If You Liked School, You'll Love Work

by Irvine Welsh

  I know where his house is, from when I dropped him off when he was wearing the sort of clothes I don’t think he’d appreciate me getting him now. He tells me the exact address again. — Okay, but on one condition, I tell him, — I come with you and help you find the head.

  It takes him all of two seconds to agree to this. — And see if ye kin git hud ay a pair ay gairdin shears.

  — That shouldn’t be a problem. But why?

  — They jaggy nettles ur fuckin gittin it, he says angrily, fingering his lumpy face.

  I prepare to depart, and feel moved to give him a chaste kiss on his sweaty brow. Just then, a painfully thin woman with made-up eyes and long, brown hair, comes hobbling in on a walking frame. — Mrs Forsyth … Frances … Jason says sorrowfully.

  She moves over to the bottom of his bed. She looks at me, then at him, and then bites her lower lip for a bit. Then she speaks in a slow, sad voice. — This coonty took muh son, Jason. It took muh laddie. Ah ask masel, why did eh come back, whin thir wis nowt fir um here …?

  — Eh jist wanted tae be wi ye whin yir wirnae well, Jason says sadly.

  — Aye, that’s what ah thoat. So it wis ma fault. Ah kilt um! Muh ain flesh n blood, and she looks from Jason to me.

  — Naw … ye cannae say that, Jason gasps. — You ken Kravy, ehs a free spirit. Naebody ever telt him tae dae anything eh didnae want tae dae. If anything it wis ma fault, fir littin um run ays up tae Perth fir that daft table-fitba game. Ah should’ve goat the train or bus!

  The woman, Mrs Forsyth, looks so spectral, as if she’s just emerged from a three-thousand-year entombment. — They said eh hit a road sign that wis buckled, she sadly muses, — bent back by human hand, she almost howls, the lips in her ash-grey face trembling.

  I feel moved to say something, so I cut in. — The kids do that. Vandalism. They twist the road signs.

  — This horrible coonty swallowed up ma bairn, she cries in pain, then turns her walking frame and starts moving away. She twists her head round, — Get oot ay here, Jason, you n aw, hen: git oot while ye still kin.

  — Mrs F, Jason pleads, — lit me dae one thing fir Kravy … n fir you n aw.

  She stops and turns at an angle, so she can bend round to see him.

  — Ally’s funeral. Eh wisnae intae aw that Christian shi—nae offence. Aw ah ask, is let me organise a send-off the boy wid be proud ay.

  — Dae it, son. Any kind ay service ye want. Aw ah want is tae see um one mair time, in an open coffin.

  — But Mrs F … Jason begs.

  But she’s manoeuvred her frame round, and she’s off.

  As she departs, Jason says to me, — Ah’ve been thinkin aboot that fir ages. Gittin oot ay here, ah mean. In fact, that’s jist aboot aw ah think aboot.

  — It’s all anybody thinks about, I tell him. — That was his mother? Ally Kravitz’s mum?

  — Aye.

  — What a terrible way to lose your own flesh and blood. Something you’ve grown inside you …

  — Aye, perr hoor’s hud nae luck at aw, Jason observes, and he now seems tired as he stares off into the distance. — First her man Coco Forsyth cashes in ehs chips, then she’s caught compromised oan the steps ay the Welfare, and now this … He suddenly stares intently at me. — I need one mair favour.

  — What?

  — Ye ken yon auld boy that sits oan the bench ootside the sports centre?

  — The tramp? That disgusting old man?

  Jason seems a bit upset at my description of this down-and-out. — That’s the boy, he says glumly.

  The nurse enters to check his charts and Jason lowers his voice, forcing me to move in closer. He smells of a sweet, fresh perspiration, almost like girls’ toiletries. And he tells me what he wants me to do.

  — You can’t be serious, I gasp.

  — Nivir mair, he says earnestly.

  When I get home I check on Midnight in the stable. A sinking feeling hits me as I can sense that something isn’t right. The stable door is open. A wave of panic moves through me. I go in and for less than a second I’m relieved, as he’s in the stable, but he’s lying down, on his side. Something horrible rises in me. I fall onto my knees and burst into tears. His breathing is shallow and he’s making a horrible dry wheeze.

  The feed hatch has been left open.

  I run into the house and scream at my mother to call the vet. Indigo comes running back out with me to the stable. Dobson soon comes by, but by the time he does Midnight’s gone. I hold Indigo in my arms, we’re both in tears. Clifford the pony sniffs at Midnight’s body, then lets out a distressed bray. After examining him, Dobson puts his hand on my shoulder. — It looks like extreme colic; he’s eaten himself to death.

  A car pulls up and my father gets out and comes across to the stable. He puts on an expression of contrived shock and I can’t look at him. — I’m sorry, hen, he says.

  — Keep the fuck away from me, I snap, pushing him in the chest. — You did this! You wanted Midnight dead! I’ll never ride another fucking horse as long as I live!

  — But, princess …

  He’s giving me Indy’s title now, he hasn’t called me that in years, probably since I had a period. — Do fuck off! I storm away and head to my car.

  — Go then, my dad shouts, — go away and greet like a daft wee lassie tae that dippit boyfriend! If you’d let me pit him in La Rue’s stables where he could have been looked after this would never have happened!

  As I head to the car I can hear Indigo bursting into tears and my father comforting her. — It’s okay, hen, it was an accident. There, there. He’s at peace now.

  I drive off and I’m crying and laughing at the same time. I think about Jason; how if he’d been there he would have noticed that my dad or somebody had left the feed hatch open. After a while I just seem to find myself in the B&Q garden centre, looking at shears, thinking about the damage you could inflict on somebody with them.

  I have a coffee at the new Starbucks as darkness falls. I get into the car and I drive into Cowdenbeath. I’m thinking of my dad, a man who loves himself, but who’s a parochial failure, never leaving this place, never really testing what he’s got inside; just content to lord it over the people he works and drinks with. Or the uptight Dr Grant with his practice on the hill, like his father, the one who sent all the silicosis-ridden miners back down the pit to dig up more coal as they coughed up their lungs. Then there’s snotty Fiona La Rue: all those so-called successful people in this town; as beaten and insignificant as the supposed plebs they despise.

  I feel a burning rage against everything and everyone in this world, and somebody’s going to pay. I realise that I’m carrying the shears with me. And there he is, right by the leisure centre, still barely compos mentis. That disgusting, foul old tramp.

  I’m breathing heavily with the horror of what I just had to do, when I get to Jason’s house, right behind the railway station. I ring the bell and his father comes to the door. That terrible mark on the side of his face: I can’t help but stare for a second. — Aye?

  — I’m Jenni, I gasp. — I’m a friend of Jason’s. I was here before.

  — Aye, ah mind.

  — He said I was to come and take some clothes into the hospital for him. They said he can wear his own clothes.

  He looks doubtfully at me for a second, — You his official fashion consultant? Cause yir no daein much ay a job.

  — No, I start, — I’m only trying to help.

  Mr King graces me a sympathetic nod. — Okay, hen, ye’d better come in. Ah’ve no long done a washin.

  I follow him inside and through to the kitchen, where he starts laying out some clothes: jeans, T-shirt, jumper, socks, underpants. — Right, thanks, I say, as he puts them into a plastic Co-op bag.

  — Ah think ehs shoes are still in the hospital, but thir’s trainers here onywey, he says. — Tell him I’ll be in the morn tae see him.

  — Righto, thank you, Mr King.

  Jason’s father is very chatty, but he
’s quite eccentric and has some strange ideas. He tells me that he has ‘irrefutable evidence’ that the council had got a team of trained cats to rip open bin liners so that they could introduce wheelie bins to the area. Apparently a contractor who manufactures them is a business partner with a prominent local councillor. — It’s aw profit n personal gain. Ah’m gonnae write tae Gordon Broon, ya hoor. If wi still hud the likes ay Willie Gallagher in Parliament n Auld Bob Selkirk up the toon hall …

  Midnight’s gone.

  Midnight was all that was keeping me here. I can see that with him around I would never leave. My father … he did me a fucking favour! He set me free!

  … so if ah wis any young person, n ah keep sayin that tae oor Jason, ah’d git right oot ay here. It’s no a place fir the young. No now. As 50 Cent said: Git rich or die tryin. What huv they goat tae keep thum occupied here but mischief?

  — Yes. I think you’re right, Mr King, I struggle to break him off, making my apologies.

  I get into the car and drive back out to Dunfermline and the hospital. Back on the ward, the visiting period is just about over as I hand the bag to Jason.

  — What took ye? he snaps.

  I look tearfully at him. — It’s Midnight, he’s dead. Somebody left the feed hatch open. It should never have happened. We all knew he was prone to gluttony with feed …

  — Aw naw … ah’m sorry … he says.

  — If one of us had been there we could have saved him. It takes a long time for a horse to die of colic. I should have checked on him! I as good as killed him!

  — Naw, Jenni, it wis probably jist an accident …

  — My father said that he should have been in La Rue’s stables where they would have regularly monitored him! He was right. I fight against a sob. — I’m just a selfish, spoiled brat; insisting I had my own horse at home! I fucked up. I failed to look after him like I’ve failed at everything else!

  — Naw, Jenni …

  — It was my father that did it; I know it was! He killed Midders to replace him with a stronger horse so that I could compete with Lara. I now let the tears come. — I used to have a silly dream, Jason … I hear myself ranting, — I dreamt about riding Midnight out of Cowdenbeath for good … right away from this place …

  — Aye … riding fantasies … Jason says, his mouth hanging open. — I’m sorry, he goes, and he looks so distraught. — Ah blame masel, ah mean, if ah hudnae been in here he’d huv been looked eftir.

  — No, it was him, that bastard. Indigo’s pony was fine!

  Jason gets out of bed and moves over to me in his striped pyjamas. He puts an arm round my shoulder, then steps closer and he hugs me for a bit. It feels good. He smells nice. I could stay like this forever. Then he pulls apart and looks around and whispers urgently, — We’d better nash, visitin time’s up.

  He tells me to keep a lookout, as he gets dressed. I comply, but I have a strange and strong urge, which I resist, to turn round and watch him changing.

  Oh, Midnight. This fucking place! I’m getting out of here! For good.

  — C’mon, he whispers, and we creep along the hospital corridors. As we go outside an orderly approaches and at first I think he’s going to stop us, but he merely asks for a light. Jason hastily obliges and we head out and across the car park into the motor.

  We drive back into Cowdenbeath and through the town and back out to the bend in the Perth Road. I pull the car into a gravelly lay-by beside the turn and climb out. I get the torch I keep in the breakdown kit in the car boot. We vault the crash barrier, Jason with a wince as he put the weight on his bad arm, and I shine the light into the nettle bush. There’s nothing visible for yards and yards besides these big plants, some of them shoulder-high to us both. As we start to push through them, I realise too late that their foliage has concealed the fact that they’re on a slope and I feel myself being propelled forward and I grab out at Jason. Then I scream as I think that we’re both going to fall, but he steadies us. — Fuck! he snaps. — Muh fuckin airm!

  — I’m so sorry, I forgot, I gasp, my breath steadying.

  — Slow … he pleads, as he swings the shears and starts chopping through the nettles. He’s panting and sweating as he hacks deeper into the growth. The moon casts a silvery light over the fallen plants who lie like stricken soldiers on a battlefield. — There! he shouts, as my beam illuminates something red.

  Then his face suddenly creases up in anger. His boot swings at the object, launching a traffic cone into the air, which flies a few yards, landing deeper into the back rows of the nettles.

  We plough on for what seems like ages, but uncover nothing. I’ve been stung in the hands and ankles through my gloves and socks and I detest nettle stings from my childhood. In the numbing cold a despair almost overwhelming at the futility of it all sets in, and I’m about to suggest packing up and trying again in the morning, when something reflects off the torch beam.

  There it is: the back of the red helmet.

  And we know what’s on the other side. — Look, Jason, I urge, but I don’t really need to bother. He’s seen it and I swear that his eyes could light up this wasteland.

  Jason looks at it in a powerful reverence, then bends down and slowly picks it up. — It’s heavy, it’s …

  He turns it round. I shine the torch into it. The face is white and blue around the lips and eyes. He rubs some leaves and dirt from it. It hasn’t been eaten though; it’s still recognisable as Ally Kravitz. — Sorry, mate, Jason says, and cradles it to his chest.

  I see what look like drops of rice falling from the bottom of the helmet, onto the ground. I shine my torch and see them wriggling under its beam. — Jason!

  He turns the helmet over and the red-bloodied stump is crawling with maggots. — Ya fuckin … ya fuckin hoors! Jason wipes them off with his bare hands, then hugs the helmeted head again. — Ah’ll no let these cunts get ye, mate, ah’ll fuckin no, he sobs, tears splashing from his big eyes onto the top of the red crash helmet. After a passage of time he looks at me miserably, and nods, then he puts the head into a bin liner.

  — Let me see him again, I beg.

  — Naw, Jason says, tears streaming down his face, — naebody’s seein um. Ah dinnae care what they dae wi the rest ay um, but this heid’s gaun back tae Spain, wi me!

  I put my arm around his shoulder as he sobs heavily, keeping his grip on the bin liner. I realise that I’m crying too, thinking of my beautiful horse.

  19.

  FUNERAL

  SUNDAY AH FELT it aw comin oot; the aches, pains, nettle stings n the dirty black depression. That wis the worst of aw: like yir giein some invisible fat cunt a collie-buckie. The auld boy goat a prawn vindaloo takeoot fae the Shimla as a treat, but muh hert wisnae in it. Ah brightened up a bit when yon wee Jenni Cahill came roond, even if she kept askin ays whit ah’d done wi Kravy’s heid. Ah kept ma cooncil, ya hoor, but it wis hard as she’s a persistent yin. Whin she left ah wis even too doon and exhausted tae entertain masturbatory thoughts, n her wi that scarlet-rid lipstick oan n aw. The only thing thit cheered ays up wis the browse through Central Perk merkit, n the big styrofoam boax fir keeping beer n sandwiches thit ah picked up at the stall.

  — Be good fir the summer, fir picnics, Mrs McPake fae oor wey said tae ays as ah went doon the road wi the hoor.

  — Aw aye, ah nodded.

  Monday ah felt better. Ah hud tae: thir wis Kravy’s funeral tae organise. Jenni let ays yaze her computer tae send emails tae Kravy’s mates in Spain. Ah found some addresses in this book eh’d left at ehs ma’s hoose. Ah didnae think they’d make it at such short notice, but they hud the right tae ken. It took ays a while tae git the two grams ay coke n the big lump ay base that ah needed for wur boy’s gig. Hud tae go ower tae the city, the fuckin loat. Ah dinnae like gaun ower the brig at aw. The city’s fine but as soon as ye leave the centre in search ay collies it’s a different place aw thegither; fill ay psychos whae kin smell the fuckin coonty offay ye fae fifty yerds.

  A joa
b well done, but. So Tuesday morning saw the funeral take place at Kirkcaldy Crematorium. Ehs ma wanted the Dunfermline Crematorium, same 310 quid tae the council hoors, and easier tae git back tae the reception at the Welfare, but ah talked her intae Kirkcaldy. Ah couldnae huv lived wi masel if the laddie hud been sent off oan Vichy soil.

  It wis a weel-attended do, right enough, ya hoor sor. Kravy might huv turned ays back oan the Beath but the Beath nivir turned its back oan him. Besides, naebody likes tae see a young cunt die. Nae Spaniards made it ower, but thir wis stacks ay wreaths sent through Interflora n loads ay touchin messages oan Jenni’s email, which she goat printed oaf n stuck in a folder wi a big Spanish n Scottish flag oan the front, which she then presented tae ehs ma. Ah huv tae hand it tae wee Jenni, she played a blinder. She wisnae pleased at aw at huvin tae approach Jakey Anstruther, especially wi upset aboot her perr hoarse huvin jist kicked it, but she helped ays git the auld minister oanside.

  The boy’s sermon wis the undoubted highlight ay proceedins. Ah hud tae git um a wee bit tanked up first, but no sae much that eh widnae be able tae perform. Whin eh staggered up tae the lectern at the chapel ay rest, ah feared the worst. — Hullo … eh slurred. — Gid tae see yis aw … one or two auld friends … n some strangers …

  Thir wis a deathly silence. Kravy’s ma looked at ays fir a second or two. She wis still nipped that the heid hudnae been recovered, so thir could be nae open-casket viewin. Hud tae keep it fae her; couldnae lit the woman see the maggots eatin intae um. Jakey, though, soon started tae find ehs stride.

  — The aulder yin gits the less yin is taken by aw this churchy shite. It’s aw driven by fear; thon fear that wuv no been guid enough tae git selected fir the trophy-winnin team n need tae stey in a satanic version ay this doss. But Ally Kravitz wis nivir plagued by they fears. They cried him a free spirit, but what in the name ay sufferin fuck is that? Ah cry him a Fife spirit, eh bellows, now it’s like the auld felly’s never been away fae the pulpit. Ah saw a tear run doon Mrs F’s cheek at that yin.

  The nods ay approval ur enough tae send Jakey intae oratory hyperdrive. — Think aboot this coonty, a place what gied the world capitalism, and yit wis one ay the first places tae realise thit capitalism wis shite and steadfastly opposed it. For mair thin any ay they Weedgie chancers wi thir Paddy-teuchter pish, or they snobby English connivin Embra hoors, this coonty is a microcosm ay the true spirit ay Scotland. N Allister Kravitz, a bold, internationalist laddie ay passion n soul, wis, ah’ll declare, a microcosm ay this damned coonty, a place thit yit might huv the key tae baith global and national salvation within its borders!