by Irvine Welsh
A note dropped through the door, which was not discovered by Smith until Monday morning, when he was ready to leave for work. It told him that his mother had had a stroke and was seriously ill. He phoned Pete up.
— How's Mum? he asked, guilty at not being able to instil more concern into his tone.
— She died last night, Pete's flat, hollow voice told him.
— Aw... right... Smith said, then put down the phone. He didn't know what else to say.
In the year since he got satellite television, Ian Smith had gained three stones in weight, just by sitting in the armchair and munching biscuits, chocolate ban, ice-creams, fish suppers, pizzas, Chinese takeaways, and convenience snacks from the microwave. He had even started to take the odd day off work on the sick so that he could watch videos in the morning and afternoon. However, on the morning he learned of his mother's death, he went into work.
There was a soft ache in his chest at the funeral; a contrast to the shell-shocked grief of his brother and the disbelieving hysteria displayed by his older sister. Smith's pain was at its most acute when he thought of the love she'd given him as a child. However, images from films kept interspersing with those memories, anaesthetising the pain. Try as he might, Smith was unable to sustain these reflections to an extent that their poignancy might hurt him. As soon as the opportunity presented itself, he sloped off from the funeral and headed home via two video rental shops, his chest pounding and mouth salivating in anticipation of being able to tick off another couple of entries from Halliwell's. He was getting closer.
Over the days that followed, he took advantage of his bereavement by using the special leave to watch more videos. He hardly slept, staying up all night and most of the day. On occasion, he took amphetamine, scored from his neighbour Jimmy Quinn, in order to keep him awake. His mind was not at its customary ease, however; images of Julie seemed to be sandwiched between his every conscious thought. He never thought of his mother; it was as if she had never existed. Eventually he came to inhabit a zone which embraced conscious thought, dreams and the passive viewing of the television screen, but where the boundaries between these states could not be easily discerned.
It became too much, even for Ian Smith. Barring work, his only forays outside his flat had been quick visits to the video shops and the supermarket. One evening he switched off the video and went for a walk by the Water of Leith, unsettled and unable to concentrate on his evening's viewing. A row of cherry blossoms by the landscaped bank of the stagnant river gave off a pleasing aroma. Smith strolled along as the twilight began to give way to darkness. His steps disturbed a group of youths in hooded tops who dropped their voices and sneaked furtive then brazenly threatening looks at him. Smith, blind to them in his thoughts, strode on. He passed the wheezing alcoholics on the benches, whose dislocated growls snapped at demons remembered or imagined; the empty cans of superlager; the broken glass; the used condoms and the dog shite. A hundred yards away an old stone bridge arched darkly across the still, rancid waters.
Someone stood on the bridge. Smith increased his stride, observing her figure as it came into focus. Approaching her, he stood for a moment watching her smoke a cigarette. Her sallow face buckled inwards as she inhaled powerfully. It gave him the strange impression that the tobacco was the consumer and she was the depreciating product: with every puff she was being used up. On reflection, he considered, that impression was spot on.
— Ye lookin fir a date? she asked him, without any charm in her voice.
— Eh, aye, ah suppose, Smith shrugged. He really didn't know.
Her eyes travelled down his body and she quickly coughed out a short list of terms and conditions. Smith nodded in the same vague acquiescence. They walked silently back to his flat, taking a narrow road bounded by disused warehouses on one side and a large stone wall on the other. A car trundled slowly over the cobblestones, pulling up at the solitary figure of another woman, who, after a short conversation, disappeared into it.
At Smith's flat they went straight to the bedroom and undressed. The stale stench of her breath did not stop him from kissing her. She never brushed her teeth because she hated men kissing her. They could do anything except that. Kissing was the only dung which prevented her from forgetting what she was doing, which made her confront its hideous reality. Smith, however, had no intention of kissing her.
He mounted her thin body, at first uncomfortable on her jagged bonyness Her expression was frozen; her eyes clouded by opiates or apathy. Smith saw his own countenance reflected in hers. He forced himself through her dryness in short jabs, the both of them gritting their teeth in pain and concentrating until her juices began to flow. Smith found a rhythm and pumped mechanically, all the time wondering why he was doing this. She moved with him, bored and grudging. The minutes passed; Smith implacably maintained his activity. After a certain length of time had elapsed, Smith knew he would never come. His penis seemed to grow harder but at the same time experience a growing numbness. Expressions of shock, then denial, then disbelief came over the woman as a demanding ache in her body forced her reluctant mind into step with it, joining it in the chase for the climax.
After she came, fighting to maintain her silence, he stopped, still hard and erect. He withdrew, and made his way to his jacket pocket where he extracted some notes and paid her. She felt confused, and vulnerable; a failure in the only thing she had ever been able to do successfully. She got dressed and left full of shame, unable to make eye contact.
— Cheers then, Smith said, as she exited into the stair.
— Prick. Fuckin prick, she hissed back at him.
As far as he was concerned there was nothing more to say.
A few days after this incident, a far more significant event took place. Smith came into the office whistling. This constituted an extrovert performance by his normal standards of behaviour and was picked up on by his workmates.
— You're looking pleased with yourself, Ian, Mike Flynn observed.
— Just bought a new video camera, Smith stated, then added, with unbecoming smugness, — state of the art.
— Christ, there'll be nae stopping ye now, Ian eh? Holly-wood here we come! Tell you what, we'll get Yvonne here to star in a porno movie. You direct, I'll produce.
Yvonne Lumsden looked bitterly at them. She had recently rejected clumsy, drunken advances from Mike on a night out, and was concerned that they might be colluding against her, nasty in rejection, reverting to adolescence, like some men tended to do.
Mike turned to Smith and said: — No, we'd better keep Yvonne out of it. We want it to be a box-office success, after all. She threw a pencil eraser at him, which bounced off his forehead, causing him more alarm than he let on. Alistair, the thin, anaemic supervisor looked over with a tetchy expression designed to register his disapproval of this horseplay. He liked things to be what he constantly referred to as 'ordered'.
— Alistair can be the leading man, Mike whispered, but Smith's expression had returned to its normal state: a study in detachment.
That evening Smith took the bus home as it was raining heavily. Scanning the evening paper he noted that eighteen-year-old Paul McCallum was in the Royal Infirmary intensive-care unit, fighting for his life after being the victim of an apparently motiveless attack in the city centre yesterday evening. I hope the boy makes it, Smith thought. He reflected that human life has to be sacred, it has to be the most important thing in the world. There was still no news of Amanda Heatley, the kidnapped child. Smith went to his flat, tried out the camera, then watched another video.
The video is hard to get into. Smith's mind wanders. He tries to make himself feel hurt, forces himself to think about Julie. Did he love her? He thinks so. He can't be sure, because whenever that rising feeling in his chest starts, something seems to just shut it off.
The next day Smith notes that there is nothing about the guy Paul McCallum in the paper. He doesn't know whether this is good or bad. What is no news? He opens Halliwell's and tre
mbles with excitement. The book has been completed. Every film listed has been viewed and reviewed. The words that Mike Flynn had spoken at the office came back to haunt him: What do you do when you've marked off the lot? The highlighter pen cruises over the tide: Three Men and a Little Lady. He briefly thinks of Amanda Heatley. One man and a little lady. Real life was often less sentimental than Hollywood. Then something hits Smith. He realises that out of all the entries, this one, the last one, is the only one he has ever ranked zero. He writes in the margin:
0. SICKENING YANK SCHMALTZ, A SEQUEL EVEN MORE NAUSEATING THAN THE ORIGINAL.
Then he wonders: surely there must have been a worse film than that. He checks the entry on the Marty Robbins produced, directed, written, starred-in and soundtracked effort E1 Paso, but no, that got one point. He checks out some of the British films, because if the British know how to do one thing, it is how to make terrible films, but even Sammy and Rosie Get Laid scored two points. It's time, he decides. He stands up and puts another videotape in the machine. He stares at the screen.
The video Smith is watching shows a man climbing a set of stepladders with diligence, but at the same time looking straight into the camera. His eyes are full of fear, staring out at Smith. Smith feels and mirrors his fear and gazes straight back at the screen. Still staring out, the man reaches for a rope tied like a noose, which is secured to decorative but sturdy, parallel pine beams which run across the ceiling. He puts the noose round his neck, tightens it and kicks away the stepladders. Smith feels himself being pulled into the air and experiences a disorientation as the room swings and jerks and he feels a weight crashing around his neck, choking him. He spins around in the air and catches a glimpse of the figure on the screen; kicking, swinging, dying. Smith tries to scream CUT! but he cannot make a sound. He dunks that human life is important, always sacred. He thinks this, but his arms cannot reach up to the beams to take his weight nor can they free the tightening band from around his neck. He asphyxiates; his head hangs to one side and piss streams down the inside of his leg.
The camera is positioned above the TV screen; its cold, mechanical eye dispassionately observing everything. The apparatus is set up on RECORD. It keeps running as the body hangs limp, turning gently towards a complete stillness. Then the tape runs out without saying THE END, but that is what it is.
A BLOCKAGE IN THE SYSTEM
Knoxie wis hoverin in the doorway; ehs face set in that kind ay expression thit cries out fir our attention, whin eh kens thit every cunt'll ignore um until eh speaks. Then will git some bullshit about how eh'd telt Manderson tae stick ehs fuckin joab up ehs erse whin the truth is thit the cunt's shat ehs fuckin keks again.
— That cunt Manderson, eh wheezed.
— Trouble at mill? ah asked, no lookin up fae ma cairds. This wis a shite hand. Ah turned tae gie ma foreman ma undivided attention, as a conscientious employee. A null n void declaration by Knoxie here wid suit ays doon tae a fuckin tee, the shite ah'm hudin.
— Wuv goat tae jildy. Thir's fuckin chaos doon at the flats.
— Hud oan the now, Lozy sais nervously. Obviously this wide-o's goat the maist tae lose.
Pickin up ehs anxiety, Calum flings ehs hand in. Ah follay suit.
— Duty calls, Calum laughs.
— Fuck sakes, ah'm oan a fuckin straight run here, ya cunts! Lozy whinges.
— Tough titty then, cuntybaws. Yir peyed good money by the council, that's the fuckin poll-tax peyer tae you, tae dae a joab ay work, no tae sit oan yir erse playing fuckin cairds aw day, Calum smirked.
— That's right, Knoxie said. — It's a pure bastard ay a joab n aw, boys. Thir's a blockage doon at Anstruther Court again. An auld boy oan the first flair goes through tae ehs lavvy fir a wash n shave. Aw they cunts oan the flairs above uv been shitein oot thir weekend curry n lager this mornin; one ay they near simultaneous flushin joabs. Aw the shite faws doon, n remember wir talking twinty storeys it Anstruther Court, hits the fuckin blockage n comes back up it the first available space. Yis ken whair that wis.
Wi collectively screwed up oor eyes and sucked in smoky air through puckered lips.
— Aw the shite came ootay the auld boy's pan wi such force thit it hit the fuckin roof. We've goatay sort this oot.
Lozy wisnae too chuffed. — Sounds like it's the drains ootside the flats tae me. Mair like a joab fir the Region, no us.
— Dinnae gies that shite! Call yirsels tradesmen? Tell ye one thing, if we dinnae fuckin shape up, will aw be doon the fuckin road. Ye ken how much money the DLO's losin?
— Ah bit that's no the point, Knoxie. We're oan the council now, no workin fir a private contractor. Thir's a nae redundancy policy.
— Wir under fuckin compulsory competitive tendrin. If we cannae git oor act the gither wir fucked. Simple as that. That's the governmint, that's the fuckin law. It disnae matter a fuck whit some fuckin toss in the Labour Party thit gits ehsel voted oantay the council sais. Wi dinnae dae the business, wi dinnae win contracts. Wi dinnae win contracts, thir's nae Direct Labour Organisation. Endy fuckin story.
— Naw it's no endy story, Lozy continued, — because the union boy wis sayin . . .
— That's jist some cunt thit gits made rep because nae other fucker wants the job. These cunts talk through thir fuckin erses. C'moan! Lit's move it.
Ah jist shrugged, — Well, as one anarchist plumber sais tae the other: smash the cistern.
We jumped intae the van. Knoxie's been deid nippy since eh came back fae that Supervision Part Two course up the City Chambers. They seemed tae fuck the cunt's heid up thair. Eftir Part One, eh wis aw sweetness n light tae us. Wisnae Knoxie. Made us right fuckin suspicious. Ah goat a deek ay the notes they gave the cunt. Went oan aboot the motivation ay staff in an action-centred leadership framework. Sais tint it's no the supervisor's joab tae dae the work, it's the supervisor's joab tae make sure thit the work gits done. It sais thit the supervisor gits the joab done by meetin the individual and group needs ay the team. So we pilled Knoxie up aboot this. Calum sais thit eh needed tae score some Es fir this rave eh wis gaun tae; Lozy sais thit eh needed tae spend some time in a massage parlour. As a group wi needed an all-day bevvy session in the Blue Blazer. Could Knoxie arrange aw that? The cunt wisnae chuffed. Eh sais that wisnae whit it wis aboot n thit wi shouldnae be lookin it ehs notes unless wid been oan the course.
Anywey, it didnae last. It wis soon back tae the same auld Knoxie. So we wir quite lookin forward tae gittin the cunt oot the road fir a couple ay days, whin they pit um oantay Part Two. Ah dinnae ken whit they did tae the flicker this time bit; whiti-vir it wis it made um even mair ay a Nazi. Now the the radge jist willnae listen tae reason. N Lozy's right. The blockage is bound tae be in the fuckin drain. We've no goat the tools tae go doon thair, even it if wis oor joab.
Doon at the flats it's really fuckin boggin. Thir's a polisman standin aroond like a spare prick. This housin officer boy n this social worker lassie uv goat the perr auld cunt oan the couch wi some forms, tryin tae git um sorted oot. The environmental health boys ur doon here n aw. Thir wis nae wey ah wis gaun intae that bathroom.
Calum goes tae ays, — Wir talkin aboot an ootside joab here. Defo.
Knoxie overheard n goat aw fuckin stroppy. — Eh? eh goes.
— Likesay, jist sayin thit the blockage'll be doon in the drains, ken, no the stink pipe. Probably the bend, likes.
— That would seem logical, ah sais in ma Spock-oot-ay-Star Trek voice.
— Nae cunt kens that fir sure until we gie it a go, Knoxie contended.
Ah wisnae fir gaun intae that bog tae check it oot. — Ye ken whit happens, Knoxie. Burds pit thir fanny pads doon the pan, they aw clog up at the bend, ken?
— It's these cunts thit flush they fuckin disposable nappies away, that's the cunts thit git oan ma fuckin tits, Lozy shook ehs heid. — That's whit does the real fuckin damage, no the jam-rags.
— Ah'm no arguin wi yous cunts. Git they fuckin rods oot the van n doon that fuckin pan.
; — Thir's nae point, ah goes. — Fill in an MRN 2 n lit they drainage cunts fae the Region sort it oot. Thill huv tae in the long run, wir jist wastin oor time here.
— Dinnae you tell me ma fuckin joab, son! Right! Knoxie isnae pleased. The cunt's bein too nippy here. Eh's no backin doon. Well, ah'm no either.
— Waste ay fuckin time, ah repeated.
— Aw aye, n whit else wid ye be daein? Sittin in the fuckin howf playin cairds!
— That's no the fuckin point, Lozy sais, — it's no oor fuckin joab. MRN 2 up tae the Region. That's whit's needed.
This social worker lassie turns roond n gies us a stroppy look. Ah jist smiles bit she looked away aw fuckin nippy likes. Disnae cost nowt tae be social. A social worker thit cannae be fuckin social; that's nae good tae nae cunt, thon. Like a lifeguard thit cannae fuckin swim. Shouldnae be daein that kinday joab.
— Yous cunts, jist fuck off. Ah'll dae it masel. Gaun, jist fuck off, Knoxie sais.
We jist looked it each other. Every cunt wis scoobied, so we jist turned n went doon the stair. We jist thought: if that's whit the cunt wants. . .
— Dis that mean wuv goat oor cairds? Calum asked.
Lozy jist fuckin laughed in the cunt's face, — The only cairds ye git at the DLO come in packs ay fifty-two. We're jist obeyin orders n ye eywis follay the last yin. Go, the cunt sais, so wir gaun. Eh shrugged.
— Whin ye think ay it though, ah sais, — Knoxie didnae learn much fae that fuckin course. They sais thit it's the supervisor's joab tae make sure thit the work gits done, no tae dae it ehsel. There's the cunt up thair graftin oan ehs puff while we're aw oot here.
— Fancy a pint? Lozy asks. — Whitsons?
Calum raises a hopeful eyebrow.
