by Irvine Welsh
She hadn’t phoned: Worse, she hadn’t been in when he phoned. Not even at her mother’s. Stevie had gone back to Edinburgh and left the field clear for Keith Millard. The bastard would take full advantage. They’d be together right now, just like they probably were last night. Millard was a slag. So was Stevie. So was Stella. It was a bad combination. Stella was also the most wonderful person in the world in Stevie’s eyes. That fact made her less of a slag; in fact, not a slag at all.
— Loosen up fir fuck sakes! It’s New fuckin Year! Franco not so much suggested, as commanded. That was his way. People would be forced to enjoy themselves if necessary.
It generally wasn’t necessary. They were all frighteningly high. It was difficult for Stevie to reconcile this world with the one he’d just left. Now he was aware of them looking at him. Who were they these people? What did they want? The answer was that they were his friends, and they wanted him.
A song on the turntable drilled into his consciousness, adding to his misery.
I loved a lassie, a bonnie, bonnie lassie,
She’s as sweet as the heather in the glen,
She’s as sweet as the heather,
The bonnie purple heather,
Mary, ma Scots bluebell.
They all joined in with gusto. — Cannae beat Harry Lauder. It New Year, likesay, Dawsie remarked.
In the joy of the faces around him, Stevie gained a measurement of his own misery. The pit of melancholy was a bottomless one, and he was descending fast, falling further away from the good times. Such times often seemed tantalisingly within reach; he could see them, going on all around him. His mind was like a cruel prison, giving his captive soul a sight of freedom, but no more.
Stevie sipped his can of Export and hoped that he could get through the night without bringing too many people down. Frank Begbie was the main problem. It was his flat, and he was determined that everyone was going to have a good time.
— Ah goat yir ticket fir the match the night, Stevie. Intae they Jambo cunts, Renton said to him.
— Naebody watchin it in the pub? Ah thoat it wis oan satellite, likesay.
Sick Boy, who’d been chatting up a small, dark-haired girl Stevie didn’t know, turned to him.
— Git tae fuck Stevie. You’re pickin up some bad habits doon in London, ah’m tellin ye man. I fucking detest televised football. It’s like shagging wi a durex oan. Safe fuckin sex, safe fuckin fitba, safe fuckin everything. Let’s all build a nice safe wee world around ourselves, he mocked, his face contorting. Stevie had forgotten the extent of Sick Boy’s natural outrage.
Rents agreed with Sick Boy. That was unusual, thought Stevie. They were always slagging each other off. Generally, if one said sugar, the other said shite. — They should ban aw fitba oan the telly, and get the lazy, fat fucks oaf their erses and along tae the games.
— Yis talked us intae it, Stevie said in resigned tones.
The unity between Rents and Sick Boy didn’t last.
— You kin talk aboot gittin oaf yir erse. Mister fuckin couch tattie hissel. Keep oaf the H for mair thin ten minutes and ye might make mair games this season thin ye did the last one, Sick Boy sneered.
— You’ve goat a fuckin nerve ya cunt . . . Rents turned tae Stevie, then flicked his thumb derisively in Sick Boy’s direction. — They wir callin this cunt Boots because ay the drugs he wis cairryin.
They bickered on. Stevie would once have enjoyed this. Now it was draining him.
— Remember Stevie, ah’ll be steyin wi ye fir a bit in February, Rents said to him. Stevie nodded grimly. He’d been hoping Rents had forgotten all about this, or would drop it. Rents was a mate, but he had a problem with drugs. In London, he’d be straight back on the gear again, teaming up with Tony and Nicksy. They were always sorting out addresses where they could pick up giros from. Rents never seemed to work, but always seemed to have money. The same with Sick Boy, but he treated everybody else’s cash as his own, and his own in exactly the same way.
— Perty at Matty’s eftir the game. His new place in Lorne Street. Be thair sharp, Frank Begbie shouted over at them.
Another party. It was almost like work to Stevie. New Year will go on and on. It’ll start to fade about the 4th, when the gaps between the parties start to appear. These gaps get bigger until they become the normal week, with the parties happening at the weekend.
More first foots arrived. The small flat was heaving. Stevie had never seen Franco, the Beggar, so at ease with himself. Rab McLaughlin, or Second Prize, as they called him, hadn’t even been assaulted when he’d pished up the back of Begbie’s curtains. Second Prize had been incoherently drunk for weeks now. New Year was a convenient camouflage for people like him. His girlfriend, Carol, had stormed off in protest at his behaviour. Second Prize hadn’t even realised that she was there in the first place.
Stevie moved into the kitchen, where it was quieter, and he had at least a chance of hearing the phone. Like a yuppie businessman, he’d left a list of the numbers where he was likely to be at with his mother. She could pass these onto Stella, if she phoned.
Stevie had told her how he felt about her, in that ugly barn of a pub in Kentish Town, the one they never usually drank in. He laid his heart bare. Stella had said that she would have to think about what he said, that it had really freaked her out, and was too much to handle right now. She said she would phone him when he got back up to Scotland. And that was that.
They left the pub, going in separate directions. Stevie went towards the tube station to get the underground to Kings Cross, sports bag over his shoulder. He stopped, turned and watched her cross the bridge.
Her long brown curls swished wildly in the wind, as she walked away clad in her donkey jacket, short skirt, thick, black woollen tights and nine-inch Doctor Martens. He waited for her to glance back at him. She never turned around. Stevie bought a bottle of Bell’s whisky at the station and had arsed the lot by the time the train rolled into Waverley.
His mood hadn’t improved since then. He sat on the formica worktop, contemplating the kitchen tiles. June, Franco’s girlfriend, came in and smiled at him, nervously fetching some drinks. June never spoke, and often seemed overwhelmed by such occasions. Franco spoke enough for both of them.
As June left, Nicola came in, being pursued by Spud, who trailed behind her like a faithful salivating dog.
— Hey . . . Stevie . . . Happy New Year, eh, likesay . . . Spud drawled.
— Ah’ve seen ye Spud. We wir up the Tron thegither, last night. Remember?
— Aw . . . right. Hang loose catboy, Spud focused, grabbing a full bottle of cider.
— Awright Stevie? How’s London? Nicola asked.
God, no, thought Stevie. Nicola is so easy to talk to. I’m going to pour my heart out . . . no I’m not . . . yes I am.
Stevie started talking. Nicola listened indulgently. Spud nodded sympathetically, occasionally indicating that the whole scene was ‘too fuckin heavy . . .’
He felt that he was making an arse of himself, but he couldn’t stop talking. What a bore he must be to Nicola, to Spud even. But he couldn’t stop. Spud eventually left, to be replaced by Kelly. Linda joined them. The football songs must be starting up in the front room.
Nicola dispensed some practical advice: — Phone her, wait fir her tae phone, or go doon n see her.
— STEVIE! ’MOAN THROUGH YA CUNT! Begbie roared.
Stevie tamely allowed himself to be literally dragged back into front room. — Fuckin chatting up the mantovani in the fuckin kitchen. Yir fuckin worse thin that smarmy cunt thair, the fuckin jazz purist. He gestured over at Sick Boy, who was necking with the woman he’d been chatting up. They had previously overheard Sick Boy describe himself to her as ‘basically a jazz purist’.
So wir aw off tae Dublin in the green — fuck the queen!
Whair the hel-mits glisten in the sun — fuck the huns!
And the bayonets slash, the aw-ringe sash
To the echo of the Thomson gun.
<
br /> Stevie sat gloomily. The phone would never be heard above this noise.
— Shut up the now! shouted Tommy, — This is ma favourite song. The Wolfetones sang Banna Strand. Tommy crooned along with some of the others.
oan the lo-ho-honley Ba-nna strand.
There were a few moist eyes when the ’Tones sang James Connolly. — A fuckin great rebel, a fuckin great socialist and a fuckin great Hibby. James Fuckin Connolly, ya cunt, Gav said to Renton who nodded sombrely.
Some sang along, others tried to maintain conversations above the music. However, when The Boys of the Old Brigade came on everybody joined in. Even Sick Boy took time off his necking session.
Oh fa-thir why are you-hoo so-ho sad
oan this fine Ea-heas-ti-her morn
— Sing ya cunt! said Tommy, elbowing Stevie’s ribs. Begbie stuck another can of beer in his hand and threw his arm around his neck.
Whe-hen I-rish men are prow-howd ah-hand glad
off the land where they-hey we-her born
Stevie worried about the singing. It had a desperate edge to it. It was as if by singing loudly enough, they would weld themselves into a powerful brotherhood. It was, as the song said, ‘call to arms’ music, and seemed to have little to do with Scotland and New Year. It was fighting music. Stevie didn’t want to fight anyone. But it was also beautiful music.
Hangovers, while being pushed into the background by the drink, were also being fuelled. They were now so potentially big as to be genuinely feared. They would not stop drinking until they had to face the music, and that was when every bit of adrenalin had been burned away.
Aw-haun be-ing just a la-had li-hike you
I joined the l-hi-Ah-har-A — provishnil wing!
The phone rang in the passage. June got it. Then Begbie snatched it out of her hand, ushering her away. She floated back into the living-room like a ghost.
— Whae? WHAE? WHAES THAT? STEVIE? RIGHT, HAUD OAN THE NOW. HAPPY NEW YEAR DOLL, BY THE WAY . . . Franco put the receiver down, — . . . whae ivir the fuck ye are . . . He went through to the front room. — Stevie. Some fuckin lemon oan the blower fir ye. Fuckin bools in the mooth likesay. London.
— Phoa! Ya cuntchy! Tommy laughed as Stevie sprang out off the couch. He had needed a pee for the last half-hour, but hadn’t trusted his legs. Now they worked perfectly.
— Steve? She had always called him ‘Steve’ rather than ‘Stevie’. They all did down there. — Where have you been?
— Stella . . . where have ah been . . . ah tried tae phone ye yesterday. Where are ye? What are ye daein? He almost said who are you with, but he restrained himself.
— I was at Lynne’s, she told him. Of course. Her sister’s. Chingford, or some equally dull and hideous place. Stevie felt a euphoric surge.
— Happy New Year! he said, relieved and brimming over.
The pips went, then more change was put into the machine. Stella was not at home. Where was she? In a pub with Millard?
— Happy New Year, Steve. I’m at Kings Cross. I’m getting on the Edinburgh train in ten minutes. Can you meet me at the station at ten forty-five?
— Fuckin hell! Yir jokin . . . fuck! There’s nowhere else in the world ah’ll be at ten forty-five. You’ve made my New Year. Stella . . . the things ah sais the other night . . . ah mean them more than ever, ye know . . .
— That’s good, because I think I’m in love with you . . . all I’ve done is think about you.
Stevie swallowed hard. He felt tears well up in his eyes. One left its berth and rolled down his cheek.
— Steve . . . are you okay? she asked.
— Much better than that, Stella. Ah love you. No doubts, no bullshit.
— Fuck . . . the money’s running out. Don’t ever mess me about, Steve, this is no fucking game . . . I’ll see you at quarter to eleven . . . I love you . . .
— I love you! I LOVE YOU! The pips went and the line died.
Stevie held the receiver tenderly, like it was something else, some part of her. Then he put it down and went and had that pee. He had never felt so alive. As he watched his fetid pish splash into the pan, his brain allowed itself to be overwhelmed with delicious thoughts. A powerful love for the world gripped him. It was New Year. Auld Lang Syne. He loved everyone, especially Stella, and his friends at the party. His comrades. Warm-hearted rebels; the salt of the earth. Despite this, he even loved the Jambos. They were good people; just supporting their team. He’d first-foot a lot of them this year, irrespective of the result. Stevie would enjoy taking Stella around the city to various parties. It would be brilliant. Football divisions were a stupid and irrelevant nonsense, acting against the interests of working-class unity, ensuring that the bourgeoisie’s hegemony went unchallenged. Stevie had it all worked out.
He went straight into the room and put The Proclaimers’ Sunshine On Leith on the turntable. He wanted to celebrate the fact that wherever he went, this was his home, these were his people. After a few grumbles, it struck a chord. The catcalls at the previous record’s removal were muted at the sight of Stevie’s exuberance. He slapped Tommy, Rents and Beggar around vigorously, sang loudly, and waltzed with Kelly, caring nothing about people’s impressions of the obviousness of his transformation.
— Nice ay ye tae join us, Gav said to him.
He was still high throughout the match, whereas for the others it went drastically wrong. Again he became distanced from his friends. First he couldn’t share their happiness, now he couldn’t relate to their despair. Hibs were losing to Hearts. Both teams were carving out ridiculous numbers of chances; it was schoolboy stuff, but Hearts were putting at least some of theirs away. Sick Boy’s head was in his hands. Franco glared malevolently over towards the dancing Hearts supporters at the other end of the ground. Rents shouted for the manager’s resignation. Tommy and Shaun were arguing about defensive shortcomings, trying to apportion blame for the goal. Gav cursed the referee’s masonic leanings, while Dawsy was still lamenting Hibs’ earlier misses. Spud (drugs) and Second Prize (alcohol) were bombed out of their boxes, still at the flat, their match tickets good for nothing except future roach material. None of this mattered for the moment, as far as Stevie was concerned. He was in love.
After the match, he left the rest of them to head to the station and meet Stella. The bulk of the Hearts support were also headed up that way. Stevie was oblivious to the heavy vibes. One guy shouted in his face. The cunts won four-one, he thought. What the fuck did they want? Blood? Obviously.
Stevie survived some unimaginative taunting on the way up to the station. Surely, he thought, they could do better than ‘Hibby bastard’ or ‘fenian cunt’. One hero tried to trip him from behind, egged on by baying friends. He should have taken his scarf off. Who the fuck was to know? He was a London boy now, what did all this shite have to do with his life at the moment? He didn’t even want to try and answer his own questions.
On the station concourse, a group marched over to him. — Hibby bastard! a youth shouted.
— You’ve goat it wrong boys. Ah’m a Borussia Munchengladbach man.
He felt a blow on the side of his mouth and tasted blood. Some kicks were aimed at him, as the group walked away from him.
— Happy New Year boys! Love and peace, Jambo brothers! he laughed at them, and sucked his sour, split lip.
— Cunt’s a fuckin heidcase, one guy said. He thought they were going to come back for him, but they turned their attention to abusing an Asian woman and her two small children.
— Fuckin Paki slag!
— Fuck off back tae yir ain country.
They made a chorus of ape noises and gestures as they left the station.
— What charming, sensitive young men, Stevie said to the woman, who looked at him like a rabbit looks at a weasel. She saw another white youth with slurred speech, bleeding and smelling of alcohol. Above all, she saw another football scarf, like the one worn by the youths who abused her. There was no colour difference as far as she was concerned,
and she was right, Stevie realised with a grim sadness. It was probably just as likely to be guys in green who hassled her. Every support had its arseholes.
The train was nearly twenty minutes late, an excellent performance by British Rail standards. Stevie wondered whether she’d be on it. Paranoia hit him. Waves of fear shuddered through his body. The stakes were high, the highest ever. He couldn’t see her, couldn’t even picture her in his mind’s eye. Then she was almost upon him, different to how he thought of her, more real, even more beautiful. It was the smile, the look of emotion reciprocated. He ran the short distance to her and held her in his arms. They kissed for a long time. When they stopped, the platform was deserted and the train was well on its way to Dundee.
It Goes Without Saying
Ah hears the searin racket comin fae ootside the room. Sick Boy, crashed oot in the windae bay next tae us, shoots tae alertness like a dug thit’s heard a whistle. Ah shudder. That noise cut right through us.
Lesley comes intae the room screaming. It’s horrible. Ah wanted her tae stoap. Now. Ah couldnae handle this. Nane ay us could. No now. Ah never wanted anything mair in ma life than fir her tae stoap screamin.
— The bairn’s away . . . the bairn’s away . . . Dawn . . . oh my god . . . oh fuckin god, wis aboot aw ah could pick ootay the horrible sound. She collapses oantae the threadbare couch. Ma eyes stick oan a brown stain oan the wall above her. Whit the fuck was it? How did it get there?
Sick Boy wis on his feet. His eyes bulged oot like a frog’s. That’s what he reminded us ay, a frog. It was the wey he sort ay hops up, becomes suddenly so mobile fae a stationary position. He looks at Lesley for a few seconds, then nashes through tae the bedroom. Matty and Spud look around uncomprehendingly, but even through thir junk haze, they ken thit somethin really bad’s happened. Ah kent. Christ, ah fuckin knew awright. Ah said whit ah always sais when somethin bad happens.
