by Irvine Welsh
I’ve listened more attentively than any man should to a broadside delivered at that velocity. — It don’t look good at all. I drum my fingers on the table. — I’d scarper, mate, and pretty sharpish. What’s it the Yanks say: get the fark outta Dodge!
Cost leans closer to me, reeking of old fags, booze and garlic. — I plan to do this. The only thing that worries me is what she will do! She is crazy, I tell you!
I think about this one. — Leave that to me, mate. It needs an Englishman’s touch; stiff upper lip, keeping calm when all those around you are losing the plot. Think John Mills, Kenneth More and all that mob, I wink, giving it a little chorus of Dam Busters.
So when Seph returns, Costas tells her that he got a call to go back on set. She pouts a little, but he silences her with a kiss. I like it. I see a pro at work. As he goes, he slips me a little note that I’ll give to her later. And hopefully, it won’t be all that I give her. I slide it into my chinos pocket.
I’m pretty farked as Seph and I head for Worthy’s place. She’s been brighter n all, cause the drinks are fairly kicking in. — Actors are so dedicated. It is their craft, she slurs.
— Yeah. It’s a tough job, I tell her, holding the door of the Cumbria open, gentleman-style, to let her in. — They’d be very hard to replace if they ever went on strike. The global economy would be well farked. What would we evah do without the likes of Tom Cruise?
She punches me jokingly on the arm as we step inside the boozer and I immediately clock Pete Worth, looking all buff and tanned, like a big farking blouse. He sees me at the same time and is coming out from behind the bar. — Alroight, sahn! Looking a bit paunchy, he goes, prodding my gut.
— Ain’t got time to be in the gym twenty-four/seven like some. You steroided up or wot? I ask, grabbing his bulging bicep. — The old bollocks must be the size of dried peas by now!
— At least I’ll be able to see em without the use of a mirror, you cahnt, he laughs and before I know what I’m doing, I’m sucking it in a little. It’s all this hanging out with Cynth. The follow-up to passive smoking: passive calorie absorption.
Worthy don’t notice though, as his eyes are elsewhere. — And who is this little beauty? Alright, darlin?
Seph looks him up and down. — My name is Persephone.
— Seph’s old man’s a big noise in the Greek Old Bill, ain’t that so, darling?
— On the island I grew up on, my father is chief of police, she says.
— That’s the whole island n all, ain’t that so, gel? I tip Worthy a wink and he sets up some beers and a round of shots. He’s joking with Seph about her old man’s gaff and I take my opportunity to discreetly slip Cost’s note into her white shoulder bag. It’s like lighting a slow fuse, and fireworks are sure to follow. I’ll need a few drinks for this little show.
So Worthy, a very avuncular mine host, sets us up another round. Then some more. It goes all muddy for a bit, then Worthy puts some Greek plate-smashing music on and Seph and I are giving it loads. A fat cunt in a London accent says something and for some reason I get the hump. Some time later I hear a glass smashing on the stone floor of the bar and somebody pushes me and there’s raised voices. It’s like I’m wearing about six balaclavas though, cause the next thing I know is that I’m falling down a flight of stairs and then there’s nothing.
I wake up lying on a bed, with all my clothes still on. Somebody’s next to me, I can hear loud snores. It’s Seph, still in her dress. It’s ridden up a bit and I can see her white cotton knickers are still on. Smoothed, bronzed thighs, all the way up to paradise. But if my memory serves, them pants should be way too scanty to contain that big, black bush, but there ain’t no sign of it. She’s only gone and went Brazilian on me!
Obviously, no nailing went on last night. I turn away, I’m just torturing myself; besides my farking head feels like it’s gonna explode into small fragments. I recognise this gaff: it’s Worthy’s pad. Small front room and bedroom, kitchen, balcony. There’s no sign of him, he’s probably gone off on the nail somewhere.
I check the clock. It’s farking morning and I’ve only gone and left Em all night with Cynth!
I dig the wobbly out me pocket and switch it on. Seven missed calls, and loads of messages. All from Cynth, and in tones of ever increasing panic. It’s the last one that proper shits me up though: Em’s gone!
I’m looking at her image on my phone’s screen; a younger kid with a toothy smile, but still recognisable as her, stares back at me and I can hardly breathe. I’m trying to dial Cynth but her incoming call beats me to the punch. — Mickey … are you okay? Where have you been?
— I’m fine, what’s this bout Em?
— She didn’t come back last night. She met this boy, he was a nice lad; Jürgen, German, they were going to a disco. She’s stayed out. I’ve tried her mobile but she doesn’t get a signal over here with her service provider … What happened to you?
— I got tied up, ran into some old friends, I say, looking at Seph, still crashed out and snoring for Greece. I open the sliding patio doors and go out onto the balcony for a better reception. The sea looks pretty smooth and calm. The sunlight shimmering on it relaxes me a little. — My mate Worthy gave me them shots, knows I can’t drink that shit, the cunt; only went and passed out, didn’t I.
— Teresa was on the phone for Em a while ago …
Another bolt of panic hits me and my legs are pretty shaky now. I sit down on the moulded plastic chair. — You didn’t say nothing about her being gone, did ya?
— Of course not. I said that she’d gone out for a walk and some breakfast with you and she’d call her back later.
If that shabby old munter back in England gets wind of this … — Good gel. I’m back over on the next ferry. Keep me posted.
— She’ll just have gone on to a party and maybe drank too much and got her head down somewhere. You know what teenagers are like. She’s a sensible girl.
I clock a big Merc going past on the coast road and I’m thinking about those farking gangster cunts. — She’s only a farking kid, Cynth … I swallow hard, — … Any roads, keep me posted and I’ll see ya soon.
The panic is trying to rise, but I’m fighting it down, keeping a lid on it. Think Churchill, when the Luftwaffe fancied their chances. I pull myself out of the chair and head inside. My heart jumps again as I see a note on the table. I relax a little when I clock it’s in Worthy’s handwriting:
Mickey,
You cunt! Trying to outdo me on the shorts, you fucking lightweight. Thought I’d best let you sleep it off. Incidentally, you caused me no end of grief last night, when you nutted my barman. I squared it but you owe me an apology, and him too of course.
Pete
Jesus cunting Christ on a mortgage in Romford. What a stupid fucker. Barman’s probably some farking headcase. I’ll square it with Worthy, hopefully they’ll have put it down to alcoholic high spirits. Now I’m fretting about the time, as I can’t recall when the next ferry is. But it’s not for a bit. In the bathroom I catch a dodgy whiff from my armpits, so I peel off my gear and go into the shower. The warm water’s relaxing me but suddenly I hear a blood-curdling wailing sound, followed by shouting and things smashing. I run out the shower dripping wet, wrapping a towel round me, and Seph’s lying on the wooden floor, bawling her eyes out, a crunched-up note in her hand. There’s a glass ashtray smashed to bits on the floor. — He’s gone … Costas …
Of course. The note I helped him slip into her handbag in my last semi-sober moment. I remember that one. I need to make sure she don’t wreck this gaff, that’ll be another thing Worthy’ll have me for. — What’s up? Take it easy, gel …
She looks urgently at me, then screams, — He is a pig, then opens her arms. — Please, Michael, hold me!
I’m on the floor with her and she’s in my arms. I’m stroking her hair, consoling her. — I am so glad you are here, she wails. I’m worried shitless about Em. But then I recall, there’s two hours left till the ferry a
nd her dress has ridden up and the old fellah’s desperate for the spotlight, pushing this towel aside like it’s a flaming curtain …
5.
MARCE
NAILING HER WAS the wrong farking move; ain’t never gonna get rid of her now. Course, anybody can play Emperor within the Enlightened Realm of Retrospect, just as we can all play Cunt in the Kingdom of Trouser Wood; that ain’t the bleedin issue. The pertinent topic of concern is: what do I do with a nutty Greek bird whose hair’s blowing all over the place on the deck of the ferry and whose eyes are bleeding black, teary mascara all over her face? — Seph, I’ve got my daughter here, in Fuerty … and my girlfriend, well, sort of … I qualify. Daresay it’s been a long time since Cynth was described in that way, — … and I can’t have you around!
— Please, Michael, please, I need you … She pouts like a kid. — I will find a hotel over there and stay away from them if you come and see me. I cannot go home, I cannot face my father after all the things Costas said about him in his note … all the lies! She breaks into that farking wail again, the sort of sound you’d do anything to stop somebody from making. A nosy old couple on the deck stare at us. I give em the eye and they find something else to gawp at.
All I can do is play the honest broker. — Don’t do anything rash, gel. See this as an opportunity to take stock. Attempt to divest all emotion before making decisions, I explain, trying to talk down my own mounting panic about Em. — You gotta believe that things happen for a reason. Some kind of divine, cosmic ordination. That’s the word: ordination.
— But the things he said in that note … telling me that he had fallen in love with my father, and that was the only reason he wanted to be near me! He feared that my father only wanted him for sex, on the side!
— It’s a funny old life, gel.
— But my father is chief of police, she moans, — for the whole island! He is a real man! How can he be homosexual?
That was a good move, though. My advice, that one. He listened and learned, no flies on old Costas. — Stranger things have happened at sea, gel, I tell her as the boat tears through the waves.
— It’s not possible … it’s just not possible …
— Maybe it’s all just been a misunderstanding, I shrug, happy to see the Fuerty shoreline and Corralejo harbour coming into view.
Cynth’s there at the dock and she’s looking at me and then Seph in bemusement. She’s got that sour, betrayed face, like she’s been put in her place by younger skirt she can’t compete with, which, I suppose, is the case. I put her out of her misery by introducing them and giving her the party line: — Cynth, Seph; Seph, Cynth. Cynth, Seph’s an old friend who has just been, how could one put this delicately, disappointed in love. Her boyfriend’s been working on this film they’re shooting over here, and he’s only gone and done a runner. Left her a note, the lot.
— Oh … okay, says Cynth, now relieved and rather sympathetic.
Seph pouts, starts grizzling and bursts into tears again, and Cynth, on cue and now delighted cause she thinks she ain’t got no competition, is waiting to smother her into that ample bosom. As Seph gets the treatment and is happy to succumb, Cynth coughs out, — Still not heard from Em. This German boy she met seemed ever so nice, she pleads, her voice rising in panic. — I never thought they’d stay out, Mickey, she promised she’d be back before midnight!
— Yeah … I say, struggling to stay cool myself, especially as I’m thinking again of them gangster cunts. The top crowd among them maniacs these days ain’t like the old school who played by a certain code. They always target the families of the geezers they want onside. Farking low-life pseudo-nonce scumbags. — Listen, Cynth, you take Seph back to base and wait there in case of Em showing up. I’m gonna go off looking for her.
So I leave them and jump in the motor in search of Em.
I’m off driving down to the Kraut side of the island, watching the vegetation get lusher and the villages get more picturesque. I hit a few bars, asking questions, showing Em’s picture, which Cynth thoughtfully brought out, an update on my mobile phone edition, but there ain’t nobody biting.
Then as I’m driving back into Corralejo, outside a block of shitty tourist apartments, I see em: them two geezers. Them that was in the Bull the other night.
I pull into the car park outside the gaffs and watch them. The big cunt goes into the apartments, but the little weaselly un turns on his heels and heads back out. He gets into a motor. I follow him and he parks behind the supermarket. It’s empty. He gets out the motor. I do n all. My nerves are jagged with the hangover, all the booze of the other night leaving my system. Sweat’s pouring off me. My limbs feel heavy. I gotta do something, but I ain’t particularly great shakes at the physical side of things as it happens. I loved running with football mobs, but I was never a top lad, never a front-line troop. I’d be game enough when it came to thirty-second windmilling bouts with other mugs, but this cold-bloodied stuff was never my style. But I gotta do something. But I feel like shit. Like proper shit. Like a dirty, discarded, old brown shit sweating in some toilet that won’t flush away.
The geezers might be –
No. I gotta do something –
He sees me approaching.
— Alright, John? I shout at him, pumping myself up, ramping is what I believe they call it, as the faces of every top lad I’ve ever known come into my head, egging me on.
— Mister Landlord, he says with a nasty smile, like he’s some farking Bond villain expecting me. Well, I’m straight over and my nut’s in his face, and he goes down like Cynth on a dirty weekend. The cunt obviously wasn’t expecting that. I’m right down on top of him battering his head off the tarmac, screaming in his face, — I DON’T CARE ABOUT YOUR FUCKING GANGSTER BOLLOCKS, I’LL RIP YOUR FUCKING HEAD OFF AND CRUSH YOUR FARKING SKULL IN A VICE IF YOU’VE TOUCHED ONE HAIR ON MY LITTLE GEL’S HEAD, YOU CAHHNNT!
I can’t hear anything except a ringing in my ears as I crack his weaselly head twice, three, four times, but then I realise that the phone’s ringing The Dam Busters in my jacket. The geezer’s lying under me, moaning and groaning, again like Cynth after a good nailing. And like her, he ain’t going nowhere fast. I tear the wobbly out of my pocket and answer it. It’s only Cynth. — Michael, Emily’s here. Everything’s fine. Jürgen brought her back. We’re all having tea on the veranda. Yeah, they got a little tipsy last night and decided that it might be best not to try and drive so they sat up drinking coffee.
— Sweet. I’ll be back shortly, I say, clicking off the phone. My heart sinks in my chest as I look down at the geezer.
— Please don’t … he begs, and now his voice sounds all posh, — I’m not who you think … he moans.
— I … I … I try to speak and can’t, so I get off him and stand up. — Look, mate, I apologise … I think I might have got the wrong end of the stick. I offer the geezer my hand, but he waves me away and starts to sit up of his own accord, taking deep breaths, rubbing his nut. — I thought you’d kidnapped my daughter to put the frighteners on me cause you thought I heard something I shouldn’t have, which I didn’t, I try to explain. — I mean … a geezer like you …
— I’m an actor, he moans in that posh voice.
Suddenly all I can think of now is old Costas and his stupid farking movie. — Fuck me, I gasp, and I’m helping him up. — Your mate n all?
He rubs his bonce again and keeps taking deep breaths, then bends over like he’s gonna puke. After a bit he lifts up his head. — We’re shooting a film … we were method acting … learning our lines.
— Fuck sake … I’m sorry, mate. I should have thought. I even know the farking film you’re on about, I tell him, helping him back to his motor and sitting him down in the front passenger seat. — I know it might not be much consolation to ya, but you geezers are pretty good at your job, I tell him. — Had me proper wound up, you did! I laugh, but he still ain’t for seeing the funny side.
Later on, when I get back to the pub, I l
earn that the local Old Bill found out that the businessman geezer got shot by his wife. Seems he was knocking off the au pair, and she caught em on the job and took exception. That made me think: thank fuck for gun control in England! Trees caught me in similar circumstances once and came at me with a kitchen knife. Had to scarper pronto. In another country, say like America, old Mickey here would’ve been brown bread. Just for a farking shag, and not, as I recall, a particularly great one at that.
No doubt the likes of Trees would say it was poetic justice.
So I had the actor blokes, Will and Tom, back at the pub for a night out on me, to show there was no hard feelings. They turned out to be decent geezers: a bit la-di-da, but alright. Even got me some work on the film, Old Iron, playing the hit man’s associate! A speaking part, no less, although my character was called Silent Billy. I had to say, ‘Don’t like the sound of this. Not one bit,’ just before a bunch of us got cut down by a hail of bullets. A thespian debut. I thought: let them get their green eyes on that one back home.
Cynth was fairly enjoying playing mother hen to Em and Seph. Everything seemed sorted for a while, except that every time I looked round, and I ain’t naturally what one might call the paranoid sort, they would all suddenly go quiet. What was it the old cunt said: ‘When the eagles are silent, the parrots begin to jabber.’ — C’mon, you lot, I demanded, — out with it. What’s going on, then?
It was written all over their faces. But when they came out with it, it wasn’t half a proper boot in the bollocks. — Emily’s mother needs her, Cynth says. — She wants to go back.
I look at the kid. I thought that she was going to give me grief cause I had to give that Jürgen geezer a talking-to, even though I don’t think nothing went on. For a Kraut he was a nice young fellah, the sincere type. Thing is, I was sort of getting used to having her around. — Em?
She shrugs and says, — I don’t really want to, Dad. But Mum’s really upset cause that Richie guy she was seeing has packed her in. I’m going to go back and Jürgen’s coming to visit next month. Cynth’s gonna take me over.