by Irvine Welsh
Angie slipped some gum into her mouth. — Aye, that wis your fault but, takin her tae that Manumission oan the last night, gittin her aw juiced up.
— Aye, whin that couple started shaggin, ah didnae ken whaire tae pit ma face, Charlene said, relieved that they hadn’t got on her case.
Shelagh looked at her and, sucking on the vodka-and-Coke mix they’d prepared in Newcastle Airport, laughed, — Ah did: right underneath that Geordie boy’s erse!
In the toilet, Lisa was pulling her blonde hair across her scalp to expose dark roots which needed touching up. She never did them herself, and Angie would try to fit her in next week. You needed a professional job, get the split ends sorted and make sure the condition was maintained. Avoid at all costs the greasy or dry extremes of the home efforts.
The sun had brought out her freckles. Lisa pulled her top up, to examine the tan-line. It had taken a couple of days to get round to getting the top off. The tan was just coming on, just starting to look seamless, when it was back on the fuckin plane and back to work next week to the fucking pods in the call centre at Scottish Spinsters. See you next year.
Next year the tits were coming out from day one. Lisa had always wanted bigger tits. That wanker who had said to her, ‘If you had bigger tits you’d have a perfect body.’ This was supposed to be a fuckin compliment n aw. She’d retorted by telling the guy that if his cock was as big as his nose then he’d be okay as well. The sad fucker had gotten all paranoid and self-conscious. Some of them could give it alright, but they hated getting it back. The pretty-boys were the worst; narcissistic, self-absorbed bores with no personality. But then the problem was that if you shagged too many dogs, it ate away at your self-esteem. And it was a problem, but one worth having.
Wee Charlene had been a bit funny on the holiday. Lisa suspected that it had all been a bit too much for her. Lisa surprised herself with how protective she felt of her younger friend. When they were out in San Antonio’s West End she’d glance over like a mother hen every time a pick-and-mix selection of pastel T-shirts and shorts came strutting towards them, all hopeful grins and ironic sneers. There was always a certain sleazy type who went straight for Charlene. Her pal was small and dark: that ‘black Irish’ look she said it was, almost Romany. From her mother’s side. Charlene’s conventionally pretty face and ample cleavage should have suggested a vivacious sexuality, but there was a seriousness, a tentativeness about her. You could tell she was embarrassed by the whole thing, yet trying so hard to fit in.
Outside in the carriage, they watched Berwick pass underneath them. Charlene had seen it from the train so many times and it still looked impressive. She remembered once coming back up from Newcastle on a night out, she’d been moved to get out and explore it. It had been an agreeable enough town, but was best appreciated from the train.
Angie nudged Charlene as she took the bottle from Shelagh. — She’s fuckin mad but, she glanced over at Shelagh, — nearly as bad as you. Mind the time ye bagged oaf wi that boy at Buster’s?
— Aye . . . right hen, Shelagh said warily. She wasn’t able to remember which time this was, but she sensed Angie’s mood.
— He wis pished!
Shelagh minded now. It was best to tell it herself rather than have to suffer Angie’s version. — Aye, ah goes back tae his, but eh couldnae git it up. In the mornin, ah’m gittin dressed, and he’s aw frisky, tryin it oan. Ah telt um tae fuck off.
— That’s oot ay order, Angie said, realising that this wasn’t the story she meant. But she was a bit pished, and as she’d now forgotten the original one, this would do, — it’s awright whin yir drunk, bit no in the mornin whin thir sober, specially if eh couldnae git it up the night before.
— Ah ken. That makes it like gaun wi somebody thit’s a stranger. Like ah’m a fuckin slut or something. Ah telt um tae fuck off, ye hud yir chance, son, n ye wirnae up tae the job. Ken whit she says, Shelagh explained, pointing through to the carriage where Lisa had gone. — She sais ah wis mad. She goes, should’ve done um in the mornin. Ah sais, fuck off, it took ays eight Diamond Whites tae snog um. Ah’m no gaunny fuck a dog ah dinnae ken wi nothing but a hangover fir protection.
At this point Lisa returned and raised her eyes doubtfully, slipping into the seat next to Shelagh.
Charlene looked wistfully out of the window as the train swept along the Berwickshire coast. — She might be right though. It’s about diuretics. The boy can keep it up longer eftir a night oan the pish. Read aw aboot it. That’s how it took ma Ma ages tae leave ma Dad, even when eh wis an alkie. Eh’d wake up in the morning and jist gie her a length wi the drink stiffer eh hud. She thought it meant eh still loved her. It wis just chemical need. Eh’d huv stuck it in a Gregg’s bridie if it hud been hot and moist enough.
They sensed that Charlene had said too much. There was a long nervous silence as she twitched self-consciously before Lisa coolly said, — Widnae be a Gregg’s bridie then.
The laughter was too loud for humour but just right for catharsis. At this point, muddled, sick thoughts about Charlene and her father started to form in Lisa’s drink-fuddled mind.
Lisa looked at Charlene’s dark eyes. They were hollow and sunken, as were Shelagh and Angie’s and indeed her own when she had inspected them in the toilet. Why shouldn’t they be, they’d been caning it on holiday. But Charlene’s were different, they were more than a little bit haunted. It scared and concerned her.
Record Company
Franklin Delaney sat with Colin Taylor in a busy bar-café on Edinburgh’s Market Street. Its style was not to his liking: a dreary self-consciously trendy place which could be in a fashionable quarter of any western city. — Kathryn is fucking with my head, he confided.
Franklin regretted this confession as soon as he’d made it. Taylor was a bottom-line man, not the most sympathetic of individuals. His clothing looked expensive, but it seemed too pristine and unlived-in to be on a real person. He was like a mannequin and the gear confirmed him as pre-constructed, bland, corporate conformity. His voice was real enough though. — She’s got to eat or she’s going to fucking well peg out, he shook his head idly. — Why can’t she do us all a favour and take a fucking overdose?
Kathryn Joyner’s manager looked harshly at her record-company executive. You never knew when this limey bag of shit was taking the piss. He had tried to get to grips with this British obsession with irony and sarcasm but had never quite managed it.
But Taylor wasn’t taking the piss. — I’m sick of it all. At least if she croaked we’d shift some fucking units. I’m fed up with that fuckin prima donna, he scoffed, looking disapprovingly at the salad the waitress had put in front of him. He’d been trying to eat healthily but this appeared none too appetising. Franklin’s steak looked much better, not that the Yank fucker had noticed, given as he was to complaining about the quality of food in Britain. Taylor contemplated Delaney. He’d never been partial to Americans. Most of them he’d come into contact with in the music business were homogenised wankers who wanted everything to be like it was in the USA.
— She’s still the greatest white female singer in the world, Franklin felt his voice go that high way it did when he got defensive. He wasn’t keen on Taylor. The man was interchangeable with just about any other record-company faggot he’d run across. Whatever that crazy bitch’s problems, he ought to show some fucking respect for her talent. It had earned that asshole’s company enough cash and him enough kudos. Even if it all seemed a while back now.
— Yeah sure, Taylor shrugged. — I just wish she had the sales profile to prove it.
— The new album’s got some great songs on it, but it was a mistake to lead off with Betrayed by You. There was no way that single was going to get airplay. Mystery Woman would have been the ideal choice for lead single. That was the one she wanted to go with.
— We’ve had this debate, Franklin, more times than I care to remember . . . Taylor said wearily, — . . . and you know as well as I do that her voice is as fucked as
her sick head. You can hardly fucking well hear her on the album, so whatever single we took from it was going to be a pile of old bollocks.
Franklin felt the anger surge inside him. He chewed on his rare steak and, to his great pain and annoyance, bit hard into his tongue. He suffered in silence as his eyes watered and his cheeks flushed. His blood merged in his mouth with the cow’s, making him feel like he was eating his own face.
Taylor took this silence for compliance. — She’s under contract to do one more album with us. I’ll be straight with you, Franklin, if she doesn’t redeem herself with that one I’d be very surprised if she made another, on this label . . . or any other. The Newcastle gig last night was slated in just about every paper that bothered to cover it and the audiences are thinning out. I’m sure that it’ll be the same sorry tale tomorrow here in Glasgow.
— This is Edinburgh, Franklin stated.
— Whatever. It’s all the same to me, the obligatory Jock gig at the end of the tour. The point still holds. Bums on seats, mate, bums on seats.
— The tickets are selling well for this concert, Franklin protested.
— Only because the Jocks are so far removed from civilisation that they haven’t heard the word: Kathryn Joyner has lost it. The news will filter across Hadrian’s Wall at some point. But it was a good move putting her on here, at the Edinburgh Festival. They’ll take any old shit here. Any washed-up has-been can re-surface and the cunts that put the programme together call it ‘daring’ or ‘inspired’ and the thing is, people are so used to going out, they actually go along. Next week she could be doing the same show at their local shit-pit and they wouldn’t even fucking dream of going to see her. Taylor’s eyes sparkled with mischief, as he produced a newspaper cutting and slipped it over to him. — You seen this review of last night?
Franklin said nothing, trying to keep his features impassive, aware all the time of Taylor’s sniggering gaze on him, as he looked over the cutting:
Too Heavy On The Mint Sauce, Ms Joyner
Kathryn Joyner
City Hall, Newcastle Upon Tyne
The vibrato vocal technique is a controversial device to say the least. It’s often the last weapon of the songster scoundrel, the clapped-out chanteuse whose voice lacks its former range. In Kathryn Joyner’s case, it’s sad, almost to the point of being painful, to witness the public humiliation of a vocal talent which was once, if not everybody’s cup of tea, then at least a truly distinctive phenomenon.
Now, Joyner, when audible, bleats through every song like a lamb on Mogadon, often sliding into this pathetic warble at the least challenging of obstacles. It’s almost like our Kath’s forgotten how to sing. A boozy, middle-aged crowd on a nostalgia trip might have shown some empathy to a more engaging performer, but Joyner, like her voice, seems elsewhere. Her communication with the audience is zero, exemplified by her stubborn and perverse refusal to give us a rendition of her biggest ever transatlantic hit, Sincere Love. Repeated calls from the floor for that old standard were studiously ignored.
In the end though, it matters not a jot. Hits like I Know You’re Using Me and Give Up Your Love were given the woolly treatment by a painfully thin Joyner, who currently oozes the kind of sex appeal which makes Ann Widdecombe look like Britney Spears. The set positively reeks of mint sauce, and, for the good of music, this is one piece of mutton-dressed-as-lamb we can only pray will fall into the clutches of a Hannibal Lecter very soon.
Franklin struggled to contain his anger. This artist needed support, and here she was being written off and ridiculed by her own company.
— Get her to eat, Franklin, Taylor smiled, holding a forkful of greasy chicken to his mouth. — Just get her to eat. Get her strong again.
Franklin felt the pain in his mouth subside as his indignation rose further. — Don’t you think I haven’t been trying? I’ve tried every clinic and special diet and therapist known to man . . . I get them to send up club sandwiches every day!
Taylor raised the glass of red wine to his mouth. — She needs a good fucking, he mused, looking conspiratorially at Franklin who just then realised that the record-company executive was a little drunk. — Mint sauce, eh? That’s a good one!
I Know You’re Using Me
Juice Terry didn’t like heights. He wasn’t cut out for this type of work. The window-cleaning he didn’t mind, but being up high, it just wasn’t for him. Yet here he was suspended on a platform above the city, cleaning the windows of the Balmoral Hotel. How the fuck he had let that jakey auld cunt Post Alec talk him into this gig was beyond him. Alec had said it would be cash-in-hand as Norrie McPhail was in hospital getting an operation on his shoulder. Norrie didn’t want to lose the lucrative hotel contract so had entrusted Post Alec with completing the job.
— Fuckin view-n-a-half fae up here but, Terry, coughed Alec, hacking up a lump of spittle from the back of his throat and gobbing it out. Even as far up as they were, and with the noise of the traffic, Alec fancied that he could hear the gob splatter off the pavement.
— Aye, barry, Terry replied, without looking across and down at Princes Street. You could just step outside the scaffolding and let go. Just like that. It was too easy. It was a wonder more people didn’t do it. A bad hangover would swing it. You’d only have to sense the futility of it all just for a split-second, then you’d be away. It was too tempting. Terry wondered what the suicide rate for window-cleaners on high buildings was. An image from the past crashed into his head and Terry felt giddy. He clung hard to the barrier, his hands sweating and numb on the metal. He took a deep breath.
— Aye, it’s no every day ye git a view like that, Alec marvelled, looking over at the castle. He took a half-bottle of The Famous Grouse whisky from the inside pocket of his overalls. Unscrewing the top, he helped himself to an almighty swig. He thought twice before reluctantly holding it in front of Juice Terry, chuffed when Terry declined, feeling the alcohol burning satisfyingly at his guts. He looked at Terry, that frizzy mane of hair blowing in the wind. It had been a mistake to get that mooching cunt in on this, Alec decided. He thought it would be company, but Terry had gone all silent on him, which was unlike Terry. — Fuckin view, Alec repeated, stumbling a little and shaking the platform. — Makes ye happy tae be alive.
Terry felt his blood running cold in his veins as he tried to compose himself. No be alive much longer, up here wi this auld cunt, he thought. — Aye, right Alec. When’s wir fuckin brek? Ah’m starvin.
— Yuv jist hud yir breakfast in that café, ya greedy fat cunt, Alec sneered.
— That wis ages ago, said Terry. He was looking into the bedroom which lay on the other side of the window he was cleaning. A youngish woman sat on the bed.
— Stoap checkin oot the fanny, ya dirty bastard, Alec spat with concern, — any complaints fae guests n it’s Norrie’s livelihood that’s at stake.
But Terry was spying the club sandwich which lay untouched on the table. He tapped at the window.
— Ur you fuckin mad! Alec grabbed his arm. — Norrie’s in the PMR!
— S’awright, Alec, Juice Terry said soothingly, as the platform shook, — ah ken whit ah’m daein.
— Harassin fuckin guests . . .
The woman had come to the window. Alec cringed and moved along the platform and took another swig from the bottle of Grouse.
— ’Scuse me, doll, Terry said as Kathryn Joyner looked up and saw what she thought was a fat guy standing outside her window. Of course, they were cleaning windows. How long had he been looking at her? Was he spying on her? A weirdo. Kathryn wasn’t taking this bullshit. She went over to him. — What is it that you want? she asked sharply, opening the huge double-windows.
A fuckin septic, thought Juice Terry. — Eh sorry tae disturb ye n that, doll . . . eh, see that sanny thair, he pointed to the club sandwich.
Kathryn pulled her hair back from across her face, pinning it behind her ear. — What . . . ? she looked across at the food with distaste.
— Ye no want
in it likes?
— No, I don’t . . .
— Goan gies it then.
— Eh sure . . . okay . . . Kathryn couldn’t think of any reason not to give this man the sandwich. Franklin may even think she’d eaten it and it might stop him busting her ass for a minute. This guy was pushy, but what the fuck, she’d give him it. — Sure . . . why not . . . in fact, why don’t you just come in and have some coffee with it . . . she said caustically, annoyed at being disturbed.
Terry knew Kathryn was being sarcastic, but decided to steam into the room anyway. You could play the daft laddie, pretend to take somebody at their word. The wealthy almost expected it of the lower orders, so it suited everyone. — That’s very kind of you, Terry smiled, stepping in.
Kathryn took a step back and glanced at the phone. This guy was a nut. She should call security.
Terry noted her reaction and threw his hands in the air. — Ah’m jist comin in fir a coffee, ah’m no one ay they radges like in America, that cut ye tae pieces n aw that, he explained, breaking into a big smile.
— I’m glad to hear that, Kathryn replied, gathering some composure.
Post Alec was surprised to see his friend disappearing into the room. — What’s the score, Lawson? he shouted, in rising panic.
Terry beamed at Kathryn, who was still judging her distance to the phone, then turned back and poked his face out the window. — The lassie’s jist asked ays in fir a wee bite tae eat. American lassie likes. Nice tae be nice, eh, he whispered back at Alec’s disgruntled pout before closing the window.
Kathryn raised her eyebrows as the overall-clad figure of Juice Terry stood before her in her bedroom. He’s an employee. A window-cleaner. He just wants a coffee. Calm down.
