by Irvine Welsh
Gradually, however, the remnants of the tribes which survived the internecine wars were able to settle down to a peaceful, rural way of life under the protection and with the assistance of the white man. In the traditional homelands, which cover an extent about as large as England and Wales together, nearly one-half of the Bantu live and lead a simple pastoral life as their ancestors did through the centuries before them—happy, picturesque people living the most carefree existence imaginable.
Thus we find that here on the southern tip of the African continent, amidst overwhelming numbers of non-European inhabitants, a small white population has made its home and is founding a new nation, with a way of life and an outlook of its own. It is due to the initiative of these people, to their knowledge and skill that South Africa has become the most advanced state on the African continent, and, as sure as night follows day, they will evolve a form of co-existence which will allow every race to live its full life and to contribute, in accordance with its own abilities, to the welfare of the country.
After the museum we went back to Gordon's where he was having a barbecue with some of his friends. There were always braais at Gordon's. Some men were sitting in his lounge, watching the television which showed riot police breaking up a black demonstration. They were cheering on the riot police. One tall, blonde woman who looked like an actress came through and smiled at me. Then she turned to a fat guy with a beard and said, — I see that the Kaffirs are taking a dem good beating.
— They shid ten the ficking gihns en those apes, he snarled, slugging from a bottle of beer and belching. There was such a stupid malevolence on his face that I instinctively felt that, despite what the school, the Government and my family were telling me, that something wasn't quite right. I stopped to listen as the news bulletin changed to the Rhodesian situation.
— Botha's fucking sold out our people in Rhodesia, Gordon fumed.
— Yes, but it's tactical, Gordon, one man smiled, — it's buying us favours in the world community. God knows, we may soon need it.
— You're talking like a flaming red, Johan, the fat guy with the beard snapped, — we should be standing by our own. They let twelve thousand ficking terrist skim walk into kemps with their weapons for this bastard ceasefire. I say it's a gelden opportunity to shoot the ficking lit of them. Just turn the ficking guns on those Zanu so-called Patriotic Front red terrist animals and blow them to pieces just like they do to decent bloody farmers.
Gordon sat with tears welling up in his eyes as he watched the pictures of the Patriotic Front guerrillas march into the camps and lay down their weapons, the condition for the ceasefire and the commencement of the free elections. — I can't believe it. I can't believe that they would do it. P. W. Botha. Maggie Thatcher. Fucking whore! Fucking treacherous fucking stupid communist fucking whore!
It was a good thing that John was in the nick at this point. I remember the last time Gordon had ranted about Thatcher's treachery, John had been standing leaning against the patio doors. He stiffened up and turned around. — Hi! C'moan Gordon, it's no Maggie Thatcher's fault. The best fuckin leader Britain's hud . . . the best peacetime leader. Like ah sais, the best. She pit the fuckin unions in thair place right enough. Jist gittin bad advice, fae they cunts in the civil service n that. That's whit it wid be! Dinnae fuckin slag off some cunt ye ken nowt aboot! Like ah sais, you dinnae ken whit she did fir Britain!
— I know she's sold Rhodesia down the fucking river, Gordon said weakly, obviously a little intimidated.
There was loads of political talk, but I suppose that apart from the
So would ye like tae have fun, fun, fun.
How's about a few laughs, laughs, laughs,
I could show you a good time . . .
FUCK OFF AND TURN THAT SHITE OFF . . .
DEEPER
DEEPER
DEEPER – – – – – and although the eggs were cooked to perfection and the toast was crisp and the coffee strong, rich and aromatic, there was something strangely amiss that morning we left the hut.
It was the silence. I couldn't hear the flamingos on the lake. I picked up the binos. Nothing.
— Where are they, Sandy?
— This is absolutely puzzling. I'd like to take a closer look.
— We drove down to the shore of the lake. There was immediate evidence of carnage. I saw pieces of dead birds. Then we heard a rustling and some squawking and noted some vultures still chewing at a flamingo carcass. Sandy raised the rifle and fired a shot at them. One toppled, and the others flapped their wings and waddled away. They moved back quickly, the slain vulture joining the flamingo in providing a feast for the other birds.
— Vultures are only cannabalistic under extreme conditions, Sandy observed. — Those poor blighters must be starving.
At that point I saw a pink, swan-like head and neck which had been severed from a body. — Our flamingo colony has been routed, I declared.
— Yes . . . by the Marabou Stork, Sandy nodded sagely.
That's what.
The politics of South Africa. Shite, that's what that was to me. It caught up with us, though, caught up with us all in an even bigger way about a fortnight before we were due to head back to Scotland. I was out with Uncle Gordon at his timber farm in the Eastern Transvaal. When we stopped the jeep, he looked around over that sweeping arrangement of trees. I was a bit nervous. Because we were going away, I worried that he'd want to do more than just touch me and wank himself off. He'd kept this up over the year, although his opportunities, with us in our own place and me at school, were few and far between. This time he didn't even try to touch me. He just ranted. He seemed seriously disturbed.
— This is mine. My farm. I'm a Jubilee boy Roy, a penniless Scotsman from Granton. There I was nothing, another skinny teddy boy. Here, I count. No fucking Kaffir is going to take this away from me!
— They'll no take your place, Uncle Gordon, I said supportively, all the time my mind playing with the delicious image of him lying in the gutter in drapes outside the Jubilee Cafe, clutching a bottle of cheap wine. We went back to his ranch house and had some drinks, then went around to the woods so as I could look at some animals with my binoculars. We spotted a Moustached green tinkerbird and a Whalberg's eagle, both pretty rare in the Transvaal. Gordon's heart wasn't in it though and he soon returned to the ranch house. I was left alone to wander around the edge of the forested plantation and it was while I was stealthily trying to get closer to a shitting Bush duiker that I heard the explosion.
I almost shat myself, and I'm sure it helped the duiker's defecation too, the animal shooting off into the forest. I turned back and saw the blazing jeep. As I said, I knew nothing about politics. Despite frequent reports of guerrilla activity by a militant off-shoot of the ANC in Eastern Transvaal, Gordon refused to take heed. For some reason, he'd climbed into one of the four-wheel-drive Range Rovers outside the ranch, switched on the ignition and was blown into oblivion.
The funny thing was, I wasn't scared. I just thought that the terrorists have got Uncle Gordon. I had no real fear that they would do anything to me. I don't know why; I just didn't. I went back towards the house. The warm humid air was even heavier with the odour of gasoline and burning flesh: the smell of Gordon, barbecuing nicely in the blazing truck. I'd never smelt anything like it. While it's impossible for that much meat not to smell I had always imagined that humans would smell like bacon. When I was really wee my Uncle Jackie used to tell me that he ate cheeky wee laddies and that they tasted just like salty pork. I recall though that the smell of Gordon was so sweet I thought that if I hadn't known it was human flesh I would have wanted to taste it; would have enjoyed it. All I could see of Gordon was a charred thin, black arm and hand hanging out of the burning body of the vehicle. The smell changed briefly to that of one I could only describe as burning shite as my Uncle's guts popped and splattered as they incinerated in the flames. I went indoors and sat down and phoned my Ma back in Johannesburg.
—Roy,
what is it! Ah'm up tae ma eyes in it! she moaned. Gordon had her preparing food for another braai.
— Ma, Uncle Gordon goat blown up. Eh's deid, n ah cannae git hame, like.
She gasped loudly and after a long silence said: — Don't move! Jist stey thair!
I sat and waited. I put on the telly and watched some cartoons. The polis came in a helicopter about twenty minutes later. It was fuckin barry being in the helicopter. They took me way up, and I saw, at close range, a magnificent Long-crested eagle, soaring over the thick forest. We landed with disappointing haste and transferred to a car, which drove me to the station where I was reunited with Vet, Kim, Tony and Bernard. Vet hugged me and Tony ruffled my hair. Kim kissed me, which embarrassed me in front of the polis. They had become good pals: the best cops I'd ever met. Bernard was as jealous as fuck of the attention I got: I felt like a hero.
Everyone said I was brave. It was a good time for me, a good farewell to a place I loved. Even Gordon's death, save the minor inconvenience of not being able to extort more presents, left me unmoved. As far as I was concerned Gordon was a sneaky, big-heided poofy auld cunt and it was good riddance. The only person really hurt was John, when we went to visit him in the prison, and his sadness seemed to be based on the loss of Gordon as he was fifteen years back, a 'skinny fucking teddy boy', rather than a crusty old Boer.
His death was actually of some practical benefit to my father. The authorities took a compassionate view of our circumstances and released him early from prison. He came back to Scotland about a month later than the rest of us. Winston Two, who had only been out of quarantine for a few months due to a blissful bureaucratic mix-up, was now banged up again, awaiting release to Scotland.
7 Escape From
The City
Of Gold
I remember the drabness of Heathrow, followed by the depressing connecting flight north of the border. We were all fucked anyway after the long journey from Johannesburg, but they had cancelled a couple of planes because of ice on the runway. London was freezing; Scotland would be even worse. It shows how dense and in a world of my own I had been eighteen months before, because I had been almost as excited that we were stopping off in London as I was that we were on our way to Johannesburg. I thought of London as somewhere just as distant and exotic; I had been surprised on the outward journey when we arrived there so quickly. Returning though, I saw London for what it was: the grizzled fag-end of the British Islands.
On our last day, I'd had to say goodbye to my friends at school and to my teachers. It was strange, but I seemed to be popular there; a big cheese, a top boy, numero uno. My best pals were called Pieter and Curtis. I was a bit of a bully to Curtis. Pieter was too. He was quite a wild cunt and was well pissed off that I was going back. It was good to have someone miss you. Most of the other kids were a bit slow and sappy. I would miss Pieter but, as this was the first time I'd discovered that I had a brain, the person I would miss most was Miss Carvello, one of my teachers. She was beautiful, with big, dark eyes. I used to wank about her, my first real wank, like, when you get spunk. She told Vet it was unfortunate that I was leaving South Africa as I had come on leaps and bounds at school and was 'university material'. This unfortunate phrase was to be thrown back at me in all my subsequent under-achievement.
I wanted to stay in South Africa. What I had gained there was a perverse sense of empowerment; an ego even. I knew I was fuckin special, whatever any of them tried to tell me. I knew I wasn't going to be like the rest of them; my old man, my old lady, Bernard, Tony, Kim, the other kids back in the scheme. They were rubbish. They were nothing. I was Roy Strang. Maybe I had to go back, but it was going to be different. I wasnae gaunny take any shite.
Back in Scotland, when John finally came home, we had a family meal to celebrate. Everyone was there, not quite everyone, Winston Two being back in quarantine, and Elgin still at THE GORGIE VENTURE FOR EXCEPTIONAL YOUNG MEN. It was considered too off-putting to have him home at the dinnertable, and I confess that I had been one of the principal advocates of keeping him away. Only Kim, Vet and Bernard argued for his presence, but John, as always, had the last word. — It widnae be fair tae the laddie, disorientate um, like ah sais, disorientate um.
The dinner was excellent. Ma made broth, then spaghetti carbonara with sprouts, broccoli and roast tatties heaped on top soas you could hardly see the pasta or the sauce, followed by sherry trifle. The bottles of Liebfraumilch were heartily drained. I'd never seen a table so loaded with food. We seldom ate around the table as a family, generally balancing plates on our laps as we jostled for position around the telly. This, we were told, was a special occasion.
There was, however, a tense atmosphere in the house at the meal; Tony's face was heavy with sweat as he ploughed into the food, while Kim pushed hers around. Bernard had had a violent argument with John earlier and instead of sitting down had sort of collapsed into the chair, ashen-faced and trembling. He was trying to cut a piece of roast tattie, his breath making high little sounds which could have come from the throat of a dog. Later on Kim was to tell me that Dad had heard from Mum about something Bernard had done with another laddie and had threatened to cut his cock off.
Mum and Dad had obviously argued about it and were both wound up so tightly as they sat at the table that the air around them seemed to gel. I ate nervously and quickly, anxious to excuse myself, feeling that one wrong word or dubious gesture might spark off a massacre.
— These tatties are hoat. . . Kim said inanely.
John glared venomously at her. — Well, thir nae fuckin good cauld! Yir Ma's gone tae a loat ay trouble tae make this meal, Kim! Show some appreciation! Like ah sais, some appreciation!
This was really. worrying, as John seldom gave Kim a hard time; she was, after all, his favourite. Kim pouted and lowered her head. She looked as if she was contemplating doing what she often did to get attention and bursting into tears, but had decided against it and was struggling to consider what other action she could take.
Vet got in on the act. She turned to Tony and snapped: — Tony, take yir fuckin time. You n aw, Roy. That food isnae gaunny jump up n run away bichrist.
I had always though of my Ma as young and beautiful. Now she seemed to me to look like a twisted, haggard old witch, staring out at me from behind a smudged mask of eyeliner. I noted the strands of silver in her long black hair.
She and rest of them could fuck off. Ah wis going to be strong. Strong Strang. Ah wis gaunny make sure every cunt kent ma fuckin name.
Ah wis gaun . . .
DEEPER
DEEPER into the Marabou Stork nightmares.
8 Trouble
In The Hills
Old 'Fatty' Dawson looked absolutely beastly when we met up for a rendezvous and progress report at his secret guest lodge in the Jambola. His shifty, slimy eyes were blackened and his tanned flesh hung slack and wobbly on his jaw. He was not a happy man and it was more than obvious that we were the source of his disquiet.
Granted, we had failed to establish where our Stork was nesting. There were very few clues. In all frankness, Sandy and I had been rather treating it as a bit of a holiday and Dawson was not amused. There was no warmth in his greeting. He ushered us to sit down around a corner of his oak boardroom table. Then he left for a minute. Sandy turned to me and whispered: — Fatty Dawson's looking rather wild, he said, a little edge of panic creeping into his voice.
— Well, I'm blowed if I know what he's so steamed up about. It's not as if old Johnny Stork has . . .
At this point Dawson came back into the room and squeezed into a chair beside us. His doughy hands drummed the table, then he let out a sigh. — I'm surrounded by homoerotic prats who can't get it together to hunt those murderous beasts! he snapped contemptously at us. Sandy looked vaguely guilty. This irritated me, as we had done nothing wrong. I was about to say something when Dawson turned his blotchy face away from us towards his valet, Diddy. — Either that or incompetent malcontents. The short-arsed manservant
mumbled something and shuffled out the room looking at his feet.
I considered that it might make for better sport to wind up Dawson rather than to oppose him outright. We still needed the fat oaf. There was little prospect of locating our Stork without his backing. — Take it easy, Lock, I smiled. — Unwind. Crack open a beer or two . . .
— How the hell can I be expected to relax when it's all caving in around me! he snapped. — This Emerald Forest park is rife with Marabous who only care for destruction, and here, in my own back yard, at the Jambola, the local natives are getting restless . . . SADIE! he screamed. – SADIE!
His black madame, the foreign lady, entered the room. — Yes Missah Dossan?
— What the fuck is happening, Sadie? You tell me. . . somebody tell me! It's Lochart Dawson this, Lochart Dawson that . . . oh yes, let's all put the boot into Lochart Dawson! Forget conveniently how Lochart Dawson saved this park from extinction!
Sadie shook her head sadly, — We all knows you our fren Missuh Dossan. We knows dat we don have nuthin till you comes heah an makes us all strong. All our people, dey respecks an loves you Missuh Dossan. Is only some of dem youth who is rebellious in de way dat young boys is. Dem boys will be punish badly for deh sins Missuh Dossan.
Dawson put both his hands behind his head and rubbed his neck. Then he gasped slowly. — I'm not a man who is intolerant by nature Sadie, but I am a great believer in examples being made and punishments fitting crimes and all that sort of stuff. Anything else sends signals to the bad eggs that they've won the battle. Well, my message to them is that they most decidedly have not. Those so-called rebels, when you round them up, see to it that I get to oversee their discipline personally. Baiting Lochart Dawson is becoming something of a thriving industry in these parts. Well, this is one enterprise I won't be encouraging thank you very much. You can tell them that Lochart Dawson has never run away from anything in his life and he doesn't intend to start now.
