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

— Fuck everybody. I’m only going to turn into my mother if I don’t get of here.

— But you can’t leave me here! Lara wails. — I can’t go. I’ve got Hawick, then Bedfordshire, then—

— You’ll find other horsey friends, Lara. Don’t worry about that, I tell her. — It’s not like I’ll be vanishing off the face of the earth. We’ll still be mates, I say and I feel giddy with exhilaration as I realise that I will, soon, actually leave here; that it’s gone from being a fantasy to an inevitability and I’m not in the least bit scared about it.

— How do you fancy going out clubbing tonight? Lara says, more needy than I can ever recall her. — Just you and me? In Edinburgh? We can stay over at Sophie’s and—

— Nah, I can’t, I tell her with great satisfaction, — I’m meeting somebody later.

There is a pout of hurt sadness on her face. How many times, I consider, must I have looked so equally pitiful to her?

SO AH’VE GOAT wee Jenni Cahill sittin in the Goth wi me, n it’s like wir an item, gaun oot n that. So ah should be chuffed, but ah cannae stoap thinkin ay perr Kravy, the laddie thit came back tae Fife tae look eftir ehs ma n ended up decapitated. Nine years in Spain, tearin like a hoor through Europe, then back in Fife fir yin week, takin a nice and easy bend (wi me oan the back) n the bike jist leaves the fuckin road n that’s it; baw oan the slates, game a bogey.

The road must huv been fucked; surely groonds fir a claim ay compo against ma injuries, afore ye even accoont fir the emotional damage incurred through the loss ay ma best buddy. Perr Kravy. Ah’m sittin here wi it aw; the posh bird by ma side, place in the table fitba semis, the money in the poakit, the pint ay black gold in front ay ays, n they two jealous auld celibates the Neebour Watson n the Duke ay Musselbury standin miserably up at yon bar, forced tae contemplate ma success. But in ma ooir ay triumph, thir’s nae satisfaction.

Aw ah kin dae is talk aboot the perr laddie. — The Kravy fellay’s words wir prophetic, ah tells Jenni. — Once eh says tae ays, ‘If ye want tae live a long life keep away fae the blaw n dae plenty trevlin. Otherwise it’s far too short.’

— I’d say ironic rather than prophetic, wee Jenni speculates, — with his own life being so short and…

— Naw bit, hear ays oot, ah insist. — Aw they years thit eh trevild roond Europe oan thon bike wir marked by the concept ay difference. By new experience, the assimilation ay different sights, smells, sounds. Aw that ingestion ay new lingo, new culture. Burn the different neural canals. That disnae happen if ye git stuck own the blaw in an auld cunt’s toon like the Beath. Ye cash in the ‘Egyptian’ n live fir the weekend, n very soon aw the weekends ur just the same. Eh’s awready hud a longer life thin me if ah lived tae be two hundred! Smokin dope n steyin in the same place compresses time. Trevil, n meetin new people, eywis expands it. Ah widnae say it’s physics but it’s true aw the same. Dae you want tae stey here aw yir puff?

Jenni rolls her eyes. — Certainly not. I’ve no intention whatsoever of doing that. Do you?

— Naw, bit ah probably will.

She looks a wee bit pit oot by that. — Why?

So ah try tae explain, without seemin too sorry fir masel, thit ah’m jist no like her, or even Kravy. — Cause ah’ve no been able tae accrue the type ay skills thit might help ays function somewhere different. Ah’m jist a short-ersed wee bampot fae Fife thit cleans oot stables.

— Well, I think you’re cute, she says, like she’s a wee bit drunk. No used tae black gold or tarry, ah’ll wager. Well, no in the quantities we’ve been daein it ower the last few days. Ma quantities.

— Aye, but in a short-ersed wee bampot fae Fife thit cleans oot stables sort ay wey, ah laugh, then git serious. — But ah’m gaun tae Spain, ah’ll tell ye that much. That’s fuckin defo n—

— Shh, you talk too much, she says, n ah’m aboot tae take umbridge when she goes, — Kiss me, and her lips brush against mine n then wir snoggin. Ya cunt, it’s like ah’m gaunny shoot ma muck thair n then, in ma troosers in the corner ay the Goth!

Whin we back off, ah glimpses across tae see certain parties at the bar tryin tae look everywhaire but wir wee corner. Then Jenni picks up the vibe cause she says tae ays, — I don’t suppose we could go back to yours?

N ah croaks oot, — Aye, n ah’m worried aboot bein able tae staund wi this thing in ma troosers — fower n a half inches muh erse — but ah gits tae muh feet. Ah dinnae look acroas tae the bar as we leave the Goth (ah even leave half a pint ay black gold!) but ah’m hopin thit the boys huv clocked everything. Jason King, Depertment S, ya hoor: the ‘S’ bein fir Shaggin!

Wi git intae the hoose n ah pops muh heid intae the front room where the auld boy’s watchin the eftirnoon nags on Channel 4, racin pages oan ehs lap. — Dae you never git any tips fae thon stable ye wir attached tae? eh asks, turnin roond tae regard ehs sole offspring (or so ah’ve been telt).

— Naw… no fir a while… eh, look, Faither, jist gaun upstairs wi Jenni tae listen tae some sounds.

— Christ, Jason, yir twenty-six years auld, eh scoffs. — Ye dinnae need tae use bairns’ euphemisms fir sweepin lum!

Ah’m hopin thit Jenni didnae hear or pick that yin up, but wir up the stair n intae the King boudoir n things ur movin fast. Wir pillin oaf oor clathes n she’s goat wee spots on her chist but no the actual tits, if ye ken whit ah mean, n a big mole oan one ay the paps. She’s goat that wee rid thong oaf n aw; game as a partridge, this yin, n thir’s a hoor ay a sight mair bush thin ah’d speculated aboot; bit ay a surprise, thon. Still mibbe it wis Kravy’s ma’s shaved blat that pit they thoughts intae muh mind.

Ya hoor, it’s a wee bit ay a sensory overload…

I JUST WANT to fuck him, I like him and I want him: his skinny light body, his crazy eyes and his barely repressed air of madness. Also, the history with the bitch Lara makes him even more appealing. She confessed that when she was younger she actually wanted to shag him.

But Jason seems a bit weird, like he doesn’t want to get undressed, and I’m sitting here in the nude and he’s not even made an attempt to take his clothes off. I’m wondering if he finds me too fat, too repulsive, because he’s so thin. — Don’t you like me? I ask.

— Naw… you’re gorgeous… he pants, open-mouthed.

— Get undressed then, I urge.

— Thir’s somethin thit ah want tae show ye first, somethin thit ah did for ye, he says, and he opens this large cupboard which houses a water tank but he reaches down to a boxed-in shelf underneath. He pulls out what looks like a human skull!

Of course…

— Alas, poor Kravy, he says, then he lights a candle on a plate and carefully places the skull on top of it. The flame burns through the eyes, sending a yellow glowing light across the room. It looks beautiful; the amazing light is back on in Ally Kravitz’s eyes. — It’s… so… lovely, I tell him. And it is.

— Ah hud tae dae it, Jenni. Jason’s dark eyes glint in the candlelight. Yon blue flesh wisnae daein um justice. Eh wis mingin. The maggots… it wisnae him. Ah biled they hoors tae death. The skull, but. It hus a kind ay… purity.

— It does, Jason. It’s what he’d have wanted. I know it. But what did you do with the flesh, brain, eyes… all that stuff?

— Took it in a Co-op bag n buried the hoor under the turf behind yin ay the goals at Central Perk, Jason smiles sadly, then falls back on the bed. He kicks off his shoes and pulls down his jeans and shuts his eyes.