Ecstasy

by Irvine Welsh

  None of the poofy Weedgie cunts were into daein trips. Stevo stuck on the telly while Amanda and Claire started spliff-building.

  The acid wasn’t up to much at first. Then it kicked up. Then it kicked up some mair.

  9 Heather

  I don’t want a baby.

  Hugh’s ready. He’s got the wife, the job, the house, the car. There’s something missing. He thinks it’s a baby. He doesn’t have a great deal of imagination.

  We don’t really communicate so I can’t actually tell him that I don’t want a baby. We talk all right, talk in that strange language we’ve evolved for the purposes of avoiding communication. That non-language we’ve created. Perhaps it’s a sign that civilisation is regressing. Something is anyway. Something is.

  The only good thing about this is that Hugh can’t actually tell me that he wants us to have a child. All he can do is smile at little kids when we’re out, make a fuss of the nieces and nephews he never had any time for before. If only he could say: I want a baby.

  If only he could say that so that I could say: no, I don’t want one.

  NO.

  NO.

  I don’t want a baby. I want a life. A life of my own.

  Now his fingers have gone to my cunt. It’s like a child trying to get into a jar of sweets. There’s no sensuality to it, it’s just a ritual. I feel a sick tension. Now he’s trying to get his prick inside me, forcing his way through my dry, tight, tense walls. He’s grunting. He always grunts. I remember when I first slept with him at university. My friend Marie asked, – What’s he like?

  – Not bad, I said, – bit of a grunter.

  She laughed loud and long at that. She meant what was he like as a person.

  I used to think like that a lot. I was sassy, in my own quiet way. They all said it. That was what I was like. I’m not like that now. But I am. I am in here.

  My mother always said that I was lucky to have found someone like Hugh. Someone ambitious. Someone who could provide. – He’ll be a provider that one, she told me, as I held up Hugh’s sparkler for her inspection, – Just like your father.

  If Hugh provides everything, what do I have left?

  Nurture.

  Nurture Hughey-wooey.

  Nurture Baby-waby of Hughy-wooey.

  Nurture resentment.

  – … Ohh … you sexy fuck … he gasps, shooting his load inside me and moving off me and collapsing into a deep slumber. Sexy Fuck. That’s what he calls me, me underneath him like a piece of meat, gripping the bedclothes with tension.

  Sexy Fuck.

  I habitually leave Cosmo open strategically on the coffee table and watch Hugh squint at and then recoil from its headlines:

  the vaginal and clitoral orgasm

  is your partner good in bed?

  how’s your sex life?

  does size really matter?

  improve your sex life

  I used to browse through Woman’s Own. A degree in English Literature, a worthless qualification, yes, but worth more than a browse through Woman’s Own. Hugh used to ask–Why do you read that muck, honey? in a voice part contempt, part patronising approval.

  Does this captain of local industry in Dunfermline realise that he’s sailing the ship of our relationship onto the rocks of oblivion? Does he realise the effect he’s having on his esteemed wife, Heather Thomson, also known in some select circles as Sexy Fuck? No, he’s looking the other way.

  His toxic sperm is inside me, trying to batter through into my egg. Thank heavens for little pills. I find my clit and, dreaming of a mystery lover, rub deliciously.

  It happens.

  As Hugh slumbers deeply, it happens. I become Sexy Fuck.

  10 Lloyd

  There is a ringing in my ears and ah hear some cunt say something which sounds a little like ‘perhaps they’ll understand the truth someday of why things remain different’ in an accent which is reminiscent of The Crow’s: not quite Manc, a bit more small-town East Lancs.

  Who said that? Ah start to panic because it’s goat nae context and because nobody could have said it. There are were are were four of us in the room: me, yes, I’m here, and there’s Stevo, who is sitting watching the golf or rather watching the blue arse of this guy who may or may not be a golfer; Claire, lying on the couch laughing loudly and talking about why people in the catering game make crap shags (fatigue through unsocial hours and alcohol-induced impotence ah think she concluded – a bit unfairly, I’m thinking, but well, fuck it); and Amanda is here too, eating strawberries with me.

  We’re eating strawberries and cream cheese.

  The best approach is to slice the strawberry, kind of cross-sectioning it. This reveals an aspect of the fruit we seldom see. Aye right ye are, ya daft cunt. Then just enjoy the reverb of the red and white and watch the brown carpet in the room change into polished, speckled-marble floor tiles and extend luxuriously into infinity and doing this, just indulging the whim ah see myself moving away from Amanda and Claire on the couch and Stevo, who’s still watching the golf and I’m screaming: PHOAHH YA CUNT THAT YE ARE FUCK THIS MAN and ah drop the strawberry and the room assumes something approximating its normal dimensions and they look round at me and Stevo puckers his lips which look like huge strawberries and Claire laughs even more loudly causing me to emit gasping, fractured, machine-gun laughter and now Amanda’s at it too and I’m going: – All hands on deck! These are good fuckin trips, ah’m off ma fuckin tits here, man …

  – You’ve got the Flight Lieutenants in a big way there, Lloyd, Stevo laughs.

  It’s true. Ah have.

  To calm down ah start on the master-chef preparation for the strawberries which becomes something of an urgent mission in my head. This is not because I’m para or fuck all like that, but because there is a vacuum, a space in my head, which will be filled with bad thoughts if ah don’t busy busy chop chop these strawbs and the trick is to daintily use this sharp knife to stab some cunt

  Eh

  No no no fuck off the trick is to why did ah say that no no no bad thoughts cannae be explained, that makes them worse, they just have to be ignored because what you do with the knife is to remove the white bit of the strawberries and fill the resulting hole with cream cheese with a knob of cream cheese with the cream of knob cheese of what

  Fuck

  Ah don’t know if I’m thinking this or saying it or both at the same time, but you can sometimes say one thing while thinking another. So if I’m saying this, actually saying this out loud, what am ah thinking? Eh? Ah ha!

  – Listen, wis ah gaun oan aboot the strawberries, ah mean was ah talkin oot loud aboot it? ah ask.

  – You were thinking out loud, Stevo says to me.

  Thinking. That’s what ah was doing, but wis ah thinkin out loud? Cunts are fuckin well trying to wind me up but it takes more than a wee tab ay LSD to knock auld Lloyd Buist here out of his fuckin stride ah will tell you that for nothing matey of the seven seas. – Thinking out loud, ah said or thought.

  Ah said, because Claire says, – Drug psychosis, Lloyd, that’s what it is. The first sign.

  Ah just laugh and keep repeating: – Drug psychosis drug psychosis drug psychosis

  – Fine by us you eatin aw the strawberries by the by, Lloyd, Amanda says.

  Ah look at the punnet and sure tae fuck the remnants of strawberries are in evidence, husks n that, but examples of the fruit in its complete state are conspicuous by their absence. Greedy guts, Lloyd, I think to myself.

  – Greedy guts Lloyd, Claire says.

  – Fuckin hell, Claire, ah wis jist thinkin they words … it’s like telepathy … or did ah say thum … this acid is fuckin really mad n the strawberries, ah’ve eaten aw the strawberries …

  Ah start to panic a little bit. What’s got me is that with the strawberries being consumed I’ve lost my means of space-and-time travel. The strawberries were my space craft/time machine; no that’s too simple, too crass, delete that line of thought and start again: the strawberries were my me
ans of transportation from this dimension or state into another. Without strawberries I’m condemned to live in their fucking world which is no good at all because without hallucinations of a visual and auditory nature, acid is pretty crap; ah mean you might as well just be pished out of your face beery and bleary, giving profits to the brewers and the Tory Party which you do everytime you raise a glass of that shite to your lips but without the hallucinations the only advantage you had with the old acceeeed was the Flight Lieutenants which is still better than bevvy because you just looked a moosey-faced cunt sitting drinking the depressant called alcohol so fuck that that was it for me it was STRAWBERRIES …

  – Ah’m away doon tae the deli fir mair ay they strawberries, eh, ah announced. Something in Claire’s face made me laugh. Ah took a chronic attack of the Flight Lieutenants.

  – You mind yirsel, trippin like that, Claire said.

  – Aye, watch, Amanda nodded.

  – Mad gaun oot like that, Stevo turned his attention from the golfer’s blue arse.

  – Naw man, it’s sound, ah said. – Ah feel great.

  Ah do. It’s barry tae ken that people actually care about me. Not enough tae stop me fae gaun oot or to say ‘I’ll chum ye’ but that just could be paranoia. Ah said ah wanted to be alone did I say

  Ah wanted tae be

  Ah do a pish before ah go. Ah hate pishing on acid because you never feel like you’re finished and the distortion of time makes you think you’ve been pishing longer than you have and it gets boring and the next thing ah know is that I’m fed up with this pish and I’m putting my cock away before it’s actually finished, well, it’s finished but I’ve not really shaken it out but fuck me I’m no wearing jeans I’m wearing flannels it would not be so fuckin bad with denims but with flannels I’ll have a map of South America or Africa on my groin unless ah take some positive fuckin action which ah do stuffing bog paper down my keks. My keks. Stuffing. Accusations fly. J’accuse. Fuck off. It’s Lloyd Buist.

  Lloyd Buist is my name, no Lloyd Beattie. B.U.I.S.T. Another bad attack of the Flight Lieutenants. Breathe easy …

  Imagine getting me, Lloyd Buist, me, confused with Lloyd Beattie, the cunt that was rumoured to have shagged his wee sister. Ah huvnae even got a fuckin wee sister. I rest ma fuckin case, your honour; your judge, jury and executioner psychopath who begins every Leith pub conversation with: Ah mind ah you. You wir the dirty cunt that …

  Ah mean, how the fuck can you get us mixed up? Yes, we both live in Leith, and are similar ages. Granted, our given name is Lloyd … indeed an uncommon name for Leith. Okay, myself and the other Lloyd both have the first initial B in our surnames. Oh, I suppose there is one other area of similarity, your honour; okay, it’s time to come clean: we both shagged our sisters. What can I say? Keep it in the family. No waste of time with long chat-up lines and Bacardi’s. Just, hi sis, awright? Up for a shag? Eh? Aye? Sound. Well, in my case it was some other cunt’s sister. Awright? Awright, ya cunts? The rock opera I’m composing about Lloyd Beattie, the other Lloyd:

  In his hometown, Lloyd sits and waits

  Lloyd masturbates

  From his bedroom window

  Lloyd looks down and out

  Lloyd looks out and down

  Aint nuthin out there but town.

  That is fuckin shite cause it’s too personal cause it’s about me, or as ah was as a young teenager and this is supposed to be about Lloyd Beattie and ah have to try and understand the complexities which led Lloyd Beattie into this incestuous affair with his sister cause these things dinnae just fuckin happen, no just like that, but hud oan the now … if Lloyd B. Numero Uno whom ah must call The Non-Wee-Sister-Shagging Lloyd, i.e.: my good self, sat and wanked as a bored sexually repressed fourteen-year-old in his bedroom in Leith, what was Lloyd Numero Two doing; he who did, or was said to have, knobbed his junior femme sibling? Probably the same as Lloyd One, the same as aw Leith fourteen-year-aulds at the time. But he didnae jist wank the dirty cunt, he took it a stage further involving a wee lassie who was just twelve at the time they said, a mess for the social workers, relatively speaking …

  But ah am fuck all like that freak, we share a name … that’s aw … take it easy, it’s this fuckin acid. Back through to my friends to say proper bye-byes before ah finally, for good, once and for all, head for the deli.

  – Ah never shagged my wee sister, ah tell them back in the front room.

  – You’ve no got a wee sister tae shag, Stevo says, – if you did you probably would have though.

  Ah think about this. Then something queasy moves in my stomach. I’ve had fuck all to eat in a couple of days bar Ecstasy, amphetamine sulphate and acid. Ah had one Lucozade Isotonic drink though, and a bit of a pear that Amanda had and of course, the cream cheese and the STRAWBERRIES. Time to go.

  Ah left the flat and bounced, yes bounced down the Great Western Road. Lloyd Buist, ah keep telling myself. It seemed important to remember. Leith. A party refugee. The most oppressed kind. Fight for the right to party; fuck diverting your energies into frivolous nonsense like food and jobs and the likes. Boring, boring fuckin boring. Party refugee Lloyd, stranded in Glasgow’s West End. Ah was lost in France, in love. Naw naw ya daft cunt. You are just on a simple message. A simple fuckin message

  – Awright, big man!

  Two young guys are beside me, breathing heavily and looking around, not meeting my eyes as they swivel their heads. It’s these boys … Robert and Richard, from that Maryhill posse. Ah keep running into these boys, at the Metro, the Forum, Rezurrection, The Pure, The Arches, The Sub Club … big Slam punters, naw Terry n Jason … Industria … – Awright, boys!

  Their faces look distorted, and they are already moving away from me with great haste.

  – Sorry, big man, cannae stoap, wi did a wee dine and dash … yuv goat tae fir fuck sake, know what ah mean, big man … ah mean ye cannae gie up the clubbin n that jist tae eat … Robert gasps out running backwards like a referee. That’s a good skill.

  – That’s it, boys! That’s fuckin right! Good skills, Roberto! Good skills, Roberto my son! Ah shout encouragingly as they bomb off down the road. Ah turn around and this huge juggernaut is bearing down on me and ah tense up ready cause this mad cunt is gaunnae swing for me, going to attack the innocent Lloyd of Leith displaced person unaccustomed to your Weedgie ways but naw he’s off doon the road in hot pursuit of Richard and Robert who are heading towards the Underground at Kelvin Bridge and the bloated alcoholic will never capture the younger fitter men because their bodies are honed by dance and Ecstasy; these boys are as fit as fuck and the more weighty, beefy fellow (he’s no that fat) realises this and gives up. Our heroes escape, leaving their breathless pursuer panting heavily with his hands on his hips.

  I’m laughing. The boy’s coming ower tae me but ah cannae stop. Flight Lieutenant Biggles is the name. – Where dae these cunts stey! he sort ay gasps and snaps. It’s like Lloyd of Leith, a good boy, a decent, hardworking Edinburgh merchant-school lad who plays squash and loves nothing better than attending big rugby internationals at Murrayfield is being lumped alongside Ricardo and Roberto, two schemies from a Weedgie slum.

  This is a bit like being accused of shagging the sister ah don’t have.

  – Eh? Ah think ah manage tae cough out.

  – These cunts are your fuckin mates. Where dae they fuckin stay?

  – Fuck off, ah say, turning away. Then ah feel his airm on my shooder. He’s gaunnae hit ays. No. He’s no gaunnae let ays go. That is worse. Violence in the form of blows ah can take, but the idea of being constrained, no fuckin way … ah punch him, in the chest, what a place to punch any cunt, but ah didnae want to really punch him, just get him tae let go, and that’s nae good cause as any wideo will tell you, you either punch some cunt or you dinnae and silly wee halfway-house slaps and pushes just make you look a cunt so ah start really punching the boy but it feels like I’m punching a mattress and he’s shouting: – Phone the polis! Phone the polis! This man’s ran out
of my restaurant without paying, and I’m screaming: – Lit go ya cunt it wisnae fuckin me, and punching at the cunt but ah feel like rubber and I’m out of breath and he keeps a grip, his face aw screwed up and determined through its fear and apprehension

  and

  and a polisman is beside us. He’s pulled us apart.

  – What’s this? he asks.

  Ah’ve got four trips in my flannels. My poakits. The wee poakit, the compartment. Ah feel them. The cunt is saying: – This guy’s mates ran up a food and drinks bill for nearly a hundred and twenty pound and then did a runner! I’m fishing out those wee squares of impregnated paper.

  – This true? the polisman turned tae me and asked.

  – How the fuck dae ah ken, eh, ah mean, ah jist sees they two guys runnin doon the road. Ah recognised one ay them vaguely fae the Sub Club so ah jist lets ontae the boy. Then this cunt here, ah nods at the restaurateur, – he’s eftir the two boys. Then he comes back and grabs a hud ay me.

  The polisman turns back tae the restaurateur. Ah get the trips between my forefinger and thumb and ah swallow the lot, silly fuckin cunt; ah could have left them, the polis would never find them wouldnae search me anywey I’ve done nowt wrong but ah swallowed the fuckin lot when ah could’ve even fuckin flung them away. No thinkin straight …

  They called the child Lloyd Beattie

  the cunt grew up a right wee sweetie

  Lloyd One calling Lloyd Two, can you hear me Lloyd Two? Can you hear me Lloyd Two? Can you hear

  am I floating

  The beefy bastard is not amused. – These cunts robbed me! Ah’m strugglin tae make this business pay n they fuckin wee toerags …

  A few people had stopped to witness the commotion. Ah became aware of them for the first time when a woman whae’d been watchin us said: – You jist grabbed that laddie! Jist grabbed um! It wisnae anything tae dae wi the laddie …

  – That’s right, ah said, nodding at the cop.