by Irvine Welsh
The waw in front ay ays seemed tae hud the secret tae ma future. The samurai sword, the crossbow. Up thaire oan the waw, just starin at ays.
The future: starin ays right in the face. Take care ay it, take care ay that unfinished business.
Ah took the big samurai sword oaf the waw. Takin it fae the scabbard, ah watched it gleam in the light. The blade was blunt though, it couldnae cut butter. Terry goat it for ays, eh robbed it fae somewhere.
How easy though, tae sharpen that blade.
The crossbow wisnae sae ornamental. Ah pick it up, feelin the weight ay it, stuck in the two-inch bolt, took aim and blasted the red in the centre ay the target by the opposite waw.
Sat doon again, thought aboot ma life. Tried tae think aboot ma faither. The fleeting visits ower the years. — When’s Dad comin back? ah’d ask my Ma, aw eager.
— Soon, she’d say, or at other times, she’d just shrug as if tae say, how the fuck should ah ken?
The gaps between his appearances got longer, until he just became this unwelcome stranger whose presence would fuck up your routine.
Ah mind though, one fireworks day when we were kids. He took me, Billy, Rab and Sheena to the park; us wrapped up against the November cold. The rockets he’d bought, he just stuck them in the frozen ground by their sticks. You were supposed tae put them in a bottle, but we thought that he knew what he was daein, so we said nowt.
Me and Billy were only seven, and we knew. How the fuck did he no ken that?
Rockets were supposed to soar tae the skies, then explode, but we watched his yins burn oot and blow up, withoot leaving the cauld, hard groond. He knew nothing because he was always inside. When ah wis growin up, the worse thing my Ma could say tae me was that ah wis as bad as ma faither. Ah telt maself ah’d never, ever be like him.
Then ah wis inside n aw.
Two stretches in the nick, one in innocence, the other in guilt. Dunno which one fucked ays the maist; the crime ay stupidity is the greatest fuckin crime of them all. Now I’m in this council flat, back in the scheme, a sublet fae a mate called Colin Bishop, who’s working in Spain. It’s funny, but people say, aye, yuv ended up back here. But ah will, ah will end up here.
The rain’s been thrashin doon the day, but ah see now it’s rained itself oot. Thir’s a rainbow in the road.
In ma nut, ah’m up n doon like a yo-yo. Now ah’m thinkin aboot how many people git the chance tae settle auld scores before they go? No many. Maist people are gaunny go oan a long time, so they’ve goat too much tae lose, either that or they’re too feeble tae act by the time they ken it’s ower. Thinking this wey makes me feel strong.
So ah felt like the world had dealt me its worst possible hand and that, fuck it, ah wis still here. When ah walked oot intae the sunshine tae clear ma heid, bizarrely so euphoric, ah genuinely thought that nothing would ever make me sad again.
But ah wis wrong of course.
Ah wis proved wrong after aboot five minutes.
Five minutes, the distance between here n the shoaps. When ah saw her with the bairn, comin oot ay the newsagent’s, ma hert battered in the centre ay ma chist and ah vernear just crossed the road. But they were oan their ain, he wisnae aboot. Ah jist wisnae up for meetin him, no the now, when ah did it wid be when ah wis ready.
But no the now.
Ah glanced aboot, certain that he wisnae aroond.
Thing wis, ah wis feelin awright, ah’d done what ah’d hud tae dae wi the cunts at the centre, n ah wis tryin tae pit it aw tae the back ay ma mind. Tryin tae look ahead, tae think aboot the Munich Beer Fest n the pills ah’d have tae sell tae get thair. The flights hud aw been booked, so ah jist needed accommo n spends money. It wis a rerr day n aw: it hud been stoatin doon a while ago, but now it wis blazin n everybody wis oot. It wis comin up fir tea-time, n people wir streamin oaf the buses fae toon. Ah was walkin along, lookin at the graffiti-covered waw, tryin tae find oor auld efforts. There they wir, slowly but surely fadin away:
GALLY BIRO HFG RULE
It must be over ten years auld. Biro. That wis Birrell’s auld nickname, which wis never used now. Ah should’ve goat a better yin, mair obscure. Muh Ma sussed oot it wis me n battered ays. That cunt Terry used tae come up for ays ages ago n say tae muh Ma: — Hiya Mrs Galloway, is Gally, eh ah mean Andrew, in?
Now we were gaun away thegither; me, Terry, Carl n Billy. Mibbe for the last time.
Thir good boys but, especially Birrell: a capital gadgie. Backed ays up that time wi Doyle. Aw the wey. Eh hud a loat gaun oan, as well. The fight goat pit back. The Evening News got hud ay it aw, painted him as a mindless thug, dragged up this auld conviction eh hud fae a few years back fir setting that warehoose oan fire. Eh handled it aw well though, Billy did. Pulverised the boy fae Liverpool when the fight was rescheduled. They aw were right back up his erse eftir that.
Ah thoat aboot it, aboot back then, n ah felt a bit low again. Then ah thought, c’moan, stroll on Galloway, behave yirself. Aye, when ah went oot, ah wis feelin fine.
Then ah saw them.
Ah saw them and ah felt like ah’d just been punched hard in the guts.
When was the first time? Years ago. She wis wi Terry. Ah thought she wis a nice lassie n aw. She could fair turn it oan when she wanted tae. It wis different the second time. Aw ah wanted was a shag, n ah got yin. Ah felt barry aboot that, until she telt me that she was up the stick. Ah couldnae believe it. Then wee Jacqueline. Born a few weeks eftir Lucy, Terry’s wife, hud Jason.
Ah wanted everything when ah came oot ay the nick. Especially a bird. So aye, ah goat ma hole; the price was a wedding ring and the responsibility ay a wife n bairn. It was far too much, even if her n me hud been better suited. Ah couldnae wait tae get oot the hoose, away fae her; her n her pals, like Catriona, Doyle’s sister. They would sit roond the hoose n smoke aw day. Ah wanted away fae them, away fae their bairns. Their screaming, greeting bairns.
Ah wanted action anywhere ah could find it. Ah wis too auld tae be a cashie really, most ay the boys were a good five years younger than me. But ah’d missed time, n ah’d always looked younger than ah wis. Ah got intae that for a couple ay seasons. Then ah started gaun tae the clubs wi Carl.
Away fae them, Gail n that crowd, but also, ah suppose, away fae Jacqueline. So aye, ah loat ay it wis doon tae me, cause ah wisnae aroond a lot. But he wis. Him. Then she was seeing that cunt. Him.
When ah challenged her, she just laughed in ma face. Telt me what he was like in bed. Better than me; much better than me, she said. A real animal, she telt ays. Could hump aw night. Cock like a pile driver. Ah thoat aboot him, n ah couldnae believe it. She must’ve been talkin aboot somebody else. It couldnae be McMurray, no Polmont; no that fuckin nervous, drippy cunt, that shitein puppet ay Doyle’s.
She went oan n oan, and ah wanted her tae shut up. Telt her tae shut her fuckin dirty slut mooth, but ah’d telt her so many times, n aw she’d fuckin well dae is jist open it wider and wider. Ah couldnae take it. Grabbed her by the hair. She battered me, we fought. Ah hud her hair and God fuckin help me, ah wis gaunny gie her it. Ah clenched ma fist intae a ball, pulled it back and
and and and
and ma daughter was behind me, she’d goat up oot ay her bed tae hear what the row was aw aboot. Ma elbaw went intae her face, crushed the side ay her face, her fragile wee bones . . .
ah nivir meant tae hurt
no tae hurt wee Jacqueline.
But the court never saw it that way. Ah was back in jail, in Saughton, a proper nick, nae Y.O.’s stuff this time roond. Back inside, wi time tae think.
Time tae hate.
The one ah hated most though, it wisnae her, or even him. It wis me: me, the stupid, weak mug. Oh, ah battered that cunt awright. Battered um wi everything; alcohol, pills, smack. Punched waws until the bones in ma hands broke and they swelled up tae the size ay baseball gloves. Burned filthy, red-brown holes intae ma airms wi cigarettes. Ah sorted that cunt oot awright, ah pished all ower the bastard. And ah did it so quietly, so sn
eakily, that no many saw past the cheeky, wasted smile.
The other cunts ah kept away fae. Restrainin order. Kept away fae them until now. Now that cow is right here, just a few steps away.
It wisnae sae much seein her, it was seein wee Jacqueline: the state ay the bairn. Just seein the wee lassie like that; she was wearing glesses. It jist made ays so sad. Glesses, oan a wee girl that age. Ah thought aboot the school, the teasing, the cruel cunts we could be when we were wee, and how ah couldnae dae anything tae protect her fae it. Thought ay how that simple, fuckin stupid, cosmetic, totally valueless thing like a pair ay fuckin glesses could change the way people saw her, change the wey she grew up.
Her Ma’s side; that cow was as blind as a fuckin bat. Could see a cock a mile away but, she never hud any problems thaire. Eywis used tae talk aboot gittin contact lenses when we were thegither. She never wore her glesses ootside, ah used tae hud oantae her when we were oot like ah wis her fuckin guide dug. She wis the fuckin dug but. In the hoose it wis different; her sittin aroond like that fuckin fat lassie in Oan the Buses. She seems tae be able tae see now, so she’s probably invested in a set: that’s why the wee yin’s wearin obviously hand-me-doon clathes. That typifies that vain cow’s priorities. Now she’s goat Jacqueline’s glesses oaf and she’s polishing them with a hanky, standing thaire in her shabby jaykit, polishin ma bairn’s cheap glesses. And ah was thinking, why can you no get a proper cloth . . .
. . . why can’t ah dae that for the wee yin . . .
Nae fuckin access.
And although ah should’ve walked away, ah’m straight over the road taewards them. If that cow’s goat contact lenses she should take them back cause they’re shite. I’m practically right up her erse by the time she looks up. — Awright, ah says tae her and look doon at Jacqueline. — Hiya sweetheart.
The bairn smiles, but backs away a wee bit.
She backs away fae me.
— It’s Daddy, ah smile at her. Ah hear the words come oot ma mooth, n it sounds pathetic; biscuit-ersed and moosey-faced at the same time.
— What do you want, the non-person hoor asks. She looks at me like ah’m a soft piece ay shite and before ah kin say anything back adds, — Ah’m no wantin bother again, Andrew, ah’ve fuckin well telt ye! You should be fuckin well ashamed tae show yir face in front ay her. She looks doon at the wee yin.
That wis . . .
That wis a fuckin accident . . .
It wis her fuckin fault . . . her fuckin mooth, the things she fuckin well said . . .
Ah want tae just punch her twisted slut mooth, swearing like the fuckin dirty hoor she is, right in front ay the bairn, but that’s exactly what she wants, so ah’m tryin so hard, so desperately fuckin hard, tae stey cool. — Jist want tae sort somethin oot so ah kin see her sometimes, so we can agree somethin . . .
— It’s aw been settled, she says.
— Aye, settled by youse, wi me huvin nae say . . . Ah feel masel losin the rag here, and ah dinnae want it tae be like this. Ah jist want tae talk.
— Take it tae yir lawyer if ye dinnae like it, this has aw been settled, she repeats, aw slow n precise.
A fuckin lawyer, what’s she oan aboot? Whaire dae ah git a fuckin lawyer fae? Then she looks at this cunt comin doon the road, aye, it’s him awright, and pulls oan the bairn’s hand. — C’moan, there’s Daddy . . . she twists her mooth at me. Her words turn like a knife. How did ah ivir fuckin go wi her? Ah must’ve been mad.
And he’s standing there, lookin at me, ehs heid cocked tae the side. Still wi that funny build, no skinny, but flat, like eh’s been run ower by a steamroller. Looks wide fae the front, but nowt fae the side: like ye could slide um under a door. — Daddy . . . the bairn says, and runs ower tae him. Eh hugs her and then pushes her ower tae the hoor the perr wee angel’s been brought up tae call her Ma. Eh whispers something in her ear n she takes the bairn by the hand and they walk a bit doon the road. The wee yin looks at me, n gies me a wee wave.
Ah try tae say, ta-ta hen, but nowt comes oot. Raisin ma hand, ah wave back at Jacqueline, watchin them go, the wee yin askin her questions. No thit that ignorant cow would be able tae understand them, nivir mind answer them.
And he’s come closer n eh’s nearly in ma face. — What the fuck dae you want? eh goes, but it’s aw a show fir her, cause eh’s fuckin rattled, ye kin see the fear in ehs eyes. Now ah’m enjoyin it tae fuck, enjoyin this wee quiet moment between us, havin real fun for the first time.
Ah look at the cunt. Ah could fuckin just have him, right here and now. Eh kens it, ah ken it, but we both ken what would happen if ah did.
The polis and the Doyles on ma case. A dream ticket that. Thir’s no just me tae think aboot n aw. Billy backed ays up n goat a flenser oan the chin for ehs trouble.
— You’ve been fuckin telt. Dinnae make us tell ye again, eh says, pointin at me, then scratchin ehs beak. Nerves. Ye kin see ehs eyes waterin. One-tae-one isnae his style at aw. Like the last time; eh shat it then and it’s the same now.
Eh’s still a freckle-faced cunt. At twenty-six, or twenty-seven even. — Funny, ah seem tae mind ay bein mair worried the last time. Mibbe it wis the company ye wir in. The company yir no in now, ah smile, lookin at him, then ower ehs shoodir at her and the bairn, wi a surge ay guilt. Wee Jacqueline doesnae need this in her life. She looks at us, and ah cannae look back at her. Ah turn away back tae him. Then a car horn sounds. He looks ower ma shoodir and says, — Till later, movin away.
— Too right, ya crappin cunt, ah laugh, wonderin why eh wis in such a hurry. Or mibbe the cunt thoat ah’d backed doon. For a livid second, ah take a step forward, before stopping. Naw, it wisnae the time.
Ah turn tae see whae tooted and it’s Billy’s car wi Terry in it wi him.
They get oot and he’s right oaf doon the road sharpish, increasin ehs pace. Nae wonder. When eh gets tae her n the bairn, eh picks up Jacqueline and sticks her oan ehs shoodirs.
That cunt sticks ma fuckin bairn oan ehs shoodirs.
They head doon the road. That fuckin Gail hoor’s the only one lookin back at us. Terry’s up alongside me n eh’s smilin aw coolly at her and she turns away.
— What’s the story? Billy asks, noddin tae auld Mrs Carlops whae’s comin doon the road wi two big bags ay messages.
Ah’m no gittin Billy or Terry involved in this again. That Polmont’s fuck all; he dies. And Doyle? Ah look at Billy’s scar. Ah’ve nowt tae lose. He kin have it n aw. — Nae story, ah tell him. Ah try tae smile over at Mrs Carlops. Perr auld cow, she’s toilin in the heat wi they two big bags ay shoppin.
Billy goes ower tae Mrs Carlops and takes the bags off her and sticks them in the boot ay ehs car. Eh opens the passenger door. — You git in thaire, Mrs Carlops, n take the weight oaf yir feet.
— Ye sure, son?
— Ah’m jist gaun that wey, Mrs Carlops, doon tae muh Ma’s, so it’s nae bother at aw.
— Tryin tae cairry a wee bit too much, she wheezes, climbing in. — Ah’ve goat oor Gordon’s faimlay comin up fae York so ah thoat ah’d git some stuff in . . .
Terry’s lookin at this, as if either Mrs Carlops or Billy is a bit daft by being in this situation, then eh turns sharply tae me. — They cunts fuckin you aboot again? eh goes tae ays.
— Jist leave it, Terry, ah tells um, but my voice sounds breathless n ah’m diggin ma nails intae the palms ay ma hands.
Terry raises ehs hands in a defensive posture. Eh looks like eh goat caught in that downpour. Ehs hair n jaykit are wet. Billy’s eyes follow them right doon the street. The wee yin oan his shoodirs. The thing is, the worse thing, she really likes him. Some things ye cannae fake. Ah take a deep breath, then try tae swallow this thing thit’s jammed in ma throat. — What youse up tae?
Billy says, — Ah’d just finished trainin. Ah wis drivin past the Grange when ah saw this radge prowlin aroond the streets. Eh nearly shat a brick when ah peeped um.
— What wir you daein prowlin aroond they big hooses up the Grange, as if we didnae ken?
ah ask Terry.
— Ah’m mindin ma ain business, eh nods doon the road, they’re oot ay sight now, — so ah’d like you tae extend me the same courtesy, Mr Galloway, eh says.
— Fair enough, ah agree sharpish.
— Youse fancy a pint? eh asks.
Billy exhales sharply, lookin at Terry as if eh’s jist suggested taking up noncing. — No way, ah’m gaun tae git auld Jinty Carlops hame, then ah’m oaf tae muh Ma’s for ma tea. Ah’ve goat tae keep in shape, ah’m in trainin mind.
Terry starts thrashin ehs chist wi ehs index finger. — So are we Birrell, for the hoaliday in Munich at the Beer Fest.
But Billy’s no impressed. — Right, ah’ll leave yis tae it then. See yis doon at Carl’s club the morn’s night, eh goes, movin tae the car. Then eh turns back tae me n winks, — You take it easy, okay pal?
Ah smile n force a wink back. — Right, cheers Billy.
Birrell hops off intae the motor, leaving me and Terry. — That Birrell’s a fast worker, eh kens how tae pull awright, Terry laughs as Billy n auld Mrs Carlops head off. — Wheatsheaf? eh sais.
— Aye. Awright. Ah could dae wi a bevvy, ah tell um. Ah could fuckin well dae wi a few.
We head tae the Wheatsheaf. Terry sets up the beers n pumps up the jukey. Ah’m still dazed, aw ah kin think aboot wis ma crossbow bolt explodin intae that Polmont cunt’s heid, eftir the samurai sword’s taken it offay ehs shoodirs, that is. Send the contents tae Doyle in a box. Aye, you kin huv it n aw, ya cunt. The power ay no giein a fuck.
Then ah think aboot the bairn. My Ma. Sheena. Naw, ye always gie a fuck.
Terry comes back wi a couple ay pints ay lager. Terry’s a capital gadge, one ay the best. Eh acts the cunt sometimes, but thir’s nae badness in him. — You gaunny sit thaire in a world ay yir ain? eh asks.
— That cunt, wi ma bairn. Him . . . ah seethe. — . . . and her, that fuckin hoor. They fuckin well deserve each other. Ah ken that loads ay cunts gied her the message, every fucker warned ays, every cunt’s been thaire, they says. Ah widnae listen but.
