Marabou Stork Nightmares

by Irvine Welsh

  But she was.

  A lot of the boys in the cashies took Es, a lot of them didnae. I never saw the point. I'd always liked the Becks, and couldnae get intae that fucking music. It was shite, that techno, nae lyrics tae it, that same fuckin drum machine, throbbin away aw the time. I hated dancing. It was like playing fitba. It put me up there on exhibition; my savaged, stumpy legs, my large body and my long, swinging ape airms. Swedgin had always been ma dancing.

  I suppose I'd built up an aversion to any kind of drugs because of the wey my Ma and Dad got through the drink and how it made the cunts behave. That didnae seem to matter now though. I took one from her; fifteen quid, a wee capsule.

  — R&Bs, she said.

  I was talking away to her, but getting fuck all from the E. I was still enjoying myself, though, until I realised that I was really rushing, really riding the crest of a wave. Then I felt myself rise and the music seemed to be inside me. It was like the music was coming from me. I felt dizzy and queasy, but I'd never known such an exhilarating high. I wanted to shite for a bit, but it passed. The swedgin was fuck all compared to this; I felt I had all the power in the world but it was positive. I felt a bond with Dorothy, or Dorie as she liked to be called. Her face looked so clear and fresh and beautiful, her eyes were so alive. Her hair was a 2 Unlimited number came on the juke-box and I felt the drums thrash through me and the synth slabs lift me out of my seat. It had done fuck all for me before. — Whoaahhh . . . , I gasped.

  — You alright? she asked.

  — Ah'm sortay startin tae see what aw the fuss is aboot . . .

  — Paula, she shouted over at her friend, — Roy ere's just lost his virginity. C'mon, let's get out of here. We need a more memorable setting to do this experience justice.

  All I wanted was that music. House, it had to be house. When Dorie told me I would get more of it at a club called the Hacienda, but only far, far, better and blasted through a PA, with brain-frying lights and surrounded by people who felt the same, I was instantly sold.

  The club was fuckin awesome. I was lost in the music and the movement. It was an incredible experience, beyond anything I'd known. I could never dance, but all self-consciousness left me as the drug and music put me in touch with an undiscovered part of myself, one that I had always somehow suppressed. The muscles in my body seemed in harmony with each other. My body's internal rhythms were pounding, I could hear them for the first time: they were singing to me. They were singing: You're alright, Roy Strang. You're alright, we're all alright. People, strangers, were coming up to me and hugging me. Birds, nice-looking lassies n that. Guys n aw; some ay them cunts that looked wide and whom I would have just panelled in the past. I just wanted to hug them all, to shake them by the hand. Something special was happening and we were all in this together. I felt closer to these strangers than I did to anyone. Dorie and Paula I loved; I just loved them. I couldn't stop hugging them, like I'd always wanted to hug pals, but it was too sappy, too poofy. I knew that after I came down I'd still love them. Something fundamental happened that night; something opened up in me.

  I was the Silver Surfer, I looked into the laser lights and zapped across the universe a few times, surging and cruising with the music. It built up into a crescendo and Dorie, Paula and I, it was like we were the world, us and the people around us. I was one with them and myself and I never wanted to lose it. Even when the music stopped — it was hours later but it felt like minutes — I was still right up.

  I was overwhelmed. All the shite Bri had spraffed, him and some of the boys in the cashies who we used to say had gone aw soft wi the ravin, it was all fuckin true and so much more. It was euphoria . . . it was something that everyone should experience before they die if they can truly have said not to have wasted their life on this planet. I saw them all in our offices, the poor sad fools, I saw them in their suburbs, their schemes, their dole queues and their careers, their bookies shops and their yacht clubs . . . it didn't matter a fuck. I saw their limitations, the sheer vacuity of what they had on offer against this alternative. There would, I knew, be risks. Nothing this good came without risk. I couldn't go back though. No way. There was nothing to go back to . . .

  . . . like now there's nothing to come up for your eyes only

  Can see me in the night.

  For your eyes only

  I never have to hide.

  You can see so much in me,

  So much in me that's new

  I never felt until I looked at you . . .

  Oh fuck, go for it Roy you crapping cunt, go deeper, go forward, go back to the Stork or stay with this reminiscing because it doesnae matter, it's the same sad fuckin story, it's always gaunny be the same sad fuckin story so go DEEPER

  DEEPER

  DEEPER– – – and now Sandy's back, and I'm thinking to myself, fuck them, fuck them all.

  — Let's hold on a bit, Sandy, I say.

  — What? he replies, a little bewildered.

  — I'm thinking, why should we be in a hurry to do battle with Johnny Stork? Why should we run to the lodge to try and sort this out? It's between Dawson and the terrorists and the Storks . . . I mean, what's old Johnny Stork ever done to us? Let's enjoy our picnic! It's nothing to do with us. We've got jam here, and honey and butter, and plenty of that absolutely wonderful homemade bread. We. . .

  — Cut the bullshit, Roy. It's got everything to do with us, Sandy snaps, his face harsh.

  — Can't we have just a small picnic here first? Can't it be just like the old times?

  — No it can't be, Roy. It can never be like the old times, Sandy says coldly.

  — Never like the old times, I repeat wearily, — . . . never like old times. I felt beaten. I just couldn't be bothered. — Okay, let's go.

  We start up towards the lodge, but Sandy turns to me and says, —I'm sorry Roy, I've been a little abrupt. I think you've realised what the score is now. I think we can spare the time to stop off for a little picnic before we go. For old time's sake, he grinned.

  — Thanks Sandy, I appreciate it. For old time's sake, I smiled. Sandy was alright, no doubt about that.

  he was a proper Diamond s are forever . . .

  Sparkling round my little finger,

  Unlike men the diamonds linger.

  Men are mere mortals who

  Are not worth going to

  Your grave for . . .

  No. Give me the old times . . .

  It can never be like the old times– – – –never like it was back in Manchester– – – –after the club that night– – – –because outside the streetlights were brilliant. I suppose I was slightly shiting myself about taking E because of the bad freak-out on acid once, but this was different. I felt totally in control. I'd never felt so much in control.

  I had got dead sad when the music ended. My eyes were watering and it didn't matter. I wasn't embarrassed about being sappy. I saw what a silly, sad pathetic cowardly cunt I was, ever to be embarrassed about expressing emotion. But I wasn't even hard on myself; it didn't matter.

  Back at Doric's gaff, we drank tea, and I told them about myself; more than I've ever told anyone. I talked of my fears and insecurities, my hang-ups. They talked about theirs. It was supportive, empa-thetic; it was good. Not in a smarmy, false-intimacy, middle-class counselling way, or in a big, weird, spaced-out, hippy bullshit trip. This was just punters saying how they felt about life. I could talk about anything, almost anything, the rape and my family were taboo, but that was my choice.

  It was no problem. Nothing was a problem.

  Every weekend after that I was E'd out my face and clubbing. I had more pals in Manchester in a few months than I ever had back home.

  The problem was that it was so good that it made everything else seem shite. No, that's not quite right: it showed that everything else was shite. Work was shite; just something to get through.

  Eventually Dorie and I started sleeping together. We felt good about each other and there was nobody else involved. It had
just been a matter of time. I was worried about sex, because I hadn't been with anyone since the incident. When we first shagged, I was E'd up and it made no difference, so we always made love when I was eckied. One day she said: — You don't have to be E'd up to make love to me you know.

  We went to bed. I was trembling, scared of exposing myself without the chemicals. We kissed for a bit and I stopped shaking. We played with each other for a long time, and after we had joined, my cock and her fanny just became the one thing, then it seemed to vanish as we took off on a big psychic trip together. It was our souls and our minds that were doing it all; our genitals, our bodies, they were just the launch pads and were soon superfluous as we went around the universe together on our shared trip, moving in and out of each other's heads and finding nothing in them but good things, nothing in them but love. The intensity increased until it became almost unbearable and we exploded together in an orgasmic crash-landing onto the shipwreck of a bed, from a long way out in some form of space. We held each other tightly, drenched in sweat and shaking with emotion.

  To my surprise, it was just as good as it was with the ecky.

  Dorie told me after that she thought I was beautiful. I was shocked to find out that she wasn't joking. I kept looking at myself in the mirror. — Your ears are big, but beautiful. They got character. They're distinctive. They ain't as big as you think n all, your head's grown since you were a little kid, you know.

  We went to the Hacienda every weekend. There was always a party at somebody's gaff after. To come down we usually smoked grass. Skunk if we could get it. I loved just blethering away, but more than that, I loved listening; listening to all the punters, their patter, hearing about their lives, getting up to all sorts of mischief with each other. I'd take a deep suck on a joint and hold on to it until a large ripe tomato of pleasure blew to smithereens behind my face.

  Dorie and I got engaged. It was stupid and cavalier, we had only known each other for a few months. It was bizarre, but I just wanted to make a gesture, to show her how I felt.

  Life was okay; it was better than okay. I read a lot during the week, and went with Doric to watch arthousc movies at the Cornerhouse. At the weekend we clubbed and particd. Some Saturdays I went to the football with a couple of mates, Jimmy and Vince. We'd go down to the Moss to watch the City at Maine Road. The football wasn't as good as at Old Trafford, but the feel to it was better, more real. The crack in the pub before and after was great. Manchester was a brilliant place, it was the happiest time of my life.

  Then something happened to knock the bottom out of my world and remind me who I was. It was an article in the Manchester Evening News, talking about the successful Zero Tolerance campaign in Edinburgh.

  I lost it completely.

  At the Hacienda that night I embraced Dorie most of the evening and through the morning; held her tightly to me. I held her as if I could force her love into me, drive the shit out of me, out of my mind and body, but what I was doing was infecting her; infecting her with my hurt, my pain, my anxiety. I could feel the sickness and doubt transmit in our embrace while my chin rested on the top of her head and my nostrils filled with the scent of her shampoo and perfume. The vibrations of doubt came back through her, right up through her skull and into my chin and into my head. She snorted with irregular discomfort through her nostrils, making a ragged sound against my neck. I got a duff E that night.

  — Don't worry Roy, it don't always happen, Dorie said.

  I'd lost it completely. All I could do was try to hide how much I had lost it.

  Then I lost Dorie.

  I got more and more depressed. I literally couldn't move. I just got more and more and more depressed. The doctor said I was suffering from ME, yuppie flu, that fucking post-viral fatigue or whatever they call it. For the first time, my relationship with Dorie was tested and found wanting. We sat in and ate, just fuckin ate, junk food, while watching videos. I could barely string a sentence together. We put on pounds, stones. She couldn't adjust to living with a depressed fuck-up who couldn't go out. Dorie was a party chick. She just wanted to have a good time . . . maybe I'm being hard on her. She wasn't that frivolous. She probably knew I was holding something back, keeping something from her, not showing her the whole me. Perhaps if I had been straight with her she might have

  No.

  — I'm just going to put the other side of the tape on now, Roy. Your mother has a great voice.

  Thanks, Patricia. You sound different. Clearer. Louder. Closer. Your touch as you pull my head up to plump my pillows. Your perfume. The disinfectant smells of the hospital. The dimensions of this small room. I feel them for the first time. The drip in my arm. The tube in my throat, the one in my cock. It all doesnae matter. I lost Dorie.

  Nobody does it better,

  Makes me feel sad for the rest.

  Nobody does it half as good as you do,

  baby you're the best.

  — Are you as good a singer as your mum, Roy? I lost Dorie . . .

  We agreed to split. I moved into a new place in Eccles.

  I wasn't looking,

  But somehow you found me.

  I tried to hide from your love.

  Like heaven above me,

  The spy who loved me

  Is keeping all my secrets safe tonight.

  I remember when I left the flat. I tried to talk to her, but the words wouldn't come. Even at that late stage she looked at me as if she wanted to hear words that would have made a difference. I couldn't even think them. My brain felt like it was floating in thick soup and my chest was as tight as a drum. Nothing would come.

  — I'm sorry I couldn't help you, Roy. You have to help yourself first though. I'm sorry it didn't work out, she sniffed and couldn't stifle a sob. — I've been through this before and I don't want it again. It's better a clean break . . . I thought you were different, Roy . . .

  — See ye, I said, picking up my holdall. I walked out the door and never looked back. I hated the cunt. I fuckin hated

  No.

  No Dorie fuck Roy Strang silly cunt top boy E head good looking so refined Dumbo Strang

  The way that you hold me,

  Whenever you hold me,

  There's some kind of magic inside you . . .

  Oh God what have I fuckin well done

  Oh my God

  I stayed in.

  I stayed in at the weekends, watching videos. Then the worse part of it passed. I started going out again, though not so regularly. When I did go out, I avoided the Hacienda and I took loads of Es. I started taking sleeping pills to come down. I fucked as many lassies as I could; there were plenty at the clubs who were up for a shag. I respected them, there was massive respect, but we never kidded that it was anything else other than sex. There was no bullshit. It sometimes gave the illusion of happiness, but I was not happy, not in the same way. It's just that the pain was taken away. You can either use drugs as a validation of the joy of life or you can use them as an escape from its horrors. You have to become sensitive to the point where one shades into the other. I wasn't, and I went through a bad time.

  I must have gone through a bad time because I started writing home. I got letters back. They'd all write on the one piece of paper to me. Before it would have embarrassed me, now it was strangely touching. It was crazy, but it made me want to be near them.

  Dear Roy,

  Hope everything is well down in Manchester and that your not getting too English! Nane o' that by the way Jimmy or your no a proper Scotsman n you'll no be slowed back up here. (Only joking!) New neighbours upstairs are a wee bit too lippy, Tony and I paid them a little visit and taught them the meaning of the word respect. Had a wee crowd back the other night and had a bit of a sing-song. We were minding of the time one New Year when we got you to sing A View To A Kill. Mind that? You liked that Duran Duran when you were younger! No denying it! I sang some Tom Jones and your Ma did her Shirley Bassey. A rare night. Colin Cassidy and me taught the Hopes dunno if you ken them a junk
y family in the scheme well we taught them a lesson they'll no forget in a hurry. Suffice to say our trends the Hopes are no longer resident in the scheme. Anyway, hears Mum.

  All the best, Dad.

  Hello Roy son,

  Mum here. God, it doesn't seem more than a year now since you moved away. Time flies, right enough. Everyone is well here, and the big news we have is that Kim is getting married and is going to be a mum. We are all very thrilled. I don't know if you know Kevin, he is an awful nice fellow. What about you? Any sign of a girlfriend?

  We had spaghetti bolognese the other day (is it still your favourite?) and that made us think of you. I had what your Dad calls my'usual wee greet' at the thought of you being so far away and I hope you can come home soon so it can be like old times.

  All my love son,

  Mum. XXXXX

  P.S. Here's a few words from the mum-to-be, the future Mrs Scott.

  Hiya Roy,

  I shewd be calling you Uncle Roy because of the baby which is going to be born in February and will be called Jason if it's a boy and either Scarlet or Dionne if it is a wee girl

  and the wedding will be sumtime in December at the Commidore Hotel and I have chosen a nice dres

  Kevin seys that he's looking forward to meeting you and having a pint cause he is a nice felly and I will be glad when you two have met but no arguments about the football cause he's a JAMBO and I have started to support Hearts two because they are the best time. No arguments like cause that's what Tony does who's going to rite something here.

  Love from Kim Scott (soon to be the formir Kim Strang.)

  XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

  Hi Roy,

  Tony here. We've got the Huns in the semi at Hampden, that's next week. A good night out, so get up for it. Hibees on a good run just now. I'm hoping we don't get any injuries or suspensions and have to play Joe Tortolano — a good Italian but a shite player. See you for the semi!

  P.S. Hannah and the kids are okay and send their love.

  Tony.