Skagboys

by Irvine Welsh

  — That record’s gaunny go the morn, Keezbo says.

  — Beat it, ya mongol, is it fuck, Matty spits, then snipes under his breath, — fuckin fat cunt.

  That’s a bit nippy and uncalled for, but Keezbo lets it slide. Shirley pouts n looks at the pavement. Matty’s eywis oan Keezbo’s case. One ay these days the big felly’s gaunny turn roond n lamp that stroppy wee fucker. N ah fir one will shed nae tears when it happens.

  We see Begbie and June emergin fae the stair. They head taewards us, Franco wi a dirty smile oan his chops, June lookin awkward n coy as they come up the road. We wait for them in silence. Franco has picked up the vibe. Despite bein willy-nilly aboot causing aggro, he kin git awfay sensitive when some other fucker creates an atmosphere. Maybe Sick Boy’s called it right wi the festive plans eftir aw. — What’s up wi every cunt?

  Matty breaks the silence, and points at Keezbo. — Cunt, jist telling this fat Jambo fucker that his team’s pish!

  — Ah’m no arguing wi ye aboot fitba before the bells, Matty, Keezbo goes.

  — Aye, Franco asks Matty, — what ye oan fuckin Keezbo’s case fir, ya fuckin radge?

  — Cause he’s a fat Herts cunt.

  Franco’s airm whips oot n smacks Matty roond the heid. It’s quite a sair yin, but also a fuckin humiliation cause ay it bein in front ay Shirley. — Shut yir fuckin mooth! Wir aw fuckin mates the day, fitba or nae fuckin fitba! He looks tae Keezbo wi a predatory grin. — If ah see this fat ginger cunt the morn, ah knock his fuckin teeth doon his throat, He turns to Matty. — But the night wir best fuckin mates, right?

  In the absence ay any argument tae the contrary, we swing roond tae Iona Street n climb the stairs in a close jist doon fae the Iona Bar. Ah cannae wait tae get intae the warm. Sully greets us aw; a big, gruff genial host wi craggy features and slick-backed rockabilly haircut that ah ey think belongs oan an aulder dude. Ah hit the kitchen and see Lesley, Anne-Marie Combe, a skinny, short-haired brunette, who inevitably works as a hairdresser n whom ah felt up in the Goods Yard years ago whin wi wir fill ay voddy, and Stu Hogan, a chunky blond gadge wi a penchant for practical jokes, whae pours us a nip ay whisky. Ah much prefer voddy, but somebody says something aboot it bein New Year, n everybody’s gittin yin. Ah’m no touching skag right now, or even speed. Gittin masel thegither a bit. Stu’s askin us aboot London, telling me that Stevie Hutchison’s been doon thaire, n gies me a number fae a tatty auld address book. That’s good news; Stevie’s a sound cunt, decent singer n aw, or at least he wis whin we wir in Shaved Nun thegither. Like anybody wi talent, he outgrew us. — He’s in Forest Hill, Stu tells us, — is that near you?

  — Aye, quite near, ah goes. It isnae really but. Well, it is and it isnae, in that London sortay wey. — Is he still seein that dozy fucker?

  — Sandra? Stu goes.

  — Aye, that’s her, Chip Sandra, they used tae call her. Liked eatin thum n wearin thum oan her shoodir.

  — Naw … they split up before he went doon tae London.

  — Good, she’s a fuckin sour-faced hoor. Ah fuckin cannae stick her. Did ah tell ye the story ay – ah goes, then ah hesitate as Stu’s face has gone aw serious.

  — Actually, ah’m seein Sandra now, he cuts in. — She’s jist oan her wey roond here. In fact, before ye start making any mair snidey comments aboot people, ah’d better lit ye ken that we jist goat engaged the other week.

  Fuck …

  — Oh … ah mean … ah dinnae really ken Sand—

  Stu’s face lights up as laughter erupts fae somewhere deep in the cunt’s chist. — Goat ye, he grins, slappin ma shoodir n headin off.

  — Bastard! Ah’ll fuckin remember that yin, Hogan!

  Fuckin nailed tae the waw big time thaire, but whae cares, the perty’s in fill swing. Tommy’s toppin up a half-pint gless wi a big dash ay whisky. — Whaire’s Second Prize?

  — Fuck knows, no seen him. He’ll be lyin in a gutter somewhaire.

  Tommy grins in acknowledgement n tops up ma gless, but ah’m no fuckin well enjoying this drink. It burns ma guts. Lesley notices me wince, n as Tam looks eftir Nicksy, she sidles up tae us. — Any skag?

  — Naw.

  — Want a hit?

  — Aye, ah say. Ah’ve been tryin tae avoid the Scottish skag n the bangin up, cause it’s fuckin lethal shit, n ye kin really feel it gittin a hud ay ye. The broon’s easier: doesnae seem tae cunt ye up sae much. But fuck it, ah’m sortay oan hoaliday … oan hoaliday at hame …

  We troop off through tae a bedroom and sit cross-legged oan this big, tartan duvet-covered brass bed, as Lesley starts cookin. It shocks me, as ah thoat she jist chased, but she’s goat a fill set ay works n she’s highly competent. She lights up a candle, stickin it in a baccy tin, and switches off the main light. We fix up wi oor separate equipment, me gaun first. Ma vein sucks the shit in so greedily, it’s like ah barely need tae put any pressure oan the plunger.

  Ohhh … YA FUCK –

  Ya fucker … aw man … oooh … nice, nice, nice …

  Ah forgot the power ay this shite. Lesley never prepped up that much but ah collapse back oantae the Royal Stuart …

  — Ah found this the other day in ma jeans poakit, she explains, pushin her blonde hair behind her ears n tappin patiently before fixin, as ah lie back melted. — Forgot aw aboot it fae weeks back. Ah took it up the Bendix, n vernear put it through the wash, jist as well ah didnae, cause thaire’s a drought oan … What ye giggling at?

  … aw ya fuckin beauty …

  Ah try tae tell her the Bendix joke, but ah kin barely speak, n in any case, she’s banged up hersel and a few seconds later she’s in the same state.

  Mother of Bendix, wash house gods, ah give youse thanks for king heroin; thank you for that whiter than white wash …

  The candlelight goes oot n we’re baith spangled oan the bed, then hugging each other, wi emotion, but sortay chastely. Lesley’s wearing a blue slidey-material top, which feels like silk but isnae. Then we’re sort ay crashed out, me restin my heid oan her stomach, her top rolled up, listenin tae the sounds her guts make. — Bubbles n sizzles, bubbles n sizzles, ah goes.

  — Ah’m wasted …

  — Me n aw. It’s cauld … Ah kick oaf ma trainers n pill oaf ma jeans n git under the tartan duvet. She does the same, scrambling alongside me, kissin us coolly on the lips. Then she puts her index finger inside ma jumper n traces it ower ma ribcage. — You’re that thin, Mark.

  — Ah’ve kind ay lost a bit ay weight. Fast metabolism, ah suppose, and ah props masel up on ma elbaws tae look at her.

  Lesley smiles grimly at me through the semi-dark. There’s light pouring in fae under the door, and through the curtains fae the street lamp ootside. — Skag metabolism, mair like. You’re a pretty weird guy, she goes, still outlining ma ribs.

  — How? ah ask, interested tae ken if she means cool weird or geeky, spazzy weird. No that ah’m bothered either wey, cause ah’m feelin fuckin barry.

  — Well, maist guys, ye kin tell if they fancy ye. Lesley’s pupils seem slitty n catlike in this meagre light. — But ah dinnae ken wi you …

  — Course ah do, ah tell her, — everybody fancies you. You’re a beautiful girl, ah go, pushing her hair behind her ear, the wey she did when she prepared the gear. She is. Kind ay.

  — Aye, right, she says doubtfully, but she’s sort ay flattered. So her hand suddenly reaches doon tae ma groin, inside ma pants, and grabs some playdough. — So how come we’re in bed thegither n yir no hard?

  — Ah’m just too wasted. Takes ages tae git it up eftir ah bang this shit … chasin a bit ay broon, nae worries, root like a Californian Ridwood, but see bangin this stuff …

  Lesley isnae really ma type, wi her big bust, but of course ah’d still ride her if ah wisnae fucked up. We baith take oor tops off, then hug and kiss for a bit, but she’s as wasted as me, n we mumble shite for a while, then faw intae something like sleep, wi her still cuppin ma soft genitals.

  Ah’m aware ay a passage ay time and then a rat-ars
ed Alison and Kelly barging intae the room, follayed by Spud, bringin in a ragged, morning light. — Whoops, somebody says, and they quickly close the door. They half open it again tae shout in, — Happy New Year!

  Ah try n mumble something back. Lesley and me are baith stripped doon tae oor underpants, the duvet having slid oaf us as the heating kicked up in the night. Ah pull it back across those heavy, solid lily-white breasts.

  — Fuck sakes … she goes, waking up as the others, giggling like daft wee bairns, shut the door.

  — Mmmm … ah kind ay agree, sick n wi a tinny taste in ma mooth.

  — What time is it? Lesley sits up, wi the duvet in front ay her tits. She yawns and turns tae me.

  — Fuck knows … ah moan, but it sounds like the party’s rambling on. Ah can hear ‘Cum On Feel the Noize’ by Slade, n ah’m guessin that Begbie’s still monopolising the turntable. As we heave ourselves slowly intae consciousness, Lesley and me are baith pretty embarrassed, wi the works oan the bedside table, but also aboot the general situ. We crashed right through the bells and never even shagged. The door goes again, a soft series ay raps. It doesnae open but ah hear Spud behind it: — Fitba, catboy, fitba. Pub. The derby. The Cabbage.

  — Geez a minute. Take Nicksy doon the Clan wi ye and ah’ll see yis in thaire in a bit.

  Lesley and me can hear the flat emptyin. You ride somebody when you’re fucked up and horny, then in the morning they often look as rough as fuck. She’s the reverse, she’s gorgeous n ah’m sortay seein it for the first time. Ah’ve goat a belter ah a hard-on n she looks as sexy and sleazy as fuck, but the moment’s passed n she’s up and getting dressed, leavin me nae option but tae follow suit.

  — Right, see ye later, she says.

  You fuckin bam, Renton, you fuckin bammy simple dingul.

  — No comin doon the pub for one?

  — Naw. Gaun tae my ma’s at Clerie for a New Year perty.

  We get oot intae the cauld, headin oor separate weys. Ah soon sort ay wish ah’d gaun tae Clerie wi her, even if ah wisnae invited. The pub is chaotic, wi everybody singin Hibs songs. A middle-aged gadge in thick glesses has stripped off and is dancing oan the stage the go-gos use. He has PADDY STANTON wi two eyes tattooed in Indian ink oan his buttocks and ELVIS oan his cock, which an auld wifie tries tae conceal wi her knitting as he gyrates.

  — That’s his ma, somebody explains.

  Nicksy’s fair enjoyin hissel, looks like the change ay scene hus done him good. Ah’m strugglin wi the drink, but. It makes us seek; Queen Skag’s quite a jealous bitch, she doesnae seem tae like other drugs tryin tae muscle intae her meat, particularly Princess Peeve. Ali n Kelly look like they’re in deep conspiracy, Nicksy’s tellin Tommy n Spud a tale aboot Sick Boy, n ah’m forced intae the pain seat beside Begbie, whae slams his trademark elbay intae ma ribs. — Nice one wi Lesley, ya dirty, lucky cunt! You’re no fuckin shy! Ah’d cowp it in a fuckin minute! Fill hoose for the rid-heided cunt, ah take it?

  — Naw, just a wee kiss n cuddle, ah goes. — New Year pleasantries, n ah look ower at Tommy, who looks rough as fuck. He shakes his heid in self-loathing.

  — Aye, that’ll be right, ya fuckin clarty rid-heided bastard! Ye wir up her aw night, ya spawny cunt, he declares, daein that one-handed switch fae nip tae fag n back that strangely impresses. — Fuckin hud ma eye oan that yin fir ages! No shy, this cunt, he announces tae the table.

  The rest join in, no believin ma honourable protestations. The best thing ah could’ve done wis tae tell every cunt that ah wis bangin Lesley aw weys, that she couldnae get enough. Then they’d think, ‘Aye, right.’ By simply telling the truth, they now believe ah’ve done her in every orifice. It must be shite bein a bird. Ah go up tae the jukey and pit oan ‘Lido Shuffle’ by Boz Scaggs, thinking ay ‘Baws Skagged’, ma new nickname for masel that will be kept tae masel.

  When ah git back tae the seat Kelly’s sortay listenin tae Nicksy n Ali gaun oan aw seriously aboot relationship problems, him still slaverin aboot that Marsha bird fae upstairs at oor Dalston gaff, n her gaun oan aboot some mairried gadge she’s seein fae her work. Suddenly she looks keenly at Nicksy and asks, — What’s Simon daein fir New Year?

  — Dunno, Nicksy shrugs.

  — Ah love Simon!

  — Yeah, Nicksy says warily, — he’s a top geezer.

  Franco’s shuffled closer tae me and lowers his voice in confidant mode. — Listen the now, mate, cause you’re the only cunt ah kin fuckin well trust roond here …

  — Right …

  — Fat Tyrone, ye ken him?

  — By rep jist, ah goes. Ye heard aw sorts ay stories aboot Fat Tyrone, aka Davie Power. He either ran the toon wi an iron fist, or was a blobby shitebag and a cowardly grass, dependin on whae wis telling the tale. It never interested me, aw that gangster stuff.

  — Ah’m daein a wee bit work fir the cunt.

  — Right.

  — But ah’m no sure aboot it.

  — What’s it yir daein?

  — Helpin um git his fruit machines installed. It doesnae go through the books, so it’s fuckin barry. Money fir nowt n aw. Me, Nelly n this big cunt, Skuzzy, jist go roond tae the pubs n gie thum a copy ay the fruit machine catalogue. Maistly the cunts git the message n they ken tae take the one thit Power’s gaunny pit in, he says, looking at Nelly who’s fuckin well equipped for that joab, as he’s constantly up at the fruit machine, ignorin his burd, as he bangs in the change, his pus a picture ay concentration.

  — Right, well, if yir no sure, leave it alaine.

  — Aye, he goes, — but Nelly’s daein stuff for um n aw, n ah dinnae want that fucker swannin aroond like he’s the cunt wi the tadger the size ay the fuckin Scott Monument. Nae point cuttin oaf your cock tae spite yir baws, ken what ah mean?

  It made sense now; if Nelly was daein work for a top gangster, no way could Begbie leave that oaf his CV. These cunts professed tae be great mates, but they’d been in competition wi each other ivir since school.

  — There is that, ah suppose, ah goes, tryin tae sound as if it ah gied a fuck, and just aboot pullin it off.

  — At first ah just fuckin well thoat, Nelly goat a wee taster n he wis fuckin well puntin a bit action his buddy’s wey. Now ah see it fuckin different but. It’s like he’s sayin he disnae fuckin well rate us, ah’ll fuck it aw up, that’s how he’s fuckin well giein us it, soas ah’ll faw flat oan ma fuckin face, Franco glares at me. The bam’s buildin up a head ay steam here.

  Aw ah kin dae is nod. Suddenly, Tommy springs up, face crinkled like a Chinese lantern, n we aw look roond startled, as he puts his hand tae his mooth. Puke’s sprayin oot between his fingers as he runs frantically tae the toilet, tae big cheers fae the table.

  Except Franco.

  Ah couldnae gie a fuck aboot these cunts n thair business, nor their covert war wi each other, but ah dinnae want it kickin off here. — Naw, ah think Nelly’s bein sound, Franco. The wey ah see it is that he rates ye, n it reflects better on him wi Power if Nelly intros him tae a gadge that kin obviously handle things.

  Franco thinks aboot this for a bit. Looks ower tae Nelly, then back tae me. Seems tae agree. — Aye, mibbe ah’m bein a wee bit hard oan the cunt. Sound cunt Nelly, eywis wis, he says as Nelly looks ower tae us. — Awright, Nelly, ya cunt! Git thum in then! Lager n whisky fir me, lager n voddy for this dirty ginger-heided fucker! N the boys here n the lassies n aw! C’moan, Tam, ya fuckin lightweight, he roars at Tommy, whae returns fae the bog lookin like a ghost. He creases his face up in pain as somebody hands him a drink.

  Nelly gies a strangely fetching wee salute and leaves the fruit machine tae shout up a round. We join in a chorus ay ‘We Are Hibernian FC’ which blasts oot fae another table, then doss back the drinks and head off tae the game.

  Notes on an Epidemic 5

  THEY CALLED HIM Andy. Most people said he was American due to his accent, even though he held a British passport. He was a largely circumspect individual, but nobody bothered much about that. Strangers appeared, came and w
ent, were free to be silent or tell tall stories as they saw fit, to try out new identities before vanishing like ghosts. If you had gear or money, few searching questions were asked.

  One persistent version of his tale was that Andy’s parents emigrated to Canada from Scotland when he was four years old. As he grew into his youth, he became estranged from his family and drifted over to America, then joined the Marine Corps, in order to obtain US citizenship. Saw active service in Vietnam. Perhaps came back with undiagnosed post-traumatic stress, or maybe just couldn’t settle into life outside the disciplined structures of the military. Drifted through several American towns till he ended up in the Tenderloin District of San Francisco. Became a political activist in the Vietnam Veterans movement. Fell foul of the authorities. They saw his UK passport, and discounting his American service record, sent him back to a home he scarcely remembered.

  Whether its genesis was in Vietnam, or the Tenderloin, came through sharing needles, blood transfusions or unprotected sex, a sickness settled on Andy. Back in Edinburgh he fell in with a loosely federated group of desperados who adopted him. They had access to the medicine he needed. There was Swanney from Tollcross, Mikey from Muirhouse, the old hippy Dennis Ross. Shifty Alan Venters from Sighthill, a little thief from Leith called Matty, and a sinister biker named Seeker. They were just some of the prominent members of a diffuse, often fractious community, which grew exponentially with every closing factory, warehouse, office and shop. It was in this scene, where, unknown to himself or anyone else, through sharing those big hospital syringes in Edinburgh’s shooting galleries, Andy became the Johnny Appleseed of Aids.

  The Art of Conversation

  AH SAIS TAE fuckin June earlier, ah goes: thank fuck that’s January nearly ower. A shite fuckin month. Baw cauld n every cunt steyin in aw the time, Renton sneakin away back doon tae fuckin London wi that wee cunt he hud up here. Wisnae a bad wee fucker, but every cunt should stey whaire they fuckin well come fae, that’s what ah eywis fuckin well say. At least Rents came back; Sick Boy nivir even fuckin showed up at aw.