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

I see Jason come out of the stable, big welly boots covered in horseshit. He looks at me and Midnight and his eyes are bulging out of his head. Then he gives me a strange wave as Lara comes over with Scarlet. — Hello, Jason, she smiles coolly as she dismounts in an easy athletic sweep. — Helping out here?

— Eh, aye. Hiya. Aye, a wee bit ay assistance, he says.

Thankfully, Lara wants to go into town, and we restable the horses and jump into the car. As we depart I look back to see Jason gaping at us open-mouthed and slack-jawed. My dad appears and shouts something at him and he springs to attention.

In the car, I turn to Lara: — It was Monty’s dog that did that to Ambrose, wasn’t it?

— Yes, but he didn’t know it was your dad’s dog at the time.

— What difference would that have made?

— Quite a lot, from what I gather. I think he’s a bit wary of your dad, Lara says, her eyes wide with excitement, — like he’s some kind of gangster.

I roll my eyes in disdain.

Lara seems impressed though. And I recall the satisfying fear that Klepto scumbag displayed when he found out who my father was. — Well, she contends, — it’s better than having a doctor as a dad!

But I think some people in this town have overactive imaginations. — He’s a boring old haulage contractor, I say dismissively, — and he’s too sad and depressing to be scary.

We do a workout at the centre, and then have a coffee. Lara’s self-obsession starts to niggle, and I soon find myself wishing I was alone so I could read the final third of Reluctant Survivor . I’ve got to the bit where the handsome Dr Shaw has kissed Josephine tenderly on the mouth. He becomes aroused by the action, and starts to shower her still body with kisses, eventually performing cunnilingus on her. She wakes up, stunned, shocked and ultimately relieved as an embarrassed Shaw has to tell her everything. It’s just getting really good. Instead I have to listen to Lara going on about this Monty, my stomach churning whenever that Klepto creature’s name is mentioned. I want to tell her, to tell somebody , about that bastard.

When we get back, Lara gets Scarlet and heads off home. Jason’s gone and Dad comes out as I’m putting Midnight back in the stable. — Ah want tae see you compete wi that wee yin wi the bools in the mooth. N that hoarse is fit fir the knacker’s yerd. Eh huds ye back.

I look at him in an angry panic, thinking about what he did to poor Ambrose. — If you ever hurt Midnight…

He extends his palms in a gesture of mock innocence. — Ah ah’m sayin is that we need a proper team, nae lame ducks… or hoarses. Ah mean, look at ma business. At ma place we’re a team. If somebody isnae pillin thir weight, then off they go: right doon the road…

— Midnight stays. He’ll get stronger, I know it.

— Mibbe, my dad says doubtfully, — but think ay what ah said aboot thon gelding.

A FIGHTIN DUG, ya hoor, that’s the furry Fife fashion accessory ah’m draggin aroond wi ays doon Main Street n up tae the High Street. Ambrose, they call him. N eh’s no that bad once ye git used tae um; thon nippy wee cunts ootside the chippy gied ays a wide berth whin ah strutted doon the street wi him on the chain, suren they fuckin did!

Cahill obviously thinks the jockeyin backgroond and the coort appearance that the Neebour Watson and me hud on thon hare-coursing rap a couple ay years ago (slipped through the hoor’s fingers as under Scots law ye kin only be prosecuted for poachin) makes ays a bona fide black-economy man ay sport. N whae am ah tae disabuse the hoor ay that notion? Specially whin it’s cash in hand fir me oan top ay the giro, jist fir cleanin oot yon stables n gittin a wee deek at ehs daughter’s tight erse as she pits yon big hoarse through ehs paces. Ah’m waitin fir her tae go ower they wee jumps, but she tells ehs thit ehs leg still isnae up tae it. Eh’s fuckin middle leg surely is, but. Ah couldnae believe masel the other day. Ah wis muckin oot in the stable watchin her groomin the cunt whin eh wis tied up under the canopy. Snooty wee Lara wis gaun ower they fences fir aw they wir worth n ah wis in stalker heaven.

Then ah sees Jenni rubbin the hoarse’s back wi the comb. This yon black cock starts tae telescope oot ay its sheath; like yon Darth Vader’s light sword, ya hoor. There wis me standin thair wi a daft wee smile oan ma face tryin tae git some attention, but thir’s nae wey a dwarf laddie like me could compete wi thon!

As guid as the stalkin at the Cahill ranch is, ah quite like taking Ambrose oot. The problem is thit walkin the dug stoaps ye fae indulgin in the key pleasures ay the socially marginalised; namely the lunchtime pint ay black gold doon the Goth. But then ah think, one swallay does not a summer fuck up; a quick yin, then wi kin mibbe head doon the coast.

The lads ur aw in, n thir pretty wary ay the dug. N ah’d like tae see Big Monty Fuck come ahead whin ah’m hudin this boy’s leash. — S’awright, ah says tae the Neebour Watson, — this boy widnae hurt a fly, eh no, Ambrose? Eh’d take your hee-haws right oaf but, wid eh no though, ya hoor sor!

The Neebour stands back n the Duke’s no gittin that loud in the mooth, tell ye that fir nowt.

— See that boy got done the other night there, that Mason felly, Neebour Watson tells ays.

— Whae? the Duke asks, keepin ehs eyes oan Ambrose.

— The table-fitba supremo, Neebour explains, then turns tae me n says, — Jist as well eh overturned yir ban first, Jase.

— Aye, right enough, ah goes, tryin no tae sound too concerned, bit ah feel ma haun tightenin oan the leash ay Ambrose, whae’s lyin doon, assumin the pub-dug position.

Neebour’s switchin intae sweetie-wife mode as eh cannily regards Ambrose. — Surprised thit Tam Cahill never mentioned it tae ye, neebs, wi you spendin that much time up thair thit yir vernear pert ay the faimlay!

— Specific tasks though, ya hoor, ah swings Ambrose’s leash, bit no enough tae disturb the boy oan ehs choke, — animal husbandry. Thir’s a wee oinker n a pony n a durty big hoarse wi the sort ay tackle ye neevir see made ower at Central Perk, if yis git ma drift. Gelding though, nae use tae um, but it doesnae look like that fae whaire ah’m standin!

Ya dirty big fower-legged long-faced hoarsey bastard that ye are!

— Aye, thir hung awright, they beasts, the Neebour says.

Ah’m tryin tae change the subject here, bit the Iron Duke’s oan yin, n eh goes, — Aye, that dirty Mason cunt wis grassed up by a couple ay wee laddies fae the skill. Eh used tae pey thum tae dress up as lassies n then eh’d go and huv a wank ower thum. Apparently some mair came forward eftir the other yins blew the whistle.

— Mingin hoor. The Neebour shakes ehs heid.

— Aye, says the Duke as ah keep ma cooncil, jist like auld Ambrose whae’s lyin thair quiet, nostrils gently expanding, making soft wee wheezy noises, almost like a cat purrin, — spun thum this story thit eh hud loast ehs daughter in a car crash n thit they wir the right height n weight n size n could they dae him a favour n dress up like her. Well, the gullible wee bams felt aw sorry for um, n went along wi it. Eh peyed some ay thum n aw, so eh wis at it fir ages! Took photaes n made films tae! Aye, Andy the polis, yon big Hun fae the craft: he telt ays they found tons ay material.

Fuckin hell. Uncle Davie’s a grandmaister up thon lodge. He’ll surely keep a lid oan it. Faimlay. Surely.

— They types are ey weird though, ah goes, — ah eywis thought thir wis a touch ay the Tam Hamiltons aboot yon yin, ah elaborates, feelin disloyal tae perr Olly, bit wantin tae lit the trail go cauld.

— Dirty bastard, exploitin naieve wee laddies like thon. Ah ken whit ah’d dae wi the hoor, the Duke goes.