Skagboys

by Irvine Welsh

  Michael shook his head. — Not for me, thanks. I have to go. He got up, leaving about a quarter of his pint. — Russell, I’ll see you later.

  Alexander watched him leave in mild bafflement, then went up to get a round of drinks.

  — So what’s my brother like to work with? Russell asked Alison when her boss was out of earshot.

  — Aye … it’s good, she said awkwardly, — it’s just my first day but.

  On Alexander’s return, the brothers began catching up and Alison felt herself drifting out of the conversation. She watched a skinny young guy with red hair come into the bar. For a split second she thought it was Mark Renton, but it was just another product of that white-skinned ginger factory they had somewhere in Scotland.

  She’d never quite known what to make of Mark. He was okay now, but he’d been a cruel little bastard back at primary. She remembered that nickname he’d casually given her: the Jewess, which had made her self-conscious about her nose. It was strange to think of him now at university, and Kelly probably heading there too. Alison looked at the successful Birch brothers, tried to contemplate what they had that she didn’t. She’d always been good at school, even if she had fucked up her Highers. That had been when her mother was first diagnosed. But she could retake them. If only she could concentrate. It seemed that gift of staying power had been taken away from her: that crippling loss of cerebral stamina. Life now seemed a constant quest for the next fleeting distraction. She wondered if that focus would ever return.

  The sour miniatures of cooking wine the grotty pub sold were almost undrinkable after the quality lunchtime tipple in the wine bar, and Alison was relieved to be in the back of the taxicab with the Birch brothers. It dawned on her she was with two men she didn’t really know, yet she was heading for their mother’s birthday party. And they seemed so competitive with each other. — You stink, Russell gracelessly said to Michael.

  — Spilled some petrol down my leg at work. I’ll get cleaned up properly at Mum’s.

  They reached Corstorphine, and a prodigious, red sandstone villa. Its enormous gravel driveway was already full of cars, with more parked outside on the street. When they got round to the back garden, a large space with a stone perimeter wall and established bushes, trees and flower beds, people had assembled awkwardly on the patio and lawn in small groups. Alexander and Russell’s father, a weary-eyed man with grey hair and loose folds of skin hanging around his face and neck, stood barbecuing sausages, burgers, chicken parts and steaks.

  As Russell circulated among the clusters of neighbours, relatives and friends, Alexander introduced Alison to his father, Bertie, who responded with perfunctory manners. Leaving him to his task, Alexander explained that his dad was fifteen years older than his mother. Alison discerned an isolated old man, work contacts frayed, a busy Rotary-Club-and-coffee-mornings wife off involved in her own activities, preoccupied children hitting the hectic self-absorption of middle age, with elderly golfing partners dead or dying. His eyes, shifty and flinty, seemed to indicate a spirit looking to escape the ponderous residue of its body.

  Bored by the crowd, Alison instead enjoyed the assortment of kids running around a paddling pool, growing increasingly feral in each other’s company. Of the adults assembled, one couple stood out. A full-mouthed woman with ineptly dyed blonde hair threw her head back in raucous laughter at something said by her companion: a big, muscular, shaven-headed man in a badly fitting suit. Then her face froze in silence as she punched him squarely in the chest, before breaking up into hysterics again.

  Bringing her over a glass of wine, Alexander saw where Alison’s gaze was, and introduced her to the blonde, who was his sister, Kristen. — Nice tae meet you, she grinned. — This is Skuzzy, Kristen announced, turning to Alexander. — You’ve no met Skuzzy, eh no?

  — No. Alexander warily shook the man’s hand.

  — Our Alexander’s in horticulture, she said, making a face.

  — Well, not exactly –

  — Ye can take a whore tae culture, but ye cannae make her read a book, Alison said, then added, — That was Dorothy Parker that said that.

  Kristen gave her a bamboozled look for a second, then a high cackle flared from her, as she turned to Alexander, — I like her! Good tae see ye wi a lassie wi a sense of humour for a change!

  — Alison works beside … he began in protest, but Kristen was already running down his absent wife, as their mother arrived, nodding curtly in pucker-mouth acknowledgement at Alison, as she pulled Alexander aside.

  In Rena Birch, Alison saw a hawk-faced woman with bulging eyes, trained with some potency on her eldest son. — You bring a young girl to my birthday party when your wife is at home with your children, broken-hearted! What kind of a man are you?! I’ve had Tanya on the phone, and the children, begging for their daddy to come home, and you bring along a drunken – her eyes swivelled to Alison, — young woman to my party …

  – Ah’m no, Alison protested, then immediately had to put hand to mouth in order to silence a hiccup.

  — … instead of my grandchildren, Rena barked at her son. — How does it look, Alexander?!

  Alexander responded with a louche shrug. — I couldn’t give a toss how it looks. He glanced at Alison, who realised she’d taken a backward step towards Kristen, his gesture conveying exasperation and mild apology. — Firstly, Alison’s a colleague. Secondly, Tanya kicked me out of the house. It was her idea that I leave, in order to, and Alison felt herself cringe as Alexander made a quotes sign in the air with his fingers, — give her space to sort things out. So I did. Now I’m supposed to be at her beck and call? Not a chance. She said a lot of hurtful things about wanting me out of her life. Well, be careful about what you wish for, cause that’s exactly where I am. And I’ll tell you something right now, for you to tell her, if you so wish: I’m in no hurry to go back into it, because I’m having the time of my fucking life!

  — You have children! Rena cawed.

  Alison, her arms folded, glass in her hand, was starting to enjoy herself. She smiled as Kristen ranted on to her, though she strained to listen to her boss face his mother’s scorn.

  — Ken what he sais tae me? Kristen was asking Alison, while shooting a malevolent gaze in the direction of another crusty-looking relative. Perhaps it was her mother’s brother. — He goes, ‘What do you do?’ Ah felt like sayin back tae him, ‘What? What d’ye mean, what dae ah do? Ah make love. Ah watch telly. Ah go for a drink.’ How dae people eywis huv tae assume that when they ask that, that it hus tae mean a career?

  Alison shifted her gaze to the barbecue, watching the flames rise and lick at the grease around the sizzling sausages. Enjoying the frown of concentration on Bertie’s face, as he loaded chicken breasts onto the grill with his tongs. Though her senses were pleasantly dulled, she was aware that Alexander was raising his voice, cognisant of those assured, workplace tones. – And you think it’s better for my children to live in one house with two parents who hate each other, or live in two normal households with sane people?

  As Bertie Birch turned his bangers, the flames slithering around the hissing, spitting meat, Alison sensed he was quietly savouring the public spat between his wife and eldest son. For him, Kristen’s lowlife suitors and relentless downward mobility, Russell’s fatuous but wounded demeanour, and Alexander’s ecological arrogance had probably come to embody exotic, mystical qualities.

  Even Kristen had fallen silent, now also engrossed in the swelling disputation, inching closer, compelling Alison to follow suit, as Rena raised her voice shrilly: — So this is really about me and your father, is it? Well, have the spine to say it! Poor little you; the Stewart’s Melville fees we could barely afford, the summer camps in Bavaria and Oregon to look at your precious trees –

  A high shriek suddenly erupted from Alexander. It alarmed everyone. It seemed to have no context, even within the growing storm of his argument with Rena. To Alison, it looked as if he was having some kind of seizure; his hands started flailing wi
ldly in the air and he ran, stumbling into his father and the barbecue. Just as she realised that Alexander had been stung or was at least being pursued by a bee or a wasp, the next thing Alison saw was a sheet of flame flashing in ignition up the back of her boss’s legs.

  People froze in the gaping horror of disbelief as Alexander ineffectually flapped at his blazing trousers. Russell reacted first, dragging his brother over to the paddling pool, which Alexander fell gratefully into, rolling in a way that reminded Alison of a child at the beach. He sat up in the water, gasping, a black, charred patch visible up the back of his jacket. As if suddenly realising where he was, he quickly stood up, and stepped out of the rubber pool, in mortification rather than shock. He resisted all attempts to call an ambulance. — I’m fine, he asserted, and though his suit was ruined, he miraculously seemed not to have suffered any significant burns.

  — I’m going home to change, he said, shaking off the storm of fuss around him. He made his point by stiffly marching his soaked, blackened legs and arse outside. His mother was now arguing with Kristen, and Alison could hear Skuzzy saying, — Leave it, it jist causes arguments, repeatedly, as if on a demented loop. Heading out after Alexander, she saw him striding down the street. She had to run to catch up with him, calling his name as she drew closer. He stopped, evidently embarrassed to see her approaching.

  — I’m really sorry, that was my fault, she said, — it was the petrol n that.

  — It’s okay, it was an accident. It was all down to my own clumsy panicking … the wasp … a double accident. He suddenly laughed, and she found herself joining in.

  When that moment passed, he said forlornly, — I’m really sorry I brought you to such a scene.

  Alison immediately thought of her own family, where so much had been left unsaid since her mother’s illness. The tension was often insufferable. At least here everything seemed out in the open. — It was kind of exciting, she confessed, then, mindful of his distress, raised her hand to her mouth.

  Alexander shook his head. — I don’t like bees and wasps. That’s why I was trying to stay beside the barbecue, for the smoke. I was stung as a kid and nearly died, you see.

  Alison didn’t understand how anybody could nearly die from a bee sting, but felt compelled to make the appropriately jolted reaction.

  — Yes, it turned out I had a severe allergy and went into anaphylactic shock, he explained, and in response to her nonplussed look, added, — I fainted and they slung me in an ambulance. My blood pressure had dropped dangerously, and I went into a coma for a couple of days.

  — God! Nae wonder ye were scared.

  — Yes, I feel such a wimp, making a scene like that over an insect, but I’d rather risk being burnt than –

  — Shush, Alison said, stepping forward and kissing this still-smouldering man in the suburban street.

  Falling

  InterRail

  AH FIRST MET Fiona Conyers in the economic history seminar. A standard teaching room; small, wi a U-shaped range ay tables and whiteboard along one waw. The felt pens never worked; it was the one thing that bugged the lecturer, Noel, an otherwise phlegmatic gadge, ubiquitously clad in a scuffed black leather jaykit. There wis aboot a dozen ay us in the group. Only four were chatty: me, Fiona, a tall, aulder boy fae Sierra Leone called Adu, and a plumpish, sweet-faced Iranian lassie, Roya. The other eight were beyond mute: socially retarded tae the point ay being terrified ay gettin asked anything.

  Fiona wis confrontational wi Noel, challengin every orthodoxy, but in a cool way, no strident like a lot ay the politicos. Her accent was educated Geordie, which became thicker as we grew closer. Like ma ain Edinburgh yin, ah suppose. Ah wis instantly attracted tae her. No only was she gorgeous, but she had a voice. Maist lassies ah’d been wi back hame were silent, wily and formless, precisely, ah realised, because that’s exactly how ah wis wi them. But nowt happened wi Fiona and me – ah’ve eywis been shite at kennin if a bird fancies us. Ah thoat her mate, Joanne Dunsmuir, fae my English lit class last year, wis game; but ah wisnae interested in her. She wis a nosy Weedgie bird, no proper Weedgie, but fae somewhere near thaire. Unlike a lot ay Edinburgh punters who disdain them as tramps, ah’ve nowt against Soapdodgers, cause ay ma faither being yin. But thaire wis a fussy, domineering air aboot Joanne that ah disliked. The type ay lassie who went tae uni tae look for a felly she could boss aboot forever.

  Back hame ah was a waster; frivolous and fucked-up, always looking for some sort ay adventure. Getting wasted, screwin hooses, trying tae screw lassies. Here ah wis the opposite. Why not? It made perfect sense tae me. Why go away, jist tae dae the same shite that ye dae at hame? Tae be the very same person? Ma reasoning is ah’m young; ah want tae learn, tae add tae masel. At uni ah’m deadly serious, and most of all, hard-working and disciplined. Not because ah wanted tae ‘get on’. As far as ah was concerned ah already was on. Sitting in the brightly lit library, surrounded by books, in total silence, that was ma personal zenith. Nothing in the world made me feel better. So ah studied hard: ah wisnae at Aberdeen tae make friends. Maist weekends in first year, ah headed back tae Edinburgh for the fitba or tae go tae gigs or clubs wi ma mates or my on–off girlfriend, Hazel. But ah made one good pal, Paul Bisset, an Aberdonian gadge. ‘Bisto’ wis a workin-class boy fae Torry, quite short but stocky, white-blond hair, looked like he worked on a farm even though he was a townie. He ran wi the thug element at A’deen, lived at hame wi his ma and, like me, put in a proper shift workwise. Another bond was that we’d both had proper jobs (he was a printer) and kent how shite that wis, and appreciated bein at uni mair than the punters who came straight fi sixth year at school or some poxy college.

  Bisto and me had planned a trip tae Istanbul. Ah’d eywis wanted tae travel. Ah’d only been abroad twice, tae Amsterdam wi the boys for some teenage japes, and before that tae Spain, for a family holiday. That wis barry; it wis just me, Ma, Dad and Billy, cause ma Auntie Alice wis lookin eftir spazzy Wee Davie. Dad wis happy, but Ma worried aboot Wee Davie, and spent a fortune phonin hame. Ah lapped it up, it wis the best holiday we’d had, nae freak tae embarrass Billy n me.

  When Fiona and Joanne heard aboot our proposed trip, they jist sortay invited themselves along. First it was a joke, then it became mair serious. Even when phone numbers were exchanged and concrete plans made, Bisto n me were still like: aye, well, we’re gaunny believe it when they show up.

  Eftir the final class oan the last day ay the term, Fiona, Joanne n Bisto wanted tae get pished in the students’ union. Ah wis game, but first ah hud tae see the English lit boy, Parker. The cunt had gied us 68 per cent for ma essay oan F. Scott Fitzgerald. That wis nae fuckin use tae me: it was the first time ah’d dropped under 70 per cent for a marked assignment, n ah wisnae happy. Ah mind ay Joanne sayin, — You’re mental, Mark, 68 per cent is goooood!

  Fuck good; ah’d grafted, and set fuckin standards. Ah wanted a first-class, joint honours degree in History and Literature; well, history, having dropped the literature component this year. Analysing novels meant ripping oot their soul and it destroyed my enjoyment of them. Ah couldnae allow masel tae be trained tae think that way. Only by refusing tae study literature was ah able tae maintain ma passion for it. Ah was also thinking about changing my major fae history tae economics. But ah usually topped every class, only African Adu rivalled me in some, him and Lu Chen, this scarily focused Chinese lassie. So ah tore off, aw ready tae dae battle wi the tweedy Parker, a snotty wee gerbil in a bow tie whae acted like he wis an Oxford don or something. He’d insisted in his notes back that this wis ma weakest essay, that ah’d misunderstood F. Scott’s life and work, and the character ay Dick Diver in Tender Is the Night.

  So when ah got there this cunt’s sittin back in his padded chair. His wee office is stowed wi books and papers. It had shelves aw the way up tae the ceilin and a pair ay ladders tae get at the high-stacked dusty auld books. Aw they books, crammed intae this cosy wee hidey-hole. And he had one ay they Rolodex things for aw his contacts, which
ah pretend tae hate but secretly think is as cool as fuck. Ah envied the bastard huvin this space; somewhere ye could just lock yourself in, read and ponder. The realisation that ah kent this cunt and the likes ay Frank Begbie, Matty Connell and Spud Murphy astonished me. Parker cultivated that detached, slightly superior look, wi his gold-rimmed specs resting oan the bridge ay his neb, and when he deigned tae focus on ye, it wis in that interrogative polis wey, like ye’d done something wrong. So ah put ma case forward, but he wis unrepentant. — You’re missing a key element, Mark, he goes, — which I must confess somewhat surprises me.

  — What element? ah said, casting my eye oan what looked like a really auld copy ay Jane Eyre, oan the shelving tae the side ay the windae.

  — Read the book again, the critical essays, and also the supplementary biog of F. Scott, he offered, standing up in response tae some cunt’s tap oan the door. — Now, if you’ll excuse me …

  As he turned his back and went tae investigate, ah took ma chance n reached ower, swiftly slippin the copy ay Jane Eyre intae ma holdall. He ushered in some postgrad twat, dismissing me in the same extended sweep ay his airm. Ah left his office bilious, but buzzed at having taxed the bourgeois cheat oot ay his vintage wares. Hittin the bar, ah told Fiona, Joanne, Bisto and some others aboot the conversation, omitting ma virtuous retaliation through the act ay ‘resource reallocation’ as Sick Boy and me call theft, lest they misinterpreted it. — Wants us tae read it again, cheeky bastard, ah moaned, raisin the lifeless lager tae ma lips.

  — You’ll be able ter read it on the trains in Europe, Fiona said wi a cool smile, takin a heart-stopping drag on her Marlboro, as Joanne giggled, making me mair convinced than ever that they were takin the pish. When ah goat back tae Edinburgh, however, Bisto called tae say they were definitely coming, they’d bought the InterRail tickets. Ah telt him ah’d believe it when ah saw it.