If You Liked School, You'll Love Work

by Irvine Welsh

  — I think that’s the way it’s gaunny go the next round, Monty sneers.

  Eventually, the owners pull the dogs apart. The Alsatian is muzzled and the Rottweiler’s owner looks at the dog in disgust. What I take to be some kind of disgraced vet, but I realise is actually the drunk with the whisky, is tending its wounds with some dark stuff from a bottle which I assume is an iodine solution. He applies it while the owner holds the dog’s face.

  — Cunt cost me five hundred quid. Bastard, Stone Island moans. — Ronnie’s patter’s shan. That fuckin dug couldnae fight sleep.

  — Eywis bet wi the puss dug, Mike. See how you fight whin yir face is gittin ripped oaf ye! Monty says.

  I’m enthralled, even as the cold seeps into my bones and the shivers pulse with strobe light-like regularity through me. Lara, emboldened by the cocaine, now seems to be enjoying the carnage. — That was great, she says. Then she looks at me, and says, — What? That’s what they’re born to do. Like horses are meant to run and jump and be ridden, those dogs are born to fight. I don’t really see the problem.

  — The problem, I start, dropping my voice and whispering urgently in her ear, — is not the dogs. It’s the people here, and as I study the faces of the men around me, one across the ring snaps into recognition. It’s my father, talking to a small, bald man! Thank God he hasn’t seen me! I step back in panic and pull Lara aside.

  — I have to go. Now.

  — Why? Wimping out, Ms Cahill? she asks smugly, — Monty’s dog’s fighting next!

  — It’s not that. My dad’s here! I don’t want to see him!

  Lara grinds her jaw and raises her eyebrows. — Well, I’m staying. This is fun.

  — Don’t tell him I was here, I say, stepping back a bit more.

  Klepto looks at me. — That’s your faither? Tam Cahill?

  — Yes! I hiss. — Please, don’t tell him I was here.

  The colour has drained from his face. — There’s nae danger ay that!

  I push through the crowd. Somebody gropes my arse. I turn around to see Stone Island’s bullet head skewing with a saucy wink. I push on and an old guy laughs and says, — Aye, it isnae Crufts, hen! I get outside and into the car. As I drive off, I can see my father’s 4x4 is parked alongside some other vehicles, on a tarmacked forecourt on the other side of the barn. I head away from that terrible place, getting on the road back through Dunfermline towards Cowdenbeath. The drizzle has turned into a downpour.

  I’m so glad to be on my own. I’m thinking about my dad and the dog. Oh my God. Surely not … Ahead, there’s a solitary figure standing half in the gutter, lurching into the road. Astonishingly, outside of Dunfermline, somebody is thumbing a lift. It’s a girl. I pull up and stop as she comes running towards me.

  But it’s not a girl. It’s a guy dressed up in woman’s clothing and I know him!

  I wind down the windscreen. — Why are you dressed like that? What are you doing out here?

  He wraps his arms around himself. He doesn’t have a coat! — It’s a long story, could we mibbe no discuss it in the motor?

  I open the front passenger seat. As he gets in, all I can think of is how womanly his legs look, in their soaked tights. I feel a wave of jealousy, my own are so shapeless and chunky under those jeans.

  — Where ye been? he asks.

  — Seeing friends, I say quickly. — More to the point, where have you been?

  Jason looks at me with these almost permanently startled eyes of his. I consider, with a chilling realisation, that it was his name I used to try and get myself off the hook with that pervert. It was the first one that came to mind when he asked about my boyfriend! And now he’s dressed as a girl. — Ah goat involved in amateur dramatics. Ah wis playin a lassie in this drama. Up at rehearsals in the Carnegie Hall, likes. Aye, n ah went fir a wee swallay, n one became several, n ah goat masel locked oot! Thing is, aw ma clathes n cash were locked in the dressin room! Could only happen tae me, he smiles woefully.

  As we drive into Cowdenbeath, I tell him about Hawick and my diminishing hopes of making the tournament. As we get down the high street he seems agitated.

  — Eh … obviously, ah widnae mind if ye could droap me oaf right at ma door. People might, eh, misconstrue things …

  I find myself laughing uncontrollably as he sinks down into the seat, directing me to the small housing scheme behind the railway station. — Fuck, and he ducks further down as he sees some people coming out of that dirty old pub on the corner. — It’s the Neebour Watson!

  Once the guy he doesn’t want to see passes by, we pull up outside Jason’s house. — Jenni, could ah ask ye one mair wee favour? Wid ye mind tappin oan the door n askin ma auld boy tae git ma parka, trainers n tracksuit boatums?

  I’m a bit reluctant to do this, but he seems so desperate. — Well, okay …

  I get out the car and go down the path. Loud rap music blares from inside as I bang on the door. Eventually a man with a crumpled, yellow face opens up, it’s like it’s been burned down one side. On the other side he looks like somebody semi-familiar, but it’s not an older Jason. The noise is almost deafening, and he goes inside and turns it down. As he reappears, I tell him the story Jason told me. He shakes his head doubtfully but tells me to come into a hallway. Everything looks old and smells of deep-fried food. — Sorry aboot yon racket. 50 Cent, he nods, then complying with Jason’s request, runs up the stairs, returning with the items. I take the clothes out to the car. I stay outside as Jason struggles into the bottoms and trainers, and then wraps himself in the parka.

  He gets out of the car, then stops to look at me. — Thanks for that, Jenni. Ah owe ye a favour. He smiles broadly and it transforms his face; all teeth, eyes and enthusiasm. — You’re a top lassie: too cool fir school, likes.

  He goes into the house and I head home, thinking that Jason’s a lot sweeter and a damn sight more interesting than I gave him credit for.

  When I get home my mind is turbulent with the events of the day, so I sit up to watch the repeat of a brilliant documentary on the death of Kurt Cobain. I like this time; when everybody else is in bed and I have the place to myself and the television is actually watchable. Cobain was a genius. To be able to choose death over adulation: isn’t that the ultimate moral courage, of the type we all want to possess? My eyes mist up. I fantasise about Kurt coming into Cowdenbeath on a big motorbike, taking me on the back, driving out of town and eventually travelling down dusty, southern European peasant roads, then stopping to make love on a Tuscan hilltop in the sun. I’m about to have a frig when I hear the front door opening.

  It’s very late, who the fuck –

  Then Dad comes in, with Ambrose, whose face is covered in bandages! Dad’s uncharacteristically coy when he sees that I’m still up. — Eh … awright?

  I approach the dog, only one sad eye visible through the gauze. — What the fuck’s happened to him? I gasp, as if I didn’t know.

  My dad looks down at the poor creature. — Some Rottweilers, two of them, they set on him in the Glen this afternoon. Poor bastard nearly lost an eye. Had to get his face stitched up at the vet’s.

  — And you let that happen to him?

  — What else could I dae? he bleats, then adds, as I spring off the couch, — Since when did you start tae care aboot the dug?

  — Since you’ve been fucking exploiting him like you try to do with everything that comes across your path! I scream at him. I hear him protesting about waking Mum and Indy and I slam the door to drown him out.

  Sure enough, Mum’s on the top of the stairs in her nightgown, pleading, — What’s wrong, Jenni? What is it?

  — Ask the fucking monster you were daft enough to marry! I bark as I go into my room.

  — You’ll respect your father and this house, young lady! she squeals and I hear him placating her on the stairs. I don’t know which of them is worse: him with the morals of a sewer rat or her, who possesses the brains of a gerbil.

  9.

  IN THE GOTH
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br />   THE NEEBOUR WATSON is makin a guid point in the Goth, one that’s teased the mind ay the speculative-natured man fir a long time. — Ah dinnae see how lassies git aw funny aboot they VPLs; like thir no sexy, n a pair ay drawers wi a Calvin Klein label stickin oot ower the tap ay yir jeans is meant tae be.

  — Ken full well whit ye mean thair, ya hoor ye; saw that Lara gaun ower yon hurdle oan Scarlet Jester, the black undies showin through yon white jodhpurs. Aye, ah played that yin back a thoosand times oan the DV.

  — Whae shot it?

  — Me, ya daft hoor! Fae yon Perth tournament last year, ah turns taewards um, — oan the video camera Sheky borrowed fae the local FE college. The main campus in Halbeath Road in Dunfermline, that is, no the poxy wee outpost the hoors have oan the industrial estate doon the road, ah explains tae the Goth guid n great.

  The Duke ay Musselbury comes in, clocks ma near empty gless but makes nae move on ma behalf as eh sets ehsel up. Noted, ya hoor sor.

  — Ah heard thit hur n yon Jenni Cahill ur gaun doon tae the Borders, Hawick like, fir the big tourney doon thaire, ah tells thum. Aye, she fair saved ma life wi her motor, that wee yin last night. Took ma explanation charitably n aw. Quality behaviour in a lassie, that.

  The Duke looks at me like ah’m a bam. — Ye gaun doon?

  — Well, aye. Ah mean, yuv goat tae support two guid Fife lassies against aw yon Perthshire rich-bitches. Patrotic duty as an ambassador for the Kingdom, ya hoor.

  It’s guid tae git some peace, here in the Goth. The auld boy kept playin yon 50 Cent track ‘Many Men (Wish Death Upon Me)’ ower n ower again, louder every time. N him jist sittin in yon battered chair, aw teary-eyed, sippin a can ay Stella.

  10.

  TANNING

  I LIE IN late till the Bastard goes to his work and Indy goes to school and the Non-Event is at the shops, so that I don’t have to face any of them. I’m in a house of monsters, and they fill me with a sick loathing. When the coast is clear, I have a long and delicious frig, imagining myself on the back of the bike of Ally Kravitz, Lara said the dishy guy who hangs around with Jason was called. I can feel the Mediterranean sun on my face but it’s just my own blood rising to the surface of my skin as I come in jarring, violent convulsions. I’ve had sex with just two guys before; neither has felt as good as when I do it with myself.

  I pull the duvet off myself to cool down. After lying in a dizzy stupor for a while, I get up and get ready. Then I’m off in the car and to my step class at the sports centre. The strange old drunkard who sits outside there says something to me or about me. Surprisingly, it didn’t sound that uncomplimentary. — Whatever, I shrug back, heading inside.

  I put in a good session. Afterwards there’s a text message from Lara on my mobile and I meet her in the Alpha Leisure Tanning Studio in the high street.

  We go into adjoining booths. There’s only a flimsy partitioning wall dividing us as we climb onto the beds and they start up with an almighty whirr and an intensive explosion of light that still bursts formidably from under my protective glasses. It’s okay at first, as I think of tropical beaches, and it’s hard to believe I’m on Cowdenbeath High Street. But after a while it gets really hot and I start to get a different image in my head. I see myself as a barbecued chicken on a spit. I swear I can even smell myself cooking. — I’m not sure about this, Lar, I shout through to her from under the banks of light, my bare arse hard against the cold glass. — I think I can feel myself burning. This can’t be good for you.

  — Nonsense, Ms Cahill, comes her disembodied voice from the adjacent machine, — it’ll do you the world of good. Once you get rid of that white, pasty skin, you might be tempted to buy some more colourful clothes instead of black all the time. It’ll be great for Hawick.

  — How will it? It won’t make Midnight’s leg any better or make us jump any higher.

  — You want to look your best for the photographers there. I’ve heard that there might even be some TV cameras, for that STV show, Country Pursuits.

  Afterwards we go to the leisure centre coffee bar. I’m thinking about that horrible Klepto, and Jason, the weird but sweet stalker, and my fucking father and poor Ambrose the dog. How it seems to be my lot to be surrounded by the creeps that Lara draws into her orbit.

  When I get home and check on Midnight in the stable, Dad appears with Indy and he’s on one of his recurrent themes. He says I’m ‘overhorsed’ on Midnight. — He’s an experienced old stager but ye need a fitter, hungrier animal if you’re tae compete properly. There’s a well-schooled six-year-old for sale. See if you like him. He’s a gelding but he’s goat stallionesque spirit. The owners even said it was a mistake getting him done, as they should have bred from him. An Oldenburg warmblood. You cannae beat German horses. A thoroughbred as well. Horses like him dinnae come along every day.

  Indy goes into the stable to check on Clifford the pony. My dad walks towards the fence and shakes it. Poor Ambrose trails pitifully behind him, face still taped together. — How is his face? I ask, following them.

  — Twenty-two stitches. Looks nasty, but it’s superficial. He’s three-quarters pitbull. He ought to have fought back! He looks at the dog in an angry contempt.

  I think of Monty, and Kenneth, his killer dog. — Funny how the dogs went straight for his face. There are no marks on his body.

  — Aye … that’s dugs for ye. They dae that.

  — Especially if they’re trained, eh?

  He looks searchingly at me for a bit, then shrugs. — Best check up on that stable. Fuckin minging, he goes.

  — I try, but it needs so much work, I protest. — And there’s Indy’s pony and the companion animals, and I’m lumbered with the lot!

  — Thir’s a solution tae that, he says.

  He’s going to go on about boarding Midnight with Scarlet Jester in La Rue’s stables again. How many times do I have to say it to get it through his thick skull that it isn’t going to happen! — I know what you’re going to say, I snort.

  — I hear ye aboot the stables. He raises his palms. — I think we need somebody tae help us thaire. Ye cannae git staff they days, eh, he smiles, and I force a response. — I might just ken somebody, he winks at me.

  — Okay, I say quietly back. I realise that I’ve just entered into a pact with him to say no more about Ambrose’s wounds, in order that I get him to pay somebody to skivvy in the stable. It dawns on me that I’m probably as shallow as he is, possibly even more.

  11.

  EAST PORT

  THE NEXT EFTIRNOON ah’m back in Dunfermline, sittin in the East Port wi Olly Mason, whae’s goat ma clathes in a placky bag n is aw fill ay apologies. — I’m so sorry, Jason, but my wife wouldn’t understand this need I have to seek a symbolic communion with my daughter. June’s a wonderful woman, but a terrible reactionary: not open-minded like you or me.

  Fair kens how tae ego massage, thon hoor, ah’ll gie um ehs due. Thir’s geishas spent years learnin thir trade thit couldnae git that close. Things They Dinnae Teach Ye At Kelty Business Skill, right enough. Eh’s fair found ma clitoris, any roads. — Well, ah pride masel oan bein a free thinker in the best Fife traditions, ya hoor sor.

  Olly nods in the gesture ay mutual understandin employed by learned men the world ower. — What you did yesterday helped me so much, eh says, liftin the black gold in a toast motion that ah’m moved tae reciprocate. — Consider the ban rescinded. I’ve been onto the committee and they’ve agreed with my recommendation that we acted too hastily and that the Mossman result should stand, and that Jason King will play Derek Clark from Perth in the next round of the cup! Cheers!

  — Cheers! Delighted tae be ay service, Olly, but it wis an awfay loat ay bother gaun through the toon in drag.

  The hoor’s brows knot, as weel they might. — Yes … I’m so sorry about that.

  This is a rerr pint ay Guinness, though. Ah lick the inevitable foam mowser fae ma toap lip. — Aw’s well that ends well. Goat picked up in the motor by a nice wee lassie ah ken
. A nae-questions-asked type. Wee goth bird, likes, but no in the sense ay the boozer, ah hastily add.

  — Excellent … excellent. Listen, Jason, how would you feel about helping me out again? Olly pleads. — That last session, it was so … cathartic, a couple more at the same level of … intensity … would surely see me able to move on …

  — Well, ah dinnae –

  — Of course, I’d make it worth your while, the boy cuts in. — How does fifty pounds suit?

  Ah thinks aboot this for a minute. Hermless stuff, by any just accoont, sor. — Ah’m game, but if thir’s any chuggin involved ah’m wantin a ton, ah tell um. — Nae offence, but bein in the presence ay another man’s climax disnae dae nowt fir ays; specially whin ah’m the only skirt in the room, ya hoor!

  Olly looks sadly at ays as if tae acknowledge that it’s aw jist business. Aye, cash nexus, relationships, as auld Karl sais. Then eh gies a slow nod. — That would be fine, provided I can record the proceedings? They will, of course, be exclusively for my own personal … therapy only. This I guarantee.

  Ah think aboot this for a while, n shrug. — Awright, cause auld Olly doesnae seem the sort ay felly whae’d want anybody else tae ken aboot this.

  — It’s June’s shopping day in Edinburgh, eh explains in a low whisper as we kill wur pints n head back tae the hoose. What one does fir one’s love ay the beautiful tabletoap game. But if we huv tae prostitute wursels tae thon pimp commerce, then lit’s git the fill goin rate ay bawbees. Basic trade union principles, ya hoor.

  Olly’s set up ehs camera n tripod n wir soon at work. Ah think ah pit the make-up oan a wee bit better this time roond, daein the lippy like the auld girl used tae. Olly’s stagin things much mair now n ahm fair huvin tae work fir ma sheckles. The hoor likes ays tae huv a faraway gaze, while hudin different books he’s gied ays like Little Women or Jane Eyre, like ah wis jist contemplatin a sentence in the work, likes.