by Irvine Welsh
Jenni jumps across in front ay um. — Fucking leave him! You did that to his face, at the dogfight! I know because I was there!
She picks up Ambrose’s leash. Tam’s just standin thaire, glaring daggers at me.
— What? ah goes, in appeal. — Ah didnae take her. Ah’ve no been tae any dugfight in ma puff!
— Let’s get away from this psychopath, Jenni shrieks and pills Ambrose doon the path n ah look back at Tam, shrug n follay.
— Whair ur you gaun, lover boy? You’ve goat work tae dae!
— Sorry, Tam, ah’m wi Jenni, ah say, and ah feel a bit bad cause it’s goat tae be said that Tam’s treated me awright.
— Fuck off then! Pair ay yis! See how long ye last without me peyin for everything! Fuckin parasites, the lot ay yis! N eh turns n heads back intae the hoose.
Jenni’s takin Ambrose tae the car n ah’m followin. It hus tae be said thit ah’m happy tae get in as ah dinnae fancy stickin roond here wi him in that mood. Naw, sor, ya hoor. Jenni starts up the motor, n pulls oot ay the drive. Whin wi hits the road she says, — He’s an animal. I have to get out of this place now. We have to take Ambrose with us or he’ll go the same way as Midnight!
— Aye … lit’s git back tae mine. Ah’ll say goodbye tae ma faither. Tell um wir away. Tae Spain!
— I can’t fucking wait, Jenni hisses, then breks intae a big smile. — Oh Jase, it’ll be so fucking excellent!
We drive intae the toon for a bit, stoapin at the offie fir a wee boatil ay champers tae celebrate. Headin back oot ontae the street, wee Jack Anstruther’s there, lookin a bit pished, but definitely smarter in ehs appearance. Showin ehs face in the Goth a lot, by aw accounts. — Awright, Jack? Mind ay Jenni?
— I certainly do, eh smiles, n lifts her mitt fir a kiss oan the back ay it. Fair play tae her, she manages tae maintain a smile. A lassie pushin a pram passes ays, n Jenni lits oantae her n thir soon bletherin. Just then, the Neebour Watson comes intae view, carryin what looks like a box ay tools.
— Awright, Neebour? Moonlightin?
— Jack, Jase, eh goes. Then eh moves in closer. — Ask nae questions n ah’ll tell yis nae lies, ya hoors.
Ah asks Jack in a low voice, — Ah nivir goat the real story as tae how the Kirk gied ye yir marching orders. It wis hoorin, right enough?
Jack shakes ehs heid in disgust. — Despite ma detailed citations ay scripture that made ridin hoors acceptable, it fell oan deef ears in George Street.
The Neebour looks outraged at this. — But no in the church, durin the Sabbath, in front ay the congregation!
Ah laughs loudly, noddin ower tae Jenni and the bird, who ur startled. Jakey resolutely shakes ehs heid at the Neebour. — Ah’d peyed fir tweenty-fower ooirs n tweenty-fower ooirs ay wis gaunny git. Ah couldnae help it if yon snooty Elders came in early wi thir fuckin wives tae arrange flooirs n caught ays wi the bird in midcowp across the altar. Tell ye whit, but, Neebour, Jason, eh sais tae ays, ehs wee face gaun aw lecherous leprecaun. — It wis worth it. The best ride ah hud, n the lassie, she even said the same hursel. Nice young lassie; Ballingry, if ma memory serves ays right.
Ah jist aboot felt thon boatil ay champagne ah wis haudin slip through ma fingers. Ah made ma apologies n goat Jen, n wi piled back intae the motor.
Whin we git back thir’s nae sign ay muh faither, but thir’s a note oan the kitchen table, written oan a Ladbrokes’ bettin slip.
Miners’ Welfare at eight the night, a surprise party. Got some news.
— What the fuck’s gaun oan here?
— I don’t know, but we have to go to the party, Jenni says. — We’ll take the champagne. Then we get out of here, just driving through the night … on the motorbike.
Ah dinnae really like the sound ay that. Temptin fate big time, especially eftir Kravy. Dinnae want tae be seen as an unromantic shitein cunt, but. — Eh … what aboot Ambrose?
— I know somebody who’ll look after him. We can send for him later. I want to get out of this place on Kravy’s bike. Her wee lamps light up like a Kelty hoor thit’s goat a Christmas bonus. — It would be so symbolic, don’t you think? It’s what he’d want, I’m sure of that!
How the fuck does she ken what eh’d want? She nivir even spoke tae the boy. Still, ah’m no arguing; she’s the one wi the tits n fanny, n it’ll be a long time afore ah’m satiated enough tae turn ma nose up at thon currency! Ah’d defo rather go by the fuckin motor masel, but it isnae the time tae discuss the issue. Ah’d been hopin, as should uv happened, thit the bike wid uv been written oaf, but the fucker hud an even mair miraculous escape thin me. Wi pit the champers in the fridge n leaves Ambrose doonstairs n head up tae ma scratcher fir a bit ay recreation. It takes a bit ay pleadin, but eventually Jenni lits ays go oan toap, eftir the fourth go.
Ah’ve worked oot thit if ah achieve five orgasms a day till ah’m thirty ah’ll huv hud a roughly average sex life. Cannae make number five though, that wid require chemical assistance, cause ah fair shoot ma load ay gravity-assisted spunk intae her. That’s whit gaun oan top does fir ye!
Sleep hits ays like a sledgehammer. Ma last thought as ah drift under: Ballingry? Whaire the fuck’s that!
Whin ah come to, thir’s still nae sign ay ma faither n it’s dark outside. My eyes are blurred wi too much sex-sleep, that comatose state when yir plunged right doon intae deep sleep n come up quickly, like a diver thit gits the bends. Ah kin make oot the digital crystal display oan the cloak:
8:57
— Wake up, Jen, ah shout in panic, — we’ve goat tae be up the Welfare!
She rolls ower. — For fuck’s sake, Jason, give me five minutes to revive!
But ah gits right up and whips oan the keks, strides n then the rest ay the clathes. Fair play tae her, she follays suit. Ah’m watchin her gittin dressed n it turns ays oan that much ah feel the wee fellay risin again, but ah decide tae hit the bog n gie they choppers a brush tae git rid ay the scum ay sleep.
Ah cannae believe ma eyes whin wi git up the Welfare, Ambrose oan the leash. The place is mobbed n thir’s a big banner up, a sheet wi words in black paint which spell:
CONGRATULATIONS FRANCES AND ALAN
Aw ah kin think is thit one’s the auld man’s name n the other’s the name ay Kravy’s ma! Muh freaky speculations git confirmed whin she waltzes ower drunk, n flashes a ring oan her engagement finger. The auld cunt’s been oan that bus tae Dunfy visitin HM Samuel, the hoor!
— Spur ay the moment, homes, the auld boy says a wee bit coyly, his airm roond Kravy’s ma. — Thir hud ey been a spark, but we wir eywis baith involved. Then ah stoaped leavin the crib … the auld boy involuntarily touches his foundation-poodired puss.
— Thoat this stallion had broken ootay the stable n taken the high road, Kravy’s ma, Frances ah’ll need tae start callin the hoor, goes. — It wis only whin Ally came back, n she smiles through hur tears, — thit eh telt me thit yir faither wis still in toon!
Ehs mates hud a whip-roond, aw the auld miners, n pit oan a rare spread; aw different sannies, sausage rolls n a karaoke wi tons ay booze. Ah cracks open a can ay lager, n Jenni does the same. — This is great, she sais, — my family would never do anything like this!
Ah dinnae think she kens her auld boy aw that well. Big Tam wis never shy aboot pittin ehs hand in ehs poakit, n eh’s no bad company oan a night oot. That wis a guid yin at Starkers, ah’ll gie the hoor that.
A nice buffet, but, ya hoor. As a sweet-tooth, ah’m fair taken by the big Black Forest gateau, so ah cuts masel a piece ay thon action. Ah pick up a fork n lift a wee stodgy chunk ay nirvana intae ma gob. Jenni smiles at ays. — I need to pee, she says, risin and headin fir the bogs as ah clock that erse feelin like ah’m in Eden.
Jist then a viper enters paradise. That big cunt Monty comes in n looks aroond. The punters that notice him are a bit wary, but maist ur jist absorbed in ma auld man’s mate Alec’s rendition ay ‘The Green Green Grass of Home’. Big Monty comes up tae me, n bends doon, stickin ehs face in ma ear. — Hear you’ve
been makin insinuations aboot dugs, eh sais, ehs breath stinkin ay something. — Lit’s step outside, the hoor threatens softly, — or I bring some ay the boys in. It wid be a shame tae see this happy occasion git ruined, eh smiles, lookin doon at perr Ambrose in disgust, whae’s under the table, chowin oan some quiche.
Ah cannae really say that much, as ah’ve goat a bit ay gateau in ma mooth. Ah forces it doon n turns tae the Duke whae husnae heard what he said but whae looks awfay unhappy. — Jist sortin something oot, ah explain wi a wink. — it’s aw cool, ah’ll be back in a minute.
N ah gits up n the big cunt n me baith start walkin tae the door, mair like wi were best mates thin gunfighters.
The funny thing is thit ah realise that ah dinnae feel scared at aw. Ah’m jist ready tae take a slap, n that’s aw it wid be here, wi aw they cunts around; mibbe a couple ay digs. Ah’ll go doon, listen tae the hollow threats n thir honour will be restored n the perty willnae be disrupted.
Whin ah gits outside ah see that Pars cunt Klepto’s thaire n aw. The hert’s flutterin a wee bit now. A big cunt like Monty’ll jist gie a wee cunt like me a couple ay wee digs. Eftir aw, honour will only be compromised by a sustained liberty-takin dwarf massacre. A vicious wee bastard like Klepto though, that hoor will go slutty oan ye. Ah actually feel masel shrinkin fae him, movin taewards Big Monty like eh wis ma protector, hopin eh unloads first tae pit ays oot ma misery. Eh susses muh game, steppin back, littin that Klepto cunt take ower. — Ye obviously didnae git the message, jockey, you n that Chinky mate ay yours, the hoor sneers, n eh pushes ays in the chist, workin up the boatil tae dae something mair. Ah takes a step back, jist as Richey the Assaultee comes oot the Welfare tae stand by ma side.
— Whae the fuck ur you? Monty asks incredulously.
Richey goes, — Look, this is a very good friend of mine, n ah hear Monty laugh behind ays.
Ah’m aboot tae tell the daft hoor that ah’ve everything worked oot and that ehs blowin it aw n eh should go inside, when Klepto says tae Richey, — What the fuck ur you sayin? Eh? Eh?
But the daft cunt stands ehs groond. — Ah’m jist sayin thit this is a good friend ay mines. I think we all need to calm doon here, eh sais, straight oot that ScotRail staff trainin manual, the chapter oan diffusin violence, written by so-called behavioural experts whae’ve never faced a radge doon in thir puff.
Of course, it disnae impress the Klepto fellay. — What …? eh gasps in outrage, like Richey hud accused um ay shaggin ehs kid brother.
Daft hoor thit Richey is, eh’s still puffed up, rooted tae the spot. — Look, mate –
— Ah’ll fuckin mate ye! Klepto roars, n eh rams ehs nut intae that ginger puss. N as Richey faws tae the groond ah’m sure thir’s a big smile playin acroas ehs lips.
— Whae’s next? Klepto says in excited satisfaction, lookin right at me. — You want some then, ya cunt? Eh?
Ah glances roond at Big Monty, almost in appeal, then at perr Richey, lying spreadeagled. — Nup, ah goes.
This sort ay stops Klepto in ehs tracks. Eh disnae really ken what tae say fir a bit, so eh opts fir, — Shitein cunt!
— Sorry, mate, ah’m no much ay a fighter, ah explain, stickin ma mitts intae ma jaykit poakit, soas eh kin see ah’m no aboot tae swing. Ah feels something blunt and metallic in thaire. It’s yon fork. Ah dinnae even mind ay slippin it in thaire. Probably no very sherp, but.
— Whaire’s yir posh wee burd then? She no here tae look eftir ye? eh goes, pushin ays in the chest. — Wee hing-oot wis –
Blunt or no, eh shouldnae be giein it loads tae a tooled man, n ah whip the fork oot n ram intae ehs puss. N fuck me, it’s no that blunt, like a silver bullet oan a vampire, ya hoor! It’s stickin oot the side ay ehs face, embedded in ehs imitation Fife cheek. Ah backs away, but ehs paralysed wi the shock. Whin the hoor finds ehs tongue, it’s like a bairn greetin, — Eh chibbed ays! Eh fahkin chibbed ays!
— It wis jist a fork, ah protest, stepping back. Ah looks at Monty whae’s jist standin thaire. — Ah telt um that ah cannae fight. What else am ah meant tae dae? ah appeal again.
Monty’s aboot tae drop-kick ays when thir’s a cry fae across the road n a healthy mob ay the local Young Team led by yon big Craig, wi some lassies in tow, aw come chargin ower. — That’s the big cunt, Soakin Wi Rain points at Monty. — Gied ays a bairn n did a runner! The CSA’s gittin tae ken you’re in Dunfermline, son! she screeches.
Monty snarls something n slaps Soakin, whae owerdramatically faws tae the groond bawlin hur eyes oot. Craig fae the Young Team shouts, — That’s ma fuckin bairn she’s cairryin! n leathers Monty, whae gits intae him, but the Young Team swarm in, n the Dunfy boys are drowning in a sea ay Burberry. Ambrose steps oot the doors ay the Welfare wi Jenni, n ehs goat that ‘dinnae look at me, ah might be maistly pit bull, but ma soul’s pure retriever’ expression. Ah’m wonderin if thir’s some sort ay command wi kin use tae activate the boy, but the Young Team huv goat it aw in hand n Dunfy take a bit ay a splatterin, or the stragglers dae, cause the rest ay the cunts ur oan thir toes, heading back at speed taewards thir scabby toon. The Young Team gie chase but let it go, preferin tae panel the slowcoaches and the wounded. A mature mob thuv bested, quite a result fir thum, n fir me n aw! Monty’s got away, but yon Klepto’s taken a bad yin n ehs left groanin at the boatum ay the Welfare steps.
Jenni’s now flanked by the Neebour n the Duke, whae fair fly oot the doors ay the Welfare. — What’s going on? she asks, then she sees Klepto takin a fair skelpin fae two young boys at the boatum ay the steps. Ah catch something skite through the air and ah realise that the fork’s been punched ootay ehs puss! She’s right doon, n she pushes past the boys n fair boots the buck-toothed cunt right in the chops! Ya cunt, muh erse fair tightens, nivir mind his. Mental note made: no tae mess. Standin ower um, she shouts, — Ma dad’s Tam Cahill. We know where you live and you are fucking dead!
The boot goes in again. Ah gits doon n pills her oaf um. — Steady, Jen, ah goes, pickin up the bloodied fork fae the groond. Eh looks up at us, as if beggin fir mercy. The Young Team boys stand ower um, open-moothed, waitin fir the signal tae indulge in mair pavement opera. — Ye’d better git doon the fuckin road, pal, ah tells um, mercy bein an underrated quality in this world.
The cunt staggers tae ehs feet, wobbling doon the street like a new-born calf, tae the laughter n cheers ay every cunt. The mobile-phone cameras uv been trained oan um fir some time, documentin the proceedins wi cauld insect eyes; a global media democracy where nae cunt hus a private life n nae cunt escapes humiliation. The only bone ay contention is the size ay the audience tae witness it.
Big Craig shouts in triumph, — The Cowdenbeath Casual Firm came ay age the night! Dunfy pricks! Let’s git this posted up for they Methil wankers tae think aboot next Saturday!
As they congratulate each other, Craig goes, — Kent you wir the man, Jase! eh sais, giein ays a big hug. — Stuck the cunt wi a fork! Right in ehs Dunfy chops!
— I saw the blood, it was spurting from his face like a fountain, Jenni says admiringly, n ah feel like the fuckin King ay Fife awright. Whaever said that violence was shite has never been in that satisfyin position ay vanquishin a bad cunt ay an adversary.
— This is the fuckin man! Craig shouts again, n some wee jailbait neds gie ays pats oan the back.
— Thanks, boys, ah say. — Aye, ah think ye cawed it right, big man, ah tells Craig. — Wi fair witnessed the birth ay a formidable wee mob the night.
— Whaire wir the auld team? Inside wi thir beer n sannies! Craig laughs, lookin at Neebour n the Duke, whae’ve goat the guid sense tae smile n take it aw in jest.
Aye, thir’s cackles aw roond, so ah decide tae chance ma luck. — A wee question, ah whispers tae the wee big cunt. — Did youse buckle thon sign at the Perth Road? That ‘REDUCE SPEED NOW’ hoor?
Craig looks at ays wi ehs mooth open, thinking fir a bit, then ehs eyes come intae slow focus. — Aye. That wis us. How?
— Jist wondered, bro, ah say, slappin the big w
ee cunt oan the back. — Thanks again fir the backup, likes.
— Nae problem. We Beath boys huv tae stick thegither, Craig says, in a passionate address tae the rest ay the Young Team, then adds, — CCF!
— Fife Central, ya hoor, ah nods.
— That’s right … Ah hear a semi-breathless groan n turn tae see thit perr Richey’s goat tae ehs feet.
A fist tae the side ay ays coupon followed by a boot in the kidneys shuts him up. — Git fucked, ya tube, a hard-faced wee Young Team boy says.
Richey staggers oaf doon the road, groaning in agonised ecstasy. — See ye later … Jason … eh gasps.
— Is that your mate? Craig nods. — Cunt’s eywis gittin wide wi us oan the fuckin train … Anyway, see ye, Jase, Craig says, gesturin tae ehs posse tae head oaf. We see a stunned Klepto still haudin ehs face as eh staggers doon the road. Ehs powerless as a wide wee cunt ay aboot twelve runs eftir um n boots um up the erse, tae the laughter ay the mob, whaire still filmin proceedins wi thir phones.
— Whaire ye gaun! Soakin Wi Rain shouts eftir the departin Craig.
— Ah’ll phone ye! eh sais, hudin up ays mobile, then laughin as eh retreats, exchanging play kung fu kicks n a big laugh wi one ay ehs mates whae made some comment. Soakin Wi Rain turns tae these other two lassies, urgin thum tae follay the Young Team. Thir fair takin thir time respondin tae the lassie’s request, but.
Ah well, that’s young cunts fir ye. They dae what they dae; 80 per cent ay thum’ll grow oot it, the other 20, well, that’s why yuv goat prisons n cemeteries n drug overdoses. Ah wis thinking, anwey, thit Kravy wid huv bit the dust if eh’d hit the unbent sign, perhaps no quite as spectacularly, mind you.
So that night, n it’s been an exhaustin yin, n it’s good tae git tae kip eftir sayin goodbye tae ma Fife buddies. Thought the Neebour n the Duke wir pretty graceful aboot it aw, mair so thin Reg Comorton, whae skulked away doon the street. The auld man didnae seem too bothered, but ye could tell thit aw eh wis thinking aboot wis gittin Frances back hame n roadtestin yon new placky hip ay hers. A win-win situ fir sure; if it doesnae stand the punishment, then it’s surely grounds fir a big compo claim against the NHS. But eh’s left us the hoose, n wi git in, too shagged oot fir any ridin, passin oot in the bed.