by Irvine Welsh
— Just sign it for Danny, I tell him.
— Wow, he says, — that’s a Skarrish accent. Edinboro, right?
My accent snares the old fruitbat, and after putting up with his obligatory crap see-you-Jimmy impersonations, we decide to go for a drink. He asks me to excuse him for a second while he has a brief communication with the guy who was chairing the event. I browse at some books for a bit, flicking through Jackie Chan’s autobiography. Then the buftie chef comes over and says, — Ready for that drink?
I nod and follow him towards the exit. The chair gadge waves at us, so does another of the bookshop staff who looks a mincing ferret of the highest order, pouting in a disgruntled manner at me like I’ve just nicked his bird. Tomlin smiles and gestures back in departure but says under his breath, — What an obsequious asshole that man is!
As we walk down Van Ness Avenue my head is spinning. I can’t see how this man can possibly be my father and I can’t see how he can not be, both at the same time.
For months now I’ve felt death around me, closing in on me. I fear that I’m becoming like Moira Ormond and all the other girls at our school whom I used to detest. The goth lassies who read too much Sylvia Plath and listened to too much Nick Cave and wore too much black clothing. They were my enemies and I wonder what their lives are like now. Was it just teen angst or had they known all this kind of stuff I’m learning about now, all this death and decay? Surely some kids must experience loss in their adolescence and it must affect them. I wish I’d taken the trouble to find out before being so dismissive.
Thinking about Moira, the strange beauty in her luminous eyes, her imperturbable determination to disregard the maltreatment we would dole out, a horrible anxiety comes over me, rising from the pit of my stomach, going through my spine and spreading up my back like a shivering rash. I have an urge to contact her and apologise and tell her that I understand now, but she’d probably just look blankly at me or laugh in my face. I’d deserve no less.
Two porters stand at the entrance of the hospital, smoking ciga- rettes. An older, chunky guy and a younger, thin one. As I approach they’re all big smiles but my sadness seems to transmit to them and their faces slacken and drop. I’m like a plague of despair. Misery loves company and I’m dreading seeing my brother.
When I was in yesterday, with all those tubes going in and coming out of him, his face gnarled with tape and the monstrous breathing hose spewing from him like an emerging parasite caught heading off to richer pickings, I thought that he would never wake up.
My shoes click almost indecently across the floor against the morgue-like silence of the ward. The first thing I’m relieved to see is that my brother is still alive. And it’s better; death’s grip seems to have loosened just a little. Now, as I move by his bed, I can see that his eyes are open. At first I thought my own were playing tricks on me, but no, he’s looking right at me, regarding me in an almost guileful, collusive way. The tubes are still coming out of him and he can’t speak because of the mask taped to his face but he winks at me, and his eyes are full of strength, hope and a life in him that I’ve not seen for a long time.
I find his hand under the covers and squeeze it. He squeezes back. Yes! It’s strong, and maybe I’m seizing at hope but this isn’t the grip of someone who’s dying! I’m smiling now, not noticing the tears in my eyes until they start to roll down my cheek. I grin at him and, clearing my throat, say, — Hiya, Bri. Welcome back.
30
Fags
DON’T TAKE THIS the wrong way, I’ve nothing against fags, you know what I’m sayin? In fact, watching two guys getting it on is really cool. Not a turn-on, more really fucking beautiful, cause those gay guys are always so goddam buff.
Danny’s thin, but he’s built, like he works out himself. And he does all this moisturising and flosses his teeth. And I gotta admit that boy is hot in the sack. Knows how to use his fingers and his tongue. — Where did you learn those tricks, baby?
— Leith, he says. — It’s just one big school of sex. Our motto is: persevere.
— You certainly do, honey, I tell him. God, he’s a dreamboat. But this shit about his dad kinda gets me. An overrated quest for sure: I never knew my old man, although we grew up in the same house. He was at work when I got up for school, still there when I went to bed and worked most of the weekends. The asshole divorced my mom when I was eight. Now he sometimes calls when he’s in town on business and takes me to lunch. Or tries to: I always insist on splitting the check, which really makes the jerk uncomfortable. We talk about our jobs, his new family, the menu, and food in general. So Danny never knew his father. It’s maybe best like that. Sometimes it’s like, well, what’s to know?
So now we’re at this Tomlin guy’s restaurant, this fag chef who’s supposed to be Danny’s old man. Or maybe not. Tomlin is a fag okay, although that counts for nothing nowadays. My ex, Gavin, well, he was a faggot who went straight, then went back to being a queen again. So yeah, I’m not that well disposed towards ambivalents these days.
They’re talking about this bar that he and Danny’s mother worked in, back in the late seventies. Danny was born in ’80, a couple of years after me. The dates fit. But instead of answering the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, ‘Did you engage in unfaggot-like activities on Sunday 20th of January 1980 in Edinboro, Skatlin?’ this Tomlin guy just seems to get off on shit-talking every asshole he ever worked with.
I’m getting a little frustrated listening to this bullshit. Tomlin is one of those guys who is dripping with need from every pore and Danny can’t see it. And he can’t see it because he’s blinded by his own goddam need. He seems to want to believe this asshole is his old man. I’m impatient and irritated and I know it’s not my place, but the champagne he’s provided, which Danny’s refused, is going to my head. Whatever, I cut to the chase. — So, Greg, did you and Danny’s mom – what’s her name, Danny?
— Beverly, Danny says curtly, and he’s looking disapprovingly at my drink, which I do not need right now. I remember Gavin used to say, ‘Why can’t you keep your mouth shut when you’ve had a drink?’
I got a lot of satisfaction in telling him that the problem wasn’t drink and my open mouth, but drink and his open asshole.
— Did you and Beverly Skinner get it on?
Tomlin rolls his eyes and looks wearily at me. He’s the kind of secretly woman-hating queen who likes fag hags that make a fuss of him but can’t deal with the sort of bitch who’ll be upfront about his bullshit. — It’s very hard for me to be definite, he lisps. — It was an exciting time, punk was big, we were all young, it was pre-Aids and all very free and easy. We drank loads of booze and had some very wild parties.
I feel my eyebrows arching and I’m thinking: yeah, you and just about every other sucker in this universe, pal. It’s called, like, youth. Tomlin gets my vibe and looks pretty damn uncomfortable, his wide fag eyes seeming like refugees from someone else’s face.
— What I’m saying, he clears his throat, — is that I slept with a lot of people round then, men and women, and it’s more than possible that Beverly was one of them, he says, and it sounds like a fucking recital to me.
— So you could be my dad, Danny nods.
— It’s more than possible. Tomlin smiles the TV grin of the professional sleazebag. I’m sure I saw this creep once on that food channel. Making some faggoty dish, Hawaiian Roast Macadamia Nut Tempura or shit.
This smells like bullshit to me. I want to say, well, let’s get it on with the DNA testing then, asshole, but it’s not my place as Danny has to see through this bum himself. But he seems to want to believe it so much, and I don’t want to see my tartan toy boy getting hurt, so I’m gonna watch this Tomlin motherfucker. ‘I slept with a lot of people.’ Bullcrap! I’m not as old as he is, but unless you’ve got dementia, you always remember who you’ve fucked. And this creep looks nothing like Danny, nothing at all.
31
Gymnasium Days
DOT AND I have been
having a great time, hanging around, shagging and smoking dope. But her work seems to be frustrating her right now and she’s a bit moody when we go out to eat. In the restaurant, she doesn’t like the table or the decor, and you suspect that she won’t find the food up to scratch either. — Post-dot com, she winces huffily in this now admittedly slightly tawdry yuppie pad in the Mission.
Yes, it is like it’s just past its best and they’ve sort of given up. A stain on the ceiling from water leakage has only half-heartedly been painted over. One cracked pane of glass in the partition dividing the dining area from the kitchen has not yet been replaced. I point these blemishes out to Dorothy. — That’s pretty gross, she frowns. — If a place like this stops trying . . . then her face ignites in an almost theatrical smile as a waiter approaches and she almost sings, — . . . but the food is always so-oh goood!
Dorothy has been conditioned, perhaps by recent experiences, to disapprove, but has a sort of in-built self-regulatory mechanism. Almost in spite of herself, there is music in her soul and it plays loudly. — The seafood is a good bet. Try the warm lobster Martini with cilantro, orange and champagne sauce.
— Anything less boozy? I ask, considering my friend across the pond.
— God, it’s only flavouring, and in any case the alcohol boils away when they reduce the sauce. Don’t be so goddam obsessive, she scolds, as her eyes involuntarily stray to the bottle of red wine at an adjacent table. The waiter is making a meal of pouring it and the recipient couple are really hamming it up; all long, languid post-coital grins and husky purrs of appreciation. I look at Dorothy’s face, her greeny-hazelnut eyes, eager and hungry, and I’m thinking, maybe I should up the ante a bit here.
Then she catches me and gives me a gently urging look but the waiter is by our side and my moment has passed. He hands her the wine list and she waves it away with an upturned palm saying, — We won’t be needing that, and the poor cunt’s eyes bulge like a sad dog who’s been beaten for something he doesn’t understand.
The finality of it all makes me feel both elated and totally despondent. I look at the menu again, and the beef looks nice, a soy-glazed fillet with an eggplant and pepper marmalade, but that means red wine. Curse you, Foy, curse you and your education. Red meat always means red wine to me. Chicken or fish, I can resist the temptation of white and stick to the sparkling mineral water, but red meat . . .
— You don’t look too comfortable Danny, Dorothy says, almost challengingly.
— Eh, I’m fine.
— You didn’t really want to come out, did you?
— I . . . I start but find myself drying up. What can I say? I can’t tell her or anybody else about my relationship with Kibby and alcohol. They’d think I was a nutter; twisted, delusional. Maybe I am. It doesn’t make any sense, and from here even less than before.
— You have to face up to temptation. We still need to go out. We can’t spend our lives cooped up in my apartment.
I smile, thinking about it. Is that to be the nature of my disease, locked up in exile in her pad in order to protect Kibby, on the other side of the world, with his new liver? And why not stay, marry Dorothy, get the green card, take citizenship classes, swear allegiance to the flag, maybe head out to a small town in Utah, get hooked up with some religious order, live a pish-free existence. Wife, kids, car, church, home, garden. Isolate yourself from the evil out there, the devil in the bottle, the demon drink.
— I know, I know, it has to be done, I agree. — You’re a very cool girl, Dorothy, I tell her. Then I add, with feeling, — You make me strong, make me better than I am.
She leans back in her chair, slightly uneasy. — You’re weird, she says, and yes, I am. I look across to the couple beside us and if I whipped that glass of wine off their table and knocked it back I’d probably be firing a bullet into the back of a poor wanker in Edinburgh, Scotland.
— Sorry. I’m a bit socially awkward at times, but I just wanted you to know . . .
— But nice weird, she smiles.
After the meal we go straight home, and to bed. The sex is very good and the endorphin rush certainly won’t do Brian any harm. It’s also the closest to a ride the poor wee cunt’s had or is likely to get for some time, at least on that side of his body. Lying with Dorothy, Kay’s ghost has receded, perhaps supplanted by a strange guilt that I didn’t do better by Shannon or, for that matter, some of the lassies I went through quite callously back home.
There’s always fucking something. Scotland: the recipe for disaster. Take a cut of Calvinist repression, sprinkle on some Catholic guilt, add lots of alcohol and cook in a cold, dark, grey oven for three-hundred-odd years. Garnish with gaudy, ludicrous plaid. Serve with chivs on the side.
The next morning I rise early and check my email for news of Kibby. There’s nothing, but Gareth has got in touch.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: Goodbye Mister McKenzie
Hello Danny
I hope you are having a great time in sunny California. I’m very sorry to be the bearer of bad news but I have to tell you that Robert McKenzie died suddenly in an accident in Tenerife. He was on holiday there with some of the boys. Dempsey, Shevy, Gary T, Johnny Hagen, Bloxo and I think Eric the Red and Peter No Tool were there.
Details of Big Rab’s demise are sketchy right now.
Sorry about that. Things have been dull here otherwise. It’s very cold. Took the kids to see Hibs v Alloa Athletic in the CIS Cup. 4–0 Hibs. Easy street.
Best wishes
Gareth
Big Rab . . . he must have gone back on the peeve with the boys, the silly cunt . . . or maybe he got done over by a rival firm out there . . . naw . . . you have to be very fucking unlucky to get seriously injured in a football row . . . Brian Kibby unlucky . . .
His heart might have packed in, but he was supposed to be in good nick now . . .
I decide to head outside and call Gary Traynor. It’s a scratchy call as it’s on his mobile, but I need to get the details.
— Gary, Danny. Heard about Big Rab.
— Skinny! he crackles exuberantly.
— Aye, Big Rab, I remind him.
— Sair one.
— Fuck sakes . . . how?
— He was in the fitness room at the hotel, pumping iron on the multigym. The big man had been daein that twenty-four/seven since he went off the peeve. Bloxo and Shevy wir wi him, ye ken what they bouncer types are like for the weights. Anyway, this fuckin mosquito comes along and bites the big felly. He suffers an allergic reaction and goes intae shock.
— Fuck sakes . . .
— The boys see the mozzie. It’s that full ay his blood that it can hardly fly. In true bouncer fashion they escort the fucker tae the door . . .
— Traynor, what are you talking about? I laugh. This cunt takes nothing seriously.
— Just a wee fuckin joke tae illustrate how big yon mozzie cunt wis! Anyhow, they took the big man to the hospital but he died shortly eftir, eh. Extreme allergic reaction, one in eight million chance. Poor Rab. Done by a puny insect.
— Could’ve been worse, I say, getting into it and we join together in unison, — might have been a Jambo!
I feel a shudder of guilt, but the big felly would have liked that one, of that I’m sure.
— Ye gaunny get back ower for the funeral next week? Gary asks.
No, that would be too much of a potential piss-up for me to endure and I have to find out more about Greg Tomlin, to see if he really is the one. — I’ll see, I say, — but it might be hard to get a flight at short notice. Will you send flooirs for me?
— Nae bother. It’s a long wey. The big yin would have wanted ye tae enjoy your holiday.
— Aye . . . cheers, Gaz, I say, letting the phonecard run down.
32
Pulled Up
THE SHAFTS OF brilliant, golden light pour in through the gaps between the blinds in Dorothy’s front room. That great Oasis line springs to mi
nd: Nobody ever mentions the weather can make or break your day.
I’m checking out her extensive CD collection. Homesick, I look for something with a Skarrish bent, but there’s no Primal Scream, Orange Juice, Aztec Camera, Nectarine No. 9, Beta Band, Mull Historical Society, Franz Ferdinand, Proclaimers, Bay City Rollers . . . the only thing I can find is one tartan cover. The artist is ‘Skarrish’ American country and western star ‘Country’ George McDonald and the album is called Savin’ For Another Rainy Day. I play the title track. It has a catchy chorus:
Ain’t expectin nuthin no good’s ever gonna come my way,
So I’m just savin for another rainy day.
It’s followed by a number called ‘(You Could Get) A Bottle of Whisky (For the Price of That)’ and then a cover version of George Harrison’s ‘Taxman’, which seems heartfelt and inspired.
Dorothy comes through wearing a green bathrobe with her hair wrapped in a towel, and catches me reading the sleeve notes. — Oh, you found Country George’s album. I got that in Texas. He’s Skarrish.
— What’s his story then?
— Oh, he just got out of jail. Something to do with the IRS, I think, she explains as she files her nails. — I keep breaking these bastards, she informs me, — it’s the keyboard.
Dorothy’s working today, and I’ve got to go and meet Greg for lunch. I get ready at my leisure and hook up with him at a café in North Beach. It’s a busy place, brightly lit, full of strip pine and chrome, one of those sorts of gaffs crammed with yuppies and students with laptops and folders, all beavering away, more like a fucking office than a coffee shop. These cunts that say all self-righteously: I work from home. Do they fuck work from home, they’re in everybody’s faces; in cafés with their laptops, in the streets and on the trains barking into their mobile phones about orders, sales profiles and consolidated accounts, forcing us all to reference their boring shit. Soon there will be no division at all between work and leisure. Each shithouse will have a built-in computer terminal with webcam so that you need never be off-line or uncontactable.