Skagboys

by Irvine Welsh

  It was Saturday morning when Fiona next came roond. She was nae mug, but although we were in a relationship, we baith had independent lives as well. Edinburgh was close enough for me tae tell her ah was gaun hame for the night on some pretext or another, usually tae keep an eye oan ma grieving family. But ah’d be on Don’s couch, in a section ay Aberdeen where few students or lecturers ventured. This time, though, ma bearing seemed tae confirm the impression ma absence fae classes throughout the week had gied her, namely that something was wrong. — Mark … where have yer been … are yer alright?

  — Ah think ah’ve picked a bad dose ay the flu.

  — You look terrible … I’m ganna go down and get yer some Lemsip, pet.

  — Can you dae me a photocopy ay your Renaissance notes?

  — Course I can. You should have told me you were suffering like this, ya dafty, she said, kissin ma sweaty brow and headin out. She returned about half an hour later, with the medicines. Then she left us, tae go tae where she worked on a Saturday. Ah waited for a bit, and anxious tae get away fae the room’s stale, chemical smell, ma smell (couldn’t she smell me? Ah could smell me!), ah follayed her oot n doon the road.

  Fiona did volunteer work on Saturdays wi deprived kids; rowdy wee urchins, who loved her. Jug-eared budding psychos would go aw flushed when she greeted them; hard-eyed, gum-chewing wee lassies would suddenly sook for attention. A few weeks ago, while on ma wanderins, ah’d clocked her meetin a bunch ay them ootside the Lemon Tree. She looked happy; she was a straightpeg. She’d talked about us findin a flat together next year. Then graduation, nine-to-five jobs and another flat wi a mortgage. Then engagement. Then marriage. A bigger mortgage on a house. Children. Expenditure. Then the four Ds: disenchantment, divorce, disease and death. For aw her protestations tae the contrary, that’s who she was. That’s what she expected. But ah loved her and thus fought tae conceal the ugliness she brought out in me. Ah kent, standin in the street, watchin her patiently herd the catlike kids intae the theatre, that ah could never be like that. Could never have her: really have her, in the sense of giving masel tae her. Or perhaps ah wis just being a bam. There was mair than a degree ay acceptance for me in her world. My ma and dad’s aspirations were decent. Ah fuckin hated that word. It made my skin crawl.

  But they cared.

  In the bookshop, ah took up a spyin position, listenin to them in the adjoinin cafeteria. There was a speckoid, gawky and enthusiastic, with Fi and the kids. — Oh, boys and gerls, can you put your paper and pens away and come with me just now?

  She would eventually be wi somebody like him. Maybe a cooler version, whae got a ride once in a while, perhaps a bit mair ay an arrogant cunt, whae might eventually fuck her around; but in essence the same. Dress them in an anorak and stick Coke-boatil specs oan thair coupon or a rugger shirt and pump them up wi muscle; it makes nae real difference, a straightpeg is still a straightpeg.

  Ah head hame. When Fiona comes back, ah’m sittin up waitin. Ah huvnae taken anything else besides two Lemsips. Her hair’s wet wi the rain. She dries it wi a towel she produces fae her backpack. The kettle’s on and ah make some hot chocolate.

  Knowin the thing ah’ve got aboot wet hair, Fiona glances tae the bed, then realises that my level ay sickness precludes grabbin her and throwin her oantae it. — You’re shiverin, pet. You should go and see the docktah …

  — Can ah tell ye something?

  As soon as her pupils expand and she says, — Of course, Mark, wharrisit? ah know that ah cannae tell her what ah want tae, but in order tae conceal that fact ah have tae disclose something equally profound and important.

  — My wee brother, ah hear myself say, almost shocked at ma ain voice, like somebody else in the room has grassed us up, — I’ve never telt anybody this before …

  She nods, wrappin her hair up in the towel, and pickin up the steamin mug. She looks like the jilted bird in yon Nescafé advert.

  Ah clear my throat as she coils intae the lotus position in the chair. — Wee Davie, ah sort of worked out, had this kind ay thing aboot Mary Marquis, who reads the Scottish news on telly. Ye might have seen her, she’s got … I suppose you’d call them Italian looks; dark, with loads of make-up, big attention tae the eyes, and bright rid lipstick.

  — Ah think ah know the one yer mean, pet. In the evening?

  — Aye, that’s her. Well, ah sortay noticed that Wee Davie got agitated when she read tae camera. His breathin became deeper. N ye couldnae really miss what wis happenin in they tracksuit bottoms …

  Fiona nods understandingly. There’s a red mark on her jeans at the knee ah huvnae seen before. Probably paint fae some workshop wi the kids.

  — Ah used to have tae watch him around teatime on a Friday. When the Scottish news came on, ah’d see Davie stare at the screen, his cock visibly erect, n ah started tae think, he’s fucking fifteen, the poor wee bastard … ken what ah mean?

  — Yes, Fiona sais, sadly but analytically. — Like he’s got a sexuality n na ootlet for it.

  — Exactly, ah exhale, just so relieved that somebody fuckin well understands. — So … ah decided that ah’d wank him off.

  Fiona’s eyes briefly hit the floor, then rise to meet mine. Her lips press tightly together. She’s no tellin me to carry on, but she isnae sayin stop.

  Ah take a deep breath. — So ah did. It seemed tae comfort him.

  — Oh Mark …

  — Ah know, ah know … it’s my brother and it’s a sexual thing, so it wasnae a sensible move. Ah can see that now. At the time, though, ah wis just thinkin about alleviatin his distress, like when ah used tae beat his back tae help drain the fluid off his chest cavity. So ah did it. The poor wee bastard went crazy and blew off a load in what seemed like a split second. Then he fell intae a contented doze. Ah’d never seen him so at peace. Ah cleaned him up and he had the best kip ay his life. So ah thought: nae harm done.

  — What happened? She unravels herself and lowers the mug tae the flair, her eyes never leavin mine.

  — He grew tae expect it. Autistic kids are programmed tae routine. Like clockwork. Meals the same time, bed the same time. It became his sort ay Friday treat; if he hudnae had his other physical issues he’d have been constantly daein it for himself, aw day n aw night. But then, the other days when the news was on, he’d look at the screen, then at me and shout, and ah emulate that horrible cry, — MAY-HAY! MAY-HAY … Of course, ah couldnae help him out, wi everybody else bein in the hoose.

  Fiona’s expression is now one ay distaste. She sits stiff and cross-legged in the chair.

  — They aw thought he was shoutin ‘Marky’ and found it touchin. Only he and ah knew he was shoutin ‘Mary’, ah explain, and Fiona’s now so still, it unnerves me. — Do you think ah wis wrong?

  — No … she says hesitantly, — course not, pet … it’s just … it’s just … could you not tell them about yor Davie?

  — We don’t have that sort ay relationship. It’s my parents.

  A pensive nod, as Fiona picks up the mug and cradles it in her hands.

  — Well, ah kept on wankin him off, every Friday, tae the image ay Mary oan the box. It wisnae easy; things got mair difficult. She’d be readin in the studio and he’d be aboot tae blow, then they’d cut tae an outside broadcast and he’d crumble and start tae scream and sometimes go intae a coughin fit. It went oan like this. It goat soas that tae get him oaf ye really hud tae go for it. Well, one day, ah forgot aboot oor Billy gettin hame on leave fae Belfast. Didnae hear him sneak in, the wey he used tae dae tae surprise my ma. He came up behind us on the couch … just as Mary came back on screen …

  Fiona’s eyes widen. — So … so … he caught yer doin this ta yor Davie? Yor Billy?

  — Worse. Wee Davie’s knob exploded and he shot off a wad that flew up intae the air and Billy copped the lot ay it, like a party streamer, doon his face and the front ay his army uniform.

  Fiona’s hand goes tae her mooth. — Oh my God … oh Mark … what happened?

  — He h
auled me n Davie apart, dragged me off the couch and booted me in the side. Ah got up and even though ah got a couple ay licks in, ah took a bit ay a doing. Wee Davie was screamin. The neighbours heard the racket and Mrs McGoldrick banged oan the door, threatenin tae call the polis, which probably saved me fae a real paggerin. We baith calmed doon, but when my ma and dad came back, they kent we’d been fightin. So they quizzed us and we each telt our sides ay the story.

  It’s started rainin ootside. Ah kin hear it crackle on the windaepane.

  — What did they say?

  — They mair or less took his part. Called me a twisted, manky wee fucker. Ah’d no that long left the school; ah couldnae articulate what ah wis gittin at by daein that for him. Disabled people’s right tae sexuality! Ah punch ma chest, as if she’s questioned me, but she’s keepin stumpf, noddin in some kind ay sympathy. But through her silence ah suddenly tipple how it aw looks. Ah ken that if she had a disabled sister, the last thing on God’s Earth Fi would contemplate daein would be giein the lassie a frig ower, say, David Hunter fi oot ay Crossroads. For the first time, ah huv tae acknowledge that ah might be, on some level, a sick cunt, or at least misguided. My voice drops in anguished plea, — He wis in torment, n ah wis only tryin tae gie the poor wee fucker some release. It’s no as if ah goat any kicks fae it!

  For a while Fiona gazes out of the fading light at me, almost blankly, but her face has the composure of someone perfectly at peace. — Can’t you tell em that now? Yor mam n dad?

  — Ah’ve tried it once or twice, but it’s never been the right time. Besides, ah think thair minds are made up aboot us.

  She blows out through tight lips. — Why don’t ye write them a letter? Set it all down in black and white?

  — Ah dunno, Fi … it would feel like ah wis makin more of it than there was … ah says, suddenly feelin sick n tired, slumpin back in the chair, then lurchin forward, wrappin ma airms roond masel.

  — It obviously means something to them though, Mark. And to you, or you wouldn’t be telling me.

  — Ah know, ah say, lookin up at her in defeat. — Ah’ll think aboot it. Thanks for listenin.

  — Of course, love … Fiona smiles sadly, acknowledgin my sweatin and twitchin. — Ah’ll get off then, pet, let you get some sleep, she coos, risin and touchin my sweaty forehead with her palm, then kissin it. Her airms aroond me feel heavy and constrictin and ah’m relieved when she goes.

  As soon as a decent couple ay minutes have passed, ah’m doon tae the payphone, callin Sick Boy at Montgomery Street. Ah go on a rant, tellin him about Don, askin him what he was daein about gear. He sais tae me: — You’ve nae interest in anything but smack.

  When protest seems pointless and futile, ah realise for the first time that this statement is basically true. It makes me think, you really need to stop this. Ah dinnae register anything else he sais, till the pips go.

  You’re going to have to stop this right now or you’re going to fuck everything up.

  So what ah did was ah got ootside and walked through the cauld, squally city, and doon Union Street.

  Baltic Street

  THE TASTE OF metal blood in her mouth signalled to Maria Anderson that she’d run out of chewing gum. Spitting onto the grey wet stone, she pulled a tendril of hair from behind her ear, twirled it into a short spiral on her finger, replaced it; repeated the action. They still hadn’t got Dickson, but her sickness wouldn’t compromise on the imperative of getting sorted out. After all this, her and Simon were going away together, London or somewhere like that. He had big plans.

  Sick Boy watched her from a street doorway. Her compulsive behaviour reminded him of that dog the Rentons used to have, how it had to turn around three times in its basket before it settled. Things had gone to shit quickly, after promising so much. Sick Boy had experienced a bitter pang of disappointment on learning that he wasn’t Maria’s first lover. Some boy at school and an opportunistic Spanish waiter had struck gold first. He compensated by expanding her horizons, and a few of his own. She was at her best when starting to get needy; that brief phase before the total debilitation where you imagined you could fuck the growing sickness out of your system. Skagged up she was compliant enough, but getting her to assume the positions with any gusto was problematic.

  The bustling of an engine, and a car bumping over drizzled cobblestoned roads, smeared with orange light from the street lamps. A Volvo pulling up alongside Maria; window winding down, and a small-looking man eyeing her up, then addressing the advancing Sick Boy, whose head moves like a falcon’s shaking free from its training hood. — Does your friend need a ride?

  — Aye, he says, looking into her vacant face and glassy, abandoned eyes. He converses with the man for a bit then urges her, — Go on, Maria, get in, the boy’s sound. He’s just gaunny take ye for a wee spin, back tae his, then drop ye back here. Ah’ll see ye back at the flats.

  Anxiety rocks her frame. — But can we no just take him back up the hoose?

  — Ye dinnae want everybody, neighbours n that, kennin our business. That Mrs Dobson was nosin aboot the other day. His big eyes scan the street. — Goan! I’ll see ye the night, honey.

  — Ah dinnae want tae … she protests.

  This’ll be her third punter. Dessie Spencer from the boozer had gone back, and then Jimmy Caldwell. He hates to share her, but it’s just sex-for-money and it means nothing. — You getting in? the suit in the car whines.

  Sick Boy smells off-duty bacon but they have wallets as well and in any case he’s too sick to care. In fact arrest and incarceration now seem less a potential handicap, more a genuine opportunity to get cleaned up. It’s all going wrong. Everybody’s on the gear, not Tommy, Begbie, Second Prize or Gav, but just about everybody else. Maria was keener than he thought; not just sexually, but a proper hound for the junk. Being with her had helped spiral his own habit out of control. She’s stiff and fraught, reluctant to get into the suit’s car. Sick Boy tries to push her forward. — Just go!

  She literally digs her heels into the cobblestones. — But ah dinnae want tae, Simon …

  — I can’t wait around, the suit moans. — Are you coming or not? Fuck it! And he starts the car up and tears away.

  Sick Boy slaps his head, watching a small plastic bag containing a precious white kidney bean and few crumbs’ worth of heroin speeding from him. He turns to Maria and in frustration vocalises what the suit was thinking: — Fuckin unprofessional!

  — Ah’m sorry, ah dinnae want tae dae this … she wails, suddenly rendered weak-kneed with sickness and angst, grabbing the lapel of his silver herringbone jacket, — ah jist want tae be wi you, Simon …

  Sick Boy’s shocked at his searing contempt for this girl, so recently an object of unbridled desire. How she seemed to take to the gear so easily. Coke’s pish-heid addict’s genes, he supposes, brushing off her grip and spitting out the News at Ten theme song. — Dih-dih-dih, di-di-dih-dih! We’re sick. Ding! We need gear or we’ll get sicker still. Ding! It costs money. Ding! Maria’s lips curve outwards and she hunches away from him. He looks at her waiflike figure and feels a pang of conscience through his junk need; she isn’t ready for walking the streets. — Okay, okay, baby, you go back tae the hoose. I’ll get somebody along for a wee perty.

  — Ye still love me? she whines.

  — Course ah do. He takes her in his arms, gratified to feel his prick stiffen. He wants her, believes he loves her. If they were different, if he were different … — Just go back n wait for us.

  Maria traipses off. Sick Boy watches her go. There’s something about her walk, more cocky and assured the further she gets from him, that almost gives him the suspicion that he might be being played. Did she really believe he was going to kill an ex-copper with her? The big problem with introducing her to guys was that she was sensing her power over them. She fair had fat Caldwell mesmerised the other night. A dopey prick like that could be made to do anything for sweet young minge. It might be hard to keep a hold of her.

  He
walks about for a bit, brain burning with stampeding notions. At the Foot of the Walk in Woolies, a sloppy home-made sign with glitter glued around its border proclaims that there are only twenty-one shopping days left till Christmas. Then he spies a dark blue hooded Wrangler top, shivering in the dingy drizzle under the canopy of the Kirkgate shopping centre; knows that Spud Murphy is inside it.

  — Ye hudin? they ask each other at the same time.

  — Nup, Spud says, as Sick Boy shakes his head.

  — Saw ye wi that wee Maria chick earlier, Spud ventures, chalky face long and fretful, like that of an old priest under his cowl.

  — Dinnae mention her tae me. Dozy wee hoor thinks she kin keep us gaun oan fiver blow jobs. Not a fuckin scooby. Thir aw eftir tight pussy, tight erse. She could clean up, but she needs tae learn. Too soft, that’s ma fuckin problem.

  Forget Maria, Spud is the real innocent, Sick Boy thinks, knowing his friend is probably putting his bilious rant down to junk-stress fantasising, swiftly reconfigurating it in his mind to something acceptable. He can almost hear Spud’s internal mantra of puppies and kittens and fluffy bunny rabbits, drowning out his own loathsome spiel. For a split second he wishes he could be like him, till something quickly rises in him to crush the notion.

  The friends walk for a bit, but the rain intensifies beyond annoyance level, compelling them to stop outside the carpet shop under the bridge in the Walk. — Thir takin this doon, Spud says, looking up, — the bridge. It’s the auld line ootay Leith Central Station.

  — So it’s confirmed then: no fucking escape fae this rat-trap.

  A sulk loosens Spud’s face. Sick Boy knows he hates to hear people talk down Leith, and it’s inexcusable if they’re actual natives. But Spud is desperate, cold and skint, so he informs his friend, — Goat chucked ootay the hoose, eh.

  — Too bad.