If You Liked School, You'll Love Work

by Irvine Welsh

  — Eh, what? ah hear masel say. — Ah’ll help ye oot if ah kin.

  Auld Olly’s lookin at ays wi they big moist eyes n ah’m thinkin aboot yon Bambi film. Me n the auld girl watchin it thegither, that sad bit whaire the ma dies. Muh ma sayin, ‘That could be me n naebody wid care,’ n me gaun ‘Ah’d care, Ma, ah’d care, ah’m yir wee Bambi,’ n her replenishin her sherry gless n gittin aw tearful. Poignant times indeed, sor, afore she shunted ower tae yon Dunfermline four-poster n Shitey-Ersed Arnie, n the recollection ay thum fair gits me gaun. Perr auld Olly. — Anythin ah kin dae …

  — Well, you could do me one hell of a favour Mr K— … Jason. You see, I never got a chance to say goodbye to Kathleen and you remind me of her so much … I know I’m being stupid and it’s such a self-indulgent favour to ask … but it would be very greatly appreciated.

  I’m thinking, perr boy, if ah kin help him n help me at the same time, ya hoor sor, ah’m in thair. Ulster, Palestine, Fife; lit the healin process begin! — Anythin ye like, Olly.

  — Well, I was thinking that if I could ask you to slip these clothes on … it’s crazy, I know, but if I could pretend that you were Kathleen, it would only take a few minutes, I would be so grateful … so that I could say goodbye and achieve, I don’t know, I think that ‘closure’ is the fashionable term these days.

  — Well, aye …

  — Like a glove, Jason, lad. These clothes would fit you like a glove.

  Ah look thum up n doon. Some nice stuff here, awright. — That ah’ll wager, sor; that ah’ll wager.

  So ah wis game, if it meant helpin the perr boy n at the same time silencin some ay the critics in the New Goth, who would jist love tae see the King ay Fife cast aside oan the table-football scrapheap. So ah’m intae the gear; blouse, short skirt, stockins, sussys the lot, and of course the high heels, the boy bein particularly delighted that the shoes fitted.

  Then eh comes through wi a wig n a make-up box, which ah’m a wee bit perturbed wi. — I can’t believe it, you look just like her as she dressed in her final days as an insurance broker at Scottish Equitable … He hands ays the wig n the make-up, ya hoor. — To crave your further indulgence, Mr King, the uncanny resemblance you share with Kathleen would be completed with these accessories.

  — Eh … okay … ah say tae the boy. In fir a fiver, in fir a score.

  — Go easy on that make-up though, Mr King, let understatement be the watchword. My Kathleen was never a tarty sort of girl.

  — Ay that ah’ve nae doots, Olly, ay that uv nae doots, ah tell um, n ah settle doon in front ay the mirror. — Tell ye whit, ye did mention a wee malt whisky, well, ah widnae mind yin now fir a bit ay Dutch courage!

  — Of course, Olly says, exitin the room, — do forgive me … Jason. My manners are failing me.

  Ah hear his clump doon the stairs n ah’m done n nae time n ah’ve goat tae say, looking no too bad in thon fill-length mirror. Ah head doon the stairs n Olly’s thaire wi two big Scotches.

  — It’s amazing … I can’t believe it! You look more like Kathleen than … please, sit down.

  So ah sits in the big easy chair n eh gits doon at ma feet n then eh starts kissin thum, in the shoes, n eh’s gaun, — I’m sorry, darling, so, so sorry, eh bleats, suddenly, loudly, then ehs heid’s buried oan ma lap!

  Ah’m jist lookin at the tap ay the hoor’s heid, the shiny dome wi the strands ay grey across it, no kennin whair tae pit ma coupon.

  Eh’s still gaun oan aboot how sorry eh is, so ah jist says softly, — It’s awright, Dad.

  — Say it again … eh goes, aw urgent.

  — It’s awright, Dad … Daddy … really, ah goes.

  The Olly boy’s sobbin but ah feel ehs elbay digging intae ma leg. Eh seems tae go aw stiff fir a while, breathing heavily, then trembles and says, — Thank you … thank you, oh my God … in a long gasp.

  For a few seconds eh’s lyin relaxed at ma feet, nae tension in ehs boady now, then thir’s the sound ay the key turnin in the lock n eh shoots bolt upright. — Jesus Christ! It’s her, back from that stupid Rotary club. He looks at me like eh’s aboot tae shite ehsel. — Look, you’ll have to go, an eh’s oan ehs feet n eh starts pushin ays oot through the kitchen and oot ay the back door!

  — Bit ma fuckin clathes, ya hoor ye, ah canny go oot like this!

  — Please, Mr King … Jason, my wife will … the trauma of seeing someone who looks so like our daughter, it would kill her, she wouldn’t understand. Do this for me and I’ll ensure that your appeal is successful, I promise!

  N ah’m left standin ootside in the back gairdin, in fuckin drag, ya hoor sor, wi no even a light tae git back tae the Beath! Railway ticket in the fuckin pocket ay the jeans upstairs n aw, ya hoor! No thit ah kin git oan the train lookin like this; the pity displayed by Richey the Assaultee wid be bad enough, but huvin tae come doon the hill in fill view ay the Goth at closing time? Git tae fuck!

  The only thing tae dae is try tae walk wi as much dignity as ah kin. Ah gits roond the side ay the hoose n intae the street and an auld wifie wi a dug looks at ays. Ah’m tryin tae think ay the body language ay lassies thit ah’ve stalked, n ah endeavour tae keep the erse wiggle tae a minimum n lit they fuckin heels dae the rest. So ah heads oot eastbound, past East End Park, towards the big roundabout where thir’s nowt tae dae but git the auld thumb oot cause it’s pishin doon ah’ll never make six miles in heels!

  8.

  TRANSIT

  THE BOYS MEET us in the café in Dunfermline Glen late afternoon. We’re all on the Kenco coffee, when one of the boys, the big one Lara’s been fucking, Monty, she calls him, pulls a small bottle of whisky from his pocket. He is wearing a T-shirt with Guns n Roses Appetite For Destruction emblazoned across it. With his huge hands, as big as my father’s, he pours some in Lara’s, and then does the same for this other guy, whom he’s introduced as Klepto. He gestures towards mine but I put my hand over it. — I don’t drink and drive, I tell him.

  The big lad has grey skin with incongruous orange freckles peppered across it. He looks like a pitta bread with measles. His blond hair is cut short, greying at the temples. He’s a monster and I can’t help thinking about the sort of sex he and Lara have.

  Monty shrugs and this Klepto character says, — Very sensible, with a wry nod. He’s a skinny, wiry boy with big buck teeth and very cold, dark eyes, which seem to permanently stare.

  Monty leans back in the seat and stretches out, showing off his muscular build. He’s not overweight, but he doesn’t have the bodybuilder’s sculpted muscles like the guys I see in the gym, though his biceps are huge. I’ve seen it before in some of my dad’s acquaintances: it’s all building-site work. — So yis ur lookin fir a wee bit excitement the night then, girls? he asks like a threat.

  It unnerves me, and I think even Lara as well, as she laughs a little, spitting out a defiant, teasing, — Come to the right place, have we?

  — Defin-ite-ly, Monty smiles.

  A little later, as we head out to the cars, I whisper to Lara, — He’s certainly no Prince William.

  Lara’s features are set in neutrality. She’s freezing me out. My heart skips a beat as she gets into Monty’s car. I can’t disguise my apprehension, and Monty notes it. — Klepto’ll go wi you, make sure ye dinnae git lost, he says darkly.

  The van sets off and after standing in the rain for a second or two, I reluctantly climb into the car, opening the passenger-seat door to let Klepto in, and we head off in pursuit. The rain is falling heavily now, thick dollops on the greasy windscreen, and I switch on the wipers.

  Klepto sits back in the passenger chair. The seat belt runs in parallel with the diagonal line on his jumper. I can feel his eyes on me, sizing me up. — So what’s your story, then, Jenni? Ye goat a felly on the go?

  I start to feel very cold, and I turn up the heater. — Yes, I’m seeing somebody.

  My instinctive response tells me that I want to put some boundaries up between this guy and me. I obviously didn’t say it with much c
onviction, as he smiles and tells me, — Ah dinnae believe ye, then he adds, — Cause that’s no what yir buddy says.

  That fucking bitch: trying to set me up with this loser. — I don’t really care what you believe, I tell him.

  His voice rises slightly and I can see the menace in his eyes. — Hi, dinnae git snooty, hen, he snaps, and it now seems too hot here in the car. Thankfully, his tone goes back to playful. — Okay, if you’ve got a felly, what’s ehs name well?

  — Jason, I say suddenly.

  — Jason, Klepto says softly. — So where’s this Jason the night then?

  — He had to go and see some friends, I tell him.

  I’m hoping that this will stop his cross-examination. It’s a forlorn anticipation though. — Funny how yir mate disnae ken anything aboot this Jason felly, he grins. I can barely see the van ahead.

  I decide to keep focused on the road and ask, without looking round at him, — Does your friend know everything you do?

  — Monty? He laughs. — Aye. Pretty much.

  This seems to spark off a thoughtful period and thankfully he’s silent for a bit. I turn the heating down and look out to the sodden brown hills that shiver in the rain. Just when I’m starting to relax, his eerie voice fills the car again.

  — Bet you’ve got a few boyfriends though. Tidy lassie like you, they’ll be queuin up.

  I try to ignore him, but I can’t help feeling sickeningly flattered. There are so many boys whom I’d like to hear say that to me, but him …

  — Tell ye what though, Jenni, kin ah ask ye a question?

  How can you respond to something like that? I can’t even shrug it off. I look straight ahead at the road through the wipers.

  — Is that a yes or a no?

  — Ask if you must, I huff in defeated tones. Then annoyed with myself for conceding ground, I snap, — I’m trying to concentrate on the road!

  It doesn’t phase him as he advances his predictable but scary proposition. — Do you think if somebody is gaun oot wi somebody, they should be allowed tae snog other people. Jist snog, likes.

  Even through my anxiety and distaste, I can’t help thinking how I’d actually enjoy this sort of flirting, if the guy asking the question wasn’t a gormless, chipmunk-toothed psycho rapist. — Depends, I spit out.

  — On what? he says, his mouth hanging open.

  I’m recast in the patronising moron’s role again. — On what both parties have agreed, on the type of relationship they have.

  — Aye, he nods stupidly.

  And there’s something about that stupidity, that level of predatory cretinism in my car, that makes me react in a way I shouldn’t. — Aye, I echo, — and whatever my circumstances, I can’t believe that there would ever be a time when I’d want to snog you. So I’d appreciate it if you talked about something else, or better still, just shut the fuck up.

  I don’t look in his direction, but I hear his breathing change. It becomes laboured, as if forcing against the air conditioning of the car. Then his voice, strangled, throaty, rasping like a buzz saw rings in my car. — You think thit yir fuckin shite disnae stink, eh, ya posh wee hoor?

  My confidence starts to evaporate. I shouldn’t have said that. I was winning. — Look, I’m trying to drive.

  — Good, you jist keep drivin, he says and he leans across and puts his hand down the front of my jumper!

  I fucking don’t believe it! — Fuck off! What the fuck are you doing! I slam on the brakes and thankfully there’s nobody behind us. I push his hand away. — Get out! Get out the fucking car!

  — Make ays, he challenges, his eyes like that of a half-starved bear in a nature documentary.

  I get my mobile phone from my bag. He snatches it out of my hand! — Give me that back!

  — Uh-uh. Gie’s a wee flash ay the tit n ye git it back, he grins, putting it behind his back. I’m not going to wrestle this pervert for my phone. That’s what he wants!

  Instead, I try to reason with him. — Look, Lara’s going to call me if we’re late.

  — Naw, ah reckon thit her n big Monty’ll be gittin busy somewhaire, he grins. — C’moan, a wee flash ay the tit n ah’m happy. Ah’m a man ay muh word. Otherwise, he raises his voice, — it’ll just have tae be a smack across the fuckin chops.

  For fuck’s sake, how can this be happening? I look at the door.

  — Dinnae start wi that, he snaps. — Dinnae be silly, now. Aw ah want’s a wee flash ay yir tits. Ah’ll keep muh hands tae masel. Scout’s honour.

  — If it means that fucking much to you, I curse in impotent rage. That fucking bitch Lara slumming it with psychopaths and dragging me into her shit! I open my blouse and pull up my bra. — There. You’ve seen my tits. Happy now?

  — Ecstatic, he laughs, as I rearrange my clothes. — As ah sais, ah’m a man ay muh word. Just got muh rep as a ladies’ man tae think ay. Now, when ah’m sittin in the pub n if the talk gits smutty, ah’ll be able tae describe your paps. And that wee mole on the right tit.

  — God, you’re so pathetic.

  His smile vanishes again. — Shut the fuck up and drive.

  I do exactly that, through my anger and humiliation. I hate myself for getting stuck with a psycho bully in my car, but most of all I fucking hate Lara. At least the moron shuts his filthy mouth, except to bark the occasional direction.

  We cross into Clackmannanshire, pulling off at this farm near Alloa. It’s a slip road with an unmarked entrance that you’d pass without thought if you didn’t know it was there. Soon the asphalt vanishes and turns into a gravelly mud. The farmhouse looks run-down and has a big barn, with lots of cars parked outside it, many of them big 4x4s. I can’t wait to get out and I do it too quickly, my boots sinking into thick mud. I want to say something to Lara, but she’s got that nutter Monty with her. — Got a little bit lost, she smiles.

  — See youse did n aw, Monty sniggers at Klepto. He has his hulky pitbull terrier with him, which is thankfully muzzled. It comes over to me and sniffs at my leg.

  — A wee bit, but it’s the detour thit makes it worthwhile, that fucking inadequate sex offender, Klepto sneers. — Ah did see a couple ay nice wee hills on the wey oot, he bends down and slaps the dog’s muscled sides.

  I swallow hard and move away from them, looking over to the barn. There’s a guy on the door, and Monty nods at him and we go inside. It’s packed. Old doors, turned on their sides, are bolted together to form a ring, which seems about twelve foot square. The ring is covered in old carpet, presumably to stop the dogs from slipping when they attack each other. I have to admit that the whole grotesque pantomime is oddly fascinating.

  After a bit, the owners come into the ring with their dogs, a Rottweiler and an Alsatian. They hold them in different corners behind scratched lines, where they look at each other like boxers. Apart from a skinny man with slicked-back hair, who is presumably the referee, they are the only other bodies in the ring. The atmosphere is becoming murderous. The faces on the men in the barn are uniformly demonic, and I feel like I’m in the middle of a strange nightmare. Lara looks fascinated, yet as horrified as I feel. The referee suddenly barks: — Release your dogs!! And the animals charge towards each other, converging savagely in the centre of the pit, in a snarling, tumbling flurry.

  A cheer goes up and the crowd scream rabid encouragement at the demented beasts. But there seems little action; it’s a strange impasse where it’s as if the dogs’ faces are superglued together. Then a chant – ‘fanged, fanged, fanged’ – starts up, gaining in volume and velocity. Monty puts his big face in between Lara’s and mine and explains, — When one dug bites through the other yin’s lip, they become fanged. Stops aw the action.

  It didn’t stay stopped for long, as the handler came into the ring with a stick and puts it into the dog’s mouth, prising its jaws open. — The handler’s goat tae work the brekin stick intae the dug’s mooth tae brek the grip, Monty gleefully explains.

  His muzzled dog is very disciplined and shows no reaction t
o the carnage in the ring as it stands by his side on a choke-chain leash. — Kenneth here’s a face dug, no a throat dug. A bonus, he explains with obvious relish. — Very few throat dugs are quick enough tae go for the kill and rip a throat oot. Some that git lucky might be able tae make the other dug pass oot if they kin git a guid grip ay its throat and cut oaf the oxygen supply, he explains, looking contemptuously at the dogs in the ring. — These urnae proper fightin dugs, he explains, — A pitbull worth its salt wid dae baith ay thaime at once.

  Separated, the dogs charge again, converging into one snarling beast and whacking the door in front of our legs with force. They separate again and charge, the Alsatian seeming the more aggressive. After this exchange, the Rottweiler’s face is ripped and it whines horribly. I want to cry ‘Stop’. — See, Monty says triumphantly, — thon Rotty’s goat a grip three times stronger thin the Alsatian, but the cunt’s nae fuckin hert. Maist throat dugs git one shot n aw they git is a moothfae ay fur. Once the face dug starts rippin up thir coupon thir bottle jist goes n that’s thaime beat. It’s like a boxer wi just one punch, tryin tae land that big right aw night, but gittin picked oaf wi the jab n the combos. Pit bulls are the real fighters; the rest is just exhibition stuff. A freak show, he laughs, — we’re the main event. This is steeped in tradition; the rules have been set for years. It’s sport, jist like bullfightin in Spain, he says grandly.

  Lara shudders. — I think it’s horrible, she says, and then looks at him and smiles. — But kind of fun, too.

  The Alsatian has the whining and fretful Rottweiler in a grip in the back of the neck. The poor creature is paralysed with fear and just shivers and whimpers and cowers low as the Alsatian stands over it growling through its nose. One old guy, demented, scary, raising a half-empty half-bottle of whisky, roars: — Kill the cunt! A big guy with a shaven head and heavy black Stone Island jacket greets Monty and passes a ridged mirror to him. It has lines of cocaine chopped onto it. He takes one and passes it to Lara, who passes it to me. I decline, I want to get high, but not with these fucking people. I notice that Klepto takes a line.