fuckin great Hibby. James Fuckin Connolly, ya cunt, Gav said to Renton who nodded sombrely.
Some sang along, others tried to maintain conversations above the music. However, when The Boys of the Old Brigade came on everybody joined in. Even Sick Boy took time off his necking session.
Oh fa-thir why are you-hoo so-ho sad
oan this fine Ea-heas-ti-her morn
— Sing ya cunt! said Tommy, elbowing Stevie’s ribs. Begbie stuck another can of beer in his hand and threw his arm around his neck.
Whe-hen I-rish men are prow-howd ah-hand glad
off the land where they-hey we-her born
Stevie worried about the singing. It had a desperate edge to it. It was as if by singing loudly enough, they would weld themselves into a powerful brotherhood. It was, as the song said, ‘call to arms’ music, and seemed to have little to do with Scotland and New Year. It was fighting music. Stevie didn’t want to fight anyone. But it was also beautiful music.
Hangovers, while being pushed into the background by the drink, were also being fuelled. They were now so potentially big as to be genuinely feared. They would not stop drinking until they had to face the music, and that was when every bit of adrenalin had been burned away.
Aw-haun be-ing just a la-had li-hike you
I joined the l-hi-Ah-har-A — provishnil wing!
The phone rang in the passage. June got it. Then Begbie snatched it out of her hand, ushering her away. She floated back into the living-room like a ghost.
— Whae? WHAE? WHAES THAT? STEVIE? RIGHT, HAUD OAN THE NOW. HAPPY NEW YEAR DOLL, BY THE WAY . . . Franco put the receiver down, — . . . whae ivir the fuck ye are . . . He went through to the front room. — Stevie. Some fuckin lemon oan the blower fir ye. Fuckin bools in the mooth likesay. London.
— Phoa! Ya cuntchy! Tommy laughed as Stevie sprang out off the couch. He had needed a pee for the last half-hour, but hadn’t trusted his legs. Now they worked perfectly.
— Steve? She had always called him ‘Steve’ rather than ‘Stevie’. They all did down there. — Where have you been?
— Stella . . . where have ah been . . . ah tried tae phone ye yesterday. Where are ye? What are ye daein? He almost said who are you with, but he restrained himself.
— I was at Lynne’s, she told him. Of course. Her sister’s. Chingford, or some equally dull and hideous place. Stevie felt a euphoric surge.
— Happy New Year! he said, relieved and brimming over.
The pips went, then more change was put into the machine. Stella was not at home. Where was she? In a pub with Millard?
— Happy New Year, Steve. I’m at Kings Cross. I’m getting on the Edinburgh train in ten minutes. Can you meet me at the station at ten forty-five?
— Fuckin hell! Yir jokin . . . fuck! There’s nowhere else in the world ah’ll be at ten forty-five. You’ve made my New Year. Stella . . . the things ah sais the other night . . . ah mean them more than ever, ye know . . .
— That’s good, because I think I’m in love with you . . . all I’ve done is think about you.
Stevie swallowed hard. He felt tears well up in his eyes. One left its berth and rolled down his cheek.
— Steve . . . are you okay? she asked.
— Much better than that, Stella. Ah love you. No doubts, no bullshit.
— Fuck . . . the money’s running out. Don’t ever mess me about, Steve, this is no fucking game . . . I’ll see you at quarter to eleven . . . I love you . . .
— I love you! I LOVE YOU! The pips went and the line died.
Stevie held the receiver tenderly, like it was something else, some part of her. Then he put it down and went and had that pee. He had never felt so alive. As he watched his fetid pish splash into the pan, his brain allowed itself to be overwhelmed with delicious thoughts. A powerful love for the world gripped him. It was New Year. Auld Lang Syne. He loved everyone, especially Stella, and his friends at the party. His comrades. Warm-hearted
Some sang along, others tried to maintain conversations above the music. However, when The Boys of the Old Brigade came on everybody joined in. Even Sick Boy took time off his necking session.
Oh fa-thir why are you-hoo so-ho sad
oan this fine Ea-heas-ti-her morn
— Sing ya cunt! said Tommy, elbowing Stevie’s ribs. Begbie stuck another can of beer in his hand and threw his arm around his neck.
Whe-hen I-rish men are prow-howd ah-hand glad
off the land where they-hey we-her born
Stevie worried about the singing. It had a desperate edge to it. It was as if by singing loudly enough, they would weld themselves into a powerful brotherhood. It was, as the song said, ‘call to arms’ music, and seemed to have little to do with Scotland and New Year. It was fighting music. Stevie didn’t want to fight anyone. But it was also beautiful music.
Hangovers, while being pushed into the background by the drink, were also being fuelled. They were now so potentially big as to be genuinely feared. They would not stop drinking until they had to face the music, and that was when every bit of adrenalin had been burned away.
Aw-haun be-ing just a la-had li-hike you
I joined the l-hi-Ah-har-A — provishnil wing!
The phone rang in the passage. June got it. Then Begbie snatched it out of her hand, ushering her away. She floated back into the living-room like a ghost.
— Whae? WHAE? WHAES THAT? STEVIE? RIGHT, HAUD OAN THE NOW. HAPPY NEW YEAR DOLL, BY THE WAY . . . Franco put the receiver down, — . . . whae ivir the fuck ye are . . . He went through to the front room. — Stevie. Some fuckin lemon oan the blower fir ye. Fuckin bools in the mooth likesay. London.
— Phoa! Ya cuntchy! Tommy laughed as Stevie sprang out off the couch. He had needed a pee for the last half-hour, but hadn’t trusted his legs. Now they worked perfectly.
— Steve? She had always called him ‘Steve’ rather than ‘Stevie’. They all did down there. — Where have you been?
— Stella . . . where have ah been . . . ah tried tae phone ye yesterday. Where are ye? What are ye daein? He almost said who are you with, but he restrained himself.
— I was at Lynne’s, she told him. Of course. Her sister’s. Chingford, or some equally dull and hideous place. Stevie felt a euphoric surge.
— Happy New Year! he said, relieved and brimming over.
The pips went, then more change was put into the machine. Stella was not at home. Where was she? In a pub with Millard?
— Happy New Year, Steve. I’m at Kings Cross. I’m getting on the Edinburgh train in ten minutes. Can you meet me at the station at ten forty-five?
— Fuckin hell! Yir jokin . . . fuck! There’s nowhere else in the world ah’ll be at ten forty-five. You’ve made my New Year. Stella . . . the things ah sais the other night . . . ah mean them more than ever, ye know . . .
— That’s good, because I think I’m in love with you . . . all I’ve done is think about you.
Stevie swallowed hard. He felt tears well up in his eyes. One left its berth and rolled down his cheek.
— Steve . . . are you okay? she asked.
— Much better than that, Stella. Ah love you. No doubts, no bullshit.
— Fuck . . . the money’s running out. Don’t ever mess me about, Steve, this is no fucking game . . . I’ll see you at quarter to eleven . . . I love you . . .
— I love you! I LOVE YOU! The pips went and the line died.
Stevie held the receiver tenderly, like it was something else, some part of her. Then he put it down and went and had that pee. He had never felt so alive. As he watched his fetid pish splash into the pan, his brain allowed itself to be overwhelmed with delicious thoughts. A powerful love for the world gripped him. It was New Year. Auld Lang Syne. He loved everyone, especially Stella, and his friends at the party. His comrades. Warm-hearted
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