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

Midnight’s gone.

Midnight was all that was keeping me here. I can see that with him around I would never leave. My father… he did me a fucking favour! He set me free!

… so if ah wis any young person, n ah keep sayin that tae oor Jason, ah’d git right oot ay here. It’s no a place fir the young. No now. As 50 Cent said: Git rich or die tryin. What huv they goat tae keep thum occupied here but mischief?

— Yes. I think you’re right, Mr King, I struggle to break him off, making my apologies.

I get into the car and drive back out to Dunfermline and the hospital. Back on the ward, the visiting period is just about over as I hand the bag to Jason.

— What took ye? he snaps.

I look tearfully at him. — It’s Midnight, he’s dead. Somebody left the feed hatch open. It should never have happened. We all knew he was prone to gluttony with feed…

— Aw naw… ah’m sorry… he says.

— If one of us had been there we could have saved him. It takes a long time for a horse to die of colic. I should have checked on him! I as good as killed him!

— Naw, Jenni, it wis probably jist an accident…

— My father said that he should have been in La Rue’s stables where they would have regularly monitored him! He was right. I fight against a sob. — I’m just a selfish, spoiled brat; insisting I had my own horse at home! I fucked up. I failed to look after him like I’ve failed at everything else!

— Naw, Jenni…

— It was my father that did it; I know it was! He killed Midders to replace him with a stronger horse so that I could compete with Lara. I now let the tears come. — I used to have a silly dream, Jason… I hear myself ranting, — I dreamt about riding Midnight out of Cowdenbeath for good… right away from this place…

— Aye… riding fantasies… Jason says, his mouth hanging open. — I’m sorry, he goes, and he looks so distraught. — Ah blame masel, ah mean, if ah hudnae been in here he’d huv been looked eftir.

— No, it was him, that bastard. Indigo’s pony was fine!

Jason gets out of bed and moves over to me in his striped pyjamas. He puts an arm round my shoulder, then steps closer and he hugs me for a bit. It feels good. He smells nice. I could stay like this forever. Then he pulls apart and looks around and whispers urgently, — We’d better nash, visitin time’s up.

He tells me to keep a lookout, as he gets dressed. I comply, but I have a strange and strong urge, which I resist, to turn round and watch him changing.

Oh, Midnight. This fucking place! I’m getting out of here! For good.

— C’mon, he whispers, and we creep along the hospital corridors. As we go outside an orderly approaches and at first I think he’s going to stop us, but he merely asks for a light. Jason hastily obliges and we head out and across the car park into the motor.

We drive back into Cowdenbeath and through the town and back out to the bend in the Perth Road. I pull the car into a gravelly lay-by beside the turn and climb out. I get the torch I keep in the breakdown kit in the car boot. We vault the crash barrier, Jason with a wince as he put the weight on his bad arm, and I shine the light into the nettle bush. There’s nothing visible for yards and yards besides these big plants, some of them shoulder-high to us both. As we start to push through them, I realise too late that their foliage has concealed the fact that they’re on a slope and I feel myself being propelled forward and I grab out at Jason. Then I scream as I think that we’re both going to fall, but he steadies us. — Fuck! he snaps. — Muh fuckin airm!

— I’m so sorry, I forgot, I gasp, my breath steadying.

— Slow… he pleads, as he swings the shears and starts chopping through the nettles. He’s panting and sweating as he hacks deeper into the growth. The moon casts a silvery light over the fallen plants who lie like stricken soldiers on a battlefield. — There! he shouts, as my beam illuminates something red.

Then his face suddenly creases up in anger. His boot swings at the object, launching a traffic cone into the air, which flies a few yards, landing deeper into the back rows of the nettles.

We plough on for what seems like ages, but uncover nothing. I’ve been stung in the hands and ankles through my gloves and socks and I detest nettle stings from my childhood. In the numbing cold a despair almost overwhelming at the futility of it all sets in, and I’m about to suggest packing up and trying again in the morning, when something reflects off the torch beam.

There it is: the back of the red helmet.

And we know what’s on the other side. — Look, Jason, I urge, but I don’t really need to bother. He’s seen it and I swear that his eyes could light up this wasteland.

Jason looks at it in a powerful reverence, then bends down and slowly picks it up. — It’s heavy, it’s…

He turns it round. I shine the torch into it. The face is white and blue around the lips and eyes. He rubs some leaves and dirt from it. It hasn’t been eaten though; it’s still recognisable as Ally Kravitz. — Sorry, mate, Jason says, and cradles it to his chest.

I see what look like drops of rice falling from the bottom of the helmet, onto the ground. I shine my torch and see them wriggling under its beam. — Jason!

He turns the helmet over and the red-bloodied stump is crawling with maggots. — Ya fuckin… ya fuckin hoors! Jason wipes them off with his bare hands, then hugs the helmeted head again. — Ah’ll no let these cunts get ye, mate, ah’ll fuckin no, he sobs, tears splashing from his big eyes onto the top of the red crash helmet. After a passage of time he looks at me miserably, and nods, then he puts the head into a bin liner.

— Let me see him again, I beg.

— Naw, Jason says, tears streaming down his face, — naebody’s seein um. Ah dinnae care what they dae wi the rest ay um, but this heid’s gaun back tae Spain, wi me!

I put my arm around his shoulder as he sobs heavily, keeping his grip on the bin liner. I realise that I’m crying too, thinking of my beautiful horse.

SUNDAY AH FELT it aw comin oot; the aches, pains, nettle stings n the dirty black depression. That wis the worst of aw: like yir giein some invisible fat cunt a collie-buckie. The auld boy goat a prawn vindaloo takeoot fae the Shimla as a treat, but muh hert wisnae in it. Ah brightened up a bit when yon wee Jenni Cahill came roond, even if she kept askin ays whit ah’d done wi Kravy’s heid. Ah kept ma cooncil, ya hoor, but it wis hard as she’s a persistent yin. Whin she left ah wis even too doon and exhausted tae entertain masturbatory thoughts, n her wi that scarlet-rid lipstick oan n aw. The only thing thit cheered ays up wis the browse through Central Perk merkit, n the big styrofoam boax fir keeping beer n sandwiches thit ah picked up at the stall.

— Be good fir the summer, fir picnics, Mrs McPake fae oor wey said tae ays as ah went doon the road wi the hoor.

— Aw aye, ah nodded.

Monday ah felt better. Ah hud tae: thir wis Kravy’s funeral tae organise. Jenni let ays yaze her computer tae send emails tae Kravy’s mates in Spain. Ah found some addresses in this book eh’d left at ehs ma’s hoose. Ah didnae think they’d make it at such short notice, but they hud the right tae ken. It took ays a while tae git the two grams ay coke n the big lump ay base that ah needed for wur boy’s gig. Hud tae go ower tae the city, the fuckin loat. Ah dinnae like gaun ower the brig at aw. The city’s fine but as soon as ye leave the centre in search ay collies it’s a different place aw thegither; fill ay psychos whae kin smell the fuckin coonty offay ye fae fifty yerds.

A joab well done, but. So Tuesday morning saw the funeral take place at Kirkcaldy Crematorium. Ehs ma wanted the Dunfermline Crematorium, same 310 quid tae the council hoors, and easier tae git back tae the reception at the Welfare, but ah talked her intae Kirkcaldy. Ah couldnae huv lived wi masel if the laddie hud been sent off oan Vichy soil.