by Irvine Welsh
Janey’s silence is a little disconcerting, but ah’m enjoying the warm glow ay the whisky and the burn it leaves in my throat and chest. — Dinnae tell them he’s gone, ah suggest tae her, basically tae put some sound intae the eerie void. — That’s my advice, they willnae ken if nae cunt tells them.
— But it’s fraud, she says, briefly alarmed, her eyes slightly widening. She reaches over and clicks on a small table lamp.
— What is fraud, but? I ask, enjoying her animation within the cocoon of golden-brown light, as ah warm tae ma theme. — Let’s get away from state control, and talk fuckin morality here. Look at what cunts like Dickson get away wi. That’s fucking fraud. Murdered a man and he’s still doonstairs pullin fuckin pints like nowt’s happened!
— Right enough. Fuck them, she spits in defiance, raising the glass tae her lips and taking a sip. — What’s the worst they kin dae tae me now, anywey? She falls back intae a lament. — Ah’m no sayin Colin was a saint, Simon, ah’m no sayin that at aw. Ah mean, he could’ve been a better husband, a better faither … and she crosses her legs, smoothing doon the dress as it clings tae the static ay her nylons.
— He was a damn sight better than ma auld man.
This manifestly obvious news seems tae take her by surprise. — But he always seemed nice, your dad.
— Aw aye, ah scoff, he’d be nice tae you. A good-looking woman, he’ll always be very, very nice tae, ah explain, watching her flush in spite ay herself. — It’s his ain family he’s no very nice tae.
— What dae ye mean?
Remembering that misery loves bedfellows, ah fix her a glum expression. — When ah wis a bairn he used tae take me out n leave me in the car wi Coke and crisps, while he saw tae his fancy women. Our secret wee messages, he used tae called them. As soon as ah sussed oot what he was up tae, he stopped taking me, in fact he lost interest in me aw thegither.
— Surely he wisnae … ah mean, he widnae huv done that tae a wee laddie …
— Aye, right. You dinnae ken the half ay it! I’ll tell ye a wee story that sums up everything about him and our relationship. My faither’s such a cunt that he once took back a watch ah bought him for Father’s Day. The money was chorrie, aye, but that’s beside the point. It was the fucking thought. But naw, the bastard went back tae Samuel’s in St James’s Centre wi the receipt ah had tae keep for guarantee purposes in case it fucked up.
— I never thought he’d dae anything like that …
— Aw aye, the shitebag went up there and even refused goods, insisted that he wanted the cash back, ah spell it oot, enjoying her puzzled but hostile reaction. She lifts the whisky tumbler tae her mouth, and scratches at an itch on her knee, lifting her dress on one side to show a thigh that has remained pleasingly muscular. I get that familiar twinge heralding the start ay a hard-on as ah take another sip ay Scotch. — N that ain’t the half of it. Boasted tae me, and I lean forward, drilling my thumb intae my chest, — and ah was fifteen at the time, fifteen, for fuck’s sake, ah shout wi a full-on, traumatised gape intae her eyes, — … that later on he went doon tae Danube Street for a decent hooker, then tae the Shore for a curry and a few lagers. Telt us he still had enough for a gam oaffay a scabby streetwalker later. ‘Eywis get peckish eftir a ride n horny eftir a scran,’ he fuckin laughed at me, patting his flabby gut. That was the cunt trying to fucking bond, ah shake ma heid in recall. — Ah think about that saint ay a woman he married and what any ay us did tae deserve him!
— But you’re no like him, Janey says hopefully, as she crosses her legs again, and more and more I see her daughter in her, making me think: How the fuck did Coke pull that? — you take mair eftir yir ma. She’s such a lovely woman. And your sisters are n aw.
— And I thank God for that every day ay ma life, I tell her, and glance at the oak-framed clock on the sideboard. — Right, ah should really be heading off.
This seems tae strike panic in Janey, as she hugs herself and looks around the cold, empty tomb of a flat. Her eyes enlarge and her mouth tightens in appeal. — Dinnae go, she half whispers.
— Ah have tae, I find masel pleading back in the same voice.
— Ah cannae be oan ma ain, Simon. No now.
I raise my brows, push myself out of the chair, and move over tae her. Looking deeply intae her wrecked eyes, ah take her hand and she rises and ah’m leading her intae the bedroom. Ah stop at the bottom ay the bed and whisper, — Are you sure you’re awright with this?
— Aye, she says softly, kissing me on the lips, the scent ay spirits and baccy on her breath. Then she turns away from me, but only tae plead in a croaky voice, — Unzip us.
I watch the fastener pull apart under my tug, slicing the gold-and-black dress in two. She lets it fall, steps out of it, then sits on the bed, arching her body to pull off her tights and underpants, giving me a glimpse of a forest of bush, before slipping under the covers.
Ah pull off my gear and get under with her. Slide smoothly into her awaiting embrace. Her body’s warm and a lot firmer than ah would have thought for a woman who must be at least thirty-five. She’s shivering and her teeth are banging together, but I’m hard as fuck and ah ken ah’m gaunny be up her all night and that Coke and regrets will be kept at bay till the morning.
Funeral Pyre
THE KNOCKED-OFF PUB mirror shows up the kitchen behind us tae its mankiest effect. Ah’d love tae gless the taunting pus ay the inscribed McEwan’s Lager Cavalier. Nae wonder he’s aw grins n toasts; getting people tae pey dosh tae drink that tepid, poisonous pish. Another erse-up wi that scabby black tie: ah yank it oaf for aboot the tenth time. — Shite!
Sick Boy’s at ma shoodir, providing succour. He gets the tie right first go. — There we are, he coos, makin me feel aw baba biscuit-erse. — You should git some breakfast.
Eat something in this midden? No ta. — I’ll git somethin at my ma’s. There’s nowt here.
— I made some lasagne. He points tae the oven.
— It’s shite, ah tried some ay it last night. Ah did tae, eftir a quick drink wi a couple ay gadges fae Gillsland’s turned intae a bit ay a sesh.
Sick Boy places his hands on his hips. — That was my mother’s recipe, ya cheeky cunt, he pseudo-bellows, lightening things fir ma benefit.
— Ah’ve hud yir ma’s lasagne, — and that shite in thaire, ah nod tae the oven, — is nowt like it. Ye obviously never follayed her recipe; for one thing lasagne isnae meant tae huv lumps ay tuna in it.
— I was making use ay the resources available. You get doon the Co-op once in a while, then you can critique the culinary skills of others.
Cheeky bastard him. Two words stick treacly in the noggin: rent and money. But fucked if ah kin be ersed arguin wi the cunt right now. — Right, ah’m offski. Ah reach fir ma jaykit, hingin oan a nail at the back ay the door.
— Okay, ah’ll see ye at the cremmy at two o’clock, he goes, then suddenly steps forward and hugs me. — You okay?
— Course ah ah’m, ya radge, ah tell him.
He breks his grip, but lets his hands rest on ma shoodirs. — It’ll kick in, ye know, the grief, he declares, dropping one hand. — But play the stoical Scot aw ye want. My advice though: the Italian way ay mourning is the best. Open up. Feel the burn inside. Let it oot. He flattens his other hand and gies us a couple ay affectionate gentlish slaps across the chops.
— Aye, right, ah say, then ah’m out the door.
Ah check the time and start heading doon the Walk. The sun’s oot tae play as far as Pilrig, where some big manky clouds appear, tae muscle him fae the frame. Ah get tae Junction Street, narrowly escaping a summer soaking as it starts chuckin.
Ma and Dad are like zombies. Literally. Glazed eyes and bumpin intae things. Ah cannae believe thir still in shock aboot the demise ay somebody whaes death wis signposted since the day he wis born, n by every medical expert in the UK. Did they not understand the term ‘short life expectancy’? Did they believe that by beating the fluid offay Wee Davie’s lungs they could preserve
him forever?
Now they’ve nane ay the tension ay listening for his breathing, nane ay the doof-doof-doof and the hack-hack-hack ay the postural drainage sessions, following which Wee Davie wid collapse intae exhausted sleep as his creaking lungs filled up wi air. Meanwhile, the rest ay us waited in nervous dread for it aw tae start up again. That’s aw gone. Why are they no kind ay relieved?
It’s gone forever.
Ah leave them holding white-knuckled oantae the worktops in the cramped, dull kitchen they seem perpetually stuck in. In the front room’s light, the air is thick with cigarette smoke. Billy and his bird are ripping through them; nae Wee Davie, so nae need tae sit at the bedroom windae blowin the fumes ootside. Now we can all have our lungs decimated. My eyes sting and leak; it takes a few seconds fir them tae clear enough tae see Billy shoot me his ‘you fuckin weirdo’ look, making us conscious ay every step ah take. Ah feel like we’ve regressed about a decade.
You have the advantage of me, Tobacco Boy.
Sharon’s a ride, in a trashy, chain-store boutique sort ay wey. She’s got the tits, erse, blonde wedge cut and slender waist that pushes male buttons, everything apart fae the pins, which are a tad shortish n stumpy. An evaluating shrewdness in her eyes engenders speculation that she might be worth spraffin wi ootside ay Billy’s stultifying proximity. She’s havering oan aboot a lassie called Elspeth, n ah’m inclined tae hear mair cause it’s probably Begbie’s cute sister (thankfully she looks nothing like him), but the smoke and Billy’s mean vibes have a throttling impact, squeezing oot valuable oxygen. A quote fae the Schopenhauer gadgie asserts itself, namely: almost all of our sorrows spring oot ay oor relations wi other people.
Did you not realise, Tobacco Boy, the detrimental power of your evil smoke, disguise it though you might, on the enfeebled lungs of your younger sibling?
Ah snatch the NME ah left oan the sideboard the other day. Mark E’s ironic grin reminds us ay the Fall tape in ma room that ah’d made up for Hazel, who’s sure tae be at the funeral. Ah decide ah’ll bring it along, and ah’m aboot tae decamp tae that fusty auld den ay music and masturbation, when the phone explodes in a shrill ring, shattering every cunt’s pianny-wire nerves. It’s relentless, but naebody’s movin.
Mein bruder Wilhelm, master ay the accusatory glare: — Is some cunt gaunny answer that fuckin phone?!
I sense your dilemma, Tobacco Boy. Answering the phone would mean having to speak into the mouthpiece, thus depriving yourself of a few precious seconds’ inhalation of nicotine, which you so desperately crave!
— I’m sure it’ll happen, ah declare, grinning at Sharon, — Ah mean, some day, likes, n ah’m rewarded wi the faintest ay smiles back.
— Dinnae start gittin fuckin wide, Billy threatens, — no the day!
This bam is big-time nippy, and ah’m guessing he’s recollecting the time he caught me chugging Wee Davie off. A tough sell explainin tae them aw that it wis solely fir the poor wee cunt’s ain benefit; ah certainly derived zero pleasure fae said act. You can operate fae the purest ay motives but some fuckers will eywis misconstrue it tae fit their ain twisted agenda. But ah ken the mood Bilbo’s in, and tae be honest, ah’m a wee bit scaredy-cat. — It’ll no be for me, ah protest.
We hear the phone being snatched up, my ma saying a few words, then joining us tae augment the dense smoke further wi her B&H. We could aw be cramped in this poky room and still play a passable game ay hide-n-seek. — Mark, it’s fir you.
Billy’s eyes narrow: annoyed and vindicated at the same time. The latter wins and, eftir hudin the stare for a second, we baith start tae laugh: loud, tension-releasing sniggers. Don’t like that lairy cunt, never have; but tae ma extreme discomfit ah’m sometimes compelled tae remember that ah sort ay love him. However, this is Chez Renton; as soon as one cunt gets onside, so another is alienated. — What’s fuckin funny? Ma screams. — Ah dinnae find anything funny!
That lingo will see you in hell, Mater. Another set ay Hail Marys chalked up tae some nonce in a frock later!
Ah upturn ma palms in surrender mode. — Ah’ll git the phone, and ah head through tae the perennially draughty hall where we keep the blower, fixed tae the waw. — Hello?
— Mark, is that yur?
— Aye. Fi?
— How are yur, pet?
— No bad; aw the better for hearing your voice, but.
— Listen, Mark, I’m at the Waverley. Ah wannar come to your brother’s funeral with yur.
First emotion: elation. Second: unease at the plethora of potential social embarrassments that loom. Hazel and Mark E’s tape. Ah well. — Great, eh … thanks, that’s brilliant, ah go, fiddling aroond in the drawer in the feeble wooden stand under the phone. There’s an empty spec case my ma uses for her auld reading glasses. That’ll dae for they works that Sick Boy gied us. Ah stick it in ma jaykit poakit.
— Ah’m getting a taxi now, pet. Wor shall ah meet yur?
— Ask the driver tae take ye tae a pub on Leith Walk called Tommy Younger’s.
— Okay. See yur in ten minutes.
My mother’s evidently been on surveillance, emerging intae the hallway in gunfighter stance. Her thin frame shakes, the cigarette twitching in her hand. — Yir no meeting anybody in nae pub! The car’s ordered! We’re leaving fae here! We go as a faimlay!
— Ah’m meeting my, ehm, muh girlfriend, fae the university.
— Girlfriend? she gasps, as Dad steps oot behind her. — Ye never says nowt tae us aboot nae girlfriend, she accuses, before her big eyes narrow tae slits. — Bit ye widnae, wid ye, Mark, cause it’s aw bloody secrets wi you!
— Cathy … my dad soothes, his hand on her shoodir.
Her heid lashes roond violently, eyes devouring him. — Well, it is, Davie! Mind that wee lassie we heard greetin in the stair? He wisnae gonnae let her intae the hoose!
That wis a cringer … fuckin needy minger followin us hame eftir ah’d cowped her up the goods yerd … them bringin her in n makin a fuss ay her, insistin ah sat up n drank fuckin coffee wi her in the kitchen when ah wanted tae die die die … or thaime tae aw die die die die, ya huns …
As ah feel my neck n ears flarin rid in recall, Billy’s oot now, suddenly interested. — Whae wis this?
— Never you mind, my dad sais, and ah remain silent as a hatchet-wound grin splits Billy’s coupon.
— Bring her here, Ma appeals, flicking some falling ash fae the sleeve ay her jaundice-yellay cardigan, — we’ll huv room in the cars.
— Naw, eh, ah’ll just see yis aw doon there. It might be a bit too heavy fir her being in the funeral party, when she doesnae ken anybody, likes, ah explain, as Sharon appears alongside Billy, cocking a waxed eyebrow.
— Ye mean too heavy fir you! my ma accuses. — He’s still embarrassed by us, by his ain faimly! She turns tae the others in appeal. — Well, he’s away, now, he cannae embarrass ye any mair … that wee sowel that never hurt a fly … that wee angel … and she sparks up again.
— Cathy … my auld man says, still in a conciliatory mode, — lit um go.
— Naw, she says, eyes again shockingly fish-protuberant. — How’s he no gaunny bring the lassie back here? This lassie naebody even kens aboot! He’s never even mentioned her! It’s aw big bloody secrets, as usual! He’s ashamed! she accuses. — Ashamed ay his ain faimlay!
Billy Boy dragons oot some smoke and gies us a feculent glower. — Feelin’s fuckin mutual, ah’ll tell ye that for nowt.
Your powers of smoke inhalation are impressive, Tobacco Boy. Far more so than your cryptic remarks.
Ma looks ceilingward. — Holy Father … what huv ah done …?
— Dinnae start now, no the day, Dad plea-threatens. — C’moan, everybody. Simmer doon. Show some respect for the wee man. Mark, go and meet this lassie, this … he stalls on the word like it’s a moothfae ay exotic food he’s no quite sure aboot, — … girlfriend, but dinnae you be late for the cemetery. And you’ll be in that front pew wi her, alongside me, yir mother, yir brother and Sharon. Go
t that?
Aw that fuckin fuss n drama ower whaire some cunt sits …
Ah gie a slight nod, instantly aware this action will be too minimalist for him.
— Ah sais got that?
Suspicion confirmed. — Aye, nae worries, ah tell um, skippin doon the hallway, oot ay the archaic, reeking fug intae the respite ay stair n street, and oantae Junction Strasse. A peckish Joe Baxi rumbles doon the road n ah flag him, and we tear up the Walk tae TY’s.
Inside the big cavern of a pub, ah git a nod fae Willie Farrell and Kenny Thomson, a couple ay aulder boys ah vaguely ken. It’s scary, the wey they epitomise Leith gadges; you bar-hop till ye eventually come tae rest in one dive and then just grow auld there. You’ll ken where tae find them in ten, twenty years’ time. Thankfully, Fiona’s only a couple ay minutes eftir us, her appearance liftin me tae the heavens. — Mark … so good ta see yur, honey, she says, then her tongue caresses those top pearly white teeth. She’s fucking enchanting.
Newcastle Station … Waverley … fuck that …
We embrace, me no lookin at Willie and Kenny, n Fiona puttin ma stiffness doon tae grief. We settle intae a quiet corner wi two lagers. Ah tell her how difficult it’s been wi ma family. She says it’ll be a hard time fir everybody. Ah agree. What ah decide tae dae is just forget aboot aw the bad, stupid, weak shite. Make like it nivir fuckin well happened. Cause it’s her n me now, that’s how it’s gaunny be and the rest is just a pile ay irrelevant fuckin nonsense.
We down our pints, n ah get another shout in. It’s right again. Ah swarm ma senses wi her; touching, looking, kissing, hugging, but when ah try tae talk ah’m aw tongue-tied and cliché-bound. — It’s okay, Mark, she says, and as she holds me, a choking ball ay refluxed gut acid comes up but ah force it back doon. Ah feel ma Adam’s aypil bobbin as ma cauld palms frame her face. — It is just so fucking good tae see you.
— Oh, Sweet Vanilla, she says as we get up, me a bit para in case any ay they cunts at the bar have heard the nickname she’s gied us (cause ah look like a vanilla ice cream wi raspberry on toap), then exit oantae the Walk. Ah flag doon an approachin Joey, takin us tae the crematorium.
