by Irvine Welsh
Richard was unrepentant about his indiscreet comment. Far from it, he followed up his attack, attempting to construct in me an appropriate figure for his hatred. — We Dutch, we went to South Africa. You British oppressed us. You put us into concentration camps. It was you people who invented the concentration camp, not the Nazis. You taught them that, like you taught them genocide. You were far more effective at that with the Maoris in New Zealand than Hitler was with the Jews. I'm not condoning what the Boers are doing in South Africa. No way. Never. But you British put the hatred in their hearts, made them harsh. Oppression breeds oppression, not resolution.
I felt a surge of anger rise in me. I was almost tempted to go into a spiel about how I was Scottish, not British, and that the Scots were the last oppressed colony of the British Empire. I don't really believe it, though; the Scots oppress themselves by their obsession with the English which breeds the negatives of hatred, fear, servility, contempt and dependency. Besides, I would not be drawn into an argument with this moronic queen.
— I don't profess to know a great deal about politics, Richard. I do find your analysis a tad subjective, however. I stood up, smiling at Chrissie who had returned with cartons of Häagen-Dazs topped with slagroom.
— You know what you are, Euan? Do you? she teased. Chris-sie had obviously been exploring some theme while she was getting the ices. Now she'd inflict her observations on us. I shrugged. — Look at him, Mister Cool. Been there, done it all. You're just like Richard and me. Bumming around. Where was it you said you wanted to head for later on?
— Ibiza, I told her, or Rimini.
— For the rave scene, the ecstasy, she prompted.
— It's a good scene to get into, I nodded. — Safer than junk.
— Well that's as maybe, she said petulantly. — You're just Eurotrash, Euan. We all are. This is where all the scum gets washed up. The Port of Amsterdam. A dustbin for the Eurotrash.
— I smiled and opened another Heineken from Richard's cold basket. — I'll drink to that. To Eurotrash! I toasted.
Chrissie enthusiastically bashed my bottle with hen. Richard reluctantly joined in.
While Richard was obviously Dutch, I found Chrissie's accent hard to place. She occasionally had a Liverpool affectation to what generally seemed to be a hybrid of middle-class English and French, although I was sure it was all a pose. But there was no way I was going to ask her where she was from just so that she could say: all over.
When we got back to the 'Dam that night, I could see that Richard feared the worst. At the bar he tried to ply us with drink in what was obviously a desperate attempt to render what was about to happen null and void. His face was set into a beaten expression. I was going home with Chrissie; it couldn't have been more obvious had she taken out an advertisement in the newspaper.
— I'm shattered, she yawned. — The sea air. Will you see me home, Euan?
— Why don't you wait until I finish my shift? Richard desperately pleaded.
— Oh Richard, I'm completely exhausted. Don't worry about me. Euan doesn't mind taking me to the station, do you?
— Where do you stay? Richard interjected, addressing me, trying to gain some control over events.
I flipped up my palm in a halting gesture, and turned back to Chrissie. — The very least I could do after yourself and Richard giving me such a good time today. Besides, I really need to get my head down too, I continued, in a low, oily voice, allowing a dripping, languid smile to mould my face.
Chrissie pecked Richard on the cheek. — Phone you tomorrow baby, she said, scrutinising him in the manner of an indulgent mother with a sulking toddler.
— Goodnight, Richard, I smiled as we made to leave. I held the door open for Chrissie and as she exited I looked back at the tortured fool behind the bar, winked and raised my eyebrows: — Sweet dreams.
We walked through the red-light district, by the Voorburg and Achterburg canals, enjoying the air and the bustle. — Richard is incredibly possessive. It's such a drag, Chrissie mused.
— No doubt his heart's in the right place, I said.
We walked in silence towards Centraal Station where Chrissie would pick up the tram to where she stayed, just past the Ajax Stadium. I decided that the time was ripe to declare my intentions. I turned to her and said. — Chrissie, I'd like to spend the night with you.
She turned to me with her eyes half shut and her jaw jutting out. — I thought you might, she smugly replied. There was an incredible arrogance about her.
A dealer, positioned on a bridge over the Achterburg canal, caught us in his gaze. Displaying a keen sense of timing and market awareness he hissed, — Ecstasy for the sex. Chrissie raised an eyebrow and made to stall, but I steered her on. People say that Es are good for shagging, but I find that I only want to dance and hug on them. Besides, it had been so long that my gonads felt like space hoppers. The last thing I needed was an aphrodisiac. I didn't fancy Chrissie. I needed a fuck; it was as simple as that. Junk tends to impose a sexual moratorium and the post-smack sexual awakening nags at you uncompromisingly; an itch that just has to be scratched. I was sick of sitting wanking in Rab/Robbie's front room, the stale musty smell of my spunk mixing with the hashish fumes.
Chrissie shared an apartment with a tense, pretty girl called Margriet who bit her nails, chewed her lower lip and spoke in fast Dutch and slow English. We all talked for a bit, then Chrissie and I went through to the bed in her pastel-coloured room.
I began kissing and touching her, with Richard never far from my thoughts. I didn't want foreplay, I didn't want to make love, not to this woman. I wanted to fuck her. Now. The only reason I was feeling her up was for Richard; thinking that if I took my time and made a good job of this, it would give me a greater hold over her and therefore the opportunity to cause him much more discomfort.
— Fuck me... she murmured. I pulled up the duvet and winced involuntarily as I caught a glimpse of her vagina. It looked ugly; red and scarred. She was slightly embarrassed and sheepishly explained: — A girlfriend and I were playing some games ... with beer bottles. It was just one of those things that got a bit out of hand. I'm so sore down there ... she rubbed her crotch, — do it in my bottom, Euan, I like it that way. I've got the jelly here. She stretched over to the bedside locker, and fumbled in a drawer, pulling a jar of KY out. She began greasing my erect cock. — You don't mind putting it in my bum, do you? Let's love like animals, Euan... that's what we are, the Eurotrash, remember? She spun round and started to apply the jelly to her arse, beginning with the cleft between her buttocks, men working it right into her arsehole. When she'd finished I put my finger in to check for shite. Anal I don't mind, but I can't handle shite. It was clean though, and certainly prettier than her cunt. It would be a better fuck than that floppy, scarred mess. Dyke games. Fuck that. With Margriet? Surely not! Putting aesthetics aside, I had castration anxiety, visualising her fanny still being full of broken glass. I'd settle for her arse.
She'd obviously done this before, many times, there was so much give as I entered her arsehole. I grabbed her heavy buttocks in both hands as her repulsive body arched out in front of me. Thinking of Richard, I whispered at her, — I think you need to be protected from yourself. I thrust urgently and got a shock as I caught a glimpse of my face in a wall mirror, twisted, sneering, ugly. Rubbing her injured cunt ferociously, Chrissie came, her fat folds wobbling from side to side as I shunted my load into her rectum.
After the sex, I felt really revolted by her. It was an effort just to lie beside her. Nausea almost overwhelmed me. I tried to turn away from her at one point, but she wrapped her large flabby arms around me and pulled me to her breast. I by there sweating coldly, full of tense self-loathing, crushed against her tits, which were surprisingly small for her build.
Over the weeks Chrissie and I continued to fuck, always in the same way. Richard's bitterness towards me increased in direct correlation to these sexual activities, for although I had agreed with Chrissie not to disclose
our relationship to him, it was more or less an open secret. In any other circumstances I would have demanded clarification of the role of this sweetie-wife in our scene. However, I was already planning to extract myself from my relationship with Chrissie. To do this, I reasoned, it would be better if I kept Chrissie and Richard close. The strange thing about them was that they seemed to have no wider network of close friends; only casual acquaintances like Cyrus, the guy who played pinball in Richard's bar. With this in mind, the last thing I wanted to do was to alienate them from each other. If that happened, I'd never be shot of Chrissie without causing the unstable bitch a great deal of pain. Whatever her faults, she didn't need any more of that.
I didn't deceive Chrissie; this isn't merely a retrospective attempt at self-justification for what was to happen. I can say this with confidence as I clearly recall a conversation that we had in a coffee shop in Utrechtesstraat. Chrissie was being very presumptuous and starting to make plans about me moving in with her. This was glaringly inappropriate. I said overtly what I had been telling her covertly with my behaviour towards her, had she cared to take note of it.
— Don't expect anything from me, Chrissie. I can't give. It's nothing to do with you. It's me. I can't get involved. I can never be what you want me to be. I can be your friend. We can fuck. But don't ask me to give. I can't.
— Somebody must have hurt you really badly, she said shaking her head as she blew hashish smoke across the table. She was trying to convert her obvious hurt into feelings of pity for me, and she was failing miserably.
I remember that conversation in the coffee shop because it had the opposite effect to the one I'd wanted. She became even more intense towards me; I was now more of a challenge.
So that was the truth, but perhaps not the whole truth. I couldn't give with Chrissie. You can never put feelings where they're not. But things were changing for me. I was feeling physically and mentally stronger, more prepared to open myself up, ready to cast aside this impregnable cloak of bitterness. I just needed the right person to do it with.
I landed a job as a reception-clerk-cum-porter-cum-dogs-body in a small hotel in The Damrak. The hours were long and unsocial and I would sit watching television or reading at the reception, gently ssshhing the young drunk and stoned guests who flopped in at all hours. During the day I started to attend Dutch language classes.
To the relief of Rab/Robbie, I moved out of his place to a room in a beautiful apartment in a particularly narrow canal house in the Jordaan. The house was new; it had been totally rebuilt due to subsidance of the previous building into the weak, sandy Amsterdam soil, but it was built in the same traditional style of its neighbours. It was surprisingly affordable.
After I moved out, Rab/Robbie seemed more like his old self. He was more friendly and sociable towards me, he wanted me to go out drinking and smoking with him; to meet all the friends he'd vigilantly kept away from me, lest they might be corrupted by this junky. They were typical sixties time-warp Amsterdam types, who smoked a lot of hash and were shit-scared of what they called 'hard drugs'. Although I didn't have much time for them, it was good to get back onto an even footing with Rab/Robbie. One Saturday afternoon we were stoned in the Floyd cafe and we felt comfortable enough to put our cards on the table.
— It's good to see you settled, man, he said. — You were in a bad way when you came here.
— It was really good of you to put us up, Rab . .. Robbie, but you weren't the friendliest of hosts, it has to be said. You had some coupon on ye when you walked in at night.
He smiled. — I take your point, man. I suppose I made ye even more uptight than ye were. It just freaked me a bit, y'know? Workin like fuck aw day and ye come in and there's this wasted cunt whae's trying tae git oaf smack ... ah mean I was thinkin, likes, what have I taken oan here, man?
— Aye, I suppose I did impose myself, and I was a bit of a leech.
— Naw, you wirnae really that bad, man, he conceded, all mellow. — Ah was far too uptight, likes. It's just, you know, man, I'm the sort of punter who needs my own personal space, y'know?
— I can understand that, man. I said, then, swallowing a lump of spacecake, smirked. — I dig the cosmic vibes you're sending out here, man.
Rab/Robbie smiled and toked hard on a spliff. The pollem was very mellow. — You know, man, ye really caught me out acting the arsehole. All that Robbie shit. Call me what you always called me, back in Scotland. Back up Tollcross. Rab. That's who ah am. That's who ah'll always be. Rab Doran. Tollcross Rebels. T.C.R. Some fuckin times back mere, eh man?
They were pretty desperate times really, but home always looks better when you're away from it, and even more so through a haze of hash. I colluded in his fantasies and we reminisced over more joints before hitting some bars and getting rat-arsed on alcohol.
Despite the rediscovery of our friendship, I spent very little time with Rab, due mainly to the shifts I was working. During the day, if I wasn't taking my language classes, I'd be swotting up, or getting my head down before my shift at the hotel. One of the people who lived in the flat was a woman named Valerie. She helped me with my Dutch, which was coming along in leaps and bounds. My phrasebook French, Spanish and German were also improving rapidly due to the number of tourists I was coming into contact with in the hotel. Valerie became a good friend to me; more importantly, she had a friend called Anna, with whom I fell in love.
It was a beautiful time for me. My cynicism evaporated and life started to seem like an adventure of limitless possibilities. Needless to say, I stopped seeing Chrissie and Richard and seldom went near the red-light district. They seemed a remnant of a seedier, more sordid time that I felt I had left behind. I didn't want or need to smear that gel on my cock and bury it in Chrissie's flabby arse anymore. I had a beautiful young girlfriend to make love to and that was what I did most of the day before staggering onto my late shift, strung out on sex.
Life was nothing short of idyllic for the rest of that summer. This state of affairs changed one day; a warm, clear day when Anna and I found ourselves on Dam Square. I tensed as I saw Chrissie coming towards us. She was wearing dark glasses and looked even more bloated than ever. She was cloyingly pleasant and insisted we went to Richard's bar in Warmoesstraat for a drink. Though edgy, I felt that a greater scene would have been caused by cold-shouldering her.
Richard was delighted I had a girlfriend that wasn't Chrissie. I had never seen him so open towards me. I felt a vague shame about my torturing of him. He talked of his home town of Utrecht.
— Who famous comes from Utrecht? I gently chided him.
— Oh, lots of people.
— Aye? Name one?
— Let me see, eh, Gerald Vanenberg.
— The PSV guy?
— Yes.
Chrissie looked at us in a hostile manner. — Who the fuck is Gerald Vanenburg? she snapped, then turned to Anna and looked at her with raised eyebrows as if Richard and I had said something ridiculous.
— A famous international footballer, Richard bleated. Trying to reduce the tension he added. — He used to go out with my sister.
— I bet you wish he used to go out with you, Chrissie said bitterly. There was an embarrassed silence before Richard set us up with more tequila slammers.
Chrissie had been making a fuss of Anna. She was stroking her bare arms, telling her that she was so slim and beautiful. Anna was probably embarrassed but was handling it well. I resented that fat dyke touching up my girlfriend. She became more hostile towards me as the drinks flowed, asking me how I was getting on, what I was up to. A challenging tone had entered her voice.
— Only we don't see him so much these days, do we, Richard?
— Leave it, Chrissie ... Richard said uneasily.
Chrissie stroked Anna's peach cheek. Anna smiled back awkwardly.
— Does he fuck you like he fucks me? In your pretty little bottom? she asked.
I felt as if the flesh had been stripped from my bones. Anna's face contorted
in discomfort, as she turned towards me.
— I think we'd better go, I said.
Chrissie threw a glass of beer over me and began verbally abusing me. Richard held her from behind the bar, otherwise she'd have struck me. — TAKE YOUR FUCKING LITTLE SLUT AND GO! A REAL WOMAN'S TOO MUCH FOR YOU, YOU FUCKING JUNKY VERMIN! HAVE YOU SHOWN HER YOUR ARMS YET?
— Chrissie ... I said weakly.
— FUCK OFF! JUST FUCK OFF! BANG YOUR SILLY LITTLE GIRL YOU FUCKING PAEDOPHILE! I'M A REAL WOMAN, A REAL FUCKING WOMAN . ..
I ushered Anna out of the bar. Cyrus flashed his yellow teeth at me and shrugged his broad shoulders. I looked back to see Richard comforting Chrissie. — I'm a real woman, not a silly little girl.
— You're a beautiful woman, Chrissie. The most beautiful, I heard Richard say soothingly.
In a sense, it was a blessing. Anna and I went for a drink and I told her the whole story of Chrissie and Richard, leaving nothing out. I told her how fucked up and bitter I was, and how, while I'd promised her nothing, I'd treated Chrissie fairly shabbily. Anna understood, and we put the episode behind us. As a result of that conversation I felt even better and more uninhibited, my last little problem in Amsterdam seemingly resolved.
It was strange, but as Chrissie was such a fuck-up, I half thought of her a few days later when they said that the body of a woman had been fished out of Oosterdok, by Centraal Station. I quickly forgot about it, however. I was enjoying life, or trying to, although circumstances were working against us. Anna had just started college, studying fashion design, and with my shifts at the hotel we were like ships in the night, so I was thinking of chucking it and getting another job. I'd saved up quite a healthy wad of guilders.
I was pondering this one afternoon, when I heard someone banging at the door. It was Richard, and as I opened up he spat in my face. I was too shocked to be angry. — Fucking murderer! he sneered.
— What... I knew, but couldn't comprehend. A thousand impulses flowed through my body, fusing me into immobility.
