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

— Did eh say that you wir tae rest n aw? Eh should be in they stables ay La Rue’s, where eh kin git taken proper care ay.

God, change the fucking record! — I’ve done everything Dobson told me—

— Aye, that Dobson’s a waste ay space, he looks at me, — kens absolutely nowt. N how are ye gaunny beat that bools-in-the-mooth Lara wi a milkman’s hoarse like thon? Aw that parasite does is eat eat eat. Ye stick a nosebag in front ay him n eh’d keep eatin till eh burst. Ah hope you’re no overfeedin him.

— Oh please, do stop wittering on. I turn away. The coarser he gets the more proper I become. It’s practically the only game we play where I always win, as he ends up sounding like a village idiot.

But this time, he’s a thin smile playing across his face. — Tell ye what though, the weight’s fair flyin oaf ye, hen. That’s the wey tae beat that yin, ah kin tell ye! Keep up the guid work, he winks.

The horrible thing is that this is his way of trying to bond.

He leaves me and I feel defiled and unclean. I want to go out to the Burger King. He really knows how to get under my skin. What did my mother see in him? There’s nothing between them. I can’t even think what there once could have been. I think of the photos of them young, her pretty, him still the same. I try to imagine a man emotional and tender enough, even for a few fleeting minutes, to get a woman’s name carved into his skin. How I’d love to resurrect that man of then, if just for a day.

The alienation between him and my mother is such that he can’t even bear to spend any time alone with her on their anniversary. He’s therefore insisted that we all go out ‘to celebrate as a family’. He might have taken her, us, out to Edinburgh or Glasgow, or even Dunfermline or Kirkcaldy. Even the simple kindness of making that small effort is beyond him. He’s marched us down to La Ducal; the nearest you’ll get to fine dining in Cowdenbeath.

— Push the boat out, my tongue drips sarcasm at the news.

— La Ducal is lovely, Mum bleats in piteous gratitude.

— I cannae drive due to our friends in the Fife constabulary, he reminds me.

Funny, but it never seems to stop him when it’s work. I almost feel like volunteering my motoring services but no way: I’ll need a drink to get through this. — What about public transport? I ask.

— Ugh! Ming-ing! Indigo screws her face up.

— I cannae be bothered waiting on trains and the taxis are a rip-off, he explains. — It’s settled then. Cowdenbeath’s finest it is.

To be fair La Ducal is pretty good, a lot better than somewhere in a town like Cowdenbeath has the right to be. At least you have decent tapas and cappuccino. If you don’t look outside it’s possible to kid yourself on that you’re somewhere else. As the Sunday Post put it: ‘Good food, friendly service, nice surroundings.’ It’s a pity about the dining company, but you can’t have everything.

— This is nice, Mum says. If they stuck her in Auschwitz in the forties she’d say the same thing.

— So how many years have you two been married? Indy asks, crunching on a breadstick.

— Eighteen and counting, Dad smiles, knocking back his wine and refilling his glass. I hold mine out for the same treatment. He looks warily at me, but tops it up all the same.

When the main course arrives, Dad’s mobile goes off. — Oh Tom, Mum thinly protests.

— Have to take this yin, he winks at her. — Excuse me a tick, girls. How goes? his voice spits into the phone. — Just a minute, he tersely says as he departs out into the street. I see him through the window, holding the phone like it was a robot device sucking the life out of him, moving like he’s burning or badly needing to pee.

I don’t know what he’s up to but I know it’s no good. The only reason I care is not because he’s ruined this already fucked-up night, but that he’s dragged me out to make small talk with these two while he hatches his pathetic schemes. — Wonder what he’s playing at? I muse.

— Need you ask? my mum says, then adds, — Work. He never stops, she rolls her eyes wistfully.

I want to shout into her stupid face, ‘What he’s up to is fucking somebody else, and that’s if you’re very, very lucky.’ But I don’t. And the only reason I don’t, I consider with a reflective shudder, is because I don’t even care enough about their sordid business and their dull lives. I want to go. To get out of Cowdenbeath, Fife, Scotland, and out of that house for good.

THEY FAIR SET upon ays awright, yon time, they fuckin Dunfermline boys. Big Monty jist stood thair grinnin, n eh’s since goat mobbed up wi thum. A fuckin traitor as well as a liar. Accused ays ay instigatin trouble. Fair tanned ays in n it hurts ma pride as a Cowdenbeath man, tae come oaf second best tae they hoors. Aye, even if thir wis a tidy wee mob ay thum, it cannae be disputed thit me n Boaby Shek fae the Chinky took a hoor’s erse ay a panellin.

The kung fu films, ya hoor; when ah befriended um ah thoat thit the laddie Shek would be able tae hud ehs ain, mibbe ken some ay they moves. But aw eh does is read comic books n listen tae the likes ay Coldplay n Marillion n tell every cunt aboot the time eh studied engineerin at Heriot-Watt before eh flunked oot. Even hud ehs gaun doon tae Haddington wi um, n stalkin the lead singer Fish aka Derek Dick, at the boy’s hoose. Ah’ve ey been mair a fanny stalker thin a celeb stalker, but Sheky insisted. Worse thing wis thit ah wis the one thit hud tae go in n git ehs autograph, Boaby jist turned intae a twelve-year-auld lassie. Eh managed one partin shot, took um ages tae git it oot: — Any new… any new… new projects… any new projects in the offing? And then the cunt ran away wi embarrassment before the bemused Fish could reply. Left me oan the doorstep explaining tae the frontman thit it wis a minor form ay Tourette’s thit Boaby suffered fae, n the boy jist nodded sagely before eh goat shouted back intae the hoose by some supermodel bird.

But Haddington’s much preferable tae Dunfermline. Fife ma hairy hole; it’s an Edinburgh suburb. So even though ‘thon place’ hus bad memories, ah wants tae see what kind ay a gaff this hoor fae the East ay Scotland Table Fitba Association’s goat. So eftir a guid shower and change ay clathes, ah gits a quick one in the Goth. Thir’s a choice ay the 15, 30 or 19 buses tae Dunfermline up the road, but ah cannae be ersed walkin up thaire, so ah faw oot ay the boozer intae the station.

Ah keep tellin folks thit ah stey in Central Cowdenbeath. Ye kin gob n hit ma hoose fae the railway station platforms, ya hoor. Ye see the block ay cooncil dwellings wi the wheelie bins ootside, rubbish n recyclin; black for the black diamonds, blue fir the Blue Brazil.

Oan the choo-choo, wee Richey the Assaultee comes tae punch ma ticket. The boy’s a local legend; eywis in the Central Fife media fur gittin battered by youths, totally unprovoked, ah should say. Mind you though, some wid say thit the ginger heid wis provocation enough, no thit ah wid number masel wi they bad bastards.

When the boy goat a start at ScotRail the high heid yins couldnae believe thir luck. An abused ginger stepchild wi a pair ay een that made yon Bambi look like the shark oot ay Finding Nemo , and eh wis comin tae work fir thum in front-line employment! Of course, they wanted Richey as poster boy fir thir anti-violence against staff campaign. Telt the hoor ehs look possessed jist the right amount ay pathos. Said thit eh could be a celebrity, like thon black hoor wi the bottom-ay-coke-boatil glesses fae the Halifax.

Richey weighed up the proposal, balancing the pros and cons, but opted tae stey relatively anonymous. Said that eh didnae want tae be even mair visible tae ‘disaffected youth in the local community whae already see me as a bit ay an authority figure thanks tae the uniform’. His words, ya hoor, no mine.