Skagboys

by Irvine Welsh

  ‘Well … yes …’ Tom says, ‘but remember that this unit is experimental. If it doesn’t deliver, it will be shut down.’

  Sick Boy gets Tom in his sights, perhaps a wee bit miffed that I’ve been making the running in the sneering cynic stakes. ‘So, we must all pull together for the sake of the unit! That’s absolutely top hole!’

  It takes a lot tae faze Tom though. ‘You know the alternative … Simon. Everybody here is either on an actual or de facto suspended sentence.’

  That always concentrates our minds. As fucked as this gig is, it’s a total doss compared tae even the pansiest nick. One thing ah ken, even fae the odd drunken night in the cells, I just isnae cut oot for the chokey. I vowed then and I vow now: I WILL NEVER BE INCARCERATED FOR JUNK. Any bullshit rehab I’m offered by the system, I’ll sign right on the dotted line before I spend one fucking minute behind bars.

  Tom turns to Skreel. ‘Martin –’

  ‘Cry me Skreel.’

  ‘Sorry, Skreel. What would you like to get out of this group?’

  ‘Ah jist wahnt tae stoap usin, tae git well again,’ he lies.

  Tom nods slowly, maintaining the gaze for a second, before turning to Johnny.

  Swanney’s just a total cunt, God bless him. He really kens how to wind everybody up. ‘Of course it’s difficult,’ he shrugs, ‘because we aw ken how barry, how fuckin brilliant, a fix ay skag kin be, especially when yir sick,’ and his tongue darts across his lips, a grin moulding his face, making him look like a lizard who’s plucked a juicy fly oot ay the air. Skreel starts twitching and Molly’s pallid coupon sets more firmly. Audrey gies her nails a brek and starts chewing oan the ends ay her hair, while Spud’s sittin wi his heid in his hands, emitting soft groans, as Johnny carries on, ‘… just that beautiful, rapturous release as it flows through yir veins intae yir brain, and the incredible euphoria as the world’s problems, aw the crap, just dissolve intae dust aw aroond ye. Pain aw gone. For just one wee hit, one wee hit …’ he muses pornographically as Molly, Audrey, Spud, Ted and Skreel squirm in their chairs.

  ‘That’s enough, please, Johnny,’ says Tom.

  ‘Jist sayin, like,’ he flashes a manufactured smile, ‘it’s no aw bad, cause if it wis, naebody wid dae it.’

  ‘Or make money oot ay it,’ Molly spits, wanting tae fight an auld battle.

  Tom waves her down, ‘I’m hearing you, Molly, but I want to focus for now on the losses. I’d like you to think about what you’ve lost through being on heroin.’ He rises, and goes over to the flip chart, picking up a pen.

  ‘Poppy,’ Sick Boy shouts.

  Tom turns with a puzzled look. ‘Is that your girlfriend?’

  ‘Best one I’ve ever had,’ Sick Boy grins, as everybody laughs. Poor Tom stands as stiff and still as a vibrator withoot the Duracell.

  ‘Eh, dosh,’ Spud says helpfully.

  His attempt to spare the blushes is welcome, though Tom’s neck takes on a mair florid hue than usual, as he writes ‘MONEY’ in even block capitals.

  ‘Mates,’ says Ted.

  Tom’s black marker pen spells out ‘FRIENDS’.

  ‘Ah dinnae ken aboot anybody else,’ Keezbo says, looking sadly at Sick Boy, ‘but what you said aboot girlfriends, Mr Simon –’ he looks tae Audrey and Molly, ‘or boyfriends, no bein sexist aboot it – but the shaggin desire goes.’

  Cue a few nervous giggles around the room.

  ‘No necessarily,’ Swanney cuts in. ‘Best sex ah ever had was oan skag, at the start, like.’

  ‘Aye, at the start,’ Sick Boy sneers. ‘Probably the only time you hud a ride that ye didnae pey for.’

  Swanney flicks him the V-sign. ‘Wisnae that when ye were seek n bangin at ma door, eh?’

  Sick Boy squirms in the chair and falls silent. It all goes quiet. It’s like everybody feels something stirring inside their pants, those cocks that ain’t been used in a while, screaming for action. Or, in Molly’s and Audrey’s cases, fannies that huvnae been used much, or mair likely, hav been used tons, but huvnae felt that much.

  So we talk away for a bit, the usual shite. We tire easily however, and our gathering yawns signal a stop for a coffee break: the most oily, tarry elixir imaginable, so caffeine-laden it hits you like base speed. This is accompanied by some sugary shortbread and, most of all, the fags. Practically every cunt in here is a serious nicotine addict, even Tom. I’m treated with suspicion, as I hate tabs.

  Break times are the best, though. Everybody ends up telling everyone else at least the potted version of his or her personal stories. Except Audrey, and I admire her circumspection in this company. Sick Boy and Maria Anderson had been in a naughty wee scene and when her ma got out of jail, she took Maria right back tae her brother’s in Nottingham. Sick Boy plays at being outraged. ‘They accused me ay being her pimp,’ he snorts tae Seeker. ‘Anti-drug hysteria gives some people very, very lurid imaginations.’

  ‘It’s the best wey tae keep a wee bitch under control, but,’ Seeker says, and this really is one disturbing cunt, ‘get them oan the gear. Then it’s yir ain wee personal harem. Ye jist reel them in oan the invisible line,’ he simulates fishing, ‘then when yir finished, fling them back.’

  Sick Boy acts disdainful, though you can tell he enjoys Seeker’s misogynist spiels. Molly’s freaked by it and Tom chivalrously attempts tae distract her by pulling her intae conversation. She’s having nane ay it, but, and she turns tae Seeker and says: ‘You’re the lowest ay the low!’

  ‘Aye? High n mighty talk fir a hoor,’ he smiles, then goads, ‘That wid be how it wis wi you n yir felly, but.’

  ‘You ken nowt aboot us!’

  Seeker looks impassively at her. ‘Ah ken thit you wir the yin oan yir back gittin yir wee pussy pummelled by aw sizes n colours ay tadger n he wis the yin oan first dibs whin the Salisbury Crag came oot.’

  ‘Brandon wis sick! What else could we dae!’

  ‘He’s done a good joab on you but, that boy,’ Seeker observes appreciatively. ‘Still goat ye whaire he wants ye.’

  Molly pushes both her fists into her chest, as if trying to pull out a goring spear. She erupts in tears, turns on her heels and exits, heading for her room. ‘This isn’t helpful,’ Tom says to Seeker, and makes tae go after her, before being stopped by Sick Boy, who’s seen his chance. ‘It’s okay,’ he coos at Tom, ‘I’ll talk tae her.’

  The rest ay us finish our coffees and get back tae the group work. After a few minutes, Sick Boy and Molly rejoin us. I’m disappointed in him, I really thought he’d have been right intae her keks. We have a discussion on how heroin made us feel and the term ‘anaesthetic’ comes up. Tom immediately seizes oan this. ‘If heroin is an anaesthetic, what are we anaesthetising ourselves from?’

  When did you and us become we, Mistah Big White Motahvay-tah Man?

  So the cunt splits us intae two groups and issues us marker pens and flip-chart paper, telling us tae brainstorm or free-associate oor responses. Group One consists ay Spud, Audrey, Molly, Ted and Keezbo. Group Two are the more troublesome little princes: me, Seeker, Sick Boy, Swanney and Skreel.

  The groups come back wi their offerings, which are Blu-tacked up onto the wall.

  Tom scrutinises the lists, fanny-stroking that chin with a troubled expression. ‘Anybody from Group One like to volunteer to take us through their thoughts on these issues …?’

  Spud’s appointed spokesperson and stands up and starts waffling on about animals. ‘Seeing thum suffer makes me pure depressed, man. Ah cannae help it likes. See, the thought ay animals bein made extinct jist cause ay man’s greed –’

  A few laughs go up but Spud’s urged tae continue. Everything seems tae end in ‘hassle’. ‘So ah suppose,’ he summarises, ‘hassle in general, likesay.’

  When it comes tae our group, nobody’s prepared tae get up and present the list. We maintain radio silence. Tom asks us one by one, but is uniformly blanked. Eventually, Spud, trying tae help, points tae our group’s efforts and goes, ‘Ah agree wi computers
, they kin be pure hassle; likesay when the dole send ye oan one ay they courses.’

  A long, rambling discussion on the dole and training schemes starts up, and goes on and on.

  The clock on the wall needs a battery, having stopped at four thirty. Suddenly, a visibly weary Tom calls a halt to proceedings, and we’re slithering oot ay there intae the next mundane box on oor timetable.

  Result.

  Sick Boy immediately vanishes with Molly. I should never have doubted the spawny cunt.

  ‘I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.’

  Back in my room, I play Iggy Pop and James Williamson’s Kill City on my crap tape deck with the headphones. I’m obsessed particularly with the song ‘Johanna’, reminding me of Joanne Dunsmuir.

  I almost pull off the end of my knob masturbating about her.

  I defile the toilets with a

  logo, simply in order to start a graffiti debate.

  Day 25

  It’s still gloomy this morning, but at least the rain’s eased off. As usual, Seeker’s the only other person up, and we go through our routine in silence.

  The rest of the morning I write, write, write. All the time loving the way the sharp, smooth tip of this pen pulls my hand across the page. I’ve come to believe that everything you write, no matter how shite and trivial, has some sort of meaning. Writing that journal entry yesterday has made me remember that the Christmas we got the Wolves strips was the one just before Hibs beat Hearts 7–0 at Tynecastle.

  We’d gone downstairs tae get that team picture: only one, because it was freezing cauld. After New Year it had been Billy who got sent round to Boots in the Kirkgate tae get the spool ay festive snaps developed. But I never eyeballed that Wolves team photae. I mind ay Begbie asking us tae let him see it and giein me a Chinese wristburn at school when I telt him it hudnae turned oot. He thought I was hudin oot on him.

  That cunt Billy must have destroyed it oot ay spite for my constant derby massacre teasings.

  Mystery solved. Fuckin prick.

  But the muppet forgot about the negatives, which my mother passed oantae Moira Yule. So mair than a decade later, I see the picture in Keezbo’s photae album.

  Glory to the Hibees. A Steve Cowan winner from a Jukebox Dury pass at Fir Park.

  Every place has a top dog and Seeker is the main man here, which you can tell Swanney’s no too happy aboot. It seems obvious that both have had competing access tae heroin fae the same source, and they’re very cool with each other.

  While the rest ay us hit the recky room Seturday eftirnoon tae watch the football scores come in, Sick Boy was absent, riding Molly, then returning tae big it up tae Seeker about our ruinous experience on the boats in Essex, though he fell short of mentioning Marriott or even Nicksy by name. You could tell both Seeker and Swanney were interested though. Skreel started on aboot Glasgow and boys he kens in Possil. Ted, although fae Bathgate, spent a bit ay time in Dundee, and he reckons there’s a scene up there. I mentioned Don up in Aberdeen, which seemed to impress Seeker. ‘Some boy, him.’

  ‘How’s he daein?’

  ‘Fuck knows.’ A visor ay cauld suddenly shut down over his pus.

  For tea, liver that smells of pish and onions seals my single-minded retreat back into vegetarianism. To be fair, there are quite a few core carnivores turning their noses up at it and looking enviously at my scarcely more edible egg flan, dry as an auld nun’s chuff.

  Despite the acuteness of my senses sometimes overwhelming me, I’m still happy to be off the methadone: it was like having a giant condom stretched all over your skin. My jitters have subsided, but I’m still feeling up and down. One minute life seems pointless, the next I’m full of optimism and thinking about the future. Keezbo’s being a wet blanket about band plans; it’s usually all he wants to talk about. I wanted to blether about music and my song ‘Cigarettes R Us’, but Keezbo went, ‘Shhh, Mr Mark, Only Fools n Hoarses!’ So I headed back to my room and read more Ulysses.

  After a bit Seeker tapped at my door and sat doon in the wee chair, his big frame filling the room up. I put the book doon and he picked it up. ‘Ever read that Hell’s Angels?’

  ‘Hunter S. Thompson? Aye, love it.’

  ‘The cunt’s a bullshitter. Made maist ay that up. Ah ken a couple ay boys fae Oakland.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Aye,’ Seeker went, then emphatically stated that he’s giein up smack; it’s dealing only for him fae here oan in. ‘Otherwise, it’s true what they say: ye just get high oan yir ain supply. The drug’s shite anyway. First time is best. Yir jist chasin that high eftir.’

  Strange how I could absolutely agree with everything he was saying, while all the time thinking that there’s very little I wouldnae dae for some skag right now. Something is crawling under my skin, biochemical information sluicing around my body. The sheer physicality of it; it’s like what boxers call ‘muscle memory’.

  Seeker stared at the cover of Ulysses wi a scary intensity, like he wis trying to will the contents of the book into his head intae his heid. Then he looked up, pushed his hair back and went, ‘Ah think that Fools and Hoarses shite’s finished now.’

  I recollect that I did a huge, championship-winning shite after breakfast this morning. Things are really starting tae work as they should. I still feel edgy, but kind ay barry as well. Euphoric is pushing it, but definitely anticipatory. I feel that good I feel like gaun oot and getting totally fucked up!

  Therein lies the problem!

  Day 26

  Our isolation and the constant rain outside make me speculate that the world has drowned and we’re the sole survivors. The future of the human race is safe in our hands! The grim, hesitant sounds of Bowie’s masterpiece ‘Low’ mingle with the din of the crashing downpour outside.

  We said goodbye to Spud. At breakfast we presented him with this pony letter in which we told him why we’d miss him. It was another exercise devised by the Rehab Kingpin Tom, where you had tae finish the sentence oan the caird:

  I’ll miss Danny because …

  I had put doon:

  … he’s my best mate.

  Spud read it and looked at us all, choking up, but particularly focused on Audrey and Molly. Molly was tearing a coupon out of some magazine, while Audrey bit into the knuckle of her right thumb. He kept glancing fae one tae the other. As we exchanged hugs, he held an alarmed Audrey, then Molly, for a painfully long time, and even gave Skinny-Specky the same treatment. He looked tearful and confused as he was taken oot, turning back tae gaze at the lassies with a poignant expression. In the corner Sick Boy stood, jaw clenched tight, but I knew that look, could tell that the fucker had pulled some sort ay stunt!

  A taxi had arrived and Spud’s ma, Colleen, came and took him away. I couldnae help wilting inside under her judging stare as I waved him goodbye fae the doorstep. As the taxi ground doon the gravel path, wi Spud still looking back in sad confusion, Sick Boy pulled me intae his room. He was bent over, face contorted, barely able tae speak through his laughter. ‘Did you … did ye see his face? Did you actually see him … oh my God … did ye see him … checkin oot the lassies? These big, sad, puppy-dog eyes? Huding them in that desperate embrace?’ He exploded in a loud guffaw. I slowly started tae understand.

  ‘I wrote in his card: “I’ll miss Danny because … he’s the sweetest boy I’ve ever met, and I think I’ve fallen in love with him.” I kent he’d think that it was one of the lassies! Result! Did you actually see the dippit fucker’s pus?’

  I couldnae help but join in the laughter. Poor Spud. ‘You bad bastard … the poor cunt’ll be gaun mental …’

  ‘Positive affirmation though, that’s what the group’s aboot,’ he roared.

  ‘Yes, but based on honesty.’

  ‘Just lubricating they social wheels a wee bitty.’

  So we went intae the recky room sniggering like daft wee bairns, To
m commenting about how he was glad tae see us in such high spirits.

  At the process review meeting, we discussed the journals, Tom urging us tae share their contents in the group. Of course, not one cunt except me has written a fucking thing, or if they had, they were keeping stumpf. So was I. I started tae entertain the perverse but plausible notion that every bastard secretly has a junky War and Peace sitting in their rooms.

  Another disappointment for Tom (what a fucked-up trade he’s in!), and the meeting ended after the usual shoulder-shrugging, nail-biting, crap jokes and virtuous platitudes.

  Sick Boy and me had a wee idea, so I asked Tom if we could use the electric typewriter in the office. ‘Ah’m ready tae start on the writin, but ma handwritin’s that bad, ah need tae use the typewriter.’

  ‘Of course!’ he said, nipples doubtlessly rock hard at the prospect of a juicy wee self-disclosure feast. ‘Feel free. I’ll see that you aren’t disturbed!’

  Feel free.

  Poor Tom, the journal and diary will never come to light, but I’d led the cunt to believe that some sort of breakthrough was imminent. The fact is that, encouraged by Sick Boy, I’d decided tae get my ain back on the Currans, my old neighbours fae the Fort, for causing that scene at Wee Davie’s funeral and generally casting aspersions on the clan Renton. I got out the sheets ay Council Housing Department notepaper procured fae Norrie Moyes. I got Sick Boy tae help me compose the letter, his trusty Collins dictionary on his lap.

  City of Edinburgh District Council Housing Department

  Waterloo Place, Edinburgh

  Tel: 031 225 2468

  Director: J. M. Gibson

  Mr and Mrs Oliver Curran

  D 104 Fort House

  Leith

  Edinburgh EH6 4HR

  25 March 1985

  Dear Mr and Mrs Curran,

  THE NEIGHBOURHOOD UNITED TENANCY SCHEME