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

I’M PLAYING MARILYN Manson in my room, thinking about how I can get out of ‘supporting’ Lara in this Hawick competition. I’m zoning out to ‘Better of Two Evils’ and I hear a strange whistling then a clearing of a throat, noting that my father has materialised before me. He didn’t knock; he just opened the door and came inside. Now he’s standing at the bottom of my bed. — Can ah have a wee word?

Try stopping him. — Whatever, I shrug.

He turns down the sound on the stereo and lowers his bulk into my big wicker-basket chair. It creaks under him. In the last week or so, he’s talked to me more than he’s done in years. Evidently, he now considers me worth saving. Of course, it’s what he considers me worth saving for that’s the big worry. However, I cross my legs and make a passable stab at being all ears.

— Ah’m hard on you, he concedes, then adds with a surprising degree of conviction, — but it’s only cause ah dinnae want tae see ye waste yir life.

— It’s my life, is all I can think to say in retort.

— Dinnae gie me that, he says gravely, as if he expects more understanding. — I’m hard on you, only because ah ken you’ve got what it takes.

In spite of myself I feel the nauseating elation of his flattery rising up through my frustration. At least in his own inept way he’s trying. — I’m not a showjumper, Dad, I tell him, the words almost choking in my throat. — You can get me the best horse in the world and I’ll never be as good as the likes of Lara.

— Aye ye will, my father retorts with a calm, empathic certainty that annoys me. — Ah’ve been watchin you lately, the way you’ve slimmed doon. The weight’s been fawing off ye!

— I don’t want to talk about it—

— Your mother goes on about anorexia and all that pish. That’s jealousy talking, that’s aw that is. She couldnae pass the confectionary coonter in that newsagent, and ah’ve seen her, at thon supermarket checkoot, he says in a derisory manner, — crammin they chocolates intae her puss, never able tae git enough, like some demented junkie. It’s sickening. That’s somebody that’s no right in the heid, that!

It’s his wife he’s talking about. But he’s right. He is so fucking right . — Dad—

— Ah ken that you’re different, Jenni. Ah know that ye go tae that leisure centre regularly and work oot.

A spark of pique ignites in me. — Is nothing fucking private in this fucking place?

— Hey! Mind the language! He pouts, then says in placating tones, — I’m no criticisin ye. It isnae meant tae be a criticism . Ah think it’s great. N it shows you’ve got discipline and pride. Cause you’ve got me in ye, his weather-beaten, leathery face crinkles. — You’re a Cahill, he boasts proudly. — Yir always welcome tae use my gym, you ken that though, eh?

My stomach is churning. Observing my dad trying to be nice is much more disturbing than watching him being obnoxious. He just isn’t cut out for it.

— You’ve got to think of your future, Jen. If you don’t think you’re gaunnae do it in showjumping, then you could do worse than learn the ropes ay the haulage business.

What a truly fucking sickening thought. — I doubt that it would be my thing, I quickly respond.

He laughs derisively and lights a cigarette, ignoring the No Smoking signs I’ve put around the room. The big pub ashtray is under the bed, where it’ll stay. I’ll not have him smoking filthy minging tobacco in my room. — Too common for ye, is it? Aw they nasty trucks n sweaty drivers? Dinnae forget that it was that business that put food on your plate and fed that useless four-legged parasite in that stable doonstairs. Aw they trips abroad, aw they tourneys, aw that equipment, aw this land. Ah dinnae see ye turning yir beak up at that! Ah blame masel fir spoilin—

He stops mid rant, seeming to see what he’s doing. — Thanks, I say.

— For what?

— For reverting to type. You actually were starting to sound like a decent human being for a second or two there.

— You… look, he says, fighting down his exasperation, as he stands and looks around for an ashtray. He gestures towards one of my plants and I shoot him a look that says ‘don’t even think about it’. He moves to the window, takes two quick puffs and flicks the cigarette outside. — Dinnae be like that. C’mon. Gie it a try. At least come in wi me and see how the business works.

— I’ll consider it, I tell him, basically just to get him to go.

— That’s ma girl, he says encouragingly. I lean over to the stereo and turn up my music and he takes the hint and leaves, screwing up his face and putting his fingers to his ears.

SO WIR COMIN tae the outskirts ay the toon, and ah’m thinking again, thank fuck we’ve made it, that Kravy cunt is fuckin fearless, weavin in n oot ay traffic, aw they fuckin lanes, like we were icons oan a PS 2 game, but now Cooden is in sight! Wur tearin roond the bend at high speed… but then wir gaun naewhaire…

… ah’m oaf the bike n ah’m sortay flutterin through the air like a butterfly, n ah seem tae be gaun that slow that whin ah come tae rest it’ll be like oan this bed ah pillays but then ah feel this impact, it’s like an explosion but yin comin fae inside ay ma boady! Then, for a bit, thir’s a strange peace. It’s like huvin aw the rest ah’ve ever been promised, before ah n git woke by a rustlin sound aw ower n aroond ays. Eftir a bit ah realise thit ah’m lyin stuck in the branches ay a tree.

Ah look doon n thair’s Kravy sitting up, but slumped forward at the bottom ay this big oak tree next tae mine, like ehs huvin a wee nap. Thir’s like this big streak ah dark rid paint runnin up the tree above him. It looks fresh. Ah cannae see whaire it’s come fae. Ah hear a craw screechin. Then ah see where the stuff oan the tree’s come fae, Kravy’s neck. Cause thir’s jist a rid stump wi a bit ay bone in it comin oot ay the boy’s shoodirs. Cause the hoor’s heid’s missin.

Fuckin

Eftir checkin baws, eyes, airms, legs n that order, n aye, thir aw thair, ah starts tae climb doon. Muh hands are tearin and bleedin oan the branch n the foliage but it disnae bother ays as ah feel fuckin weird: sortay numbed and wired at the same time. Ah gits tae the bottom ay the tree tae git a right look at Kravy. Ah moves closer.

Aw ya hoor, aye, ah wisnae seein things.

Eh’s nae fuckin heid.

Thir’s jist a stump ay neck, ah kin see the spine, it’s been severed cleanly like by a fuckin guillotine, blood still bubblin fae it, pumpin up oot ay the body which is twitchin away like eh’s comin up oan a pill. It’s still like eh’s muckin aboot, playin some sort ay daft trick, n ah’m looking around fir the heid, expectin tae see it wi a big grin. Thir’s nowt but, Kravy’s gone.

Ah feel rain droplets hittin my heid n shoodirs, n ah look up. Yin lands rid oan muh white T-shirt. It’s Kravy’s blood, sprayed up intae the leaves n branches ay the tree, now droapin back doon oan ays.

Turnin roond n lookin up the bankin, pittin ma hand ower muh eyes tae keep the sun n blood oot ay thum, ah see the bike lyin oan the road where it skyted ower. A car’s stoaped and cause ah’m covered wi Kravy’s blood this auld boy in a checked jaykit’s goat oot n eh’s shoutin at ays, sayin, — Ur ye hurt?

— Naw, ah’m awright, ah shouts back.

— But you’re covered wi blood!

Ah start tae laugh at that. — Aye, ah say, for some reason thinking ay the lassies Soakin Wi Rain n Roastin Wi Sweat. Ah could be the felly fir the threesome wi thaime, right enough. — Ah’m Covered Wi Blood, ah admit, lookin at the claret oan my ripped airms n no really kennin or carin whether it’s mine or muh boy’s. — But muh mate… eh’s loast ehs heid.