She looked at me with an ugly bitterness. — What aboot me? Ah should've been an interest! Him sittin thair plugged intae that telly, aw day n night, shakin like a leaf when ah came in fae work in case all wanted tae watch somethin other thin his silly fuckin games! Me workin aw day, then huvin tae watch him playin games aw night!
— What's he fuckin like? Ah might go roond n see urn, Tina. Try to talk some sense intae his heid.
She shook her head knowingly, recognising the impossibility of the task, yet warming to me for offering support. — Come n sit wi us, she suggested, pointing through the back.
— Is Olly thair?
— Aye, but it's cool, likes.
— Any of her friends around?
Tina raised her eyebrows in disdainful acknowledgement.
— Dunno, ah wis thinkin ay gaun doon tae the Pelican tae see Sidney n The PATH.
I had no intention of going to the Pelican, but then I heard a voice coming from Olly's table. It was loud, overbearing, posh and grating: — AND SHE'S A FREELANCE JOURNALIST WHO'S BEEN DOING A FEW BITS AND PIECES FOR THE LIST. SHE'S ONLY BEEN SEEING TONY FOR A COUPLE OF MONTHS BUT SHE WAS HAVING INCREDIBLE HASSLES WITH THIS FLAT SHE MOVED INTO, SO THE NATURAL THING SEEMED TO BE ...
I had every intention of going to the Pelican. Tina did as well. When we got down The PATH was there with this lassie who looked a bit radge; radge in the sense of not being all there. The PATH freely admits that the Government's Community Care policies have been the best thing that ever happened to his sex life. Sidney was chatting with these women who looked disinterested to the point of boredom. — Awright, boys? Nae Roxy the night?
He was there though, holding up the bar, spraffin wi some wee guy.
We just sat around, drinking and blethering. Sidney and Tina seemed to be getting on. By chucking-out time they were feasting on each other's faces. The PATH and his troubled accomplice vanished into the night, while I left with Roxy.
— Ah'm gaunny take ye somewhair, he said. — Secret desti-nation.
We piled into a taxi. It headed down to Leith, but then we continued, heading out to Portobello. We stopped in Seafield Road and got out: the middle of fuckin naewhair.
— Whair the fuck's this? Eh? I asked.
— Follow me.
I did. We went around the back of Seafield Crematorium and climbed over a wall. It was a long drop down into the darkness on the other side, and I twisted my ankle badly in the fall. I was too drunk to feel much pain, but I'd feel it tomorrow alright, nothing was surer.
— What the fuck's this? I asked as he took me around some of the graves. Some of the headstones were recent. — How's it they bury people here? Ah thoat it wis supposed tae be a crematorium.
— Naw, thir's some plots ay land. Fir families, likes. Recognise this yin?
CRAIG GIFFORD
— Naw . . .
— Look at the date.
BORN 17.5.1964
DIED 21.12.1993
— It's... the boy... I couldn't bring myself to say it.
— Blind Cunt, said Roxy. — That's the cunt's grave. It's time tae exorcise the cunt's memory at long last...
He had his cock out and was pishing. On Bli... on Craig's grave.
BELOVED SON OF ALEXANDER AND
JOYCE GIFFORD
WE WILL NEVER FORGET YOU
— CUNT! I shouted. I punched the side of his head.
He grabbed me, but I tore free from his grip and booted and punched him. This was not a good idea. He took off his glasses and fairly wired into me. Every blow I dispensed seemed puny, while every one he hit me with threatened to break me into pieces. My nose burst open, but thankfully the sight of my blood seemed to make him stop.
— Sorry, Bri, he said. — Nae cunt punches me though, Bri, understand. Nae cunt.
I stemmed the blood with one hand while holding him off in acknowledgment with the other. Roxy is a big cunt, but I'd always thought of him as a gentle giant. Huge cunts always seem that way, until one of them panels you. Still, at least I was pished. I realised then a sick and horrible truth: getting a kicking from some cunt is worse than killing some other cunt. The ugly fact of the matter is that this has become a governing principle for too many people. If I'd had a blade on me I would have used it on Roxy. I might have only felt that way for a few seconds, but that's all it would take. What a fuckin thought. How sick a species are we?
Craig Gifford.
If only Roxy knew.
If Roxy knew, I'd be the one who went down. He'd probably be pointing his finger at this dangerous psycho.
— It's no that bad. Sorry, Bri. Ye shouldnae huv punched ays though, Bri. Ma eye's gaunny be oot in the mornin. Ma shin as well, Bri, ye caught ays a beauty thair. Me n you swedgin though bit, Bri, tell ays that's no too mad.
The daft cunt's trying to make me feel better by cataloguing the damage I've inflicted on him. There's no victors in this type of gig; only those who lose the least. Roxy's lost the least, in terms of both physical injury and macho self-esteem. We both know it, but I appreciate him trying to make me feel better.
I leave him, fuck knows how I get out of the cemetery, and head for the auld man's. I throw up down my front on the way. Confused, I go back to the old place in Muirhouse. The hoose was still a void property, it hadn't been let. I tried to kick the door down and I would've, had auld Mrs Sinclair next door not reminded me that my dad had moved.
I staggered off and threw up again. My front was a mess of sick and blood. A couple of boys came up to me at the shopping centre. — That cunt's ootay his face, one observed.
— Ah ken that cunt. You hing aboot wi that poof, eh mate?
— Eh... I tried to articulate a reply but I couldn't. I was aware enough, it just wouldnae come oot.
— If ye hing aboot wi poofs, that makes you a poof, that's the wey ah see it. What dae ye say tae that then, mate?
I look at the guy, and manage to ask, — Any chance ay a gam? They look at me incredulously for a few seconds, then one says, — Smart cunt!
— That's ma name, boys, I concede. I feel a numb blow and crash to the ground. I take a kicking I can't feel. It seems to last quite a while, and mat worries me, because you can usually judge the severity of a kicking by its duration. However, I take it with the passive, sick calm of an alienated worker putting in his shift and when I'm convinced it's over I stagger to my feet. Perhaps it's no too bad; I can walk easily. In fact, it seems to have cleared the mind a bit. Thanks, boys.
I cross the dual-carriageway, leaving posh Muirhoose, and get over to scruffy Pilton. That might no be how people see things now, but that's how it's always been tae me. Muirhoose is the newer hooses. Pilton's for the scruffs. It disnae matter what problems Muirhoose's got now and how much they tart up Pilton. Pilton's Pilton and Muirhoose is Muirhoose, always fuckin well will be. Fuckin scruffy Pilton cunts. These cunts that gave me the kicking were fae Pilton; that's these cunts' mentality. I've probably got fuckin lice jist through being in the vicinity of the dirty Pilton scruffy fuckin cunts.
I find the hoose and I don't know who lets me in.
The next morning I pretend to be asleep until they all leave for some twee little family outing: Dad, Norma and her loud, excitable daughter. I feel fucking shattered. When I try to get up I can barely walk. I'm covered in cuts and bruises and I piss blood, which shits me up. I have a bath and things start to feel a bit better, so I decide to have a sniff around. There's still a lot of stuff in packing cases. They are decorating this tawdry little egg-box of a home. I come across this small leather case which I haven't seen before, and I assume it's Norma's. It's not, however.
The case was full of photographs. Of me and Deek as bairns, of him, of my Ma. Photos I'd never seen before. I looked at her, with him. I tried to imagine I could see the hurt in her, see the discontent, but I couldn't. Not at first. Then I got to some photos which I knew were later ones, cause Deek and me were a bit bigger. In those pictures I could read it; with the benefit of retrospect
it was all too easy; her eyes screamed pain and disillusionment. My tears spilled onto the tacky photographs. There was a lot worse in this leather case, however.
I read all the letters, every one. They were all really similar in content, only the dates differed. They ranged from a few months after she left right through to 1989. She'd been writing to him for eight years from Australia. All the letters had the same basic propositions repeated ritually:
I want to get in touch with the boys.
I want to have them over to stay.
Please let them write to me.
I love them, I want my children.
Please write to me, Jeff, please get in touch. I know you're getting my letters.
What happened in 1989, I don't know, but she never wrote back after that.
I copy down the address and phone number in Melbourne onto a piece of scrap paper. This is total shite. This is another load of shite to get through. There's always more, always more of this fuckin shite to get through. It never ends. They say it gets easier to handle the older you get. I hope so. I hope tae fuck.
It takes a while tae get through on the international direct-dialling. I want to talk to my Ma, a long talk, get her side of the story, at his expense as well. A guy answers the phone. I got him out of bed; the time difference; I forgot. He asks me who I am, and I tell him.
The guy was really upset. He sounded okay, I have to say that, the boy sounded okay. He told me that there was an electrical fire in their home. It was bad. My Mum died in it, back in 1989. She managed to get their daughter out, but she died of smoke inhalation. The guy was breaking down on the line.
I put the phone down. As soon as I put it down it started ringing again.
I let it ring.
Irvine Welsh, The Acid House
(Series: # )
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