by Irvine Welsh
‘Ah goat it done fae the negatives. Your ma gied my ma the negatives cause it hud that New Year perty at oor bit oan it.’ He flipped forward, showing me some pictures ay my folks and his, wi some other friends and neighbours, getting rat-arsed. That fascist cunt Olly Curran was there, looking as sly as ever but with black hair instead ay silver. But it’s another snap that cuts through me. My heart misses a beat as Wee Davie’s magnificent, mindless smile, on that accordion-like body, filled the frame ay the glossy Kodak print. My dad’s looking at him with a mixture of love and sadness. It’s a snap I always found compelling and repulsive in equal measure. I wanted tae say something tae Keezbo, but it came out as: ‘Funny how I’ve no seen that picture before.’
Dinner was haggis, neeps and tatties. I tried no tae eat the haggis, but it was either that or a fried egg, which would have been utterly shan wi mashed tatties n neeps, so I went for it.
In this affie’s individual counselling Tom asked me about the diary. ‘Have you been keeping up with it?’
‘Aye. Every day.’
‘Good. What about the journal?’
That section at the back. Mine is mostly full of wank stuff (literally), but Tom looked so serious and keen that I decided to lie. ‘They read more novelistically, or like essays. I suppose I’m experimenting, working on a few things.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘An essay I couldn’t finish at the uni,’ I started bullshitting, warming to my theme, ‘I mean, I handed it in, but I didn’t feel that I’d really finished it. It was on F. Scott Fitzgerald. Do you know his work?’
‘I confess that I haven’t read him. Not even The Great Gatsby.’ He made a passable imitation of regret.
‘I prefer Tender Is the Night, though’, and as I spoke, I got a raw jolt in my chest that could only be described as tender, as an image of Fiona, on the Bosphorus ferry, under a lambent soak of light, sweeping her hair out of her face, flickered in my brain. Even wasted she looked so poised and dignified. I loved her I loved her I loved her I wanted to melt into her bones. Her absence now felt like I’d been eaten from the inside. I couldn’t work out how I had got from her and the halls of residence at Aberdeen to here with Tom. In my mind’s eye a quick procession ay faces flashed by – Joanne, Bisto, Don, Donna, Charlene – and I felt myself swallowing hard as a dark memory swooped down like a stricken plane. Whatever the pencil says is erasable, unlike oor dirty, spraffing mooths, smoking our lives wi billowing toxic fumes, coal-black and indissoluble. Ootside, a sudden angry squall ay rain thrashed at the windae, as if begging entry. As I looked tae it, Tom glared impatiently at me, urging me to continue.
‘That was the novel I was writing about,’ I embellished the lie, in order tae divert his attention fae my anxiety. ‘Just being in here made me realise that I’d completely missed the point of that book, perhaps a wee bit like F. Scott himself.’
‘How so?’
And as I was sitting there, making all this up, it came to me in a raging epiphany: a rerun ay something that first dawned on me while tripping on that boat back in Istanbul, the shit I ought to have written. ‘Fitzgerald thought that he was writing about his wife’s mental illness. He was actually writing about his own descent into alcoholic oblivion. The second part of the book is just a rich guy jaking out on the peeve.’
HOW COULD I HAVE MISSED SUCH A BASIC, OBVIOUS POINT?
‘Interesting,’ said Tom, looking searchingly at me. ‘But might his wife’s mental illness not have been one of the reasons for his excessive drinking?’
I could see where the cunt was going with this. For mentally ill wife, read handicapped deceased brother. I thought, fuck that. Smokescreen time. ‘There’s a thesis that F. Scott was sort of bullied by Hemingway, a more dynamic figure, whose approval he sought. But it’s still wrong. It’s a bit like suggesting that E. M. Forster’s decline was precipitated by the critical attentions for the less inhibited D. H. Lawrence. But it was Fitzgerald’s alcoholism and Forster’s fear of the consequences of expressing his sexuality – he was a closet buftie boy’ – (Tom looked puzzled) – ‘homosexual – that did that. But that’s no tae say that Hemingway and auld D. H. werenae above being bad bastards who could smell a weakness in their more fragile peers. After all, literary rivalries are like any other.’
‘I’ll check out those books with great interest. I did read Lady Chatterley at university –’
‘Sons and Lovers is better.’
‘I’ll read it,’ Tom declared, and getting intae the spirit ay things, handed me a copy ay Carl Rogers’s On Becoming a Person. Ah’ll get tae it when I’m done with James Joyce.
Later Sick Boy came tae my room, and I told him about my session. ‘They think everything is about sex.’ He waved his hand disparagingly. ‘It is, but not in the way they imagine. Never got on with that Tom cunt, that’s why I asked to be transferred tae Amelia. At my first session he told me he wanted candour. So I told him that I wanted tae fuck just about every woman I met. Not only that, but I wanted to make them fucking well beg for it. He said I was exploitative and sexually dysfunctional. I told him, “No, mate, it’s called male sexuality. The rest is just denial.” He didnae like that! He didn’t like reality intruding in his Guardian reader’s carefully constructed world of poncy middle-class bullshit.’
‘Good for you …’ I yawned, tired and wanting him to leave, so that I could get some kip in. ‘… surprised Amelia took ye on, eftir that.’
‘Yes … either I’m a challenge tae her or she fancies me. It can only be one of the two. Both situations can be worked in my favour.’
I raised my eyes doubtfully, but he wasnae joking.
‘Listen, speaking of sexual matters …’ His voice dropped cagily. ‘I want your view on something. I heard a wee tale aboot this gadge … a boy who let himself get fucked up the arse by a bird …’
‘What the fuck are ye oan aboot? A bird fucked a boy up the erse? Was this so-called bird really a tranny or something?’
‘Naw … it was a genuine lassie. They went back tae hers thegither, and she strapped oan a big dildo, and rode him up the erse wi it –’
‘Wow …’ I felt my sphincter involuntarily snapping shut.
‘– and he enjoyed it … or so she said.’
‘Sounds dubious tae me!’
‘Aye …’ he said, then seemed tae reconsider, ‘… well, the boy claimed that he wisnae interested in having a guy’s cock up there, it was only a lassie he’d let dae that tae him.’
‘Right …’
‘So is the boy straight or gay?’
‘Dae ah ken this gadgie?’
He rubbed his lips tightly together. ‘Yes. Don’t say anything …’ he paused, as if he was rearranging the furniture in a room in his heid, ‘… but Alison telt us aboot it.’
‘Wait … Ali was the lassie that rode this boy wi a dildo?’
‘Aye … she said the only way this guy would go to bed wi her was if she did that tae him. Ye can surely guess whae we’re talking aboot here!’
The face ay ma former bandmate, pinched and sweaty, as when he strutted that stage ay the Triangle Club in Pilton, jumped right intae my consciousness. ‘Hamish? HP?’
Sick Boy smiled darkly. ‘Heterosexual Poof by name and, it seems, by nature. Alison was adamant that he never did this with men. Personally,’ he shook his head, ‘ah hae ma doots. What do you think: hopelessly queer, or straight and just experimenting?’
‘He didnae ride Alison eftir she’d tanned his erse in?’
Sick Boy hesitated for a second, ‘No …’ then he said more emphatically, ‘no, there’s no way he rode her.’
‘If he had rode her eftir, ah’d have said experimenting. The fact that he didnae, ah’d say mair screaming poof than heterosexual.’
‘My view entirely!’ Sick Boy said in triumph, seeming tae seize on this as an important point. ‘It’s no the fact he experimented wi her thrusting the dildo up his chorus n verse that makes him a raving queen – Hamish, likes – but that he never s
hagged her eftir! Ran away fae her gash like it wis a black hole in space, the fuckin nancy! And this came straight fae the horse’s mouth. Obviously, as I don’t kiss and tell, I’m trusting your discretion with this information.’
‘That’s a given,’ I lied.
An interesting enough tale, for sure, but then he wouldnae leave for ages. He talked about girls, his family, Hibs, Leith, Begbie and girls again, ‘… one of the drawbacks in having such a huge cock is that you can sometimes hurt them …’ basically anything tae keep me awake. I fell asleep and when I awoke some hours later, the light still on, I expected him to still be sitting there on my bed, gabbing shite, but he was gone.
Journal Entry: Alan Duke
I always felt bad about the way that I treated Alan ‘Chocolateface’ Duke, back when we were wee laddies. Back then, Matty’s dad, Drew, affectionately called me ‘Ginger Nut’. The other kids in the Fort embraced it, but often in a derogatory manner. One time we were on the steps outside Leith Library and I was taking some stick, so I turned on Dukey and said: ‘Beat it, Chocolateface.’ This instantly caused howls of laughter and transferred the abuse from me to him.
I witnessed him suffer growing up. He became a scapegoat. Matty, a malnourished gypo scruffbag in hand-me-downs, Begbie, wi an alco jailbird father, Keezbo, wi his bloater issues, his budgie-loving ma wi the aviary in the hoose, and aye, me, wi the spazzy brother, could aw round on Dukey when the heat fell oan us. Later on, people like the Currans would spread more overt and hateful abuse his way.
While any cunt could have started the ‘Chocolateface’ ball rolling, I was the culprit. Always felt pretty crap about that.
Day 23
Ah’ve goat post! It’s a mixed tape from Hazel. (Bands include Psychedelic Furs, Magazine, Siouxsie, Gang of Four – Hazel always had a decent taste in music.) They issue it a day late after they’ve checked it tae ensure that nae drugs are secreted. If they kent Hazel they wouldnae bother; the only drug we ever shared was voddy. It’s nice to get post. Of course, the cunt who seems tae get loads, and all from girls fae lassies, is Sick Boy.
Back in my room, as Bowie sings about always crashing in the same car, I read the note:
Dear Mark,
I hope the rehab is going well, and that you find the strength to stick with it. I saw your mum in Junction Street the other day. She said she was off to the church to light a candle and pray for you. I know you’ll just laugh at that, but it shows she really cares about you so much, all your family do. As do I.
I’m still at Binns and I’m planning a trip with Geraldine Clunie and Morag Henderson to Majorca. Geri works with me and you’ll mind of Morag from school.
Saw Roxy Music at the Playhouse! Honestly, Mark, what a gig! A few faces there in Mathers pub in Broughton Street afterwards, Kev Stewart, Gwen Davidson, Laura McEwan, Carl Ewart, all asking for you, and all, like me, saying that they miss seeing you around. Can we PLEASE have our old Mark back?
Take care.
Love
Hazel xxxx
As I read it I feel something shrink in the hollow of my chest. I screw the note up into a ball and chuck it in the empty bin (the cleaner’s evidently taken my discarded diary entry and soiled Kleenexes away) then instantly retrieve it, flattening it out and sticking it in my back pocket.
The old Mark? Who the fuck is that?
I compose myself and head for some meditation with Spud and Seeker. Then, after a break and coffee, where Seeker talks aboot the bikes he’s owned, Skinny-Specky tells us the process review session’s about to begin, and we troop like weary zombies intae the meeting room. It’s saccharine-positive with a creepy touchy-feely vibe to it; lots of hugs and phoney veneration. But this only displaces the aggro to the afternoon addiction-issues group.
Tom’s eyes are a wee bit too busy. His red-and-black lumberjack shirt is covered down the front with crumbs from one of the sugary shortbread biscuits that go down a storm in these sessions. ‘I’d like to introduce Audrey, who is joining us for the first time in the group. Hi, Audrey.’
‘Enjoy de re-hab-il-i-tay-shan,’ Swanney drawls in a ersatz Jamaican accent. Now I know where Matty gets this irritating trait. He professes to hate Johnny but he wants to be him.
Molly, who Audrey sat next tae, has taken a fancy tae Tom, and, it seems, a dislike to everybody else, apart fae Sick Boy. ‘Well,’ she says grandly, ‘ah came in here tae get masel sorted oot and ah’m prepared tae keep an open mind n gie Tom the chance tae dae his job. N ah’m sure Audrey is n aw.’
All eyes on the silent, nail-biting Audrey, with the big, haunted blue eyes.
‘Thanks … Molly,’ Tom says, as the room resonates with crashing sighs and the odd snigger. Tom’s lookin right at me, as if encouraging me to speak, but, sorry, shipmate, ah’ve set sails tae Port Silence. Seeker stretches his legs out, throws his arms behind his heid, issuing an enormous yawn, then sweeps his biker’s locks back. He looks like a lion that’s just eaten a pit bull.
I can’t stop stealing glances at Audrey. She looks a bit of a mess, but everybody does after eftir detox. She’s already been nicknamed ‘Tawdry Odd’ by Sick Boy, on the basis that her name’s Audrey Todd. No wonder she stays deep in her room maist ay the time. She’s wearing faded blue jeans and ye kin tell that her legs would be barry as fuck if you got a proper deek ay them. Tom looks around at the others, then back to me. ‘… Mark?’
The intrusion grates, more so because he’s caught me letching. How uncool a situ is that? It’s time tae quickly deflect: ‘You cannae fix me, mate. It’s no gaunny happen.’
‘Ah’d fix ye,’ Swanney speaks up, ‘if ah hud gear, like.’
He gets a few gallows laughs.
‘I didn’t say I could fix you.’ Tom shakes his head. ‘Only you can do that.’
I nod, accepting the obvious truth in what he says. ‘So, that begs the question, why are you here?’
I can hear Molly tutting in response tae my enquiry.
‘I’m here to help,’ Tom says.
‘So, wait,’ I find myself saying, ‘ye cannae fix me, but ye can help me tae help masel. Enable. Facilitate. Is that the deal?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Now why would you want to do that?’
‘I see. You’re questioning my motivation?’
‘No,’ I smile, ‘just clarifying.’
That’s one of the weapons in Tom’s interpersonal arsenal. He’ll probe away till you take exception, then go, ‘I’m just clarifying.’ He doesnae like this being used against him. His nostrils flare as he slowly expels breath. ‘Mark, we have these circular discussions all the time, and we get nowhere. Let’s keep this stuff out of the group and leave it for the individual sessions, as we agreed.’
‘As you agreed.’
‘Whatever, let’s just keep it out of the group.’
Molly interjects at this point. ‘Huh! That’ll be the day. Cause it’s eywis goat tae be aboot Mark, that’s the problem!’
I’m happy enough tae joust with the dippit wee slag. ‘Wow. Junky indulges in self-centred behaviour! Hud the front page!’
‘At least some ay us try. You just want tae show oaf tae your mates,’ and she looks around the semicircle in scorn. Audrey has another chomp on those nails.
Molly’s actually spot on. I thought her schooling stopped at bicycle-shed blow jobs but evidently I was wrong; she has some insight. The only real point of these sessions for me is to have a laugh with the boys. It won’t do me any good to let Tom know that, but, so I find myself saying as earnestly as I can, ‘Look, ah’m just findin it hard tae get tae grips wi aw this,’ I glance around, ‘and I’m tryin tae work out where everybody stands, that’s aw.’
Fair play tae Tom, but; he raises his eyebrows in mild exasperation, and he just looks round the circle. ‘What I want to talk about today are triggers. What are the triggers that make you want to use?’
‘A day wi a “y” in it,’ Spud says, and this remark fairly triggers smirks all round. Tom ignore
s Spud (although he’s deadly serious), cause that’s not what the boy’s after. He needs something to work with.
‘Steppin ootside the front door,’ Keezbo says, again deadpan. I’m a wee bit worried aboot the big yin. He’s completely lost his sense ay fun, which is a huge deal fir him.
This time, though, Tom acknowledges the intervention. ‘Thanks … Keith.’
‘Hanging aroond wi these cunts,’ Sick Boy says, looking at me, Spud and Swanney.
‘Well, now we’re getting somewhere,’ Tom contends, sitting up and forward in his chair. ‘Keith has said outside. Where we live. The environment. Simon has mentioned particular relationships, friendships. Peer pressure that reinforces this inappropriate and self-destructive behaviour.’
I cannae help but emit a volley ay derisive laughter at that yin. ‘Well, this is a fucking barry idea, get every cunt banged up in a residential unit thegither!’
‘Rents is right,’ Skreel goes. ‘Ah’ve met some sound peepul in here, dinnae git me wrang,’ he looks around ensuring no offence had indeed been taken, ‘but thaire’s no wahn ay thum gaunny help us git aff the gear.’
Tom stays cool though. Perhaps it wasn’t bullshit from Skinny-Specky when she described him as ‘one of the best in his field’. ‘There are obvious limiting factors on any service provision. But – and I’m just throwing this out there – might peer groups not also be used to reinforce positive behaviour?’
‘These being abstention? Sobriety?’ I dive in. As if any cunt here wanted to be sober.
‘But you want to get clean?’
There follows a long, deathly silence, as we look at each other, The Big Lie hanging in the space between us. On all our lips. The Big Lie that made this rehab game possible; that sustained the whole stupid, ludicrous cult. What to say? Swanney seems tae tipple the stakes are high, so he pitches in tae deflect. He has a smile on his coupon but is deadly serious at the same time. ‘I’ve fucked ower that many people, if ah stey clean the guilt and remorse’ll fuckin kill us. It just isnae worth it.’
‘He’s got a point,’ I say, again jumping in too quickly and hating myself for it. But I mean what I say, because I know Johnny does too. How many stones of regret would he need to carry in his gut over his life? You either have to learn to be better and cope wi what ye’ve done, or just learn no tae care.
