by Irvine Welsh
Terry feels old and humiliated. To console himself, he starts racking out lines of cocaine on a CD case.
— Fuck off Terry, we’re still oan the E vibe the now, Rab says, turning from the window seat in the flat.
— Some ay us kin handle our drugs, Birrell.
Kathryn is also content to stay on the E vibe. After Shannon finishes, someone puts a CD on. Kathryn likes the music, and she is up dancing with Johnny and Lisa. This young girl seems very beautiful to the American singer, but she is appreciative rather than intimidated by it. The music is fantastic to Kathryn’s ears, beaty, driving but soulful, and full of rich textures. — Who is that?
Johnny hands her the CD case. She reads:
N-SIGN: Departures
— Mate ay Terry’s here, Johnny says, then, noticing her interest, starts to regret it. — Fae ages ago like, eh adds, going into a seductive, off-beat dance movement which both Kathryn and Lisa, to his relief, decide to copy.
Rab Birrell is sitting holding hands with Charlene, pointing out at Arthur’s Seat. — It’s a beautiful view, she says.
— You’re a beautiful view, he tells her.
— So are you, she replies.
Terry, miserable on the beanbags, overhears this. Birrell’s got a new girlfriend. Now we’re all forced to witness a sickening display ay E-induced smarm as he gets his hole for the first time in yonks. Beck. Who the fuck was that? Some fuckin American poof. He could kick himself. Bad referencing was an unforgivable crime in some quarters, worse than no referencing at all. And the place in the big, wide world where it would be most harshly judged would be in the anal, student gaff of that cunt Rab Birrell. It was fast turning into a nightmare, Terry thought, as he fine-chopped the lines of coke, which nobody but him seemed to want. Catarrh has two birds slavering all over him, and Rab Birrell’s playing mister fuckin smooth because he’s E’d up. Terry takes brutal stock of Rab’s student pad. The wallpaper. The beanbags. The plants. Two fuckin guys in a flat wi plants! Rab Birrell, the so-called Hibs boy as well. But that cunt was always mair CC Blooms than CCS. In the District Court of his mind where Rab Birrell is on trial charged with being a poncy student cunt, Terry is assembling an absolute fucking welter of evidence. Then he sees it. It’s the artefact which digs at him at a new level, way beyond irritation, slapping him into dumbfounded outrage. It’s a poster of a soldier being shot with the word WHY followed by a question mark. That, to Terry, just sums up that cunt Birrell: his politics, his affectations, his stupid student shite. He could almost hear him now, saying to that daft wee clubber lassie, aye, it makes ye think, doesn’t it, then going off into one of his daft lectures about whatever garbage him and his new college chums talked about. Stevenson College Birrell, Stevenson College.
And Rab’s brother. Billy. His old best mate. Terry minded the time, the one and only time, he’d gone into the Business Bar, and okay, he’d had a few and he’d been in overalls from daeing a bit of painting on the side. But ‘Business’ had all but blanked him, given him a disdainful, — Terry, followed by a ‘come back when yir better dressed’ look which had made Terry feel like a total cunt in front of the posh George Street wankers who drank in there. Through the druggy reverb and N-SIGN’s music, he fancied that he could hear them now, ‘I actually know quite a lot of rather unsavoury people in this town. Have you met Billy Birrell? The ex-boxer? Runs the Business Bar? You must come in and meet Billy. He’s a character.’ And there would be ‘Business’ Birrell, the fucking Rembrandt Kid, saying in hushed tones to one of the wee lassies he employs in order to get into their knickers, ‘Look after Brendan Halsey. A big noise in Standard Life. Oh look, there’s Gavin Hastings! Gavin!’
Birrell. Making a cunt of himself. He’d never be one of them, and they’d never really accept him. Just standing there and letting them patronise him, and him not even seeing it, or worse, him noticing it and putting it down to ‘business’.
The Birrells and their fuckin pretensions.
Rab was looking at the poster which Charlene had taken a fancy to. — It really says a lot that poster, eh? she said, urging him on in support.
— Aye, Rab replied with less enthusiasm than he felt she wanted. He hated the poster with a vengeance. It was put up by his flatmate, Andrew, and Rab always joked about that nauseating student left-wing kitsch but this one really did irritate him. To Rab it epitomised that smug, complacent right-onness. Let’s make those daft wee statements to show how profound and sussed-out we are. It was a load of bollocks. Andrew was okay, but he didn’t give a flying fuck about war. It was just a lazy way to a pompous cred.
He turned to see Terry looking at the poster with an expression of abject disgust, and he knew what Juice was thinking and he had an urge to shout ‘It’s no fuckin mine, right.’ But Charlene was tugging at his hand and they were off to his bedroom to cuddle, snog, whisper secrets and if it led to them exploring each other and sharing body fluids as well, then that was okay by one Robert Stephen Birrell. Rab Birrell was enjoying the passivity, the freedom from the burden of being the uncool cunt in the transaction who was always pushing. Sometimes we still need a good pill to decondition us, loosen us up, get rid of all the uptight shit.
Terry watched them go through to the bedroom with something approaching rank despair. Not only had Birrell and Catarrh hijacked his night with Kathryn, they had rubbed his nose in it by pointing out that this prize he coveted was a mere bauble to be discarded when brighter ones came into view. Catarrh was going home with the two of them if he wasn’t careful. Catarrh in a threesome and Terry on his puff. Catarrh! The warning bells rang to a crescendo in Terry’s head. Snorting one line, then another, he felt his heart race and his spine fuse into a rod of iron. He stood up and bounded to the door, exiting into the hallway. A few moments later, he returned draped in a white duvet, a similar colour and material to Johnny’s shirt. Striding onto the floor, Terry slowly insinuated himself behind Johnny and started doing an exaggerated parody of Catarrh’s stylised dancing.
— Terry, what are you doing? Kathryn laughed, as Terry undulated, and Johnny looked self-consciously over his shoulder. Lisa sniggered loudly like a washing machine in the spin cycle. That Terry was a radge.
—Jist rippin oaf a wee bit ay yir style thair, John Boy, he smiled at Johnny, who felt his lip involuntarily curl downwards.
Catarrh had always had problems with Terry’s bluster and was instantly regretting letting himself be so effortlessly forced into a subservient role. He could feel his confidence running down with the E rushes. All he could do was dance on and ponder the dilemma. Kathryn or Lisa, Kathryn or Lisa . . . an old boiler but a career or a tidy young bird and a barry shag . . . that global stage with Elton and George was getting further away. But he didn’t need showbiz poofs in tow. That sort of company would be more harmful to his career than good. The teen market was of prime consideration, that was the reason why so many members of boy bands stayed in the closet. Fuck all that. Lisa or Kathryn . . . That Lisa was a ride. Okay, he’d give Kathryn one, but she was definitely past her best. Lisa seemed a bit of a cocktease mind you. Fuck it. Going for Kathryn would be putting the career first and have the added bonus of leaving that fat cunt Juice Terry to a night of frustration.
But Lisa was eyeing up Terry with much more interest than Johnny had cottoned on to. He was quite fat, but the nose–hands–feet matrix she used in such calculations added up to a well-packed lunchbox.
Kathryn was well into Johnny. Johnny was beautiful. — Johnny’s beautiful, she told Terry imperiously, as Johnny sucked on some mucus. She put her arms around him, both of them oblivious to Terry’s teeth chattering together. — Wanna make out? she whispered in his ear.
— Eh? Catarrh replied. What the fuck was she on about?
— I guess I wanna sleep with you.
— Barry . . . eh, back at the hotel then but, eh? Catarrh suggested, anxious to separate her from the pack. That wee Lisa, tidy, but going nowhere. She’d still be waiting for one after he came bac
k from the first tour Stateside. He’d try and fit her in. The career, after all, had to come first.
— No . . . I don’t wanna go there, Kathryn said. — Is there a spare room?
— Aye . . . Rab’s mate Andy’s room . . . Catarrh thought, without enthusiasm. Who in their right mind would want to fuck on a worn-out mattress under the spunk-stained duvet of a student wanker’s bedroom when they could be in a top suite at the Balmoral? There was only one possible answer: a rich cow slumming it. Johnny had heard that some rooms in the Balmoral had mirrors on the ceiling. Still, as the Yanks would say, it was her call. They vanished through to the hallway, leaving Terry in a high state of agitation.
Lisa looked at him. — That’s jist you n me then, eh.
Terry looked at her pout, and beneath it her white top and black trousers. He felt a hoarse tickle in his throat. Terry hated chatting up lassies when he was E’d. The nudge-nudge, wink-wink, carry-on ritualism of the British chat-up came easy to him, and he detested having its easy banalities undermined and subverted by the ecstasy. The bullshit tapes had served him well, and he didn’t want them wiped clean. In their absence he couldn’t think of what to say. — Ah used tae work oan the juice lorries, he explained, — but this wis way back . . .
Johnny and Kathryn were looking out the window over the inky sky. There was a beautiful display of stars. Johnny tugged on his Regal as he watched them twinkle. Kathryn looked at Johnny, then the cigarette, then the stars. — I guess this is like some arthouse existentialist movie moment, Johnny, she speculated.
Johnny nodded slowly, not looking down at Kathryn, who was curled into his side. The stars were shimmering, sending strange codes across the universe to each other. — Don’t you think there’s anything beyond that? Kathryn asked.
— Ah’ve tried tae pack it in before, bit it disnae really bother ays, eh no.
Kathryn wasn’t hearing him. — I just think . . . space, she said dreamily.
Johnny looked up at the sky, then at the burning fag. — Cigarettes, he reasoned, almost to himself. Of course Johnny appreciated the blistering array of starlit expanse and the possibilities it seemed to offer, but he declined to mention this to Kathryn. It would be too much hassle to tell her that she was in a part of Scotland where sharing dreams was a bit like sharing needles; it seemed a good idea at the time but it only served to fuck you up. Besides, he wanted a ride. He turned to her and their lips met. It was a short stagger to the mattress and duvet, Catarrh hoping that by the time they got there his passion would be such that bedding down in the stale crumbs and spunk of a student wanker would be an irrelevant consideration.
In-Flight
4.00 am
The air hostess is looking at me in a thinly disguised state of horror. I’m a mess: the dirty, minging clathes, the shaved head (too much dust and dirt in the desert for the locks) and the smell of me: rancid chemical discharge mixing with the earth of the New World. Sweat and muck streaks across my face. The air hostess looks at a well-manicured cabin steward who catches sight of me and rolls his eyes. The poor cunt sitting next to me is arching his body as far away as he can. I’m in no fit state to fly. I’m in no fit state to do anything.
The plane roars forward; I’m pinned back in the seat and we’re up in space.
— We had the space, Helena, I hear myself say a couple of times as the aircraft levels out. The guy next to me recoils further in his seat. Another air hostess comes over to me. — Are you okay?
— Yes.
— Please be quiet. You’re disturbing people.
— Sorry.
I’m trying to keep my eyes open, although I desperately need to sleep. As soon as they shut I’m in a world of fucking madness; demons and serpents surrounding me, the faces of the forgotten and the dead crowding in, and I start to rant before forcing myself into a consciousness which is impossible to maintain.
Ignorant and enlightened.
The ignorant will never stop the enlightened taking drugs. Ah agree wi that auld Kant Immanuel and the Last Cannibals; the phenomenal and the noumenal are the same thing, but each person can only see the phenomenal, through our ain perspectives.
That’s why I remember the best piece of advice my auld man ever gave me: never trust a teetotaller. It’s like saying: I’m an ignorant, small-minded wanker. Awright if they tried to compensate for the lack ay drugs wi a brilliant imagination. But if they have one they keep it well-hidden. Wha . . .
WHAT . . . a shadow at my side.
— What would you like to drink? the steward asks.
What?
Consumer choice versus real choice.
Thirst is the issue, drink is the need. What to drink: coffee, tea, coke, Pepsi, Virgin, Sprite, diet, decaf, additives . . . by the time you’ve made the token choice you’ve eaten up a bigger chunk of your allocated three score and ten than any drugs could have. They try to con you that making that kind of choice day in, day out, makes you feel free or alive or self-actualised. But it’s shite, a lifebelt to stop us all from going fuckin mad at the lunacy of this fucked-up world we’ve let them shape around us.
Freedom from meaningless choice. — Water . . . sans gas . . . I cough.
At first I’m thinking that I’m back there again, and I feel the acid dust in my nasal cavities, on my lips, face and hands, the strange, cool air, and from a distance the boom of the bass, and the voices: whoops, shrieks and whispers.
WHOOP BONG
But I’m on the plane with the little bad bears
Trying to obliterate my mind through drugs. Now it was coming back, the sickness, the pains, spasms and chills rivalling anything thought up by the demons.
But they kept trying, these little bears. One, perched on the seat in front of me, is particularly persistent.
YOU’RE FUCKIN OURS, YA WEE CUNT
YOU’VE NIVIR BEEN ANY USE, CARL, NAE USE TAE NAE CUNT
YE CANNAE KID US, MATE, WE KEN YE. WE KIN SMELL YIR FEAR, TASTE YIR FEAR
WE KNOW YOU FOR THE USELESS CRAPPIN, COWARDLY PIECE OF SHITE YOU ARE
YE DIDNAE WANT TAE WORK, YIR COMMIE FAITHER DIDNAE WANT TAE WORK
Oh my god . . .
And one wee bear’s nipping at my hand, biting it, and it’s me, with the lighter, I’ve been clicking it through nerves; no fag to light, just burning my hand with the flame. — Nae fags? Whaire’s the fags . . .
— What is wrong? The hostess says.
— Got a cigarette?
— No smoking! It’s against civil-aviation laws, she says tersely and turns away.
Fuckin hell, I’m going to die. This time, I’m really going to die. I just can’t envisage a way through this. Ohhh . . .
No.
You’re not going to die.
We don’t die. We’re immortal.
Like fuck; that’s what we used to think.
Naw, we fuckin well die awright. It doesnae keep gaun oan. It ends.
Gally.
Edinburgh, Scotland
8.26 am
Our Bona Fide Guests
Lisa was pleasantly surprised to find out that Terry was a brilliant shag. They’d been screwing most of the night, but as they’d been doing a lot of charlie, they were unable to enjoy much post-coital harmony, writhing and sweating in each other’s arms, their hearts thudding. But that Terry knew what to do awright and when he got fed up being inventive, that big knob of his could pound you until your ears bled.
Now she was on top of him, and, aye, he was a bit of a twisted fat cunt, always going for her arse, she knew the type, but no way was she taking that thing up the shit-tube. She rammed her finger up his hole, to get a reaction. She did that to most guys who tried to bum her, it soon made them behave and treat her like a lady.
Terry let out an agonised shriek, beyond desire or elation, and his erection crumbled as he pushed her away from him, pain etched into his face.
— Ah nivir took you for the squeamish type. Thought ye wir nice n dirty. Different when it’s yir ain ring, is it son?
>
Terry was breathing heavily, his eyes watering.
— Aye, no nice, is it, Lisa observed.
— It isnae that, he gasped through gritted teeth, — it’s the Rockfords, they’ve been giein ays gyp for days. Terry had to get up and find something to put on his piles. After a while he settled for some of Lisa’s Nivea hand-cream. It helped, but he couldn’t settle. They had another line of coke.
Terry started rummaging around as he tended to do in people’s houses. As he generally entered their homes without an invitation and in the company of Post Alec, he was conditioned into behaving in the same manner on occasions when he was a bona fide guest. To his delight he found an essay of Rab Birrell’s from his college. He started to read it. This was so over the top, it simply had to be shared. Terry decided to rap on every door, saying it was imperative that people got up straight away, offering the false inducement of breakfast.
He banged on Johnny and Kathryn’s door first. — John Boy! Kath! Check this oot!
Johnny was both irritated and grateful for Terry’s intervention. Aye, he’d just got off to sleep and he was cursing the annoying fat cunt. But on the other hand, Kathryn had been at him all night, and he couldn’t bring himself to fuck her again. He sucked in a breath as she stretched and turned to him, her eyes wide and lips wet.
— Johnny . . . you are baaad . . . she said, her hand wrapping round his soft cock.
— Eh, we’d better make a wee move . . .
— What about a quickie? she quizzed, breaking into a smile.
A crack of light illuminated that almost transparent skeletal frame of hers. Johnny tensed in horror and sucked back some mucus. There was a lot, and he couldn’t spit it out so he had to swallow. It went down his throat like a pebble, causing his eyes to water and his stomach to turn over. — A quickie . . . that word isnae in ma dictionary, he said, steeling himself. — Ye dae it right, or no at aw.
