Speaking With the Angel

by Nick Hornby

  And I’m starting Cold Mountain again. In the morning.

  So.

  I’m getting there. I believe that. I really do. Fuck the rat. And fuck nature.

  It’s just a matter of time.

  Catholic Guilt (You Know You Love It)

  IRVINE WELSH

  It was a steaming, muggy day. The heat baked you slowly. My eyes were fuckin’ streaming from the pollutants in the air, carried around on the pollen. Nippy tears for souvenirs. Fuckin’ London. I used to like the sun and the heat. Now it was taking everything, sucking out my vital juices. Just as well something was. The lassies in this weather, the way they dress. Fuckin’ torture man, pure fuckin’ torture.

  I’d been helping my mate Andy Barrow knock two rooms into one at his place over in Hackney and my throat was dry from graft and plaster dust. I’d come over a bit faint, probably because I’d hammered it a bit on the piss the last couple of nights. I decided to call it a day early. By the time I’d got back to Tufnell Park and up to my second-floor flat I felt better and in the mood to go out again. Nobody was home though; Selina and Yvette, they were both out. No note, and in this case no note is really a note which says: GIRL’S NIGHT OUT. FUCK OFF.

  But Charlie had left me a message on the machine. He was as high as a kite. – Joe, she’s had it. A girl. I’m down at the Ship in Wardour Street. Be there till about six. Come down if you get this in time. And get a fucking mobile, you tight Jock cunt.

  Mobile my hole. I fuckin’ hate mobile phones. And the cunts that use them. The ugly intrusiveness of the strange voice: everywhere pushing their business in your face. The last time I was in Soho on a brutal come-down all those fuckin’ tossers were standing in the street talking to themselves. The yuppies are now emulating the jakeys; drinking outside in the street and blethering shite to themselves, or rather, into those small, nearly-invisible microphones connected to their mobiles.

  But I didnae need too much persuasion tae head down there, no with this fuckin’ thirst on me. I nip out sharpish, breathless in the heat after a few yards, feeling the grime and fumes of the city insinuating itself intae me. By the time I get down to the Tube station I’m sweating like the cheese on yesterday’s pizza. Thankfully it’s cooler doon here, at least it is until you get on that fuckin’ train. There’s a couple of queers sitting opposite me; the camp, lisping type, their voices burrowing into my skull. I clock two sets of those dead, inhuman, Boy Scout eyes; a lot of poofters seem to have them. Bet ye these cunts have got mobile phones.

  Makes me think back to a couple of months ago when Charlie and I were over at the Brewers in Clapham, in that fairy pub by the park. We went in, only because we were in the area and it was open late. It was a mistake. The poncing and flouncing around, the shrill, shrieking queer voices disgusted me. I felt a sickness build in my gut and slowly force its way into my throat, constricting it, making it hard for me to breathe normally. I grimaced at Charlie and we finished our drinks and left.

  We walked over the Common in silent shame and embarrassment, the weakness of our curiosity and laziness oppressing us. Then I saw one of them coming towards us. I clocked a twist of that diseased mouth, fuck knows what that’s had in it, and it was pouting at me. Those sick, semi-apologetic queer eyes seemed to look right into my soul and interfere with my essence.

  That cunt, looking at me.

  At me!

  I just fuckin’ well lashed out. The pressure of my body behind the shot told me it was a good one. My knuckle ripped against queer teeth as the fag staggered back, holding his mouth. As I inspected the damage on my hand, relieved that the skin hadn’t drawn blood and merged with plague-ridden essence of pansy, Charlie flew in, no questions asked, smacking the cunt a beauty on the side of his face and knocking him over. The poof fell heavily on to the concrete path.

  Charlie’s a good mate, you can always rely on that cunt tae provide back-up, no that I needed it here, but I suppose that what ah’m sayin’ is that he likes to get involved. Takes an interest. Ye appreciate that in a cunt. We stuck the boot into the decked pansy. Groaning, gurgling noises escaped from his burst faggot mouth. I wanted to obliterate the twisted puppet features of the fairy, and all I could do was boot and boot at his face until Charlie pulled me away.

  Charlie’s eyes were wide and wired, and his mouth was turned down. – Enough Joe, where’s yer fucking head at? he reprimanded me.

  I glanced down at the battered, moaning beast on the deck. He was well done. So aye, fair enough, I’d lost it awright, but I didnae like poofs. I told Charlie that, as we headed off across the park, swiftly into the dusky night, leaving that thing lying whining back there.

  – Nah, I don’t see it that way, he telt us, buzzing with adrenaline, – If every other geezer was a queer, it’d be an ideal world for me. No competition: I’d ’ave me pick orf all the skirt, wouldn’t I?

  Glancing furtively, I felt we’d got away undetected. Darkness was falling and the Common seemed still deserted. My heartbeat was settling down. – Look at the fairy on the groond back thaire, I thumbed behind me as the night air cooled and soothed me. – Your bird’s expecting a kid. Ye want some pervert like that teaching your kid in the classroom? Ye want that faggot brainwashing him that what he does is fucking normal?

  – Come on, mate, you belted the geezer so I was in with ya, but I’m a live-and-let-live type of cunt myself.

  What Charlie didnae understand was the politics ay the situation; how those cunts were taking over everything. – Naw, but listen tae this, I tried to explain tae him, – Up in Scotland they want tae get rid of that Section 28 law, the only thing that stops fuckin’ queers like that interfering with kids.

  – That’s a load of old bollocks, Charlie said, shaking his head. – They didn’t have no Section fucking nothing when I was at school, nor me old man, nor his old man. We didn’t need it. Nobody can teach you who you want to fucking well shag. It’s there or it ain’t.

  – What d’ye mean? I asked him.

  – Well, you know you don’t want to shag blokes, not unless you’re a bit like that in the first place, he said, looking at me for a second or two, then grinning.

  – What’s that meant tae mean?

  – Well, you Jocks might be different cause you wear fucking skirts, he laughed. He saw ah wisnae joking so he punched me lightly on the shoulder. – C’mon Joe, I’m only pulling your leg, you uptight, narky cunt, he said. – We was out of order but we got a fucking result. Let’s move on.

  I mind that I wisnae that chuffed about this. There’s certain things that ye dinnae joke about, even if ye are mates. I decided it was nothing though, and that I was just being a bit paranoid in case somebody might have seen us stomp the queer. Charlie was a great mate, a good old boy; we wound each other up a bit for a laugh, but that was as far as it went. Charlie was a fuckin’ sound cunt. So we did move on; to a late nightspot that he knew, and we thought no more about it.

  It all came back to me during this Tube ride though. Just looking over at the nauseating pansies across fae me. Ughhh. My guts flip over as one of them gives me what seems to be a sly smile. I look away and try to control my breathing. My fingers dig into the upholstery of the seat. The two fairies get off at Covent Garden, which is ma fuckin’ stop. I let them go ahead and into the lift, which will take us up to street level. It’s mobbed, and just being in such close vicinity of those arse-bandits would make my skin crawl, so I elect to hold on for the next lift. As it is, I’m feeling sick enough when I get out and head for Wardour Street and the Ship.

  I move up to the bar and Charlie’s talking into his mobile phone. Twat. Seems to be with this lassie, who looks a bit familiar. He hasn’t seen me come in. – A little girl. Four-twenty this morning. Five pounds eleven. Both fine. Lily … he clocks me and breaks into a broad grin. I squeeze his shoulder and he nods over at the bird, who I instantly take to be his sister. – This is Lucy.

  Lucy smiles at me, cocking her head to the side, presenting her cheek for a greeting
kiss, which I’m happy to deliver. My first impression is that she’s fuckin’ fit. Her hair is long and dark brown, and she has a pair of shades pushed on top of her head. She wears blue jeans and a light-blue top. My second impression (which should be contradictory) is that she looks like Charlie.

  I knew Charlie had a twin sister, but I’d never met her before. Now she was standing with us at the bar and it was disconcerting. The thing was that she really did look like him. I could never, ever imagine a woman looking like Charlie. But she looked like him. A much slimmer, female, infinitely prettier version, but otherwise just like Charlie.

  She smiles at me and gives me a sizing-up look. I suck in my beer gut. – You’re the famous Joe, I take it? Her voice is high, a wee bit nasal, but a softer version of Charlie’s South London twang. Charlie’s South London accent is so South London that when I first met him I thought that he just had to be a posh cunt trying it on.

  – Aye. So you’re Lucy then, I state in obvious approval, looking over towards Charlie, who’s still blabbering into the mobby, then back to his sister.

  – Is everything okay?

  – Yeah, a little girl. Four-twenty this morning. Five pounds eleven.

  – Is Mellissa okay?

  – Yeah, she had to work pretty hard, but at least Charlie was there. He went away during the contractions and …

  Charlie’s off the wobbly and we’re hugging and he’s gesturing for drinks as he takes up the tale. He looks happy, exhausted and a bit bewildered. – I was there Joe! I just went out for a coffee, then I came back up and I heard them say ‘the head’s coming’ so I thought I’d better get in there sharpish. Next thing I knew it was in me arms!

  Lucy looks at him disapprovingly; her thick, black eyebrows are just like his. – It is a she. Lily, remember?

  – Yeah, we’re calling her Lily … Charlie’s mobile rings again. He raises his eyebrows and shrugs. – Hi, Dave … yeah, a little girl … four twenty this morning … five pounds eleven Lily … Probably the Roses … I’ll call yer in an hour … Cheers.

  Just as he went to draw breath, the phone rang again.

  – It’s funny how we’ve never met, Lucy says, – because Charlie’s always talking about you.

  I think about this. – Yeah, he’d asked me to be best man at the wedding but my old man was pretty ill at the time and ah had tae go back up the road. Ah think it was better though, one of eh’s mates fae the Manor daein it, somebody that knew the family ’n’ that.

  The old man pulled through okay. No that he was keen to see me in any case. He never forgave me for no going to our Angela’s communion. Couldnae tell him but, couldnae tell him it was because of that Priest cunt. No now. Too much water under the bridge. But that cunt’ll get his one day.

  – I dunno, might have been nice to have seen you in a kilt, she giggles. Laughter makes her face dance. I realize that she’s a little drunk and emotional but she’s actively flirting with me. Her resemblance to Charlie, they really are Yin and Yang, makes this unnerving, but strangely exciting. The thing is, I mind that cunt casting aspersions, just after we’d battered that poof on the Common. I’m now wondering how he’d feel if his sister and me got it on.

  As Lucy and I chat to each other, I can sense Charlie picking up the vibe. He’s still talking on the phone, but it’s charged with urgency now; he’s trying to end the conversation ASAP so he can work out what’s going with us. I’ll show that cunt. Casting aspersions. English bastard.

  – Nigel … you heard. Good news travels fast. Four-thirty this morning … A little girl … Five eleven … Both doing well … Lily … The Roses … Probably nine but I’ll phone you in an hour. Bye Nige.

  I catch the barman’s attention and signal for three Beck’s and three Smirnoff Mules. Charlie raises a brow. – Steady on, Joe, it’s going to be a long night. We’re going down the Roses tonight, to wet the baby’s head.

  – Sound by me.

  Lucy pulls on my arm and says, – Me ’n’ Joe’s started already.

  I’m thinking that Charlie’s done a good PR job on me ’cause I’ve as good as pulled his sister without saying a fuckin’ word. By the look on the poor cunt’s face he thinks so as well; thinks he’s done too good a job. – Yeah, well, I got to get back, he whines, get some things sorted out for Mel and the baby coming home tomorrow. I’ll see you two later on down the Roses. Try not to get too sozzled.

  – Awright, dad, I say in a deadpan manner, and Lucy laughs, maybe a bit too loudly. Charlie smiles and says, – Tell ya wot, Joe, I could tell she was Millwall. She came out kicking!

  I think about this for a second. – Call her Milly instead of Lily.

  Charlie pushes down his bottom lip, raises his brow and rubs his jaw as if he’s actively considering this. Lucy pushes him in his chest, – Don’t you dare! Then she turns to me and says, – You’re as bad as he is, you are, encouraging him! She’s quite loud for a quiet pub and a few people turn around, but nobody’s bothered, they know we’re just enjoying a harmless high. I’m right into her now. I fancy her. I like the way she moved that one extra wee step forward into my space. I like the way she leans into you when she talks, the way her eyes dart about, how her hands move when she gets excited. OK, it is an emotional time, but she’s a banger, game as fuck, you can tell. I’m liking her more and more, and seeing less and less of Charlie in her as the drink takes effect. I like that mole on her chin; it’s no a mole, it’s a fuckin’ beauty spot, and her long, luxuriant dark-brown hair. Aye, she’ll dae awright.

  – See ya, Charlie goes. He gives me a bear hug, then breaks it and kisses and hugs Lucy. As he departs, the mobile goes off. – Mark! Hello! … A little girl … Four twenty … Sorry Mark, you’re breaking up a bit, mate, wait till I get outside …

  Lucy and I leisurely finish our drinks before deciding to move on. We’re off down Old Compton Street and, as usual, the place is teeming with arse-bandits. Everywhere you look. I’m disgusted, but I say nowt to her. It’s almost obligatory for a bird in London to have a fag mate these days. A loyal accessory for when the real man in her life fucks off. Cheaper than a dog and you don’t have to feed it or take it for walks. Mind you, you don’t have to listen to an Alsatian lisping and bleating doon the phone that its border collie partner sucked off a strange Rottweiler in the local park.

  Dirty fuckin’ …

  I get up off the stool and have to sit down again for a bit ’cause I feel faint. My heartbeat’s racing and there’s a pain in my chest. I’ll have to take things easier, drinking heavily in this heat always fucks me.

  – You okay, Joe? Lucy asks.

  – Never better, I smile, composing myself. But I’m thinking about how I had to sit down for a bit earlier today, over at Andy’s. I picked up the sledgehammer and was itching to let fly at his wall. Then I felt this kind of spasm in my chest and I honestly thought I was going to pass out. I sat down for a bit and I was fine. Just been caning it a bit lately. That’s what being single again does for you.

  I get up and I’m a bit edgy in the next pub, but I concentrate on Lucy, blacking out all the queer goings-on around us. We have another couple of beers, then decide to go for a pizza at Pizza Express to soak up some of the booze. – It’s weird that we haven’t met before, you being one of Charlie’s closest mates … Lucy considers.

  – … and you being his twin, I interject. – Tell ye what though, you’re a lot better looking than him.

  – So are you, she says, with a cool evaluating stare. We look at each other across the table for a couple of seconds. Lucy’s quite a skinny lassie, but she’s got a bust on her. That never fails to impress, that one: substantial tits on a skinny bird. Never ceases to cause me to take a deep breath of admiration. She takes her shades from her head and sweeps her hair back out of her eyes in that Sloaney gesture which, for all its camp, let’s face it, never fails to get the hormones racing. No that she’s a posh bird or nowt like that, she’s just a salt-of-the-earth type, like her brother.

 
Charlie’s sister.

  – I think that’s what’s called an awkward silence, I smile.

  – I don’t want to go to Lewisham, Lucy says to me with a toothy grin, as she stoops forward in the chair. She’s sitting on her hands, to stop them flying about, I think. She’s quite expressive that way, they were fairly swooping around in that last pub.

  But aye, fuck South London the now. – Nah, I’m no that bothered either. I’m enjoying it with just the pair of us, to be honest.

  Then she says to me, – You don’t say very much but when you do it’s really sweet.

  I think of the smashed poof in the park and clench my teeth in a smile. Sweet talk. – You’re sweet, I tell her.

  Sweet talk.

  – Where do you stay? She quizzes, raising her eyebrows.

  – Tufnell Park, I tell her. I should say more, but there isnae any point. She’s doing fine for the both of us, and I sense that I can only talk myself out of a shag right now, and I’m no about tae dae that. Not with the way my sex life’s been lately.

  It’s a bummer sharing a gaff with two fit birds and no going oot wi anybody. Everybody says, lucky bastard, but it’s sheer torture. But I find that the more you say that you’re not shagging either of them, the less inclined people are to believe you. I feel like that Man About the House cunt.

  Aye, ah could dae wi a ride.

  So could she, by the sound ay things. – Let’s get a cab, Lucy urges.

  In the taxi I kiss her on the lips. In my celibate paranoia I’m expecting them to be cold and tight, like I’ve misread the signs, but they’re open, warm and lush and before I know it we’re eating each other’s faces. The snatches of conversation when we come up for air reveal that we’re both in the process of getting over other people. We urgently rap out those monologues, both knowing that if we weren’t so close to Charlie we wouldn’t have bothered, but in the circumstances it seems only mannered to be up to speed with each other’s recent history. But whether we’re really over our exes or not, it’s nae bother: rebound rides are better than okay if celibacy is the only alternative.