If You Liked School, You'll Love Work

by Irvine Welsh

  We’re both a reddish brown, and when we get back to the leisure centre sit at the coffee bar with still mineral water. Lara plays with a choc-chip cookie she’ll never eat, and she’s another one who won’t let the new horse thing go, venturing, — Indigo has a point. You’ll need to get something anyway, as a companion to her pony. Therefore, it might as well be a horse you can ride and you like. If you leave it, that spoiled little bitch will probably end up getting another pony!

  I bristle at that comment. Indy is a spoiled little bitch, but she’s our spoiled little bitch. The terms ‘pot’ and ‘kettle’ spring to mind.

  — It’s too soon, I say harshly, – and I don’t think I want another horse –

  Lara raises her eyebrows in exasperation. — At least come and see what this gelding’s like, she argues.

  I shake my head and watch a girl I used to go to primary school with struggle with a pushchair, toddler and a tray with two plates of chips and two cans of Coke on it. — You’re not listening to me. I want to get out of this place. I’ve had it.

  — It’s the same everywhere, Lara says. — You’re just feeling a bit down.

  — No, I need to get out, I state emphatically. I can’t believe her great love affair with this town, county, country all of a sudden. All she usually does is criticise the place and everyone in it. In fact, I learned this all from her. It’s how we became friends! Whatever became of Virginia Woolf?

  — But you’re an excellent jumper. With this new horse –

  — No way. You know as well as I do that I’m a shite showjumper. I was just doing it to please my father, and to please you in some way, cause you’re my friend. I scrutinise her for a reaction to that statement but her caked and tanned face is Botox immobile. I smile grimly and tell her the truth that I, and everybody around me, needs to hear. — I love horses and I loved Midnight, but I am not, and never have been and never will be, a jumper. And you know why?

  I look searchingly at her. She’s all ears and I really do believe she expects me to say something like ‘because I’m too fat’.

  And she’s obviously irked when I tell her, — Because I simply don’t want to. I love horses, being out with them, riding them, but I’m just not interested in showjumping. I’m not bothered about pushing them or myself to go faster, turn quicker, jump higher. Actually, I don’t give a flying fuck, I pompously contend. — In future I’m only doing shit that I want to do.

  She looks at me in open-mouthed incredulity for a few seconds. I’ve never seen her look so dumb. When she finds her voice, she moans, — But everybody wants you to do well!

  — Fuck everybody. I’m only going to turn into my mother if I don’t get of here.

  — But you can’t leave me here! Lara wails. — I can’t go. I’ve got Hawick, then Bedfordshire, then –

  — You’ll find other horsey friends, Lara. Don’t worry about that, I tell her. — It’s not like I’ll be vanishing off the face of the earth. We’ll still be mates, I say and I feel giddy with exhilaration as I realise that I will, soon, actually leave here; that it’s gone from being a fantasy to an inevitability and I’m not in the least bit scared about it.

  — How do you fancy going out clubbing tonight? Lara says, more needy than I can ever recall her. — Just you and me? In Edinburgh? We can stay over at Sophie’s and –

  — Nah, I can’t, I tell her with great satisfaction, — I’m meeting somebody later.

  There is a pout of hurt sadness on her face. How many times, I consider, must I have looked so equally pitiful to her?

  23.

  TREVLIN

  SO AH’VE GOAT wee Jenni Cahill sittin in the Goth wi me, n it’s like wir an item, gaun oot n that. So ah should be chuffed, but ah cannae stoap thinkin ay perr Kravy, the laddie thit came back tae Fife tae look eftir ehs ma n ended up decapitated. Nine years in Spain, tearin like a hoor through Europe, then back in Fife fir yin week, takin a nice and easy bend (wi me oan the back) n the bike jist leaves the fuckin road n that’s it; baw oan the slates, game a bogey.

  The road must huv been fucked; surely groonds fir a claim ay compo against ma injuries, afore ye even accoont fir the emotional damage incurred through the loss ay ma best buddy. Perr Kravy. Ah’m sittin here wi it aw; the posh bird by ma side, place in the table fitba semis, the money in the poakit, the pint ay black gold in front ay ays, n they two jealous auld celibates the Neebour Watson n the Duke ay Musselbury standin miserably up at yon bar, forced tae contemplate ma success. But in ma ooir ay triumph, thir’s nae satisfaction.

  Aw ah kin dae is talk aboot the perr laddie. — The Kravy fellay’s words wir prophetic, ah tells Jenni. — Once eh says tae ays, ‘If ye want tae live a long life keep away fae the blaw n dae plenty trevlin. Otherwise it’s far too short.’

  — I’d say ironic rather than prophetic, wee Jenni speculates, — with his own life being so short and …

  — Naw bit, hear ays oot, ah insist. — Aw they years thit eh trevild roond Europe oan thon bike wir marked by the concept ay difference. By new experience, the assimilation ay different sights, smells, sounds. Aw that ingestion ay new lingo, new culture. Burn the different neural canals. That disnae happen if ye git stuck own the blaw in an auld cunt’s toon like the Beath. Ye cash in the ‘Egyptian’ n live fir the weekend, n very soon aw the weekends ur just the same. Eh’s awready hud a longer life thin me if ah lived tae be two hundred! Smokin dope n steyin in the same place compresses time. Trevil, n meetin new people, eywis expands it. Ah widnae say it’s physics but it’s true aw the same. Dae you want tae stey here aw yir puff?

  Jenni rolls her eyes. — Certainly not. I’ve no intention whatsoever of doing that. Do you?

  — Naw, bit ah probably will.

  She looks a wee bit pit oot by that. — Why?

  So ah try tae explain, without seemin too sorry fir masel, thit ah’m jist no like her, or even Kravy. — Cause ah’ve no been able tae accrue the type ay skills thit might help ays function somewhere different. Ah’m jist a short-ersed wee bampot fae Fife thit cleans oot stables.

  — Well, I think you’re cute, she says, like she’s a wee bit drunk. No used tae black gold or tarry, ah’ll wager. Well, no in the quantities we’ve been daein it ower the last few days. Ma quantities.

  — Aye, but in a short-ersed wee bampot fae Fife thit cleans oot stables sort ay wey, ah laugh, then git serious. — But ah’m gaun tae Spain, ah’ll tell ye that much. That’s fuckin defo n –

  — Shh, you talk too much, she says, n ah’m aboot tae take umbridge when she goes, — Kiss me, and her lips brush against mine n then wir snoggin. Ya cunt, it’s like ah’m gaunny shoot ma muck thair n then, in ma troosers in the corner ay the Goth!

  Whin we back off, ah glimpses across tae see certain parties at the bar tryin tae look everywhaire but wir wee corner. Then Jenni picks up the vibe cause she says tae ays, — I don’t suppose we could go back to yours?

  N ah croaks oot, — Aye, n ah’m worried aboot bein able tae staund wi this thing in ma troosers – fower n a half inches muh erse – but ah gits tae muh feet. Ah dinnae look acroas tae the bar as we leave the Goth (ah even leave half a pint ay black gold!) but ah’m hopin thit the boys huv clocked everything. Jason King, Depertment S, ya hoor: the ‘S’ bein fir Shaggin!

  Wi git intae the hoose n ah pops muh heid intae the front room where the auld boy’s watchin the eftirnoon nags on Channel 4, racin pages oan ehs lap. — Dae you never git any tips fae thon stable ye wir attached tae? eh asks, turnin roond tae regard ehs sole offspring (or so ah’ve been telt).

  — Naw … no fir a while … eh, look, Faither, jist gaun upstairs wi Jenni tae listen tae some sounds.

  — Christ, Jason, yir twenty-six years auld, eh scoffs. — Ye dinnae need tae use bairns’ euphemisms fir sweepin lum!

  Ah’m hopin thit Jenni didnae hear or pick that yin up, but wir up the stair n intae the King boudoir n things ur movin fast. Wir pillin oaf oor clathes n she’s goat wee spots on her chist but no the actual tits, if ye ke
n whit ah mean, n a big mole oan one ay the paps. She’s goat that wee rid thong oaf n aw; game as a partridge, this yin, n thir’s a hoor ay a sight mair bush thin ah’d speculated aboot; bit ay a surprise, thon. Still mibbe it wis Kravy’s ma’s shaved blat that pit they thoughts intae muh mind.

  Ya hoor, it’s a wee bit ay a sensory overload …

  24.

  SNOGGING

  I JUST WANT to fuck him, I like him and I want him: his skinny light body, his crazy eyes and his barely repressed air of madness. Also, the history with the bitch Lara makes him even more appealing. She confessed that when she was younger she actually wanted to shag him.

  But Jason seems a bit weird, like he doesn’t want to get undressed, and I’m sitting here in the nude and he’s not even made an attempt to take his clothes off. I’m wondering if he finds me too fat, too repulsive, because he’s so thin. — Don’t you like me? I ask.

  — Naw … you’re gorgeous … he pants, open-mouthed.

  — Get undressed then, I urge.

  — Thir’s somethin thit ah want tae show ye first, somethin thit ah did for ye, he says, and he opens this large cupboard which houses a water tank but he reaches down to a boxed-in shelf underneath. He pulls out what looks like a human skull!

  Of course …

  — Alas, poor Kravy, he says, then he lights a candle on a plate and carefully places the skull on top of it. The flame burns through the eyes, sending a yellow glowing light across the room. It looks beautiful; the amazing light is back on in Ally Kravitz’s eyes. — It’s … so … lovely, I tell him. And it is.

  — Ah hud tae dae it, Jenni. Jason’s dark eyes glint in the candlelight. Yon blue flesh wisnae daein um justice. Eh wis mingin. The maggots … it wisnae him. Ah biled they hoors tae death. The skull, but. It hus a kind ay … purity.

  — It does, Jason. It’s what he’d have wanted. I know it. But what did you do with the flesh, brain, eyes … all that stuff?

  — Took it in a Co-op bag n buried the hoor under the turf behind yin ay the goals at Central Perk, Jason smiles sadly, then falls back on the bed. He kicks off his shoes and pulls down his jeans and shuts his eyes.

  I move over to him and pull off his T-shirt in one motion. His body is the colour of milk. He’s shivering, trembling, but still just lying there. As the light glows and flickers around us, I suck at his nipples, biting into one until he gives out a sharp yelp of pain and the dark red blood trickles down his chest.

  Then I pull off his pants and take his penis in my mouth. It firms up under my touch, and I can feel it expand in my head. It tastes briefly salty but that goes as I work it, tongue on its tip, mouth and hand moving down the shaft. After a bit I think he’s going to come so I stop and whisper to him, — I’m the jockey, and I can’t make out his gurgled response.

  I climb on him and edge him into me. I start to ride him slowly, taking him further in, moving up and down on him in the candlelight from Ally Kravitz’s burning dead eyes.

  Jason is the most passive boy I’ve ever been with, although, I suppose, he’s only the third I’ve had full sex with. He lies back muttering deliriously and I ride him until I start to come in small bursts, ending in a demented crescendo. I want to just keel over but Jason holds me up under my armpits (he’s deceptively strong and the sinew and muscle strains in his lean body) and then he comes in juddering, eye-popping convulsions, so violently that for a second I worry that he’s having some kind of fit. — Ya hoor … he gasps.

  As I feel his spent prick deflating inside of me and falling out, like a ripe piece of fruit from a tree, I roll off and curl him into me, wrapping his thin frame in my arms. — That was … so … good, I tell him, as we cuddle together on the single bed.

  — Ballingry lass … she once said the same thing, he mumbles, drifting off into sleep.

  25.

  TWELVE INCHES TALL

  AH WALK INTAE thon Goth Tavern, a guid twelve inches tawer in height n jist aboot the same again in the trooser department, ya hoor ye! Ah’m at the bar but no really listenin much tae the Celibate Club ay Neebour Watson, the Duke ay Musselbury n Reggie Comorton cause ah’ve made a connection wi Auld Erchie the bigamist, whae normally drinks in Jimmie’s.

  Erchie wis a long-distance lorry driver. Eh hud twa faimlies fir years, yin here in Fife, the other one doon in Hull. Hud tae come clean, whin Kenny, ehs son up here, met this bird oan holiday in Tenerife. They goat it oan, wir drawn tae each other beyond the usual hoaliday romance, so she came up tae see um. Erchie’s jaw fair droaped awright whin Kenny brought her hame; turned out it wis ehs daughter fae Hull! Aye, Nadia, her name wis. Sparks fuckin flew awright, but baith wives reasoned thit as eh wis the breedwinner thir wis nae point in grassin the cunt up. So they basically shared um; kept the same arrangement gaun, half the week each. They agreed thit Erchie wis awright fir half the time but any mair wid’ve been too much.

  Erchie’s tellin ays about history, it’s ehs favourite subject, or ‘Scottish History S’ as eh calls it. The boy’s a fuckin PhD in post-war ridin in Caledonia. — When they hud that Cuban missile crisis the number ay illegitimate births nine months later went through the roof. Bastard bairns everywhaire!

  — How come?

  Eh coughs n swallays doon what wis comin up, the hoor stickin in ehs gullet like a cat’s furbaw. Once ehs eyes stoap waterin eh goes, — Well, they reckoned it wis aw comin tae an end. Wi aw they Yank bases in Scotland, wi wir in pole position fir a tannin fae they Soviet ICBMs. So every fucker went mental. Strangers jist went hame n shagged each other daft. Lassies banged any cunt they could git thir hands oan.

  Aye, it came back tae me that fuckin instant; as soon as they fuckin Twin Tooirs went doon ower New York, ah wis right roond tae Lara’s wi ma new Slipknot album, six tins ay Rid Stripe n a chicken jalfrezi fae the Shimla. N Cat Stevens n aw, jist as backup. She wis oan fuckin hoalidays in the south ay France, nae doot in the airms ay some garlic-smelling Froggy cunt fill ay insincere fears ay impendin apocalypse!

  — Apparently that Lara wis even gaun up tae St Andrews tae stalk thon Prince William, ah’m telling the boys, drawin in Neebour Watson n the Duke tae the fold. Eftir whit Jen’s telt ays, it’s open season oan yon hoor. — Aye, ah goes oan — she’s goat a big fancy fir um. That wid be some foursome right enough, though wir talkin aboot outside the duvet here; nowt against the Windsor boy; a sensitive laddie, ay that uv nae doots, jist dinnae like the idea ay other cock sharin ma kip!

  Erchie hus a laugh at that yin, n the Neebour gies a peely-wally smile while the Duke signals up a round ay black gold. Fuckin wonders’ll nivir cease!

  — Imagine if yon Lara ended up banged up but, Wills takin the responsibility n the ensuin male child becomin heir tae the throne, the Neebour says, — but then an even bigger shock if eh’s a wee cunt thit wants tae ride hoarses, aye, but hus innate skills at table fitbaw as well as as penchant fir the tarry!

  The Duke guffaws at that yin, n ah hae tae admit, ah’m no above haein a wee chuckle masel.

  — Aye, ya hoor, ah sais, — the Kingdom is right; pump in some Fife DNA tae perk up that stagnant auld aristocratic gene pool. Been done in the past. Perr midwife wid fuckin feint when she saw the bastard hud a chin like Dan Dare! Aye, mibbe ay wis too hasty in rulin oot two-a-sides under the duvet!

  They aw huv a giggle at that yin n wi bang the glesses ay black gold thegither like in days gone by. But no quite, cause eftir this scoop ah’m gittin picked up by Jenni n wir gaun through tae Kirkcaldy tae thon poetry slam thit she’s goat ma name doon fir. Showed hur some ay the stuff ah’d been writin whin ah wis tarried up; cathartic originally, helped ays tae git ower the shock aboot Kravy. She takes a wee sketch at it n says ah’ve goat talent. Ah’ll take that, ya hoor.

  Even the auld man’s comin roond. Showed um the poems n aw, n eh wis well impressed by some ay the political content in a few ay thum. — Fuck me, eh goes, ehs eyes bulging, — ye do listen tae ays eftir aw!

  — Nae fuckin option, huv uh, ah sneers, but it f
air made the auld cunt’s day. Mine n aw, hus tae be said.

  26.

  FIFE POETRY SLAM

  THE HALF-FILLED HALL is still implausibly smoky. My feet stick to the worn carpet as I pass several trophy-filled cabinets and settle in my seat at the bar. Jason’s very nervous. — You’ll be fine, I tell him.

  His eyes have never left a skinny anaemic-looking guy with black hair, who sits over in the corner. — Aye, but Ackey Shaw’s readin the night n aw. Ma debut, n ah’m oan the same bill as ma mentor, ya hoor.

  As the MC announces him, Jason stands up and makes his way past the tables to some cheers as he skips confidently onstage up to the mike and adjusts it down to his height. With his mittened hand, he pulls a pair of reading specs from a case in the inside pocket of his overcoat and puts them on. Then he goes back into a small leather case he’s been carrying and produces a sheath of pages. — This yin’s fir the soccerati, he announces. — It’s called: ‘John Motson on the Death of Sylvia Plath’.

  There is respectful silence. Jason starts to read from the first poem, reciting in an exaggerated English accent:

  — Sylvia Plath

  took an early bath.

  Quite remarkable!

  I don’t get it myself as I haven’t a clue as to who John Motson is. But quite a few people in the crowd laugh. I watch the guy he calls Ackey Shaw, who is nodding in quiet endorsement. A studenty couple at the bar I talk to seem to think that Sylvia Plath would see it as a tribute, so that’s good enough for me. Jason’s obviously a talented wordsmith and it’s evident that he loves the applause. Seeming to grow in stature, he looks over to me and smiles. — Thanks tae Jenni ower thaire for encouraging me baith tae write, but also tae perform.