Skagboys

by Irvine Welsh

  They would never work in parochial Edinburgh or, indeed, any other population centre in the UK bar this yin. They are made for an alienated, spacious, disconnected, no-comeback metropolis. A fortnight ago, ah handed my first batch oot around Knightsbridge (striking gold with Cinders), where the best consumers are. Last week ah steamed selected targets in Kensington, St John’s Wood, Notting Hill, Primrose Hill, Canonbury and, striking out for the big time, Mayfair. The problem here is that ye get a lot ay good-looking chickies on salary, when I crave trust fund. Another curse is Nicksy’s phone number and its embarrassing 254 code, but only the clued-up relate those digits to the poisonous E8 postal district.

  The one-in-ten rule generally works and it’s self-selecting. When ah told Rents about it, he started waffling on about statistics: correlation and regression, the bell curve. All ah was interested in was the bell-end curve in my troosers. This system is a magnet for either lovestruck idiots with truly unreal expectations ay life, or the most curious and daring. And that generally means a shag is about the worst you’re gaunny dae fae the arrangement.

  Lucinda has been my best hit so far; not exactly a blue-blood Ingloid, but with St Martin’s College of Art and Roedean Girls’ School on her CV, plus a smart Notting Hill pad, she’ll do nicely till the opportunity to upgrade presents itself.

  Across the street, a swarthy-looking chap emerges fae a sleaze shop door wi this washed-out, bottle-blonde bird. This fucker evidently kens how tae deal with damage. Watch and learn, Simon. Yes, I fucked up wi that wee gold mine back hame; got greedy, weak wi the skag, emotionally involved and overstepped the mark, even if Dickson did put in a good offer. No very nice, but ah went tae see Father Greg and it’s just another sin ah’ve cheerfully repented. With the gift of faith, we move on.

  I want tae follow this Arab-looking cunt and his tattered squeeze, and ah’m almost replicating his movements, my arm roond posh Lucinda’s waist, guiding her intae the Blue Posts. — We’ve had the sex, perhaps some alcohol now, I whisper like a stereotype bad boy, with clandestine grin, and her fruity smile tells me she’s onside. Ah’m one step behind my man, and as he orders up and manoeuvres this powerless sow intae a seat, so too do I deposit Lucinda in the one next tae them, under a nest of tinsel and glitter balls.

  Ah like the wey this boy moves; steely eye contact maintained, he has this chicky in his tractor beam and he’s no gaunny let go. Nae need for the iron fist, it’s aw velvet glove. S-T-Y-L-E, it sticks out a M-I-L-E. Ah’m sold that this boy is the real deal when ah hear him saying, — Of course I care for you, baby, but you is trying to use reverse psychology on me and it just ain’t on.

  — I ain’t, Andreas … I ain’t … she pleads, shaking her head. She’s a looker in a trashy, deranged way. Ah cannae make out whether it’s jakey shakes or junky twitches but the brain is incorrectly wired tae the skin and the motor functions are a tad askew. — I just wanna know you care … she pleads.

  — Ah brush back Lucinda’s hair and whisper in her ear. — I’ll wonder if one day that you’ll say that you care …

  — I care, this Andreas the Arab sincerely says tae his dopey consort. You can tell that the first wideo that’s banged her on her ‘estate’, as the Ingloids ludicrously call their schemes, has left cock prints and fist prints all over her, like target signs for subsequent hustlers. You grow to realise, just through talking tae them for a few minutes: maist predators are pretty fucking thick. So for the system tae work, the prey hus tae be really fucking dim, desperate and needy beyond belief.

  — Just please say you’ll love me madly, I’ll gladly be there, and I plant a little kiss on her cheek, as she grins at me. Ah have to listen attentively tae her slavering oan about her job and the dull office politics that so enthrals those involved, but bores the fucking shit oot ay every cunt else. Over her shoulder, as his train-wreck bird goes to the toilet, ah tip the swarthy Andreas a wee wink. He looks glacially at me for two dreadful Begbiesque seconds, when I think ah’ve called it wrong, as he takes in and processes a mental picture. Then a warm smile, like the sun coming up, splits his face. Tae Lucinda’s slight annoyance, we strike up a friendly conversation across her bows. The boy isnae an Arab, he comes fae Athens.

  Lucinda chips in tae say that she visited his home town once, muttering something aboot the Acropolis. Andreas smiles tightly, flinty white-hot eyes full ay mischief, as they run a subtle check over her curves.

  — The Edinburgh of the South, ah grin, as Train Wreck comes back doon and smiles at Lucinda, then looks a little harshly at my good self. — Hi, I’m Simon, ah nod at her.

  — And should I care – this narky mare whinnies, but Andreas is already waving her intae silence.

  — Like a puppet on a string … pup, pup, pup, I murmur to Lucinda, as Grecian 2000 Andreas talks over Train Wreck, with a fleeting, disdainful apologetic look, as she sits like a wayward schoolgirl who’s been ticked off by the teacher she’s got a devastating crush on. — You think? He asks, — Edinburgh and Athens? There is a connection?

  — Defo. Twinned cities, ah’m led tae believe.

  Andreas seems tae gie this some thought and scratches at a five o’clock shadow. — I must go there sometime; but only to visit. I love London. Where can you go after London?

  I turn to Lucinda and give her a smile; happy but grateful, with added sincerity. — I must say, I raise an eyebrow, — it hasn’t been bad to me so far. You know what they say: love is just like a merry-go-round, with all the fun of a fair …

  — This is what they say in Scotland? Andreas sinks back and purrs and we’re already cookin at the same nice soft beat, like a jazz rhythm section, like Keezbo and Rents try tae, but never can. — If you have already met such a beautiful lady so soon, then I would say that you are navigating our town very well!

  — C’è di che essere contenti, I playfully concede.

  — Ah … that is Italian? Andreas asks.

  — Ooh … Italian … Train Wreck Chickloid tries to battle back into the conversation, but she’s so much the lowest rank here that I’m comfortable ignoring her.

  — Yes. My mother’s side, I tell Andreas.

  Our Med playboy patter sets off a blush in Lucinda, and a flirtatious but polite round of chatter. Ah watch the posh bird in profile, elevated by our attentions, just glowing, singularly unaware that she’s merely another random stat in a game ah’ve devised. I feel urbane, sophisticated, and most of all miles away from fucking Edinburgh, where there’s always some heidbanger fae Leith who staggers intae a sophisticated city-centre wine bar for a late drink tae catch me canoodling wi some out-of-town lovely and blows my cover, usually with the blood-curdling cry ay ‘SICK BOY, YA CUNT, WHAT UR YOU FUCKIN WELL DAEIN HERE?!’

  So we spend most ay the evening getting pleasantly mellow wi Andreas and Hailey (Train Wreck’s real or stripper name), then head back on the Victoria Line tae his family’s hotel at Finsbury Park. It’s right on the edge of the actual parkland which gives the district its name, and caters for frayed-suited salesmen, Andreas discreetly telling me he sets them up with the services that gentlemen away fae hame so often crave. Hailey, meantime, embarks on a whingeing, nasal monologue of breadline disasters, encompassing the usual litany ay social security cheques stopped, housing evictions suffered and children placed intae care. Fortunately, the recipient ay most ay this guff is Lucinda, whom Hailey painfully announces is her new best friend.

  We adjourn to one of the rooms, and I’m impressed when Andreas produces some of that London brown. Lucinda looks at me, tense but excited. — I haven’t … are you going to …

  — We’ve done the sex and the alcohol, I whisper in her ear, as Andreas cooks up and Hailey gapes at him in desperate concentration, willing every drop of that brown shit tae dissolve in the spoon, — so opiates are the next thing.

  — Wow … you think so?

  — We’re being very, very naughty, I tell her as I roll up my sleeve, — but sometimes it’s nice to be naughty, provided, of course, that w
e maintain perspective and a sense of equanimity, and we’re grinning together and ah know that even though she’s a skag virgin, ah’d huv tae cut off her limbs with a chainsaw tae stop her now. Sometimes, as Renton says, it’s just your time.

  Ah know it’s a weakness, as ah’ve been clean since we hit London, apart fae the odd chase and some speed, but we bang up. Christ, I swear ah can feel the needle bend and curl hook-shaped inside Lucinda’s airm, getting ready tae tug her into an extended nightmare that’ll cost Daddy money and precious time to buy her out of. Like a true debutante, she collapses on the bed as soon as it hits her. She isnae exactly Zorba but some gutty slaver trickles oot fae the corner ay her mooth. As she makes nae attempt tae move, I fucking shite it for a few seconds, urgently ascertaining, — You okay, babe?

  — Mmmm … she’s blissfully murmuring, grabbing my hand and stroking the back ay ma wrist. Just as well it’s this poncy brown shite: some of that white gear ay Swanney’s would have sent her sailing north of Iceland or south ay the Falklands.

  Andreas smiles and prepares tae vacate the room, pulling a bombed Hailey tae her feet. — Rest, my friends, he smiles, — or if you prefer, play.

  — Nice tae meetcha … Hailey says wretchedly as they vanish, and I help Lucinda oot ay her clothes and get her into bed. I’m enjoying the warmth of her soft body against me and the comforting duvet, and we’re talking shite, drifting in and out ay semi-sleep as she sticks her hand inside my pants and secures it round my prick. Even skagged, her body moves with that horny, hearty masculinity ah’ve noticed in rich chicks. My knob stiffens and we fuck slowly, and when she comes it’s like a large extended yawn, though possibly that’s all it was.

  In the morning, breakfast is on Andreas, coffee and stale-ish croissants. We’re aw feeling a bit rough and rattling slightly, but joking about the previous day, all except that trollop Hailey, who silently chain-smokes. Her trembling hand jackhammers china cup to saucer tae the extent ye almost feel she’s doing it deliberately. A flaying glance fae Andreas and she steels herself tae sort it oot.

  Enter a sweaty, obese cunt in a badly fitting suit, nodding as he picks up a croissant and helps himself tae orange juice and coffee. Andreas rises tae greet him and they share a whispered joke. That Greek cunt is just like a fucking Bond villain, or at least one ay the dodgy sidekicks who liaise wi him in foreign parts, which pretty much makes me The Man.

  — Oh gosh, Lucinda suddenly says, checking her watch, — I must fly.

  And so she departs to head back to Notting Hill and get changed for work. Those lazy posh Ingloids: it strikes me that anybody turning up at that time in a real job back in Scotland would soon be staring at their P45. Andreas and myself plan tae hook up later on – there’s a club he wants tae take us tae. After extending my gratitude for the hospitality, I get outside and stroll doon tae Finsbury Park tube station. One stop south takes me tae Highbury & Islington, but instead of alighting to board the shitey overland train east to Dalston Junction, I decide to make use of my all-zones Capital Card and cruise the tube network for a bit.

  From Green Park, my westbound train on the Piccadilly Line, in what’s usually prime minge-stalking territory, offers a distinct lack of rides. I get off at Knightsbridge and run into the next carriage. Instant ride alert, a serene beauty engrossed in the sort of novel Renton might read. I sit down beside her. — I was in the next carriage. I saw you through the glass. I just had time to scribble this note.

  I hand it to her as ah grip the rail and yank myself upright. She takes it with a wary, confused expression on her face. Ah catch her looking aroond tae see whae else has witnessed this exchange. Then I’m on the platform, the doors are shut, and now that she has the power, I strike the look; sincere and imploring, but with a self-deprecating shrug and honest twist of the brows that hopefully says ‘I tried’. And as the train pulls away, I’m sure ah can see warmth radiate from her face, though it could be my imagination.

  That’ll do for me. Time to go ‘home’. What a fuckin joke this shithole is, east of Islington; the London Borough of South Leith. No even a poxy fuckin tube!

  I get back tae the Holy Street gulag ay Beatrice Webb House, and step intae the minging lift, which, thank fuck, is working. The only other occupant is this dark-skinned young maiden, who looks cowpable, and I’m getting the eye big time. Perhaps a baboon, but an exceptionally young one, which usually means the offspring is dumped on grandma. Sets up the horn at the base ay the baws, always a good sign. Ah’ve only ever been wi one black bird before, a student fae NYU as she put it, me no knowing or caring what the fuck that was, but spending an agreeable week baw-deep in her at last year’s festival.

  This yin fixes me in a loin-grinding gaze ay steel. — You live with Brian, doncha?

  — A temporary measure, I assure her. Ah realise now that this wee chicky wis the yin that scorned Nicksy at that Northern Soul night at Twat’s Palace when we first arrived in fair Londinium. The evening ah ended up banging that Shauna bird, daein loads of amyl nitrate wi her soas ah could get it up her erse. — So, any festive frolics planned?

  — We got a big New Year’s party comin up, innit.

  — Any space for a lonely neighbour?

  — Yeah … come on up any time ya fancy, for a chat, like. Numbah 14-5. I’m Marsha.

  — Lovin your style, babes, ah say, taking her hand and kissing the back of it, eliciting a toothy giggle as ah step oot oantae floor seven. Another solid prospect, though a bit close tae home, wi aw the advantages and drawbacks that entails.

  Sometimes I feel I should have a leg amputated or something. Just tae gie them some sort of a sporting chance …

  Dirty Dicks

  MA FIST PULVERISES that beepin bastard ay a clock intae silence. Sick Boy’s lyin next tae us oan the mattress, beanie hat on, in a deep slumber; never even heard the alarm. If ah’d been rimmin the fucker aw night thaire couldnae be a worse taste in ma mooth. Ah gits up n the flat’s like a fuckin fridge, n ah pull on a jumper and some tracky bottoms and socks. Ah looks oot east ower London Fields; the weak sun is comin up and ye can just aboot make oot the lido. Wish it wis summer, this is beyond shan. It’s Christmas the day eftir the morn, though ah’m steyin doon here, savin masel for New Year. Ah go ben the kitchen tae turn oan the heating and water.

  Thinkin aboot the interview this affie, ah’m surprised tae see Nicksy sittin up at the table in the retreating dark, chasin some broon. He’s goat a foil ay speed split open n aw n he’s boiled the kettle and made coffee. — Have we no got that interview this affie?

  — Yeah … plenty time, couldn’t kip, he explains and he offers the pipe, and dabs at the Lou Reed.

  Ah look at the cocoa-brown powder dustin the burnt foil and it seems cuntish tae refuse. Ah take the lighter tae the base ay the aluminium, batterin it wi flame. Ah pit the jaggy pipe tae ma cracked lips n suck, feeling ma lungs glaze wi smoke and metallic particles as ma heid lightens and the tension leaves my body.

  Either up your nose or through your vein,

  With nothin to gain except killing your brain

  Sweet home Leith Alhambra … Ah slump back against the wall. Ah feel like gaun straight back tae the feather n flip. Instead ah take a dab at the salty speed. Then another. Eftir aboot ten minutes it’s gied me a lift, but ah feel like a skagged doll, being shaken by a manic puppeteer. Ma nails pick at the Formica on the edge ay the table. — So this boy’s … got us sorted oot … oan the ferries, then?

  — Tony’s got us the interview, Nicksy says. — We gotta keep it together ta get yer actual job. We get in, we can start bringing gear back through. They got a different customs arrangements for staff, and he got lads there that’s all on the firm.

  — Sounds pretty sweet, ah concede.

  — But we gotta keep it together or the whole thing’ll go tits up.

  — Easier said than done, ah nod tae the foil, n take another poisonous dab. — Yuk … coffee time.

  — Yeah, it takes a lotta gumption ta keep it together now
. Nicksy’s speeding, stabbing the air. — We’re all under the farking cosh. The thing is ta keep moving. Keep off their farking lists or you’re screwed. Everything is temporary. Don’t expect a job for life. A house for life. A bird for life.

  — Sayin that tae Sick Boy the other day. Rippin off the state is a noble act in these circumstances. It’s fuckin obvious if ye have even half a brain cell. Ah focus on Nicksy. — Ah mean, we’re only gaun for this job this affie cause ay the chorrie prospects, right?

  A loud, throaty laugh bubbles fae him. — I enjoy ripping orf the farking state as much as the next geezer, but you Jocks are something else; you see it as a sort of birthright.

  Cheeky cunt, him; ah’ve gotten intae mair giro and housing benefit fiddles doon here than ah ever did up the road. It’s easier wi the different boroughs so close tae each other. But ah’m no complainin, ah’m grateful tae git hooked up wi Tony’s syndicate.

  The phone goes and ah answer it, even though ah ken it’ll be some lassie for Sick Boy. The notepad is full ay girls’ names, aw looking for ‘Simon’. — Hello?

  — Awright? That you, Rent Boy?

  Fuck.

  Begbie.

  — Aye … Franco! Muh man, ah manage. He starts gabbin excitedly, tellin us that he’s moved in wi June.

  — … so ah goes tae her, under the mistletoe at her ma’s, ye fuckin game? N she goes, ‘Ah certainly am,’ ken aw that daft soft wey wi a big fuckin smile oan hur coupon? Daft cunt only thought ah wanted a fuckin kiss under the fuckin mistletoe. Aye, that’ll be fuckin right.

  Kiss me underneath the mistletoe, do, do, do … Franco n me at primary, singing that song wi aw the other wee laddies n lassies. The wee lassies lookin coy, the wee laddies gittin beamers. Wonder if he minds ay that? What’s your name, what’s your nation …