by Irvine Welsh
The careplan fucked up when Woodsy’s queasy attack necessitated him leaving the Party Chicks and heading for the chemical bogs to converse with the big aluminium telephone. It was in one of those putrid traps that he met the Big Chief.
The worst thing was that God apparently told him that Ecstasy was His gift to those in the know, who then had the duty to spread the word. He apparently instructed Woodsy to set up a Rave Gospel club.
Now ah didnae ken whether or no Woodsy’s head had fried, or he was on some self-important control kick; perhaps a Koresh-style scam to access as many Party Chicks as required. Are you receiving me, girls? Are you really ready to receive me, and all that head-fucking schissee, shit, merde, shite. Whatever, he was picking the wrong drug for a control freak. The only person you can control on E is yourself. Koresh wouldn’t have lasted five minutes if he had his posse E’d in Waco. Cut the fuckin religious shit, Davey ma man, we came to dance …
– Listen, Lloyd, you still goat they Technics decks at yours?
– Aye, bit thir Shaun’s like. Jist till eh comes back fae Thailand, eh.
Shaun was gaunny be away for a year, but if he had any sense he’d stey away for good, and Shaun was a sharp cunt. He’d teamed up with this guy from Lancashire called The Crow, and they had made a small fortune screwing rich cunt’s hooses. They had wisely decided tae call it quits before they did that one job too many and hit the trail to Thailand via Goa. Nice for them and nice for me as ah inherited the decks and Shaun’s record collection which boasted some ice-cool soul rarities.
– Ye must be gitting quite good oan them, eh?
– Awright, aye, ah lied. Ah’d only been looking after the decks for a couple of months. Ah had nae sense ay timing, nae motor skills and no a great deal ay vinyl. Ah had wanted tae practise oan them mair, but ah had been doing some joinery work on the side with my mate Drewsy and ah was daein quite a bit ay dealing for The Poisonous Cunt.
– Look, Lloyd, ah’ve goat this gig organised at the Reck-Tangle Club in Pilton. Ah want you oan the bill. You first, then me. What dae ye think?
– When’s this?
– Next month. The fourteenth. It’s a while likes.
– Sound. Count ays in.
Ah was shite on the decks but ah reasoned that a deadline would force ays tae get my act thegither. Ah wisnae so chuffed when Woodsy telt me he wanted samplings of hymns and gospel music mixed intae techno, house, garage and ambient stuff, but ah was still up for it.
Anyway, ah decided tae spend a lot of time at home with the decks. A lot ay my mates, especially Nukes, Ally and Amber, were pretty supportive. They came round for a blow, and often brought dance records they’d borrowed. Ah started going tae a few clubs straight to watch the DJs and see what they did. My favourite was Craig Smith, the Edinburgh DJ at Solefusion, who always seemed to be having loads of fun with what he was doing. Too many seemed po-faced cunts with no spirit, and it showed in the Richard Millhouse. Ye cannae gie other cunts enjoyment if you cannae enjoy it yourself.
One afternoon ah was settling down to a bit of Richard Nixon when the door went. Ah had the music on low, but ah still thought it was the yuppie cunts across the landing who complained about anything and everything.
Ah opened the door and before me stood auld Mrs McKenzie from doonstairs. – Soup, she spat out, her face screwed up.
Ah remembered. Ah had forgotten to go to the supermarket to get ingredients for a pot of soup. Ah always make a big pot on a Thursday before the weekend ay abuse starts so ah know I’ve got something nutritious in if I’m too fucked or skint tae dae anything else. Ah take auld Mrs McKenzie some doon in a tupperware bowl. She’s a nice auld cunt, but what started off as a one-off gesture of goodwill has now evolved into custom and practice and it’s starting tae fracture ma tits tae pieces.
– Sorry, Mrs Mack, no had a chance tae make it yit eh no.
– Aye … ah jist thought … soup … the laddie upstairs usually brings doon a bowl ay soup oan a Thursday … ah wis jist tellin Hector. Soup … ah wis jist sayin tae Hector the other day. Soup. The laddie up the stairs. Soup.
– Aye, ah’ll be makin it in a bit.
– Soup soup soup … ah thought we’d be gittin some soup.
– It’s aw in hand, Mrs Mack, ah kin assure ye ay that.
– Soup …
– THE SOUP ISN’T READY YET MISSUS MCKENZIE. WHEN I’VE MADE IT, WHICH WILL BE LATER ON TODAY, I SHALL BRING SOME DOWN TO YOU. OKAY?
– Soup. Later on.
– THAT’S IT, MISSUS MCKENZIE. SOUP. LATER ON.
Ah must have been making a racket cause the Straight-Peg woman across the way comes tae her door to investigate the noise. – Are you okay, Mrs McKenzie? Did the noise from that music disturb you too? she asks the auld dear, the fuckin self-centred manipulative soulless cunt.
– The soup’s comin, Mrs Mack said, cheerful and appeased as she moved painstakingly slowly along the landing and down the stairs.
Ah went back inside, wrapped it on the Richard and headed oot tae the shops tae get the ingredients for the soup. As ah left there was a message on the answer-machine. It was a long rambling statement fae Nukes that actually said nothing except that he had his hoose raided by the polis.
5 Heather
As if.
As if the physical proximity can make up for the emotional distance.
He’s holding me tightly, but there’s no love or tenderness in it, just desperation. Perhaps it’s to do with the realisation that I’m slipping away from him, slipping away from this world he wants me to inhabit: his world, which is not our shared world.
It’s not our shared world cause I’m his, his property and he won’t relinquish it easily. I’m a source of comfort, a teddy bear for a grownup wee boy. Only they’d never see him as that and if they did see through the mind-shaking immaturity of this supposedly successful man, they’d only find it endearing, like I once did. Only I don’t now, because it’s sad and pathetic.
He’s a fucking retard.
What does he get out of acting like that?
He thrives while I’m dying inside.
He should be dying too, but he’s not.
He’s not because he has me to do it for him.
What do I want? Love is not enough. It has to do with being in love. I love my mother, my father. I don’t want another mummy and daddy. I used to. I used to by default because I didn’t know what I really wanted.
I don’t want to be protected. Hugh protects.
I used to need that too.
But Hugh, I’ve been growing up inside, growing up more than you want me to. You used to tell me that I had to grow up. You’d fear me if you saw who I really was. I think you already do. That’s why you’re holding on, holding on for dear life.
Dying inside.
Growing up inside.
How do you reconcile them?
6 Lloyd
When ah got back from the supermarket with the soup ingredients, ah was just in the door when the bell behind me sounded tersely. It was The Poisonous Cunt and she was in tow with The Victim whose coupon was fixed in a nervous, tense stare which even my most open smile couldn’t break down.
The Victim was a chronic fuck-up. People like her always seemed to hang out with The Poisonous Cunt. In turn, she kept their self-esteem low and made sure that they stayed in psychic immiseration. She was a curator of dead souls. It concerned me that ah seemed tae be spending more time with The Poisonous Cunt; we just turned each other onto suppliers of drugs, and good deals. Ah had once shagged The Victim, when ah was coked up ah bullshitted her intae bed one night … intae bed, my arse, it was actually onto the flair, the flair behind the couch where Ally was shagging this lassie he’d met at Pure. Anyway, The Victim gave ays hassle for weeks after, with phone calls, at clubs, etc. She had a tendency to put up with anything, and was into any form of attention. That was why she eywis ended up in abusive relationships.
– Diddly dit dit dee, two ladies, ah sang at them with
a cheerfulness ah didnae feel as ah ushered them in, only to be met with frost. The Poisonous Cunt rolled her bottom lip downwards like an inverted red carpet. She had that fatigued, irritated air of a young woman who had seen more than she should but had not yet seen what she wanted, and had just about decided to wrap it rather than look further.
– Wait here, she snapped at The Victim who began to softly bubble. Ah went over tae do a bit of token stagey comforting, but The Poisonous Cunt wrenched my arm and pulled me into the kitchen, shutting the door behind us and lowering her voice so much that ah could only see her lips move.
– Eh? ah asked her.
– She’s fucked up.
– What’s new? ah shrugged, but ah don’t think The Poisonous Cunt heard ays.
– She’s deluding herself, ah told that to her, she said, sucking on a fag and contorting her face in a mask of hateful contempt. – You’re fuckin well livin in a fool’s paradise, hen, ah said tae her, Lloyd. But she widnae listen. Now she’s getting it aw back. And who’s the first one she comes runnin tae?
– Right … right … ah nodded as empathetically as ah could, loading my food from the shopping bag into the cupboard and fridge.
– She misses fuckin periods aw the time and goes through this ‘I’m up the stick’ shite. Ah felt like saying to her: you cannae get up the stick when he’s shagging you up the arse, but ah didnae. Ah felt like saying tae her: the reason you always miss periods is because you’re fucked up in the heid, hen; your life’s a mess and if you’re that fucked in the heid it’s bound tae tell on yir body.
– Ah see, ah see … her and Bobby again …
The Victim’s current principal exploiter was a crazy biker guy called Bobby who ah’d known for years. Bobby had a split personality. One side of him was pure evil, the other completely cuntish.
– But ah bit ma tongue. Thing is, Lloyd, he came roond and started playin mind games wi her. Solo wis just fuckin laughin, so we had tae get oot. We just want tae sit here and chill for a bit until that bastard Bobby goes.
– Look, that’s sound by me, but ye’ll huv tae dae it alaine, eh. Ah’m meetin this boy whaes supposed tae have some ay they pink champagnes, the speedballs, ken?
– Git me five … naw, six … she rasped, rummaging through her bag for her purse.
– That’s if ehs goat thum likes, ah said, taking her money. Ah wasnae gaunnae try and score, ah was just going to my brothers for a scran. It wasnae just because it didnae sound cool enough tae tell The Poisonous Cunt that; it was because she was a nasty, nosey bastard and ah didnae want her kennin too much aboot ays.
Ah left them to it, clocking The Victim’s arse in her black stretch leggings before ah left, both strangely pleased and disappointed no tae feel any reaction whatsoever.
Ah took the bus at the foot ay the Walk tae ma brother Vaughan’s. Ah was a bit late. When ah got there, ah had to ring for ages. Vaughan was out and Fiona, my sister-in-law, was in the back playing with my niece, Grace, who was two and a bit of nutter, like two year aulds are.
– Lloyd! ah thought it was you. Come in, come in.
Ah clocked that Vaughan had been at the decorating but ah didnae say anything. The hoose was furnished in tasteless Habitat country-style, ridiculous in a suburban semi. That was Vaughan and Fiona. Ah love them in a strange way – a tense, dutiful love – but you cannae say nowt tae cunts like that about taste. It just isnae an issue with them. It comes oot the page ay a catalogue.
Ah asked Fiona if ah could use the phone and she took the hint and took Grace out into the gairdin. Ah called Nukes. – What’s the story? ah asked him.
– That’s me finished wi the cashies and the collies. Ah’m a marked man now, Lloyd. Polis doon here the other night accusin ays ay sorts ay things, man. Well oot ay order.
– Ye git charged?
– Naw, but it shit ays up. Some ay the boys say no tae worry, but fuck that, man. Ah’m daein a bit ah dealin and that could be three fuckin years oot ma life jist for a bit ay swedgin at the fitba.
– Ah wis gaunnae ask if you could punt some stuff fir ays n aw …
– No way. Low profile for a while, that’s me.
– Awright then. Come doon fir a blow next week but, eh.
– Awright.
– Cheers, Nukes … eh, ye mind ay what happened the other night? Did we git intae some bother?
– Ye dinnae want tae ken, Lloyd.
– Nukes …
The line clicked dead.
That was me para as fuck, but no as para as Nukes. Something was bugging the cunt bigtime. Ah knew that Nukes wasnae so intae the casuals these days, but he still got it together for the odd big swedge. Ah could never understand the attraction, but he swore by the rush. If he’s kent by the polis, though, that’s bad news; when you’re holding just a few drugs for you and your mates, they call you a dealer. He was being sensible, n ah resolved that ah was going tae try tae take it easy n aw for a bit.
– Like the new colour? Fiona asks.
Grace climbed up on me and tried to push my eyeball out of its socket. Ah removed her hand before she could go for my other eye, the one that was bruised. – Aye, it’s sound. Very relaxing. Ah wis jist gaunnae say, ah lied. – Ye must have been keepin Vaughan busy, eh, no? Where is eh?
Grace climbed down and ran over to Fiona and wrapped herself around her leg.
– Three guesses, Fiona smiled in the kind of way that changed her from being a young housewife into a shag.
– The boolin? ah asked.
– Right first time, she nodded wearily. – He said to tell you to meet him doon thair for a pint. The dinner’ll no be ready till five.
– Sound … ah said. It wisnae really sound. Ah would rather have stayed with Fiona and Grace than listened to Vaughan’s shite. – … eh, but maybe I’ll jist chill here for a bit.
– Lloyd, I’ve got loads to do. I don’t want you under my feet, one bairn’s enough, she smirked.
– Thanks a lot, ah laughed, pretending at being hurt. We continued with this ritual. It was pathetic and dull, but it often gave me a strange, queasy feeling of exhilaration to talk bland shite with people and not worry about being a smart cunt simply because you were linked in some way to each other. It was a wild trip.
Too much ay this shite can fuck a cunt’s heid but, and after a while ah decided ah’d better go and see Vaughan.
It was a pretty glorious summer’s evening when ah got out in the street. Ah found myself with a strange spring in my step. Of course, it was Thursday. Last weekend’s drugs had been well and truly processed by now, the toxins discharged: sweated, shat and pished out; the hangover finito; the psychological self-loathing waning as the chemistry of the brain de-fucked itself and the fatigue sinking into the past as the old adrenalin pump starts slowly getting back into gear in preparation for the next round ay abuse. This feeling, when you’ve cracked the depressive hangover and the body and mind is starting to fire up again, is second only to coming up on a good E.
At the club, Vaughan’s playing bools with this old cunt. He nods at me, and the auld cunt looks up with a slightly tetchy stare and ah realise that I’ve broken his concentration by casting my shadow over his line of vision. Steeling himself, the auld codger lets the bool roll, roll, roll and I’m thinking he’s gone too far out, but naw, the wily auld cunt kens the score because the bool does a Brazilian spin, that’s what it does, a fuckin Brazilian spin, and it comes back like a fuckin boomerang and slips like a surreptitious queue-jumper in behind Vaughan’s massed lines of defence, rolling up to the jack and sneaking it away.
Ah cheer the auld gadge for that shot. Vaughan has his last one but ah decide no tae watch it but to go in and get some drinks. Ah discover I’ve a wrap of speed in my pocket, left over from fuck knows when. Ah take it to the bog, and chop it out into some lines on the cistern. If I’m gaunny have to talk bools ah might as well fuckin go for it in a big way … Ah come out, charged up to fuck. Ah remember this gear, dabbing away at it the othe
r week. It’s much better to snort though, this stuff.
– Didnae stay for the climax, Vaughan says, looking deflated. – Could have done wi yir support fir that last shot thair.
– Sorry, Vaughan, ah wis burstin fir a tropical fish, eh. Did ye git it?
– Naw, eh wis miles oot! The auld cunt roars. The auld cunt is dressed in white slacks, a blue open-necked shirt and has a sunhat on.
Ah slap the auld cunt on the back, – Nice one there, mate! Brilliant shot by the way, that wee spinner that nicked it at the end. Ah’m Lloyd, Vaughan’s brother.
– Aye Lloyd, ah’m Eric, he extends his hand and gies ays a crushing masonic grip, – ye play the bools yersel?
– Naw, Eric, naw ah dinnae, mate; it’s no really ma scene, ken. Ah mean ah’m no knockin the game n that, a great game … ah mean ah wis chillin oot the other day watchin that Richard Corsie gadge oan the box … he used tae be wi the Post, did eh no? That boy kens how tae fling a bool …
Fuck me, this Lou Reed is hitting the mark quickstyle.
– Eh, what yis wantin? Vaughan shouts, a wee bit embarrassed at ma ranting.
– Naw naw naw, ah’ll git them. Three lager, is it no?
– Poof’s pish, Eric scoffs, – make mine Special.
– A special drink for a special victory, eh, Eric, ah smile. The auld cunt gie ays one back. – Yuv goat Vaughan’s puss seekint here right enough!
– Aye, right, Vaughan goes, – are you gaunnae git them in, or what?
Ah hit the bar and the guy behind says that you have to have a tray to get served, and ah joke that I’ve got enough to carry as it is and he says something short like house rules, but a wee cunt in the queue hands me one anyway. I’ve forgotten about all the daft fuckin rules they have in places like this, the Brylcreemed cunts wi their blazers wi the club badges on them and how at closing time there’s mair falling masonry than when the Luftwaffe bombed Coventry cathedral … and now I’m back at my seat.
– Cheers, boys! ah say, raising my pint, – Tell ye what, Eric, ah knew that you had the bools after seeing ye in action there. This gadge has bools, ah telt maself. That Brazilian spin, man! Whoa, ya cunt that ye fuckin well are!
