Marabou Stork Nightmares (27 page)

To my surprise, it was just as good as it was with the ecky.

Dorie told me after that she thought I was beautiful. I was shocked to find out that she wasn't joking. I kept looking at myself in the mirror. — Your ears are big, but beautiful. They got character. They're distinctive. They ain't as big as you think n all, your head's grown since you were a little kid, you know.

We went to the Hacienda every weekend. There was always a party at somebody's gaff after. To come down we usually smoked grass. Skunk if we could get it. I loved just blethering away, but more than that, I loved listening; listening to all the punters, their patter, hearing about their lives, getting up to all sorts of mischief with each other. I'd take a deep suck on a joint and hold on to it until a large ripe tomato of pleasure blew to smithereens behind my face.

Dorie and I got engaged. It was stupid and cavalier, we had only known each other for a few months. It was bizarre, but I just wanted to make a gesture, to show her how I felt.

Life was okay; it was better than okay. I read a lot during the week, and went with Doric to watch arthousc movies at the Cornerhouse. At the weekend we clubbed and particd. Some Saturdays I went to the football with a couple of mates, Jimmy and Vince. We'd go down to the Moss to watch the City at Maine Road. The football wasn't as good as at Old Trafford, but the feel to it was better, more real. The crack in the pub before and after was great. Manchester was a brilliant place, it was the happiest time of my life.

Then something happened to knock the bottom out of my world and remind me who I was. It was an article in the
Manchester Evening News,
talking about the successful Zero Tolerance campaign in Edinburgh.

I lost it completely.

At the Hacienda that night I embraced Dorie most of the evening and through the morning; held her tightly to me. I held her as if I could force her love into me, drive the shit out of me, out of my mind and body, but what I was doing was infecting her; infecting her with my hurt, my pain, my anxiety. I could feel the sickness and doubt transmit in our embrace while my chin rested on the top of her head and my nostrils filled with the scent of her shampoo and perfume. The vibrations of doubt came back through her, right up through her skull and into my chin and into my head. She snorted with irregular discomfort through her nostrils, making a ragged sound against my neck. I got a duff E that night.

— Don't worry Roy, it don't always happen, Dorie said.

I'd lost it completely. All I could do was try to hide how much I had lost it.

Then I lost Dorie.

I got more and more depressed. I literally couldn't move. I just got more and more and more depressed. The doctor said I was suffering from ME, yuppie flu, that fucking post-viral fatigue or whatever they call it. For the first time, my relationship with Dorie was tested and found wanting. We sat in and ate, just fuckin ate, junk food, while watching videos. I could barely string a sentence together. We put on pounds, stones. She couldn't adjust to living with a depressed fuck-up who couldn't go out. Dorie was a party chick. She just wanted to have a good time . . . maybe I'm being hard on her. She wasn't that frivolous. She probably knew I was holding something back, keeping something from her, not showing her the whole me. Perhaps if I had been straight with her she might have

No.

— I'm just going to put the other side of the tape on now, Roy. Your mother has a great voice.

Thanks, Patricia. You sound different. Clearer. Louder. Closer. Your touch as you pull my head up to plump my pillows. Your perfume. The disinfectant smells of the hospital. The dimensions of this small room. I feel them for the first time. The drip in my arm. The tube in my throat, the one in my cock. It all doesnae matter. I lost Dorie.

Nobody does it better,
Makes me feel sad for the rest.
Nobody does it half as good as you do,
baby you're the best.

— Are you as good a singer as your mum, Roy? I lost Dorie . . .

We agreed to split. I moved into a new place in Eccles.

I wasn't looking,
But somehow you found me.
I tried to hide from your love.

Like heaven above me,
The spy who loved me
Is keeping all my secrets safe tonight.

I remember when I left the flat. I tried to talk to her, but the words wouldn't come. Even at that late stage she looked at me as if she wanted to hear words that would have made a difference. I couldn't even think them. My brain felt like it was floating in thick soup and my chest was as tight as a drum. Nothing would come.

— I'm sorry I couldn't help you, Roy. You have to help yourself first though. I'm sorry it didn't work out, she sniffed and couldn't stifle a sob. — I've been through this before and I don't want it again. It's better a clean break . . . I thought you were different, Roy . . .

— See ye, I said, picking up my holdall. I walked out the door and never looked back. I hated the cunt. I fuckin hated

No.

No Dorie fuck Roy Strang silly cunt top boy E head good looking so refined Dumbo Strang

The way that you hold me,
Whenever you hold me,
There's some kind of magic inside you . . .

Oh God what have I fuckin well done

Oh my God

I stayed in.

I stayed in at the weekends, watching videos. Then the worse part of it passed. I started going out again, though not so regularly. When I did go out, I avoided the Hacienda and I took loads of Es. I started taking sleeping pills to come down. I fucked as many lassies as I could; there were plenty at the clubs who were up for a shag. I respected them, there was massive respect, but we never kidded that it was anything else other than sex. There was no bullshit. It sometimes gave the illusion of happiness, but I was not happy, not in the same way. It's just that the pain was taken away. You can either use drugs as a validation of the joy of life or you can use them as an escape from its horrors. You have to become sensitive to the point where one shades into the other. I wasn't, and I went through a bad time.

I must have gone through a bad time because I started writing home. I got letters back. They'd all write on the one piece of paper to me. Before it would have embarrassed me, now it was strangely touching. It was crazy, but it made me want to be near them.

Dear Roy,

Hope everything is well down in Manchester and that your not getting too English! Nane o' that by the way Jimmy or your no a proper Scotsman n you'll no be slowed back up here. (Only joking!) New neighbours upstairs are a wee bit too lippy, Tony and I paid them a little visit and taught them the meaning of the word respect. Had a wee crowd back the other night and had a bit of a sing-song. We were minding of the time one New Year when we got you to sing A View To A Kill. Mind that? You liked that Duran Duran when you were younger! No denying it! I sang some Tom Jones and your Ma did her Shirley Bassey. A rare night. Colin Cassidy and me taught the Hopes dunno if you ken them a junky family in the scheme well we taught them a lesson they'll no forget in a hurry. Suffice to say our trends the Hopes are no longer resident in the scheme. Anyway, hears Mum.

All the best, Dad.

Hello Roy son,

Mum here. God, it doesn't seem more than a year now since you moved away. Time flies, right enough. Everyone is well here, and the big news we have is that Kim is getting married and is going to be a mum. We are all very thrilled. I don't know if you know Kevin, he is an awful nice fellow. What about you? Any sign of a girlfriend?

We had spaghetti bolognese the other day (is it still your favourite?) and that made us think of you. I had what your Dad calls my'usual wee greet' at the thought of you being so far away and I hope you can come home soon so it can be like old times.

All my love son,

Mum. XXXXX

P.S. Here's a few words from the mum-to-be, the future Mrs Scott.

Hiya Roy,

I shewd be calling you Uncle Roy because of the baby which is going to be born in February and will be called Jason if it's a boy and either Scarlet or Dionne if it is a wee girl

and the wedding will be sumtime in December at the Commidore Hotel and I have chosen a nice dres

Kevin seys that he's looking forward to meeting you and having a pint cause he is a nice felly and I will be glad when you two have met but no arguments about the football cause he's a JAMBO and I have started to support Hearts two because they are the best time. No arguments like cause that's what Tony does who's going to rite something here.

Love from Kim Scott (soon to be the formir Kim Strang.)

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hi Roy,

Tony here. We've got the Huns in the semi at Hampden, that's next week. A good night out, so get up for it. Hibees on a good run just now. I'm hoping we don't get any injuries or suspensions and have to play Joe Tortolano — a good Italian but a shite player. See you for the semi!

P.S. Hannah and the kids are okay and send their love.

Tony.

I came home to Edinburgh, a glazed-eyed basket case, back into the now strangely comforting chaos of my family.

I was ostensibly up for the League Cup semi-final, where Hibs were playing Rangers at Hampden. Nobody gave them a chance, but they won. I scarcely noticed. Tony's nails were bitten to the quick in that second half as we stood at the open end of the ground. Kevin, Kim's felly, was with us. He seemed an okay guy, a bit slow and bewildered, but harmless. A typical Jambo in fact. John got stroppy and threatened some guys in front of us with assault for putting up their flag and interrupting his view. At the final whistle he crushed one of them in a victory bear-hug. Tony jumped on me, tearing my neck muscles. I allowed myself to be dragged along and slapped by everyone near me.

There was a party . . . – – – – – – – – – – – –Me. and. Sandy Jamieson.

Just the two of us.

At our party. A picnic. A spread of fresh bread, cheeses, farm eggs and mouth-watering preservatives laid out on a pink gingham cloth. It was just the two of us, the way I'd always wanted it to be.– – – – – –

– – – – – –It was Dorie and me; at the Lake District . . .

Who have I ever really loved?

I don't need– – – – – – – luuuuuurrrrrrvvvvvvve.

What good would love do me,
Diamonds never lie to me,
For when love's gone
They last onnnnn . . .

DEEPER.

There was a party . . .– – – – – –

– – – – – –a party after the game at my auld man's. A party at my auld man's. You could have replaced the guests with a series of inflatables that wobble on their bases, with a tape deck built in to spout out clichés:

CHEERY AULD CUNT WITH HALF A LUNG AND GIMPY LEG: — Mustn't grumble . . . aye . . . mustn't grumble

MUMPY-FACED GUINNESS-GUTTED AUNTIE: — Pit oan an awfay loat ay weight since her hysterectomy . . . pit oan an awfay loat ay weight since her hysterectomy . . .

VACANT PARTY-CHICK COUSIN: — Hiyaaah . . . Hiyaaah . . Hiyaaah . . .

BROODING TEEN-PUP COUSIN IN CORNER: — Shite in here . . . pit oan some decent sounds . . .

WHINGEY UNCLE WITH ULCER: — Ah like it bit it disnae like me . . . ah like it bit it disnae like me . . .

I thought that it couldn't get any worse but it did. I hadn't told any of the guys I used tae hing aboot wi that I was coming back up fir the fitba. While everyone else had been on tenterhooks at the game's outcome, my only anxiety at being at Hampden was concern that one of the boys would see me.

Somebody had. The phone went and it was for me. It was Lexo.

— Thoat ye'd be up fir the fitba, he said.

— Aye, barry result, eh.

— Stomped a few hun casuals. Her Majesty's Service. Fuckin wee bairns; shitin cunts. Typical Weedgies; fling a few boatils n cairray a blade bit cannae pagger fir fuck all.

— Keith Wright's heider . . .

— Aye, well they'd better no fuck up against any shite in the final. The winners automatically qualify fir Europe, mind. This is oor chance tae cause real bother, oan the continent. This is one fuckin show thit hus tae be taken oan the road; it'll be a fuckin great crack. Whit did ye no come wi us fir the night?

— Eh, wanted tae see the auld man n that, eh. Nivir see thum aw now thit um doon in Manchester, eh.

— Aye right. Ah need your address doon thair. Git a squad doon fir a wee brek one weekend, eh. See whit fixtures are oan. They tell ays that Bolton's the tidiest local firm, eh. Mibbe pey they cunts a wee surprise visit. Anywey, we're doon the club: oan a loak in. Git yirsel doon.

— Eh, thir's a wee perty oan up here . . .

— C'moan ya schemie cunt, git doon tae the club!

— Eh, aye, right then . . . I went, mainly because it was too depressing watching all those cunts get pished in the hoose with their fuckin alcohol, mainly because that persistent cunt Lexo wid be oan the phone aw night and mornin.

I hit Leith Walk, no knowing where I was going or what I was doing. The town was decked in green and white, songs were spilling out of every bar. It was a Hibbie's fantasy; not a Jambo in sight: they were all skulking indoors contemplating thirty years without a trophy on the shelf. I couldn't get into it though. I realised I should have been at Powderhall and I cut down from the Walk.