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

As we drive into Cowdenbeath, I tell him about Hawick and my diminishing hopes of making the tournament. As we get down the high street he seems agitated.

— Eh… obviously, ah widnae mind if ye could droap me oaf right at ma door. People might, eh, misconstrue things…

I find myself laughing uncontrollably as he sinks down into the seat, directing me to the small housing scheme behind the railway station. — Fuck, and he ducks further down as he sees some people coming out of that dirty old pub on the corner. — It’s the Neebour Watson!

Once the guy he doesn’t want to see passes by, we pull up outside Jason’s house. — Jenni, could ah ask ye one mair wee favour? Wid ye mind tappin oan the door n askin ma auld boy tae git ma parka, trainers n tracksuit boatums?

I’m a bit reluctant to do this, but he seems so desperate. — Well, okay…

I get out the car and go down the path. Loud rap music blares from inside as I bang on the door. Eventually a man with a crumpled, yellow face opens up, it’s like it’s been burned down one side. On the other side he looks like somebody semi-familiar, but it’s not an older Jason. The noise is almost deafening, and he goes inside and turns it down. As he reappears, I tell him the story Jason told me. He shakes his head doubtfully but tells me to come into a hallway. Everything looks old and smells of deep-fried food. — Sorry aboot yon racket. 50 Cent, he nods, then complying with Jason’s request, runs up the stairs, returning with the items. I take the clothes out to the car. I stay outside as Jason struggles into the bottoms and trainers, and then wraps himself in the parka.

He gets out of the car, then stops to look at me. — Thanks for that, Jenni. Ah owe ye a favour. He smiles broadly and it transforms his face; all teeth, eyes and enthusiasm. — You’re a top lassie: too cool fir school, likes.

He goes into the house and I head home, thinking that Jason’s a lot sweeter and a damn sight more interesting than I gave him credit for.

When I get home my mind is turbulent with the events of the day, so I sit up to watch the repeat of a brilliant documentary on the death of Kurt Cobain. I like this time; when everybody else is in bed and I have the place to myself and the television is actually watchable. Cobain was a genius. To be able to choose death over adulation: isn’t that the ultimate moral courage, of the type we all want to possess? My eyes mist up. I fantasise about Kurt coming into Cowdenbeath on a big motorbike, taking me on the back, driving out of town and eventually travelling down dusty, southern European peasant roads, then stopping to make love on a Tuscan hilltop in the sun. I’m about to have a frig when I hear the front door opening.

It’s very late, who the fuck—

Then Dad comes in, with Ambrose, whose face is covered in bandages! Dad’s uncharacteristically coy when he sees that I’m still up. — Eh… awright?

I approach the dog, only one sad eye visible through the gauze. — What the fuck’s happened to him? I gasp, as if I didn’t know.

My dad looks down at the poor creature. — Some Rottweilers, two of them, they set on him in the Glen this afternoon. Poor bastard nearly lost an eye. Had to get his face stitched up at the vet’s.

— And you let that happen to him?

— What else could I dae? he bleats, then adds, as I spring off the couch, — Since when did you start tae care aboot the dug?

— Since you’ve been fucking exploiting him like you try to do with everything that comes across your path! I scream at him. I hear him protesting about waking Mum and Indy and I slam the door to drown him out.

Sure enough, Mum’s on the top of the stairs in her nightgown, pleading, — What’s wrong, Jenni? What is it?

— Ask the fucking monster you were daft enough to marry! I bark as I go into my room.

— You’ll respect your father and this house, young lady! she squeals and I hear him placating her on the stairs. I don’t know which of them is worse: him with the morals of a sewer rat or her, who possesses the brains of a gerbil.

THE NEEBOUR WATSON is makin a guid point in the Goth, one that’s teased the mind ay the speculative-natured man fir a long time. — Ah dinnae see how lassies git aw funny aboot they VPLs; like thir no sexy, n a pair ay drawers wi a Calvin Klein label stickin oot ower the tap ay yir jeans is meant tae be.

— Ken full well whit ye mean thair, ya hoor ye; saw that Lara gaun ower yon hurdle oan Scarlet Jester, the black undies showin through yon white jodhpurs. Aye, ah played that yin back a thoosand times oan the DV.

— Whae shot it?

— Me, ya daft hoor! Fae yon Perth tournament last year, ah turns taewards um, — oan the video camera Sheky borrowed fae the local FE college. The main campus in Halbeath Road in Dunfermline, that is, no the poxy wee outpost the hoors have oan the industrial estate doon the road, ah explains tae the Goth guid n great.

The Duke ay Musselbury comes in, clocks ma near empty gless but makes nae move on ma behalf as eh sets ehsel up. Noted, ya hoor sor.

— Ah heard thit hur n yon Jenni Cahill ur gaun doon tae the Borders, Hawick like, fir the big tourney doon thaire, ah tells thum. Aye, she fair saved ma life wi her motor, that wee yin last night. Took ma explanation charitably n aw. Quality behaviour in a lassie, that.

The Duke looks at me like ah’m a bam. — Ye gaun doon?

— Well, aye. Ah mean, yuv goat tae support two guid Fife lassies against aw yon Perthshire rich-bitches. Patrotic duty as an ambassador for the Kingdom, ya hoor.

It’s guid tae git some peace, here in the Goth. The auld boy kept playin yon 50 Cent track ‘Many Men (Wish Death Upon Me)’ ower n ower again, louder every time. N him jist sittin in yon battered chair, aw teary-eyed, sippin a can ay Stella.

I LIE IN late till the Bastard goes to his work and Indy goes to school and the Non-Event is at the shops, so that I don’t have to face any of them. I’m in a house of monsters, and they fill me with a sick loathing. When the coast is clear, I have a long and delicious frig, imagining myself on the back of the bike of Ally Kravitz, Lara said the dishy guy who hangs around with Jason was called. I can feel the Mediterranean sun on my face but it’s just my own blood rising to the surface of my skin as I come in jarring, violent convulsions. I’ve had sex with just two guys before; neither has felt as good as when I do it with myself.

I pull the duvet off myself to cool down. After lying in a dizzy stupor for a while, I get up and get ready. Then I’m off in the car and to my step class at the sports centre. The strange old drunkard who sits outside there says something to me or about me. Surprisingly, it didn’t sound that uncomplimentary. — Whatever, I shrug back, heading inside.

I put in a good session. Afterwards there’s a text message from Lara on my mobile and I meet her in the Alpha Leisure Tanning Studio in the high street.

We go into adjoining booths. There’s only a flimsy partitioning wall dividing us as we climb onto the beds and they start up with an almighty whirr and an intensive explosion of light that still bursts formidably from under my protective glasses. It’s okay at first, as I think of tropical beaches, and it’s hard to believe I’m on Cowdenbeath High Street. But after a while it gets really hot and I start to get a different image in my head. I see myself as a barbecued chicken on a spit. I swear I can even smell myself cooking. — I’m not sure about this, Lar, I shout through to her from under the banks of light, my bare arse hard against the cold glass. — I think I can feel myself burning. This can’t be good for you.