncur, I think, in the laddies' toilet. The guy wore a grey duffel coat in the winter and a school blazer in the summer (this is Craigey wir talkin aboot!) and was always neat and tidy, the kind of cunt who seemed as if his Ma still dressed him.
This Dressed-By-His-Ma-Cunt was quite pally though. He sort ay befriended us for a bit as I think he probably got that much stick at school he was looking for mates who'd protect him. On one occasion he played along at being jocularly mesmerised by me as I pretended to hypnotise him:
— . . . hyp - i - no - rise . . .
. . . hyp - i - no - rise . . .
. . . ye could tell he was shitein it but, his eyes like the windaes oan a computer. What wis oan display looked awright, but there was a lot more stacked behind it, a lot more gaun oan behind they lassie-like eyes. I lifted my leg and let my knee surge intae the cunt's groin with force . . .
. . . now your balls are paralysed . . .
. . . he gave a sick, sharp, animal shriek as he bent double in agony. I led off a cold, smirking chorus as we savoured the pain and trepidation which filled his eyes.
Tony had done that to me. One time in the hoose. But Tony wis awright; he never really battered me much. It was mainly Bernard he battered, and that was barry; seein that fuckin poof get battered.
But the funny thing for me was that I always felt a bit shite eftir I did something like that. It made me feel sad and low. I suppose I just felt sorry for what I'd done. The funny thing was though, that I felt sorry in general, never to the particular person I'd abused. I just hated them even more. But eftir I did something like that I'd try to make it up by doing a good deed, like giving up my seat oan the bus tae an auld cunt or daein the dishes for my Ma. It was just when I did something like I did to the Dressed-By-His-Ma-Cunt I always felt alive, so in control. So while I felt bad aboot it eftir, it was never enough tae stoap ays daein it at the time.
One day ah wis in the laddies' bogs at the school, wi Bri n Penman, whae wir huvin a smoke. Ah never bothered wi fags. We were jist fartin aboot in thair when whae should come in but the Dressed-By-His-Ma-Cunt. I felt a dryness in ma mooth as my eyes feasted oan the Dressed-By-His-Ma-Cunt's worried, rabbit-like expression. My throat seemed to constrict and my lips stuck together soas I had to free them with my wet tongue.
— Captured! I roared, pointing at him, and bundled him at knifepoint into one of the cubicles.
— Strangy! Whit ye daein in thair, ya cunt! Bri shouted.
— Keep fuckin shoatie, Bri. . . keep fuckin shoatie . . . I gasped.
I forced the Dressed-By-His-Ma-Cunt to wank me off. — Slowly . . . ah'll fuckin kill ye . . . slowly . . . I commanded as he pulled gently on my cock, his eyes wide in fear. Despite the banging and laughing from the boys ootside, I was aroused enough tae blaw my muck ower the sappy fucker's black blazer.
I put it away quickly, then opened the door.
Penman and Bri fell about laughing as the tearful Dressed-By-His-Ma-Cunt finally emerged whimpering from the cubicle, followed by me with a wicked smile on my coupon.
But while all my pals laughed at this, they looked at me sort of differently for a while, as if I was a poof like Bernard. I blamed the Dressed-By-His-Ma-Cunt, and nursed a violent wrath. If that cunt hud never looked like an insipid, fruity wee lassie he would never have made me make a cunt ay masel like that. I hated poofs. I hated the thought ay what those sick cunts did tae each other, pittin their cocks up each other's dirty arseholes. I would castrate all poofs.
Shortly after this, the Dressed-By-His-Ma-Cunt was talking tae his pals in the playground and he fairly squealed as my elbow made a strong, cracking contact with his face. I never bothered to look back and watch the blood spill heavily from that girl mouth, but Dexy and Bri assured me that it most certainly did.
I hated that cunt.
However, the reaction of my mates had made it even more important that I got my hole properly likes, for the first time. Fortunately, I was soon into a proper shag. At night we used to hang around the school gates with a group of lassies, and would fuck about, feeling them up. There was one who was gamer than the rest, a lassie called Lesley Thomson. She was nothing special to look at, and she was a total scruffbag, but she had barry tits and a good erse. A loat ay the other lassies were really too wee: nae real tits or erse. I would separate her from the group and go across the playing fields to the gates at the other end of the school with her. After a few dry rides, I worked up the confidence to fuck her properly.
I got the budget room key from Tony. It was only the block caretakers and the binmen that were supposed to have them but my auld man had one because he was the sort of unofficial security guy for the building. It was council policy to encourage re
sponsible tenants to get involved in the upkeep of the area. However, Tony kept Dad's key as he used the budget room to take lassies for a cowp. Tony was a fuckin total shag artist. Even though he had a flat in Gorgie, he'd still come doon tae oors and use the budget room tae fuck aw the local slags fi the scheme that he didnae want hassling him at his pad.
I was pretty good pals with Tony at this time, and I'd sometimes go up to see him in his flat. It was barry; he'd give me beer and I got to smoke dope with him. I never really liked it, but I kidded on I did cause it was good of him tae let ays try it. — Dinnae tell Ma or John, he'd laugh.
It was Tony who really telt ays everything aboot lassies. — If thir slags ye jist grab a hud ay the cunts. If it's a decent bird ye stey cool fir a bit and chat them up, then ye grab a hud ay them.
The budget room was the place where the rubbish chute led to a giant aluminium bucket, which dominated the cold bleak room. The block's central electricity meters were also in here. There was a manky auld mattress on the floor, doubtless used by Tony. I wanted to fuck Lesley standing up, though, as I was used to that through the dry rides. I got her up against the wall and started to feel for her crack. To my surprise, the actual hole was a lot further down the slit in the bush than I had thought. The pictures of women's fannies in the wank mags were deceiving. I never liked the ones where the genitals were exposed in too much detail; they were like raw, open wounds, totally at odds with the smiling, inviting faces of the models. I bet they were highlighted with paint or gloss or some shite like that. I had bought my first wank mag from Bobbie's Bookshop: this was the very same occasion on which I bought ma last Marvel comic mag, the Silver Surfer likes. The wank mags did have some use; at least ah didnae try tae fuck Lesley up her arsehole. I had grown up thinking that was the norm for sex, because of Tony saying: Ah'd shag the fuckin erse oafay that, every time a lassie walked past him. It took the wank mags tae pit me right oan that one. They did have their uses.