by Irvine Welsh
Day 21
Pulled out of a dream about Fiona, in the waking hours of the morning. I’m feeling her up against a wall, but she’s slipping through my hands as she assumes hideously demonic shapes. Even though she’s a monster, it still seems important to fuck her before I wake up … but in her ectoplasmic form it’s like trying to nail a jellyfish to a wall … I’m awake, wilting cock in hand, in a noisy twilight of birdsong.
After breakfast (porridge, toast and tea), it’s the now familiar ritual of weights on the patio with Seeker. When I get back to my room I’m buzzed but tired, normally optimum conditions for reading, but I can’t settle or concentrate. I’m beset by a terrible sensation of dread and loss, so strong it makes me shudder. Then I feel my breath catching. The room seems to swirl, and I’m aware that I’m having some kind of panic or anxiety attack and have to lie down, trying to get my breathing under control, until it subsides. It quickly passes and everything is as it was, except that I’m really shat up.
In my session with Tom, I get irritated at fuck all. He sees through it and asks what’s bugging me. I tell him that I’m feeling bad because I was a total cunt to somebody I loved, but I can’t talk about it. He suggests that I write it down in my journal. I almost have a fit again, this time in a burst of sardonic laughter, and the session ends.
I’m restless; I feel something eating at my insides. My breath catches again, even though my respiratory system is better than ever. With the weights and exercise, air’s been flooding into it like smack from a needle. Not now. I try and fight through it, recalling Kierkegaard saying ‘anxiety is the dizziness of freedom’. But maybe ah’m no meant tae be free.
I spend hours inside my own heid, thoughts bubbling with such velocity and force that I can envision my skull splitting open. Tom’s right: it seems my only option. The words need expelling before they burst out of their own accord. I go to the pages of the journal and I write.
Journal Entry: Betraying Fiona by fucking Joanne Dunsmuir
I was the one who instigated it; in the Talisman Bar at Waverley Station. Joanne and I had been drinking with Bisto and Fiona on the train up from London. It was like we couldn’t end it, couldn’t end this amazing adventure we’d just been on. We got off at Waverley, leaving Bisto Aberdeen-bound. They departed with a chaste kiss, in stark comparison to the intensity of Fiona and I’s separation at Newcastle.
We went to the station bar and had another few drinks. Joanne got distressed, saying she didn’t want anybody to know that her and Bisto were going out. The conversation developed that ferocity and profundity that can often signal trouble between genders. On some crazy impulse, I asked her for a kiss, and then we were snogging. We were both rampant.
‘What d’ye want tae dae?’ she asked, eyes fierce with purpose.
I whispered in her ear, ‘I really think we should fuck …’ I was almost creaming myself with excitement.
We left the bar and started walking wi our gear, her a backpack, me a scabby holdall, out the rear exit of the station, up the hill, to the entrance tae Calton Hill Park, where the bufties went at night. But it wisnae night, it was still late afternoon and daylight.
I’d just just left Fiona, a girl I’d fallen in love with. But this would just be sex. Fiona and I had never made any declarations, not negotiated terms as to what our life would be like. We never said we wouldn’t see other people. We weren’t pathetic and bourgeois. (I cringe as I write that word; only a student wanker uses it, but that’s how I felt.)
So Joanne and I climbed up the steps in silence, the round ornate pillars of the Dugald Stewart Monument towering above on our left. A youngish cunt in an auld gadge’s bunnet passed us as we saw the big, phallic Nelson Monument loom ahead; it reminded me why we were ascending this hill. I felt sick and giddy, but we kept walking, carrying our awkward luggage, matching each other’s stride. I watched Joanne’s red Doc Martens, her black tights, figure-hugging short skirt, jean jacket, her hair swishing to the side, sharp features in profile, backpack like it was trying to mount her. It was all unreal and dreamlike, and I almost considered running away, like a kid. But although there was something really cold and detached about it, I’d never been so fucking horny in my life. The snarls of the city traffic below us started to fade. The next symbol of how I felt, the Portuguese cannon, stood accusingly as we came up to the Nelson Monument.
Did that cunt really need another yin, here? It stands right on top of where people are keeping a round-the-clock vigil for democracy, at the site of the Scottish Parliament. And yes, they even had the words inscribed on a plaque outside:
ENGLAND EXPECTS EVERY MAN TO DO THEIR DUTY.
We stopped to look at it, both of us flabbergasted as to how blatantly and effortlessly fucked up Scotland could be. Joanne spat with venom, ‘Ah fuckin hate that! It’s like we’re nuthin! Here, in our own country! They get everything!’
I was swamped by an anger at everything; me, her, the world. The shagging moment seemed to have long passed. Then Joanne looked at me and kissed me harshly on the lips. I was instantly aroused again and we started necking. Joanne kissed well. ‘C’moan,’ I said tersely. For some reason, I thought she’d turn and walk away, but she was alongside me as we headed to the back of the park, looking over Salisbury Crags.
On the right, we saw the thick bracken, and knew it was the spot. There was a clearing in the clustered growth of ferns, trees and bushes. An oasis made for outdoor shagging. We threw our bags down and sat on the grass like a picnicking couple. In an oddly demure gesture, Joanne even smoothed out her skirt. She had a thin scar above her eye that I’d never noticed. I pulled her to me and kissed her. I licked it, the scar, and slobbered over her face like a dog. She kissed me, biting my top lip. My hand went tit-bound up her T-shirt, which she yanked off and unclipped her bra, letting me caress and fondle her small, firm breasts as she unbuttoned my jeans and pulled my prick out of my trousers, urgently saying, ‘We should fuck now … we should dae it now …’ Then she stopped, tae quickly unlace her Docs, as I pulled off my trainers.
I asked her if she’d ever had a boy eat her pussy and she said, ‘Naw, you gaunny dae it, well?’ and I told her, ‘Aye; aye, ah fuckin am …’ n I was yanking off her tights and panties in a oner, and was down on her sweet velvet tuft. My tongue parted her vulva and twisted to the spot. I was unprepared for the ferocity of her reaction, she immediately let out a series of gasps, then started growling, ‘Ah’m gaunny suck that fuckin cock … ah’m gaunny suck it till it bleeds …’ and she bucked and inched roond on her back, digging her elbows into the grass, until I felt her tongue licking my dangling baws then her mooth tightening round my cock. We’re both at it, and I let my eyes roam around the bushes tae try and distract myself from the intense pressure building up inside me. Suddenly, she pushed my hips up and pulled my cock out of her mouth, but dug her nails into my buttocks. I realised she was coming in violent, rapid spasms, so I turned round and started fucking her slowly, then hard, and she came repeatedly. Arthur’s Seat and Salisbury Crags surged above us and we weren’t giving a toss about the odd passer-by or jogger on the path below the sheltered bank. We trusted the sycamores and ferns to obscure us as we fucked out the Edinburgh skyline. We were trying no tae make noise, but she was gasping like an epileptic, to the extent I even had tae ask her if she was okay, but she flushed crimson and exploded again in reply. ‘Aw for fuck sake …’ she said, almost hating her final climax, but compelled to carry on and squeeze out the last drops of her rapture. I felt exalted, locked in the moment; I’d never had a bird so rampant that I’ve fucked so senseless before. But I’d still no come, so I pulled oot and turned her floppy, spent body over, parting her soft arse-cheeks, spitting on the tight hole and working my finger in to the first knuckle, then the second. She stayed silent as her sphincter gripped my digit, but was still pretty relaxed which was wild, as whenever I’ve put or tried to put my finger up a lassie’s erse or them mines, there’s always been a real tensing up. I told her what I
was going to do, and I started pushing my cock into her arsehole. It took a long time to get it in, but it slowly went. I bit at her ear and her neck, spitting out mouthfuls of hair, while she was screaming, ‘Finish it! Finish it!’ like a boxing coach, and despite no being able to get a good fuck-motion going cause of the tightness, I was demented with lust and blew a load up her bum.
My crumbling cock slipped out and we lay side by side like train-wreck victims, before a thick veil of panic and abhorrence descended on us. I was immobilised by it; Joanne rose first. At this point all I’m thinking about is Fiona, then Bisto, who was probably no long off the Aberdeen train. I’m eaten up with fear and self-loathing, facing the repercussions of what I’ve just done. Joanne sat with her knees up to her chest for a bit, then pulled on her bra, pants and top. Then her tights went on and she was lacing up her Docs. In a daze, I was resolving I’d pack in uni, and never go back, thinking of skag, skag, skag; I needed it now more than ever. I started to recover my clathes and get dressed. Joanne barely looked at me, she just stood up and said, ‘Ah’m gaunny go,’ and she walked away without a glance back. And I sank even further into the mess of my own soul, when I realised that it wasn’t shame on her part; it dawned on me that she wanted nothing from me that she hadn’t already had.
FIONA …
I tried to get a grip.
FIONA …
I’d cut out my heart and tear it into chunks like a loaf of bread, and feed them to the ducks, just to be with her again.
KILLING MYSELF AS I WRITE THIS SHITE.
It was just sex. Fiona and I had never made any declarations, any arrangements as to what kind of life we’d have.
So why did I feel so fucking low?
Why did I feel like I’d done something terrible, wrecked something utterly precious, for nothing at all?
And haunted by Joanne’s harsh stare, her desolate, twisted mouth, I lurched down the hill to Leith and a death in the family.
You think you know somebody. Loyal Mark Renton, who stuck by his wee school girlfriend, that sulky Hazel hoor, who can crush a party vibe wi the downturn ay one petted lip. Then he bored every cunt stupid about how much he loved that Fiona ride. All those tiresome, non-sexist male pretensions, and it turns oot he’s a predatory grotbag like the rest ay us. The thing is, such a minor little contretemps is commonplace for most chappies, but he’ll agonise over it for years like the wimp he is. And not even one mention of me, the cunt! His sexual guru! He’d never have had the confidence tae nail anything if it hudnae been for hinging aboot wi me! That time with slutty Tina Haig, in the park, ah practically had tae take his cock ootay his troosers and physically push it up her fanny for him! Like cleaning a toilet bowl with a ginger bog-brush. Ah’m almost sad; almost, because the choo-choo’s pulling up at the platform.
Ah fight an impulse tae get up tae greet Massima, though ah can see her emerging from the train, stepping oantae the platform with such grace, looking aroond, catching my eye and waving a tight, concerned smile that signals something’s up. I hope the Catholic guilt hasnae kicked in tae the extent ah’m gaunny have tae work for ma hole. The seal’s been burst so the deed’s done. So let’s just fuckin well party and repent them aw at once; last ah heard the sin supermarket didnae have an express checkout for fewer items! Massima’s eyes are almost freakishly huge, her hair as black as ink, with big crescent brows to match. Ah seem tae go mair for bold features and left-field beauty now. Conventionally pretty blonde lassies like Marianne and Esther are like bland dolls, their faces purely defined by the cosmetics they fuss ower for hours. When they annoyingly take their make-up off before going to bed, it feels like fucking a ghost.
Massima appears through the swing doors wearing a short, dark blue gingham cloth dress, like a Ben Sherman ah had yonks ago; with her bare pins, it sets up enough horn to make any self-respecting hippo develop rhinoceros tendencies. — Simon, she greets me in that gargly, almost mechanistic burr that a lot ay Italian lassies have, but there’s something no quite right here. Her posture is stiff as she sits down, and there’s defo misgivings in those eyes. — I have been so frightened … she confesses, then says something in Italian, which ah dinnae get. She gleans from my expression that ah’m scoobied, so she reverts back tae her pidgin English. — I am … behind in my time.
Contretemps! Cosmic forces again!
— You mean late? Ah swallow hard. — Your period is late?
— Si … She looks into my eyes with her glassy lamps.
The key is not to crumble. Keep the heid. You’ve heard this one before, you’ll probably hear it again … you have legs, and there are trains. You will never be the sort who passively accepts cards that are unfairly dealt to him …
So ah take her hands in mine, and say, — Don’t jump to conclusions, babes. Let’s get a wee test done … a test, so that we know one way or the other. Whatever happens, we’ll get through this little contretemps together. C’mon, ah look around, — let’s get ootay here.
And we leave the bar and the station, taking the rocky road out of town towards the auld farm, making plans as we go. By the time we get to the barn at the back of the farmhouse, where scabby goats graze on the feeble grass, I’ve reassured her. So much so that the front straps ay that dress slip easily fae her thin shoodirs, and ah push aside the dark curtain ay her tumbling locks to expose that exquisite neck, which was made tae be kissed, vampire-like.
— You will show me Edinburgh, Simon, she gasps under my love bite.
Ah whisper intae her ear as ah work my hands round her back tae skilfully unhook her white bra, marvelling at just how brown those paps are, — You just try stopping me, babes, you just try stopping me, ah tell her, but you know what? Ah’m not thinking of church, bambinos and watching her bloat and develop kitchen expertise and settle for the Saturday-morning pumping that will allow me to flirt with the town lovelies; no no no, she is mistaking Simone for someone else. My overt concerns might be the almost unfeasibly magnificent curve ay her waist as it cuts intae her hip, but pulsing away in the background is an image ay me on that local train tae Napoli, then heading on to Turin, Paris, London and Edinburgh. — Alone, my darling, always alone, ah murmur in a deep croak, as ah slide my hands down her waist and intae her underpants. — If there is life inside you, Catholic Princess, head north where some cold-blooded Nazi abortionist will scrape it out, or pay the price of living in a papist backwater … She gasps something back, and thank fuck she doesnae ken what ah’m on about, because eftir this ah’m fucking right off hame; a tough sell tae the Holy Papa, this yin, but these are my mountains, and this is my glen. Hail, Caledonia!
Chasing Brown
AH’M SORTAY KEEPIN ma heid doon cause ah’m still feelin Shakin Stevens eftir rehab n that bout in the hoaspital. Ah wis sweatin bad the other night n pure hit the panic button: jist cause ay bein feart that ah’ve goat that cowie thir aw gittin. At one stage ah couldnae git ma breath; it wis like ah’d forgotten how tae breathe. Ah ken ah likesay took the test n they sais ah wis fine, but somethin’s no right. They used tae say that it wis just poofs that goat it, no that ah’m sayin poofs deserve it like, but it worries us thit ye kin git it jist fir bangin up wi the Jeremy Beadles n that. So ah wis up maist ay the night, tryin tae git ma breath, listenin tae they cats ootside at the back, fightin n huvin sex. Total relief when the mornin light came in; it meant ah could finally git tae sleep.
Everybody’s gittin intae skag nowadays. It used tae be jist a few hip aulder cats like Denny Ross n Sambuca Agnes, then it was the wannabe cool dudes likesay Rents, Sick Boy n moi, whae mibbe goat too enmeshed in the ‘fuck youse’ rock n roll culture, likesay, ken? Tryin too much tae shock the establishment n that, man. As if they cats ivir gied a toss what schemies did, as long as it nivir bothered thaime. Now it’s hit fair Edina’s peripheral concrete bastions (as Sick Boy calls thum) wi a vengeance n aw they boys whae’d huv been oan Tennent’s lager n laughin at us six months ago ur aw huntin it doon, basically cause thuv goat nowt else tae dae
. Johnny Swan’s rakin it in, but he’s pure para that the polis’ll be chappin oan his door soon wi aw they radges floatin aboot.
So ah’m steyin in loads. At least things are likesay better wi muh ma, so that’s one good thing. She’s ey oan at us tae move back in, but ah kind ay like it up here in Monty Strasse. It’s cool tae huv yir ain pad for a bit, the sortay sophisticated man-aboot-toon gig, ken? Rents is still in rehab, but due oot any time, n Sick Boy’s back in the mother country. Or the mother’s mother country, mair like. This pad’s good wi two, but mibbe too much wi three, n jist pure decadence fir one, so ah’ll probably relocate back hame whin they cats re-emerge through yon flap. Right now it’s pure peachy sittin here, watchin this Stallone movie, but ah cannae sortay git intae the film. Too much violence, man, which is ey a total bummer pour moi. Cats like Begbie in the jail, they dae bad stuff in real life, n aw they actors like Stallone jist kid oan thir daein it n git peyed the big dosh. Jist fir pretendin tae be radges like the likes ay Franco or Nelly! So that means thit thaire’s nae incentive for a gadge like Franco tae be better, no if every rich Hollywood cat wants tae play at bein thum, likesay.
