by Irvine Welsh
I enjoyed the notoriety. It was good seeing all the straight-peg cunts at my work look at me with respect and trepidation. I just kept quiet. Even when that nosey dyke cow of a supervisor Jane Hathaway tried to bait me by reading out incidents from the paper on a Monday, I just kept quiet. Nae cunt had the bottle tae come right out and ask me if I was involved. More than the notoriety, I enjoyed the sense of enigma.
There was plenty of opportunity tae make money wi the cashies, but I was only really interested in the swedgin. There was less risk in that. I sussed out quickly that the polis werenae bothered too much aboot crimes against the person as long as you never bothered posh cunts or shoppers. When you started tryin tae extort dough fae the pubs, clubs n shoaps, that was when the cunts got nippy. There wis nae wey ah wis gaunny dae time.
There was a big do at the Pilton Hilton, the Commodore Hotel; Tony was getting married to this lassie called Hannah. He brought her roond tae the hoose one night and announced it. She looked really nice, even though she was obviously up the stick. She was moving intae Tony's flat. I was surprised, because I was sure I kent her from somewhere.
— Aboot time ye wir settlin doon, John said, raising a glass of whisky. He insisted we all drank some as a toast. — Like ah sais, ye cannae beat the mairriage stakes. Didnae dae me any herm! He winked at my Ma who gave him a cloying smile.
Bernard said something simpering and Kim started tae greet. Ah jist said: — Nice one Tone, slapped the cunt oan the back and forced the rancid whisky doon wi loads ay lemonade.
At the wedding I got a right fuckin shock when I saw who one of the bridesmaids was. She was dressed in a long peach dress, matching one worn by another lassie and these two wee lassies. It was The Big Ride; Hamilton's shag. She was Hannah's sister, which I suppose made The Big Ride my in-law, or something.
I had clocked her in the church and I couldnae stop looking at her at the reception. I was staring at her. We were introduced, the two families. They'd aw been up at oor hoose before but I had been oot, I never really took any notice.
— So you're Roy, she said.
The fuckin boot didnae even recognise me.
I kept staring at her. As the night wore on, I never took my eyes off her. Eventually she came over to me. — Is thir something wrong? she asked, sitting down beside me.
— You dinnae mind ay me, eh no? I smiled.
She looked quizzical and started mentioning names. Most of them meant little to me, just cunts I vaguely knew through the scheme and the school.
— You used tae go oot wi Stuart Hamilton, I told her.
She blushed a little bit. — That was ages ago . . . she simpered.
— Did eh fuck ye, aye? I asked, looking her up and down. Good tits oan it like.
She screwed her face up and frowned at me. Her prettiness collapsed into ugliness. She was fairly heavily built as well, much broader than Hannah. She'd be a fat sow in a few years' time. Some lassies just kept getting bigger; it was like the daft cows didnae ken when tae stoap. — What? she said weakly.
— Ah mind ay you. You n Hammy n that Gilchrist cunt. Ye pilled ays up ootside the chippie in Muirhoose.
I saw her face register vague recognition.
— Aw . . . c'moan . . . that wis ages ago . . .
— Aye. Too right it wis fuckin ages ago. Like tae see yis dae it now. Whair is that cunt Hammy these days? Ah've been keepin ma fuckin eye oot fir that wanker.
— Ah dinnae ken, ah jist hung aboot wi um whin ah wis younger . . . that wis ages ago . . .
— Ye married? I asked.
— Used tae be, she said.
— Aw, ah goes, makin ma voice aw soft, — did yir felly find oot ye wir a slut? Wis that how eh kicked ye intae touch? Hus Tony fucked ye yet? Ah bet eh hus.
Her features seemed to draw in towards the centre of her face. — You're fuckin tapped, son, she hissed. — Fuck off! She stood up and started moving away. I just smiled. Then she came back and said: — We might be married intae the same family, bit ah dinnae want tae talk tae you. Jist stey oot ay ma wey. You're fuckin sick!
— Fuck off, ya fat hoor, I sneered, drinking in her rage as she turned away.
I kept noising her up during the reception. I was having a great time. — Hoor, I whispered in her ear every time I passed her.
One time she cracked up and confronted me, — You're fuckin spoilin ma sister's big day, she whispered in a harsh hiss. – If ye dinnae fuck off, I'll tell Tony!
— Good, I smiled. — Go ahead. It'll save me tellin um that his sister-in-law's a fuckin hingoot. . . Benny! I shouted, as my Uncle Benny, my Ma's brother, came across. The Big Ride departed.
— Ah wisnae crampin yir style thair Roy, wis ah? Benny asked, raising an eyebrow. — Tidy piece.
— Naw, nae danger. Widnae touch it wi yours, Ben. A right boot: really pits it aroond. Fanny like the Mersey Tunnel, I laughed. Benny joined in.
Later on I saw the daft sow starting tae greet. She left wi another lassie just eftir that. I went over to the married couple and enjoyed a dance with the beautiful bride. I then escorted her back to the handsome groom and gave her a peck on the cheek. — You're a lucky man, Tony.
— Ah ken that, Tony smiled.
— Great do this, by the way, Hannah, I said. — Your folks have done us proud.
— Aye, it's just a pity aboot Sylvia.
— Your sister? What's wrong wi her? I asked with fake concern.
— She's away. Wisnae feeling well.
— That's a shame.
I enjoyed that wedding. Dad got pished and punched this radge who was, apparently, trying to preach socialism at him. That was the only real upset. I also found Kim necking with this daft cunt in the corridor. — Dinnae tell naebody, eh no Roy, she said, obviously hoping that I'd broadcast to the world that she had a fuckin boyfriend. Bernard sloped off early, no doubt to indulge in the practice of arse-banditry. I ended up pished with my Uncle Benny and the two Jackies.
Not a bad night. I never saw The Big Ride again, although I asked after her regularly.
The house was too crowded, even wi Tony away. Kim had her own room and I was in a room with Bernard. That was bad patter; sharing a bedroom with a poof. Sometimes he'd move oot for a bit, but he always came back. Fuck knows why. I never figured out why he stayed for so long. I never figured out why I stayed for so long.
Bernard was constantly blowing my cool. I fancied myself as a hard cunt and it was fuckin shan to have that for a brother. It made me sick to listen to his lisping, camp patter as he read out his poetry. He always recited it to my Ma, who was embarrassed by it, but as a teacher had once described Bernard as 'gifted', she gamely encouraged him. That was years ago, in the primary, and he'd done fuck all since but ponce about. He worked as a barman in a queers' pub in the city centre and sold jewelry on a stall at Ingliston Market.
Posing in the fuckin stair, he'd read his shitey poems tae aw the young fanny who seemed tae fag-hag him:
The situation that is life
sustainable, yet renewable
its elements building blocks
in a completed construction
yet which cannot be identified as such in isolation
To persecute me for my sexuality
is to pander to the slavedeck of false illusion
when the tapes play mixed messages
through mediums yet to be discovered
Avanti! I scream, my Italian blood
courses through my veins
not to be denied
Aw this wis weird enough, but we'd sometimes get it after our meal on a Sunday, if the auld man went tae the pub. Ma would cook up things like curry and rice, always with chips or tatties and two veg oan the side ay the plate.
One Sunday I asked Tony and Hannah, rather casually, I thought, about Hannah's sister Sylvia, The Big Ride. To my shock my auld man said: — Ah think Roy's goat a wee thing aboot Hannah's sister. Heard ye mention her before, like ah sais, heard ye ask aboot her before.
&nbs
p; — Naw ah nivir, I replied. It wasn't that I was being shy, I just couldn't recall mentioning the sow in front of them.
— Aye ye huv, like ah sais, mentioned hur before, he teased, his jaw stretching downwards like Mr Fantastic's. His smile just got broader and broader and as his teeth were exposed, he started to take on the appearance of the Alien in the films of the same name.
In Muirhoose nae cunt can hear ye scream. . . well, they can hear ye, they just dinnae gie a fuck.
He held that radge expression and I felt my face go red and I got a bigger beamer than I had in the first place.
— What a beamer, Tony laughed.
— Aye, right, I snapped.
Laughter filled the room, Kim's shrill tones effortlessly dominating the rest.
I felt my head pound and my pulse quicken. The smell of the food was vivid and intense. Ah'm fuckin Roy Strang. Ah'm fuckin . . . I took a deep breath and pulled myself together.
— Went beetroot rid, so eh did. Like ah sais, beetroot rid, my auld man laughed, jabbing fork into space.
— You'll be the next yin tae git mairried, Roy, Kim said in her banal, nasal way, — cause it'll no be me, that's fir sure . . .
Her nauseating intervention had the desired effect of getting everyone to focus on her romantic life. I suppose I should have thanked her. I resolved to shut up about The Big Ride. I had been weak and had obviously broken, albeit unintentionally, one of my own key rules: say nowt tae nae cunt aboot anything.
When Tony's bairn came, he seemed tae spend mair time back at oor place than ever. For some reason he started to come oan his ain oan a Sunday fir dinner. I think Hannah went tae her Ma's wi the bairn. I don't think he liked her family but I never worked up the bottle to ask him what he thought of The Big Ride. That was out of the question now. I was sure he'd fucked her, or at least tried to. This was simply because, knowing Tony as I did, I couldn't imagine him not trying it on with her. Equally, it was hard to imagine The Big Ride not giein him his hole if he did try it on.
Tony would sit in an armchair, glancing up fae the set as Bernard lisped oot his poems. There was one time he looked up and said derisively, — Poetry, schmoetry, pulling the ring on a tin of export. He was browsing at the highlights of the Dundee United v St. Johnstone match on Scotsport. In the words of the commentator it turned out to be a 'game of few highlights'.
— You understand nowt, son, Bernard simpered.
— Ah understand that your poetry is well short ay piss-poor, Tony smiled.
— So we're the world expert on poetry now, ur we Tony? So tell us all, where did you acquire this expertise? Tony, world expert on everything. Armchair renaissance man. As au fait with darts as he is pool, Bernard hissed in a derisive manner as I heard a key turn in the door. John had come back early from the pub.
— Ah ken what's shite and what's no. Your poetry isnae shite, ah'll gie ye that. It needs tae improve a hundred per cent before it can be elavated tae that category.
John had come in and sat down and he started slapping his thighs. — Eh's goat ye thair, Bernard. Ha ha ha. Like ah sais, goat ye thair. Yill nivir beat oor Tony whin it comes tae words, like.
— I refuse tae be drawn intae a war of words with stupid people, Bernard said condescendingly, exiting with a camp flourish. I suspected that he was enjoying this performance and felt a twinge of admiration for him which I quickly stifled, reminding myself that he was a sick, diseased beast.
— Hi! John shouted. — Whae're you fuckin well callin stupid! Ah'm askin ye! TRY GITTIN A PROPER JOAB INSTID AY DAEIN AW THAT POOFY SHITE THIT NAEBODY'S FUCKIN WELL INTERESTIT IN!
The front door. slammed loudly.
—John! Tony! Vet moaned. — Ye cannae keep gittin oantae the laddie. Leave um alane. At least ehs poetry's hermless. No like some ah could mention, she looked over at me with a sulky pout.
— What's that supposed tae mean then? I asked.
— You ken. They bloody casuals. Yill end up in the jail. You wi that joab in computers n aw. Thing ay the future.
— That's right, Vet! That's fuckin well right! John snapped. — Fuckin casuals. Jeapordisin a fuckin good joab tae hing aroond wi they radge cunts. Computers n aw, like yir Ma sais, the thing ay the future. You want tae buck up yir ideas, son. Like ah sais, buck up yir ideas.
I looked at him coldly. — Ye ken what ah've been daein at work fir the last six months? Ah set up this programme tae call up files when a man reaches retirement age at sixty-five and a woman at sixty. That was aboot a week's work. Fir the past six months ah've been tryin tae train doss-brained cunts how tae operate this simple procedure, which is like gaun tae the toilet, daein a shite but rememberin tae take yir keks of first n wipe yir erse eftir.
The reverence that people who know fuck all about them have for computers disgusts me. Anyway, for me my work was just a refuge: a place to go where my head couldn't be nipped by my family. By either of my families, I suppose, because the cashies were my family n aw now. I could set anything up; that wis barry, you just got on wi it. I set it up, and some smarmy cunt peyed five times as much took the credit. It didnae bother ays though. What did get oan ma tits wis tryin tae teach the system tae doss-brained cunts.
— Aye, bit it's a still a joab! A well-peyed joab! Dinnae tell ays you're no stuffin money away!
Vet cut in, — C'moan John, that's no fair, the laddie earns chs keep.
The cunt was on shaky ground here. He was always tapping ays up in the week; cash for fags, drink. — Aye, well right, but that's mair thin kin be said ay some. That bloody Bernard. A fuckin buftie!
— Total fuckin embarrassment, Tony said.
— It's no natural, like ah sais, no fuckin natural, John said. — Yir no tryin tae tell ays that ye think it's natural, tae huv sex wi another man? He looked at us all in turn, stopping at Vet.
What's natural? I shrugged, more to support my mother who looked quite upset, than Bernard, who I didnae give a toss about.
—Jist as well eh nivir came fae me, John said.
Cheeky cunt him, with Elgin still at the GORGIE VENTURE FOR EXCEPTIONAL YOUNG MEN, me in the casuals and Kim, perennially a few years behind in her school work, now working at the baker's. Ally that to our hall-of-mirrors look and he's got a fuckin nerve thinking that he's spawned some sort of master race.
Vet looked coldly at him, — Might as well huv come fae you.
— What's that meant tae mean? Eh? Ah'm asking ye! What's that meant tae mean?
— Your fuckin faithir, that's what that's meant tae mean!
This was a sore point with Dad. His old man had been put away for interfering with young boys. Nae cunt really talked aboot it.
— Whit aboot ma faither . . .
— He went that wey.
— MA FAITHER DIDNAE GO ANY FUCKIN WEY! MA FAITHER WISNAE A WELL MAN! Tony and I had to restrain him as he raised his hands to Ma. I'd forgotten his strength and he took me out with an elbow to the nose. The pain was overpowering and my eyes kept filling with water. In no time he had Tony wrestled to the ground and was holding him by the hair, threatening to put the boot in.
—Dinnae Dad! I shouted, trying to stem the blood, tears and snot that leaked out of my face.
He let Tony go, and pursued Ma into the kitchen. She had grabbed the kitchen knife and was screaming: — COME OAN THEN YA FUCKIN SHITE! AH'LL FUCKIN KILL YE!
I ran upstairs to their room and grabbed his shotgun from under the bed. I thought about going back downstairs and confronting him, bolstered by the weapon, but he was radge enough to try and take it from me, and then somebody would be well fucked. I locked myself in the toilet with the gun, and didn't leave until the screaming had died down.
I heard the noise of the front door slamming. I put the shotgun back. Tony was alone downstairs. — Ma and John's gone up the pub. Aw lovey-dovey again. Ye comin up? He asked, clicking off the telly at the handset.
Was I coming up? No. I was going deeper. Deeper into trouble. Deeper into the Marabou Stork nightmares.<
br />
DEEPER
DEEPER
DEEPER– – – – into the narrow alley with Jamieson, following the stench of the diseased, decaying carrion on the ugly, waddling bird. The alley is dark, the air is surprisingly cold. Something is moving in the shadows amongst the large, stinking rubbish piles. Something very evil and nasty.
— Expose yourself, you sick, twisted demon! Sandy screams into the darkness. — You think you can destroy the game!
— No fucking chance of that, Johnny Stork! I hiss — Sandy and I are wise to your foul plans. We know that you want to destroy the colour, the noise, the fun and the gaiety associated with . . .
The words stick in my throat as the large predator emerges from the shadows.
— I'll bet you felt that, Roy, I'll bet you felt me kiss you then.
Patricia. Thank fuck. What are you playing at ya daft cunt?
—You know what I think, Roy Strang? I think all you need is to feel wanted. to feel loved. Let me in, Roy. Let us all in. You're surrounded by love, Roy. Your family, your friends. Let us in.
FUCK OFF YA DIPPIT CUNT!
DEEPER
DEEPER– – – – – – – –but not too deep. Not back to that fuckin alleyway with the Stork. No yet. But naw, I didnae go up the pub with Tony that night, didnae go tae see my Ma and Dad. I sat in on my own, enjoying the rare feeling of having the hoose tae masel. It gave me time to think.
I had been having some minor hassle at work. That cow Hathaway confronted me aboot my activities with the cashies. I'd been done and fined for my part in what I thought was a minor swedge, but which the papers called a riot. Hathaway called me through into Colin Sproul's office.
Sproul was an intense, tormented looking guy. It had been him who had interviewed me for the job when I'd first started. He always came across as a fair-minded cunt likes. It was blatantly obvious that he had been pushed into staging this daft performance by Hathaway.
— Eh. . . hello, Roy. We just wanted a little word with you, Jane and I.
Hathaway gave me a toothy false photo-flash smile.
I nodded.
— Your work's been excellent, Sproul began, — absolutely first class, he beamed with an almost awestruck smile. He shook his head in mock disbelief, — I still don't know how you managed to incorporate that geographical cross-referencing report into the S.S. 3001 system. That was genius.
