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

— For sure, ah sais.

Eh nods in conspiracy n wi go intae a bedroom. It contains nae Margaret Thatcher but thir’s loads ay lassies’ clathes hingin oan the racks. — Kathleen’s place… just as she left it… I never… eh starts sobbin softly, takin oaf ehs glesses n rubbin ehs eyes. Then eh picks up one ay the hangers wi a Next top oan it n holds it against ays. Lookin at ays for a second, eh pills it away. — You wouldn’t… no, I’m being silly… forgive me, King, put it down to the lunacy of the bereaved… when you’ve lost everything you go to a point beyond desperation, you’ll attempt anything to alleviate the pain… foolish, I know…

— Eh, what? ah hear masel say. — Ah’ll help ye oot if ah kin.

Auld Olly’s lookin at ays wi they big moist eyes n ah’m thinkin aboot yon Bambi film. Me n the auld girl watchin it thegither, that sad bit whaire the ma dies. Muh ma sayin, ‘That could be me n naebody wid care,’ n me gaun ‘Ah’d care, Ma, ah’d care, ah’m yir wee Bambi,’ n her replenishin her sherry gless n gittin aw tearful. Poignant times indeed, sor, afore she shunted ower tae yon Dunfermline four-poster n Shitey-Ersed Arnie, n the recollection ay thum fair gits me gaun. Perr auld Olly. — Anythin ah kin dae…

— Well, you could do me one hell of a favour Mr K—… Jason. You see, I never got a chance to say goodbye to Kathleen and you remind me of her so much… I know I’m being stupid and it’s such a self-indulgent favour to ask… but it would be very greatly appreciated.

I’m thinking, perr boy, if ah kin help him n help me at the same time, ya hoor sor, ah’m in thair. Ulster, Palestine, Fife; lit the healin process begin! — Anythin ye like, Olly.

— Well, I was thinking that if I could ask you to slip these clothes on… it’s crazy, I know, but if I could pretend that you were Kathleen, it would only take a few minutes, I would be so grateful… so that I could say goodbye and achieve, I don’t know, I think that ‘closure’ is the fashionable term these days.

— Well, aye…

— Like a glove, Jason, lad. These clothes would fit you like a glove.

Ah look thum up n doon. Some nice stuff here, awright. — That ah’ll wager, sor; that ah’ll wager.

So ah wis game, if it meant helpin the perr boy n at the same time silencin some ay the critics in the New Goth, who would jist love tae see the King ay Fife cast aside oan the table-football scrapheap. So ah’m intae the gear; blouse, short skirt, stockins, sussys the lot, and of course the high heels, the boy bein particularly delighted that the shoes fitted.

Then eh comes through wi a wig n a make-up box, which ah’m a wee bit perturbed wi. — I can’t believe it, you look just like her as she dressed in her final days as an insurance broker at Scottish Equitable… He hands ays the wig n the make-up, ya hoor. — To crave your further indulgence, Mr King, the uncanny resemblance you share with Kathleen would be completed with these accessories.

— Eh… okay… ah say tae the boy. In fir a fiver, in fir a score.

— Go easy on that make-up though, Mr King, let understatement be the watchword. My Kathleen was never a tarty sort of girl.

— Ay that ah’ve nae doots, Olly, ay that uv nae doots, ah tell um, n ah settle doon in front ay the mirror. — Tell ye whit, ye did mention a wee malt whisky, well, ah widnae mind yin now fir a bit ay Dutch courage!

— Of course, Olly says, exitin the room, — do forgive me… Jason. My manners are failing me.

Ah hear his clump doon the stairs n ah’m done n nae time n ah’ve goat tae say, looking no too bad in thon fill-length mirror. Ah head doon the stairs n Olly’s thaire wi two big Scotches.

— It’s amazing… I can’t believe it! You look more like Kathleen than… please, sit down.

So ah sits in the big easy chair n eh gits doon at ma feet n then eh starts kissin thum, in the shoes, n eh’s gaun, — I’m sorry, darling, so, so sorry, eh bleats, suddenly, loudly, then ehs heid’s buried oan ma lap!

Ah’m jist lookin at the tap ay the hoor’s heid, the shiny dome wi the strands ay grey across it, no kennin whair tae pit ma coupon.

Eh’s still gaun oan aboot how sorry eh is, so ah jist says softly, — It’s awright, Dad.

— Say it again… eh goes, aw urgent.

— It’s awright, Dad… Daddy… really, ah goes.

The Olly boy’s sobbin but ah feel ehs elbay digging intae ma leg. Eh seems tae go aw stiff fir a while, breathing heavily, then trembles and says, — Thank you… thank you, oh my God… in a long gasp.

For a few seconds eh’s lyin relaxed at ma feet, nae tension in ehs boady now, then thir’s the sound ay the key turnin in the lock n eh shoots bolt upright. — Jesus Christ! It’s her, back from that stupid Rotary club. He looks at me like eh’s aboot tae shite ehsel. — Look, you’ll have to go, an eh’s oan ehs feet n eh starts pushin ays oot through the kitchen and oot ay the back door!

— Bit ma fuckin clathes, ya hoor ye, ah canny go oot like this!

— Please, Mr King… Jason, my wife will… the trauma of seeing someone who looks so like our daughter, it would kill her, she wouldn’t understand. Do this for me and I’ll ensure that your appeal is successful, I promise!

N ah’m left standin ootside in the back gairdin, in fuckin drag, ya hoor sor, wi no even a light tae git back tae the Beath! Railway ticket in the fuckin pocket ay the jeans upstairs n aw, ya hoor! No thit ah kin git oan the train lookin like this; the pity displayed by Richey the Assaultee wid be bad enough, but huvin tae come doon the hill in fill view ay the Goth at closing time? Git tae fuck!

The only thing tae dae is try tae walk wi as much dignity as ah kin. Ah gits roond the side ay the hoose n intae the street and an auld wifie wi a dug looks at ays. Ah’m tryin tae think ay the body language ay lassies thit ah’ve stalked, n ah endeavour tae keep the erse wiggle tae a minimum n lit they fuckin heels dae the rest. So ah heads oot eastbound, past East End Park, towards the big roundabout where thir’s nowt tae dae but git the auld thumb oot cause it’s pishin doon ah’ll never make six miles in heels!

THE BOYS MEET us in the café in Dunfermline Glen late afternoon. We’re all on the Kenco coffee, when one of the boys, the big one Lara’s been fucking, Monty, she calls him, pulls a small bottle of whisky from his pocket. He is wearing a T-shirt with Guns n Roses Appetite For Destruction emblazoned across it. With his huge hands, as big as my father’s, he pours some in Lara’s, and then does the same for this other guy, whom he’s introduced as Klepto. He gestures towards mine but I put my hand over it. — I don’t drink and drive, I tell him.

The big lad has grey skin with incongruous orange freckles peppered across it. He looks like a pitta bread with measles. His blond hair is cut short, greying at the temples. He’s a monster and I can’t help thinking about the sort of sex he and Lara have.

Monty shrugs and this Klepto character says, — Very sensible, with a wry nod. He’s a skinny, wiry boy with big buck teeth and very cold, dark eyes, which seem to permanently stare.

Monty leans back in the seat and stretches out, showing off his muscular build. He’s not overweight, but he doesn’t have the bodybuilder’s sculpted muscles like the guys I see in the gym, though his biceps are huge. I’ve seen it before in some of my dad’s acquaintances: it’s all building-site work. — So yis ur lookin fir a wee bit excitement the night then, girls? he asks like a threat.

It unnerves me, and I think even Lara as well, as she laughs a little, spitting out a defiant, teasing, — Come to the right place, have we?