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

THE SUNLIGHT SUDDENLY pours in through my window from behind a cloud, cutting across Lara in a dramatic sweep as she lies sprawled across the bottom of my bed. I sidle away from it in vampire panic, squinting as I move back against my headboard. I feel very spotty and it’ll show up everything. Touching my face, I wince as an angry boil throbs under my skin. I’m bloated and cramped and my period is due. I can tell that when it starts I’ll be bleeding for days like a stuck pig. One good thing is that it means I’ll drop another couple of pounds of repulsive girl-fat, hopefully ducking under the ten-stone mark, when it comes on.

Lara, or Ms Grant as I often call her, we use the liberated prefix with a compulsive irony that depresses us, takes one more puff on the joint and puts it in the ashtray, passing it over to me. — Do you think Will’s girlfriend is good-looking, Ms Cahill? she asks me yet again.

I take a long toke and settle back against my stacked pillows. — The point is he obviously does, I curtly inform her. I’m loath to go through all this tiresome ‘you’re much better-looking than her, if only he could meet you he’d realise there and then you’d be our next anorexic Queen’ shit with her. Aka the usual crap she evidently needs to hear so much. — Besides, Ms Grant, don’t you think he’s a bit young to be going bald?

— No, he’s so dishy, she says dreamily.

Lara floats in and out of people’s lives, well, my life, as it suits her. When she comes back into my orbit after living on Mars or wherever, I’m expected to kick everyone else out of it, in order to make room for her. She undermines my other friends, and does it very well, pointing out negative qualities I’d previously been blind to, but in a very benign way, making it hard to take offence. Then, once she has you all to herself, she vanishes. She stops calling and texting and is reticent about returning messages, making you feel very needy. If I challenge her about her disappearances, she’ll tell me that she has ‘boy issues’. She always has loads of boyfriends but is the kind of girl who somehow escapes the slag reputation. At least with other girls. Some of the boys she sees, I wonder what they say about her. — What about that big guy you’ve been seeing in Dunfermline, are you going to see him again?

— Yeah, for sure, she says, but in a very unsure manner, then ventures, — He’s kind of fun, I suppose, in a thicko sort of way. He’s uncomplicated, she thoughtfully states. — Confident. In bed, if you know what I mean, and her eyes charge with light and she looks searchingly at me.

I nod, too quickly. I don’t want to talk about sex or to hear her talk about sex and she knows that so that’s what’s going to happen. The sun’s gone behind a cloud. The room has turned a murky blue.

— But why are we talking about my sex life, Ms Cahill? she asks with glee. — You’re the one who so badly needs to get laid!

— I need to leave home, I tell her, passing the joint back.

Lara flicks the ash off the end of the joint. — Yeah, but not if you want to keep jumping. It’s hard to do equestrian sports in Fife from a flat in Edinburgh, she says, then considerately adds, — but not impossible. You could always put Midnight in stables.

— I couldn’t, not now. He’s not used to it. It would break his heart… and mine, I miserably concede.

— Well, that means that you’re basically tied to being here as long as you want to jump with him, she contends, and not without some smugness.

— I know, I know! I moan, pulling my knees up under my chin. — That’s the fucking choice! Riding horses and competing with no social life and living at home with my fucking parents in this shithole, or having a proper life somewhere, but giving up the horse.

— Put him in Fiona’s stables, Jen. It’s practically next door! Your dad wouldn’t mind shelling out.

I look evenly at her. — That’s the point. He thinks I can’t look after him. It would be a great victory for him, and confirm that I’m as useless as he thinks.

— Can you look after him?

— Yes! I snap, guilty at the thought of his damaged leg. — It’s all I do! I’m in the stable mucking out, feeding, every day. That’s why I packed in uni! That’s why I stay here in this shithole!

— I suppose Fife isn’t that bad. You just need to get out more, Ms Cahill, she says, looking over at the pile of CDs on my table. — Everything’s gloomy if you’re sitting in your room listening to Nick Cave and Marilyn Manson all day. Come out with me and Monty and his friend. We’re going somewhere special on Tuesday night.

— Where?

Lara glares intently at me, her eyes staring me down. A smile plays across her ruby-painted lips. — It’s secret, you have to promise that you’ll never tell.

I’m now interested in spite of myself, although I’m trying to affect bored. — Why the big mystery?

— Cause it’s not, well, it’s not strictly legal.

— Is it some kind of party or rave?

— No, don’t be daft, she says, looking at me in that patronising ‘I’m so worldly’ way that always nauseates.

— What then?

— Promise first.

— Okay, I say, — I swear on the life of both my parents.

She shakes her head firmly in the negative. — Swear on Midnight’s life.

No way. — Oh for fuck’s sake, either tell me or don’t, I snap.

Lara contemplates this ultimatum for a while, regarding me as if I’m an insolent wretch. And I can’t help feeling my growing discomfort at her impending disapproval. Just when it gets unbearable and I’m moved to apologise, her face softens. — Okay, she purrs, and then grins, — actually, we’re going dog fighting.

THE LAST COUPLE ay days shot by like a crack hoor oan crystal. Partyin at Kravy’s aw day n night, shootin aroond oan the back ay ehs bike. Crashin oot n wakin up tae aw they takeaway cartons n empty cans litterin the flair. One or two auld Chinky tinfoil efforts, but mainly boaxes fi Sandy’s Pizza Hoose oan the High Street. Ah pit it doon tae Domino’s sponsorin The Simpsons oan Sky n Pizza Hut sponsorin it oan Channel 4. So wi went fir a few outlandish creations wi loads ay pineapple n that, aw inspired by the tarry.

But sometimes ye hae tae wrap it up, and just go hame tae sleep. So ah take that long walk past the auld Soviet-style building ay the now renamed Miners’ Welfare Institute. Aye, the Iron Curtain came doon in Central Fife as much as it did in East Europe and the frozen winds ay the marketplace huv been blastin us since. In capitalist development wir much mair along the Bulgarian-Romanian lines, thin the likes ay the Czech Republic or any ay they new trendy Baltic States. Mair cappuccino outlets in Tallinn or Riga thin Central Fife: that ah’ll wager!

Then ah come oantae the roundabout at the Bruce Hotel. It’s been a niggly hoor ay a winter but this is aboot the first real spring day. So ah’m oantae the high street and past the Goth, duckin doon the lane at the station intae the hoose. Hand trembling in the lock as the key goes in. Thir’s nae sign ay the auld boy thank fuck, probably doon the library again, readin the Marxist propaganda thit still slips through the cooncil’s net. Thank fuck fir dissidents! Thir’s a letter fir ays ehs left oan the mantelpiece. Ah open it up:

Dear Mr King,

We have received several complaints about your behaviour during yesterday’s Scottish Cup tie at the Cowdenbeath Leisure Centre. Your opponent, Mr John Mossman, has made a formal complaint to us. The association’s supervising officer and referee, Mr Alasdair Sinclair, has filed his own report. I have to inform you that your behaviour is totally unacceptable to the East of Scotland Table Footballing Association and in breach of our Rules of Conduct, with specific reference to rules number 14 (c) and 27 (b and c).