by Irvine Welsh
Gentleman came ower n ah caught him wi a good left, n eh staggered back. Lexo n Rab got between me n him, n Dempsey came ower n battered Finnegan. Thir wis loads ay shouting and threatening. Ah was later tae find oot that Dempsey fae the cashies, and Finnegan, Doyle’s sidekick fae Sighthill, had a long-standing feud and Demps saw an opportunity which wis jist too good tae pass up. It wis nearly so brutal that night.
The place wis a mad mix ay boys, a lot ay whom were aw pumped up and just wanted the release ay it kicking off. Then thir wis the cooler heids whae saw it as a civil war and wanted tae calm things doon. What got me wis the discipline ay the top boys. They’d hud thir meet wi Aberdeen oan the cairds fir weeks, n they didnae want it ruined by what they saw as a few schemies huvin a fight ower some daft bird, n drawin polis heat thair wey.
Ah wis glad big Lexo stopped Gentleman comin ahead. Those hands were like shovels. Thir wis a bit ay shoutin n jostlin, then a boy came in and said that Aberdeen were definitely in William Street, and everybody left the pub, headin off in small groups. As they departed, Dempsey staged another assault on the still-groggy Finnegan, only tae be restrained by a cashie guy wi white hair and Stevie Doyle. We headed doon the road sharpish. It wis only then that ah realised ay wis covered in blood. — That’ll need stitches, Terry said.
— Sorry Billy, Gally went timidly, lookin like a wee laddie apologisin tae ehs faither fir pishin the bed.
Ah mind ay wee Stevie Doyle shoutin death threats doon Lothian Road eftir us, and we jumped a taxi up tae the Accident and Emergency. Ah didnae realise at the time that Doyle hudnae punched me, he’d hit me wi a flensing knife. It wis strange, but ah hud jist seen ehs hand. Every other cunt told me, naw, it was a flenser. It needed eight stitches. Just as well it wis the only blow he’d got in.
Because ay the wound bein right oan the chin, ma fight wi the Liverpool boy, Kenny Parnell, was postponed. It must have cost Power and Gillfillan money, so they probably put the bite on Doyle then.
Dinnae think ah’ve even seen um since.
George Street’s brutal for parkin, n ah huv tae go up n doon it twice before ah see a white Volvo pull oot ay this space, n ah’m right in thair. Drastic. It’s a bit ay a walk tae number one-zero-five. At first ah think Gillfillan’s taking the piss, because the building’s a bank and it’s shut, completely empty, like it’s gaunny be renovated. Ah pushes the door, n sees Gillfillan, talkin tae this security guy. Dinnae ken what they want security in a place like this for.
Thir’s a big, fat guy sittin at a desk and chair. Ah recognise him fae the ringside. David Alexander Power, or Tyrone, as eh gets called. Eh’s huge, wi this black hair that sticks up like a brush.
— What aboot this then Billy? eh sais, lookin roond the barren space. — Nice, eh?
— If ye like banks, aye.
Power gets up and goes ower tae this kettle. Eh asks if ah want a coffee. Ah nod, n eh starts makin it. Eh’s different tae what ah thought eh’d be like. Eftir Gillfillan, ah thoat eh’d be aw that serious, flash, gangster wey. This big cunt though, eh’s aw relaxed, but cheerful and enthusiastic, like yir favourite uncle who’s gone intae business. — Tell ye what Billy, ten years fae now, this street’ll be unrecognisable. Aw that building work at the West End, reaching right up tae what we used tae ken as Tollcross. Ye ken what that’s gaunny be?
— Offices, ah bet.
Power smiles, hands me a coffee in a Hibernian mug. — Right, but mair than that. It’s gauny be Edinburgh’s new financial centre. So what happens here, tae aw they fine old buildings?
Ah say nowt.
— This place changes, eh explains, — becomes an entertainment centre. No like Rose Street, wi its tacky touristy pubs, n places for the suburbanites tae huv a toon pub-crawl doon. Naw, aw these punters that go oot ravin now, they’ll be ten years aulder doon the line, n they’ll want thir creature comforts.
Ah think aboot aw they people dancin in the fields and in sweaty warehooses. — Ah cannae see thaim wantin that, ah say.
— Oh but they will, big Power grins, — we aw do at some time. And George Street’s the place. You’ve got the West End for the meat markets, and the cool, clubby East End. What ye need is something in the middle. Eh stops n spreads ehs airms. — George Street. A street ay nice, pre-club bars, housed in all these classic old bank buildings. Smart enough for a classy clientele, big enough tae be something else when licensing laws move wi the times. And none bigger or classier than The Business Bar, eh nods roond the room. Then eh pats ehs big gut. — But it’s yon time. What dae ye say tae continuing this conversation over lunch at the Café Royal?
— Why not, ah say, respondin tae the big man’s grin. So we’re in the Oyster Bar; me, Power and Gillfillan. Ah’m stickin tae mineral water, but Power’s puttin away the Bollinger finestyle. It’s the first time ah’ve hud oysters before, and thir no up tae much. It must show. — An acquired taste, Billy, Power smiles.
Gillfillan says very little. Power’s obviously the man. Unlike Gillfillan, Power doesnae play the gangster, which probably means eh’s comfortable enough no tae huv tae bother.
Thinkin aboot this, ah decide tae come oot wi it, see how eh reacts when we stoap skirtin roond things. — This, ah touch ma scar, — you pit Doyle in the picture, eh? ah ask.
Power screws up ehs nose n looks mildly irritated for the first time, like ah’ve broken some protocol by being that direct. Then eh laughs, — Schemies eh, where would we be withoot them?
— Ah come fae a scheme, ah say tae him.
Power grins widely, but for the first time ah see it in ehs eyes, that look, no hardness or badness even, but that other place, somewhere eh kin go and be comfortable in when eh needs tae be. Somewhere very few people can. — So do I, Billy, so do I. And a real one as well, no some tarty wee Jambo homestead like Stenhoose, eh laughs at that, and tae be honest, ah do a bit n aw. — Ah should be mair specific here, it’s no schemies, like aw us here, but the schemie mentality ah’m talkin aboot. Take Doyle: ah knew ehs auld man well. Same thing. They would be dangerous if they had ambitions beyond the scheme. But that’s aw they ken: that’s where they feel safe. Doyle’s content tae rule the roost, buy ehs ain council hoose, have a few giro and rent-cheque fiddles; a bit ay loan sharking, some powders and pills. Fine. Leave um tae it. It’s when these cunts get ambitious ye huv tae worry.
Ah smile at that. Power is a shrewd cunt, that’s the Doyles tae a tee. — Then what dae ye dae?
— If thir idiots, ye get them telt. If thir no, ye bring them intae the fold. You’re always stronger if you’ve got strong people around ye, eh looks briefly at Gillfillan. — But strong doesnae mean muscle. That can always be bought. It’s up here, eh taps ehs heid, — that’s where it counts.
It’s ma heid that’s spinnin when ah say ma goodbyes n git back oot n head doon the road tae the car. Ah thought ah’d hate Power, ah’d marked him doon as a wanker like Gillfillan. But naw. Ah found that ah liked him, respected him, even admired him. N it’s brutal though, but because ay that, for the first time in a long time, ah really feel scared.
Memories of Italia
Ah go for a hurl in the motor, tryin tae clear ma heid. Ah heid along the bypass and doon tae Musselburgh, stoppin at the Luca’s café for a coffee. The Café Royal food’s heavy in my guts, Ronnie might no have been pleased, but, well, it wis his idea. Ah’m drastic wi grub; the mair ah huv, the mair ah want. Even now, ah’m tempted tae huv a Luca’s ice-cream: ma auld man used tae take me here for them when we wir young. Ye never forget a taste like that. Naw, it’ll no taste the same now. The ice-cream might, but ma tastebuds’ll be different. Things change.
Me, having my ain bar, my ain business. Sounds good. It’s the only way to make money, having your ain business, buying and selling. And having money is the only way to get respect. Desperate, but that’s the world we live in now. Ye hear the likes ay Kinnock n the Labour Party gaun oan aboot the doctors n nurses n teachers, the people that care for the sick and educate the kids and everybody’
s nodding away. But they’re thinking aw the time, ah would never dae that kind ay joab, just gie me money. It’s drastic, but you’ll never change it. You try tae be decent tae people close tae ye, but everybody else can piss off, n that’s the wey ay it.
Ah finish ma coffee n head back tae the motor.
Driving hame ah spy a familiar figure walking in the rain. Ah’d ken that walk anywhere; they sloping shoodirs, the airms thrustin oot, the heid gaun fae side tae side aw shifty; but, maist ay aw, that corkscrew hair flyin aboot.
Like a rooster wi bad piles.
Ah kerbcrawl behind the tossbag and pull up alongside um. — TERENCE LAWSON! LOTHIANS AND BORDERS POLICE! ah shout, as the radge turns roond slowly, tryin tae act aw cool but ye ken eh’s shit up inside.
— Fuck off, Birrell, eh goes as eh clocks it’s me.
— A bit out of our area, aren’t we, Mr Lawson?
— Eh, ah wis seein some burd up here . . . eh goes.
That’s bullshit. Terry seein burds, aye, awright, that’s well believable, but no here in the Grange. Apart fae that wee brek in Italy whaire eh saw how the other half shagged, eh’s never been wi a lassie in ehs life whose Ma didnae huv an Edinburgh District Council Rent Book. — Dinnae gies it, Lawson. Yir casin some gaff in the neighbourhood. You’re brutal, man.
— Fuck off Billy, eh laughs.
— Oh, it’s like that is it? Yi’ll no be wantin a lift then, ah take it?
Sure’n eh isnae. It’s pissin doon n Terry gits intae the car. Ehs white cord jaykit’s soaked wet across ehs shoodirs. Eh rubs ehs hands thegither. — Right, Birrell my good man. The municipal housing scheme that we both know and love so well, there’s a chap, eh goes, adding, — Pronto.
We start talkin aboot Italia ’90. Ah mind when we went oantae the steps ay the Vatican. Terry looked ower St Peter’s Square and started singing: No Pope in Rome, no chapels to sadden my eyes . . .
Then the Vatican security pounced, grabbed a hud ay the radge n muggins here hud tae smooth it ower. Beyond brutal.
— Yir supposed tae be Hibs, Lawson, ah telt um.
— Aye, but ye’ve goat tae take the piss oot ay they cunts, eh said. — Biggest fuckin racket gaun.
Ah mind ay him buyin that gless ashtray in the gift shoap, the crucifixion yin. Ah thought it wis in bad taste so ah got a Colosseum one.
Aye, that wis some crack back in Rome. Terry set ehs stall oot right fae the start. Ah goes, — Wi kin hook up wi aw they boys we met oan the plane, the boys fae Fife. They were sound.
— Uh, uh, Mr Birrell. Tell ye something for nowt, eh goes, eyeing these lassies across fae us in this café by the river, — the quality ay fanny here is absolutely fuckin amazing. Scheme minge disnae even git tae first base. Ah dinnae gie a fuck aboot the fitba or gittin tickets; if Scotland loast every game six-nil or if they won the fuckin World Cup itself, it wid make nae fuckin difference tae me at aw. Ah’m here fir the shaggin. End of.
— It’s the World Cup, for god’s sake . . .
— Couldnae gie a toss. If you think thit ah’m gaunny hing aroond wi some hairy-ersed rid-faced trannies in tartan skirts, fae Fife or anywhaire else, singing Flower ay Scotland again, n again, n again, you kin git tae fuck right now, Sonny Jim. Because this, eh sweeps ehs hand grand-style acroass tae where they lassies are sittin, aw wi shades pushed up tae thir heads (a gesture he’s copied) — this is the canvas that a sexual artiste like Juice Terry Lawson was born tae spurt white creamy paint aw over.
Efter that ah occasionally bumped intae him, at the hotel, or the railway station or when eh hunted ays doon tae scrounge cash. Then ah couldnae believe ma eyes whin ah saw the hypocritical bastard wi a tartan kilt oan.
— Nicked it fae this cunt in this hotel ah went back tae the other night. Eh left ehs door open when eh went for a shower. Mug. Fits like a fuckin glove n aw. The birds love it man, ah should’ve worked that one oot. Why dae ye think so many ugly cunts go tae Scotland games abroad wi kilts oan? This wee bird says tae ays, — What does a Scotsman wear under hees keelt? Ah lifts it up a wee bit, discreetly like, under the table, shows her the fuckin goods. She goes, — Everytheeng ees in order. Now, how does a Scotsman make luff?
— So ye went doon oan the neck ay a bottle ay Grouse?
Eh makes a fartin noise through ehs lips. — Thir wis nae complaints at aw, Birrell, ah kin assure ye ay that.
Aye, eh did awright for ehsel oot thair, ah’ll gie him that. Now that eh’s goat a taste for foreign lassies, eh’s lookin forward tae Munich. It’s aw eh talks aboot, but come tae think ay it, ah am n aw.
When we gets tae the shoaps jist before oor bit, Terry clocks Gally arguin wi that Polmont boy, that McMurray. Her n the bairn are standin aroond. It’s like thir squarin up tae each other in the street. Wi dinnae want that, no wi aw the history thaire. We pills up n gits oot, but the wanker’s off doon the road. Wee Gally’s aw wired up, n Terry’s tryin tae calm um doon. Ah try as well, until ah sees auld Mrs Carlops comin oot the supermarket, strugglin wi two heavy bags. Ah takes them oaf her and sticks them in the boot ay the car.
Terry n Gally wanted ays tae go for a pint, but one pint in that company is never one pint, n ah daresay that ah’ll huv enough when ah go away wi them. Ah make ma excuses n git auld Mrs Carlops hame.
The perr auld girl’s that grateful naw. Perr auld doll, she never asks for much n she’s jist ower the road fae ours. As if ah’m gaunny lit her struggle hame wi that weight.
When ah gits in thir’s nae sign ay Ma or Dad. Rab’s sittin oan the couch wi this lassie, thir watchin dole-mole eftirnoon telly.
— Whaire’s Ma?
— Up toon wi Auntie Brenda. It’s her day fir the toon.
— Whaire’s Dad?
Rab bends ehs wrist n lisps, — Eh’s at ehs cookery class. The lassie beside um bursts intae stoned laughter. Ah thoat ah could smell the hash, n thir’s a big joint in Rab’s hand. Ah’m no chuffed at him disrespectin ma faither in front ay some dopey cow. At least the auld man’s makin an effort. N eh’s disrespectin thair hoose, smokin aw that rubbish.
It’s no for me tae say nowt but.
— What ye been up tae? ah asks.
— Usual, eh, eh goes. — Been trainin?
— When’s Dad due back?
— Fuck knows, eh says.
It gits ays wonderin as tae whether eh’s shaggin this bird or jist hingin aboot wi her. It’s funny, but the wey thir that easy in each other’s company, the wey they jist laugh, it makes ays think about Anthea n me. Oor life. Oor business relationship. It’s daft but: ye cannae start bein jealous ay a couple ay dole-moles who probably arenae even leggin each other.
Right now ah feel like the auld boy must feel aw day, surplus tae requirements, and ah almost wish ah’d gone fir a beer wi the boys.
Naw. Focus. Concentration.
Me n Rab, wir flyin in different directions.
The key goes in the door, n it’s ma auld man.
Andrew Galloway
Training
Ah’d waited three weeks for the news. Ah thoat it would be a killer, but thir wis so much gaun oan, so much other shite, ah scarcely noticed. When ah thought about it, which ah did, especially at nights, ah couldnae work oot how much it plugged intae the anxiety ah’d already been feeling for, how long?
Fuckin years.
They take ye in, sit ye doon, n compose ye. They ken what thir daein, n thir good at it. But thir’s only so many ways they kin say it. — You tested positive, the woman at the clinic told me.
Ah’m no that daft. Ah ken the difference between HIV and AIDS. Ah ken just aboot everything important that thir is tae ken oan the subject. It’s weird, that ye can so studiously ignore something so much, that ye actually reference it by its omission, and the knowledge of it surreptitiously, subconsciously, just slips in. A bit like the virus itself. Nevertheless, ah hear maself say, — So that’s it, ah’ve goat AIDS then.
And ah said that, chose tae say that, because part of me, some bright, optimistic part that’
ll never let go, craved the whole speech about it no being a death sentence and looking after myself and the treatments and so on and so forth.
But ma first thoat wis, well, that’s it fucked. And it wis a strange relief, cause ah’d felt it hus been fucked fir some time, it was like aw ah found oot wis how. The rest ay the time in the clinic was just aw white noise in ma heid. So ah went hame n sat in the armchair. Ah started laughin ma heid oaf until it goat deranged, caught in ma throat and turned intae racking sobs.
Tried tae think ay aw the who’s, how’s, what’s, where’s n why’s. Couldnae come up wi anything. Thought aboot how ah felt. Wondered how long it would be.
Best ah held oan.
Sat numbed for a bit, thought aboot unfinished business.
Aye, best ah held oan. Till ah kin sort it aw oot likes.
Ah stoaped kiddin oan that ah could dae anything useful. Ah goat oot the boatil ay Grouse and poured masel a drink. It burned aw hoat n sour aw the wey doon. The second one was better, but the fear didnae leave ays. Ma skin wis clammy, ma lungs felt shallow.
Ah kept tryin tae tell masel that this wis jist one mair day n the night wid be jist one mair night in a long, dark dance ay them which stretched right oot intae the unknown, far further than your eye could see. Ma life would go oan, ah telt masel, mibbe for a long time. Far fae bein a comforting thought, the terror of it nearly crushed what little there was left in me.
It might go on, but it wouldnae get better.
Ye dinnae realise what an anchor hope is, until ye ken that it’s really gone. You’re gutted, disembowelled, and it’s like ye jist arenae of this world anymair. It’s as if thir’s nae mass tae keep ye weighed doon tae this earth.
In the disintegration ay reality, yir vision becomes a diffused scan, followed by a desperate focus on the extreme and the mundane. Ye’ll grasp at anything, no matter how daft, that seems tae provide the answer: tryin so hard tae find significance in it.
