by Irvine Welsh
Rab was alarmed. Kathryn noticed, but couldn’t work out why. — What’s the Business Bar?
— His brar’s.
Lisa looked at Rab in astonishment. She had thought him a bit of a wanker, the kind of sincere studenty type that Char always seemed to go for. — Are you Billy Birrell’s brother?
— Aye, Rab said, feeling chuffed and hating himself for it.
— Ah hud a mate that worked in the bar, Lisa informed Rab. — Gina Caldwell. Ye ken her? She was almost going to add that Gina shagged ‘Business’ but checked herself. It was more info than they needed. A weakness of hers, she reflected in amusement.
— Naw, ah nivir really go thair, Rab said.
— I’m happy to stay here, Charlene said, too quickly for Lisa not to give her a glance. There she was again.
Rab turned to Lisa. She was a cool bird, but she was giving him a vibe. Through a wave of tiredness he thought about how he wanted to get on with her, if only because she was Charlene’s mate. — It’s only cause ma mother’s hud a hysterectomy that ah’m wearin this strip . . . he mumbled, but all she got was his lips moving.
Terry steamed in. — I’m sure that my auld mucker ‘Business’ would be very, very hurt if he found out that we were on the toon wi Kath Joyner and we didnae bring the lassie in tae say hello. I think that a spot of early lunch in the Business Bar might be just the thing, he smirked, drinking in Rab’s discomfort. Even jakied out and with Post Alec in tow, they’d have to get in. It was his brother and Kathryn Joyner.
— It’s no just Billy’s bar, eh’s a partner wi Gillfillan. Eh’s goat tae watch . . . it’s no jist Billy . . . Rab pleaded to nobody in particular and consequently nobody was listening. He was full of trepidation. Terry was enjoying this. Catarrh was coming intermittently out of his coma for long enough periods to nod encouragement to Terry and to repeat the odd mantra of ‘Business Bar’. Fuck it, Rab considered, he was with Charlene, and nobody else. Terry could take Alec along, and Johnny. But why the fuck should Alec not be allowed to drink in a pub in his own city? Especially as it rolled out the red carpet for all those Festival snobs who were just up here for five minutes. The fuckin door policy. A stylish café. Style fascism was just another way of reasserting the class system. Fuck that. His own brother surely wouldn’t be such a cunt!
Surely not.
Lisa didn’t like this pub. She’d lost a nail extension and got a beer stain on her white top. She was keeping an eye on Charlene. She shouldn’t have let her go with that Rab, with anybody, come to think of it. She seemed alright just now, but the comedown was surely approaching. This pub wasn’t the best place to have it. The Business Bar sounded better.
The Fly’s Ointment seemed to her like a clearing house for lost souls. Lisa fancied that she could see the dramas of future despair in pre-production: the rapist chatting to his victim; the crook drinking easily with the guy who’d eventually grass him up; the boisterous bosom buddies in the corner, waiting for the alcohol to eventually overload and overheat the brain, when, in rage or paranoia, one would be smashing fist or glass into the other’s face, long before closing time. The ugliest and the scariest thing of all, she thought, looking round at her own company, was that you couldn’t sit back smugly and exclude yourself from the equation.
Lisa saw a worn-out woman sitting, looking in distress, her looks gone before their time, and a fat ruddy man sitting next to her glowing, talking loudly in a half-laugh, half-sneer, words she couldn’t make out. No doubt though who was in control there. Another woman in a man’s world, always vulnerable, she thought. She felt her hand tighten on Charlene’s, wanted to ask her if she was okay, was the comedown kicking in, were the demons starting their remorseless dance, but no, she was laughing and her eyes were still big and engaged. Still off her tits, not yet turning in. But that might come. Who the fuck am I kidding, it will come, for everyone. Occupational caning hazard. So watch her.
But somebody else was watching her. And no, Lisa still didn’t trust him. She would trust Rab Birrell with any of her other mates, it wouldn’t be an issue, it wouldn’t be her business, but no Char, no now. And now he was taking her by the hand and leading her up to the bar and Lisa was up too, instinctively following them. Terry grabbed her hand as she went past in pursuit. He winked at her. She smiled back, then nodded to the bar, continuing her surveillance.
She saw Rab with Charlene, he had ordered two pints of water, into which he poured the contents of a packet he took from his jacket pocket, making the liquid cloudier, the sediment not dissolving completely. — Drink it, he smiled, raising one glass and gulping.
Charlene hesitated. It looked vile. — You’re joking, she laughed, — what is it?
— Dioralyte. One of these in ye and you replace the fluids and the salts the bevvy and drugs take out. Cuts the severity of the hangover by about 50 per cent. Ah used to think it was daft, a bit poncey, but for sessions like this, ah always dae it. Nae point in lying in your bed feeling ill for a few days and jumping out yir skin when the phone rings when you dinnae have tae . . . well, no as much, he smiled, raising his glass.
That sounded good. She forced it down, as Lisa approached in horror, her head full of images of rhoyponol and GHB. No way was he taking her home. — What’s that ye gied her? she started to ask Rab, but felt her voice tailing off as he gulped down the last of it, before explaining to her.
On their second drink, Alec and Gerry were in song at the bar. — Yew-coaxed-the-bluesss-right-out-of-the-horn-ma-ae-ae . . .
— Keep it doon, boys, the barman warned.
— Drink in here enough . . . only fuckin singin a wee song, Post Alec grumbled, then ignited in sudden inspiration, — Eyamalinesmin from the counteee . . .
Alec never got to mention that he guided the main line. — Right, Alec, that’s it, oot, the barman snapped. He’d had enough; yesterday, the day before. Alec had managed more last warnings than one of his heroes, Frank Sinatra, had last concerts. Now it was enough.
Terry stood up. — Right everybody, let’s go. He turned towards the barman. — Wir gaun tae a mair salubrious haunt, the Business Bar, he said loftily.
— Aye, that’ll be right, the barman scoffed.
— What’s that meant tae mean? Terry asked.
— Aye . . . fuckin radge, Catarrh spat, backing up his friend.
— You’ll no git served in thaire, and ah’ll tell ye something else, if yir no oot ay here right away, ah’ll be right oan tae the polis.
— Kathryn Joyner here, Terry slurred, pointing at Kathryn, who was trying to disguise the fact that she was mortified.
— Yeah, it’s been swell. Let’s go, she urged the others.
As they were leaving Charlene saw him, he was just sitting there.
BANG
That fuckin thing
It’s your dad
And then he saw her and smiled widely. — There’s ma wee lassie, he said, slightly drunk with his friends, playing dominoes.
let them know, let them know
not your own faither
LET THEM KNOW
— Wee lassie, naw, I’m no a wee lassie now. I was when you interfered with me, she said calmly. — Nae mair silence, nae mair lies, she looked him in the eye. Watched that sick, sugary sparkle leave it, as his friends bristled in their seats.
— What?
Charlene felt Rab’s grip tighten on her shoulder and she twisted and ducked to shrug it off. Lisa had recognised Charlene’s father as well. She moved alongside her friend and Rab. — That’s him? Charlene heard Rab ask Lisa, who nodded sombrely.
Lisa thought then how she must have told him, told Rab.
Rab pointed at the man, his steady voice saying, — You are a fuckin disgrace. He looked around at the men beside him. One or two of them had hard faces, one or two had reputations. — Youse are fuckin disgraceful n aw, drinkin wi that rubbish, he shook his head.
The men tensed up, they weren’t used to being spoken to like that. One of them looked at Rab, his
face set in annihilation mode. Who were these cunts, this young guy and these lassies, and why were they slagging off the company?
Charlene sensed she had the ball at her feet. How to play it, how to play it.
It’s your father
dirty fuckin sick prick
this is not the time or place
when is, the dirty fuckin sick prick
embarrassment to everybody
tell them all, tell them all there’s a beast in this bar
let him go, walk away, he’s not worth it
tell the scumbag what he fuckin is
She sucked in air and looked at the men at the table. — He used to say I was peculiar, cause I didn’t like him fingering me, she laughed coldly and turned to her father. — I’ve had more real sex, better sex than a sad fucker like you ever could. What have you done? You’ve put your dick in an insecure, stupid woman and your finger in a child, who used to be, but isnae now, your daughter. That’s the only sex you’ve had, you pathetic damaged piece of fuckin shite. She turned to the men at her table. — What a fucking stud, eh?
Her father was silent. His friends looked at him. One spoke up for him. The lassie must be mad, twisted, out of it on drugs, not knowing what she was saying. — Out of order. You’re out of order, hen, he said.
Rab was swallowing hard. He never got into violence outside of football, it had never seemed to be part of anything. Now he was ready to go. — Naw, he snapped, pointing straight at him, — you’re out of order, drinking with this sick cunt here.
The harder guy ignored Rab Birrell, instead turning his attention to his own friend. His drinking partner, the man called Keith Liddell. But who was he? Just a guy he drank with. Traded porn mags and videos with. It was just a laugh, just a bit of relief for a single man. That was all he knew about him. But he saw it now, saw something creepy and sick and diseased in him. He wasn’t like this man, he wasn’t like Keith Liddell. He drank with him, but this man was nothing to do with him. The man scrutinised Keith Liddell. — This your lassie?
— Aye . . . bit . . .
— Is what she says right?
— Nup . . . Keith Liddell said, his eyes watering — it . . . it isnae . . . he shrieked like an animal in pain.
In a blinding movement, his mate’s huge, tattooed fist thrashed into his face. LOVE. Keith Liddell sat there, almost too shocked to even feel the blow. — Dae me a favour, and especially dae yirself a favour, and git the fuck oot ay here, his ex-friend said. Keith Liddell looked around the table and they either glared or averted their eyes. He stood up, his head hung low while Charlene stood her ground, her eyes boring into the back of his head as he floated like a ghost to the far side door.
Rab went to follow him, but Lisa tugged on his arm. — We’re gaun the other way.
For a second Rab felt desperate to kick it off, pumped up to the extent that his head and body were almost spinning with adrenaline. Johnny’s face came into his line of vision, in back-up mode, twisted and pinched. Rab felt himself almost sniggering as the tension drained from him. He grabbed Charlene’s hand.
Charlene was only in shock for a second. As she went to the door, images flooded her mind, a loving, dutiful, affectionate father. It wasn’t hers, it was somebody else’s. The one perhaps she wanted him to be. At least he’d always been a bastard, he’d left no real set of contradictions for her to resolve. You couldn’t lament scum. Charlene thought she’d cry, but no, she was going to be strong. Lisa guided her into the toilets, Rab reluctantly loosening his grip.
Locking her friend in a tight embrace, Lisa urged, — Let’s get you hame.
— No way. I want tae stey oot.
— C’moan Charlene, eh . . .
— Ah said ah want tae stey oot. I’ve done nothing wrong.
— I know, but you’ve had a fuckin big upset . . .
— Naw, she said, suddenly harder than Lisa had ever seen her. — I’ve done nothing wrong. Aw ah’ve done is lanced a boil. Ah can’t be bothered any mair: dealing with what he’s done, and what she’s let him dae. Ah’m just fuckin well fed up wi it, Lisa. It bores me now. Let thaim handle it, thaim oot thaire! She gestured aggressively back at the door.
Lisa pulled Charlene closer to her. — Okay, but ah’m watching you doll.
They applied some make-up and exited just as Terry came over, irritated that he’d missed something. — What was aw that aboot? he asked.
Lisa smiled, — Jist some cunt gittin wide, she linked arms with Charlene. — Rab sorted it, she said, pulling Rab to her and kissing him on the side of the face, noting that he was too focused on Charlene to even notice. Then she nipped Terry’s arse. — C’mon, lit’s git oot ay here.
They headed outside and wound their way in twos and threes into town, squinting in the sun, dodging tourists as they straggled through the West End. — Ah dinnae ken aboot this, Alec moaned. He preferred to drink in places where the spaces between pubs could be measured in yards at the most.
— Not to worry, Alexis, Terry said, giving Lisa’s shoulders a squeeze, — my good friend William ‘Business’ Birrell will make us more than welcome at his charming little hostelry, he contended camply, before turning to Rab. — Is that not right, Roberto!
— Aye . . . right . . . Rab said warily. He’d been trying to explain something to Charlene without sounding like a patronising dick. Last night had been a disaster. The lassie saw him as a social worker when all he wanted was a ride . . . well, a bit of love and romance really, but you needed a ride tacked on the end. It was essential. But last night when they’d done the lot except put it in, she’d gone on about condoms, before the sickening truth had come out. But she’d handled it well, he’d backed her up and they were closer than ever. Lisa was even up for him now.
— It’ll happen soon, Rab, she said to him.
— Look, ah jist want tae be wi you. Let’s just get on wi that and we can decide how as we go along. Ah’m gaun naewhaire, Rab said, surprising himself by how noble he sounded, how pure he felt.
I’ve fuckin well fallen in love, Rab thought. Ah came oot for a drink and hoping for a ride, and ah’ve fuckin well fallen in love. And he felt like a foolish god.
Even from the West End, cunted and without his glasses, Alec fancied that he could still see the cleaning platform outside the Balmoral Hotel. As they got closer before turning off towards George Street, Terry looked up and shuddered. He wouldn’t, couldn’t go up there again. It was too high. It was too easy to fall.
Wanking
Franklin had been up all night, unable to settle. His stomach churned and he couldn’t sleep. He’d scream in his head, fuck that selfish bitch, why should I bother? Then minutes later he’d be fretting, phoning around clubs and late-night bars, checking Kathryn’s room.
He tried wanking to the porn channel as a means of relaxing. Through his anxiety he took ages to reach a climax, and when he did he felt sick and hollow. Then he remembered, my God, the fucking wallet! The fucking cards! Noting the time difference in New York, he phoned up some numbers to cancel them. It took him ages to get through. By the time he did, the assholes who dipped him had got through about two thousand pounds’ worth of goods.
Eventually, he fell into a sick slumber. When he awoke with a shuddering start, it was nearly lunchtime. Despair turned to gallows humour. Everything’s gone, he told himself. It’s over.
She’d never done this before, gone missing on the eve of a gig.
Everything’s gone.
He thought about Taylor.
Franklin was off out. Fuck that bitch; if she could do it, then so could he. He was going to have a drink in every single bar he could find in this godforsaken hole.
Heathrow Airport, London,
England
6.30 pm
Britain. No, it’s England. It’s not Scotland. Britain never really existed. It was all some PR con in the service of the Empire. We’ve different empires to serve now, so they’ll tell us that we’re something else. Europe, or the fifty-fi
rst US state or the Atlantic Islands, or some shite like that. It’s all fuckin lies.
But it was always really Scotland, Ireland, England and Wales. Off the plane. Onto the plane. Off to Scotland. Not much more than an hour away.
I can’t get on an Edinburgh plane. The first one is for Glasgow. I don’t want to sit here, even though the next Edinburgh one’ll get me home at almost the same time, by the time I train it through. It seems important to keep moving though, so I buy a Glasgow ticket.
I phone my mother.
It’s great to talk to her. She seems together, but she’s a bit away, like she’s on Vallies or something. My Auntie Avril comes on the phone, tells me that she’s bearing up well. There’s no change in the old man. — They’re just waiting, son, she says.
It’s the way she says it. They’re just waiting. I go into the bogs, sit down in paralysed anguish. No tears come, and it would be pointless, like trying to empty a reservoir of grief by drip feed. I’m being daft. My old boy will be okay. He’s invincible and the doctors are fuckin wankers. If he does die it’ll be because he’s been left out in the fuckin car-park on the rubbish skip with another dozen non-rich patients instead of in a proper hospital bed, getting treatment that he’s fuckin well paid for all his life through his stamps and his taxes.
All I can think of is my Ma’s place. Get a kip, shave and shower and wash off the external dust and grime and then I’ll see everybody. Maybe even catch up with some of the boys. Well maybe yes, and maybe no. I’m too fucked to feel anything about Scotland, only being an hour away. I just want a bed.
Lies.
It was all lies. We kept away from each other because we reminded each other of our failure as mates. For all our big talk, our friend had died alone.
