by Irvine Welsh
— Gittin ehsel aw harassed. The joab’ll git done, that’s what ah say. Cannae be daein wi stress. It’s a killer. That’s Alec’s problem, Terry nodded outside to the red-faced man who waved the chamois against Kathryn’s window, — too much executive stress. Ah telt um; Alec, ah sais, yir a two-ulcer man in a one-ulcer joab.
This asshole sure had some balls. — Yeah . . . eh, I guess so. Does your friend not want some coffee? Kathryn asked.
— Naw, he’s goat his ain stuff and eh’s jist gaunny press on. Terry sat down on a chair which looked too dainty and ornamental to support him, and started tearing into the sandwich. — No bad, he spat between chomps as Kathryn watched in fascination bordering on horror. — Eywis wondered what the sannies wir like n they posh places. Mind you, ah wis at ma mate’s weddin in the Sheraton the other week thair. They pit oan no a bad spread. Ye ken the Sheraton?
— No, I can’t say I do.
— It’s doon the other end ay Princes Street, Lothian Road likes. Ah’m no that keen oan that part ay toon, bit thir isnae as much bother thair as ye used tae git. Or so they say. Ah’m never that much in the toon these days but, eh. End up peyin toon prices. Bit it wis Davie n Ruth’s choice ay a venue . . . Ruth’s the bird ma mate Davie mairried but eh. Nice lassie ken.
— Right . . .
— No ma type likesay, bit top-heavy n that, Terry cupped his hands to his chest, caressing large invisible breasts.
— Right . . .
— Davie’s choice bit, eh? Cannae go roond tellin ivraybody whae thuv goat tae fuckin well mairray, eh?
— No, Kathryn said with an icy finality. She thought back all those years, four, five, to him in bed with her. With them.
The tour. And now another motherfucking tour.
— So whaire’s it ye come fae yirsel bit?
Terry’s terse questioning snapped Kathryn away from that Copenhagen hotel room back to the cornfields of her childhood. — Well, I’m originally from Omaha, Nebraska.
— Is that in America, aye?
— Yeah . . .
— Eywis wanted tae go tae America. Ma mate Tony jist goat back fae thair. Mind you, he thought thit it wis overrated. Every cunt . . . eh, pardon me, everybody eftir that, Terry rubbed his thumb and his index finger together. — The fuckin yankee dollar. Mind you, it’s gittin that wey ower here. Doon in that Waverley Station ye git charged thirty pence fir the bogs! Thirty pence fir a pish! Ye want tae make sure thit it’s a long yin fir that price! Ah’ll huv a fuckin shite n aw if it’s aw the same tae you, mate! Tell ays what the fuck that’s aw aboot, if ye kin!
Kathryn nodded glumly. She didn’t really know what this man was saying.
— So what brings ye tae Scotland? First time in Edinbury, aye?
— Yes . . . this fat oaf didn’t know who she was. Kathryn Joyner, one of the greatest singers in the world! — Actually, she said snootily, — I’m here to perform.
— Ye a dancer likes?
— No. I sing, Kathryn hissed through clenched teeth.
— Aw . . . ah wis thinkin ye might be a dancer up at Tollcross or somethin, but then ah thought that this yin’s a bit fancy fir the go-go’s n that . . . he looked around the huge suite, — if ye dinnae mind ays sayin so likes. So what is it ye sing?
— Have you ever heard of Must You Break My Heart Again . . . or perhaps Victimised by You . . . or I Know You’re Using Me . . . Kathryn couldn’t bring herself to say, ‘and Sincere Love.’
Terry’s eyes widened in recognition, then focused in disbelief for a beat, before expanding once more in affirmation. — Aye! Ah ken aw thaim! He burst into song:
After we’ve made love
a distant look it often fills your eyes
you aren’t with me
but when I challenge you, you feign surprise
You get dressed quickly
switch on TV for the ball game
I mean so little
You even call me by the wrong name . . .
. . . ah loved that song, man! It’s that true tae life . . . ah mean, eh, thir’s boys like that, ken whit ah mean? Once thuv hud thir ho . . . ah mean, eftir sex, it’s like, that’s it, ken?
— Yes . . . Kathryn found herself laughing gently at Terry’s performance. It was truly awful. It had been such a long time since anything had made her laugh. — You ought to be on stage, she smiled.
Terry bristled as if he’d been injected with a hypo full of raw pride. — Ah do sing, doon the karaoke in The Gauntlet at Broomhoose. Anywey, thanks fir the sanny. Ah’d better be gittin back before that cu . . . eh, before my colleague Post Alec starts nippin ma heid. He looked at her for a second, her stick-like figure. — Tell ye what but, ye should lit me git ye a drink later. You oaf the night?
— Yes, I am but I . . .
Juice Terry Lawson was far too experienced in the steamroller method of chat-up to allow Kathryn the time to qualify her situation. — Ah’ll take ye fir a wee bevvy then. Show ye some ay the sights. The real Edinbury but! Is it a date, like youse say in the States, he winked.
— Well, I dunno . . . I guess so . . . Kathryn couldn’t believe the words coming out of her mouth. She was going out on the town with a fat window-cleaner! He was possibly a pervert, a stalker or a kidnapper. He never shut up. He was a pain in the ass . . .
— Right, ah’ll see ye in the Alison. That’s a wee bit ay music business slang fir ye, you should ken that yin, the Alison Moyet, the foyer, ken? Seven o’clock awright?
— Right . . .
— Sound! Juice Terry opened the window, diligently scrambling back onto the platform, taking care not to look down.
— Aboot fuckin time n aw, Post Alec moaned. — Ah’m no daein they windaes masel, Terry. It’s no oan. Norrie’s peyin the baith ay us tae dae them, no jist me. Norrie . . . in the fuckin PMR, Terry. Hoaspital bed, sufferin fae a calcified tendon. Ehs windae-cleanin airm n aw. How dae ye think he’d be feeling like if he kent we wir messin up his livelihood?
— Stoap fuckin well moanin, ya fuckin auld jakey cunt. Ah’m only gaun oot the night wi that fuckin bird thit used tae be oan Top ay the Pops!
— Shite, Alec opened his mouth displaying blackening yellow teeth.
— Gospel man. That bird in thair. She did that Must Ye Brek Ma Hert Again.
Alec gaped, open-mouthed, as Terry sang to illustrate his point:
All my life I’ve been in pain
all my days no sunshine, just rain
then you came into my world one day
and all the clouds just blew away
But your smile has grown colder
I feel the chill that’s in your heart
and my soul it lives in terror
of the time you’ll say that we must part
Must you break my heart again
must you hurt me to my core
why oh why can you not be
the very special one for me
Must you play those same old mind games
cause I know there’s someone else
whom you think of when we’re together
Must you break my heart again . . .
— Ah mind ay that yin . . . here, what’s her name, Alec peeked in the window and had a glance at Kathryn.
— Kathryn Joyner, Terry said, demonstrating that same arrogant flourish he employed at The Silver Wing pub quiz on the occasions when he was sure he was correct. Alice Cooper’s real name? Vincent fuckin Furrier. Piece ay pish.
— See if ye kin git tickets fir her show.
— Consider it sorted, Alec, consider it sorted. We in the business kin pill a few fuckin strings. We dinnae forget oor auld muckers.
Cheeky cunt, thirty-six years auld n still livin at hame wi his Ma, Alec thought.
Blue Mountains, NSW,
Australia
Wednesday 9.14 am
All I’m aware of is the bass throbbing away, that pulse of life, the steady boom-boom-boom of the beat. I’m alive.
I’ve almost been aware of it for a whil
e. Some unconsciousness isn’t darkness, it’s standing coldly in the centre of the sun, trying to gaze beyond its blinding fires outwards across the flawed sumptuous universe, your arse, your arse, your arse . . .
I look up and I see the green canvas. I can’t move. I can hear the voices around me but I can’t focus.
— What’s he taken?
— How long’s he been out?
I know the voices but I can’t recall the names. There’s maybe a best friend or an old lover in there somewhere; how easy it’s been tae collect loads of both over the last decade or so, how genuine it all seemed at the time, now how frivolous and empty. But they’re all around me now, all melted into one invisible force of human goodwill. Maybe I’m dying. Maybe this is what it feels like, the journey into death. The combination of souls, the melding, the communion into one spiritual force. Maybe this is how the world ends.
A sweet smell sharpens and warps into a rancid chemical stench in my nostrils. I shudder, my body convulsing once, twice and it’s gone. But my head swells up so much it’s like the skull and jawbones are going to crack, then it contracts back to normal.
— Fuck sake, Reedy! The last thing he needs is amyl up his fucking hooter, a girl’s voice complains. She’s starting to come into focus; golden dreadlocks, probably really just dirty-fair, but I see them as golden. Her features bring to mind a feminine version of the Arsenal footballer Ray Parlour. Celeste, she’s called, and she’s from Brighton. Brighton in England, not Brighton here. There must be one here. Surely.
Something’s sticking in my head; thoughts playing like on a loop. I suppose that’s what going loopy means: obsession times obsession.
Reedy’s beginning to take shape in front of my eyes now. His big blue eyes, his crew-cut, his weather-beaten skin. Those old rags stitched together so haphazardly that it’s almost impossible to discern what the fuck constituted the original garment. It’s all patch. Everything. Everything here is patched up. Held together by fuck all, just waiting to fall apart. — Sorry, Carl mate, Reedy apologises. — Just trying to revive you there.
I should call Helena, but thankfully my mobile’s fucked. You get no reception up here anyway. I’m in no position to say sorry, to admit I’ve been a cunt. That’s what getting fucked-up does: it suspends time, putting you into this place where attempting to apologise can only make things worse, so you don’t even try. It’s fine now, I can feel a smile twist on my mouth. Soon though, I’ll be in that lonely waiting-room of horror and anxiety.
Anxiety.
My tunes.
— Whaire’s ma fuckin tunes?
— You’re in no state to spin, Carl.
— Whaire’s the fuckin tunes?
— Relax . . . they’re right here, mate. You won’t be playing any, though. Just take it easy, Reedy urges.
— I’ll fuckin blow them away . . . I hear myself saying. I form a gun with my index finger and make a pathetic exploding noise.
— Look, Carl, Celeste Parlour says, — you just sit there for a bit and get yer head together. You’ve got an egg on it.
Celeste from Brighton. Reedy from Rotherham. Thousands of English, Irish and, yes, Scots, wherever I go. All sound heids n aw. California, Thailand, Sydney, New York. Not just hanging out, not just havin it, not even just living it. They’re fucking well running the show; legal or illegal, corporate or crustie, all that wasted entrepreneurial talent, free as fuck, accents not a consideration, showing the locals how to do it.
Australia was different, it really was the last frontier. So many heads had ended up here, after the dream had been smashed by the riot police and the black-ecomony drug-dealing nutters which the Thatcher years had thrown up. Britain felt old and shoddy, strangely even more so with its New Labour and its modernisation, its wine bars and coke-snorting media and advertising ponces everywhere. It only took one glum ‘time gentlemen please’ to send the citizens of Cool Britannia scuttling home for the last bus or Tube before the stroke of midnight. That old fist of repression still lurked under the smarmy banality of everyday life.
Not Australia though, it felt real and fresh again out there.
The raves behind Sydney Central Station were just something to do while you went out to get the supplies. Then it was back out into the Bush to the makeshift Mad Max-style encampments. Going feral, going to the point where you tranced yourself out in the sun to the hybrid of didgeri-doo and techno. Leaving it and losing it, no authorities to worry about, being free to experiment as capitalism devoured itself.
It was not the point.
Let them get on with fucking it up, accumulating wealth they could never hope to spend. The sad cunts were missing the point. Fifty grand a week for a football player. Ten grand a night for a deejay?
Fuck off.
Fuck off and behave.
I feel safe here though, this place is full of chilled heads. Better than that last crew I got mixed up with up in the Megalong. It was fun for a while, but I never was much cop at picking friends. They say that leaders always emerge, no matter what the ideals or the systems of democracy that are put in place. Well, this may or may not be true, but what is the case is that arseholes certainly do.
The air was cool and light, and it was damp, yet I remember it as a furnace. The Northern Territory, last summer. All the frying heat around sucking out your juices. Breath Thomson none the less looking at me.
His face is like a moray eel, it really is. Snorkelling out on the reef, I came face to face with one of those bastards. They are bad fuckers.
I’m a threat. He says wordlessly: you’re the deejay, play the music. Don’t challenge me, don’t think, relinquish all thought, I can do that for all of us. I’m a fuckin great charismatic leader.
No, sorry Breath. All you are is a smelly, rich crustie cunt with a sound system. You’ve fucked a few daft chicks who don’t know their own mind, but haven’t we all?
Thank fuck I’m a schemie. Much too fuckin cynical to be mesmerised by an idiot who sounds like a fairy.
The love-and-peace vibe soon went when the authority was challenged. It wasn’t the Northern Territory, it was the Megalong Valley, but that summer it was so hot it could have been Alice Springs. No. It was damp and wet.
I can’t fuckin well think . . .
I’m thinking about how I’ve always felt an outsider, a misfit. Even with the posse, the tribe, the crew, I was a misfit. Then I see him again, Breath, the controlling, manipulating cunt. He always says to you ‘I haven’t got an agenda’ and even when you’re mashed out of your nut he’s as subtle as a kick in the balls. I see him again. He’s spouting some biblical shite at me, how I will lose my power like Samson, for cutting off my white hair, which is falling out anyway, for fuck’s sake.
He wishes. I play the best set I’ve ever played in my life. Fuckin blinding. Afterwards, he’s sulking. Then he can’t control his rage. He says things and I walk away from his rant. He comes after me and pulls on my arm. ‘I’m talking to you!’ he shrieks. That does it. I turn and punch him, a boxing punch like Billy Birrell once showed me. It wasnae really that much of a punch, not in Birrell’s league, but it’s good enough for Breath. He staggers back and goes into shock, starts whimpering and threatening at the same time.
But he’ll do nothing.
Another fucking dodgy scene I fell into. That’s what politics does for you: turn my back on making a mint in clubland to play for fuck all for cunts who hate you.
I’ll say one thing about Breath, the cunt knew how to build a fire or, more like it, knew how to get us to build a fire. His fires were big, momentous affairs, filled with pompous ritual and ceremony. They lit up the fuckin outback n aw, sending up a shimmering light, cutting swathes through the desert darkness. I think back to the scheme, and how Billy Birrell would have approved. Loved a boney, that cunt. Aye, Breath knew how to build a fire and how to get shy, confused wee lassies to take off their clothes and dance in front of it for him before heading back to his tent.
Punching the c
unt was satisfying, the Schadenfreude of it all. Who said that again? Wee Gally. The German classes.
But fuck Breath. I met Helena there. She was taking photos, and I was taking her hand. When she got her picture we walked away from it all. Got into her old jeep and drove. We had the space not to be bothered. Always the space.
Just watching her face, the concentration on it as she drove us across deserts. I even drove for stretches, though I’d never been behind the wheel of a car in my life.
You go there, and you see it all, that space, that freedom. You see how we’re running out of space, out of time.
Edinburgh, Scotland
3.37 pm
Scum
Lisa had tried to persuade them all to go out, but they were having none of it. Charlene was tempted, but decided to head straight to her mother’s place. In the taxi, she was rehearsing the things she’d say to her mum about the holiday, deciding what she’d leave out.
When she got in, her world fell apart. He was there.
He was back.
That fuckin thing, just sitting in the chair by the fireplace.
— Awright, he said, a look of smug defiance on his face. He couldn’t even be bothered to try to make a stagey show of repentance, to crawl back into their lives that whingeing, feeble, wretched way. He was now so confident in her mother’s weakness, he felt he scarcely had to try and hide his own arrogant, twisted nature.
All Charlene could think was I’ve let the taxi go. Despite this, she picked up her bags, turned and walked right back out of the house. She heard her mother saying something in the background, something stupid, weak and half-hearted and it disintegrating in the face of a rising noise coming from her father which sounded like a coffin creaking open.
It wasn’t that cold, but she was feeling the chill in the wind through to her bones after Ibiza, and the shock of seeing him again. In sick resignation, she realised that while the shock was great, there was actually no surprise. Charlene walked in a purposeful manner, but without realising where she was going. Fortunately it was in the direction of town.
