If You Liked School, You'll Love Work

by Irvine Welsh

  I was thinkin about how that mean coyote followed me everywhere, like I couldn’t get rid of him, and then I recalled Tommy Sparrow, the lead singer in the Majestic Reptiles. — Thank you, ma’am. How does Tommy sound to you?

  — Tommy it is, she said with a grin as wide as the Mississippi. — To Tommy the coyote. She laughed and raised her glass and I found myself guffawin along with her.

  When we stopped, it was with a nervous silence on my part and a cold detachment on Yolanda’s. I came clean and told her that I was shiftin the emphasis of the book squarely back toward Glen’s work, and away from her story and his personal life. She looked at me quite harshly for a split second, and I don’t mind sayin now that her glance set something crawlin down my spine. Then she seemed to grow more thoughtful, noddin slowly as if to encourage me to go on.

  I sure didn’t want to sit around here much longer. There was just one thing more I wanted to know about. — I need to ask you, ma’am … when Glen went …

  — What makes you think he’s gone?

  A sudden big chill came over me, and this house no longer seemed cool, but as cold as death. I forced a laugh. — Yolanda, I’ve seen the headstone in the cemetery. His place of burial, back in the family plot in Collins.

  — C’mon, honey, she said brusquely, standing up and moving over to the door leading down to the basement. I followed her down the metal steps. We came into a small room; it was nowhere near large enough to run the full length of the house. It had a concrete floor and stone walls, which had been whitewashed. There was a reinforced steel door and a porthole window next to it, all steamed up with condensation. She unbolted the door and ushered me forward. — You can go in, but be very, very quiet, she whispered. I hesitated, but only for a second, intrigued as to what in hell’s name was going on in there.

  Because I suddenly saw it all in my head: Halliday was still alive! I had this fantastic vision of him bent over the desk of an editin suite in a secret basement studio, splicin together his masterpiece. I was so convinced, I was even startin to rehearse my greetin in my head.

  Mr Halliday, sir … this sure is a surprise.

  As I stepped over a metal ridge at the bottom of a door frame and into the room, a mist nipped at my eyes. This place was so cold, like a great refrigerat—I turned quickly, alarmed, but the door slammed shut behind me. I pushed hard but I could hear the bolts slidin over. I banged on the door with desperate ferocity as the cold stung my bare arms. — Yolanda! You fuckin crazy … but I could feel the fear rising up in me with the cold, takin the fight from me. — C’mon, cut it out … I was pleadin. — Look, we’re gonna stay in touch …

  And then I saw her face in the porthole; monstrous, bloated and white as her voice crackled from a speaker above me. — They all want to go, but they never can. We all stay together. Always.

  — Yolanda, this is crazy … and I turned to take in the room as my eyes adjusted to the mist. Then I could see them all standin, the four of them, lookin at me, their timeless eyes of dead glass starin ahead.

  Glen Halliday, those coal-black beads sunk into his hangdog face. That red and dark blue gingham shirt and those stonewashed blue jeans that were a kind of trademark. The still thick gray hair, slicked back. He even has a bottle of beer, a Coors Lite, in his hand. And then there are the others; Humphrey Marston, with that look of intense concentration on his face that he must have brought to his job, sittin at his desk workin on a small animal. Standin behind him, Dennis Andersen, a rifle slung over his shoulder. He’s replete with that toothy, wholesome smile which probably never left him, even as his finger squeezed on the trigger to blow away some animal, or the back of his hand snapped out to bust a woman’s chops. And then there’s Larry Briggs, standin at a lectern, immaculately suited: rakish and shifty, even in death.

  The four horsemen of her own personal apocalypse: that twisted ol witch. I pulled my cellphone out of my pocket. — Goddamn you, you sick old fuck –

  — You won’t get a signal in here, my darling. This ‘sick old fuck’ has had the walls lined. It’s signalproof and soundproof. So please do spare yourself the terrible indignity of shouting and screaming for ‘help’. Poor Glen was such a terrible baby. A man so cynical about life in his latter days, but how he begged to hold onto it when his time came. Strange that, don’t you think?

  I ignored the crazy old hag. There had to be another way out of this place …

  Her voice was rantin on, cracklin through the speakers. — Who the hell do you think you are, Raymond Wilson Butler, with your artist’s conceit, thinking you can come into my life and take, take, take, just like the rest of them, get me to spill my guts and then walk away when you’ve had your fill? Cause it don’t work that way, honey! Not here!

  Then I saw the door to an anteroom and made toward it. The coyote was standing there, hunched, ready to pounce through the mist. — You can’t go in there, I got Tommy to guard it, you see, Yolanda’s voice mocked.

  I moved forward warily but as I got closer I saw that the coyote was as dead as a dodo. Sure enough it was the old boy I hit; twisted into an action pose by Yolanda’s craftmanship. I kicked it over and my hand gripped the cold brass handle on the door.

  — I really wouldn’t go in there if I were you, angel, she cooed.

  — Fuck you, you fat crazy ol bitch!

  I pulled it open and as soon as I registered what was inside I fell to my knees. All I could do was scream no no no over and over again, as I looked up at her chemical-gray skin that devoured the meager light in the room. She had a guitar in her hand, and her mouth was open, blastin out a silent power chord, frozen that way for all time.

  — Such a lovely girl. I went to see her play and then I invited her to come around. I think you’d made her a little curious about me. It took me a while to do her, we had to work very hard through the night to finish her, Barry and myself. He’s my son, you know: and such a big fan of hers. But we wanted her ready for you. This will be your little place together.

  As the cold slowly starts to seep into my bones, because she’s turned it up now, all I can do is sit here in a defeated heap as my head starts to spin and I hear her voice, ol Miss Arizona, sayin, — You’ll always be together now, Raymond, we’ll all be together!

  Kingdom of Fife

  1.

  JASON AND SEXUAL JEALOUSY

  YA HOOR, SOR; the conversation in this place wid make a pornographer blush. — You ken Big Monty, it’s no as if eh isnae well hung or nowt like that. Eh’d goat a hud ay that crystal meth fae some boy in Edinbury n it wis up like two fuckin cans ay Tennent’s, yin oan toap ay the other; his words, no mine, the Duke ay Musselbury says aw sagely, liftin the pint ay Guinness tae ehs lips n takin a swallay. Thir’s a ridge ay foam, or cream as the Porter Brewery chaps in Dublin wid like ye tae think ay it, hingin fae the dirty ginger mowser oan ehs toap lip. Early Seturday n we’re the only cunts in the Goth, wur local boozer. Great place, the Goth, an awfay warm howf, wi aw thon mahogany-coloured wood everywhaire. Thir’s a big screen opposite the bar for the fitba, usually just Scottish (borin, only two teams kin win), or English (worse, only one team kin win), bit they sometimes show Le Liga or the Bundeslegia. Thir’s a big partitioned pool room at the side, surrounded by gless, makin aw the bams in thaire look like goldfish.

  No thit thir’s any in the day. The hale high street’s as deid as a Tel Aviv disco flair. Means thit the Duke’s goat a captive audience ay two fir ehs tale. — Bit eh’s cowpin ewey at this piece n she’s no jist takin the fuckin loat, it’s rattlin oan the sides, man! This is yin dirty hoor, wider thin the fuckin Nile, ya cunt. Aye, dinnae talk Mississippi tae me. So eh pills oot n turns ur ower n whaps it tae ur up the fuckin chorus n it’s as tight as a drum n eh’s gittin a decent ride oot ay it at last. The Duke lits oot a wee belch n settles ehs beer oan the bar.

  — Phoa, ya cunt, thit ye are, says Neebour Watson, takin oaf ehs silver-framed specs for a wee polish.

  The Duke ay Musselbury’s fair shakin yon big, b
aldy napper ay his; ehs ginger ponytail’s whippin acroass ehs back. — Naw bit, wait till ye hear this: it’s a fuckin total miscall, man, cause this bird’s been oot oan the fuckin peeve fir a few days ehrsel n as soon as ehs fuckin knob’s in her choc-boax aw this diarrhoea’s right under ehs foreskin, like fuckin chip shoap sauce, nippin away at the cherry n that, eh.

  Ah sees the Neebour Watson’s eyes starin tae water under they specs, fair cascadin away n aw: like the contents ay a hoor’s gash at the end ay a line-up.

  — She’s tweakin oan the crystal n aw, the Duke explains, — gaun fuckin mental, n she sais tae um, ‘Ah’ll fuckin bend it, ah’ll fuckin brek it oaf ye,’ n she’s backin intae the cunt n it’s like yon irresistible force n yon immovable object, eh.

  — What happened? the Neebour Watson asks, pickin a bit ay crust ootay a nostril. Eh examines it, rolls it, n flicks it oantae the flair ay the Goth.

  The Duke’s foreheid wrinkles in distaste. — Well, this is in the hotel, yon yin in Dunfermline thit thuv booked intae. Whit’s it called … glorified knockin shoap … the Prince Malcolm, that’s the yin. So Monty’s that aroused eh batters the gless on the fire alarm panel by mistake wi that fistfil ay sovies oan ehs mitt n it aw goes crazy …

  Ya cunt! Ah’m thinkin: The Prince Malcolm Hotel. That’s muh ma’s power base. Works at the reception n everything, wi yon smarmy cunt she’s shaggin, Wee Shitey Drawers Arnie.

  — … fuckin polis, fire brigade … the loat. An embarrassin situ fir every cunt. The Duke picks up ehs pint n takes another gulp.

  Then the Neebour turns tae ays n goes: — Your ma no work thaire, Jase?

  — Aye … ah goes. Wind-up bar steward kens full well what the situ is thaire.

  But the Duke ay Musselbury inadvertently spares muh blushes as ehs no wantin the tale tae run away fae him. — So eh’s giein ur the message, the dirty wee hoor. N ken whae it wis? That hoarsey lassie n aw; the doctor’s daughter, her thit steys oot oan the road oot tae Lochgelly. That Lara Grant, eh sais, ehs chin juttin oot. Then ehs tongue lashes oot like a lizard’s, lickin the foam oaf ehs tash like the snaw oafay a car windscreen. My spine goes a bit stiff at this news, but the Duke jist looks slyly at ehs n sais, — Aye, you used tae sniff aroond eftir thon, eh, Kingy?

  — Still stalks it, Neebour laughs.

  — Jist tae keep muh haund in, ya hoor, ah explains, but it’s like aw yon fuckin oxygen in the Goth Tavern jist burns up cause thirs nane gittin intae ma fuckin lungs any roads. The object ay ma desire n that big ugly cunt Monty … and in muh ma n Wee Shitey Drawers’s fuckin hotel n aw!

  This big-moothed baldy ponytailed ginger Duke ay Musselbury cunt wi the yellay teeth n the tash … disnae like bein the bearer ay bad news or nowt like that. — Aye, ah thoat that wis your wee floozy, eh goes tae me.

  Well, ah kin feel muh haund tightenin oan yon gless n this cunt is gaunny git it fir spreadin lies, bit ah think, stoap, Jason, stoap n think … it isnae the wey, ye dinnae shoot the messenger.

  But no Lara, fir fuck sakes, muh first girlfriend. Well, ah suppose Canadian Alison wis the real first, if wir talking ridin.

  — Aye, wir you no knockin her oaf years ago whin ye wir daein the jockeyin? the Neebour enquires, sweetie-wife that eh is. Kin see thon cunt wi a heidsquare oan, up the street at the Premier Bingo, ya hoor sor.

  Ah jist nods, — Aye, she’s right intae the showjumpin, so thir wis a mutual interest in the clop-clops, ken?

  — Ye cowp it back then? the Duke asks.

  — Wi went oot for a bit but she wis jist a wee lassie at the time, ah sais, outraged. Some company’s ye find yirsel in, yir better asking whae shouldnae be oan the register.

  — No a wee lassie now but, eh. Pits it aboot big time by aw accoonts.

  — Aye, pub accoonts, ah goes.

  — Ah dinnae hud wi this virgin-hoor way eh classifyin lassies, Neebour goes, — fundamentally flawed, if ye ask me.

  The Duke shakes ehs heid. — At least wi cannae git accused ay that in Fife. Thir aw fuckin hoors, n thir husbands, faithers, boyfriends, brothers n sons n aw!

  N wi raise wur glesses in toast. The Kingdom: non-sexist as fuck.

  Then the Duke says, — That Lara, but; hings aroond wi Tam Cahill’s lassie.

  — Aye, ya cunt, ah goes, — Wee Jenni.

  — Ye might no huv rode them but yuv been sniffin aroond enough, the Neebour says. — Hud yir forty wanks oot ay thaime, eh, Jase?

  — Mair thin jist forty, ya hoor sor, ah’m in five figures. Hud mair pleasure oot ay they lassies thin any big lyin cunt like Monty, ah goes, drinkin up.

  That leads the Neebour oantay some speculation. Eh takes ehs glesses oaf n polishes them n rubs at whaire thuv been indentin intae the side ay ehs neb. — Gits me wonderin whit lassies wid think if they kent thit we spent that much time wankin aboot thum? Aw that effort ay thought and willpower gaun intae creating they carefully constructed scenarios? Aw they fuckin Hollywood porn blockbusters that play in yir heid every other night, wi some dozy wee hoor that works in Greg’s cast as lead lady!

  Ah looks at um as ah finishes muh pint. — Ye pit it that wey, ya hoor, thir bound tae be flattered! Fuck sake, ah wid be if ah found oot thit somebody ah barely kent existed wis spending aw that time n effort oan ays! Ah’d shag the cunts oot ay pity!

  Neebour shakes ehs heid n pits the specs back oan. — Disnae work that wey, bit. They’d jist think thit ye wir a filthy fuckin perve whae led a sad life. Female sexuality, ya hoor: it’s different goods. It’s aw aboot ethereal forces n that; thaire fuckin frigs. Hoarses n Knights n castle towers n aw that shite. That’s how they posh burds are aw hoarsey types, eh goes, warmin tae ehs theme. Hus tae be said that the Neebour is the fanny expert here, being as eh wis once mairried. — Back at yon skill ah said tae that Irene Carmody lassie, mind ay her?

  — A fit yin, as ah recall, ah nod, tryin tae conjure up an image.

  Neebour’s face goes sad and doleful. — Tried tae be candid at the pleasure images in ma heid ay her in the buff n in threesomes wi me n yon Andrea McKenzie gied ays. Did ah git complimented oan ma taste n ingenuity? Like fuck. She only telt her faither n the cunt grabbed a hud ay ays outside the chippy n telt ays tae stop making lewd propositions tae his lassie! Some people, Neebour shakes ehs heid again, — think they’d nivir pilled the wire in thir puff.

  As entertainin as the sexual politics ay the Central Fife male might be, ah’m fir the oaf.

  — Where ye headed, Jase? the Duke asks.

  — Might take a wee walk up the street, call intae muh turf accountant.

  So ah heads outside intae the fresh air, and sets off doon the main drag.

  The toon might huv seen better days but the high street still supports plenty a waterin holes. JJ’s and Wee Jimmie’s are the yins thit ah use, apart fae the Goth, which gits a rep as an auld boys’ pub n it is, ah suppose. N thir’s Partners Bar ower the road; might be a place tae take a burd at night, but no durin the day, no, sor.

  Ladbrokes versus Corals, whae’s gaunny git ma cash? Corals is a Hun shop, but the toon’s long hud that sort ay Gers vibe in general, ever since Jim Baxter, accordin tae the auld man. Ah opts for Ladbrokes but thir’s nowt grabbin ays oan the caird. Ah realise thit ah’m starving but, so ah heads outside tae git a scran.

  Ah’m huvin ma lunch in the Central Perk café, the one that they named the place in the telly series Friends eftir. Oor yin’s named eftir its proximity tae Central Perk, hame ay the Blue Brazil. Much, much aulder thin thon daft wee New York perk ay the same name.

  Ah decides against the chips and peas n opts fir a fried egg and black-pudding roll n a mug ay tea. It’s empty, bar two young lassies wi a bairn in a pram. Funny March day: rainin but also surprisingly hoat. One lassie’s wearin a white anorak, n she takes it oaf n announces tae everybody, — Ah’m roastin wi sweat! The other yin’s jist goat a white cotton top oan n she protests, — What aboot me, but? Ah’m soakin wi rain!

  Ah think it might be Soakin Wi Rain’s bairn, cause the waitr
ess lassie goes tae talk tae Roastin Wi Sweat.

  Ya cunt, ye couldnae sexualise they lassies wi Timmy Leary’s fuckin stash in ye. Ah only gits the horn oan whin this ridheided wifie wi front protrudin teeth comes in. It’s like some cunt’s tried tae pannel thum fae the inside. Thir’s that many dirty cunts aroond, ah’m thinking mibbe yin ay thum goat carried away wi the fistin, ya hoor sor, n somehow that made ays think aboot Big Monty n Lara.

  Goat ays aw aroused n ah hud tae nip intae the bogs at the back ay the shop wi the obligatory ‘For Customers Only’ notice, soas thit ah could huv a wee chug tae masel. Hardly room tae swing a cat bit ah still manage tae bang oaf some paste intae the sink. Ya hoor, strikin a blow fir the oweraroused n undersexed everywhaire!

  The heid’s birlin whin ah goes back oot, n the choppers woman’s standin thair lookin at ays, but thirs nae ming comin oot ay the bogs so ah’m awright. Fortunately maist people think thit yir jist daein drugs oan the premises.

  Ah gits a T/5 bill and settles up.

  Struttin doon yon high street oan a Seturday; creditors tae be avoided, debtors tae be pursued, n how thir nivir the same. Aye, ye find oot yir standin in the food chain in a place like this. The laddie King: constantly flirtin wi relegation, but somewhat above the likes ay Richey the Assaultee, whae ah see headin up the slope tae the station, nae doot huvin jist come oot the New Goth.

  Cannae beat this toon though, chips n mushy peas for £1.90, keep ye gaun aw day. Mixed wi a couple ay black golds n even yon Gillian McKeith burd wid be cautious aboot cuttin intae yin ay they logs! Wid she no, but!

  But ma egg and black-puddin rolls wi the mug ay tea set ays back £3.05, seriously eatin intae black gold funds. So ah heads ower tae the jobcentre tae check what’s up oan the computer, but thir aw minimum-wage jobs n thir aw nationwide. Thir’s only one thit’s local (if ye count Dunfermline as such which ah dinnae):