Ecstasy: Three Tales of Chemical Romance

by Irvine Welsh

  I went to go to the toilet to see myself in the mirror. I didn’t seem to walk, but to float through within my own mystical aura. It was like I’d died and was moving through heaven. All those beautiful people were smiling and looking like I was feeling. The thing was, they didn’t look any different, you just saw the joy in them. I looked at myself in the mirror. What I did not see was the stupid fucking wife of Hugh Thomson. She was gone.

  – Hiya, this girl said to me, – havin a good one?

  – Aye … it’s absolutely unbelievable! Ah’ve never been so happy! It’s ma first time eckied … I gasped.

  She gave me a big hug. – That’s really nice. There’s nothing like the first time. It’s always brilliant, but see the first time …

  We talked for ages, and I remembered I had to get back to Marie. It was like I knew everybody though, all those strangers. We shared an insight and an intimacy that nobody who hadn’t done this in this environment could ever know about. It was like we were all together in our own world, a world far away from hate and fear. I had let go of fear, that was all that had happened. I danced and the music was wonderful. People, strangers, were hugging me. Guys too, but not in a creepy way. When I thought of Hugh, I felt sorry for him. Sorry that he would never know this, sorry that he had effectively wasted his life. Sorry that he had lost me, which he certainly had now. We were finished. That stage of my life was over and done with.

  I was taking the next day off work as well.

  16 Lloyd

  Ally was right about this stuff. It was true: ye dinnae even blink for days. Ah was soon surging with energy and thoughts. Ah couldnae blink. Ah tried, tried tae force a blink as ah sat oan the lavvy daein a shite. Then something happened: ah couldnae stop blinking. Ah felt sick and thought ah was gaunnae pass out. Ah hit the cold lino on the bathroom floor and felt better with my red throbbing face against it. The blinking stopped and ah was alert again.

  The door went and it was a guy called Seeker. He stepped past me into the hallway. He held up a bag and then hooked it onto a small, metal set of scales he’d produced. – Ten grams, he said, – take a dab.

  Ah did, though ah couldnae really tell the purity ay the coke from it, cause I’m no a big coke-heid, although it seemed better than Abdab’s. Ah asked Seeker if ah could snort a line. He rolled his eyes impatiently, then he chopped out one each for us on the worktop in my kitchen. Ah felt that satisfying numbness but ah was so up on the meth that a poofy line ay toot would make nae real difference. That whole fuckin bag would make nae difference. Anyway, ah gave Seeker his dosh and he fucked off. He’s a weird cunt that, no intae any scene, but every cunt kens him.

  Ah hive aboot a fifth ay the gear and stick in an equivalent ay non-perfumed talc and mix it. Thir isnae much ay a difference.

  In the hoose ah couldnae settle. Ah wis phonin every cunt up and spraffin shite. Ah hud a red phone bill n nae dosh tae pey it, so ah always just go for it at times like that. Ah kept thinking about how ah got involved with The Poisonous Cunt. It was a while back, basically for reasons of finance. I’d do deliveries for her and Solo, who was like her boyfriend or husband or something like that. Solo was a radge, but since he’d received that bad kicking from this other firm he had never been such a potent force. He seemed slow, like sort of brain-damaged, after he was blootered unconscious. As Jasco once put it: – They ambulance radges that scraped Solo oaf the pavement seem tae huv left a wee bit ay the perr cunt behind.

  Ah must admit that ah wasnae particularly heart-broken, but while he was a bad bastard, ye eywis kent where ye stood wi Solo. The Poisonous Cunt was a different matter. Ah should have suspected the worst when ah belled her and she wouldnae come to the phone. The Victim telt me that ah ‘wis tae come round’.

  When ah got there the front room was mobbed out. In a corner The Victim sat quietly, looking out the window, her large black eyes tense and furtive, as if trying to anticipate fae where the next shattering blow was going to come into her life. Bobby was there, displaying a smile that dripped sinister contempt. Monts was there, totally wasted, too wasted to even speak to me, while ah picked out Paul Somerville, Spud Murphy and some other cunt ah vaguely recognised. Solo sat in his wheelchair in the corner. It was a fuckin hammer house ay horrors right enough.

  – The Poisonous Cunt got off her tits last night, Bobby informed me. – Freebasing coke. She’s oan a brutal bastard of a comedown. Ah dinnae envy ye, Lloyd.

  Ah didnae need this shite. Ah was just here tae dae a bit ay delivering. Ah went through to the Poisonous Cunt’s bedroom, tapping on the door first, and hearing a throaty rasp which might have been come or fuck off, but ah entered anyway.

  The Poisonous Cunt was lying on her bed wearing a garish red tracksuit. The telly was on a table at the bottom of the bed. She was smoking hash. Her face was drained of colour, but her black hair looked well washed, had a kind of sheen to it. Her face, though, looked rough, scabby and dehydrated and its contrast with the health of her hair made her look like an old hag wearing a wig. She still had her most startling feature ah had long admired, her thick black eyebrows which joined in the middle, making her look like one of those type of Celtic fans who always look like Paul McStay. Under these brows she had narrow green eyes which were permanently in shadow and usually half-shut. Ah remember once when ah was eckied ah got an erection when ah saw her unshaved armpits visible in a white, sleeveless cotton top. Ah once had a wank about fucking her armpits, ah don’t know why this should be, but sexuality’s a weird cunt tae try and fathom oot. It caused me some angst for a while, well aboot two or three minutes. There was one particular time when ah was tripping in the chip shop at the fit ay the walk, unable to speak, unable to indicate what ah wanted, unable to think about anything but The Poisonous Cunt’s armpits. It was Ally who had started me off about them. He was on acid at Glastonbury and he said in a posh voice: – That lashie Veronica: an awfay abundance ay hair that lashie … After that we couldn’t keep our eyes off The Poisonous Cunt’s armpits.

  Her face twisted at me in ugly recognition, then into a cartoon of disapproval, and ah understood just then why it should really be totally impossible to fancy her.

  The Poisonous Cunt shagging: what a thought right enough.

  – Well? she snapped.

  – Goat it likes, ah said, handing over the bag ay coke.

  She tore into it like a predator having a frenzied feast, chopping and snorting, her face contorted the same way it was when ah once saw her rummaging for fag dowts in the contents of my rubbish bin, which she’d tipped out onto the newspaper when she’d run out of snout. Ah cursed her angrily that time, and she went timid as she rolled up a single skin of stale baccy.

  It was the first and last time ah saw The Poisonous Cunt deferential.

  It was Monts that had given her her nickname. He’d fucked her once and either wouldn’t do again, or did do it but no tae her satisfaction, so she’d got the pre-vegetative Solo tae trash his coupon.

  – That Poisonous Cunt Veronica, he’d muttered bitterly when ah went to visit him in the hospital, his face wrapped in bandages.

  – How ye feelin? ah asked. Ah was staring at her profile. Ah could see the ring in her navel where the top part ay her tracksuit had ridden up.

  – Shite, she hissed, sucking on the cigarette.

  – Dae some rocks, eh?

  – Aye … she said, then she turned towards me, – ah’m feelin fuckin crap. Ah’ve goat bad PMT. The only thing that helps me whin ah’m like this is a good fuck. Ah willnae git one fae that fuckin cabbage through thair. That’s aw ah want. A good fuck.

  Ah realised that ah was looking straight into her eyes, then ah was tugging at her tracksuit bottoms. – Ah’m fuckin well up fir that …

  – Lloyd! she laughed, helping me undress her.

  Ah stuck my finger in The Poisonous Cunt’s fanny, and it was dripping. She must’ve been touching herself or it was maybe the crack or something. Anyway, ah got on top of her and pushed my erection into her f
anny. Ah was licking her craggy face like a demented dug wi a dry, chipped auld bone as ah pumped mechanically, enjoying her gasps and groans. She was biting my neck and shoulders, but the crystal meth had numbed my body and made it as stiff as a board and ah could have pumped all day. The Poisonous Cunt had orgasm after orgasm and ah showed nae signs ay coming. Ah stuck the poppers under her nose the final time and pushed my finger up her arsehole and she screamed like a fuckin banshee and ah expected everybody tae come ben the bedroom but nae cunt did. Ma heart was thrashing and ah was frightened ah’d just peg oot cause ah got that rapid blinking for a bit but ah managed tae control it. – That’s it … that’s enough … ah heard The Poisonous Cunt gasp as ah pulled out as stiff and tense as when ah had gone in.

  Ah sat up on the bed trying to bend my stiff cock into a semi-comfy position in my jeans. It was like having a piece of wood or metal down your pants. You just wanted tae break it off and chuck it away. Ah shuddered at the thought of how high my blood pressure must be.

  – That was fuckin mad … The Poisonous Cunt lay back and gasped.

  Ah had tae lie with her until ah could hear the others go. Fortunately she fell into a deep sleep. Ah lay rigid, looking up at the ceiling and thinking aboot what the fuck ah was daein wi ma life. Ah reflected that ah should’ve fucked The Poisonous Cunt’s airmpits while ah hud the chance. If ye huv tae dae something unsavoury that yir gaunnae regret as soon as you’ve done it, then at least realising a sexual fantasy would make it mair acceptable.

  Eftir a bit ah went through tae the front room and noted that Solo and Jasco were asleep oan the couch. Ah left and wandered for a while through the city, ecky heads going to and coming from clubs smiling, arm in arm; pish-faces staggering down the road groaning songs and other cunts cocktailed oan aw sorts ay drugs.

  17 Heather

  My mind was buzzing as I wandered down Princes Street. Marie had had to stagger into her work at the Scottish Office later that morning, but no way for me. That morning I had, in her flat, picked up a book of Shelley’s poems. I couldn’t stop reading them, then Blake and Yeats. It’s like my mind was in an overdrive for stimulus, I couldn’t get enough.

  I looked around an art shop in Hanover Street. I wanted to paint. That was what I wanted to do, buy a set of paints. Then I saw an HMV record store and went inside. I wanted to buy every record I saw and I drew the maximum amount of three hundred quid out of my cashline. I couldn’t decide what to buy, so I ended up getting some house-music compilation CDs which were probably not that good but anything would be all right after Hugh’s Dire Straits and U2 and Runrig.

  I went into Waterstone’s. I looked around and I bought Ian MacDonald’s book on the Beatles and their music in the context of the sixties. There was a quote on the back about a guy who read the book then went out and bought the entire collection of Beatles’ albums on CD. I did the same. Hugh didn’t like the Beatles. How could you not like the Beatles?

  I went for a coffee and thumbed through an NME which I hadn’t bought for years and read an interview with a guy who used to be in Happy Mondays and had started a band called Black Grape. I then went back to HMV and bought their album, It’s Great When You’re Straight … Yeah!, just because the guy said he had taken loads of drugs.

  I bought a few more books and got the train home. There was a message on the machine: – Honey, it’s Hugh. Phone me at work.

  I then came across a scribbled note in the kitchen:

  You gave me a fright. I think you’ve been a bit selfish. Call me when you’re home.

  Hugh

  I crumpled the note up. Hugh’s Dire Straits CD, Brothers In Arms, was lying on the coffee table. He always played that. I particularly hated the song Money For Nothing which is what he always sang. I stuck on my Black Grape CD and put Brothers In Arms in the microwave to prove that what people say about CDs being indestructible is a lot of rubbish. Just to make doubly sure though, I watched Love Over Gold obliterate in a similar manner.

  Hugh is perturbed when he comes in. By this time my mood is different. I feel run down, depressed. I had four Ecstasies the night before, which Marie said was way too much for the first time. I didn’t want to stop, didn’t want to come down. She warned me about the comedown. It all seems hopeless.

  And Hugh is perturbed.

  – Seen the Brothers In Arms CD, Honey? Can’t find it anywhere … we got the music n the colour te- veeeehhhh

  – No.

  – … munneee for nothin … listen, why don’t we go for a drive?

  – I’m really tired, I tell him.

  – Too much to drink at Marie’s? What a pair! Seriously though, Heather, if you’re going to take days off work, well, that I can’t condone. I’d be a hypocrite if, after underlining the importance of a good attendance record to my own employees, word was to get around; and Dunfermline’s not a big place, Heather, if people were to say that my own wife was a slacker and that I was turning a blind eye to it …

  – I’m tired. I did drink a wee bit too much … I might go upstairs for a lie down.

  – A drive, he says, holding up the car keys and waving them at me like I was a dog and the keys were the leash.

  I can’t argue with him. I’m feeling sick, dizzy, tired and washed out, just like I’ve gone through a cycle on the washing machine.

  – I thought that a drive might help cheer us up a wee bit, he smiles, as he pulls the car out of the garage.

  Next to him sits this woman with lank hair and dark circles under her eyes. I recognise her from somewhere.

  I put on a pair of sunglasses from the glove compartment. Hugh frets disapprovingly.

  – I’m ugly, I hear myself say in a small voice.

  – You’re tired, he says. – You should think about going part-time. It’s the strain of being in an organisation that’s rationalising. I know; it’s the very same at our place. They’re bound to feel it at your level of the organisation too. There’s always a human cost, unfortunately. Can’t make an omelette, eh? Bob Linklater’s been off for two weeks now. Stress. Hugh turns to me and rolls his eyes. – Anyway, I’m sure in your case it’s genuine. Some people just can’t cut it in today’s working environment. Sad but true. Anyway, we’re doing okay so there’s no need for you to martyr yourself at that place to prove some big point, Heather. You know that, don’t you, Honey-bunch?

  I take off the glasses and look at the white sick face staring back at me, reflected in the side window. My pores are opening up. There’s a spot under my lip.

  – … take Alan Coleman’s wife … what’s her name? She’s a perfect case in point. I doubt whether she’d go back now if they paid her. We’d all like to be in that position, thank you very much! Iain Harker: never off the golf course since he took early retirement …

  A man of twenty-seven talking about early retirement.

  – … mind you, Alasdair and Jenny have turned that section around. It’s a pity that one of them has to be disappointed when they eventually come to fill Iain’s vacancy. The smart money’s on Jenny now, though I suspect they’ll go outside and bring in a fresh face to avoid one of them being let down …

  I wondered when Jenny was going to come into the conversation.

  – Do you want to lick her cunt?

  – … because when all’s said and done – and they’re both professional – but if one’s appointed and the other isn’t … sorry, Honey, what did you say?

  – Do you think she’s got the front? Jenny? Quite a shop-window post, stacks of PR, I recall you saying. I’m shivering: paralysing shivers are going through my body in a digitally precise rhythm of one every two seconds.

  – God, yeah, I don’t think I’ve ever worked with anyone more assertive, man or woman, Hugh smiles fondly to himself.

  Are you fucking her have you been for four years I hope so for your sake cause surely you can’t be fucking me that badly unless you’re fuckin someone else … – Does she have a boyfriend? I ask.

  – She’s living with Co
lin Norman, Hugh says, trying and failing to make the words ‘Colin Norman’ not sound like ‘child molester’ or, worse, ‘employee with below-average sickness record’.

  But the drive is, of course, stage-managed. I know where we’re heading. We pull into a familiar driveway.

  – Bill and Moll said it was hunky-dory to pop round for a drink, Hugh explains.

  – I … eh … I …

  – Bill’s been on about his office extension. I thought I’d check it out.

  – We never see my friends!

  – Honey-eh-eh … Bill and Moll are your friends! Remember!

  – Marie … Karen … they were your friends as well.

  – Well those were Uni friendships; all that student nonsense, Honey. The world moves on …

  – I don’t want to go in …

  – What’s wrong, Honey?

  – I think I should go …

  – Go? Go where? What are you on about? You mean you want to go home?

  – No, I whisper, – I think I should go. Just go. For good, my voice has gone into nothing.

  Go away from you, Hugh. You play squash but you’re still getting a bit paunchy …

  – That’s the spirit, Honey! That’s my girl! he says, springing out of the car.

  Bill’s in the doorway, ushering us in with pretended surprise. – It’s the Thomson twins! How’s the fair Heather? Looking gorgeous, as per usual!

  – Hugh’s jealous, I say, fingering a button on Bill’s shirt distractedly, – he says that your extension is bigger than his. Is it?

  – Ha ha ha, Bill laughs nervously and Hugh bounds on ahead and has pecked Moll, and now my coat is being tugged off my shoulders. I shudder and I start the shivering again, although it’s warm in the house. There’s a sort of buffet on the table in the living-room. – Come and try some of Moll’s world-famous garlic dip, Bill says.

  I feel at this point I should say to Moll: YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE GONE TO ANY TROUBLE, but I can’t be bothered. I feel the words coming but there’s too many of them and they’ve stuck in my mouth; I feel I’d have to physically pick them out using my fingers. Anyway, Hugh gets in first: – You shouldn’t have gone to such trouble, he smiles at her. Such trouble. I see.