— What element? ah said, casting my eye oan what looked like a really auld copy ay Jane Eyre, oan the shelving tae the side ay the windae.
— Read the book again, the critical essays, and also the supplementary biog of F. Scott, he offered, standing up in response tae some cunt’s tap oan the door. — Now, if you’ll excuse me …
As he turned his back and went tae investigate, ah took ma chance n reached ower, swiftly slippin the copy ay Jane Eyre intae ma holdall. He ushered in some postgrad twat, dismissing me in the same extended sweep ay his airm. Ah left his office bilious, but buzzed at having taxed the bourgeois cheat oot ay his vintage wares. Hittin the bar, ah told Fiona, Joanne, Bisto and some others aboot the conversation, omitting ma virtuous retaliation through the act ay ‘resource reallocation’ as Sick Boy and me call theft, lest they misinterpreted it. — Wants us tae read it again, cheeky bastard, ah moaned, raisin the lifeless lager tae ma lips.
— You’ll be able ter read it on the trains in Europe, Fiona said wi a cool smile, takin a heart-stopping drag on her Marlboro, as Joanne giggled, making me mair convinced than ever that they were takin the pish. When ah goat back tae Edinburgh, however, Bisto called tae say they were definitely coming, they’d bought the InterRail tickets. Ah telt him ah’d believe it when ah saw it.
And fuck me, when the day came roond, ah did a double take when ah first clocked Joanne at Waverley Station, sitting in the big hall. She was reading Life & Times of Michael K by J. M. Coetzee, inevitably cause it had won some poxy prize and people like her, despite their free-thinker affectations, would eywis need tae be telt what tae read. We boarded the slick InterCity in an uncomfortable mutual antipathy; like me she wis probably wondering how the fuck we were gaunny stand each other’s proximity for four weeks. Thankfully, Bisto was waiting on the train, having got oan at Aberdeen, and he had a cairry-oot. We drank a beer or two each en route tae Newcastle, me electrified at the prospect of seeing Fiona, then forcing nonchalance when ah spied her at the platform, getting oan the train. Joanne suddenly screamin in that Weedgie voice, — Fiona, wur heee-ur!
Fiona looking so gorgeous, rubbing her tongue in concentration against her small, even front teeth, as she slung her bag oan the luggage rack and came towards us. Her presence and series ay movements casually ravaged everything inside us. — Hi, she said directly tae me, and ah’m sure ma skin went as rid as ma fuckin hair or the Aberdeen fitba strip Bisto wis wearin, wi the white pinstripes and 1983 ECWC crest. Aw ah could dae was tae coolly raise a can in a stagey toast, when ma insides were like chopped liver. She had on a black leather jacket turned up at the collar, and removed it tae display a Gang of Four T-shirt, while sweeping her hair back. Ah’d never fancied anybody so much in ma life.
We were on the road: London — Paris — Berlin — Istanbul.
Whaire else but Paris? Sittin at this pavement cafe in the Latin Quarter drinking Pernods wi chunks ay ice. It was warm and heady and we were getting rapidly pished. There was a flirty, sexy vibe in the air. Fuck knows how, but a daft drinking game started up, where we passed these chunks ay ice mooth-tae-mooth tae each other. This precipitated the performance ay deep kisses; Joanne and Fiona, tae me n Bisto’s open-moothed awe, then Joanne and me, and Bisto and Fiona as ah wept inside, then me and Bisto (we pushed stiff, closed mooths against each other, hamming it up), tae the cheers ay the lassies, then a quick bit ay musical chairs and ma heart poundin as me and Fiona looked at each other and in a suspended moment flashed a contract: I’m yours, your mine, before going at it. Eventually aware, wi the cheers turning tae groans, that the ice had melted, and it wisnae the only thing. Our faces stayed welded together as we ignored Bisto’s jocularly nervy comments and the controlling Joanne’s shrill protests. We’d gone and spoiled it aw for her. She wanted tae meet foreign boys, enjoy a splurge ay Continental cock before hooking some spotty bam at uni for life. Later on, Fiona even telt me she’d said, — This isnae how it was meant tae happen! Loved up, Fiona and me were an embarrassment tae Bisto and Joanne. They had nae interest in each other, but we were rubbing their faces in it, withoot meanin tae.
Like fuck.
Ah loved rubbin it in! It wis obvious that when we got back tae the hotel, near Gare du Nord, that we’d be sleeping thegither. It wis an Algerian grot-hole, but tae me the last word in sophistication. It was like livin wi a bird, but in Europe, which it was really. Growin up wi two brothers, a lassie’s simple domestic proximity fascinated me. Ah marvelled at her oan the edge ay the bed, in the surprisingly smart towelling robe they provided, sitting on the frayed and threadbare candlewick bedspread. Stepping oot ay the robe and intae the bath and shaving her legs. No just brushing her teeth, but daein something called flossing, wi this twiney stuff. Sittin at the table in front ay the mirror, putting oan make-up or idly filing nails, her wet hair wrapped in a towel.
Ah even took Parker’s advice and reread Tender Is the Night, fantasising about Mark Philip Renton and Fiona Jillian Conyers as a modern Dick and Nicole Diver, a bohemian couple travelling through Europe enjoying interesting adventures and making urbane observations oan the world at large. It was a big step up for me. My sex life had generally been a series ay bitter, sly and exceptionally swift copulations in stairs, family bedrooms or under grubby duvets in noisy squats. This wis pure decadence and it meant that poor Bisto and Joanne had to share the adjoining room wi its twin beds.
Then Berlin, and more of the same. Ah fuckin loved Berlin. There was this barry bit oan Line 6 gaun tae Friedrichstrasse, where the U-Bahn train went under the Waw, whizzin through a couple ay spooky abandoned stations on the Commie side that had been shut since partition, before re-emerging intae the western sector. Fiona and me sneaked away fae the others (we did that a lot) and got ower tae East Berlin proper, ah wis desperate tae see it. It wis much better than West: nae billboards disfiguring the beautiful auld buildings. A ginormous three-course lunch, fir thirty pence. A blow job in the park; clandestine spice added by the nearby presence ay armed guards. Almost missing the curfew, as we’d gone in through Friedrichstrasse and tried tae return via Checkpoint Charlie, clueless that we hud tae go back the same wey we’d gained entry.
Later, we sat in a cafe, drinking black coffee, as the sounds of the city — electric trains, car horns and people — buzzed around us, creating a strange but beautiful mood of relaxed excitement. Fiona’s eyes twinkled and wonderment leaked from her. — When we wur in Noel’s class, remember how white that room was?
— Aye, it always caught the light, and that blind was knackered.
— I mind one time when it was dazzling, it was in your eyes and you had your hand up to yer face n you were arguing wi Noel about the formation of capital in mercantile Europe.
— Eh … aye …
— I really wanted ter shag yer so badly …