by Irvine Welsh
— Yessuh, Missuh Dossan.
— Of course, he bleated petulantly, — there may come a time when Lochart Dawson may just decide that it's all not worth the hassle and simply walk away. Then where would you all be, eh?
— Oh laud, Missuh Dossan, no go leave us, please no go leave us! You is speshul pehsun Missuh Dossan. We loves you veh much an we can no cope without you! Please no go!
Sadie was now at his knees, holding onto his legs. He ruffled her dark hair. — That's fine, Sadie. Thank you.
The woman rose and departed with tears filling her eyes. She deserved an Oscar.
— They seem to like you, said Jamieson, sycophantically stagey.
— Yes they do, Sandy. I can honestly say that, on the whole, I am a much admired and appreciated person. There are a minority, however, who seem to think that Lochart Dawson's a soft touch, a figure of fun. Well, when they are brought in as prisoners by my security forces, we'll see just how much a figure of fun I am after the questioning procedures.
I raise an eyebrow in Dawson's direction.
— It's a vice of mine, Roy, Dawson explained. — Questioning. I love to question. It's in my nature. I question everything. I question why so much is spent on state benefits to the unproductive while grants for business development for the go-ahead are so low. Indeed, I question why state benefits exist at all.
I smile at him. — Extremely visionary stuff, Lochart, not at all the type of questioning based on perpetuating the narrow economic interests of an already wealthy but spiritually impoverished elite at the expense of their more financially disadvantaged bretheren. Truly the type of questioning which will help enable mankind as a species to self-actualise and fulfil its cosmic destiny. There's a real sense of deep philosophy underpinning it all.
Dawson studied my expression to see if I was mocking him. It seemed as if he couldn't quite tell, but decided to give me the benefit of the doubt. — That's it, Roy! You're a true philosopher! He smiled, flashing pearly teeth and presenting expensive bridgework for my examination.
— You'll sort out those ungrateful malcontents, Lochart, I said encouragingly.
— They forget that they asked me to come here, Dawson said. — The same as those people in the Emerald Forest. I did this for them.
— Oh, Emerald Forest invited this takeover bid, did they? I asked, intrigued.
— I can't say any more about it now, Roy. Unfortunately I've not got the same freedom as the hot-heads to go around making all sorts of accusations. Lochart Dawson doesn't have that luxury; I'm bound to be silent by the dictates of company law and my position as a board member of Jambola Park PLC. Now, onto other business. What progress on the Stork problem?
— We've not located the nest yet, as I indicated to you last night on the telephone. It's all not bleak though . . . Sandy, I turned to Jamieson who rose and went to his rucksack and, on producing a large map of the area, spread it over the table.
Putting on a pair of steel-framed spectacles, Sandy began, — This map indicates the principal flamingo colonies in the area, and the patterns of flamingo migration.
— So what? We're talking about Marabous here! Dawson boomed.
— Please let me finish, Sandy retorted with a touch of cocksure assertiveness which filled me with a quick flush of admiration. I watched Dawson grudgingly defer. Sandy continued, — The pattern is emerging of rapid movement of the flamingo colonies from the area around Lake Torto up towards the border.
— We can't afford to lose our flamingos . . . Dawson gasped.
— Yes. But there's more. The only thing that could cause mass desertion of flamingo colonies on that scale is the presence of large numbers of the scavenger-predator we know as the Marabou Stork.
— Yes . . . but . . .
— The Storks have routed every flamingo colony they've come across. The next undisturbed ones are up on the north-eastern banks of Lake Torto. That's where the Marabous are headed next.
Dawson raised an appreciative eyebrow.
— And so, I said with what I thought was a rather dramatic pause, — are we.
FUCK OFF!
— Just turning this up for you, Roy. The Doctor says as loud as we can have it. Patricia's back.
—You certainly have some family, don't you Roy? Ha ha. I was propositioned last night by your brother. Tony.
Don't do it, Patricia.
— He's not my type, though. The married type, if you know what I mean. Good-looking, though. Can't really see much of a resemblance to you . . . oh God, I didn't mean it that way. Still, you seem to do alright. Your girlfriend was in. Doesn't say anything. Still, it must be upsetting for her to see you like this.
Who the fuck is that? Surely not Dorothy. Surely she's found another fat boyfriend, had her first fat kid even. Settled into a Wimpey or Barratt number in Fathell, Midlothian, or even Fathell, Fife. No. It would be Fathell, Manches . . .
NO. IT WASNAE DORIE.
Her that mentioned Dempsey. That's who it'll be. Her. Who the fuck is she?
— At least she stuck by you, Roy. She obviously doesn't believe that you're the bad one they're all making out. That's how I feel too. I can see the good in you, Roy. When I shine the torch into your eyes I know I can sometimes see something and I know it's good.
Aye, aye, Patricia. How the fuck would you ken?
I'm mad about the boy
MAD
DEEPLY MAD
DEEPER– – – –Aw aye, this yin. Ah mind ay ma Ma givin it laldy wi this yin. She sang it to me on my birthday. I was embarrassed, surprise, surprise. The daft party we had in my hoose. The funny thing was that when we came back tae Scotland the council housed us in the same maisonette block, on the fifth floor instead ay the fourth one. This was regarded as a come-down in status for my Ma. The poorest families tended to be at the top floor. The funny thing was, neighbours told us, they had only just re-let our old flat after it had been standing empty for the best part of our eighteen-month African safari.
Dexy and Willie, the two mates from school and scheme; I had just started the secondary; they were there. They were scruffy cunts glad to be let intae some cunt's hoose, even if it wis the Strangs. My mate Pete never came, he made some excuse. Brian was there, though. He'd just come back tae the scheme n aw; tae stey wi his auld man eftir being in Moredun wi his auntie. His Ma had left them and his auld boy had sort ay cracked up. They all looked nervous and furtive as Ma belted it out, half-pished . . .
Even though there's something of the cad
About the boy . . .
The new school.
Ma's intervention blew my cool, ruined my plan to be free from embarrassment, to take no shite from any cunt who would try to brand me a freak. By and large, though, things went well. I could, of course, have played up to being Tony Strang's brother, but that would also have identified me with Bernard, and that raging poof was two years above me at school. He was a constant source of shame, but was never tormented as he had no scruples about playing up to being Tony's wee brother. I hadn't wanted any of that shite though. I was into doing what people expected me to do least. At the school, as a Strang, they had expected me to be a basket case, so I was bright. Because I was bright, they expected me to go to university. The drab consensus that I was 'university material' had followed me all the way from Johannesburg. There was no way. No cunt told me what to do.
I arrived at the secondary school heavily suntanned from South Africa; my ugliness now mildly exotic. There were loads of kids from the primary and from the scheme who remembered Dumbo Strang. In particular, there was a fat kid called Tarn Mathews.
That poor cunt Mathews. All the time he was watching swotty Strang from the back of the class, he must have been totally unaware that I was psyching myself up for that moment. Mathews became my first victim. I was glad it was him; glad because he was big, tough, loud and stupid. This time it would be mair than just the spike on the compass.
He spat on the back of my neck as we were leaving the cl
assroom. At school we used to kid on we were gobbing on the back of each other's heids, like blowing out compressed air. This cunt really did it but. I felt the thick spittle run under my collar, down the back of my neck.
I could see a flicker of disbelief, then hesitancy in his eyes as I squared up to him. He said something which brought a few laughs from the kids who had gathered round to witness Dumbo Strang's humiliation, but the laughter turned to gasps, to ooohhhss as I produced a small hunting knife from my pocket, one which I'd bought from Boston's of Leith Walk, and stabbed Mathews three delicious times; twice in the chest and once in the arm. I then went to the next period class.
The teachers and the police got involved, although Mathews, to be fair, didn't shop me, he just collapsed in the playground and was taken to the hospital.
I simply spoke nicely to them all. After all, I was now Roy Strang, a hard-working, intelligent pupil; university material. Thomas Mathews, the teachers fell over themselves to testify to anyone that would listen, was not a hard-working, intelligent pupil. He was a bully and a thug. Yes, the police knew the Mathews family. They also knew the Strangs, but I was far too convincing in my mummy's boy role for them to make that association. The consensus was that, obviously, the Mathews boy must have put the fear of god into poor Roy Strang for the boy to be so scared he had to carry a knife. Nobody remembered the compass back in primary. No charges were brought: Ma and Dad never even found out.
Life at school was easier after that, once that basic principle was established: you didnae fuck aroond with Roy Strang.
Out of school, it wasn't so easy. I remember one Saturday night I was sitting in reading a new Silver Surfer I'd got from Bobbie's Bookshop. It was late and I cringed inside as I always did when I heard my auld man ask my auld girl: — Fancy some chips, Vet?
— Wouldnae mind. . . my auld girl said coyly and teasingly, as if he was talking about sex.
— Roy, git ays a fish supper n what is it you're wantin, Vet?
— Ah'll huv fish . . . naw, a white puddin supper . . . naw, a mince pie supper wi two pickled onions. Naw . . . make it haggis, a haggis supper. That's it definitely. A haggis supper. Naw, fish! Fish!
— Christsake . . . two fish suppers before yir Ma changes her mind!
— Aw Dad . . . I moaned. I hated going to the scheme chippy this late at night. The pub next door, The Gunner, would be emptying. It was okay when he was down there, he brought the chips hame. It was horrible for me though, so I hated the nights he stayed in. You were on a fuckin doing fae aw the aulder wide cunts and the junkies who'd try to rob you. Cause nae cunt fucked aboot with him, the auld man never saw this.
I made my way out into the stair and headed down through the darkness of the shopping centre. I saw two boys coming towards me and tensed, but I relaxed as it was only my mates Pete Bowman and Brian Hanlon.
— Pete, Bri.
— Roy.
— Whair yis gaun?
— Hame.
— Whair yis been?
— Commie pool, then up at ma big brar's, Pete said.
— Chum ays doon tae the chippy well, I ventured.
Pete touched his eye and laughed, – Aye, that'll be fuckin right. N ye'd better watch, Roy. Hamilton n some ay the third-year cunts are hinging aboot doon thair.
— Ah'm no bothered, I smiled, shitein it.
— Ye gaun tae Easter Road oan Setirday? Brian asked.
There was no way ah wis gaun tae any fuckin fitba. — Aye, probably, I said.
— Come doon fir ays well, Brian said.
— Aye, right.
— Tro Roy.
— Tro Pete, tro Bri, I said as they departed.
I walked on into the darkness. A drunk shouted at me, but I ignored him and charged doon towards the chippy. The light coming from it was the only sign of life in the centre. As I was getting served, trying to act nonchalant as the raucous drunks and nutters from the pub joined the queue and shouted at each other, I noted with a sinking feeling that Hamilton and his entourage were standing outside the shop.
I waited and by the time I got my stuff, they were away. I breathed a sigh of relief and huddled the hot chips to my chest as I walked through the centre into the cold night. I was just starting to unwind when Hamilton came flying out of a stair door and stood in front of me. There were two other guys with him, and two lassies.
— Hi pal, gies a chip!
— Ah cannae, it's fir ma faither, I said.
Hamilton was sixteen. I was still not yet fourteen. This was a different league to Mathews. The other guys were even older. One guy with long, curly blond hair was about eighteen. — Leave um, Hammy, ehs jist a fuckin bairn ... he said.
— Git um in the fuckin stair, Hamilton laughed.
His mate, another third-year cunt called Gilchrist was sniggering,
— Ken whae this cunt is? Eh chibbed Davie Mathew's brar. Thinks eh's a fuckin wide-o.
They pushed me into the stair. I held onto the chips as tightly as I could. All I could think of was what my auld man would say if I let them get tae the chips.
Hamilton had masses of teeth. Protruding teeth. He reminded me of a piranha fish; so many teeth it can never close its mouth. He gleefully pulled a knife on me. — So ye cairry a blade, eh?
— Nup, I said.
— Heard ye hud yin it the school but, eh. Ye a wide-o, aye?
— Nup, I shrugged, still holding onto the chips.
Hamilton laughed and then did a strange bird-like dance in front of me strutting and twisting his head from side to side.
— Leave um, Hammy, ah'm no fuckin jokin, the older guy said laughing, and wrestling Hamilton playfully away from me. One of the lassies came over to me. She was at our school too. Me, Pete and Bri just called her The Big Ride. I'd wanked aboot her before: I'd wanked aboot her tons ay times if the truth be telt. I remember once we were watching a nature programme in Bri's hoose and there wis these two praying mantises and the lassie praying mantis was eating the laddie praying mantis's heid while they were shaggin. We used to joke that that was what shaggin The Big Ride would be like. Ah remember saying that ah'd never shag The Big Ride unless I could tie her doon first.
— Goat a girlfriend, son? she asked, chewing gum so slowly and deliberately that it made her lovely face seem long and horselike. While this made her look uglier, it strangely and paradoxically made her seem even more sexual.
In spite of my fear I felt a twinge in my groin. — Nup, I said.
— Ivir hud yir hole? Hamilton sneered. Gilchrist laughed. I said nothing.
— Leave the perr wee cunt, the blond guy laughed. — C'moan, Hammy, lit um go.
Then I saw who the other lassie was, it was Caroline Carson from our year, her; a lassie that was in some of my classes. She was alright. Dead nice likes. I just wanted to die.
The blond guy must have caught my shock of recognition, because he put his arm around her, — This is ma wee girlfriend, eh hen? he said with teasing lecherousness.
She twisted away from him laughing, — Dinnae Doogie. . . She seemed a bit embarrassed that somebody had found her with these cunts. I took her for a nice lassie likes.
At that point Hamilton slapped me across the face. I stood staring at him, still holding the chips. — Gie's a fuckin chip! he snapped. I stood looking at his glaring, violent eyes, feeling the side of my face where his hand made contact throb in a strange harmony with my balls.
Then I saw something change in his eyes. It was a kind of startled, ugly impulse that we shared but which I couldn't define.
It was something we shared.
I kept staring at him. I wisnae scared any mair: no ay him. I was scared of my auld man, but no Hamilton. He knew it. All I felt was anger at him, and anger at masel fir being too weak tae oppose the cunt.
— Fuckin wide cunt! he roared, moving towards me with the blade. The blond guy held him and at the same time pushed me away, out the stairdoor, but they all came out after me.
I just held the chi
ps. I knew at any time I could have stopped this nightmare by saying: Tony Strang's ma brar, but I didnae want tae. This was me. This was Roy Strang we were talking aboot.
Roy Strang.
I just held the chips.
— What team dae ye support? Hamilton asked casually, as if nowt hud happened between us, as he put the knife back in his pocket.
— Hibs, I said.
I wisnae really interested in fitba, but Dad and Tony were Hibs fans and so were most of my mates in the scheme, so it seemed a safe bet.
— Hebs! Hebs! he repeated, mimicking my unbroken voice. He ripped the paper of my wrapper and dug out a few chips. I stood frozen. I tried to speak out but I couldn't say anything. — HMFC ya cunt! he snapped and, grabbing my hair, he hauled my head doon and booted me in the face. I felt my bottom lip rip on my bottom front teeth and the sour taste of my own blood fill my mouth.
I held the chips and lifted my head slowly, shaking with anger and frustration.
— Fuck off Hammy, ya Jambo cunt, the big, blond guy shouted and charged after Hamilton and they had a mock fight as I sneaked off, my lower lip tasting like a large piece of rubber in my mouth.
When I got home my Dad looked at me, then at the torn wrapper, which I had vainly tried to disguise. — They chips. Somebody wis tamperin wi they chips!
I told him that I'd got hungry on the way home and had eaten a ' few chips. He looked hard at me, — What happened tae yir mooth? My knees felt weak and I didn't have the strength to carry on the unconvincing lie. It would only wind him up further. I kept my eyes on the floor and told him the story. I looked up and caught Kim's wide eyes staring at me, punctuating my misery with the occasional: — Ooooohhhh. Bernard, naewhair tae be seen when they were looking for some cunt tae go for the chips, was fighting hard to stop his mouth twisting into a smile and losing. We were all waiting for my auld man to freak and smack me across the heid, but he just looked sadly at me.
