Skagboys

by Irvine Welsh

  — So it shuts its fuckin eyes n puckers its lips aw that fuckin daft wey, n ah gits a hud ay its heid n ah’m sayin, ‘It’s a fuckin gam ah’m eftir, ya daft fucker,’ n ah’m loosenin ma belt, gaun, ‘C’moan, nae cunt’s in yit! Git thum roond it!’ … You still thaire?

  — Aye …

  We also sang that song aboot the Titanic sinking: ‘It was sad when the great ship went down … husbands and wives, little children lost their lives, it was sa-had when the gray-hate ship went down.’

  A Scottish education … wonder if he minds ay that?

  — Cause tae me that’s part ay the fuckin excitement n aw that, ken? Well, she’s no too fuckin chuffed, bit she kens the Hampden Roar, so ah’ve pushed it doon oan its knees, n this is in the front room ay her ma’s hoose, under the fuckin mistletoe. So wir gaun fir it, nice n steady, n ah’ve goat it by the hair now, twisted roond ma hand so as tae control the fuckin pace, n ah’m fuckin batterin it in thaire, gittin right fuckin intae it, ken that wey whin yir eyes ur aw screwed up n yir mooth’s fuckin puckered?

  — Eh … right …

  — Well, ah sortay sees this cunt through these half-shut eyes, n tipples it’s her fuckin auld man! The cunt’s only fuckin well went n walked in. She’s goat her back tae um, she cannae see um comin, eh. Turns oot he’d just been in the gairdin, in that fuckin shed probably huvin a fuckin wank, the mingin auld cunt, n he goes, ‘What the hell’s gaun oan here?’

  — Aye?

  — Fuckin right, ya cunt. So ah jist turns roond n sais tae the fucker, ‘What does it fuckin well look like, ye durty cunt? Git the fuck ootay here,’ n the cunt jist fucks right off, fuckin mumblin away a load ay shite as he goes. Could feel hur panickin, she’s gaggin n tryin tae pill away, but ah keeps a tight fuckin grip, she’s gaun naewhaire till ah shoots ma duff, n she fuckin well kens it n aw. N ah does that thing in the porno, ken whin ye pill oot n shoot aw ower the burd’s coupon? Well, she’s shitein it, eyes aw big, till she gits a fuckin wad shot right in hur pus! Ya cunt, ye’d huv thoat thaire wis two fuckin barrels in this pipe intead ay jist yin. Face like a painter’s radio, ya cunt!

  — What did she say aboot her faither?

  — Ah’m gittin tae that, ya fuckin impatient fuckin rid-heided cunt, Franco snaps, making me super-glad ay that sweet four hundred miles. — So she’s wipin the spunk offay her face, gaun aw fuckin panicky, ‘Whae wis that, wis that ma dad?’

  ‘Fuckin durty pervert sneakin up oan cunts like that,’ ah goes.

  So she goes aw that fuckin ice-cauld, frigid, huffy wey, but fuck her, ye need a wee bit ay fuckin romance at Christmas. So she goes ootside n ah hears thum shoutin at each other n she comes back in, sayin she’s been kicked oot the fuckin hoose. So ah says, ‘Right, wir gaun roond tae muh ma’s.’ ‘Thanks, Frank …’ she goes n starts packin, aw fuckin grateful now, ken? Well, ah wisnae gaunny leave hur thaire wi that fuckin pervy auld cunt, wis ah?

  — Right …

  — So she’s goat some stuff thegither, n this big fuckin poker-ersed donkey-faced faither cunt comes back through n starts oan at her again. ‘You’re a disgrace,’ he goes, fuckin standin thaire shakin his daft heid like a fuckin mongol. ‘You’re the fuckin disgrace, mate,’ ah telt the cunt, ‘sneakin up oan cunts like a filthy auld pervert!’ ‘What …?’ he goes, looks at us, then turns tae hur, n sais, ‘You two deserve each other. You’re out of control, June Chisholm, what a little slut you’ve become –’ ‘But, Dad –’ she’s fuckin whingin. ‘Just go,’ the cunt sais, ‘the baith ay yis, just get oot ay ma hoose!’ So ah just says tae hur, ‘C’moan,’ n gits her ootside. Then ah goes back in n squares up tae this cunt. ‘If she’s a fuckin slut then that’s aw doon tae you: you fuckin well brought the cunt up,’ ah tells um. ‘N dinnae shout the fuckin odds at me, cunty baws, or yi’ll git yir fuckin mooth burst, right? Ye might be her fuckin faither, bit yir no ma fuckin faither!’ So the cunt fuckin well shites it! Dirty, wide auld cunt. ‘Aye, ye’d better fuckin well no say nowt either,’ ah goes. Cheeky cunt him but, eh?

  — Too right, should’ve burst the cheeky fucker’s mooth, ah supportively suggest, just tae encourage the radge tae resort tae mayhem now thit ah’m miles away n dinnae huv tae deal wi the consequences!

  London, I love you!

  — That’s exactly whit ah fuckin well telt Tommy, he says in tight, proud affirmation. — But ah jist fuckin leaves it, eh, cause ah’m no wantin tae git involved in thair daft fuckin faimlay business, but that cunt better watch hissel. So anywey, it’s moanin n greetin, so ah gits it hame, then it suddenly fuckin well cheers up n starts gaun oan aboot us gittin a place thegither. Ah thoat, she’s no fuckin kippin wi me, no in a single bed, she kin stey oan the fuckin couch. Ah goat it tae come through fir a fuckin ride then sent it right back oantae the settee eftir ah’d cowped it. Fuck that, ya cunt, ah need ma fuckin beauty sleep! Hud the horn later oan, so ah wakes hur up n brings it back through fir another fuckin session. But in the mornin it’s aw fuckin faces; her, muh ma n oor Elspeth, lookin at ye like fuckin sugary porridge.

  — Ye git grief, aye?

  — Aye, the usual shite, bit ah’m thinkin, time ah hud a place ay ma ain anywey, n she’s no a bad ride, n thaire’s nae sense in cuttin oaf yir cock tae spite yir baws, that’s whit ah eywis sais. You fuckin listenin?

  — Aye. Nae sense cuttin off yir cock, no jist tae spite yir baws, ah repeat back doon the line. He does eywis say that.

  — Too fuckin right. So ah phones Monny, n wir movin intae that fuckin place in Buchanan Street next week. Hope the cunt kin fuckin well cook as good as it rides! Telt her tae watch muh ma; for the cookin likes, no the fuckin ridin! Aye, so that’s me sorted oot wi ma ain pad, n a fuckin ride every night. Now ah’ve jist goat tae git it tae shut its fuckin mooth n ivraything’s fuckin barry, ya cunt.

  — Sound …

  — Right, ah’ve goat tae nash. Cannae sit here bletherin wi you aw day, ya daft cunt! Runnin up ma fuckin phone bill, ya muppet!

  — Sorry tae keep ye, Frank.

  — So ye fuckin well should be. Ah’m a man ay business now, ya cunt. So when ye back up?

  — New Year …

  — Barry. That’ll be a classic. See ye, buddy.

  — See ye, Franco, mate.

  Eftir that psychic shafting ah need another dunt ay yon gear. Sick Boy comes in, rubbing sleep fae his eyes. — You drug perverts getting loaded now? What aboot the interview for the boats?

  The state ay that cunt. Methinks the laddie doth protest too much. Nicksy and me look at each other wi wasted grins. — Medicinal … ah hud tae talk tae Begbie on the phone, eh? Ah push the pipe at Sick Boy.

  He waves it away. — Just because he’s a socially retarded psychopath doesn’t mean that youse arenae fuckin irresponsible cunts, he goes, taking a dab at the speed. Then his eyes soften. — Forgoat tae tell ye, Alison’s ma died the other week. Think the funeral wis yesterday.

  — Fuck … that’s fucked, man. Wish ye’d have sais, Simon. Ah’d’ve went up fir it!

  Begbie nivir even sais nowt. Cunt.

  — Aye, right. He looks doubtfully at us, wi the pipe in ma hand. Mibbe it wis a bit optimistic. — If anybody should have been there, it should have been me. Her and I are close, he says gravely.

  — She went tae ma wee brar’s funeral n aw, ah sais. Aw this shite: the wey life can jist go fae a constellation ay possibilities tae a scabby dirt track lined wi potholes.

  — Yes. She went tae support you n Billy. She’ll understand though, London n that, n we’ll see her the week eftir next at New Year, he says. He looks tae Nicksy, who’s staring meaningfully at the waw, lost in skag contemplation, — We should get Nicksy up there, it’ll dae him good, he observes, turning pointedly back tae me. — Listen, Marco, I need a teensy-weensy favour. I’ve some fences tae mend with Lucinda … said I’d meet her at noon in Dirty Dick’s pub opposite Liverpool Street Station.

  He spills the details, n ah’m no too happy, but he’s a mate, so ah huv tae back him up.
r />   It takes an age tae git washed, dressed and doon tae Hackney Downs Station, but we git a train right intae Liverpool Street and cross ower tae the boozer. Dirty Dick’s is packed wi lunchtime City workers, and even in what’s supposed tae be interview wear, we still look chronically miscast, no that we gie a fuck. Me n Sick Boy have made an effort wi our Leith Provi Co-op funeral suits, but Nicksy’s sporting purple hair teased intae a Mohawk, a pink-and-white-hooped fluffy jersey, thankfully covering up The Queen Gives A Good Blow Job T-shirt, n while his black Sta-Press are acceptable enough, the red nine-inch lace-up Doc Martens sortay catch the eye. Funny how he’s shed the soul boy look n got back into being an unreconstructed punk. As he finds a stool up at the bar, Sick Boy spies the Lucinda lassie in a seat at a corner table, and pulls me ower. He briefly introduces us, then they spark up an animated conversation, during which his chest swells out, like a mating pigeon’s, as she crumbles. — You’re obviously upset, he disdainfully concedes as he drums on the big wooden table. — It’s no good us talking when you’re in this state. I mean, it’s like you’re hearing me but you’re not hearing me, if you catch my drift.

  This perr lassie wi her fair Anglo-Saxon skin sits on her hands, her jaw locked tight. Seething tae the point ay implosion in that frightfully decent, repressed English middle-class way. Ah feel uncomfortable being stuck here and want tae go.

  — It’s wasting your time and it’s wasting my time, Sick Boy, features stiff, expands in his gruff and formal manner, before offhandedly turning tae me. — Get them in, Rents.

  Ah’m happy tae leave them n join Nicksy at the bar. Ah ain’t in a big hurry ordering up the drinks either. But Nicksy looks fuckin shite; like the weight ay five ay the stinkiest London Boroughs is sittin oan his thin shooders. Wi the garish dye through his cartoon punk Mohawk, he looks just like that wankstain on the postcairds they sell at Piccadilly Circus. It reminds us ay that Les Dawson quote aboot punks: ‘All blue hair and safety pins: just like the mother-in-law.’ But Nicksy’s telt us the tourists still flock tae git snapped wi him doon the West End, n it’s good for a beer or a quid, even an occasional ride.

  Despite aw his scamming he’s totally brassic aw the time. London’s an expensive habit, and pretty much a pointless yin unless ye huv dosh; if ye live in somewhere like Dalston or Stokie or Tottenham or the East End, it’s mair like steyin in Middlesbrough or Nottingham. The economics ay the postcode prison make the West End good life just as inaccessible. Not one cunt in our local boozer, bar us, ever drinks in the West End.

  Ah get him a pint ay lager, which he sips the top ay and turns tae the telly above the bar, no meeting ma eye. This Marsha lassie’s really fucked him up. Ah’ve never seen a boy so down eftir a bird’s elbayed him. She must be some ride. He looks ower tae Sick Boy n this Lucinda lassie. — He’s some cunt, ain’t he? With the gels. Now he’s got a Sloaney bird in tow!

  One thing London does offer, even in its marginal areas, is hope for the aspirational predator. — Don’t ah jist fuckin know it, ah acknowledge. Then ah survey Nicksy’s attire again; a wee bit full-on for our purposes. — Ye might have toned doon the look. It’s meant tae be a fuckin interview!

  — It’s what I am, innit? he shrugs, as Sick Boy gestures us ower. Ah deliver his pint and Lucinda’s gin. He glances tae me, ready tae make his move, but he’s still addressing her. — If I may say so, Lucinda, I’m pretty disappointed. I told you the God’s honest truth, and you obviously don’t believe a word I’ve said. Fine. If that’s the level of trust we’re operating on, then I just don’t see the point in all of this.

  Lucinda sits bolt upright in her seat and glares at him. Her eyes are red. — But you’re forgetting that I saw you with her. Don’t you fucking well understand that? I saw you both in the bed with my own eyes!

  Letting oot a sharp exhalation ay breath, Sick Boy goes, — I’ve explained this until I’m blue in the face. The lassie was Mark’s girlfriend, Penelope. He looks at me.

  Lucinda does the same, and ye can see her thinking: this skinny, ginger-heided Scottish schemie jist isnae the sort that shags birds called Penelope. A weight seems tae faw through us, n ah briefly toy wi the idea that it might be conscience before it quickly dissolves as the buzz ay deceit hits me. — I was paralytic drunk, Sick Boy’s eyes widen, — and I got into this bed. I didn’t have a fucking clue she was in there until you came in and started shouting the fucking odds.

  — But come on! You must have known!

  Sick Boy shakes his heid slowly. — Mark’s accepted this as the truth, cause he knows me. And he trusts me. He knows that I’d never do anything like that with his girlfriend. He’s my best buddy, right since first year at school, he gasps, tears welling in his eyes. — Mark! Tell her!

  Lucinda’s stiff gaze is trained on me. She’s a nice girl. She doesnae deserve one lying Leither in her life, never mind two. Her big orbs are wide and pleading and ah think she really does want tae be convinced. So ah gie them what they baith need. — I was annoyed, Lucinda. In fact I was fucking livid. I mean tae say, you know how it looked. Her face makes the slightest flicker ay acknowledgement, as ah turn tae Sick Boy. — If that cunt had’ve been shagging ma Penny, well, ah’d’ve fuckin well glassed the bastard!

  — Fuck off, Mark, hear him! He turns tae Lucinda, then tae me. — It’s like you dinnae believe me either!

  — Ah’m no saying that, Simon, ah’m just saying how it looks!

  Lucinda nods in affirmation, then turns tae him. — Well, how else would it look, Simon? Try seeing it from other people’s point of view, and she looks again to me, her big eyes hungry for alliance.

  — Exactly my fucking point, ah chip in.

  Sick Boy lets out some air. In the painful silence that follows ah kin hear, Williamson: one–nil, in my heid. Ah feel that if ah look at him, ah’ll burst oot laughin. But ah do, n somehow keep it together as he nods sadly. — I see how it is, he says accusingly, his face full ay hurt.

  Ah had nae option but tae suck it doon n go through wi the spiel. — I’m sorry, mate, I do believe ye. It’s jist that Penny n me, well, we’ve no been gettin on so well lately, and ah suppose ah wis just as para as fuck.

  Slapping his heid, Sick Boy briefly turns away in disgust, before facing me again. — Yes, you certainly were, he scolds, face fraught with bitterness. He’s sprinted to the moral high ground and it would take an atrocity for him tae relinquish this position. — A little word of advice, Mark: don’t take amphetamines and stay up all night if you cannae handle the consequences, the cheeky bastard reprimands. Then he looks at a softening Lucinda with a deeply nuanced expression. — And I think I might just be due an apology for those histrionics. He folds his airms and turns away fae her.

  — Okay, okay … Simon … I’m … I’m sorry … but surely you can see how it looked … Lucinda tries tae put her airm roond him.

  A huffy brush-off, before he regally sits up, as if addressing the pub’s occupants, and some red-faced suits do briefly look round as he sings, — One little word which might not mean anything down here in the metropolis, but still has some currency back up the road: trust. Lucinda goes to speak but he raises his hand tae silence her as he spells it oot: — T-R-U-S-T.

  After playing hard tae get for a bit, he allows her to embrace him, and then they’re necking deeply and wetly. Ma cue tae retire tae the bar, wondering what this Penelope was like. Anybody else, ah’d have said she must’ve been a looker tae risk alienating a bird like Lucinda, but this is Sick Boy. He really is a total cunt as far as girls go.

  But now it’s time for business. We’re biddin tae enter the dual worlds ay modern employment: a legit job on the ferries and drug scamming through a contact ay Nicksy’s. Ah look at ma watch, signal tae the others, and we drink up and cross the road tae Liverpool Street Station. Sick Boy has one last snog wi Lucinda on the platform, before he follows Nicksy and me oantae the Harwich train.

  — Unbelievable, he sais, shaking his heid in a strange mixture ay disgust n sadness as a
million possibilities seem tae spin through his brain. — Thirsty work, though. He drums the table. — Is there a buffet car oan this fuckin train? Tell ye what, this cunt had better be oan the level, Nicksy, cause ah kin get hooked up wi Andreas in Finsbury Park any fucking time.

  This constant Andreas stuff is really gettin oan my fuckin tits, but if I say anything, he’ll put it down tae jealousy. He really is such a total fuckin prick.

  But Nicksy remains silent, sitting crumpled against the windae. — You awright? ah ask the cunt, wondering if he’s sick eftir that wee bit we chased this morning. My throat and lungs still huv that bad taint ay the foil.

  — Yeah, he sais, — the thing is, Mark –

  — Ship ahoy. The carriage door flew open and a scraggy gadgie wi bad skin stands before us. Must be aroond thirty-plus. Nicksy intros him wearily as Paul Marriott, an auld junky acquaintance ay his and Tony’s, whae’s been a seasonal oan the Sealink boats fir yonks. Marriott has a gammy leg and lurches up tae us, fawin intae the vacant seat beside Sick Boy. — Alroight, chaps? he enquires, in the tones ay that cat cunt, the purple fucker, thit wis Roobarb the green dug’s mate. Nicksy had explained that he wis basically the fall guy for the real gangsters further up the line, the sacrificial lamb that wid dae the serious jail time if it aw went erse ower tit. Tae be fair, he seems under few illusions aboot his status; his heavy habit means that he’s naewhaire near as risk-averse as a man intending tae transport a fair auld amount of class As should be. That said, he doesnae want tae go tae jail if he can help it, and he looks us ower with a keen eye. It’s obvious that need is something he can scent a mile away in others. He frowns at Nicksy’s punk gear. — That quiff’ll need flattened down before we go in to see Benson.

  Nicksy says something under his breath aboot it no bein a quiff. Marriott doesnae hear or chooses no tae respond, looking mair approvingly at Sick Boy, who has his hair scraped back and tied in a ponytail. Poor Nicksy looks sweaty and strung-out, displaying aw the composure ay a spider trying tae get oot a bathtub.