Marabou Stork Nightmares

by Irvine Welsh

  I came home to Edinburgh, a glazed-eyed basket case, back into the now strangely comforting chaos of my family.

  I was ostensibly up for the League Cup semi-final, where Hibs were playing Rangers at Hampden. Nobody gave them a chance, but they won. I scarcely noticed. Tony's nails were bitten to the quick in that second half as we stood at the open end of the ground. Kevin, Kim's felly, was with us. He seemed an okay guy, a bit slow and bewildered, but harmless. A typical Jambo in fact. John got stroppy and threatened some guys in front of us with assault for putting up their flag and interrupting his view. At the final whistle he crushed one of them in a victory bear-hug. Tony jumped on me, tearing my neck muscles. I allowed myself to be dragged along and slapped by everyone near me.

  There was a party . . . – – – – – – – – – – – –Me. and. Sandy Jamieson.

  Just the two of us.

  At our party. A picnic. A spread of fresh bread, cheeses, farm eggs and mouth-watering preservatives laid out on a pink gingham cloth. It was just the two of us, the way I'd always wanted it to be.– – – – – –

  – – – – – –It was Dorie and me; at the Lake District . . .

  Who have I ever really loved?

  I don't need– – – – – – – luuuuuurrrrrrvvvvvvve.

  What good would love do me,

  Diamonds never lie to me,

  For when love's gone

  They last onnnnn . . .

  DEEPER.

  There was a party . . .– – – – – –

  – – – – – –a party after the game at my auld man's. A party at my auld man's. You could have replaced the guests with a series of inflatables that wobble on their bases, with a tape deck built in to spout out clichés:

  CHEERY AULD CUNT WITH HALF A LUNG AND GIMPY LEG: — Mustn't grumble . . . aye . . . mustn't grumble

  MUMPY-FACED GUINNESS-GUTTED AUNTIE: — Pit oan an awfay loat ay weight since her hysterectomy . . . pit oan an awfay loat ay weight since her hysterectomy . . .

  VACANT PARTY-CHICK COUSIN: — Hiyaaah . . . Hiyaaah . . Hiyaaah . . .

  BROODING TEEN-PUP COUSIN IN CORNER: — Shite in here . . . pit oan some decent sounds . . .

  WHINGEY UNCLE WITH ULCER: — Ah like it bit it disnae like me . . . ah like it bit it disnae like me . . .

  I thought that it couldn't get any worse but it did. I hadn't told any of the guys I used tae hing aboot wi that I was coming back up fir the fitba. While everyone else had been on tenterhooks at the game's outcome, my only anxiety at being at Hampden was concern that one of the boys would see me.

  Somebody had. The phone went and it was for me. It was Lexo.

  — Thoat ye'd be up fir the fitba, he said.

  — Aye, barry result, eh.

  — Stomped a few hun casuals. Her Majesty's Service. Fuckin wee bairns; shitin cunts. Typical Weedgies; fling a few boatils n cairray a blade bit cannae pagger fir fuck all.

  — Keith Wright's heider . . .

  — Aye, well they'd better no fuck up against any shite in the final. The winners automatically qualify fir Europe, mind. This is oor chance tae cause real bother, oan the continent. This is one fuckin show thit hus tae be taken oan the road; it'll be a fuckin great crack. Whit did ye no come wi us fir the night?

  — Eh, wanted tae see the auld man n that, eh. Nivir see thum aw now thit um doon in Manchester, eh.

  — Aye right. Ah need your address doon thair. Git a squad doon fir a wee brek one weekend, eh. See whit fixtures are oan. They tell ays that Bolton's the tidiest local firm, eh. Mibbe pey they cunts a wee surprise visit. Anywey, we're doon the club: oan a loak in. Git yirsel doon.

  — Eh, thir's a wee perty oan up here . . .

  — C'moan ya schemie cunt, git doon tae the club!

  — Eh, aye, right then . . . I went, mainly because it was too depressing watching all those cunts get pished in the hoose with their fuckin alcohol, mainly because that persistent cunt Lexo wid be oan the phone aw night and mornin.

  I hit Leith Walk, no knowing where I was going or what I was doing. The town was decked in green and white, songs were spilling out of every bar. It was a Hibbie's fantasy; not a Jambo in sight: they were all skulking indoors contemplating thirty years without a trophy on the shelf. I couldn't get into it though. I realised I should have been at Powderhall and I cut down from the Walk.

  The club was heaving with casuals. Some of the teen pups that hung around in the baby crew were obviously now staking top table claims. Their bodies had filled out and their faces had hardened and some were looking at me with a lot less than their customary deference. There had obviously been a few changes. The important thing was to quickly suss out what these had been without getting involved with any radges. I was broken; I'd had enough of all this. I sat at the bar and sucked tensely on a Becks, anxious and nervous in the company of my old mates. Demps still wasn't around.

  — Cunt's went a bit ay a straight-peg, eh, Ozzy told me.

  Out the corner of my eye I noticed one guy who seemed vaguely familiar. He was blethering to Ghostie. He was a huge bulky bastard with a real mouth and a big swagger. I hadn't seen him with the cashies before but ah sure as fuck kent the cunt fae somewhair. I nearly froze in shock as it dawned on me who it was. His face looked the same but his eyes were different. They didn't flit around softly like they once did. They were now still, intense and focused. I couldnae remember the boy's name: I just kent him as the Dressed-By-His-Ma-Cunt.

  I was for the off.

  I scored an ecky and went with a couple of fringe cashies who were into clubbing, to this new midweek club at The Venue. I was relieved to be away. It was okay, but I recognised yet another cunt, and this time got an even bigger shock. This boy was well into his dancing. I went up and spoke to him. I don't know who was the most surprised, myself or Bernard. He was really E'd n aw. I found myself, to my surprise, hugging him. Bernard and I had never touched like this before, just exchanged blows in makeshift boxing rings. We farted around on the dancefloor, enjoying the hip-hop beat. I'm mair ay a hardcore than a garagey or hip-hop type ay cunt myself, but this was okay. We talked for a long time and my cashie mates filtered away, so Bernard and I ended up leaving and headed down to Chapps, a gay club near the Playhouse.

  — Nivir thoat ah'd see you eckied up, Roy, he said.

  — Oan it non-stoap fir the last six months, I told him with a sad smile. Bernard was alright.

  Bernard. Aye. He was alright.

  — Nivir thought ah'd be in here, though, I smiled, looking around. I didn't like the place. I told Bernard that I thought it was pretty sad and desperate, the way all those queens cruised each other out.

  — Naw, it isnae really, he explained, — cause here just about every guy who wants fucked ends up getting fucked. It's much sadder and more desperate up at Buster Brown's or any hetro place, cause the number of guys that want fucked is higher than the number of lassies that want to fuck them. At least here, most people get what they want.

  I thought about that for a while. There was no doubting his logic. I had to agree. It was easy. I felt good, I was rushing on the E. — Whoahh man, that ecky . . .

  — Well, it agrees wi ye, he laughed.

  I looked at him and said, slipping my arm around his neck, — Listen Bernard, you're alright man, ken? You had the whole thing sussed way back. I was a fuckin wanker, I couldnae handle anything, I'm no just talkin aboot you bein a buft . . . eh, bein gay, I jist mean everything . . . aw fuck, Bernard, I'm really sorry, man. . . it's not the E talkin, ah've just fucked things up, Bernard . . .

  He shrugged. — We aw fuck things up, Roy.

  — Naw, bit see when yuv really fucked things up, fucked them up so bad soas that thir's nothing ye kin ever dae tae pit it right; just nothin man, like it's always with ye? Bernard, see when ye dae something bad, dae something terrible, it doesnae make ye a bad person, does it? Ah mean ye can change, right?

  — Ah suppose ye can, Roy . . . what's wrong, Roy? What is it? Yir ta
lkin aboot love, eh?

  I thought bitterly about that, — Nah, no love, the reverse ay that, I smiled, then I gave him a tight hug. He reciprocated.

  — Ah nivir goat tae know ye, Bernard. Ah acted like a cunt tae you . . .

  — It worked both ways, he smiled, hugging me again. It felt good.

  — But ah've changed, Bernard. I've allowed myself tae feel. That means that ah have tae dae something, like tae sort ay prove tae myself that I've changed. It's like I have tae assume responsibility for ending my pain and making someone else feel better. Even if it involves the greatest sacrifice. Try tae understand . . . ah mean, fuck, ah sound like the auld man giein it big licks wi one ay Churchill's fuckin speeches . . . it sounds like ah'm wafflin here . . .

  I just couldnae say

  — It's okay Roy, he just kept saying, then he seemed tae go sad. — Listen, Roy, I've got the virus. I tested positive. I'm HIV.

  I felt as if the life had been crushed out of my frame. — Bernard . . . naw . . . fuck . . . how . . .

  — A couple ay months ago. It's cool, though . . . ah mean it's no cool, but that's the wey it goes eh, he shrugged, then looked at me intensely. — But it's the quality thing in life, Roy. Life's good. Hang onto life. Hang onto it, Roy, he smiled as I started to sob. — C'mon Roy, stoap acting like a big poof! he laughed, comforting me, — it's awright man, it's okay . . .

  But it wisnae okay.

  But me and Bernard, well, we were okay.

  The following Friday I arranged to go to the big Rezurrection gig at Ingliston with him and his posse. It was weird, Bernard and I becoming mates. His poetry was still shite, well, that's maybe no fair, but it was certainly patchy. At least he had grown out of inflicting it on people. I actually volunteered to read them. Some of it was to do with ecky and shagging; those were the best ones. The shagging poems would have disgusted me before; the idea of men doing that with each other, men shagging. Now though, it just seemed like two people in love, like me and Doric The queenish rants were still a bit hard to take.

  Bernard's posse were an okay crowd; mixed gays and straights with a few fag-hags thrown in. The fag-hags were quite pathetic figures. There was something incomplete about them. I spotted it straight away, it was an obscure quality, but I saw it in myself. We had some problems getting sorted with eckies, and Bernard and his posse were just into doing some speed and acid – Supermario's.

  I wasn't up for the acid, — No way, man, I said to Bernard. I was remembering my bad trip.

  I was remembering someone else's bad trip.

  He gave me an as-you-like shrug.

  — It's no that, Bernard, it's just that there's too much shite floatin aroond in ma heid tae dae acid the now, ken?

  — Fair enough, he said. — I think you're being wise.

  But I wisnae wise. I was talking to a guy in the posse called Art, a big fuckin pill-box this cunt, and I got carried away as he talked of his drug experiences. I fired down a Supermario.

  At first it was great; the lights, the sounds. We headed for the heart of the bass and I was happily tripping oot ay ma box. Bernard looked fuckin amazing; I tried not to think of him having that fuckin virus in him, he just looked so good. Party chicks checked him out, well fucked off that he was gay. This shag in the posse called Laura shouted in my ear: — I'm madly in love with your brother. It's a shame he's gay. I still want to have his baby. I just smiled. I was enjoying her patter, even hoping that I might be a proxy fuck for Bernard.

  Then I looked at the big sign above the stage:

  REZURRECTION

  The Z luminated and the slogans came rushing into my head:

  NO MAN HAS THE RIGHT

  WHEN SHE SAYS NO SHE MEANS NO

  THERE IS NO EXCUSE

  THERE IS NEVER AN EXCUSE

  I felt terrible all of a sudden; just all hot, breathless and shaky. I tried to compose myself, moving through the crowd towards the exit and the chill-out zone. I needed to think. I needed to

  A girl smiled at me, and it looked like

  It was her

  They all looked like her

  Then there was a guy. A steward. It was Uncle Gordon. — Ah'm no fucking gaun wi you again, right! Ah'm no gaunny fuckin dae that again! I shouted at him.

  — Calm doon mate, eh, a raver shouted at me as the security guy stood bemused.

  I ran to the toilets and sat in a trap crying and talking to myself. Some guys came in and talked me down. They found Bernard. I heard somebody mutter, — Cunt cannae handle his drugs.

  Hospital Bed LYING IN YOUR HOSPITAL BEO IN A COMA STUPID RELATIVES NIPPING YOUR HEAD CAN THEY UNDERSTAND WHERE YOU HIDE AND WHAT YOUR LIFE AMOUNTS TO

  BERNARD BUT IT IS STILL AN URGE YOU HAVE, A FUTILE

  URGE TO MAKE SENSE OF THIS FUCKING CRAZY SHITE

  YOU'RE INVOLVED IN THIS TROPICAL LAND THIS

  COLONISED NATION OF YOUR DISEASED MIND

  Africa, my Africa . . .

  Why no death why only incompetence why when you purchase the manual is it that you still can't do it right in our flat Dorie, mind the time I fucked up putting up the shelves I had the manual and all the right tools then

  IT WON'T HURT ROY, YOUR UNCLE GORDON WOULD NEVER HURT YOU JUST LIE STILL PERFECTLY STILL NOW ROY, OR THERE WILL BE BIG TROUBLE WHEN YOUR DAD HEARS ABOUT THIS SHUT UP YOU LITTLE BASTARD I'M WARNING YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP THAT'S BETTER THAT'S BETTER THERE THERE THERE

  I wanted to die. I thought I would die. It felt like the time. It had felt like the time for a while.

  Bernard took me home and I spent a couple of days in bed. Kim indulged me a bit; I told them I had flu. Kim was kind, that was what she was. She was nice Kim, and good and kind. That was Kim; people took advantage, but her and Kevin seemed to love each other, they were obviously happy.

  I was upstairs in my old bedroom watching a video of the other semi-final. Dad and Tony had kept on at me to take a look at it. They said there was an astonishing refereeing decision in it. Everyone had been talking about it. I decided to watch it. Dunfermline and Airdrie were competing for the right to get fucked in the final by Hibs. The Pars versus the Diamonds. Airdrie were in easy street, but they didn't win. I didn't wait for it to finish, didn't stop to see the penalty shoot out.

  I decided it was time to go.

  I had a look at my book again, the one I'd picked up in a radical bookshop in Manchester. It was apparently banned in this country. It was called: Final Exit: The Practicalities Of Self-Deliverance and Assisted Suicide For The Dying, by Derek Humphry, published by the Hemlock Society. Their motto was:

  GOOD LIFE, GOOD DEATH.

  With any luck, I'd achieve half of this. I was dying. I knew it, I felt it. It was beyond transitory depression. I wasn't a psychopath; I was just a fool and a coward. I had opened up my emotions and I couldn't go back into self-denial, into that lower form of existence, but I couldn't go forward until I'd settled my debt. For me it wasn't running away. That was what I'd been doing all my fuckin life, running away from sensitivity, from feelings, from love. Running away because a fuckin schemie, a nobody, shouldnae have these feelings because there's fuckin naewhair for them tae go, naewhair for them tae be expressed and if you open up every cunt will tear you apart. So you shut them out; you build a shell, you hide, or you lash out at them and hurt them. You do this because you think if you're hurting them you can't be hurt. But it's bullshit, because you just hurt even mair until you learn to become an animal and if you can't fuckin well learn that properly you run. Sometimes you can't run though, you can't sidestep and you can't duck and weave, because sometimes it just all travels along with you, inside your fuckin skull. This wasn't about opting out. This was about the only resolution that made sense. Death was the way forward.

  I looked up the chapter on 'Self-Deliverance With A Plastic Bag', a chapter I'd referred to many times. As it recommended, I took the paracetamol and applied the plastic bag, pulling it over my head and taping it round my neck.

  The bag was clear but it all got fo
ggy.

  I was drifting . . .

  That was when I saw Jimmy Sandison, the real Jimmy Sandison, not Sandy Jamieson . . . who was Sandy Jamieson?

  The bag was clear . . .

  The bag was clear and I continued watching the telly through it as I drifted into unconsciousness. I could see Jimmy Sandison. Jimmy Sandison, the fitba player. The expression on his face as he gesticulated to the referee made me almost want to tear the bag off. I wanted to help him, I wanted to help all the people who'd ever suffered injustices, even though it was just a fuckin recorded tape of a fitba match I was watching. I'd never seen a man so shocked and outraged at what he felt was a miscarriage of sporting justice.

  Never a man.

  I once saw a woman who was worse, much worse; I saw her face in court. . . then I saw

  DAD PUNCHING ME MA SCREAMING AT ME KIM'S GREETING FACE MY FISTS SPLITTING BERNARD'S MOOTH A MAN TWITCHING ON THE GROUND GORDON WITHDRAWING HIS BLOOD-STAINED COCK FROM A FRIGHTENED YOUNG BOY BENT OVER A WORKBENCH THAT BOY LOOKING AT HIS DISCARDED BLUE SHORTS AN EXPLOSION A HELICOPTER A KNIFE AT A LASSIE'S THROAT A SCARRED FACE BURSTING OPEN A KNIFE AT A LASSIE'S THROAT THEN

  NOTHING

  Just a blissful void.

  After a long blackout, I woke up lying in a tropical grassland, with Jamieson mopping my sweating brow. We've been companions ever since, sharing an interest in wildlife, particularly ornithology, and a concern for social justice and the environment.

  Sandy the Diamond.

  Diamonds are forever.

  21 Facing The Stork

  Sandy Jamieson and I sat enjoying our picnic. Sandy stroked at the mane of a nosy lion who had ambled over to us. I fed the beast some chicken then rubbed its stomach as it rolled over on its back in appreciation. I remembered the Silver Surfer, walking amongst the animals, saying that they were the gentle ones, it was man who was evil and warlike. The Surfer spoke a lot of sense. I like cats; even big ones. I wish we had had a cat instead of a . . .

  — Cats are ruthless creatures, and I've had to hunt a few of them down in my time, once they've turned maneater, Sandy smiled. — What I like about them, though, is that they are almost totally devoid of servility.