by Irvine Welsh
— It's okay, Sandy, I smiled, placing a comforting hand on my friend's shoulder.
This outburst was certainly effective in registering our presence, but only at the expense of generating hostility from some of the citizens present. In particular, one band of youthful roughs were sizing us up.
Gosh and golly.
Damn and fucking blast.
— Sandy's the enfant terrible of British soccer, I limply endeav oured to explain.
up – – – Okay Roy?
Then I felt something – – – – – – – – – – – coming
AH FEEL SOMETHING AH FEEL IT BUT YOUSE CUNTS CAN FUCK OFF AND DIE CAUSE YOUSE'LL NO GIT AYS IN HERE YA CUNTS
DEEPER
DEEPER
DEEPER – – – – – Let's scarper Sandy, I nodded, noting that the mood of the mob had turned sour and – – – coming up – – – oh fuck I've lost control again THESE CUNTS' FAULT, LEAVE AYS ALANE and now I feel the stabbing beak in my arm, it can only be the Marabou Stork but it's my injection, it's the chemicals, not ones that dull and chill my brain, not ones that make me forget because with these ones I remember.
Oh my God, what dae ah fuckin well remember . . .
Lexo said that it was important that we didnae lose our bottle. Nae cunt was tae shite oot; eftir aw, the fuckin hoor asked fir it. She'd've goat it fae some cunts anywey the wey she fuckin well carried oan and the fuckin fuss she made. Aye, she goat slapped aroond a bit, but we wir fuckin vindicated, British justice n that. She wis jist in the wrong place at the wrong time n anywey, it wis aw Lexo's fault . . .
. . . change the subject . . . I don't want this. I want to keep hunting the Stork. The Stork's the personification of all this badness. If I kill the Stork I'll kill the badness in me. Then I'll be ready to come out of here, to wake up, to take my place in society and all that shite. Ha. They'll get a fuckin shock, when they see this near-corpse, this package of wasting flesh and bone just rise and say: — Awright chavvy! How's tricks?
— Awright son!
AW FUCK! THIR HERE. ALWAYS FUCKIN HERE. ALWAYS ASSUMING I WANT THEIR FUCKIN PRESENCE. DAE THEY NO HAVE FUCKING VISITING HOURS HERE?
My father. Nice to see you, Dad. Please, continue, while I doze.
—How ye daein?Eh?Well,that'sus in another final. Disnae seem two whole years since the, eh accident, but enough ay that. Another final! One-nil. Darren Jackson. Ah didnae go masel mind. Tony wis thair. Ah wis gaunny go, bit ah nivir goat a ticket. Saw it oan the telly. Like ah sais, one-nil. Darren Jackson, barry goal n aw. Tony made up a tape ay the commentary, like ah sais, a tape eh made up. Eh Vet?
— Aye.
—Ye goat the tape then?
—What?
—The tape. Vet. Ah'm askin ye, ye goat the tape?
—Tape . . .
—Whit's wrong. Vet?
—Thir's a Jap ower thair, John.
—It's jist a nurse. Vet, jist a nurse. Probably no even a Jap. Probably a Chinky or somethin. Eh son? Jist a nurse ah'm sayin, son. Eh Roy? Eh that's right son?
FUCK OFF AND DIE YOU DAFT AULD CUNT
—A nurse . . .
—Aye, the wee Chinky nurse. Nice lassie. Eh son? Lookin better the day though, son. Mair colour. Like ah sais, eh Vet, like ah sais, Roy's goat mair colour aboot urn.
— They nivir git it. Every other perr bugger gits it, bit they nivir git it.
—Eh?
—AIDS. Ye nivir see Japs wi AIDS. Here wuv goat it. In America thuv goat it. In India thuv goat it. In Africa thuv goat it. Oor Bernard might huv it. No thaim, though. They nivir git it.
— What the fuck ye oan aboot? Chinky nurse . . . nice wee lassie . . .
— Ken how? Ken how they nivir git it?
— Vet, this husnae goat nowt tae dae wi . . .
— Cause they inventit it! They inventit the disease! Soas they could take over the world!
— You fuckin stupit or somethin?! Talkin like that in front ay Roy! Ye dinnae ken what the laddie kin hear, how it effects um! Like ah sais, ye fuckin stupit? Ah'm askin ye! Ye fuckin stupit?
MUMMY DADDY, NICE TO SEE YOU IS IT FUCK DON'T WANT TO SURFACE DON'T WANT TO GET CLOSER TO YOUR UGLY WORLD GOT TO GO DEEPER, DEEPER DOWN, GOT TO HUNT THE STORK, TO GET CONTROL
DEEPER
DEEPER
DEEPER– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – Jamieson.
We've somehow given the baying mob the slip and find ourselves on the edge of a run-down shantytown. A huge, festering garbage dump lies alongside a now poisonous lake. Malnourished children play in its squalor. Some of them come over to Sandy and myself, begging without really expecting any results. One little boy, a wild-looking creature with a face as brown as dark chocolate, stares intently at us, never averting his gaze. He is wearing nothing but old, dirty blue shorts and a pair of worn shoes without any socks.
— I say, Roy, what an extraordinary looking creature, Sandy smiled.
— Yes, a funny little thing, I said.
The little boy gave a loud, long laugh and suddenly poured out quite an extended speech. I couldn't understand a bloody word of it.
— Bantu, I suppose, Sandy said sadly. — Sounds all very splendid and lovely, but I can't make head nor tail of it!
We gave them some coins and Sandy produced a small bag of sweets. — If we only had a ball, I could do a bit of coaching, get a scratch game up, he said wistfully.
I looked up at the blinding sun. It had been relentless all day, but soon it would retreat behind the green hills which rose up over the Emerald Forest. This was a beautiful spot. This was . . . my thoughts were distracted by some shouts and the sound of the rattling of tin against the compressed clay track. Jamieson was expertly shielding a Coca-Cola can from the rangy limbs of a group of the local Bantu children. — There you go, you little blighters. . . it's all about possession, he told them.
He was forever the sport.
While Sandy's interest in sports coaching and the development of youth was touching, we had more pressing matters to consider. Our vehicle had been left behind in the civic hall, neither of us caring to travel in anything quite so unreliable. — We need transport, Sandy, I told him, — our Stork must be nesting around here somewhere.
Sandy signalled for the kids to disperse. One tyke, our funny little creature, glared at me in a sulky way. I hated to be the spoilsport, but there was business to take care of.
Sandy crisply and clinically volleyed the can into the rubbish-infested lake, then looked at me and shook his head sadly. — This is not going to be quite as straightforward as you think, Roy. The Storks are dangerous and formidable opponents. We're alone and isolated in hostile terrain, without any supplies or equipment, he explained. Then he looked at me with a penetrating stare, — Why is slaying that large Marabou so important to you?
Damn and fucking blast.
This made me stop to consider my motives. Oh yes, I could have gone on about the spirit of the hunt. I could have produced a welter of damning evidence of the carnage that these despicable beasts can perpetrate on other wildlife and game; on how they can upset the entire ecology of a region, how they can spread pestilence and disease through the local villages. Certainly, such reasoning would have struck a chord with both Sandy's sense of adventure and his humanitarian principles.
The problem is it wouldn't have been true. Moreover, Sandy would have known that I was lying.
I cleared my throat, and turned away from the blinding sun. Feeling a shortness of breath, I felt the words about to evaporate in my throat as I prepared to speak them. I always seem to feel something sticking in my throat. I cough, miraculously finding strength, and carry on. — I can't really explain, Sandy; not to my own satisfaction, so certainly not to anyone else's. I just know that I've met that Stork before, in a previous life perhaps, and I know that it's evil. I know that it's important for me to destroy it.
Sandy stood looking at m
e for a few seconds, his countenance paralysed with doubt and fear.
— Trust me on this one, mate? I said softly.
His face ignited in a beautiful, expansive smile, and he gave me a powerful hug which I reciprocated. We broke off and gave each other the high-five. — Let's do the blighter! Sandy smiled, a steely glint of determination entering his eye.
Another two small black children from the football game approached us. Their clothes were in tatters. — Homosexual? One young boy asked. — I suck you off for rand.
Sandy looked down at the crusty lipped urchin. — Things may be bad little one, but selling your body to the white man is not the answer. He ruffled the child's hair and the boy departed, skipping across the path back down towards the settlement.
We moved on by foot, carrying our backpacks and heading out of the village towards the other side of the lake. The wind had changed direction and the smell from the rubbish was overpowering in the hazy heat. Ugly bugs of varied sizes swarmed around us, forcing us to beat a hasty retreat along the path. We ran until we couldn't go any further, although I must confess that was the royal 'we', for Sandy, as a professional sportsman, had quite an edge on me in fitness and stamina, and could probably have stuck it out a bit longer.
We set up camp with our provisions, enjoying a feast in a shady glade by the more picturesque side of the lake. We opened our packs to examine their contents.
— Mmmm! Pork pie; homemade of course, said Sandy.
— And what's this. . . golly, it's a cheese! How enormous. Smell it, Sandy, it's enough to make you want to start eating straight away!
— Gosh, I can't wait to get my mouth around that, Sandy smiled, — And that homemade bread! Can't we start?
— No, there are new-laid boiled eggs to begin with, I laughed.
— Gosh, all we're missing is some homemade apple pie and ice-cream, Sandy smiled, as we tucked in to our feast. Then, suddenly inspired, he turned to me and said, — I've got it, Roy!
What we need is sponsorship! Somebody to fund this Stork hunt. I know a chap who'll sort us out with provisions. He runs the Jambola Safari Park, access to which is a few miles' trek on the west side of the lake.
I knew instantly whom Sandy was talking about. — Dawson. Mr Lochart Dawson.
— You know him?
I shrugged non-committally. — I know of him. Then again, most people know of Lochart Dawson. He sees to that.
— Yes, he has a flair for self-publicity, does our Lochart, Sandy said, his tone implying an affectionate familiarity. I then recalled that Sandy mentioned that he'd previously been in the employ of Dawson.
Sandy was correct about the self-publicity; you just couldn't keep Dawson out of the news. He was currently planning on expanding his park by taking over an adjacent leisure reserve. Whether in the long term Dawson actually envisaged any animals in what he described as the 'superpark' was more open to conjecture. He had made his money in the development of property, and there were more profitable uses for land in this region than a Safari Park. Nonetheless, Dawson could be useful.
— We'd have a smashing time at old Dawson's, I said eagerly.
— I'll bet he's got enough food to feed an army! Sandy agreed. Suddenly we were interrupted by a chorus of frenetic squawking.
We looked back, and I saw them. Although one or two social groupings could be evidenced, they were largely standing in isolation from each other, in the rubbish by the lakeside. Some squatted on their breasts, others paced slowly at a short distance. One large devil; it must have had a wing span of around eighty and weighed about nine kilos, turned its back to the sun and spread its wings, exposing those spare filamentous black feathers.
The beast's throat patch was reddish; it had scabs of warty dried blood on the base of its large, conical bill; its legs were stained white with dried excrement. It was the large, bulky scavenger-predator known as the Marabou Stork. More importantly, it was our one.
— Look Sandy, once again I felt my words dry in my throat, as I pointed across the lake to the mountain of rubbish and the large bird.
The sheer evil power of the creature emanating from its deathly eyes shook us to the marrow.
— Come ahead then, ya fuckin wide-os! It squawked. I felt sick and faint.
Sandy looked pretty fazed.
— Look Roy, we need more hardware to take on that bastard. Its bill must be razor sharp, containing the venom and poison of rotting carcasses: one scratch could be fatal. Let's see Dawson. His resort was once plagued by these beasts, but he found a way to sort them out.
THESE BEASTS ARE KILLERS. THEY ARE INTERESTED ONLY IN MAYHEM. THEY CARE NOTHING FOR THE GAME . . .
Like yir Ma sais, that's us sayin cheerio. See ye the morn though son. Ah'll be in in the morn. CHEERIO ROY!
Aye, aye, aye. He's always so fuckin loud. Ah'm no fuckin deef, ya cunt! Sometimes ah just feel it would be so much fuckin easier tae just open my eyes and scream: FUCK OFF!
—The min-it choo walked in the joint dih-dih, I could see you were a man of dis-tinc-tyin, a real big spender . . .
What the fuck is this? Ma. She's finally fuckin blown it.
— . . . good loo-kin, so ree-fined . . .
— What ur ye daein Vet? Whit the fuck ye playin at?
— Bit mind they sais John.mind they sais that ah could sing tae um.The doaktirs said. Ken.wi the music hittin a different part ay the brain. That's how wi bring in the tapes, John. Ah jist thoat this wid mean mair tae the laddie, likesay a live performance. Mind eh eywis liked ays singing Big Spender whin eh wis a baim?
— Aye, well music n singin, that's different like. Different sort ay things. That's jist singing you're daein. Ye couldnae really call it music. Vet. Like ah sais, ye couldnae really call it music.
— Bit ah could git Tony tae play the guitar. Make up a tape ay me singin Big Spender, fir the laddie's cassette player, John. Ah could dae that, John.
OH FUCKIN HELL, GOD PRESERVE US . . .
I could tell that my Ma was upset, and they had another blazing argument. I was relieved when they departed. So fuckin relieved. Even now they embarrass me. Even in here. I've nothing to say to them; I don't think anything of them. I never really had, besides I was anxious to get back to Sandy and our pursuit of the Stork. I hear a different voice now though, a sort of fluffy feminine voice, the voice of Nurse Patricia Devinc. —That's the visitors away now, Roy.
Her voice is soft, mildly arousing. Maybe I'll get a bit of love interest into my little fantasy, a bit a shagging into things no no no there will be no shagging because that's what caused aw this fuckin soapy bubble in the first place and I'm being turned over in my decaying organic vehicle, and I can feel the touch of Patricia Devine.
Can I feel her touch, or do I just think I can? Did I really hear my parents or was it all my imagination? I know not and care less. All I have is the data I get. I don't care whether it's produced by my senses or my memory or my imagination. Where it comes from is less important than the fact that it is. The only reality is the images and texts.
– There's nothing of you, she says to me cheerfully. I can feel the frost in the air. The staff nurse has given Patricia Devine a dirty look for making a negative comment in front of the veg. Me who used to weigh thirteen and a half stone, too. At one time I was heading for Fat Hell, (Fathell, Midlothian, population 8,619) with a fat wife, fat kids and a fat dog. A place where the only thing thin is the paycheque.
Now I can hear that 'Staff has departed leaving me with the simply Devine Patricia. Patricia is possibly an old hound, but I like to think of her as young and lovely. The concept adds quality to my life. Not a lot of things do at the moment. Only I add the quality. As much or as little as I want. If only they'd just fuckin leave ays tae get on with it. I don't need their quality, their world, that fucked-up place which made me the fuckcd-up mess I was. Down here in the comforts of my vegetative state, inside my secret world I can fuck who I want, kill who I please, no no no nane ay that no no no I can do the
things I wanted to do, the things I tried to do, up there in the real world. No comeback. Anyway, this world's real enough to me and I'll stay down here out of the way, where they can't get to me, at least until I work it all out.
It hasn't been so easy recently. Characters and events have been intruding into my mind, psychic gatecrashers breaking in on my private party. Imposing themselves. Like Jamieson, and now this Lochart Dawson. Somehow, though, this has given me a sense of purpose. I know why I'm in here. I'm here to slay the Stork. Why I have to do this I do not know. I know that I need help, however, and I know that Jamieson and Dawson are my only potential allies in this quest.
This is what I have instead of a life.
2 The Scheme
I grew up in what was not so much a family as a genetic disaster. While people always seem under the impression that their household is normal, I, from an early age, almost as soon as I was aware, was embarrassed and ashamed of my family.
I suppose this awareness came from being huddled so close to other households in the ugly rabbit hutch we lived in. It was a systems built, 1960s maisonette block of flats, five storeys high, with long landings which were jokingly referred to as 'streets in the sky' but which had no shops or pubs or churches or post offices on them, nothing in fact, except more rabbit hutches. Being so close to those other families, it became impossible for people, as much as they tried, to keep their lives from each other. In stairs, on balconies, in communal drying areas, through dimpled-glass and wire doors, I sensed that there was a general, shared quality kicking around which we seemed to lack. I suppose it was what people would call normality.
All those dull broadsheet newspaper articles on the scheme where we lived tended to focus on how deprived it was. Maybe it was, but I'd always defined the place as less characterised by poverty than by boredom, although the relationship between the two is pretty evident. For me, though, the sterile boredom outside my house was preferable to the chaos inside it.
My old man was a total basket case; completely away with it. The old girl, if anything, was worse. They'd been engaged for yonks but before they were due to get married, she had a sort of mental breakdown, or rather, had her first mental breakdown. She would have these breakdowns intermittently until it got to the stage it's at now, where it's hard to tell when she's not having one. Anyway, while she was in the mental hospital she met an Italian male nurse with whom she ran away to Italy. A few years later she returned with two small children, my half-brothers Tony and Bernard.
