Skagboys

by Irvine Welsh

  — Who was oan the blower?

  — Some other posh tart for Sick Boy, need ya ask, I tell him, stepping outside. It’s still a bit nippy, but spring’s definitely in the air.

  All of a sudden I hears this high-pitched whine, and when I get to the stairwell I see these little herberts have got this puppy, a tiny black thing, and they’re putting it in the farking rubbish chute! A cute little black Lab n all! — Oi! You little fackers!

  I run to them but this farking scumbag drops it and it yelps as they shut the door on it and when I yank it open it’s disappeared, like a rabbit in a magician’s hat. You can hear a descending squeal, all the farking way down. — You cunt! I turn on the little bastard, absolutely farking livid.

  — My mum says I gotta get rid of it, innit, says this urchin.

  — Take it back ta the farking pet shop, you dozy little troll!

  — It’s shut, innit. My mum said if I came back with it here she’d kill me!

  — Farking wally … I jump in the lift with the bags, and I ain’t gonna put nuffink down there on top of that little puppy. I get down ta the rubbish room. It’s locked and there ain’t no collection till Monday. Could it have survived the fall? But the rubbish would be mostly soft garbage. I gotta check. I drop the bin liners outside the door. It’s cold out here. I can’t think. I go back into the stair. Fack! I see her coming out the lift. Alone. Blue jacket. Fag in hand. Marsha.

  She looks like shit. Her eyes are all puffy n swollen. — Marsha, stop. Wait.

  — What you want? she says, turning away from me as if I’m farking nuffink.

  I stand looking at her. — I wanna talk ta ya. About … the baby. She swivels back round and looks me in the eye. — There ain’t no baby, is there? Not no more, and she pulls her yellow T-shirt tight to her.

  — Wot you talking about? Wot happened?

  With a big farking sneer, she goes, — Got rid of it, didn’t I?

  — You wot?

  — Mi mam was sayin dere’s too many babies havin babies roun here.

  — A bit farking late, wasn’t it?

  — A’ll ya need ta knows is it’s gan.

  — How? What d’ya mean?

  — I ain’t fucking talking ta you bout nuffink, she suddenly explodes in a loud squeal. — Get the fuck outta my face!

  — But we gotta talk abaht this … we was –

  — What’s ta farking talk abaht? she says, but in estate London. — I was seein ya, now I ain’t. I was havin a baby, now I farking well ain’t.

  — You was put up to this by somebody! That was my farking kid n all, didn’t I have no farking say in the matter?

  — Nope, you fucking well didn’t, she shouts, a look of raw fucking hatred on her face.

  My farking kid n all …

  I feel the pulse racing through me body, as I watch her turnin away and walkin off through the stair door with a strut, her tight little arse moving slowly in those jeans, doing the catwalk model thing, like she’s just taking the farking piss. — Please come back, babe, I hear myself say, following her outside.

  I dunno if she can hear me, but she don’t look round and she don’t stop moving off, down the path between Fabian and Ruskin houses.

  Then I hears this breathing noise and look down ta find this big Alsatian sniffing around me bollocks. A thickset skinhead looks over at me. — Hatchet! Leave it!

  The dog turns away and bounds towards him, and I think again about the little puppy trapped in the rubbish. I hurry back up ta the flat where Mark and Sick Boy are sitting on the couch, smoking gear off the foil. Jesus Christ, at this time of farking day. — Celebrations … working men, Mark says, all farking ripped. — A wee celebration, Nicksy.

  I didn’t want no farking kid, she did the right thing. I just wanted to help, that’s all. To be kept in the bleedin picture …

  Sick Boy’s talking to himself, in that rambling, junked-up way. — That Lucinda, it’s like the worse ye treat her the mair she wants ye; total daddy complex. Could pimp her oot easy. Like some ay they wee hairies around here, eh, Nicksy … only this yin would be quids in … quids in, ya cunt …

  Rents puts the foil pipe down on the coffee table. Then he starts waffling n all. — Ah hud tae gie Begbie career advice oan fuckin criminality at New Year. Me! That’s ma problem; ah’m too fuckin poncy tae be a proper Leith gadgie n too fuckin schemie tae be an arty student type. My whole life is betwixt and between … He slumps back into the couch.

  I stand in front of them. — Listen, I cut in, — I need you two ta stand guard on a couple ay floors. Floor fifteen and floor fourteen. Don’t let any cunt put rubbish down the chute.

  Of course, Mark starts farking protesting. — But Crown Court’s on in a minute.

  — Fark Crown Court! There’s a puppy trapped in the rubbish downstairs! Fucking useless junky cunts!

  As I tear out I can hear Mark saying, — Speed psychosis. Classic symptoms.

  Cheeky cunt; it’s these Jock fuckers, doing my farking head in! I get downstairs again, sharpish. The caretakers ain’t been here for a long time cause of council cutbacks, but there’s a big black woman I talk ta on the stairs who tells me that a Mrs Morton on the second floor has got keys for the waste room. — It wan ah dem chunky T-shaped tings.

  I gotta hurry or the dog, and this is assuming the poor little cunt has survived the fall, will get buried under more rubbish, or crushed by empty bottles. I get ta the second floor and at Flat 2/1 there’s the name – MORTON – on the door. I gives it a bang and before long a stocky barrel of a old gel comes out.

  — Mrs Morton?

  — Yeah …

  — I need the keys ta the waste room. Some kids’ve only gone and put a puppy down the chute. It’s trapped in there.

  — Can’t help ya, Mrs Morton says, — you’ll ave ta see the council.

  — But it’s Saturday!

  — They work Saturdays. Well, some of em does.

  I argue the toss, but the old gel ain’t budging. At least she lets me in ta use the phone. I get through ta the council cunts and my blood’s soon boiling, cause when I’m trying to convey the farking seriousness of the situation, they put me onto the Cleansing Department who put me onta Housing who transfer me onta Environmental Health, who put me in touch with the central office, who tell me to see the local area office, who then say that it really should all go through the farking RSPCA! And all the time this Mrs Morton’s glowering at me, then at the clock on her wall.

  I’m sweating like a rapist thinking about that poor little dog and I phone me mate Davo who works for the council; thank fuck he’s on OT today. — Don’t care how ya do it, mate, but I need ya ta get us the key ta the bins room at Beatrice Webb House on my estate at Holy Street. Like yesterday.

  Fair play to Davo, he don’t even ask no questions. — I’ll try. Hang fire der and I’ll get back to yer on dat number. Warrisit?

  I cough out the number and I’m standing in this old gel’s draughty hallway trying to reason with her, as she wants to throw me out. — I didn’t say ya could give out me number, she moans, — I don’t like givin out me number, not ta strangers.

  — It ain’t strangers, it’s the council.

  — They’re bloody strangers round ere!

  — You ain’t wrong, I tell her, and she starts droning on about how badly she’s been treated by them over the years, which is fair enough, but all I’m thinking about is Marsha and that poor little pooch.

  Fifteen minutes later the phone rings and it’s Davo, God bless that nasal Scouse whine, and blow me if he ain’t sorted it all out. — The key’s on its way round to yer in a minicab. You’ll have ta pay the friggin driver, but its only come from the Neighbourhood Housing Office so it’ll just be two quid. I need it back in me hand by five o’ clock today.

  — I owe ya big time, mate.

  — Too friggin right.

  As I put the blower down, I leave the old gel, putting some change by her phone, and I get ta the bottom of the flats. It’
s got really bollock cold again, and I button up me overcoat. I ain’t waiting too long before a Turkish geezer pulls up in a cab, flashing the key, a big farking solid thing which I stick in me pocket sharpish and square him up.

  I open up the big heavy black wooden door, and holy fucking hell, the place smells. There’s a switch and I click it on and a sick, yellow overhead light floods the room. I look ahead to the big aluminium bucket on wheels. It’s about seven foot high. How the fark am I gonna get up there?

  Then I see there’s loads of crap discarded furniture piled up along the walls. I lock the door behind me so I don’t get no herberts snooping round and disturbing me. The farking ming is overpowering and I’m gagging for a bit, before I start ta get used ta it, after a fashion. I pull over an old sideboard, jump on it, and look into the bin. It’s almost full to the top with shit. There’s loads of fucking flies, huge bastards, buzzing around me and battering off me face, like I was one of them kiddies in Africa. But I can’t see no dog. — Here, boy … here, boy.

  I can’t hear nuffink. I climb in and my feet sink down into the compressed shit. My guts go into spasm, I’m shaking with nausea; it’s like a farking fever. I put my hand up against the top of the chute’s shaft to steady mesel and it’s covered in some kind of farking putrid excrement. I retch again, then try and wipe off as much as I farking can. This is farking horrible; there’s everything here; nappies, household garbage, jam rags, used condoms, bottles, fag ends and spud peelings everywhere. Everything except the farking puppy.

  Suddenly there’s a big smashing sound coming from above and I have to duck back against the side of the bin as a load of bottles come whizzing and crashing down. Cunts could’ve farking killed me! Probably came from the top floors I told them useless farking Scotch cunts to farking well guard! The stench is vile; it burns my nostrils and all this grit’s flying inta me eyes, blinding me.

  A farking pit bull in a suit of armour couldn’t have survived this. Poor little fucker’ll be smashed and buried under all this crap. I breathe in and the old dirt and fag ash swirling around in the backdraught from the chute gets in my lungs and I cough and puke up. I can only see out of one watery eye. This is making me farking ill, and I’m about to give up when I suddenly hears this faint whimpering. I dig a bit more, then pull back some wet newspaper and it’s the little dog, lying in crushed eggshells, old tea bags and potato peelings. Its big eyes look up at me. But it’s got something in its mouth.

  I feel my stomach contents rising again and I slam the brakes on cause it’s got hold of this farking floppy doll thing. It’s about twelve inches long with a big head and skinny rubbery limbs. It’s like a space alien covered in tomato sauce and dirt and all sorts of gunge. Its leg’s in the dog’s mouth. I don’t like the farking look of this. My blood goes all cold and I can hear it pound it me head. The way this thing’s leg hangs in the pup’s jaws … its eyes are shut, but the blue lids are sorta bulging out. It’s got black, matted hair. There’s a wound on the side of its head, a big hole in the flesh with shit seeping out. This ain’t no farking doll. It looks like –

  It’s got me in its mouth –

  By the leg –

  My little face –

  Her little face –

  I can’t move. I just sit there in the rubbish, looking at the puppy and this bloody red, coffee-coloured and blue thing it’s chewing on. The dog lets it go and comes to me. I pick him up, tucking him under me chin. He feels warm and makes little soft whines and I can see the hot breath coming out his tiny nostrils in the cold air.

  I’m still looking at the thing lying in the rubbish. Its eyes shut, like it’s at peace, sleeping.

  I don’t farking well …

  It ain’t a baby. I ain’t that fucking daft. You’d have ta be one sick cunt ta call this thing a kid; it’s way, way short of that. But that ain’t ta say that some respect ain’t bleedin well called for. It don’t feel right leaving it here like rubbish, like a dirty farking filthy slag would.

  Oh my God, what has she farking well done?

  I dunno what to do, but I gotta get out, as another parcel of shit comes crashing down from above and thumps against me back. The puppy’s licking me hand and I tuck it under me arm and climb out. I leave the room, locking the door behind me.

  I’m stinking of rubbish as I walk for ages with the dog under me coat. The sun goes down and it’s freezin as I find myself heading up by the canal. The dog’s stopped whining now, it must’ve been cold. It feels like he’s fallen asleep. All I can think about is that thing back in the chute. First why, then how and after that when. Dates. Times. The Neighbourhood Housing Office ain’t far, n I drop the key off at the reception. The girl on the desk stares at me like I’m a cunt, like she’s about ta dig me out, but she don’t. I suppose I ain’t looking too clever; I’m farking stinking, covered in all sortsa shit, wearing this old coat with a puppy peeking out of it. I’m right outta there; I go back ta the canal.

  What can I farking do … what was she farking thinking about …? It was too far gone, it’s against the farking law, surely …

  I keep walking along the bank, under the bridges, and it’s starting ta get dark. The puppy starts crying, in long pathetic whines that get louder. I leaves the canal, stopping off at a Spar for some dog food. I’ve come the full circle back down ta the flat, and head up in the lift. I get in and put the puppy on the floor and head into the kitchen to spoon out some grub for the little cunt …

  — Did your giro no come yet, Nicksy, cause, cairds oan the table time, ah need a sub, mate … Renton goes, then clocks the dog, sniffin around on the floor. — We’ve got a dug! That’s barry, he says, big, dark circles under his eyes, then he tells me, — You are mingin, by the way.

  — God, aye, Nicksy, ye really are, Sick Boy agrees.

  I can’t farking very well dispute that. The dog’s licking Rents’s hand, and they play with him half-heartedly. — Let’s call him Giro … Renton says. As I put the pup’s food down in a soup bowl, I see that they’re smoking some more gear.

  — Ah like the pipe, Rents says. — Ah’ve goat shite viens. That’s how ah cannae gie blood, it takes them ages tae find it.

  — A total waste ay gear, Sick Boy argues. — Maist ay the stuff just burns intae the air. But ah kin take or leave skag. Ah’m jist daein this cause it’s oor first day at work oan Monday.

  — Can’t you cunts do farking nuffink? Eh?

  — Geez a fuckin brek. Sick Boy points to the kitchen. — They beer bottles that huv been lyin around for months have gone, he points all proud at himself, — cause guess whae’s jist eftir throwin thum away!

  — You wot?

  The cunt could’ve farking killed me!

  I’m standing with me fists balling up in rage but they don’t even notice. I take off me coat. I hit the foil pipe, taking that shit back inta me lungs and me head and suddenly everything’s better. I ain’t even bothered that cunt Sick Boy’s on the blower ta farking Scotland now, running up the bill. — Of course I’m eating enough now, Mama, eating enough for two. No, naebody’s pregnant. No bambinos. He puts his hand over the phone. — Jesus Cunty Baws Christ! Italian mothers!

  I go through ta the room, carrying me coat. I’m sitting with me head in me hands trying ta bleedin think. I can’t hear for that racket they got on. It’s the Pogues album. I go through and ask them ta turn it down.

  — It’s Red Roses for Me but, Nicksy, ah pit it oan for this track, ‘Sea Shanty’, cause we’re gaunny be seafarin men! Mark says, going through me Northern Soul singles for the upteenth time. — These really do rule, Nicksy.

  I have a little smile ta mesel as Mark passes the pipe again; I’m up for a good blast this time. Me lungs and then me head fill up with the shit. I sit back in the chair, enjoying the heavy-limbed, light-headed feeling.

  — I couldn’t give a monkey’s. What’s it all about? Music. Waste a time, just lulls ya inta believing that things are less shit than they are. Fucking aspirin against leukaemia, I tel
l him.

  — Barry but, he goes, he ain’t listening. Not that I give a monkey’s now.

  Cause no cunt listens ta any cunt else round here. And what’s this farking ‘barry’ all about? How come ya never see Jocks on TV saying that? I’m thinking as the gear flows through me, calming me right down. The puppy’s pissing in the corner and I’m laughing. Mark’s shaking his head and going, — This is the good stuff though, Nicksy.

  — You can have them, mate, I tell him. I mean it n all. What good they gonna do me?

  — Dinnae say that, or they’ll be in the shops doon Berwick Street before ye can say skag, Mark laughs, then he seems to take fright realising what he’s just said. — I’m no that bad, his voice dips, — keep an eye on Sick Boy but, he whispers, as his mate puts the phone down.

  Sick Boy waves away the foil pipe. — I’m off tae make myself look pretty. He does an imitation of this nutty mate of theirs back home, a seriously mad Jock I met at New Year, thrustin out his pelvis. — Fuckin ridin duties the night. Cunt better no be shy!

  Poor old Frankie boy’s ears must be burning all the way up in Jockland, cause they don’t half rip the piss outta him. Not the sort of geezer you’d do that ta his face, though.

  — That’ll take some time, Rents says, — no the ridin, that’ll be ower in seconds, the makin yersel look pretty bit.

  Sick Boy flashes a tired V-sign in response as he heads out.

  — Is it awright tae gie a mate back in Edinburgh a wee tinkle? Ah’ll gie ye the money likes, Renton pleads with a dopey smile, holding a clenched fist ta the side of his face.

  — Go ahead, you daft cunt, I tell him, cause I ain’t giving a toss now.

  — I will then, he smiles with his yellow teeth, — Just as soon as I get another hit ay that pipe … this broon … dead mellow likes, he says, beckoning the dog over to him, — Giro … c’mere the now, pal … barry name for a dug … Fuck sake, said ah’d meet Stevie doon the West End later n ah’m Donald Ducked … cunt’s a straightpeg n aw … bound tae ken … but jist one wee hit tae git us sorted …