Skagboys

by Irvine Welsh

  He’s actually gone and bought a double bed for Wee Davie’s auld room, soas he kin bang Sharon in comfort when she steys ower. A Jambo shagging pad. How the fuck can the pervert get it up wi my ma n faither lying next door? Has he nae fuckin self-respect? Ah’d never take a burd back here, tae my ma’s hoose.

  So ah rise late on Saturday morning; it’s the back ay eleven. Ah’m no hungry, but my ma and dad, surprised tae see me, insist ah stey for my Setirday mince. It’s sort ay a tradition that she makes mince early, usually noon, so that we could go tae Easter Road or Tynecastle, or sometimes through tae Ibrox in my dad’s case. Even though the fitba doesnae loom so large in our lives these days, the noon mince custom has perversely carried on. The white tablecloth comes oot, then the casserole dish wi the mince bubblin away in it, a big onion floatin in the middle. Then the mashed tatties, follayed by the peas. But in the silence and stiffness ay muh ma’s movements, there’s a distinct edge tae the proceedings: they seem tae have tippled that something’s up wi me. The auld girl’s wild-eyed at the table and she’s run oot ay fags. She asks Billy, but he shrugs in the negative. Ah mind ay him sayin something aboot cuttin doon or tryin tae gie up. — Ah’ll need tae go doon for cigarettes, she says.

  — You don’t need cigarettes just now, Catherine, the auld boy says tae her like she’s a child. He seldom uses her formal name, and ah can tell something’s afoot as they’re lookin awkwardly at each other and stealin glances at us. Ah’m pushin the mince roond ma plate. Ah’ve eaten a bit ay the mashed tatties, but this mince seems too salty, stinging my dry and cracked lips, and the peas are like shrivelled wee green ball bearings, through having been left in the oven too long. The auld girl cannae cook for shit, but even if she wis Delia Smith ah couldnae eat fuck all, and ah’m shiverin and blinkin in that light pourin in fae the big windae.

  Fuck sake, ah was only doon tae pick up some LPs!

  Oot the corner ay my eye ah watch the auld girl rise, ransacking drawers in the sideboard, turning ower the cushions in the settee and chairs, in case a stray smoke has fallen behind yin. She’s creepin us oot, ah want tae say tae her, ‘Please, sit the fuck doon n eat,’ when ma auld man turns oan me and says in steely-eyed accusation, — Ah wahnt tae ask you somethin. Somethin serious. Are you wan ay thaim?

  This time he means junky, rather than poof.

  — Tell us it’s no true, son, tell us! Ma pleads, standin behind the chair she’d vacated. She’s hudin oantae the back ay it, white-knuckled, as if braced for impact.

  For some reason, ah cannae even be ersed lyin. — Ah’m oan the methadone programme but, ah tell them, — ah’m getting off the junk.

  — Fuckin idiot, Billy sneers.

  — Well, that’s it now then, Dad coldly states. Then he stares at us wi a beseeching, — Eh?

  Aw ah kin dae is shrug.

  — Yir a junky, ma faither’s eyes narrow, — a dirty, filthy, lyin junky. A drug addict. That’s what ye are, is it no?

  Ah look up at him. — Once you label me you negate me.

  — What?!

  — Jist something Kierkegaard sais.

  — Whae the fuck’s that? Billy goes.

  — Søren Kierkegaard, Danish philosopher.

  My auld man’s fist smashes oan the table. — Well, ye kin cut that crap oot fir a start! Cause that’s aw gone now, aw yir studies, aw yir chances! A bloody philosopher’s no gaunny help ye now! This isnae jist one ay yir daft fads, Mark! It’s no something ye kin jist play aroond wi till ye git bored! This is serious! This is yir life yir flingin away here!

  — Oh Mark … muh ma starts sobbing, — ah dinnae believe it. Oor Mark … the university … wi wir that proud, weren’t wi, Davie? Wi wir that proud!

  — That stuff kills ye, ah’ve read aw aboot it, muh dad declares. — Like messin aboot wi a loaded gun! You’ll end up in the hoaspital like that Murphy laddie; nearly bloody deid, bi Christ!

  Ma starts greetin; gaspin, haltin, breathless sobs. Ah want tae comfort her, tae tell her it’ll be okay, but ah cannae move. Ah feel fuckin paralysed in this chair.

  — Fuckin mug, Billy jibes, — it’s a radge’s game, that shite.

  Normal service between us is evidently resumed, so ah openly regard the muppet in sheer fuckin contempt. — As opposed tae the mature, sensible and socially cohesive practice ay rammin the nut oan total strangers in public places?

  Billy looks angry for a beat, but he lets it go as a lenient smile creeps across his coupon.

  — We’ve discussed that! my dad shouts. — We’ve discussed this yin n his bloody stupidity aw week! He thumbs dismissively at Billy without lookin at him. — It’s you we need tae talk aboot now, son!

  — Look, ah say tae them, spreadin my palms, — it’s no big deal. Ah’ve been pertyin a bit too much, and got masel ah wee habit. Ah ken ah’ve goat a bit ay a problem but ah’m sortin it oot. Ah’m at the clinic, oan the methadone programme, weanin masel offay the heroin.

  — Aye, but it’s no that easy! muh ma suddenly squeals. — Ah’ve heard aw aboot it, Mark! That Aids!

  — You’ve goat tae inject it tae git Aids, ah shake ma heid slowly, — n ah wis jist smokin it. But that’s me finished. It’s a mug’s game, like Billy says, but as ah mooth ma agreement, radge that ah am, ah cannae stoap ma eyes gaun tae ma airm.

  Ma auld man’s follayed thum and, lightning quick, he grabs it n rolls up ma sleeve, exposin scabby, pus-leaking tracks. — Aye? What’s that then!

  Ah reflexively pill the withered limb away. — Ah very, very rarely inject and ah never share needles, ah plead. — Look … ah ken it’s goat oot ay hand but ah’m tryin tae sort it oot.

  — Aw aye? muh ma screeches, lookin at ma airm in horror. — Well, yir no tryin very hard, ur ye!

  — Well, ah’m daein ma best.

  — Mutilatin hissel, Davie!

  — At least he admits he’s goat a problem, Cathy, ma dad reassures, — at least that’s wan thing, he seems tae concede. Then he turns they blazin, hungry eyes ay his oan me. — Wis it London that did this?

  Ah cannae help but laugh out loud at that yin. I’ve mair access tae gear up here than ah ever hud doon thaire.

  — Ye might well laugh, he says in lament, then, — Simon’s no like that, is he? Stevie, wee Hutchy, he’s no like that?

  — Nup, ah tell him, for some reason, no wantin tae drop Sick Boy in it. — They nivir touch it, eh. It’s jist me.

  — Aye, the bloody mug, muh ma says bitterly.

  — But why, son? Dad implores. — Why?

  Ah kin never think ay what tae say tae that question. — It’s a good buzz.

  His eyes bulge oot like some cunt’s belted the back ay his heid wi a basebaw bat. — Christ, jumpin oaf a cliff’s probably a good buzz, till ye hit the boatum! Wise up, for God’s sake!

  — Ah feel like ah’m livin a nightmare, Ma groans, — that’s aw it is: a bloody nightmare!

  There follows a gratifying silence, ye can hear the soft ticking ay that posh clock wi the swinging pendulum, the one the old boy got fae his crooked mate, Jimmy Garrett, at Ingliston Market. Then it goes off. It’s slow, sending oot a dozen leaden strikes even though it’s way past twelve, measuring oot our lives in heartbeats … doom … doom … doom …

  Ah tries tae get a bit ay mince doon, but ma swallowin mechanism is fucked. Ah can feel it runnin doon ma gullet but the muscles urnae workin. It’s like it’s just buildin up in ma oesophagus n ah’m drownin wi every small mouthful, until ah feel sudden relief as it finally hits ma tight, tennis-ball gut. My mother, whae’s been scrutinisin me, seems tae think ay something, then rises wi a sudden, demented urgency that upsets every cunt in the room, and bounds ower tae the sideboard, pickin up an envelope, which she hands us. — This came for ye, she accuses.

  It has a Glasgow postmark. Ah’m scoobied as tae what it is or whae it could be fae. Suddenly, ah’m aware ay the six fervent eyes oan us which say it would be bad form tae pocket it for later. So ah open it up. It’s an invitation.

&nb
sp; Mr and Mrs Ronald Dunsmuir

  humbly request the attendance of

  Mark Renton

  at the wedding of their daughter

  Joanne April to Mr Paul Richard Bisset

  at

  St Columba Church of Scotland,

  Duchal Road, Kilmacolm, Renfrewshire, PA13 4 AU

  on

  Saturday, 4th May 1985, 1p.m.

  and afterwards at

  Bowfield Hotel and Country Club,

  Bowfield Road, Howwood, near Glasgow Airport, Renfrewshire, PA9 1DB

  RSVP: 115 Crookston Terrace, Paisley, PA1 3PF

  — What is it? muh ma asks.

  — Nowt, just a weddin invite. My auld mate Bisto fae the uni, ah tell her, surprised that they’re gettin married and astonished that they’ve invited me. Joanne must be up the stick; it’s the only wey that would happen as they baith have another year tae go at Aberdeen eftir this. The last time ah saw Joanne was on Union Street. Ah was like a jakey, skulkin doon taewards Don’s. She wis wi another lassie; widnae look at us, but jerked her sweatshirt hood tight tae her face n stepped across the road.

  Ma starts lookin oaf intae the distance, shakin her heid as a teary lens amasses ower her eyes. Then she glowers at me in anguish. — That could have been you … wi that lovely Fiona lassie, she sniffs. — Or even wee Hazel. She turns tae my auld man, whae nods tae her and gies her hand a squeeze.

  — Aye, a narrow escape, ah say.

  — Dinnae start, Mark! Just dinnae bloody well start! You know fine well what yir mother means, my dad shouts.

  What ah know fine well is that ah’ve hung aboot here long enough, and now the junk thing’s oot in the open, ah’m disinclined tae listen tae any mair ay their tedious where-did-we-go-wrong disquisitions. Basically, whaire they went wrong wis indulgin thair ain selfish whims in bringin mair lives intae a fucked-up place. Ah didnae ask tae live n ah’m no feart tae die. Aw that’ll happen is that it’ll be like before ah wis alive; it couldnae have been that great, but it wisnae that shite either, or ah’d have minded aboot it. Ah was just here tae get ma fuckin records. Billy looks at us, kenin fine well what ah’m daein, but sais nowt.

  Ah stoap oaf in the bathroom tae swipe the auld girl’s Vallies, n head up the Walk, strugglin wi the weight ay they albums packed in the auld Sealink holdall. Thankfully, ah run intae Matty and Sick Boy at the Kirkgate. They look as shite as ah feel, n neither is too enthusiastic when ah ask them tae take a shot n cairry the bag. Matty takes a shift though, but ye could tell it wis basically jist tae sketch what wis inside. That’s when it aw kicked in wi me: Bowie, Iggy, Lou, they wir aw gaunny go.

  — Cunt, that’ll be a sad loss, Matty slyly articulates ma thoughts.

  — I’ll tape them, ah sais defensively.

  — Cunt, kin see you sittin thaire daein that, right enough, he goes. Sick Boy’s quiet, stooping forward as he walks, his airms folded acroas his chest.

  Fucked if ah’m arguin wi this cunt. — Ah’ll get Hazel tae tape them then, she’s goat a capacity for boredom.

  Matty shrugs and we git up tae the shoap. Sick Boy hings ootside smokin, while ah stick the records oan the counter. The boy goes through them wi the sort ay face ah ken; ah’ve used it tons ay times masel at work. — Bowie ah kin always shift, he says, — but naebody’s bothered aboot Iggy and the Stooges or Lou and the Velvets. Too seventies.

  FUCKIN CUNT.

  So ah get a rip-off price for them, Matty pretendin tae look through the records n tapes oan display but mentally countin oot every note n coin the boy pits in ma hand. When we get ootside we see Olly Curran comin up the Walk, the straight-backed National Front closet-buftie fucker. — Awright, Olly?

  — Yesss … he sais in that sleekit snake-like wey ay his, lookin doon his beak, first at me, then Sick Boy, then Matty. Ye can tell he thinks we’re the scum ay the earth: a big disgrace tae the white master race. — You’re a Connell, he says tae Matty in mild accusation.

  Matty, fag in hand, turns his earring like he’s tryin tae tune in his brain. – So?

  — You dinnae stay at the Fort now, Olly shakes his heid.

  — Nup, Wester Hailes, eh.

  Olly dispenses a security-guard look, one too thick and crass even for a polisman, then thaire’s a silence. So ah goes, — Ye got a fair auld military starch in that collar, Olly.

  He smiles, his devious eyes fill ay imbecile’s hate, then looks aw self-congratulatory n goes, — Well, some of us like tae keep up standards.

  — Aye, well, it’s certainly looking pristine. Heard yir missus takes the dhobi up the Bendix.

  — Yesss, he whistles softly, wary but smug, — she certainly does.

  Sick Boy nods and says, — Ah kent a bird whae wis mad on that. Ye couldnae stick anything in the washing machine. Eywis hud tae go up the Bendix.

  — Aye … sometimes it can be a pest, Olly muses, — because she’s got a perfectly good washing machine.

  — But if she’s used tae takin it up the Bendix … Sick Boy sniggers.

  Ah’m fuckin well strugglin tae keep a straight face, n Matty’s open-cavern mooth n squashed-grape eyes indicate the cunt’s aware some wind-up’s gaun oan but he’s scoobied as tae what it’s aw aboot.

  — Aye, Olly declares, — her mother wis just the same.

  — She surely must use the washing machine sometimes but, Sick Boy contends.

  — Very rarely.

  — I’ll bet you like tae stick a load in there but, eh? Sick Boy goes.

  — Oh, ah do try sometimes, but it’s Bendix, Bendix, Bendix aw the way wi her.

  — Do ye ever take a load up thaire yirsel? ah ask him.

  — In my younger single days, aye. But ah wis a sailor then, and neatness was expect– what … what … Olly’s gaun, as we cannae contain oorsels any mair, – what yis laughin at? Youse ur bloody well on something! Ah ken youse! Ah ken yir game!

  — What game is that then? ah goes back.

  He looks at ma wrist, pus seeping fae rusted mounds ay crust, on white, goosefleshed skin.

  — Industrial accidents, ah wink, but he turns in disgust and strides up the Walk.

  — Right up the Bendix! Sick Boy shouts. It hurts tae laugh. My sides sting wi it. But ah realise that the joke is oan me, oan us, as the pain sets in and we look at each other, blinded by snotter, feelin like lepers in our ain place. Passers-by ur starin at us in horror and loathing: ye kin feel their contempt. — Lit’s git the fuck ootay here, Sick Boy sais.

  Pain. Psychic pain.

  N thaire’s mair ay that tae come when we git up tae Tollcross. Matty opts tae wait ootside. — Cunt, ah’m no welcome, eh, he says. Inside, the tomatay plants in the windae look as rotten and shabby as Johnny, whae sits thaire wi lines ay speed. Ah make the big mistake ay giein him the cash ah owe him. He snaffles it, then refuses tae sub us anything else.

  — Jist a wee bag, mate.

  — Sorry, chavboax, it’s business, buddy boy.

  — But ah jist gie’d ye some dosh, ye ken ah’m good fir it.

  — Nae hireys, nae gear. Thaire’s no a lot gaun aroond so what thir is goes tae the boys wi the poppy upfront. Ah’d git the dosh n ah’d move sharpish if ah wis youse.

  — C’mon, Johnny, we’re mates …

  — Nae mates in this game, chavvy, we’re aw acquaintances now, he goes. — The White Swan’s just a cog in a wheel these days, compadre. He fills his lungs wi sulphate. — Ah’m a branch manager ay Virgin rather than the owner ay Bruce’s Record Shoap. If ye ken what ah mean.

  He’s right. There’s nae white now, n the broon’s hit toon big time. Swanney’s puntin it for somebody else, so he’s way doon the peckin order. So we wir back tae square one. Matty starts moanin when we hit the bottom ay the stair. — Nowt? Cunt, what dae ye mean, nowt?! The cunt accuses us ay hudin oot oan him n the argument carries oan doon the road. – Fuckin mongol, he goes.

  — Ah wish ye’d stoap this mongol shite, Matty.

  — Jist cause yir brother wis one, he says, th
e taboo words sizzling oot ay the mingin wee fucker’s tight campfire mooth.

  — Naw, Down’s syndrome was just about the only medical condition the spazzy wee cunt never had, ah tell him, shaming him and myself at the same time.

  — Telt ye wuv nae fuckin gear, Sick Boy narks at him. — N stoap aw this hudin oot shite. Tell us how you can possibly hud oot oan a moochin cunt whae’s nivir pit his hand in his poakit in the first fuckin place!

  Matty shuts up at that, n we walk on in silence. We get tae the Fit ay the Walk, fucked and shivering, tae hear a blood-coagulatin screech: — SI-MIHN!

  Two antsy jailbait chicks are ootside the Central, beckonin us ower. It’s the last place we want tae be right now but they willnae take naw fir an answer. It’s that Maria Anderson lassie and her wee pal, Jenny. It turns oot Jenny’s Shirley’s cousin, so Matty doesnae look too chuffed. Ah’m no either. Ah tell her tae bolt, n she nods like she’s gaun tae, but keeps hingin aboot, no in any hurry tae nash. They willnae git served in the Cenny, so we go tae the Dolphin Lounge. We’re sittin in a corner, aw drinkin Pepsi cause it’s fill ay sugar, n Nelly comes in fae the Crown Bar next door, n gits a pint n joins us. He starts spraffin shite about Begbie and Saybo, but ah’m no interested as ah’m tryin tae tune oot aw the conversations roond us n think ay whae ah kin hound fir skag. He’s droning in ma ear though, and he asks, — Dae ye think thit ah made the wrong move?

  Ah huvnae been listenin tae him, n ah’ve no got the faintest idea what he’s oan aboot, so ah say, — You made the decision, Neil, ah shrug, catchin that Jenny’s eye, n ah git an apologetic glare which quickly steels intae defiance. Fuck her, daft wee hairy; thir fawin like dominoes now n ah’m naebody’s social worker, least ay aw ma ain.

  Nelly gies us his tortoise-lipped expression. — So?

  Another two young girls come in tae join Sick Boy’s harem. — Sealink, one lassie goes, pointing tae the now empty holdall at ma feet, pronouncing it Sealunk, in proper Leith style. Normally ah’d be sniffing at some ay the crumbs ay Sicko’s rich man’s table, but no way right now. Bowie, Iggy and Lou, aw gone. Fuck sakes, ah’m hurtin inside. — Look around the world, baby, it cannot be denied, ah assert tae Nelly.