— I’m going home to change, he said, shaking off the storm of fuss around him. He made his point by stiffly marching his soaked, blackened legs and arse outside. His mother was now arguing with Kristen, and Alison could hear Skuzzy saying, — Leave it, it jist causes arguments, repeatedly, as if on a demented loop. Heading out after Alexander, she saw him striding down the street. She had to run to catch up with him, calling his name as she drew closer. He stopped, evidently embarrassed to see her approaching.
— I’m really sorry, that was my fault, she said, — it was the petrol n that.
— It’s okay, it was an accident. It was all down to my own clumsy panicking … the wasp … a double accident. He suddenly laughed, and she found herself joining in.
When that moment passed, he said forlornly, — I’m really sorry I brought you to such a scene.
Alison immediately thought of her own family, where so much had been left unsaid since her mother’s illness. The tension was often insufferable. At least here everything seemed out in the open. — It was kind of exciting, she confessed, then, mindful of his distress, raised her hand to her mouth.
Alexander shook his head. — I don’t like bees and wasps. That’s why I was trying to stay beside the barbecue, for the smoke. I was stung as a kid and nearly died, you see.
Alison didn’t understand how anybody could nearly die from a bee sting, but felt compelled to make the appropriately jolted reaction.
— Yes, it turned out I had a severe allergy and went into anaphylactic shock, he explained, and in response to her nonplussed look, added, — I fainted and they slung me in an ambulance. My blood pressure had dropped dangerously, and I went into a coma for a couple of days.
— God! Nae wonder ye were scared.
— Yes, I feel such a wimp, making a scene like that over an insect, but I’d rather risk being burnt than –
— Shush, Alison said, stepping forward and kissing this still-smouldering man in the suburban street.
Falling
InterRail
AH FIRST MET Fiona Conyers in the economic history seminar. A standard teaching room; small, wi a U-shaped range ay tables and whiteboard along one waw. The felt pens never worked; it was the one thing that bugged the lecturer, Noel, an otherwise phlegmatic gadge, ubiquitously clad in a scuffed black leather jaykit. There wis aboot a dozen ay us in the group. Only four were chatty: me, Fiona, a tall, aulder boy fae Sierra Leone called Adu, and a plumpish, sweet-faced Iranian lassie, Roya. The other eight were beyond mute: socially retarded tae the point ay being terrified ay gettin asked anything.
Fiona wis confrontational wi Noel, challengin every orthodoxy, but in a cool way, no strident like a lot ay the politicos. Her accent was educated Geordie, which became thicker as we grew closer. Like ma ain Edinburgh yin, ah suppose. Ah wis instantly attracted tae her. No only was she gorgeous, but she had a voice. Maist lassies ah’d been wi back hame were silent, wily and formless, precisely, ah realised, because that’s exactly how ah wis wi them. But nowt happened wi Fiona and me — ah’ve eywis been shite at kennin if a bird fancies us. Ah thoat her mate, Joanne Dunsmuir, fae my English lit class last year, wis game; but ah wisnae interested in her. She wis a nosy Weedgie bird, no proper Weedgie, but fae somewhere near thaire. Unlike a lot ay Edinburgh punters who disdain them as tramps, ah’ve nowt against Soapdodgers, cause ay ma faither being yin. But thaire wis a fussy, domineering air aboot Joanne that ah disliked. The type ay lassie who went tae uni tae look for a felly she could boss aboot forever.
Back hame ah was a waster; frivolous and fucked-up, always looking for some sort ay adventure. Getting wasted, screwin hooses, trying tae screw lassies. Here ah wis the opposite. Why not? It made perfect sense tae me. Why go away, jist tae dae the same shite that ye dae at hame? Tae be the very same person? Ma reasoning is ah’m young; ah want tae learn, tae add tae masel. At uni ah’m deadly serious, and most of all, hard-working and disciplined. Not because ah wanted tae ‘get on’. As far as ah was concerned ah already was on. Sitting in the brightly lit library, surrounded by books, in total silence, that was ma personal zenith. Nothing in the world made me feel better. So ah studied hard: ah wisnae at Aberdeen tae make friends. Maist weekends in first year, ah headed back tae Edinburgh for the fitba or tae go tae gigs or clubs wi ma mates or my on — off girlfriend, Hazel. But ah made one good pal, Paul Bisset, an Aberdonian gadge. ‘Bisto’ wis a workin-class boy fae Torry, quite short but stocky, white-blond hair, looked like he worked on a farm even though he was a townie. He ran wi the thug element at A’deen, lived at hame wi his ma and, like me, put in a proper shift workwise. Another bond was that we’d both had proper jobs (he was a printer) and kent how shite that wis, and appreciated bein at uni mair than the punters who came straight fi sixth year at school or some poxy college.
Bisto and me had planned a trip tae Istanbul. Ah’d eywis wanted tae travel. Ah’d only been abroad twice, tae Amsterdam wi the boys for some teenage japes, and before that tae Spain, for a family holiday. That wis barry; it wis just me, Ma, Dad and Billy, cause ma Auntie Alice wis lookin eftir spazzy Wee Davie. Dad wis happy, but Ma worried aboot Wee Davie, and spent a fortune phonin hame. Ah lapped it up, it wis the best holiday we’d had, nae freak tae embarrass Billy n me.
When Fiona and Joanne heard aboot our proposed trip, they jist sortay invited themselves along. First it was a joke, then it became mair serious. Even when phone numbers were exchanged and concrete plans made, Bisto n me were still like: aye, well, we’re gaunny believe it when they show up.
Eftir the final class oan the last day ay the term, Fiona, Joanne n Bisto wanted tae get pished in the students’ union. Ah wis game, but first ah hud tae see the English lit boy, Parker. The cunt had gied us 68 per cent for ma essay oan F. Scott Fitzgerald. That wis nae fuckin use tae me: it was the first time ah’d dropped under 70 per cent for a marked assignment, n ah wisnae happy. Ah mind ay Joanne sayin, — You’re mental, Mark, 68 per cent is goooood!
Fuck good; ah’d grafted, and set fuckin standards. Ah wanted a first-class, joint honours degree in History and Literature; well, history, having dropped the literature component this year. Analysing novels meant ripping oot their soul and it destroyed my enjoyment of them. Ah couldnae allow masel tae be trained tae think that way. Only by refusing tae study literature was ah able tae maintain ma passion for it. Ah was also thinking about changing my major fae history tae economics. But ah usually topped every class, only African Adu rivalled me in some, him and Lu Chen, this scarily focused Chinese lassie. So ah tore off, aw ready tae dae battle wi the tweedy Parker, a snotty wee gerbil in a bow tie whae acted like he wis an Oxford don or something. He’d insisted in his notes back that this wis ma weakest essay, that ah’d misunderstood F. Scott’s life and work, and the character ay Dick Diver in Tender Is the Night.
So when ah got there this cunt’s sittin back in his padded chair. His wee office is stowed wi books and papers. It had shelves aw the way up tae the ceilin and a pair ay ladders tae get at the high-stacked dusty auld books. Aw they books, crammed intae this cosy wee hidey-hole. And he had one ay they Rolodex things for aw his contacts, which ah pretend tae hate but secretly think is as cool as fuck. Ah envied the bastard huvin this space; somewhere ye could just lock yourself in, read and ponder. The realisation that ah kent this cunt and the likes ay Frank Begbie, Matty Connell and Spud Murphy astonished me. Parker cultivated that detached, slightly superior look, wi his gold-rimmed specs resting oan the bridge ay his neb, and when he deigned tae focus on ye, it wis in that interrogative polis wey, like ye’d done something wrong. So ah put ma case forward, but he wis unrepentant. — You’re missing a key element, Mark, he goes, — which I must confess somewhat surprises me.