Skagboys

by Irvine Welsh

— Whae the fuck ur you? Forrester ignores her, challengin me.

  Ah grips Sylvia’s leg again. — Bruce Wayne, ah goes, n that gits some laughs. In frustration, Forrester kicks the sole ay ma trainer, n ah lunges in slo-mo tae ma feet n squares up tae the cunt n we’re right in each other’s faces.

  — Ladies, please. No handbags, Raymie lisps, — I beg of thee.

  — Neither ay you boys is much ay a fighter. N yir baith skagged up, wee Goagsie helpfully reminds us.

  Forrester and me baith have the grace tae look embarrassed, as a mutual tremor ay wary acknowledgement passes between us. Then our host looks witheringly back at Sylvia. — Fuck who ye like, ya daft bitch, he says, turnin oan his heels and headin oot, slammin the door shut behind him. As ah faw back intae the couch, ah hear his feet gaun up the stairs.

  — Thanks very much, she shouts back at him, then turns tae the room in appeal. — Like ah need his fuckin permission? Last ah looked he wisnae ma faither, n ah dinnae mind ay mairryin um!

  — Ah nivir bother askin ma faither whae ah kin shag, ah idly observe.

  — Gled tae hear it, Sylvia says in clipped tones as Ali stifles a giggle.

  — Me neither … groans Matty, — … unless it’s muh ma.

  — That’s only good manners, ah shrugs.

  Raymie looks at the Eric Thewlis gadge, n his face goes straight and he says, — You really should gie yir ma a bell, n eftir a puzzled silence, every cunt tipples n laughs. A daft round ay shite talk starts up, but aw this effort has knackered me n ah’m driftin back intae a semi-crash. Ah kin vaguely hear Goagsie arguing wi one or baith ay these dinguls in the corner aboot people ah dinnae ken, n one gadge called Seeker, whaes name’s been bandied aroond a lot lately. The next thing ah ken is ah’m ootside blinkin in the cauld n gittin in a taxi wi Matty, Goagsie, Lesley and this Sylvia bird, headin back tae Leith.

  — Did you ken that Ali’s ma’s dying? Lesley goes.

  — Aye? Fuckin hell …

  Sylvia’s hand on my thigh.

  — She’s goat the big C.

  — Cancer? ah goes.

  — Aye … Lesley cringes, as if hearin the word exposes ye tae the disease. — It wis in her breasts. Hud a double mastectomy, but it’s no done any good. It’s terminal.

  — A double mastectomy … cunt, that’s where they cut baith the tits oaf, right? sais Matty, and ah cannae help glancin at Lesley’s ample cleavage. Lesley shivers and nods. — Sair yin, Matty goes, — especially as it never worked. Cunt, how bad would that be, tae go through gittin yir tits cut oaf n still telt yir gaunny die? he speculates in noxious cheer. Then he says, as if inspired, — Cunt, Fat Keezbo’s ma, Moira Yule, she hud that, eh, Rents?

  — Aye, but she wis awright, they goat it in time, ah goes as Sylvia whispers tae me that ah’ve goat a nice erse.

  — She went fuckin scatty but. They fuckin budgies, Matty laughs.

  Ah gie him a harsh look tae tell um tae shut up, then rub Sylvia’s thigh. Keezbo’s ma did go a wee bit doolally wi gittin that aviary in the hoose, but ye dinnae start talkin aboot a mate’s faimlay business like that. Fair play, the wee cunt doesnae make a meal ay it. — Where is Ali, anyway? ah goes, suddenly worried that she’s no wi us.

  — Cunt, she went wi Raymie tae Johnny’s, Matty goes.

  Goagsie’s melted intae the windae n makes a sort ay groan. — Tryin tae tell me aboot Seeker … he mumbles, — ah ken fuckin Seeker …

  Ah’ve goat the tweakins ay a semi in ma troosers. — Ye game? ah whispers in Sylvia’s ear, catchin the smell ay fags n cheap perfume.

  — If yir huntin, she smiles back harshly.

  The rest disembark at the Fit ay the Walk, n me and Sylvia carry on doon Duke Street n up tae hers at Lochend. She calls it ‘Restalrig’ but it’s pure Lochend. And ah hate Lochend. It’s beyond wide. The place teems wi psychic assassins ready tae burst yir mooth. Normally ah’d be twitchin anxiously at shadows up here at this time ay night, especially as ah’m aboot tae bang one ay their birds, but as the taxi pulls away and a group ay swaggering wideos are lopsidedly winding towards us, ah strangely feel nae fear whatsoever.

  The leader ay the pack gies Sylvia a gelid smile, carving concern oantae her coupon, then ah git the same treatment. — You’re Begbie’s mate, eh? Billy Renton’s brar?

  Ah’ve never met this cunt before in ma puff but ah ken fae Franco’s obsessions exactly whae he is. — Mr Charles Morrison.

  — What? Ah get a hollow-moothed, limp-jawed stare as his lips crawl back fae his teeth and his eyes bug oot.

  — A pleasure to make your acquaintance. Your reputation precedes you.

  Morrison looks briefly bemused. His expression is leaden and pained, wary of conspiracy. A heavyset sidekick pipes up, — Whae’s this cunt?

  Ah’ll never fuckin look at the others, far less talk tae them. Only Cha is important and ah don’t take my eyes off him for a second. His face is chalky, but it possesses a strange dignity and feral beauty, underneath the orange sodium street lamp. Then his features crease and a throaty chortle emerges and ah start tae get worried for the first time as he announces, — Ah like this cunt’s patter!

  And it seems he does. So ah’m spraffin wi these radge-gadges for a bit, then ah feels Sylvia’s tug oan ma sleeve, a gesture that doesnae go past Cha. — You’d better go, mate. Duty calls, eh? he sniggers complicitly. — See yis.

  Dismissed by Cha, we head intae Sylvia’s stair, and the refuge ay the flat. Ah’ve impressed her the night by standing up tae Forrester (no really a big danger) then fronting it wi Cha Morrison (a risky undertaking by aw accounts). — You’re feart ay nowt, you, she says in admiration.

  — Naw, ah’m feart ay everything, ah tell her, which, when acknowledged, probably yields pretty much the same outcomes. Still, ah’ve done something right, cause she’s no fuckin aboot, guidin us intae the bedroom. Ah’ve never seen so many clathes; oan the flair, hanging oot ay cupboards, spillin fae suitcases and holdalls. But they’re thrown off the bed and ah’m on her and we’re snoggin again, then gettin oor kits oaf. Sylvia briefly huds up a yellay nightdress, frayed at the helm, as if she’s considering pittin it oan, but then wisely dismisses the idea. She isnae a shy lassie, though; she grabs ma cock and watches mesmerised as it stiffens in her hand. Pulls back the foreskin tae let ma cherry surge gratefully intae the light. My fingers glide ower that sweet fur, parting her dark, moist crack, and when she lets go ay ma knob it takes the place ay ma hand, and ah push, heart racing with that appreciative jolt ay completion as it slides home.

  So we’re banging away like fuck. She doesnae seem skagged but ah’m numb n ah’m no being very creative, just gettin intae ma stride n tryin tae hump and sweat the junk oot ay ma system. It’s barry, cause ma back feels awright. Maybe it’s the gear, but although ah’m sustainin the erection, ah cannae seem tae blaw ma muck, even when she ‘positively gushes’ as Sick Boy would say.

  The lady was positively gushing.

  Eventually, ah dae something that ah never thought ah’d dae, n ah fake an orgasm, groanin, then makin my body tense. She’ll probably be able tae tell thaire’s nae stuff inside her cause we never bothered wi a flunky. In a joltin chill ah suddenly think aboot Begbie and that mad wee Pilton biler in the boozer. Even though ah’ve shot nowt ye kin still git undetected traces ay spunk and ‘it just takes one’ as our auld science teacher Mr Willoughby used tae say. — You’re … ehm … awright, ah ask, — ah mean, the pill n that?

  — Aye, but it’s a bit late tae ask aboot that now, son.

  — Sorry, should’ve checked it oot before. Passion ay the moment, eh?

  She rolls her eyes doubtfully and sparks up a snout, offering me yin. Ah decline n she gies us a brief, uncomprehending look. The lighter illuminates her pinched, sharp face. Coupons like hers ah always think ay as auld persons’ puses. She’ll eywis look the same. — That Mikey can be jealous if ah talk tae anybody else. He’s obsessed. It’s creepy. Ah dinnae fancy him, n ah’ve made it fuckin plain enough.

 
Forrester’s an arsehole, but naebody likes a cockteaser and ah can tell that this bird’s been delightin in giein the radge the runaboot. There’s nae fun tae be had in listenin tae somebody rabbitin on aboot their fixation wi a party they arenae even fuckin, so ah get my clathes oan and head off intae the night, citing the excuse ay work in the morning.

  When ah git back tae the flat, Sick Boy still isnae back. Ah start tae strip oaf again n look at ma body in the full-length mirror. Ah systematically tourniquet and tap up ma veins, finding oot where the best yins are. There’s better ones in ma legs, a good yin on the crook ay ma arm, and one oan the wrist that ah just might be able tae get up oan demand. Ah’m fucked if ah’m gittin left oot again.

  The door goes and it’s awfay late, aboot two o’clock, n ah answer it in ma Ys, thinkin it’s Sick Boy, n the cunt’s left his keys. But it’s Spud; wi a cairry-out. He’s semi-pished and tells us he’s been peyed oaf fae the removal firm the poor cunt’s worked at since he left school. — Fancy a beer, or mibbe gaun up the Hoochie fir the last bop, likesay?

  Hate tae say it but ah ’m bored with the Hoochie. A bad sign: the Hooch and Easter Road are the only temples ay spiritual enlightenment left in this city. Ah tell him ah’m skagged up, n besides, by the time wi get up thaire it’ll be game ower.

  He follays ma eyes tae the works oan the table. He shakes his heid n blaws oot heavily fae puckered lips. — Ah’ve done the lot, man, but ah draw the big broon line in the sand at Portybelly beach wi the smack, likesay.

  — Ah jist chase it, but, ah inform him. — Ye dinnae git addicted that wey. It’s barry, man, like nae other feelin oan earth. Ye jist dinnae gie a fuck aboot anything; everything is just so damn fine, ah tell him.

  — Ah pure want tae try it.

  No exactly a hard sell. So ah git oot the gear n a foil pipe (ah’ve practised makin tons ay them) n we huv a blast. Ye can feel the aluminium particles wi the dirty smoke stickin tae yir lungs, but the heid starts tae feel weighty and a euphoria creeps intae my soul expanding through us like a burst ay sunlight. Spud, wi his crooked smile and heavy eyes, looks like a reflection ay me and we share a solitary thought: Everything else can go n fuck itself. Sittin back oan the couch, ah tell um, — Ye see, Spud, this is aw just a big adventure before ah clean up for gaun tae Europe, n back tae uni.

  — An adventure … he rasps, fightin back the urge tae puke, then succumbin, as thick yellow vomit splashes from him oantae the flair, where the cairry-oot sits, untouched.

  Dutch Elm

  SHE WAS LATE, and knew that wasn’t the way to make the desired impression on the first day of her new job. Going out yesterday had been a bad idea, but following that visit to her parents’, Alison had wanted to obliterate everything. The terrible moment her mother had coughed that viscid blood into her hanky. The way they’d unravelled; her mother, father and her, as they sat transfixed on the dark red stain in her mother’s hand. But the real horror had been in the mask of guilt on Susan Lozinska’s face. She’d apologised, fretfully saying to her eldest daughter and her husband, Derrick, — I think it’s back.

  It had been Alison’s afternoon off, a break from finishing up at the pool, before she started her new job. She’d popped her head into the parental home to salve her guilt about not seeing her folks as often as she perhaps should, since moving out a couple of years ago. Her younger siblings, Mhairi and Calum, weren’t around, and she’d been glad of that. Her dad’s tense, white face as he tried to get some defiance into his voice: — We’ll get the tests done, and if it is, just saying like, if it is, we’ll get through it, Susan. We’ll get through it thegither!

  Alison had felt the room spinning and the world seemed to sink through her. She’d stayed a while, responding in kind to their thin voices, which seemed muffled, as if coming from another room. Her mother, now looking so wrecked and stricken, and her dad, a thin, mustachioed man, who’d been just about holding onto a spruce and spiffy sense of himself in middle age, visibly dwindling in solidarity with his wife at the onset of this terrible news. It’s back. Then Alison had left, walking up to her flat in Pilrig. Unable to settle, she’d quickly headed out into the early evening. In Lesley and Sylvia, she’d bumped into two girls she didn’t know that well. They’d gone to some drug party in Muirhouse, after which she’d ended up at Tollcross on Johnny Swan’s couch.

  Johnny had wandering hand trouble and had tried to feel her up in the night. Through her befuddled narcotic and emotional confusion, she’d sprung to animation and told him to fuck off; she wasn’t that blootered. Then he’d begged her so much for sex, to the point where Alison almost felt like she was the abuser for refusing to fuck him. For a second she’d almost relented, just to shut him up, before it dawned on her exactly how horrible that would have been on every level. Eventually, he gave up and left her, grumbling his way back to the bedroom.

  Leaving in the early-morning light, she’d returned to her Pilrig flat, showered, then staggered up to her new job, and the conference at the City Council Chambers.

  During her mother’s long illness, Alison had grown used to filling her life with distractions. The Edinburgh Women’s Poetry Group was a good one. It had the added advantage of being a male-free zone. She’d gone along to the EWPG with her mate Kelly, till the latter’s boyfriend Des felt threatened and, through his sneering derision, put a stop to her friend’s involvement. It wrecked her head to see Kelly, such a happy and outgoing soul, develop this brittle exoskeleton when Des came into the company. It was the refuge she’d habitually slither into, from where she’d hang on every inconsequential word that came out of his mouth. Still, that was her choice, and Alison’s had been to keep going to the poetry group.

  She wasn’t enamoured with all the girls there. Plenty had an obvious sexual agenda, while a few really hated men, generalising from their personal bad experiences. But Alison could tell some hadn’t internalised the lesson, and were thus destined to find their next equivalent, the misogynistic semi-alcoholic who brooded bitterly from the bar stool about the last bitch who’d taken him to the cleaners. There was a Des for every one of those girls; it really was such a pity he was with Kelly. Then there were those that Alison considered the worst members of the group: the ones who actually thought they were decent poets.

  Most of the women, though, Alison liked. It had been an experimental time in her life. She learned a little about verse structure and haikus, and that after going to bed with this girl called Nora, she could never be a lesbian. When Nora went down on her it was enjoyable for a bit, but then Alison had started thinking, Right, fair enough, but when’s the fuckin tadger comin along? But obviously it wasn’t and she’d started to feel irritated and tense, like she was wasting her time. At least Nora wasn’t selfish cause she got the message, lifting her head out the turf, conceding, ‘This isn’t really working out for you, is it?’ Alison had to confirm it wasn’t. And she felt bad that she wasn’t moved to reciprocate: Nora’s somewhat heavy, musky scent had made her think of her own menstruation.

  Nora was nothing if not persistent, however, and the next week she told Alison she had ‘a solution tae our problem’. Couching it in those terms was disconcerting enough, but Nora had brought a dildo round, a strap-on. It was certainly formidable, but when she’d attached it to herself Alison had instantly erupted in laughter. Then she was besieged by the notion that if a dildo could crumble into a semi, then by Nora’s expression you’d have thought that had just happened. But she tried and Alison could say, hand on heart, that she didn’t have a sapphic bone in her body.

  As she entered the oak-pannelled Chambers, weighed down by the close heat from outside, Alison was set on edge by the presence of all those busy, purposeful bodies and the foul waft she caught rising from her own armpits, in spite of the attention of both shower and roll-on deodorant. Yuck. Drug and alcohol sleaze. You keep washing it away. It keeps coming back.

  She made her way to the back of the two-thirds-full hall and sat down. Her new boss, Alexander Birch, was he
ading to the podium, positioning himself behind the lectern. With his light grey suit, and hair fashionably styled, Alison found herself disconcertingly impressed by her new boss. He had a gay man’s grooming, but with the slightly combative edge of the sporty heterosexual.

  — I’m Alexander Birch, and I was drawn to working with trees for some reason that eludes me, he began, to the inevitable polite laughter. He’d long since learned to use the potentially embarrassing coincidence of surname and profession as a business tool. Allowing the mirth to subside, he then restarted, steely-eyed and deadpan. — I don’t want to sound melodramatic, he looked around at the quieting, settling mass of bodies, — but I’m here to talk about a terrible plague that threatens to change our beautiful city beyond all recognition.

  The rustling abruptly stopped, and he had everybody’s attention, even Alison’s, who was wondering if such irony was sailing a little close to the wind.

  Her view was quickly revised when Alexander’s longish face remained set in earnest concentration over a slide projector. He clicked on the frontal view of a dark-looking insect. With its extended legs, it seemed to be challenging all in the room to a square-go. — This is the elm bark beetle, or Scolytus multistriatus. This creature spreads a fungal disease fatal to all elm trees. In an attempt to stop the fungus from spreading, the elm responds by plugging its own tissue with gum, which prevents water and other nutrients getting to the top of it, and then it starts to wither and die.

  He isnae jokin!

  Again the drum spun, sending a second slide clicking onto the screen. It showed a tree yellowing from the top down. — The first symptoms of infection are the tree’s upper branches beginning to wither and shed leaves in the summer, giving the diseased tree an unseasonal autumnal hue, Alexander solemnly explained. — This spreads south, eventually going into the roots of the tree, which subsequently atrophy.

  Alison had settled down in her seat at the back of the Chambers. Crossing her legs, she sidetracked herself with carnal thoughts, which came easily in the squalid hangover and, indeed, was the only way to eke any enjoyment from it.