— Aye, but it’s a bit late tae ask aboot that now, son.
— Sorry, should’ve checked it oot before. Passion ay the moment, eh?
She rolls her eyes doubtfully and sparks up a snout, offering me yin. Ah decline n she gies us a brief, uncomprehending look. The lighter illuminates her pinched, sharp face. Coupons like hers ah always think ay as auld persons’ puses. She’ll eywis look the same. — That Mikey can be jealous if ah talk tae anybody else. He’s obsessed. It’s creepy. Ah dinnae fancy him, n ah’ve made it fuckin plain enough.
Forrester’s an arsehole, but naebody likes a cockteaser and ah can tell that this bird’s been delightin in giein the radge the runaboot. There’s nae fun tae be had in listenin tae somebody rabbitin on aboot their fixation wi a party they arenae even fuckin, so ah get my clathes oan and head off intae the night, citing the excuse ay work in the morning.
When ah git back tae the flat, Sick Boy still isnae back. Ah start tae strip oaf again n look at ma body in the full-length mirror. Ah systematically tourniquet and tap up ma veins, finding oot where the best yins are. There’s better ones in ma legs, a good yin on the crook ay ma arm, and one oan the wrist that ah just might be able tae get up oan demand. Ah’m fucked if ah’m gittin left oot again.
The door goes and it’s awfay late, aboot two o’clock, n ah answer it in ma Ys, thinkin it’s Sick Boy, n the cunt’s left his keys. But it’s Spud; wi a cairry-out. He’s semi-pished and tells us he’s been peyed oaf fae the removal firm the poor cunt’s worked at since he left school. — Fancy a beer, or mibbe gaun up the Hoochie fir the last bop, likesay?
Hate tae say it but ah ’m bored with the Hoochie. A bad sign: the Hooch and Easter Road are the only temples ay spiritual enlightenment left in this city. Ah tell him ah’m skagged up, n besides, by the time wi get up thaire it’ll be game ower.
He follays ma eyes tae the works oan the table. He shakes his heid n blaws oot heavily fae puckered lips. — Ah’ve done the lot, man, but ah draw the big broon line in the sand at Portybelly beach wi the smack, likesay.
— Ah jist chase it, but, ah inform him. — Ye dinnae git addicted that wey. It’s barry, man, like nae other feelin oan earth. Ye jist dinnae gie a fuck aboot anything; everything is just so damn fine, ah tell him.
— Ah pure want tae try it.
No exactly a hard sell. So ah git oot the gear n a foil pipe (ah’ve practised makin tons ay them) n we huv a blast. Ye can feel the aluminium particles wi the dirty smoke stickin tae yir lungs, but the heid starts tae feel weighty and a euphoria creeps intae my soul expanding through us like a burst ay sunlight. Spud, wi his crooked smile and heavy eyes, looks like a reflection ay me and we share a solitary thought: Everything else can go n fuck itself. Sittin back oan the couch, ah tell um, — Ye see, Spud, this is aw just a big adventure before ah clean up for gaun tae Europe, n back tae uni.
— An adventure … he rasps, fightin back the urge tae puke, then succumbin, as thick yellow vomit splashes from him oantae the flair, where the cairry-oot sits, untouched.
Dutch Elm
SHE WAS LATE, and knew that wasn’t the way to make the desired impression on the first day of her new job. Going out yesterday had been a bad idea, but following that visit to her parents’, Alison had wanted to obliterate everything. The terrible moment her mother had coughed that viscid blood into her hanky. The way they’d unravelled; her mother, father and her, as they sat transfixed on the dark red stain in her mother’s hand. But the real horror had been in the mask of guilt on Susan Lozinska’s face. She’d apologised, fretfully saying to her eldest daughter and her husband, Derrick, — I think it’s back.
It had been Alison’s afternoon off, a break from finishing up at the pool, before she started her new job. She’d popped her head into the parental home to salve her guilt about not seeing her folks as often as she perhaps should, since moving out a couple of years ago. Her younger siblings, Mhairi and Calum, weren’t around, and she’d been glad of that. Her dad’s tense, white face as he tried to get some defiance into his voice: — We’ll get the tests done, and if it is, just saying like, if it is, we’ll get through it, Susan. We’ll get through it thegither!
Alison had felt the room spinning and the world seemed to sink through her. She’d stayed a while, responding in kind to their thin voices, which seemed muffled, as if coming from another room. Her mother, now looking so wrecked and stricken, and her dad, a thin, mustachioed man, who’d been just about holding onto a spruce and spiffy sense of himself in middle age, visibly dwindling in solidarity with his wife at the onset of this terrible news. It’s back. Then Alison had left, walking up to her flat in Pilrig. Unable to settle, she’d quickly headed out into the early evening. In Lesley and Sylvia, she’d bumped into two girls she didn’t know that well. They’d gone to some drug party in Muirhouse, after which she’d ended up at Tollcross on Johnny Swan’s couch.
Johnny had wandering hand trouble and had tried to feel her up in the night. Through her befuddled narcotic and emotional confusion, she’d sprung to animation and told him to fuck off; she wasn’t that blootered. Then he’d begged her so much for sex, to the point where Alison almost felt like she was the abuser for refusing to fuck him. For a second she’d almost relented, just to shut him up, before it dawned on her exactly how horrible that would have been on every level. Eventually, he gave up and left her, grumbling his way back to the bedroom.
Leaving in the early-morning light, she’d returned to her Pilrig flat, showered, then staggered up to her new job, and the conference at the City Council Chambers.
During her mother’s long illness, Alison had grown used to filling her life with distractions. The Edinburgh Women’s Poetry Group was a good one. It had the added advantage of being a male-free zone. She’d gone along to the EWPG with her mate Kelly, till the latter’s boyfriend Des felt threatened and, through his sneering derision, put a stop to her friend’s involvement. It wrecked her head to see Kelly, such a happy and outgoing soul, develop this brittle exoskeleton when Des came into the company. It was the refuge she’d habitually slither into, from where she’d hang on every inconsequential word that came out of his mouth. Still, that was her choice, and Alison’s had been to keep going to the poetry group.
She wasn’t enamoured with all the girls there. Plenty had an obvious sexual agenda, while a few really hated men, generalising from their personal bad experiences. But Alison could tell some hadn’t internalised the lesson, and were thus destined to find their next equivalent, the misogynistic semi-alcoholic who brooded bitterly from the bar stool about the last bitch who’d taken him to the cleaners. There was a Des for every one of those girls; it really was such a pity he was with Kelly. Then there were those that Alison considered the worst members of the group: the ones who actually thought they were decent poets.
Most of the women, though, Alison liked. It had been an experimental time in her life. She learned a little about verse structure and haikus, and that after going to bed with this girl called Nora, she could never be a lesbian. When Nora went down on her it was enjoyable for a bit, but then Alison had started thinking, Right, fair enough, but when’s the fuckin tadger comin along? But obviously it wasn’t and she’d started to feel irritated and tense, like she was wasting her time. At least Nora wasn’t selfish cause she got the message, lifting her head out the turf, conceding, ‘This isn’t really working out for you, is it?’ Alison had to confirm it wasn’t. And she felt bad that she wasn’t moved to reciprocate: Nora’s somewhat heavy, musky scent had made her think of her own menstruation.