— Aye, ah caught her puffin oan a fag the other week. Whae’s tae say it wisnae that thit made it fuckin well fire oot before its time?
Alison felt a gasp of incredulity tear from her. — It doesnae work that way, Frank. It’s a terrible thing for a lassie. Naebody kens why it happens.
— Ah ken! Ah ken awright; it happens cause ay snout! It happens cause ay peeve, he moaned, his brown and yellow fingers pointing with the fag in them up the Walk. He suddenly shook his head with implausible vigour, reminding her of a dog emerging from the sea. — Maybe it’s the best fuckin thing thit could’ve happened, cause if she’s that bad now, what kind ay mother would she have fuckin well been whin the bairn wis born? Eh?
— It’s no her fault, Frank. She’ll be in bits. Ye should go hame n comfort her.
— Ah’m nae good at aw that shite, he shook his head.
— Just go tae her, Frank, she’ll appreciate it.
For a second, Alison almost entertained the notion that the blurred reflection of the burning sodium light was a tear in Franco’s eye, but it was probably her own. Then he said in cold certainty, — Nup. It’s doon tae her. She’s goat mates n sisters for aw that shite.
Alison stood up. She’d grown to believe that suffering only led to more suffering. There was just comfort, it was the only thing we could offer each other. Yet her hand, hovering in stasis over Franco’s dense shoulder, couldn’t quite bring itself to land. She saw they were fated to their separate pains, and was relieved by the discernment. — Right, Frank, take care ay yirsel, ah’ll see ye.
— Aye, see ye.
And she marched up the Walk, now too numbed to feel the cold’s burn. She could see the sparkle and hear the occasional crunch of the spring frost under her feet as she looked for the night bus that would take her to Tollcross and Johnny Swan’s place. Closer still was Pilrig, and her dead mother’s morphine. She’d quickly, instinctively, expropriated it, telling her dad it was going back to the hospital, and her friend Rachael, who was a nurse, would know what to do with it. To his befuddled, grateful mind, it had just been another practical task she’d completed, like registering the death, booking the crematorium, the Dockers’ Club for the do, arranging the catering, putting the notice of the death and funeral in the Evening News, taking her mother’s old clothes round to the charity shop.
The Walk was filling up with singing, wolf-whistling drunks spilling out of the pubs. Then, from some distance behind her, she heard glass shattering and shouting followed by a terrible stillness in the air, which was dramatically breached by screams more animal than human. Alison kept walking, knowing who would be responsible. Yet she was afflicted every step of her journey home by Begbie’s pained, malevolent spirit. In her own psychosis of loss, his was the devil’s voice, permeating all the other sounds; the grinding of cars down the street, the shivering of the bare trees in the wind, the guffaws of drunk girls, the shouts of men weaving in and out of the public houses. Her brain was blackened with remorse, gummed up like damp, dirty amphetamine powder in a wrap. She thought of June’s pain, the death’s head of her mother, then the women at the poetry group, those lassies who seemed like they’d graduated from a finishing school on some far-off planet. Making love to Simon, to Alexander, then that guy she’d met the other night at the Bandwagon, Andy? No, Adam. For a second she sensed that if she just closed her eyes, something like a pattern, a semblance of order, might insinuate itself, but she was too scared to try.
From out of the darkness, a wailing police car, followed by its bigger sibling of an ambulance van, tore past her at speed.
Ocean
Sea Dogs
1. Customs and Excise
SICK BOY, RUCKSACK on his back, considers his friend Renton really is a skinny junky cunt; that even Spud or Matty might now appear sprucer. Walking quickly through the brightly lit customs area, every fibre in Sick Boy’s being screams: he is not with me. The air hangs heavy with old sweat, augmented rather than buried by the tang of cheap, noxious deodorants. The thickset official, tattooed spiderweb straddling the bridge of one hand, pulls on a cigarette, feigning disinterest, but Sick Boy can tell that he’s clocked them. He’ll have to pass through this gate every day, and, if Marriott has his way, sometimes with a sizeable packet of class-A drugs sweating in his underpants.
Nicksy, carrying a large imitation-leather travel bag, mirrors Sick Boy’s decline. He’s conversing with Marriott but focused mordantly on a trickle of spittle coming out of his gob, which slops down the older man’s chin. Nicksy is transfixed by the horror of his private dilemma; if he suffers this for just one more second then he feels death will surely follow but, if he breaks off, he’ll never work in this town, sordid as it is, again.
In the event, Renton, with two plastic carrier bags, is the only one detained and searched. He wears a goofy, nervy smile as the grim-faced customs men tip some faded T-shirts and underwear onto a table for inspection. Meantime, his personal stash burns his toes at the bottom of his trainers. He took a fortuitous late decision to leave his spec-case works at home, and gives thanks with an awkward nod as he’s waved on. Nicksy’s way up ahead, not looking back.
They move outside the customs area, a set of glass doors transiting them to the dock where they’re lashed by a viciously bitter wind. Bloated, slate-coloured clouds suck the light out of the sky as they head onto the gangway to board the large white ship, renamed The Freedom of Choice, following privatisation, from its former designation, The Arms Across the Sea.
Though imposing enough from the outside, the interior of the vessel seems a charmless warren of green-and-white-painted steel decks, cabins and stairways. Manoeuvring through several sets of hostile swinging doors, they descend a nightmarish staircase, proceeding deeper and deeper down towards their billets.
Renton inspects the narrow coffin of the cabin he’s to share with Nicksy (ensuring that his cockney friend is in the bottom bunk as he’s detected a bit of the bed-wetter about his persona), and craves getting his head down. But they’re swiftly whisked back up those stairs to a deck — sweating, lungs punching for air and calves burning — for a potentially torturous induction. Here they get issued with reasonably smart blue holdalls, bearing the Sealink logo. Each bag contains a red waistcoat and silk tie or scarf and either two shirts or blouses, depending on the gender of the ‘operative’. (In the post-privatised, non-union epoch, they are all referred to in this way rather than ‘stewards’. Operatives are paid less.) The supervisor, a thin, short, bespectacled man of around thirty, sporting a neat Beatle cut and resplendent in his own cream shirt, is telling the dozen-strong group of new recruits how it’s their responsibility to make sure that the issued attire gets washed, and that they’re wearing a clean top at all times. — This is of paramount importance, the overseer they’ve instantly dubbed Cream Shirt lisps, focusing on Sick Boy, who stands at the rear of the assembly with Renton and Nicksy, — do I make myself clear?
— Affirmative, Sick Boy barks, causing the assembled inductees to whirl round, before adding, — Can’t run a ship if we’re not shipshape.
Cream Shirt looks at him as if he’s taking the piss, then thinks he might not be, and lets it slide, escorting them on a tour around the vessel. Renton and Sick Boy simultaneously recognise the wild-haired girl from back at the interview. — The only half-decent bird on offer, Sick Boy says to Renton in disdain. — I got a smile fae those chunky Pauline Quirke barrow girls, he nods towards two women moving in coy, close proximity to them, — but sorry, girls, you’re destined for a life of kitchen sweat, as opposed to the bedroom variety!