by Irvine Welsh
somebody come
somebody
please
come
ooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
— Mmmm . . . it looks like somebody's come! You can make contact. Roy! You're going to come out of this!
DEEPER
DEEPER
DEEPER
DEEPER – – – I'm still in the woods, alone. I'm startled to see that there's blood all over me; I'm covered in it. I draw in a breath. I let a few seconds tick by. I don't feel hurt or injured. It isn't my blood. It's not mine. I follow its dark trail into the woods, but I hear a noise in the forest, the crackling noise of something advancing through the undergrowth and I run.
I run through the bush until I stumble upon the track and follow it towards the shores of the lake. The beautiful lake. I step into its soft, lukewarm waters, and wash the blood from my body and clothing. After a while I emerge from the water in the heat and I'm walking back up the trail towards our camp, when I come across Sandy, looking distraught.
— Roy! Are you alright? What in the blazes happened?
— Sandy . . . I don't know . . . 1 just went into the woods and I felt suddenly weak . . . I crouched down and sort of passed out. I woke up covered in blood, and it was like some animal had attacked me or something . . . I don't remember.
— My God! Let's get back to camp! Sandy wrapped his arm around me and supported me up through the woods.
We came across the bloodied trail again. — Oh shit, I said, for as soon as we looked up we saw the prostrate, naked body of a young native boy. The body lay half-covered in leaves and shrubbery. The eyes had been gouged out and the genitals mutilated.
— Oh my God, I said. I felt a gagging sensation, that strange dryness in my throat again, but I couldn't be sick. It was only when I saw the discarded blue pants in the bushes that I realised it was the little fellow we'd met earlier.
— The work of terrorists, I'll wager, Sandy said sagely. — I wouldn't even presume to blame our friends the Marabou Storks for this. Mind you, the removal of the eyes look like they've been done by the beak of a Stork or perhaps a blunt knife . . . possibly a purchase from Boston's of Leith Walk . . .
What in the name of. . . — Sandy, this whole fuckin thing . . . it's just fucked man, d'ye realise? It's just fucked!
— Yellow carded. Yellow fuckin carded, Sandy moaned. What is this shite? What's happening to me?
Ah mind what happened awright.
When I got home, it seemed as if there was nobody in. Then I heard voices from upstairs, giggling sounds. When I went for a slash I heard heavy panting from Kim's room. She had somebody in her bedroom; somebody was giving her one. Obviously some cunt fae the scheme.
I made some toast and watched the telly with the volume turned low, but I had to switch it off because one of the lassies in the Aussie soap opera reminded me of her.
About twenty. minutes later, Kim came down. She looked shocked to see me, like she hudnae heard ays come in. I saw why she was so fuckin bothered, because Tony came straight in after her. He was dressed in a suit and tie, which he was straightening.
— Awright, Roy, he said.
— Tone, I goes.
— Tony came roond for a sandwich, Kim said, in a nervous whine.
Aye, n ah ken whae the fuckin meat wis n aw ya cunt.
— Ah felt really fuckin sick, Tony shook his head glumly. — It's the upholstery oan that new motor: gies ays the boak. Threw up n everything. Hud tae go n lie doon, eh. Then this daft fucker, he nods at Kim, — comes in n starts ticklin ays.
Tony knows how to lie. He's been deceiving his wife with everything for years. He'd stick his cock in anything that moved.
— Ah wis only muckin aboot Tony, jist muckin aboot. . . she says, all clumsy and stagey.
Kim does not know how to he.
Tony departed after we tentatively arranged to go for a couple of pints and onto the match together next weekend. I couldn't sit there and look at Kim. It was her stupid, large potato head; her fuckin idiocy was just so offensive to me. I went upstairs and when I got to my room I was surprised to find that I wis greetin.
Did anybody else live like us? Did any cunt?
I'd never really gret before; no since I was a really wee bairn. I learned not to as a kid. John and Vet just ignored you, or battered you for it, so there was no emotional currency in it. Now it felt good, therapeutic, just to surrender to all the shite and let it flow out. I wasn't Roy Strang.
I wasn't a top boy. I wasn't even Dumbo Strang either. I didn't know who the fuck I was and it didn't matter.
The only other occasion I ventured outside before the court case was to visit Elgin. I don't know what made me dae this. I had long stopped thinking of Elgin as my brother, that was if I ever had; I always cringed when John or Vet referred to him in that way. To me he was just something that pished, shat and drooled over itself, and asked questions in a secret language that no other cunt had ever learned.
Once again I was as para as fuck on my journey. I could see those cunts, all those fuckin schemie bastards that lived in this shit-pit, all of them staring at me. The word 'casual' on their breath was okay, it meant they knew not to mess, but now it was 'rapist' which was worse than 'Dumbo'.
When I got to the GORGIE VENTURE FOR EXCEPTIONAL YOUNG MEN I saw a boy or a man; I didn't know which, he could have been any age. He had the largest head I'd ever seen. My own, Kim's, even the auld man's, they just paled into insignificance alongside this. Elgin still drooled incessantly, more than ever. I'd forgotten his face, that expression on it, or perhaps I'd never really looked at him before. That was it; all those years in the same fuckin hoose and I'd never really looked at his face, I mean I'd looked at it, but never really seen what was there. All that was human had been sucked out of that face. He just sat on a chair beating out a monotonous rhythm on his thighs.
I didn't even attempt to talk to him; didn't even try to go through the token patronising crap the so–called experts laughingly refer to as communication, as therapy, as meaningful interaction. It was nothing like that for either myself or Elgin. I just sat looking at him for a while. I don't know where Elgin was but I sat looking at him, thinking of my situation and that wherever he was it didn't seem such a bad place to be.
On the eve of the courtcase, John and Vet were dealt another blow. We learned that Kim was up the stick. I suspected it was Tony's, but practically everyone in the scheme had been up Kim: at least that was how it seemed to me. It wisnae her fault. She was gullible, impressionable. No, that's too kind. She was just totally fuckin thick, as solid in the head as the concrete support pillars in a multi-storey car park. John raged at her. — Whae's is it? Ah'm asking ye, Kim! Like ah sais, whae's is it! Tony, who was normally never away fae the hoose, kept a low profile around this time and Kim kept quiet. Her drama, which she seemed to thrive on, didn't really concern me. I had my own problems.
Our brief, Conrad Donaldson Q.C., was supremely confident. He was the best there was. We'd set up a fund for his payment, jointly managed by Ghostie and Lexo's partner in his second-hand furniture shop in Leith, a psycho named Begbie. There were plenty of publicans and club owners only too willing to contribute to Donaldson's legal fees.
Donaldson was a ruddy-faced man with a slack mouth and large, rubbery lips. — Rape's a funny bugger, he told us in his offices in the New Town. — Somebody gets raped, the first thing they want to do is to obliterate all traces of the assailant. They just wash everything away. Then it generally takes a long time until they've recovered sufficiently from the shock to report it. The police's first response is to interrogate the complainant: that generally puts most of them off. Your girlie though, she seems persistent. I can only assume that she's getting some bad advice. She's on a pretty sticky wicket here. Even if the police refer the case to the Procurator Fiscal, in over thirty per cent of such referrals he simply won't initiate proceedings. Even then, only a quarter of defendants are convicted. Most of them get it reduced to sexual assault and almos
t half don't get custodial sentences. Statistically speaking, the rapist who goes to jail is a most unfortunate sod. The odds are heavily weighted against that happening.
— Thing is, we never raped naebody, Lexo said, smiling and chewing on some gum.
— Quite, Donaldson replied tritely. It was obvious he didn't believe a word of what we were saying.
He explained that there were no real witnesses for the prosecution, nobody who could actually say they had any real evidence to suggest that she'd been raped or held against her will. — It's a minefield for a girlie. Wouldn't touch it with a bargepole if I were her. I don't know who's put her up to this, some dykey feminist group trying to make the unfortunate wench into a cause célèbre, no doubt. Well, she has two chances; slim and none. I contend that she can't win; we can only lose. We can only throw it away. So I'm expecting exemplary behaviour from you chaps. Put yourself in my hands and we'll give her a damn good shafting, he said smugly, his smile crumbling around the edge of his mouth in realisation of a poor choice of metaphor.
I cringed and looked away, but something made me glance at Lexo, who just smirked and said softly, — Again.
Demps rolled his eyes and Ozzy laughed.
— One other factor very much in our favour, Donaldson said, anxious to move on, — is the judge. Judge Hermiston's attitudes are very much influenced by his practising of criminal law in the fifties where the dominant school of criminology was the Freudian model. This essentially does away with the concept of the crime of rape by proving that there are no victims. Female sexuality is deemed by nature to be masochistic, hence rape cannot logistically take place since it directly encounters the argument that all women want it anyway.
— Ah believe that, Lexo opined. — Simple whin ye think aboot it. A boy's goat a cock, a bird's goat a fanny. Thir meant tae be thegither.
— Right, Donaldson snapped, distaste for the first time playing across his thick lips, — I think we understand each other.
For the trial we had to move out of being Lexo, Strangy, Ozzy and Demps, top boys. We were now Alex Setterington, businessman (Lexo had his second-hand furniture shop in Leith), Roy Strang, Analyst with a reputable Edinburgh insurance company, Ian Osmotherly, Sales Manager with a busy nationwide retailer, and Allan Dempsey, who was a student. Demps had enrolled to do a Social Care course at Stevenson College before the court case. It gave a better impression than dole-mole.
So it was her word against the four of us. We were described by Donaldson as 'a far cry from the picture of rampaging soccer yobbos that my learned friend so unconvincingly tried to paint; in fact decent, articulate, upstanding professional young men with excellent prospects, from good families.'
I caught a glimpse of the auld man nodding in stern approval across the court at that statement.
The worse thing for her case was that numerous guys at the party testified to how flirty and out of her face she was. So did several women; top boys' birds we had primed, or just jealous cows cause every cunt fancied her the most.
We had our own skills, our organisation, our cool. Lexo metamorphosised into a large, gentle giant in court; a choirboy with a baleful, slightly nervous and bewildered expression, polite and deferential to the judge.
Most important of all, we had the top lawyer. Conrad Donaldson Q.C. expertly dictated the whole emphasis of the trial. It became like she was the one on trial; her past, her sexuality, her behaviour. She looked really strange in the court. It was the wey she moved. She walked like the centre ay balance in her body had irreversably shifted. It wis like the movement ay some cunt that had come oot fae under the surgeon's knife and who was recuperating from a chronic and ultimately terminal illness.
Donaldson hammered out and established some key propositions:
She danced with several men at the party. That was established.
Her stammering, plukey, inexperienced Legal-Aid Cunt tried to say that everyone danced with several men, including us, the accused. Most people there were either eckied or tripping, no me though, I never used drugs. I hated the feeling ay being oot ay control. Bad things can happen when ye get oot ay control. Like at the party. But yeah, everybody danced with each other there. It was that sort of party. You could tell that the senile auld cunt of a judge couldnae git his heid roond that concept though.
— When I attended parties, a lady seldom danced intimately with several men, he said.
She wore provocative clothing. That was established.
It was standard Ms Selfish, Chelsea Girl, X-ile type gear. Every woman at the party was dressed the same.
She had sexual experience. That was established.
So did ninety-nine per cent of the people in the court, and she probably had less than any. But allied to her admissions of two previous boyfriends and the posse of cashies we brought in to say that they had aw been there, Donaldson blew her away. I remember the plukey fuck squeaking that her sexual history, false as it happens, had no relevance.
Donaldson shook his head sadly, — My learned friend must concur that it is established practice to allow this line of questioning, sensitively imposed, on the basis that a complainant's previous sexual experience may be relevant to the issue of consent. This is at the heart of the matter surely, the issue of consent.
Then more cashies were filed in.
Conrad Donaldson's next tactic was to ask about 'rape fantasies'; a standard approach, he told us later. This paid off with a vengeance when one guy who had gone out with her, a guy called Bruce Gerber, did her case a lot of damage when he said that she occasionally talked of such 'rape fantasies'. In fact, this was what probably won it for us. — I suppose she did say that she liked teasing guys, liked the danger in flirting, he testified, — I was upset when she started hanging around those casual guys.
— Upset because you felt that she would act on her rape fantasies with these young men? Donaldson asked.
— I suppose . . . , he shrugged, —. . . I don't really know. I just saw that no good could come of it.
— Something must have given you that impression. The impression 'no good could have come of it'. Donaldson prompted further.
Gerber was a bitter man, and a feart one. He kent no tae fuck aboot wi us. — She just. . . she started acting like a slut! he snapped.
The Legal-Aid Cunt, in trying to repair the damage, just made matters worse.
Donaldson then presented an 'expert' who claimed that gang-rape fantasy was a common female sexual fantasy. He circulated lots of academic literature to back this up, even some which he described as 'feminist'. Then our brief concluded: — Witnesses have stated that this young girl, headstrong, emotionally immature, behaved in a way to suggest that she was flirting with this fantasy.
Her brief intervened, — Even if it is accepted what the defence claim, surely acknowledging one's own fantasies is not the same as acting on them. She said no!
— That's not what the four accused say, Donaldson said assertively. — That's not the inferences we're getting from the witnesses. By hanging around with a gang of young lads, by engaging firtatiously with them, might she not have given out the wrong signals? Was it not the case that Miss X was indeed acting on her fantasies already?
He let that one hang in the air for a while and I could see the straight cunts on the jury absorbing it like dry sponges immersed in a bath full of water.
She was intoxicated and showed flirtatious affection towards several men. That was established.
Every piece ay fanny present did.
She claimed that she was 'drugged', but Miss X took drugs regularly. That was estabished.
Under questioning she admitted to using marijuana. She claimed she never took chemicals. Donaldson pointed out that this established that she did take illegal drugs. That was the bottom line. I saw this blatantly register with the judge, his mouth puckering.
She voluntarily went into the bedroom with Osmotherly. That was established.
She was out of her face after we slipped her the a
cid. She'd have gone anywhere with anyone.
The thing was, she showered thoroughly afterwards and we took care not to leave any marks. The medical reports were inconclusive.
Donaldson blew their case out of the water. Carefully establishing these key propositions, he built up a bandwagon of unstoppable momentum, fuelled by his flowery rhetoric and grasp of case law, which bulldozed through their defence. I say defence, because as I sais, it was evident right from the start that she was the one on trial. That was just how the whole thing felt. It was mainly just tae dae with the whole setup, but her lawyer was a poor courtroom performer and that made things worse for her. He failed to gain any empathy with the court and made no inroads in trying to attack our characters.
So Donaldson established that there was little evidence of her having had any forced sex. Ozzy claimed she consented to anal sex with him. — I didn't want to do it, not that way . . . but it was as if she was daring us to see how far we'd go. She was very drunk, and I think she'd taken some . . . stuff. I don't really know that much about drugs, but it was like she'd taken something . . .
Lexo, sorry Alex Setterington, admitted to having full intercourse with her, with her consent. — I don't think consent puts it strongly enough. The term I would use would be insistence, he said, putting on a biscuit-ersed face.
Dempsey did the same and Strang claimed that he attempted to, and she was willing, but he was drunk.
I didn't do as well as the others up there in the deck. I was the most nervous. It just wouldn't come out, then I got into full flow and ranted accusingly, — I didn't want to. I thought the whole thing was just. . . sick. It was horrible. If it had just been me and her together, but it was like she wanted everyone. I could've been anybody. She just laughed at me.
Ozzy endorsed this. — She mocked my performance as well your honour. She was out of her head. The whole thing was pretty degrading for all of us. Some of the boys werenae too bothered.
Some guys think: 'a ride's a ride'. No me. I don't like being mocked for not being able to get it up.
All this time she looked like a zombie. She was obviously sedated. It didn't stop her frequently breaking down. I tried not to look at her. Only Lexo looked at her, he looked at her constantly. His face was sad, his head occasionally nodding softly. It was like he was asking: Why? Why are you doing this to us? He was right into his role as the victim.
