by Irvine Welsh
Next thing ah ken is ah’m sittin oan eh’s knee, n eh’s goat ays reading passages oot loud tae um. Simulatin yon coachin gied tae the Kathleen lassie as a young thing, nae doot. Ah fair goat a beamer whin eh telt ays thit ah hud that ‘quality ay innocence’ aboot ays. Really made ays determined tae go oot n git ma hole, that yin did.
Olly’s breathin went as shallow as a hoor that says ‘ah love ye’ n ah wis certain thit perr Kathleen’s dress wid need a guid cleanin.
Whin ah gits back intae civvies n meets the hoor doonstairs, eh goes, — I think I’m almost there, Jason, negotiating those troubled waters of grief with that harbour of serenity almost in sight. Eh, any chance of just one more visit?
— Mibbe will cry it quits fir now, Olly. Ah mean, nae offence, everybody’s goat thir ain wey ay dealin wi bereavement, but ah’ll leave you tae sail this particular ship alaine, if ye dinnae mind, ah’m moved tae tell the hoor.
He nods in slow understandin, n coonts oot the notes, handin thum ower tae ays. — Fair enough, but if you ever change your mind, you know where to find me, eh sais, showin ays oot. Ah shimmy doon thon gairden path, giein um a wee wave, spankin that wedge in ma back poakit, n ah feels fabby, ya hoor sor.
Eftirwards ah stey in Dunfermline huvin arranged tae meet Kravy. We plan oan gaun up tae the Queen Margaret hospital tae see ehs ma. Ah takes a look around the centre for a bit but ah sees that Monty comin oot ay the newsagent wi two or three ay they boys that gied Sheky n me that skelpin thon time. Ah turn the other wey and thankfully the hoors are too loast in thir ain drama ay fag-crashin tae register muh presence. Close shave! Ah consider gaun tae see the auld doll at her hotel, but ah dinnae want tae risk bein frozen oot by the Sperminator, thon wee cunt Arnie. It’s gittin near time tae meet Kravy any roads. Darkness descends like a hoor’s proverbials as I get oot the centre and oantae the main drag. The city chambers looks like a fairy-tale castle wi its turrets as it juts oot intae the street. Ah turn doon the hill and git intae Tappie Toories, a hostelry kent way beyond the borders ay Fife as it wis once owned by the late, great Stuart Adamson, formerly fae Big Country and the Skids.
Ah’ve jist set up some black gold whin ah hears the roar ay a bike engine ootside n then Kravy walks in. Ah set um up a lager. — What’s in the bag, Jase? eh asks.
— Eh … set ay clathes. Left thum at this bird’s the other night whin ah hud tae dae a runner.
— Anybody ah ken?
— Ask nae questions yi’ll git telt nae lies.
So wi hus a quick Artooro, then ah climbs reluctantly oantae the back ay his bike up tae the hozzy.
Whin wi finds the ward ehs ma’s sittin up in her kip. Thir’s a congealed penne picante on a wheelie table by the side ay hur bed. Her beak’s streamin, like she’s been daein tons ay coke. — How goes, Mrs Forsyth?
— Ah seriously doot thit ah’m long fir this world, Jason, son, already spoke tae Faither Maguire. She looks tearfully at Kravy. — Ah jist wish thit muh boy wid come back hame n meet a nice Scottish lassie n settle doon.
— Ah prefer Spanish burds but, Ma, Kravy sais, — especially the chunkier yins. Eh traces oot a fill rather thin oorgless figure. — Barry rides; it’s the Latin spirit. Thir’s this chick ah’ve been slippin the doadie tae up in Setubal, intae threesomes, the lot.
Kravy’s ma sits up n pushes the trolley table away fae the bed. — Huh, we did aw that sort ay thing n aw, son. Hear him, she turns tae me, — thinks eh kin shock ehs auld mother.
It fair leads yin intae contemplation, but. — Funny, Mrs F, aw the auld yins up the Goth say the same thing. Tell ays thit pre-Aids, thir wis some vintage ridin gaun oan in Fife. The young team ur aw intae it as well; that Ballroom up the road, um telling ye, ya hoor, ye’d end up oan the register jist walkin in thaire oan a Seturday night! Aye, it jist skipped a generation, or at least ma pert ay the generation! Lorenzo’s n aw, ah tell thum, now in effervescent form, — the Miners’Welfare back in Cowden cannae compete!
— Aye, bit this yin here, she looks at her laddie, — still thinks thit eh’s invented sex. Besides, whin ye git tae ma age ye realise thit thir’s mair tae life.
Kravy looks contemptuously at his striken ma, gypsy-broon lamps risin up ehs foreheid. — Aye, n you’re tryin tae tell ays thit they injuries ay yours wurnae sustained in the hunt fir a lum sweep? eh sneers. Fuck me, ah widnae be able tae talk tae muh ma like that. The chops wid be mair fuckin tanned thin that wee Lara’s chorus eftir a session oan yon sunbed!
— I was having a social glass of wine on a night out with some of the lassies from the bingo, his ma protests in formal tones.
N that’s whit maist ay the evening consists ay: listenin tae thaime windin each other up. When we git oot, it’s brass monkey weather n ah dinnae feel like gittin oan the back ay yon bike. Ah’m almost tempted tae elaborate oan my porky pie aboot seein this bird in Dunfermline, tellin um ah’m gaunny meet her, then sneakin oan the 19 or 30 fae Halbeath Road, or even doon tae the station. But ah swallay hard and climb oan the back.
Kravy accelerates away that quick my bowels and hert are still in Dunfermline whin the outskirts ay the Beath ur comin intae view!
God, it’s great tae git oaf that fucker. Whin ah arrives hame, muh auld boy goes, — That gangster hoor, thon Tam Cahill, he wis oan the phone fir ye. Ye want tae keep away fae thon scum, thon’s a wrang yin.
— Thoat you wir intae gangsters?
— Gangsta’s son, thir’s a big difference.
— Aye, right, ah go, too tired tae argue, whit did eh want?
The auld boy forces oot some air as ehs lips purse. — Ah dinnae ken. Telt um tae fuck off.
— Ye didnae …
— Naw, bit ah felt like it, the auld man scowls at ays. — Dinnae be bringin trouble tae this hoose.
— It’s only aboot some stablework, ah tell um, raising they palms in appeal.
— Thir’s nae employment that’s stable right now, the hoor says, totally missin muh drift. — No fir the workin cless at any rate.
Well, ah didnae fancy another lecture oan politics oafay him, so ah flung oan the glad rags and opted tae go oot tae Starkers niteclub, owned by redoubtable Fife businessman, Eric Stark. When ah git thaire, the sign has been vandalised, the activity ay the Young Team ah’m wagerin, as the first ‘R’ hus an ‘L’ painted ower it. It’s an awfay young crowd. Thir’s two lassies sittin at a table aw made up n wi aw the slap oan it takes ays a while tae recognise thum as Roastin Wi Sweat n Soakin Wi Rain. One ay them waves at ays. — Ah ken you fae somewhaire, she threatens.
Ah fell like sayin, ‘Cowdenbeath, perchance?’ but ah sits doon cause tae muh surprise Roastin Wi Sweat looks the pert wi the warpaint oan. It wid take ah few mair nips inside ays before ah’d plunge thon pork bayonet intae that Soakin Wi Rain, but. Hobbies include: pregnancy, cigarettes and daytime television.
— Did you no used tae stey next door tae Alison Broon? ah asks Roastin Wi Sweat.
— Aye. Her wee sister Evelyn used tae be muh best pal.
Wee Evelyn, wi the braces oan the teeth. Doaktir Lecter, ah used tae call her; only in jest but, ya hoor.
— Thoat ah wis yir best pal, Soakin Wi Rain cuts in, really pit oot.
— Aye, but she used tae be, but. Yonks ago likes, Roastin Wi Sweat hastily pacifies her.
Ah’m thinking aboot they braces again. Wonderin if the grown-up Evelyn could be induced tae wear thum in a one-off, purely fir the purposes ay giein oral pleasure, ya hoor. It moves ays tae enquire, — Whatever happened tae wee Evelyn Broon?
Roastin Wi Sweat takes a fag oafay Soakin Wi Rain n lights up. — She went ower tae Canada wi Alison n her man. They sponsored her. Think she’s goat a felly now, ah ken she’s goat a bairn.
— What aboot Alison?
— Last ah heard she hud three bairns, Roastin Wi Sweat goes n Soaking Wi Rain nods approvingly.
— Aye, jist goes tae show, eh. So what aboot you ladies? Any of youse enjoying that fine institution of motherhood?
— What? Soa
kin Wi Rain goes.
— Youse goat bairns?
— She’s goat two, Roastin Wi Sweat points at Soakin Wi Rain whae glows in a bovine pride.
She’s giein me the look like ah’m now supposed tae say ‘ye dinnae look auld enough’. — Whaire ur they the night?
— Muh ma’s goat thum, she says. Then she screws her face up and goes to her mate, — Watch muh coat, um gaun fir a pish.
As she departs Roastin Wi Sweat turns tae ays n discloses, — She’s up the duff again. It’s his, she grasses, pointin ower at this wee guy fae the Young Team, whae isnae that wee. In fact, eh’s a monster; shaggy black hair, a white shirt and a bottom drawer ay a chin hingin open tae catch any stray flies. — Big Craig thaire. He screwed her when they wir baith steamin in the perk. That’s three bairns wi three different fellays, Roastin shakes her heid in somethin like disgust. — Ah mean, ah want bairns, but wi jist one nice felly, whae wants tae be wi me. She takes a drag oan her fag, and looks around hopefully. — That’s no too much tae ask, is it?
Ah’m thinking thit in this place, ye might as well wish fir the fill set ay lottery numbers.
Anyway, the stink ay desperation is social bromide, so ah move oaf patrolling the dance flair in search ay better prospects. Maist huv been sectioned oaf as Young Team property, bit. Every time ah try tae make eye contact wi something decent, a steely glint ay the type usually found sandwiched between two swathes ay Burburry check comes intae view.
Whin ah say thit the fanny isnae bitin, ah mean thit ah could be standin ‘starkers’ in an Edinburgh sauna wi a wad tied roond the wee fellay and ah’d still be oan a KB.
Ah git a bit humpty and order a lonely pint ay lager at the bar. Then ah hears this voice in muh lug. — Every cunt’s entitled tae a wee bit social exclusion, Jason, but there’s nae need tae monopolise it. Come and join us.
Ah turns roond tae see yon big Tam Cahill. Eh points ower tae the roped-oaf VIP section whaire some big hitters oan the Central Fife social scene are sittin gathered. Thir’s that boy Sammy F Hunter, him that wrote the science-fiction novel aboot the asteroid hittin Fife n nae cunt giein a fuck. That wis years ago, but jist whin ehs star wis oan the wane, along comes yon Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans n they call the cunt a visionary, sayin thit eh predicted exactly the American government’s response tae yon crisis! Thir’s a big Fife literary presence right enough; if ah’m no mistaken next tae Sammy we’ve goat the poet Ackey Shaw, reckoned tae be yin ay Jim Leishman’s greatest influences. Eh penned the pamphlet ‘A Hermless Cunt’ which the literary magazine Chapman gave positive reviews tae, aye sor.
Ya hoor, once ye go under yon rope ye step intae another world; a veritable galaxy ay champagne ice buckets, sunbed hoors n big deals talked, a wee bit ay Stringfellay’s relocated tae Fife Central.
— Jason King. Wur great white hope at the sport ay kings at one time, Cahill addresses the company. — Was formerly signed up to Cliff Redmond’s stable in Berkshire, right, Jason?
Ah hate this bit cause ah ey end up huvin tae explain why ah nivir ran, lit alaine won a pro race. What kin ye say whin yir life began at fowerteen n wis ower at eighteen?
— Aye, ah goes.
Fortunately, the onus is taken away fae ays as Tam Cahill turns roond tae Sammy F, n goes, — This man here wis an apprentice jockey n aw.
— Aye? Ah’m surprised, n the sci-fi scribe looks like he is n aw.
Tam pats the boy’s ample gut and goes, — An apprentice Jocky Wilson, that is.
Everybody hus a wee laugh, n ah’m thinking that old Tam Cahill isnae such a bad felly eftir aw.
12.
TRADITIONS
I HAD TERRIBLE dreams last night. I curse myself and my stupidity and weakness with that Klepto idiot. I curse Lara, for getting me involved with scum like that. Most of all, I curse him. I won’t forget it either; one day, some way, I’ll watch the bastard squirm as I kick in his buck teeth.
I go downstairs to get some breakfast. I’m planning to head to the leisure centre for the kick-boxing introduction class. The steps are too boring, and I want to be able to punch and kick hard. It seems to be a required skill in these parts. I’m sitting at the breakfast bar and I start suddenly as I look beyond the partition into the lounge and see a figure rising in the semi-darkness from the settee. I’m about to scream, when I realise it’s that creepy wee Jason!
— Eh, hiya … he says, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. — Ah met Tam last night … we eh …
My dad appears in the doorway, trussed loosely in his dressing gown. He rubs at his eyes. — Morning, he says in clipped tones.
— Ah, Tam … wis jist telling Jenni here how I was a bit the worse for wear the other night and you played the Good Samaritan and took me back here tae crash on yir couch.
— Aye, my dad says, suddenly becoming animated, — but ma charity isnae boundless, Jason. So once you’ve hud yir slice ay toast or whatever that garbage is, he looks at my high-fibre cereal, — you can git tae work muckin oot in thon stable. Sweat some ay that bad beer oot ay ye!
— Ah’m oan the case, Tam, he says, rising, — ready for a fill day’s shift!
Jason helps himself to some coffee I made, and a couple of slices of toast.
— So, you’re going to work in the stable, eh? I ask.
— Aye … Tam … yir dad, reckons that I’ve a good wey wi animals. Ah’m cleaning them oot, feeding the hoarses and takin that dug fir walks. Yir faither reckons he needs mair exercise.
This is a double-edged sword. I’m far from happy that I have another weird acquaintance of Lara’s hanging about, without me even being consulted as to who looks after Midnight, but I have to say that I’m delighted at all the time this is going to free up for me!
My dad comes back in, with Ambrose on the chain leash. — Aye, yir a proper Dr Dolittle, Jason. Ah need your skills with animals, son, and he hands poor Ambrose over to him.
— He’s a beauty, Jason says, warily taking the leash. He looks shocked at the wounds in the dog’s face. — What happened tae ehs coupon?
I’m about to say something, but I stop myself, remembering the tacit pact, of which, I suppose, this Jason is now a part. As my mum and Indigo come through, my father repeats the lie.
— A sair yin, Tam, fir the boy, likes, Jason nods.
Mum picks up her coat and takes Indy out to the car to run her up to school in St Andrew’s. I start to head out after them, but I decide to hang around outside the kitchen door.
I hear my father’s voice, low, conspiratorial. — Three-quarters pitbull, one-quarter retriever; a killer with intelligence. You huv tae look eftir him while I’m no aboot. Ah dinnae trust the missus, fuckin shite-for-brains, tae dae tae it right, n ah widnae trust him aroond the wee yin.
— What aboot Jenni?
— She’s no interested, he scoffs dismissively. — Aw she cares about is that scabby auld hoarse ay hers.
— Eh … awright, Tam. Ye mentioned something else last night? this Jason tentatively asks.
— Aye … see how ye go wi this yin first, his voice rises, and I can sense he’s coming back out, so I head into the hallway and slip out the front door. I see Lara coming by on Scarlet Jester. I’d forgotten that we’d arranged to have a session with Fiona La Rue at the stables. — Hi, Lar! I shout, moving over to her. Jason and my father have appeared on the doorstep behind me and are both waving at us or should I say her, then they look at each other, each of them suddenly seeming uncomfortable.
— Hi, Jen! Hello, boys, she smiles, getting down from Scarlet Jester and putting him in the stable beside Midnight and Clifford the pony. Curran the pig scuttles to the back of the pen and they all seem pleased to see each other. Except for poor old Ambrose, whom my father ties miserably to the post outside. Then he goes inside and Jason starts cleaning out the stable. Lara and I talk about the forthcoming Hawick show and after a bit we harness up the horses for a light canter across the field, but Midnight is struggling and can barely break out of a walk. I can tell he
’s distressed as he pulls forward, tearing the reins from my grip, which he never usually does. We decide to stay here and Lara calls Fiona La Rue to reschedule. Midnight and I have to watch Lara and Scarlet Jester flying over the small jumps.
I take him outside the stable, keeping on his halter and bridle, and clip him to the posts with the horse ties. Removing the bridle, saddle and saddle pad, I start to groom him. With the hoof pick that hangs on the post by the ties, I do his soles, one by one, taking special care with that sore front left leg. A heavy snort tells me he’s in discomfort, so I leave it. I get the curry-comb and start rubbing in circular motions. He loves this and settles down into a steady rhythmn of breathing, dozing contentedly.
I see Jason come out of the stable, big welly boots covered in horseshit. He looks at me and Midnight and his eyes are bulging out of his head. Then he gives me a strange wave as Lara comes over with Scarlet. — Hello, Jason, she smiles coolly as she dismounts in an easy athletic sweep. — Helping out here?
— Eh, aye. Hiya. Aye, a wee bit ay assistance, he says.
Thankfully, Lara wants to go into town, and we restable the horses and jump into the car. As we depart I look back to see Jason gaping at us open-mouthed and slack-jawed. My dad appears and shouts something at him and he springs to attention.
In the car, I turn to Lara: — It was Monty’s dog that did that to Ambrose, wasn’t it?
— Yes, but he didn’t know it was your dad’s dog at the time.
— What difference would that have made?
— Quite a lot, from what I gather. I think he’s a bit wary of your dad, Lara says, her eyes wide with excitement, — like he’s some kind of gangster.
I roll my eyes in disdain.
Lara seems impressed though. And I recall the satisfying fear that Klepto scumbag displayed when he found out who my father was. — Well, she contends, — it’s better than having a doctor as a dad!
But I think some people in this town have overactive imaginations. — He’s a boring old haulage contractor, I say dismissively, — and he’s too sad and depressing to be scary.