No.
I'll never fuck again.
I hear the nurses leave, their sensible shoes clicking on the floor. I'm alone with my lady friend. I wonder who she is?
— It's funny seeing you here. Roy. It's been a long time. Who the fuck are you?
— I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news. It's your old pal Dempsey. Alan Dempsey. He's no longer with us, Roy. I thought you'd like to know that.
WHO ARE YOU?
It's no good. I hear her steps start up and fade. She's leaving.
Dempsey. Ali Dempsey. Demps. Total Niddroid. One of the top boys. One top boy deid, another a cabbage. The Cabbage and Ribs.
The bearer of bad news departs but the sound of her leaving becomes the sound of someone else appearing.
— Yir gaun back tae yir right fuckin room, son. Ah goat they cunts telt. Ah sais, youse cunts git ma fuckin laddie back in that room or ah'll git ma fuckin shotgun right now n yis'll be needin mair fuckin beds thin ivir by the time ah've fuckin finished!
—The laddie disnae need tae hear that, John. It's aw sorted now, son. We goat them aw sorted oot.
— Too fuckin right we did. Eh hen? Telt these cunts the score.
— Yes, well you'll have to leave now, Mr and Mrs Strang. I need to get Roy prepared
— Aye, wir gaun . . . bit naebody better try n move him ootay this room again . . . right! Cause like ah sais, ah'll be right doon herel
— Nobody's moving Roy, Mr Strang. Now let's just keep our voice down shall we, it might upset him.
Aye, right.
— Aye, well, so long as youse mind what ma man sais!
— Yes Mrs Strang.
— Tro Roy!
— Cheerio son. Mind son, we'll no lit thaim dae nowt tae ye. Like ah sais . . . cheerio Roy! CHEERIO YA FUCKIN RADGE.
Nurse Beverley Norton is getting me sorted. Patricia must have finished her shift. Talk to me in your soft Coronation Street accent, Nurse Norton. Just like Dorie's . . . naw, no Dorothy's.
—We've got a visit from Dr Park this afternoon, haven't we, Roy loovey? Got to get you all nice and spruced up for Dr Park.
Fire ahead Nurse Norton. Never mind auld Strangy here. Roy Strang. Strangy fi Muirhoose. A vegetable now likes, but still a sound cunt. Still a top boy. Now Dempsey's wormfood though. The rest? Who the fuck kens. Two years ah've been here. Thir probably in Saughton, or worse, in some tenement or Gumley's, Wimpey, or Barratt box with a bird and brat checkin oot B&Q's wares. Sittin in front of the telly. Are they cabbages too? C'mon you cabbage. Not as much as me: a biodegradable piece of useless shit incapable of fulfilling its intended purpose in this life, just as incapable of passing on to the next one.
Thank fuck for a childhood in a large Scottish housing scheme; a wonderful apprenticeship for the boredom that this kind of semi-life entails. Pull the fuckin plug.
Wonder how Demps kicked it?
Thank fuck for Sandy Jamieson. Time
to
go
back
down
under
Bruce – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – It's all about good service, old Dawson explains to us, wiping large remnants of a substantial starter from his face. Sandy and I eagerly set to work on our hors-d'oeuvre although we both found that we were rather full after them.
— We haven't been quite so hungry today, Sandy said.
— I blame this confounded heat, I nodded, — but I could make a meal of this homemade bread and butter alone!
Our food is served by a strange creature, the likes of which I had never seen before. It was stunted and furtive, and although its short-arsedness seemed to suggest a range of possibilities, it was too dour looking to be a leprechaun, too ugly to be a pixie and too clumsy to be an elf. Its malevolence seemed far in excess of what one might expect from any self-respecting imp. Dawson informs us that it is his faithful manservant, Diddy. Sandy tries to avoid making eye contact with the dwarf valet as he ladles copious amounts of vegetables onto Dawson's plate, a contrast, it has to be said, to the far less liberal helpings he furnishes us with.
— Take Diddy here. He used to run this reserve. Now all he does is skivvy. I had to dismiss him from a position of executive authority. He was yesterday's man, incapable of taking us onto the next phase. Is that not so, Diddy?
Dawson slowly enunciates the phrase incapable of taking us onto the next phase.
— Yes, Mr Dawson, Diddy solemnly replies.
— And how do you feel to be serving my food now, Diddy?
— It's an honour and a privilege to serve Jambola Park PLC in any way I can, Mr Dawson.
— Thank you, Diddy. Now please leave us. We have matters to discuss: executive matters.
Diddy scuttled out the door.
Dawson reclined in his chair and let out a loud, appreciative belch.
— You see Roy, Diddy may have no class, but he possesses an important quality. Not really important any more in top execs, they can always be rewarded, but crucial in footsoldiers. I'm talking, of course, of loyalty. Good old Diddy; aye ready to serve the empire. Men like him have been rewarded by men like me ever since the British set foot in this godforsaken continent.
— The hun never sets, I smiled, and Dawson raised a lascivious eyebrow in fruity acknowledgement.
— And if I may say so, Diddy has been rewarded handsomely, Sandy ventured.
It was a remark which Dawson largely close to ignore. I kept forgetting that Sandy was once in the employ of 'Fatty' Dawson.
— Wonderful food, Lochart, I smiled.
— Yes, said Sandy, — especially after that simply horrid stuff we had in town.
— That was beastly, I agreed, — the chap in the bar made so much fuss about it as well. It's so difficult to get good service nowadays. You're lucky to have Diddy.
Dawson rubbed his swollen hands together and let his face take on a serious bearing. — You see Roy, humans have a wretched tendency to pledge devotion to insitutions rather than individuals. This can be problematic for people like myself who require loyalty in service. What happens, of course, is that one simply buys the institution. Of course one is changing this institution at the same time to suit one's business plans and, yes, many people do notice this. Fortunately, tribal loyalties are pretty well-honed and the fools can't help but to subscribe.
— Goodwill is one of the greatest assets an organisation can have, Sandy remarked.
— Tremendously difficult to quantify on the balance sheet though, Dawson smiled, directing his remark at me rather than Sandy. Sandy began rocking in his chair and letting out a low sound.
— Mmmmm.
— So what does this mean, Lochart? What sort of a role do you perceive for Sandy and myself? I asked, impatient to discover where Dawson's game was leading us.
As you may know, he smirked, — I'm planning to take over a debt-ridden park which lies adjacent to us. I've made a reasonable offer, but I've been subjected to the predictable, tiresome cries of asset-stripping and child-molesting and so on and so forth. Kicking Lochart Dawson around is something of a thriving industry in these parts. Well, I've news for the loudmouths, I've never run away from anything.
— So where do our interests converge?
— I want the land they have. It's over two hundred square miles. With my smaller park joined to these resources, we could be in business. Big business. I'm offering opportunity, Roy. I'm offering vision. However, there will always be malcontents who choose to resist progress. The neighbouring park, Emerald Forest, is infested by the most vicious and unscrupulous predators/scavengers on this continent. I'm referring, of course, to your old friends . . .
— The Marabou Storks.
— I hear that there is one you're interested in? The leader?
— You hear correctly.
—I want to help you take him out. I'll put all my resources at your disposal.
— Well, we need a couple of pump-action shotguns, some maps . . . explo
sives . . .
— Anything! Dawson bounded across and shook my hand. — Well, as they say, let's kick ass, or rather, you chaps kick ass. I'm going to disappear for a while. It's, eh, the family; slightly jittery about all this. We also have a hostile media to contend with.
Dawson barked instructions to Diddy to kit us out, and we were off.
4 Leptoptilos
Crumeniferus
The Marabou Stork is a predator. The Marabou Stork is also a scavenger. These qualities make it detested and despised by human beings. Humans are into animals whose qualities they covet, and hate ones whose characteristics they vainly like to feel are not at all 'human'. The world we live in is not run by cuddly, strong bears, graceful, sleek cats or loyal, friendly dogs. Marabou Storks run this place, and they are known to be nasty bastards. Yes, even the vulture does not get such a bad local press.
Fatty Dawson was sold on the concept of taking out the leader, creating a vacuum, and watching the birds turn on each other and tear each other apart in disarray. I knew that this would not happen. I knew that these birds were far more sophisticated and organised than Dawson gave them credit for. Dawson was from the west; he didn't understand these creatures. Another leader would swiftly emerge. You couldn't eradicate the Marabous, they were purely a product of their environment, and this scabrous environment totally supported them. The best you could hope for was to perhaps force them into a temporary migration. Nonetheless, I was happy to let both Dawson, and my guide Sandy, believe that the eradication of the leader was an appropriate strategy for ridding the Emerald Forest of the Marabou Stork.
For me it was personal. There was only one Stork I wanted, one of those beasts which had to die. I sipped some cool water from my canteen. My lips had dried in the heat. I removed a tube of Vaseline from my coat pocket to apply to them, just as Sandy emerged naked from the river, where he had been taking a dip to gain respite from the omnipresent heat.
He looked at me tensely, then glanced around at the deserted wilderness. There was nothing and nobody about for miles. He rolled his eyes naw he
– One could think of other uses for that, Roy, he smirked – – – – – – – – naw didnae roll
his eyes
Sandy and I
urnae like that it wis jist mates muckin aboot– – – –DEEPER
DEEPER
DEEPER– – – he quickly got into his clothes.
Sandy and I were well-kitted out for the task at hand. Tooled up with rifles, shotguns, explosives and carrying absolute stacks of provisions: jam, English Breakfast Tea, tins of beans, soup, desserts, all that sort of stuff. Stuff that doesn't go off in this confounded heat.
I did, however, notice some reticence on Sandy's part concerning what on the surface seemed to be a fairly straightforward task.
— What's your opinion of Johnny Stork, Sandy old man? I asked him.
— They are evil incarnate, Roy. They have to be stamped out for the good of the game, Sandy replied, ashen-faced.
— You don't have any concerns about us not being up to the task do you, Sandy? I enquired.
up – – – – time will tell.
— Time will tell, he said up grimly, time will tell. – – – – – – up
What the fuck is this?
— But I think he's going to come out of it. There's definitely increased signs of brain activity. I wouldn't be surprised if he could hear us. Take a look at this, Dr Goss . . .
FUCK OFF!
The cunt wrenches open my eyelids and shines a torch into them. Its beam shoots right down into my darkened lair and I skip into the shadows to avoid its light. Too quick for these cunts.
—Yes, we're definitely getting some sort of reaction. A very positive sign, says one of the doctors, I forget their names, they all sound the same to me.
— I don't think you're doing enough to help us, Roy. I don't think you're doing enough to get well, says the other. I'll call him Middle-class English Cunt One and the other Middle-class English Cunt Two in order to differentiate them.
— I think we have to increase the stimulus and the number of tests, says Middle-class English Cunt Two.
— Yes Dr Park, says Nurse Beverly Norton.
— Those tapes his family brought in. Keep them going, suggests Middle-class English Cunt One.
So I'm to be subjected to increased harassment, and my energies, which should be concentrated on getting me deeper, deeper into my world, my story, my hunt, now have to be diverted into keeping these fuck-wits out.
— Listen Roy. We're doing our best for you. You have to want to get better, says
Middle-class English Cunt One, bending over me. I feel his rancid breath in my nostrils. Oh yes, just you keep that up ya cunt, because if I do come out the first thing ah'm gaunny fuckin well dae is tae rip yir fuckin queer English face apart wi ma chib . . . but fuck, naw man, naw . . . ah'm gettin too fuckin close tae the surface, cause ah feel masel at the top ay the ladders which run up the side ay the deep deep well, half-way down being my lair, further down still the beautiful blue skies of Africa, the world ah just drop into but now I'm right at the fuckin top, right at the top, pushing at the trapdoor and some shards of light are coming through . . .
I feel his rancid breath
DOWN
DEEPER
DEEPER – – – – –
—Funny, I thought that there was something there for a bit . . . must just be my imagination. Anyway, let's move on. Thank you. Nurse.
Exit the bools-in-the-mooth cunts.
—Did you hear that Roy! Two doctors today! Dr Park and Dr Goss. And they're pleased with you. You have to work a little bit harder though, lovey. I'm going to put on the nice tape that your mum and your brother made for you. That brother of yours, Tony, is it? He's a saucy one and no mistake. I think he's interested in some of our younger nurses. Anyway, here you are:
The minute you walked in the joint, I could see ye were a man of distinction, A real big spender . . .
Thank you but no fuckin thank you Bev-ih-leey, chuck. Bring back Patricia Devine. Come back Patsy, Patsy De Cline, all is forgiven . . .
Suppose you'd like to know what's goin on in ma mind.
DEEPER
DEEPER
DEEPER– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –Peace.
part two
The City
Of Gold
5 Into The City
Of Gold
Our first home in South Africa was a few rooms in Uncle Gordon's large house in the north-eastern suburbs of Johannesburg. Uncle Gordon was fond of saying that we were as 'far away from Kaffirtown (Soweto) as it was possible to get and still be in Jo'burg'.
Though I was just a kid, my impression of the city was of a drab, bleak modern place. It looked spectacular from the sky as we circled over it on our way to landing at Jan Smuts International Airport, named, John proudly told me, after a South African military man who was a big pal of Winston Churchill's. It was only when we saw it from the ground that I realised it was just another city and that they all looked better from the sky. Close up, downtown Johannesburg just looked like a large Muirhouse-in-the-sun to me. The old mine dumps provided a diminishing backdrop to the ugly skyscrapers, highways and bridges which had long replaced the shanty homes of the first gold pioneers who made the city. I was so disappointed as Ma had told me on the plane that it was called the City of Gold, and I had expected the streets to be literally paved with the stuff and the buildings composed of it.
Gordon's place in Kempton Park was certainly salubrious enough, but all there seemed to be at the end of his driveway was a tree-lined road leading to more houses and grounds. No kids played on the deserted streets, the place was dead. I just stayed in most of the time, or played in the garden, hanging around with Kim. It was okay, though: there were plenty of things to see around the house.
Gordon lived on his own with his black housekeeper, and it seemed bizarre that he should keep on
a house of that size. It was probably just to show the world how much of a success he was, financially at any rate. Emotionally, life in the Republic had not been so rewarding for him. There had been a wife, but she had departed long ago, all traces of her obliterated. Nobody talked about her, the subject was taboo. I'd put the shits up Kim by telling her that Gordon had murdered her and buried her body in the grounds. This was plausible, given the way Gordon appeared. Straight away I clocked him as a true Strang: weird as fuck.
On one occasion I took my tormenting of Kim too far, and she freaked really badly, spilling the beans, resulting in me getting a good slapping from my Ma. As she belted me, I remembered Vet saying: — I'm only daein this cause if yir faither finds oot n he does it, ye'll ken aw aboot it. That was true as Kim was my Dad's favourite and teasing her always carried the extreme risk of incurring his wrath. While it was quite a healthy slapping, I took it with a sense of relief, recognising the truth in her words. She was actually doing me a favour and I sensed her heart wasn't in it; but unfortunately she was instinctively quite good at violence. She stopped when my nose started to bleed heavily. Though my ears rang for a few days I didn't even sulk or feel bad about her or Kim after. Everyone seemed lighter, happier. It was a good time.
I knew fuck all about politics at the time, but even I soon sussed that Uncle Gordon was what I suppose I'd now call an unreconstructed pro-apartheid white supremacist. He had come to South Africa about fifteen years previously. His story, which he was fond of telling anyone who'd listen (I heard it literally dozens of times that year) was that he and two of his pals were sitting in the Jubilee Cafe in Granton, thinking about what to do to with their lives. They thought of emigration to Canada, Australia or South Africa. They decided to take one each and Gordon arbitrarily picked SA. They were supposed to report back to the Jubilee in ten years' time, but they never showed up. The cafe had shut down anyway. — We were silly laddies, Gordon remarked, — but it was the best break I ever had.