Skagboys

by Irvine Welsh

  Rents shakes his heid. — We’re mates, Franco. So it is ma business, he goes, but he’s distracted, lookin past Begbie tae the pub door. Every time it opens, his eyes are trained on it.

  Begbie pulls Mark taewards him, airm roond his shoodirs. He’s lookin right intae they wasted eyes. — Is it fuck. Your business is tae dae well at that fuckin college n git the fuck oot ay here. Yir fucked oan that wacky baccy anywey, ya cunt. Some fuckin use you’d be!

  Ah looks at Mitch. He’s one ay ma best mates but ah’ve hardly seem um lately. Ah say tae him and Mark, — Youse two wait here. Ah’ll be back inside an ooir.

  Mitch nods, and Mark looks roond like he’s gaunny protest, then shrugs. As we down our drinks, he looks sort ay relieved and unhappy at the same time aboot huvin tae stey. Rents isnae a violent sort ay gadge but he has his moments. He chibbed Eck Wilson at the school and he smashed this boy ower the heid wi a boatil eftir that Hampden semi. These things really stood oot cause he’s normally no like that. He says he only gets violent when he’s really scared. Mitch is very handy in a swedge but he’s a Tollcross boy and this isnae his fight.

  Nelly and Franco are maniacs and this Larry cunt, he’s just a bully. We get ootside n pile intae Nelly’s van, me n him in the back. We’re drivin doon tae Pilton n Begbie’s aw excited, giein us the instructions fae the front passenger seat. — Youse stey in the van n dinnae come oot till ah shout! Mind, wait till ah fuckin gie yis a shout!

  — Ye sure aboot this? ah goes, cause it’s beyond real n ah dinnae feel very Fearless Tommy Gun tae be honest. Sometimes it’s right enough though, it takes bein a bit scared tae get ye gaun.

  — Like ah sais, Franco roars, — ah’ll fuckin well shout if ah need backup!

  Ah say nae mair, cause he’s made his point. Aw the wey doon, though, ah’m starin at Franco’s heid thinking aboot how many punches it would take before he went doon. The combo that would put him away; jab, jab, straight right, left hook, right uppercut, straight left, right hook, left hook. N that fuckin Larry … one good right hook would crack that thin gless-boned jaw …

  Doon in the scheme we see these wee boys playin fitba oan this bit ay waste groond. Nelly’s rollin the windae doon. — Whaire’s it the Frenchards live, mate?

  The wee guys look at each other, then one points ower tae some auld broon tenements at the end ay a street that are gittin done up, n painted white. — Ower thaire in the Rise. Number 12.

  N ah ken the Rise; it’s a scabby narrow steep hill ay a street wi a church at the toap n some mingin shoaps at the bottom. We stops outside the hoose in front ay a skip, nearly full. Franco’s oot the van, pointing tae the right-hand flat oan the groond flair. — That’s the yin, he says, aw focused.

  Then he’s scowlin around the street, n he goes tae the skip, rummages for a bit. His eyes widen when he clocks this railing that’s hingin oafay a buckled wrought-iron fence; like a car’s ran intae it n fucked it. He works it free n huds it in baith hands, waving it aboot like a club. Then he heads tae the hoose, leavin his cudgel against the hedge outside thair gate. Aye, thir oan the groond flair, ye kin see them watchin the telly in the front room, n ah cannae believe it when Franco picks up a brick fae the skip n jist fuckin launches it through the windae! Thaire’s an almighty crash follayed by some screams. Ah looks at Nelly n wir ready tae grab the daft cunt n git the fuck oot ay here.

  — AVON CALLIN! ANY CUNT HAME? Franco shouts intae the street. You’d think the whole world wid be oot, but bar a few twitchin curtains, there’s nae sign ay life. Maist ay the hooses are empty, derelict or bein renovated.

  Apart fae the Frenchard hoose, that is. This big cunt’s first oot the door, n the wifie’s at the windae pointin at Franco n shoutin, — That’s him! YOU! YOU! YOU TRIED TAE KILL MA LADDIE!

  — Ah plunged the cunt, Franco half laughs, half sneers. — If ah’d wanted tae kill um he’d be fuckin deid by now!

  The big cunt is fuckin incensed and he charges doon the path tae the gate taewards Franco. Franco’s waitin n just takes a step back, picks up the railin and fuckin tans the bastard’s jaw wi it, aw in one sweet motion. The big cunt goes doon like a ton ay bricks, it’s a real fuckin seekner, the way the boy faws, n Franco’s bringin doon the spikey end first wi baith hands n aw his weight oan it, right intae the poor cunt’s baws. Then he leathers the boy a couple ay nasty shots across the coupon. — KEEP THE FUCK AWAY FAE LEITH!

  The boy isnae movin at aw, n thaire’s blood spillin ower the pavement. Aw, man, ah’m seek. For some reason ah climb oot ay the van n stand alongside Franco, who jist gies me a sharp, crazed look fae the corner ay his eye, n then ah look doon at the boy. It’s a bad yin. Heid pure burst open. Teeth lyin oan the pavement like dominoes scattered fae a pub table. Jesus fuck.

  The wifie’s screamin at the two other boys, — GIT UM! The lassie’s standin beside her chewin her nails, but the auld yin’s jumpin up n doon like a Bowtow fishwife that’s discovered shite oan her doorstep. — AH SAIS FUCKIN GET UM!

  — COME AHEAD! Begbie roars tae the other two brothers. This poor big cunt’s still groanin oan the deck at his feet. The brothers are jist standin n shitein it, like thir in shock.

  They arenae the only yins. — Fuck sake … Larry goes, leanin oot the windae, his eyes bulging like a stud greyhound’s baws.

  The ma’s still screamin at her sons, — GIT UM, YA CRAPPIN BASTARDS!

  Begbie glances at them wi a mockin expression. — They’ll fuckin well dae nowt, n he looks doon at the big muscle-bound cunt, sprawled oan the deck, — n he’ll fuckin well dae nowt! He laughs at the burd. — If it’s a laddie, geez a shout, but if it’s a lassie, it’s no fuckin mine!

  He flings the railin doon, turns away, noddin tae us, n wi climbs intae the van, him in front, me roond the back. Nelly starts up, and we drive past the scene. The mother’s still shoutin at her laddies, as they try, wi the help ay the burd, tae git the poor boy up offay the pavement.

  Franco looks back at me n Larry. — This is what happens when they fuck aboot wi the YLT, n wir drivin past this circle ay run-doon hooses wi crap shoaps, n he’s pushin his heid oot the windae. — PILTON FUCKIN LICE-HEIDED SCRUFFS, KEEP THE FUCK OOT AY OOR BIT, YA FUCKIN TRAMPS!

  We’re worried aboot the polis, no that they cunts would grass anybody up, and ah doubt they’d bother interruptin a tea brek at Drylaw Station for rubbish like that, but some auld cunt might have put the call in.

  Franco’s buzzin like fuck though, sittin wi a big grin oan his coupon. — An awfay loat ay fuss aboot some fuckin slag gittin up the duff. Next time ah ride her it’ll be up her erse, so thit thaire’s nae fuckin room fir accusations.

  — Romance isnae deid, eh, Franco? Nelly grins fae the front, taking the van ootay the scheme, oantae the West Granton Road.

  — Mibbe no, but they fuckin Pilton tramps ur. Ah’m no fuckin well finished wi they cunts yit. In fact, his face twists in outrage, — no even fuckin well sterted yit!

  Ah have tae admit that ah’m shitein it, and ma heartbeat doesnae get tae normal until we stash the van in the lock-up at Newhaven, which is sortay Nelly’s, but Begbie n Matty baith seem tae huv keys fir it n aw, then start tae headin oaf oor separate weys. Ah’m retracing ma steps tae the Walk, tae meet Mitch n Rents back in the boozer. When ah get back there Mitch is sittin on his tod and the Rent Boy isnae aroond. — Where’s Mark?

  Mitch just sortay shrugs. — He headed off wi this wee guy that came in, that boy Matty. Said he hud tae go a wee message wi um, n thit he’d be back, Davie explains, then asks, — Is he awright? He wis acting pretty weird, ah mean, even for Mark, and ah’ve worked wi the cunt for donks.

  — Aye … ah laugh, — well, ah think so.

  — Ye sure?

  — Probably too much hash. N ah think the cunt’s in love n aw; this lassie up at Ebirdeen. He’ll be away for mair grass or speed if ah ken that cunt, ah goes. N ah have tae say that ah envy Rents, everything’s workin oot good for him; a nice bird, a good education, and ye ken that when he graduates
, he’ll be off somewhere, he’ll no stick aroond here. Ah admire that aboot him, cause ah’m too much ay a home bird. Ah’d like tae git away, though. It would be great.

  — Right, Davie says, raising the gless n drainin it. He shakes the empty tumbler and ah get the picture.

  — Same again?

  — As always.

  Cold

  Union Street

  ANOTHER DAY OF stoic ambulation through the city, walking down Union Street skelped by licks of hard wind. Edinburgh could be bleak, but Aberdeen really took the pish. A life could be wasted waiting for the sky tae change fae grey tae blue. But ah’m spending mair time up here now, no gaun hame so much.

  The last time ah went back, ah got skag-hammered wi Matty, Spud n Keezbo at Swanney’s.

  Dunno how ah got tae Johnny’s gaff fae a drug soirée at the abode ay veteran junky Dennis Ross at Scabbeyhill, though ah vaguely recollect gaun through ma pockets for donks, tryin tae find some poppy as a taxi cunt mumped like fuck intae ma lug, but ah resurfaced intae the conscious world at Tollcross. Ah mind the sun comin up, soaking Johnny’s front room in a wreckin light that relentlessly blasted all our mortal decay and foibles back at us. Ah goat up, then Matty, Spud and me met the rest ay the boys in the Roseburn Bar, early doors before the derby, then a bunch ay us went up Haymarket n hit some mair boozers. The two sets ay fans were giein each other aw the big threat shite gaun doon the road, but the polis line stayed firm between them. The game was a grunting, sweating goalless draw. Bein fucked, maist ay the fitba passed us by, but ah mind that Hibs nearly swiped a late winner; McBride skippin past a Jambo and slippin it tae Jukebox, who skinned some other maroon cunt and passed tae Steve Cowan whose right-foot drive just missed the target wi the keeper beaten. Cradle-snatching Sick Boy had been indulgin in the gear as well, but he wis still gaun absolutely crazy, wi that perr wee Maria lassie in tow. She’s a bit young fir him, and looked lost adrift the tempestuous sea ay radges.

  A lot ay mental stuff wi Begbie went on eftir the game. Him, Saybo and a few others hammered these bams at Fountainbridge. That cunt’s Saughton-bound if he keeps that shite up, nowt surer. But the chaos ay Edinburgh reminded me ay how much ah’d grown tae like the ritual ay ma life in Aberdeen. It made us realise that ma free-spirit pretensions were bullshit. In reality ah saturated ma days wi routine, until it pissed us off tae the point that ah wis compelled tae subvert it wi a dramatic break. A skag binge helped. Here, though, ah had Fiona, ma studies and ma walks. And the reason the trips back home had lessened: ah’d hunted doon a source ay gear.

  Ah walked loads; trekking roond the streets for ages, and in all weathers. It seemed tae be aimless but ah was invariably drawn doon past the railway station taewards the docks. Ah’d stop and watch the big boats, gaun tae Orkney, Shetland and fuck knows where else. The squawking gulls would circle overhead; sometimes, as ah passed along Regent Quay, it was like they were raucously laughing at me, like they kent what ah was up tae, even if ah didnae.

  Those nautical pubs: the Crown and Anchor Bar, the Regent Bridge Tavern (a great wee howf) n the Cutter Wharf. The tackier Peep Peeps, which lies doon the side street, n where ah eywis winded up; sittin wi ma lager, but wantin something else. Waitin for it. Almost smellin it. Sittin in that one spot, kennin if ah waited long enough it would come tae us.

  That was where ah saw him; this cunt sitting oan his tod by the jukebox, readin the Financial Times, a Pepsi in front ay him. Untouched. His long black-but-greyin greasy hair toppin thin, cadaverous flesh with a bluish translucent hue. A wispy, scraggy beard growin fae a mustard-heided cluster ay spots on his chin. His big yellay teeth seemed likely tae faw oot if the cunt sneezed. In other words, he stank ay junk. Ah didnae. Ah was a clean-cut student cunt wi a nice bird. Ah couldnae have, no wi ma bright eyes and clear skin and white teeth. Fiona even had me flossin. But yet, when he saw me, it was like he kent straight away. So did I. Ah sat beside him.

  — Fit like? he asked.

  There was nae point fannyin about. — No so good. Ah’m a wee bit sick.

  — Rattlin?

  Fuck knows what that meant but it sounded spot on, and in its acknowledgement, it was like ah’d permitted masel tae feel crap. Before the shiteyness was a vague feelin ay flu-like symptoms; heavy limbs, watery heidedness and shiftin aches. Now something urgent lurked behind aw this shabbiness.

  — Ye need some medicine then, min?

  — Aye.

  Don shot us a dim, candlelit gaze, similar tae the yin ah’d noticed in they aulder skagheids doon the road. — You go outside, take a wee walk around the block, he told us in a tinny, nasal voice, — N ah’ll see ya at the dock gates in ten meenits, and he settled back tae his FT.

  Ah actually waited fir seventeen minutes before Don deigned tae emerge fae the bar and scuffled taewards us lookin as shan as ah felt. Ah couldnae be physically addicted, no just eftir a weekend binge, but ma mind and body were keenin in anticipation ay a fix. Ah fought hard tae conceal ma almost overwhelmin excitement and anxiety as we went back tae his scabby flat roond the corner and did the deal.

  Don’s pad could have been Swanney’s, Dennis Ross’s, Mikey Forrester’s or even ours in Montgomery Street. The same posters badly tacked oantae ugly, head-debasing patterned wallpaper, put up by cunts now deid or so auld as tae be as good as. The overflowing rubbish bins, chaotic dish piles in a sink like an earthquaked Mediterranean town, and the ubiquitous heaps ay auld clathes on the flair: the kitemarks ay chronically untogether losers everywhere.

  Don cooked for us both. Ah tapped at my right airm where the best vein on ma wrist obediently popped up, and ah banged up in thaire. It wis decent shit and the rush wis excellent. It coursed through ma body, and ah wis flowerin irresistibly under its impact like a spring blossom. Then something fruity and sour was risin fae my stomach. Ah retched, and Don shoved an auld FT under ma face but ah slid it away. The moment had passed and ah wis now invincible.

  Although ah wis content tae kick back and enjoy the gear (amazing how it rendered listenable even mawkit shite like Don’s Grateful Dead tape), he insisted on makin conversation, even after his ain shot. The cunt took a healthy lick, which barely seemed tae affect him. Ah wondered how much he wis usin. — So … yir an Edinburgh boy, eh? Plenty decent shit doon thaire.

  — Aye … ah said. Ah felt like explainin that in Leith we regarded oorselves as separate fae Edinburgh, but melted and enjoyin the buzz, it now seemed a trivial concern.

  — That’s where it aw comes fae. He held a wee placky bag fill ay white powder crumbs up tae a bare light bulb. — That’s where they make it all: beautiful downtown Gorgie. Ye ken Seeker?

  Fuck knows what aw this Gorgie stuff was aboot, ah was a Leith boy, but que sera. — By rep only.

  — Aye, he’s bad, man. Ya wanna keep away fae thon loon.

  Ah smiled at the sweet futility ay it aw. It was inevitable that this Seeker and me would become associates at the very least. The only surprise was that it hadnae already happened. So ah sat there as Don droned oan and the room filled wi darkness. Ah wisnae interested whatsoever in anything he wis sayin; cunt could’ve been on aboot the new puppy he’d gotten his niece or the deid bodies under his floorboards, but ah wis enjoyin the soothin rhythmic comfort ay his voice.

  When ah felt able tae move, ah left and got back tae ma room in the residences. Fiona had slid a note under the door.

  M

  Called round, no sexy luxuriant Leith laddie. Boo-hoo.

  See you tomorrow at Renaissance class or come round tonight for some tea … and crumpet?

  Love

  F xxxx

  The note trembled in my hand. Ah loved that girl, ah really did. There was a horrible spasm inside as ah realised, even there and then, that she’d soon become less important tae me than a radge ah’d just met and didnae even like that much. But that was only a fleetin whisper, drowned oot by the song-and-dance act ay the skag, which crooned: ‘You’re awright, everything’s awright.’

  But ah never
went roond tae hers. Ah lay doon on my bed and stared at the Artex swirl ay the ceiling. Eftir driftin intae an anaemic, bruised sleep, ah awoke tae hunger’s cramps in the meagre morning light. Ah realised that ah’d eaten nothing whatsoever yesterday. Ma clobber lay discarded oan the flair by the bed; somehow, ah’d stripped oaf in the night. There was a yellay bruise on the crook ay ma airm. Ah decided no tae go tae my Renaissance class that morning.

  But ah went walkin instead. It was cauld. For about a minute the grey sky ferociously split and sunlight burst through, pouring ower the city, reflectin off the glitterin granite. The blood pounded in ma heid, makin me want tae be somewhere else. Then it was away and that heavy cloak ay grey was back oan us. That was my preference; ah like the way my mind slows doon walkin under that sky, till ah’m numbed and thoughtless, free fae the oppressive burden ay endless mundane choices.

  Ah’d just substituted one tomb for another, further up the coast. But that was okay; Aberdeen suited us. Ah liked the city, and generally liked the people. They were pretty cool and easy-goin; no brash, self-mythologisin wankers like so many lowland Scots who rabbited on, believing that ye saw them as movers and shakers, but they were invariably bores. In preference tae the student social life, ah’d drink wi auld fellys who telt me tales ay trawler fishing and the docks. Fitba gadgies who blethered about games and rows past; they seldom felt the need tae big themselves up, it was all very matter-ay-fact. Ah was always the lone student in these places.

  Yet this was all so close tae Marischal College, Aberdeen University’s graph-paper printout of a building. Only occasionally would ah venture intae the students’ union bar, wi Bisto n some others, or Fiona. But ah avoided it as much as ah could. One time ah was dragged in for Joanne’s birthday drink. She was a bit pished, turnin tae us in the company, in a nasty, accusin wey, — What do you dae aw the time, Mark, where do ye go?

  Somebody else said something aboot ‘the mysterious Mark Renton’ and ah could check Fiona lookin at me wi encouragin intent. Aw they eyes oan me as ah laughed and said something lame aboot likin tae walk. In reality, ah now spent loads ay ma free time hangin around those dockside bars, waitin for Don.