by Irvine Welsh
And he gives me a wee wink, which makes me blush.
I now realise that I was so wrong about him. To think I thought that he was just a sleazy wee pervert. He’s not; he’s excellent. Even more forceful on his next poem, Jason clears his throat, letting the chatter of the audience subside into a hush, then states with strident pride: — This yin’s called ‘Eulogy Fir Robin Cook’, whae last year, or wis it the year afore that, anywey, whae tragically passed away.
— Edinbury’s mobbed the day
but awfay circumspect
fir a Scottish statesman droaped doon deid
n it’s time tae pey respects
Eh did ehs bit fir freedom,
Fir justice n fir truth
No like thon toss in Downing Street,
The yin wi the hoor’s mooth
Erse-lickin yon Yankee cunt
Oan the issue ay Iraq
And sendin oor lads tae the front
N some widnae come back
But Cooky had his principle
His courage, gall and pluck
‘Where ur they WMDs then?’
‘Thir no thaire – git tae fuck.’
Auld comrades oan the benches
They were craven, timid swine
Thir erseholes in tight clenches
As they towed the perty line
The track his only respite
Fae the Middle East debate
The Tory press cried him a traitor
Wi thir Arab racial hate
Eh died up in the hills eh loved
Nae doaktirs oan alert
Bit it wis the liars doon in London toon
Thit broke that brave, brave hert.
The crowd really seems to lap that one up, especially Jason’s dad, who is at a front-stage table with some of his friends drinking. He claps in a demented manner, whooping and cheering his son. — You is ma niggah! he shouts, pointing at Jason.
Ackey Shaw gets up and graciously says, — Excellent stuff from Cowdenbeath’s very own Jason King there, before launching into his own set.
After the event, Jason greets me at the bar, ordering drinks for us both. He opts for whiskies, not his usual tipple. He tells Ackey Shaw, who looks a little bit bemused, — One ay your best lines: whisky n freedom gang thegither, then announces, — Slainte!
People are coming over to congratulate him on his performance. His father seems to be holding back, then steps forward. — Ye made me proud up there, son, he says, all watery-eyed. Jason seems bowled over by this. — Well, ah’ve no eywis been a source ay that fir ye, Faither.
His dad’s eyes widen, and for the first time the father and son look very similar. — What d’ye mean?
— The jockeyin wis a failure. The hingin aboot here oan the dole. The lack ay interest in the political struggle.
His dad shakes his head sorrowfully. — Aw, son, ah’m sorry. Dinnae listen tae the likes ay me. These are different times. You always make ays proud, and he looks over at his friends, — me wi aw ma homies here n aw. Now you git oan through tae Bathgate the morn and git in the final ay that cup.
Jason’s face scrunches up in pain, like he’s eaten something nasty. — Faither, ah’m thinking ay blowin that yin oot.
— Whit dae ye mean, son?
— Wi reference tae one ay yir ain great literary heroes, Faither, Alan Sillitoe: The Loneliness ay the Long Distance Runner, ya hoor.
— A great book, son, his dad acknowledges as he hands me a pint of lager I didn’t even see him getting up. — Excellent film n aw; Tom Courtney, ah think ah’m right in sayin.
Jason nods at a settling Guinness, blackening up on the bar. — Aye, bit mind the central thesis ay thon work but, Faither: sometimes ye kin only win by no takin part.
I take a sip at the lager. It’s very gassy, but I can’t stomach that gut-rot Guinness Jason loves so much.
His father smiles at me, then nods back to Jason in enthusiasm. — Whin the odds are stacked against ye, optin oot ay the system is the only wey. Like the boy in the book that won yon race but refused tae cross the line. The ultimate rebellion, son, n yin muh man 50 Cent understands only too well, he says, and then asks in concern, — What you goat planned?
— Dad, Jenni n me ur thinking ay gaun tae Spain. Fir good, likes. Kravy’s got mates ower thair, Jason explains, — n ah’ve been in touch wi thum … on the Net, likes.
— Go for it, son! That’s excellent. His father takes a swig of his pint, gulping it back. — Ah wid n aw if ah hud ma youth, n if ah hud a wee belter like this yin, he smiles at me, — aye, ah’d be right oaf tae Spain in a flash!
I feel my face igniting in a smile. — Your dad is so sweet, Jason, I say, and Mr King goes a little coy.
— Ye’ll be awright oan yir ain? Jason asks in some concern.
A mischievous glint comes into his father’s eye. — Whae says ah’ll be oan muh ain?
— Aye?
His father winks and lets a smile mould his face. I notice that there’s something different about him. It’s the burn mark, it looks faded, but I can see he’s just put some cosmetic foundation on it. — Maybe this old niggah got moves too. Watch this space, but ah’m sayin nae mair except: oot ay adversity wi can find triumph.
— A sentiment ah hertily endorse, Faither, a sentiment ah hertily endorse, he says and puts his arm around me and we have a little snog.
— Enough ay thon! Mr King snaps. — Mind, this is Fife! Dampen yon ardour n buy yir auld felly a beer. Ah saw that boy slip ye a double score fir this gig!
— It’s my shout, I say, pushing up to the bar and shouting them up. Before I leave this town I want them all to know that I’m Jenni Cahill, not Tom Cahill the haulage guy’s daughter!
27.
DEMISE OF AMBROSE
THAT WIS A great yin in Kirkcaldy last night, then ontae that perty in Glenrothes. Wee Jenni liked it n aw; hud plenty joints and even a couple ay lines. Glenrothes isnae Fife, but. They filled the place up wi Weedgies back in the sixties. Three tae fower generations doon the line thir still no assimilated intae the local population. Insteed it’s real Fifers thit gie it aw yon ‘by the way’ shite n swan aroond in Auld Firm replica tops. Some social experiments ur doomed tae fail here, like the preservation ay the native rid squirrel fae yon incomin American grey hoors.
Ah also git the wee notion thit Tam’s beginnin tae suspect that somethin’s cookin wi me n ehs firstborn, cause eh gies ays a call first thing in the morning. So ah huv tae head up early doors. Ah mind ay Jenni no being happy aboot cutting oot early, but she said she hud tae drive her ma tae the city.
Ah lits masel in the hoose wi the spare key Tam gied ays, hopin a might catch Jenni fir a wee grope and snog. But thir’s nae cunt hame; she’s already gone intae Edinbury shoapin wi her ma n yon wee spoiled Indigo. Thir’s a note n a pair ay car keys.
J
Decided to get train. Take car if you want.
J x
So ah borrow her motor, thinkin thit ah’ll take the dug doon tae the seaside at Abby-Dabby, cause it’s a hoat yin awright, sor. Mair like a summer’s day!
The water wisnae even like thon oily pish thit ye normally git in the Forth Estuary, it wis St Andrews-style; cobalt blue and as calm as a well-shagged, wedged-up hoor wi hur purse in her drawers. Tae ma mind then, thir wis nae bother aboot flingin yon bit ay stick in; jist a wee bit driftwid fir the boy tae fetch. Cool doon the pantin beast, likes. Didnae want um gittin aw nippy in yon heat n takin a chunk oot ay some cunt’s weddin tackle. Like mine. Aye, ye kin git awa wi murder wi fower n a hawf inches by flingin hawf a dozen Bicardis intae the mix, but three n a hawf n ah’d nivir work again. No in this fuckin coonty any roads!
Aye, Ambrose is gaspin in yon heat. Felt fair sorry fir um, so ah did.
So ah picks up a long, slimy bit ay driftwid n birls n launches the fucker oot as far as ah could. Afore ye could say ‘Jim Leishman’ the dug’s flyin off intae the sea eftir it, bobbin up n doon, that retriever gene still active even eftir three generati
ons, ya hoor ye!
Thing is thit perr auld Ambrose nivir looked back once, even wi me shoutin the bastard’s name at the top ay muh voice. Jist that wee heid bobbin away, gaun up n doon like a … well, then thir wis nowt.
Ah’m standin oan the beach oan muh Jack Jones n big Tam Cahill the haulage gangster’s pride n joy, ehs fightin dug, is oan ehs wey tae bein washed up in an Amsterdam canal!
Ridin ehs daughter, now ah’ve fuckin drooned the cunt’s dug!
Ma heid’s birlin. The only thing ah kin think ay is thit nae cunt saw ays come or go; ah hud the run ay the hoose. They’d aw left early tae go tae the city n Tam wis at ehs work, leavin Ambrose tied up in the back gairdin. Ah drives right back tae Cowden n perks Jen’s motor. Ah steels masel up fir a performance, then bells Tam at the yard. — Awright, Tam? Whaire’s yon dug ay yours? Naebodie’s aboot n ah’m twiddlin ma thumbs here. Will ah pick um up at the yard, aye?
Thir’s a wee silence, then eh goes, — What … eh’s no here, eh’s tied up at the back. Left um thair this mornin!
— Eh’s no thair now. Would the lassies no huv taken um wi thum tae Edinbury?
— Would they fuck! Fucken do not believe … is Jenni thaire?!
— Naw, they wir aw away by the time ah goat roond; hud a wee bit ay a late yin last night. Ah couldnae see them takin the dug so ah assumed you hud um.
Another silence, then, — That wee hoor’s done somethin tae ma Ambrose! She accused me ay fuckin oaf that useless kerthoarse ah hers n she’s done somethin oot ay revenge!
— Ah widnae be jumpin tae they conclusions, neebs, ah say. Then ah ask, aw uneasy, — Ye dinnae really think she suspects onything aboot yon hoarse, dae ye?
— Ah dinnae ken that ungrateful wee bitch’s state ay mind … n eh stoaps fir a bit, — you fuckin tell me, Jason! N it’s a voice ay accusation right enough, ya hoor.
— Hud yir hoarses! What ye oan aboot, Tam?
— Well, yir ridin her, aren’t ye?
— Whoa, Tam, hud oan thair, man –
— Dinnae deny it, lover boy. Ah ken; ah’ve seen her fuckin diaries, eh sais, then adds, — … which wis an accident, as ah wis lookin for information about what she kent aboot that hoarse, right?
— Eh, aye, fair enough, Tam, ah goes, but that cunt’s oot ay order. Nae wonder Jenni wants oot ay thon hoose.
— So you say nowt tae her aboot it or the twa sides ay yir jaw’ll nivir meet again!
— Ah widnae say nowt, Tam –
— Mr Big Shagger. Eh makes a fartin noise doon the phone, then ehs tone changes. — Ye fair surprised me. Ah thoat ah kent everything thit went oan in this toon, he says in disappointment. Then ehs voice goes aw stroppy again. — Ah gie ye a key tae ma hoose n ye repey me by knobbin ma wee fuckin lassie!
— It wisnae like that, Tam, it jist happened, wi jist started seein each other.
— You kin ride whae ye like but ye dinnae fuck wi Tommy Cahill!
— Ah ken that, Tam, fir fuck’s sake, ah’d nivir dae that! You’ve been good tae me n ah appreciate it.
— Gled some cunt does, eh sais, awfay piteously in ma book. Eh might be a bastard but ye git the impression thit eh’s quite lonely and a bit sad underneath it aw. No thit somebody like him wid ever admit it, but. — One question. Did you and her touch ma dug?!
— Naw! Ah’ve grown awfay fond ay Ambrose! Ah’d nivir dae nowt tae um, ah squeal in ootrage. One thing the auld boy taught ays: if yir gaunny lie make it as close tae the truth as possible.
— Right. Hopefully ye ken better.
— Too right ah do, Tam. Ah work for you.
— Aye, and dinnae forget it, the hoor threatens. — Now ah want ye tae find that fuckin dug. Some cunt’s taken um n you’d better find oot whae!
— Dinnae worry, Tam, ah’m right oan the case, ah say, then ah git a wee thought. — Jist thinkin, Tam, whae wid it benefit if Ambrose wis oot the wey?
— Jenni!
— Ah hae ma doots, Tam, ah’m sure she’d huv said something tae me, or ah wid huv kent if somethin wis up wi her, ah endeavour tae explain. — Whae else? Mind, Ambrose is a fightin dug …
Thir’s a long silence.
— That big fuckin scrotum-faced Montgomery cunt … he fuckin dies! Eh started knockin oaf that posh wee Lara whin ah wis aboot tae move in …
Ah think ay thon Calculon, the robot actor oot ay Futurama and his barry catchphrase: ‘That’s what I wanted you to think.’ — Dinnae jump tae conclusions, Tam, lit me investigate, ah tells um, leavin the haulage man seethin oan the end ay the line.
Still, the wee seed’s been planted. No even sae much ay a seed as a hoor ay a field.
But ah go back intae toon wi a heavy hert. Ah nivir did tell Jenni whit happened tae Midnight. The hoarse might no huv been much ay a performer but the hoor wis certainly fuckin well hung. So ah suppose thit ah agreed wi Tam Cahill’s course ay action, cause ah wis jealous. His big back between her legs, n her gaun, ‘Midnight fuckin this, Midnight that,’ aw the fuckin time. So ah thoat that wi yon hoarse away the lassie might huv peyed a wee bit mair attention tae me. Worked a fuckin treat n aw! Soon forgoat about perr Midnight whin she hud a new pet!
She’s been tryin tae git ays intae aw thon pseudo goth stuff; read Sylvia Plath poems, Anne Sexton, and that kind ay gear. Does nowt fir me, bit ah go along wi it soas tae git her intae ma twin interests ay ridin n Cat Stevens (pre-Islamic incantation, ah stress), ya hoor. One thing she did gie ays thit ah loved: that novel Reluctant Survivor whaire the boy brings the bird back tae life by lickin her oot. Ah think she might be tryin tae tell ays somethin here. Thir’s yin chapter thit’s practically a guide tae cunnilingus, n it’s goat a fuckin dog-ear, ya hoor!
Steven hadn’t told Josephine, that although he did find her body irresistible, he prided himself on his ability to give good head. Eating pussy was an obsession for him, and he boasted to Tom in the locker room after the workouts or squash games that there was no woman he couldn’t get a response from. So, to some extent, she was a vanity project for him. Nobody was more surprised and delighted than he was when his skills proved to be effective.
Ah read oan, thinking aboot aw the stages. Spread the flaps tae isolate the pubic hair n git it oot the road. Save up a loat ay gob n splash it oan, letting it roll fae yir tongue oantae the pussy. Keep the first licks nice n slow, n dinnae be feared tae git a bit vocal tae show thit you’re intae it. Test the clit softly fir sensitivity reactions, seein if the burd goes nuts the first time ye hit the spot, then it’s game on, or if it might be a longer haul. Dinnae be worried aboot gittin the fingers gaun; thir’s a loat doon thair tae play wi!
Ya hoor; ah nivir kent thir wis that much in it!
So ah’m sittin at hame, watchin eftirnoon telly, wi a hard-on. It’s yon Richard n Judy; husband-n-wife team; aye, ya hoor. Could even see a wee future fir me n Jenni in a similar kind ay role, though mibbe jist Scotland rather thin UK-wide.
Whin ah hears a knock oan the door ah ken it’s her. She gies ays a kiss n the wee felly doonstairs is right up oan parade. Ah dinnae ken if it’s pressure on the thigh or the light in ma eye, but her ain een fair sparkle wi shaggers glint n wir helpin each other oot ay wur clathes as we head up the stairs tae ma fusty single kip.
Aye, ya hoor, nae wonder she gied ays that fuckin novel!
Eftir the event wir makin post-coital plans fir a sportin double-heider. Wir gaun doon tae Hawick tae see Lara in the event the morn, then back up tae Bathgate that evening fir the semi against the hoat tournament favourite n current holder, Corstorphine’s ain Murray Maxwell. They say thit whae wins this yin wins the cup. But Jenni’s a wee bit contemplative. She’s gaun oan aboot Tam n the dug, Ambrose; him n yon other dug fightin. She tells ays how she wis thaire wi Monty n thon chipmunk-toothed hoor fae Dunfermline.
— I hate these bullies. I wish somebody would put them in their place. All of them, n she’s lookin at me wi intent.
— Eh aye, nivir liked that Monty or ehs mate, ah goes weakly. But the thoat ay fightin Bi
g Monty. Back at the skill ah’d uv raised they white pair ay hoor’s knickers up the figurative flagpole in the gesture ay surrender, afore ye could say Mixu Paatelainen. Big Monty, Wee Jason. The fitba player, the ugly, craggy centre half, versus the wee jockey. It wid be ‘attach yir teeth tae ehs baws n hud oan fir dear life’, like that nippy wee dug in the news thit saved its owner fae gittin mauled by a bear ower in America. Yir one chance in they circumstances, aye, ya hoor, sor.
Aye, they halcyon days back at Beath High. No that snobby wee Lara n Jenni went thaire but; bussed up tae St Lenny’s for Posh, Rich Bairns up in St Andrews. Mind ay thum climbin intae that Mrs Grant’s motor in they school uniforms. Ya hoor, ah used tae mind ay it every night!
28.
HAWICK AND BATHGATE
WE’RE HEADING DOWN to Hawick in the car, following the horsebox driven by Dr and Mrs Grant, and containing Scarlet Jester. Jason was sweet to volunteer to sit in the back and let Lara and myself be up front together, not that I particularly wanted to be beside her.
When we get down to the showgrounds, we head to the tented marquee café to relax for a bit. Well, Jason and I relax. Lara goes up to get some coffee; she’s nervy and antsy. Jason’s been strolling around, checking things out, letting on to everybody. I saw him introducing himself to an old couple: — Hello, I’m Jason King, he says, flashing a toothy smile and extending a hand that they feel moved to take. I can’t stop sniggering at his antics, but perversely, he seems sincere enough. — Goat tae make an effort tae be social, likes, especially wi the auld folks. Thi’ll no be oan this planet much longer; aw that accrued wisdom gaun tae waste, he says sadly. Then he looks up at the blackening Borders sky. — Thir’s some big cumulus clouds ready tae pish doon oan thir parade. Hope Lara’s ready tae gie thon hoarse the ride ay its life, he winks at me.
I nudge him in the ribs and we both get the giggles, then go for a little stroll. I stop and say hello to Angela Fotheringham and Becky Wilson. Becky isn’t competing either. — To be honest, she tells me in hushed conspiracy, — it was all getting a bit too much like hard work.
