by Irvine Welsh
Summing up, Conrad Donaldson Q.C. said: — It has been established that Miss X was intoxicated and, as people generally are in such circumstances, was not in full control of her emotions. She was belligerent, aggressive and mocking towards the accused. She was out of control, giving sexual favours when under normal circumstances she would not do so. Some members of the jury may feel that one or more of the accused behaved in a cynical and opportunistic manner when presented with an intoxicated and vulnerable young woman ready to give sexual favours, although at the time, as we have heard from witnesses, she seemed anything but the sad and forlorn figure that sits in court today. But behaving with an opportunistic cynicism and showing what many may consider to be a lack of sexual etiquette and concern for others is a far, far cry from the hideous, pre-meditated crimes of drugging, imprisoning and repeatedly raping someone. The jury must, and surely will, find this to be the case.
They did. We were found not guilty.
When I looked at her, she had the expression she wore when we did her over. She crumpled into the arms of her father.
Lexo winked and blew her a kiss. Her brother stood up and shouted at him and had to be forcibly restrained. — That cunt dies, by the way, Lexo hissed to me under his breath, his face quickly snapping back into its baleful expression.
Outside the court my auld man punched the air to celebrate victory. — Ye kin fuckin well say what ye like aboot British justice bit it's still the best in world! Thir's some countries whair innocent laddies wid be rottin away behind bars! Like ah sais, Vet, behind fuckin bars they wid be in some fuckin countries . . . in a wog country or that.
He then collared the triumphant Donaldson and shook his hand vigorously. — Brilliant! Fuckin brilliant mate, he said, — Tae quote the great man ehsel: nivir in the field ay human conflict huv so many owed so much tae so few.
— Thank you, Donaldson said curtly.
— Listen, wir huvin a wee celebration perty later oan the night, doon at oor place. Doon the scheme, ken? Muirhoose likes. Yir welcome tae come along fir a drink. Nowt fancy, like ah sais, jist a wee drink. Doon Muirhoose, doon near Silverknowes like. Near D-Mains, eh.
— Muirhouse . . . Donaldson repeated slowly, — . . . sorry, I don't think so. I'm very busy at the moment.
— Ah kin imagine, mate, ah kin imagine. Anywey, well done. Ah kent that you kent straight away that oor Roy wis intelligent, hud brains like. Eh's in computers, ken? That's whair the future lies. That's what this country needs. N that wee hairy wis gaunny git urn sent tae jail . . .
— Well, thankfully it didn't come to that, Donaldson forced a smile.
— Thanks tae you, mate, like ah sais, thanks tae you. Fuckin magic, if yll pardon ma French like.
I had to get away from him, making a tit of himself, a tit of me. I went to Deacon's with the boys for a celebration drink, or at least Ozzy and Lexo. Dempsey went straight hame.
— Easy fuckin meat, Lexo roared.
— Wi wir a bit oot ay order, bit she fuckin asked fir it. Ah mean, she wis lucky it wis cunts like us thit goat a hud ay her, it might've been a fuckin psycho like that Yorkshire Ripper cunt or something, eh. That's the wey she should be lookin at it, Ozzy said.
— That's right. The slag goat oaf lightly, Lexo smiled.
I couldn't get intae it. I left, citing the party back hame as an excuse. I went for a few drinks on my tod, then got back and found that the do was in full swing. There was loads of alcohol around, and quite a bit of blow. Dad had got into it through Tony. It was good for him, mellowed the cunt oot a bit. He didnae count it as drugs. — The star ay the show, he said, his arm wrapping round me like a boa-constrictor, — proved innocent though, son! Proved fuckin innocent! British justice! Like ah sais: British justice! He put on Churchill's victory speeches full blast and after a short while, started to sob. Uncle Jackie and Auntie Jackie flanked him. Shaking with emotion, he shouted, raising his glass, — THIS IS STILL THE GREATEST FUCKIN COUNTRY IN THE WORLD!
Most people nodded approvingly, thinking he meant Scotland. I was one of the few present who knew he meant Britain.
18 Running
I had been applying for jobs elsewhere; away fae this fuckin place. It was a lot harder daein this than it sounds. The way I wis feelin, just filling in an application form was a massive undertaking. I was relieved and surprised when I managed to complete one, and even more surprised when I got a start, at a slightly reduced salary, at a building society based in Manchester. I had to go: had to get away. The money didnae matter.
— Bit how, son? How should you be the yin tae run away! It's hur, that slag, that bloody Jezebel they should be pointin the finger at, no a laddie that's goat a good joab n works hard.
— Works hard n plays hard, like ehs faither, said Dad. He was still working at Menzies.
— It's a good joab ah've landed masel doon thair, Ma. Cannae settle here since aw that fuss.
They aw knew the score at the work. I'd spoken to Sproul and he'd let me take two months' leave of absence. It was no good, though. It had to be a fresh start, away from aw the cunts.
— Spread the wings, eh? Bright lights n that? Tony said. He was up with his kids, Marcello and Sergio.
What bright lights the cunt expected fae Manchester wis beyond me.
— Jist tae git away, start again. No intae hingin aboot wi the cashies nae mair either, eh. Too much hassle.
— Well, that's the maist fuckin sensible thing ah've heard ye say in a long time, Roy, like ah sais, the maist sensible, the auld man said.
—Bit Manchester, John. . . Ma bleated. She hated the idea of any of us not being in close proximity to her. Tony lived nearby and was always here. Bernard, though he had a flat in town, was always falling out with the other poofs he shared with and often crashed at Ma n Dad's.
— Aye, this is her that went away tae Italy talkin, Dad said. He'd never really forgiven my Ma for shooting the craw tae Italy all those years ago, but it seemed to bug him more these days than it ever did.
This started the predictable argument. They went on and on, until Dad screamed: — THAT'S ENOUGH, VET! AH'M FUCKIN TELLIN YE!
CANNAE FUCKIN TAKE THIS . . .
DEEPER
DEEPER
DEEPER So Sandy and I have seen the circling Storks but they're much deeper into the bush than we realised. It seems that it's not Lodge 1690 that they are flying over, but Dawson's hideaway in the jungle. Nonetheless we make for 1690 as Sandy recounts another lion adventure.
—This type of woodland with its sudden dense undergrowth and its open tracks reminds me of the terrain I encountered when I had a particularly nasty brush with Johnny Lion.
— Yes? I urged, sticking a whole chocolate digestive in my mouth. The biscuits were melting in the heat and had to be consumed quickly. Then I munched on a jammy dodger, the jam section tasting oddly like cough mixture, as Sandy told his tale.
— We were returning to our camp after a month's exploration in the bush. Darkness was falling and we were still some way from our destination. The natives were starting to get a little edgy. As leader, I decided to push on ahead of my bearers and pack donkeys, accompanied only by my loyal dog Gladstone.
I had never heard Sandy mention a dog before. This made me feel uncomfortable but I let him continue.
— Well, Gladders started barking and I looked towards the source of his aggression, discerning a vague form moving in the darkness out by the reeds alongside this dry river bed which straddled the path we were following. — Enough boy! I snapped, anticipating that my faithful companion had sniffed out some game. A second or two later I made out the shape again. This was no bloody antelope or some such thing, it was a bugger of a lion and it was running towards me at speed!
— Fucking hell, Sandy! What did you do?
— I had no time to do anything. I felt a powerful impact, like a bloody fast car hitting me, and the next thing I recall was that I was being dragged along the path on my back, my arm and shoulder in the mouth of thi
s beast, my body and legs being pulled along underneath it!
— My God!
— As the bugger trailed along, his forepaws kept trampling on me, causing considerable lacerations to the front of my thighs and ripping my trousers to shreds. While dragging me along, those growling purrs emanated from the beast's throat, as if he was a hungry cat anticipating a meal. Yours truly, of course, being the tasty little morsel he had in mind!
— Gosh! Sounds like a damn tricky one, Sandy.
— I'll say! There seemed no prospect of escape. Then I realised that I had my eight-inch sheath knife, which, using my free arm, I removed from the leather case hanging from my belt. I picked my spot on the beast. When the animal stopped, preparing to drop me, either to change its grip or to begin its feast, I stuck the bugger twice behind the shoulder. He dropped me, but continued to stand above me, growling. Then, with all the force I could muster, I stuck him in the throat. His blood cascaded down on me and I realised that I must have somewhat fortunately hit a large vein or an artery. Well, the bugger sprang back a few yards and I scrambled to my feet and just shouted obscenities at him. After a few seconds the maneater walked slowly away, occasionally turning to growl in my direction.
— Gosh Sandy, that was brave to face down the beast!
— I had no choice, Roy. Valour does not come into it. In such circumstances, one is operating, as you know, purely on a primal instinct. With great difficulty, due to my wounded arm, I climbed a nearby tree. It was as well that I did, for a second lion had got Gladstone and I was forced to watch as he and the one I'd wounded feasted on the poor old boy.
— That must have been heartbreaking, I said. I tried to sound sympathetic but I couldn't help a note of glee creeping into my voice. Somehow I was comforted by the death of Sandy's dog. Africa does something to a man; the heat, the silence as the sun descends behind the mountains, trees or horizon. The silence of an African jungle on a dark night must be experienced to be believed. What this place was doing to me was something I'd rather not contemplate.
— I stayed all night in that fucking tree, Sandy carried on with his story. — The natives found me at first light. They took me back to camp and superficially dressed my wounds. It took them a couple of days to get me to hospital. My injuries had gone septic and I had blood poisoning due to the putrescent matter lodged under the claws of the maneater that mauled me. The mauling was nothing to the fever I had . . . blast!
Our jeep swerved dangerously as one of its front wheels hit a rock in the semi-darkness. Sandy quickly regained control and stopped the vehicle for a while to compose himself. In the darkness the deathly silence was broken only by our heavy breathing and the soft noises of a few bats which sipped at the limpid waters of the lake in a series of flying kisses. We decided we would concentrate all our energies on the road. I took the wheel for a bit.
There was a campfire outside Lodge 1690 when we arrived. Dawson was strutting around and I saw two natives seemingly hugging a tree apiece. I realised, on approaching, that Dawson and Diddy had the natives stripped naked with their arms extended around the trees and bound at the wrists.
— Roy! Sandy! You're just in time. Some of our so-called rebel friends here are about to realise what it means to cross Lochart Dawson.
Even from the back and in his naked state, Sandy and I recognised one of the prisoners straight away. — Look Sandy! I said.
— So we meet again, my friend, Sandy smiled, examining the naked figure of Moses, the thief who had stolen all our equipment.
— I should say so! And in circumstances rather more advant ageous to us! I sang triumphantly.
Moses looked around at us, his large eyes pleading, — No bwana, he begged.
— You'll thank me for this one day, Dawson smiled widely, licking his lips. He went over to the other native and produced a tube of jelly which he began to spread over the boy's buttocks. I took it that this was in preparation for the strokes of the lash, but I was somewhat surprised to see Dawson withdraw his stiffening penis and apply the jelly to himself. He then pushed a finger deep into the sphincter of the native. — Tight. The way I like it, he said.
Diddy the dwarf valet whispered at Sandy, — Remember I always told you to keep it tight at the back.
Sandy ignored him.
— One requires a certain resistance of course, eh Roy? Dawson turned to me smiling broadly. — After all, it's only through resistance that one can sense one's own power: in the overcoming of that resistance. Power always goes on and on until it finds its limits. C'mon Roy, c'mon Sandy. Drop your trousers and join the queue.
We unbuckled our belts and let our shorts fall. I had a semi but Sandy was already firm no I've got to stop this . . . — DAWSON! I shouted, as he was about to thrust his erection into the native.
He stopped and turned towards me.
— We've no time for these games! Time is of the essence! It's the Marabou Storks! We know where they are.
— This had better be good, Mr Strang, he snapped, scooping his subsiding erection into his shorts. — Diddy, watch those traitors, but don't lay a finger on them until I say so!
It carried on, eh.
Ma sat in the chair like a tightly wound spring, her face flushed. She sucked violently on a fag and glared at the box. There was one of these really shitey Scottish television Gaelic programmes on; the kind where they always have some straight cunt who looks like a fuckin muppet singing some daft song in a language naebody understands with mountains and rivers in the background. I looked over at the auld man and I could see the cunt was wary. Tony and I knew that the auld girl would explode in a bit.
She started emitting a soft, long twisting sound which built up into an almighty scream at the image on the television: — FAAAHKIN HOOR! FAAHKIN DIRTY FAAHKIN JAP-SHAGGING TRAITOR! She leaned forward and gobbed at the telly screen. Greasy spittle trickled down over the image of the Gaelic singer Mary Sandeman.
— Whit ye daein, Vet? Like ah sais, whit the fuck ye daein? Jist a wimmin singing the Gaelic likes, that's aw it is, a wimmin singing the fuckin Gaelic! Whit is it? Ah'm askin ye!
— It's that fuckin slag that goat done up like a Jap and sung that Japanese Boy song . . .
— Naw . . . this is this Gaelic lassie . . . yuv goat the wrong wimmin, Vet. . . like ah sais, this is the Gaelic, a Scottish lassie, no a Jap. Dis that look like a fuckin Jap? Ah'm askin ye; does that look like a fuckin Jap? Dad gestured at the screen.
Ma glared at him and pointed derisively at Mary Sandeman. — That's worse than a Jap! A Jap cannae help what it is, bit that, dressin like a fuckin Jap, glorifyin these dirty, torturin wee bastards . . .
— She disnae dress like a fuckin Jap bit, Vet, it's the Scottish lassie thit does the Gaelic programmes . . .
— Naw, Tony said. – Ma's right. She did that 'Japanese Boy' song. Goat done up as a Jap oan Top Ay The Pops, mind ay that?
— Aye . . . ah mind that yin . . . Dad started to sing, and Tony joined in:
Won't somebody tell me where my love has gone,
He's a Japanese Boy.
I woke up this morning and my love had gone,
He's a Japanese Boy.
Was it something I said or done?
Ohhhh
He's breaking up a happy home . . .
— Shut the fuck up! SHUT YIR FUCKIN MOOTHS, YA FUCKIN CUNTS! Ma screamed.
—Jist a song bit Vet, jist a song. 'Japanese Boy' likes. John turned his palms outwards in appeal.
This was radge. This was how these cunts lived.
It was time I got away.
But I couldn't get away. Not in Manchester. Not here in my head. Here in my head she'd come after me. She kept coming after me. The nightmares, the Marabou Stork nightmares– – – –
DEEPER
DEEPER
DEEPER
into
the
Marabou
Stork
nightmares– – – – – –getting closer to the nest, I told Dawson after we
went back into the conservatory of Lodge 1690.
— The Storks have been flying overhead. It seems that the only place they could be is at your secret hideaway lodge Lochart. They've probably taken it over and set up nests there, Sandy explained.
— My entertainment suite. . . Dawson was dumbstruck . . . —a nesting location for these monsters . . . Sadie . . . the Jambola malcontents. . . of course. I see it all now. They've conned Lochart Dawson. Well, let's show ...
His spiel was interrupted by the crashing of breaking glass and a cacophony of frenetic squawking as one, then another, then more large Marabous smashed through the French windows.
We were unarmed; our weapons were in the jeep outside. We instinctively retreated from the vile, shrieking clatter and I was about to run to the main door when it fell inwards with a crash, framing a monster Marabou Stork. I followed Dawson and Sandy down a set of flimsy stairs into a basement but the Storks continued to pursue us and we were cornered.
The basement was a dank, dark room. You could hear the sounds of running water below the rotting floorboards. A group of giant Storks surrounded us, shuffling closer like repulsive old beggars. A scent of charred, burning flesh filled my nostrils. We were helpless, unarmed. The largest of the Marabous came forward.
— Looks like it's sort ay panned oot tae oor advantage, eh boys, the creature observed.
It tore a large piece from a bloodied flamingo carcass with a ripping sound, and swallowed it whole. Another held the severed neck and head of a flamingo in its beak. I started gagging.
Dawson stiffened his back and pulled himself up: — As a businessman who is seeking controlling interest in this enterprise, the leisure park does not need the likes of you, people who care nothing for the . . .
The Stork's black, beady eyes focused on him, — Shut it, ya fat fuck! Whae's this cunt!