Irvine Welsh - If You Liked School, You'll Love Work

— Did you do that when you were a kid, Michael, smooth out silver paper? Cynth’s rabbiting on.

— Yeah, I tell her. Smooth out silver paper. What the fuck is she on about?

Cynth made the effort, I’ll give her that, but Em ain’t responding to none of my jokes, she just sits with a long face all day. All night she’s buried in that book as I’m playing arrows with Vince and Rodj. — What about that last night? Vince goes.

— What? I say, looking at Rodj, half expecting to hear something about him and Bert!

— Geezer shot dead. He throws down the paper in front of me.

My Spanish ain’t great shakes but I can make out that a British holidaymaker was shot dead outside the Duke of York pub over in Lanzarote. A parky little chill comes over me and for some reason I think back to them two geezers what was in the boozer the other night. A funny pair, right enough. Proper shit me up, they did: that cunt going on about people vanishing. They didn’t do a very good job of making anybody disappear, by all accounts. Police found him right there in the house. I’m trying to remember what it was they called the geezer they was jawing about.

I look over at Em, still reading old Philip K. Dick. Some mind, that geezer. Blade Runner, Minority Report, Star Wars , the brains behind all that shit, he was. Nice work if you can get it. Too bad he’s dead now, so he won’t have seen any dosh for it all. Life can be unfair, but mind you, you dunno how much the cunt was worth alive.

Rodj’s been on the treble eighteen for centuries, after looking like he was gonna take me to the cleaners. Bottle always goes: couldn’t bleedin well check out in the farking supermarket. If Marce wants a length from that department, she could be waiting a long time, especially with old Bert doing his nut. An ominous silence on that topic.

I hit the fourteen and finish up all nifty on the double twenty. — Bastard, Rodj curses and then looks at Em and Cynth. — Pardon my French, ladies, he adds. They both look unimpressed, as well they might.

— This geezer wot was gunned down, what do they say about him? I ask.

— Businessman on holiday, Vince goes.

Businessman. Every cunt’s a farking businessman nowadays. Covers a bleedin multitude, that one. — What sort of business was he in?

Rodj shrugs and pours himself a large snifter from the bar. He glances to me and I find myself nodding back in agreement without thinking what I’m doing. Sure enough, I’ve a glass of Scotch you could float the HMS Belfast in. — They didn’t say, Vince shrugs.

Nah, they wouldn’t bleedin say. So, in reality, we know nothing.

Later that night Seph bells and tells me she’s over in Lanzarote. I inform Cynth that I’ve business over there and ask her to look after Em tomorrow. They ain’t best pleased, nor is Rodj, but shit happens and I ain’t up for explaining things.

I DECIDED THAT it was about time that I went to visit my old mate Pete Worth at the Cumbria Arms, over in Lanzarote. It was a bright Saturday morning and I got into the motor ready to head down to the ferry, change islands and drive up to the nice little bar in the old town harbour at Puerto del Carmen, where I’d arranged to meet Seph. I was anticipating a carefree, seamless little jaunt.

Didn’t work out like that though.

I’m passing the garage, and I look over and I see a sight that makes my arsehole clench like a bookie’s fist. It’s them two geezers, the ones what was in yesterday and they’re only talking to Emily and Cynth…

I stop the car and get out sharpish. As I stride across the forecourt, the geezers get into their own motor and head off without seeing me. Emily and Cynth clock me soon enough, though. — I thought you’d gone, Cynth says.

— Nah… only running late, innit. I look over my shoulder. — What did them geezers you was talking to want?

— Trying to chat her up, Em laughs.

Cynth goes all that silly little girl way, like some old boilers tend to whenever there’s a fresh slab of beef around. That old routine ain’t fooling nobody. — No they wasn’t, and she even touches her flaming hair, — they was just asking about the bar, that’s all.

I do not like the smell of this, and I ain’t talking about Cynth’s knickers neither, though by her posture I detect a fair amount of spillage in that department. — What do you mean, asking about the bar?

— Well, they were in the other night for a drink… Cynth says, her eyes going wide.

— Yeah, yeah, I remember…

—… and they were just saying how nice a pub the Herefordshire Bull was, made them feel right at home. They was asking about how long it had been up and running, that’s all, she says, looking all guilty, like she’s been caught telling tales out of school.

I grab a handful of Cynth’s fleshy arm. Pulling her away from Em, I lower my voice, — Asking about the guvnor, was they? I dig my other thumb into my chest.

— No… she says, then admits, — well, just if it’s an Englishman what runs it and where you come from… They was just making conversation, that’s all, and then she shrugs my grip off and starts rubbing her arm, looking at me like I’m some sort of beast.

Questions and answers, honesty lies. Cool it, Mickey son. Think what Roger Moore or Kenneth More or Bobby Moore would do in this situ. Think composure under pressure. Calmness and serenity.

— Sorry, darlin, I’m a bit uptight at the mo, I apologise, stepping into her with a peck on the cheek, leaving my face up close to hers.

She’s staring back at me like she don’t have a clue. Cynth ain’t no mug, but like most skirt, thinking outside the box ain’t exactly her forte.

I see that Em’s distracted, looking at stuff in the garage-shop window. — Listen, Cynth, if those geezers come sniffing around you, or Em or the bar, I want you to bell me on the mobile straight away, capeesh?

Cynth takes a step back. — They wasn’t the law, was they?

— Worse than that, darlin, I lower my voice, — HM Customs and Excise, I believe, I touch my nose and wink. — Keep shtum abaht this one gel, alright?

— Of course… she says, then looks worried. —… There’s nothing wrong, is there?

— Nothing we can’t sort out, I say, looking across at Em by the shop. I leap over to the kiosk and order three big chocolate ice-cream cones. — There ya go, I say, dishing them out. Takes me back to the summer jaunts me, Em and Trees had down in Hastings. Good times. Em don’t look too chuffed though. Cynth blows out her cheeks and says, — We just had one…

I’m reasoning that Cynth needs to keep that calorie count up. Getting extra fat is one thing, but sustaining it is a problem. If she falls below one thousand five hundred a day, it’ll start dropping off. Loads of snacks with high sugar content does the trick, along with convenience food loaded with additives; that and plenty of booze. — Can’t have too much of a good thing, I tell her. — If we hadn’t had that stuff around in the Second World War, the Yanks might never have come in and we might all be poncing around in jackboots right now. Come to think of it though… I wink at Cynth. — Right, I look over to the car, — I’d best scarper. My old mate Worthy, he can’t abide lack of punctuality. Reckons it shows disrespect, and I’ll tell ya wot, I wag my finger in lecturing mode, — he ain’t wrong.

Cynth looks at me all that pleading way and she goes, — When will you be back?

— A few hours, gels, worse bleedin luck. No rest for the wicked, I shout at Em. — Bye, princess!

Then I’m in the motor and that ice cream gets slung out the window as soon as I’m out of sight. Chunking up in skirt is fine; I reckon lots of us geezers are closet chubby-chasers. It ain’t an option for me though; no decent minge wants porky trouser. I get down to the harbour and I’m ramping the motor onto the ferry. Never really liked Lanzarote; too commercialised. Mind you, Fuerty’s getting that way n all, and Worthy, to give him his due, fairly rakes it in at the Cumbria. He can stuff it though, it’s the QOL issue, innit.