Skagboys

by Irvine Welsh

  Nicksy goes fuckin radge. — Who the fark are you callin a cunt! He springs up and bends over Marriott, who skulks back in his chair. — I got farking well more to think about than you and your shitty farking drug deals, you scrawny farking two-bob wankah!

  The Canadian backpackers, both white-faced, wholesome speckoids, turn roond in their seats, lookin oan anxiously. Nicksy boots the Sealink bag and it tips ower oan its side n one packet ay gear slides oot oantae the cobblestones. Ah have tae say that ah’ve never seen ten grams ay skag before in ma puff, and although it’s only the size ay a wee packet ay sweeties rather than the standard copin bag ay half a g, which is aboot two big gairden peas’ worth, ah just want tae fuckin well grab it! Marriott’s first though: he makes a gurgling sound n dives doon, scooping the packet intae the holdall and zipping it up in one manic motion.

  We nod tae each other and get up, headin back ower tae the Grasshopper. — You ain’t heard the last of this, Marriott shouts, as the waitress comes ower with four milky coffees. We look back and laugh as the twitching imbecile tries to fish the guilders out ay his pocket tae pey her.

  — You fucking well telt that choob where tae go, mate. Sick Boy raises Nicksy’s arm in the air, victorious-boxer-style, as we cross the square. — ICF!

  — Got a feeling I’ll be needing all the contacts I’ve got ta get us outta this farking mess, he says ruefully, — but he was takin the farking piss, wasn’t he?

  — Aye, ah agree, — but he’s a fuckin gobshite. He’s gaunny dae nowt.

  — It ain’t him I’m worried about. Nicksy shakes his heid, then looks pointedly at me. — Ya don’t think that was his gear, do ya?

  — Right … ah suddenly tipple, feelin a bit ay a prick, n git a sinkin sensation in ma gut.

  — Gentlemen, I think our little stint at Sealink might be coming tae an end, Sick Boy declares, as he throws open the doors and we move back intae the Grasshopper. As Nicksy and I nod in agreement, he adds rakishly, — But right now there are ladies to be entertained, and entertain them we must!

  Desertion

  AT BREAKFAST THE following morning, Marriott greeted his deserting ex-comrades with an expression of loathing only a man compelled to make a solitary run through customs with fifty grams of heroin could hope to muster. Despite his success, he’d lost what felt like several pounds in sweat his gaunt frame could ill-afford. He resolved that he’d sort this problem out himself rather than call his boss; that would only incur Gal’s displeasure, and he’d still end up having to fix things. But a dark resentment flooded him. Once he’d found new recruits, he’d call in some favours and those arseholes would pay dearly.

  Marriott’s brooding silence informed Renton, Sick Boy and Nicksy that vengeance was certainly on his mind. So, on returning to Hackney, they decided it was unwise to go back to Sealink. That Charlene had also opted to pack in the high seas made it an easy decision for Renton. Despite the fact he knew little about her, other than that she thieved for a living, came from Chatham and ‘usually’ lived in Kennington (he’d somewhat hopefully mixed it up with Kensington till she put him right), he liked her and wanted to learn more. They spent the next night together in Beatrice Webb House, Renton elated that Sick Boy had absented himself, presumably to Lucinda’s or Andreas’s, where he more often than not seemed to stay. On the mattress in the spare room, she tells him, after some morning love has warmed up their bodies, — I’m glad you ain’t goin back on that poxy boat either. I know what you were up ta … with that Marriott geezer n all that. Everybody talked about it.

  — What? Renton is aghast, now even more relieved they had literally jumped ship. It wasn’t that they were discreet, he glumly realises; the stark truth is that nobody even cares. But that’ll change: the company’ll see to that. This is, after all, the epoch of the scab and the grass.

  — Leave that shit, Charlene advises, head propped up on her elbow. Her tight features pinched together in the thin morning sun that spills through the wicker blinds give Renton the first impression that, despite her stub nose and elfin frame, she’s perhaps older than him. — You’ll do serious time if ya get yer collar felt for that. Blimey, I know something well dodgy when I see it. Benson had a security firm come in last week, ya know.

  — But that was just tae review the procedures for dealing wi bother. Cause ay the riot wi the fitba boys n that.

  Charlene narrows her eyes further. — You seriously think that’s all it was, you wally?

  He doesn’t. Renton knows what’s happening at the company. But he’s led her to believe that it was this, along with Marriott’s rancour, which has sealed the deal for him. Doesn’t want to tell her that there’s no way he’s going back to Sealink if she isn’t. But what is she planning to do, in the long term? He certainly knows her immediate concerns, as they once again head into the West End.

  Suited up, Charlene’s blonde mane is tied into a low ponytail, save for two tendrils hanging loose over each ear, curled into spirals and blasted stiff with hairspray. He’s dressed, at her promptings, in his solitary dark blue Leith Provi weddings and funerals suit. As he sits waiting in Carnaby Street, she steals him some black leather shoes and a light blue silk shirt with matching tie, a gesture that makes him almost cry in appreciation. Renton’s blown away by her professionalism, her Sealink bag lined with tinfoil to avoid setting off security alarms. Ducking down a side lane he replaces his old trainers and T-shirt, and steps back blinking into the light and shoppers. — Now you’re ready, she says, straightening the tie like it was his first day at school. They get to John Lewis’s in Oxford Street and fill up on goods, Renton swiping a Fred Perry for percy. In the toilets, he chases a bit of brown he’d recently procured, along with some good base speed, as he inspects his haul. He sits there for ages with the small window open trying to disperse various fumes. Finally emerging, loose-limbed and slack-featured, paranoid that Charlene has done a runner or got huckled, his expression lifts as his eyes meet her mischievous smile. They link arms and swagger out of the store, buzzing with their success.

  They snog and grope all the way to Highbury & Islington, Renton sucking mucus down the back of his throat to avoid slathering it in Charlene’s face. The flat of his palm sits pushed against her stomach, secured by her skirt waistband, content to slide no further. Her hand grapples his thigh, her wrist rubbing against his drug semi-erection. While he’s making dizzy plans for the future, Charlene is being browbeaten by the nagging recollection that she loves somebody else and is supposed to be preparing to dump her Scottish consort. By the time they’ve left the Victoria Line for the overland to Dalston Kingsland, her guilt induces a coldness and distance, but Renton is both too skagged up and emotionally inexperienced to really notice or care that much about her mood swings. They get to Beatrice Webb House, and when the lift works they unleash simultaneous sighs of victory, disconcerted at how completely they’ve fallen into a joint rhythm.

  Inside the flat, Nicksy’s sitting in the armchair, pretending to watch repeats of Crown Court, while contemplating grim options. How it was way too far gone to have been done legally. They said they scraped them out when it was at the right time, but had to get the forceps up there and pull the lot out in a oner, or in broken bits, when it was more advanced. How it, IT, deserved at least more than the chute.

  He gives Renton and Charlene a perfunctory greeting as they bounce in and crash on the couch, but their attention is on each other and the telly. — Crown Court … barry … Renton says as Nicksy looks to the kitchen.

  — Mark … I really need to talk to ya … Charlene says, sitting forward stiffly, but Renton lunges at her, silencing her with a deep kiss. They start a tickling fight, laughing hysterically, and then they’re necking again. Nicksy registers that his Scottish friend and the Bird With the Big Hair have adopted that arrogant ‘look-at-us-we’ve-just-invented-sex’ demeanour of people who’re fucking after a long hiatus. Their Bonnie and Clyde routine gnaws at his own celibacy and he thinks again of Marsha, seven floors of
systems-built concrete above him, and the abortive fruits of their love, rotting on some council tip.

  Charlene suddenly slaps Renton quite forcibly, pointing at him, demanding, — I’m being serious, but he’s still clowning, snapping at her fingers like the puppy, who lies on the floor at their feet.

  Nicksy doesn’t like a mousy type of girl, but thinks that Charlene’s way too full of herself. The way she always runs her hands through that hair, observing the geezers for their reaction; it sets her up as a poseur in his book. He also feels that she’s nowhere near as good-looking as she thinks, although he has to admit that barnet is something else.

  Renton and Charlene whisper a terse exchange and relocate to the spare room and its mattress. Nicksy decides to check out Dalston market. A mate of his back in Ilford has a pile of contraband Walkmans, and he knows a no-questions-asked West Indian fence.

  Outside, it’s not a stimulating day. It’s already rained and filthy, saturated clouds threaten to dump more. Gobbing into the gutter, to try and spit out self-hate’s sour taste, Nicksy ponders the next move in his chaotic life. Like the Sealink job, the tenancy in Beatrice Webb House has possibly run its course. Perhaps he’ll take Giro with the Northern Soul singles to his mum’s in Ilford. She likes dogs and he’ll be happy there, with the back garden. He’ll check with her first: wouldn’t want him joining the post-Christmas canine holocaust at Gants Hill roundabout.

  Back upstairs in the flat at Beatrice Webb House, Charlene and Rents play with Giro in the front room. They pass her leather purse back and forward, the pup trying to grasp it in his slavery jaws. On the seventh snap he gets a tight grip, as Renton holds resolutely onto the other end.

  — Give us it ere! Blimey, you’re gonna pull yer teeth out, Giro, Charlene says, looking at the dog, then to Renton, unhappy that they’d once again made love, and she still hadn’t said what she’d wanted to. Well, that was the last time.

  — Naw, ye cannae let go, he says.

  His words carry a phantom weight and she feels a tenderness grip her. Fights it down. — You wot?

  — Ye cannae let go, he keeps a grip on the purse as Giro emits low growls through his nostrils, — or the dug gits badly trained. It thinks it’s the dominant one in the pack.

  — It ain’t got much bleedin competition in this flat, has it?

  Renton looks at her and is about to say, ‘Fuck me, I think I’m in love with you,’ although he isn’t quite sure that he means it, and if he does, whether it would be a good strategic move at this point. So he hesitates. Then Charlene turns to him and says, — We gotta stop all this.

  — What? Renton asks, experiencing an instant subsidence from somewhere deep within. His fingers go limp on the purse and Giro tugs it free, trotting off victoriously with his prize.

  Charlene’s eyes are hard and focused. — You know what I’m on about.

  — Fine by me, Renton says, in utter devastation. Then he starts to rant in anguish, — But … but it’s barry … the chorrin thegither. N the shaggin n that. You said so yirsel …

  — Yeah, it is, she concedes, — but I told you all along, it ain’t as if we’re going out together.

  — Never said we were. He hears the child in his voice, and in flashback envisions himself as a small boy, wielding a stick around inside the walls of the Fort. Then, on the promenade at Blackpool, tearful face pushed into the bosom of a stranger.

  — You’re a nice bloke, but I told ya, there’s somebody else.

  — So you’ve got this felly. Renton’s stung by his own bitter tone and by the fact that he wants to say: ‘I’ll bet he’s got a bigger cock than me,’ but checks himself and instead remarks, — He’ll be a handsome chappie, I take it.

  — I think so. You’d like him. He ain’t that different ta you.

  — Sure, Renton says dismissively. — How?

  — Well, he’s a bit too fond of drugs, for one thing. And he likes Northern Soul and punk. Look … I told ya from the off that there was someone else. It was never gonna be a permanent arrangement.

  — Sound by me, he says unconvincingly, then shakes his head ruefully and speaks, almost to himself: — Funny, aw ah wanted was a lassie where it wis like we sortay wirnae really like gaun oot thegither, we were just, like, mates. Like you sais, mates that fuck. Like Sick Boy has wi a couple ay birds back hame; nae complications or nowt. And ah’d goat that wi you …

  — Yeah, well, problem solved, innit.

  — Naw, cause it’s like ah want mair now, and he thinks of his previous encounters in the past year or so; Fiona, then that sound lassie from Manchester, Roberta her name was, and some others he doesn’t want to remember.

  — Sounds ta me like you dunno what ya want.

  Renton feels his shoulders flex in a shrug. — Ah jist like getting fucked up n chorrin n hingin aboot n shaggin. It rules.

  — Don’t look at me like that, then!

  — Like what?

  — Like an orphaned baby seal caught on the ice that’s about to have its brains clubbed out!

  The stiff smile on Renton’s mouth reluctantly crawls into his eyes. — Ah didnae realise … sorry. It’s just that you’re a cool lassie … he shakes his head fondly, — that foil in the bag thing ruled.

  Charlene looks at him, then eases back onto the couch and thinks of Charlie, in the Scrubs. His two front teeth knocked out, giving him that simpleton smile she perversely loved. The two of them: childhood boyfriend and girlfriend from the Medway Towns. Rochester and Chatham. Yes, she loves Charlie. Mark is better in bed, but that won’t last, not with all that heroin he smokes. But she likes him. — You’re the first geezer wot didn’t go on about my fucking hair all the time; it gets on me nerves, she says unconvincingly.

  Renton’s shoulders inch upwards in a disparaging thrust. — It’s really brilliant but ah sometimes think it would be better short. Accentuate those beautiful eyes, he drawls, feeling a muffled, queasy throb from somewhere deep inside him, making him think of skag again.

  Charlene smiles at Renton, wondering if he’s taking the piss. But he seems quite upset. She loves Charlie, but knows prison hasn’t done him any good, and she suspects that she’s yet to see the full extent of the damage. She’s pragmatic enough to keep her options open. It’s good to know Mark cares. She gets up, scribbles a name, ‘Millie’, and a number down on the notepad by the phone, tearing of the slip of paper. Renton rises too; he feels the moment calls for it. She crushes the paper into his jeans pocket. — It ain’t mine, it’s a friend’s in Brixton. She’ll know how to get in touch with me if ya ever wanna hook up. Leave your number with her and she’ll pass it on ta me, and I’ll get back ta ya.

  Renton is in front of her and making no move to stand aside. Charlene thinks for a second he’s blocking her way, but she hasn’t tagged him as the sort to make a scene. In fact, as she puts her arms around him, she’s disconcerted at how distant and accepting of the situation he now is, how easy, after a brief flush of need, this has suddenly all become for him. A rush of regret swells in her. — You’re a lovely bloke, she says, tightening her grip.

  But he’s squirming like an unruly toddler in the arms of an indulgent auntie. — Right … you’re barry … eh, ah’ll see ye, Charlene, he says robotically.

  Leave me leave me leave me … skag skag skag …

  Charlene breaks off and stands back, holding his hands, taking him in. Marvelling at the angles of his thin frame, his yellow-toothed smile. — Ya will phone me, won’tcha? It was good … in bed n all that … she says.

  — Aye, ah telt ye, Renton says, every nerve in his body screaming GO as to his massive relief Charlene walks out, the Sealink bag slung across her shoulder on the extended strap, thus obscuring his last view of the tight arse he’d come to regard as his altar. Even though its image was well burnt into his brain, a farewell glance would have been appreciated.

  Chucked the student, given the elbow by the shoplifter.

  I will survive, wey-hey.

  As soon as he hea
rs the lift doors outside, Renton rushes to his stash in the grumbling, tutting fridge. The heroin is cooling with some rotting lettuce and celery in a drawer. With his spec case, he heads back to the couch, arching over the coffee table littered with wastrel detritus, and starts to cook up. He’s piqued as the sound of the door going snaps in his ears, worrying that Charlene has returned. However, it’s only Nicksy, who looks down at Renton in disdain, then heads to the kitchen where he instantly chops out two big lines of speed on the shaky-legged table and declares, in punk-style, that England’s shit. — It’s all gone to pieces, mate.

  Renton is burning the heroin, lighter flame lapping round the spoon. He’s a bit worried at its lack of purity, but it seems to be dissolving into a bubbling elixir. — Scotland n aw, he says empathetically, looking to Nicksy. It was true; the post-war optimism was most certainly over. The welfare state, full employment, the Butler Education Act were all gone or compromised to the point of being rendered meaningless. It now really was everyone for themselves. We were no longer all in this together. But it wasn’t all bad, he considered; at least we’re getting a wider choice of drugs now.

  Nicksy springs to his feet, standing in the doorway of the kitchen and the front room. He points at the spoon and its contents, nerves jangling, bottom puppet-jaw in spasm, lank hair plastered to his skull. — Give it a rest, Mark. You said you was through banging up that shit.

  Renton looks up, face a picture of surly, recalcitrant entitlement. — Geez a fuckin brek, Nicksy. Ah’ve just been chucked, eh.

  — Oh … right. Sorry ta hear it, Nicksy says, stepping back into the kitchen. Doesn’t know why. Pirouettes on the tiled floor and hops back into the front room. — Have to be dynamic, he muses to himself.

  — You’ve been thaire, buddy, Renton observes, clamping the flex from the table lamp round his thin biceps, then gripping the cord in his teeth. — No very nice, is it? he whines, disconcerted that his voice sounds the very same. Fuck. Ah really do speak through ma beak now.