Skagboys

by Irvine Welsh

Sure enough, when ah look back again, he’s stoaped, gaspin, bent ower hudin his knees, as we pass under the Junction Street Bridge. Then he stands like an incompetent fitba player, blawin hard, shaking his fat noggin in disbelief, as if a ref will blaw the whistle and we’ll suddenly stop n take a disgruntled walk intae a meatwagon as a rid caird gits raised skywards. No dice, fat boy! This tree-lined riverbank loves us, this rash ay warehouses, cobbled streets and tenemented dwellings adores its sons and hates auld flatfoot who’s brought nowt but grief doon here since the year dot. Even Keezbo’s takin the pish oot ay him, breathin quite smoothly, though his face is crimson n the sweat’s whippin offay him. Matty’s away ahead, then lookin back, stoapin, n littin us faw intae line. — Cunt, he says breathlessly, — wee cunts were right in thaire … it wis they wee Maxwells fae Thomas Fraser’s … shouldnae even be at the Fort …

  Ah’m thinkin ah could nip up the steps at West Bowling Green Street n duck intae the parental home, but ye never shite oan yir ain doorstep, so we keep tearin doon taewards the Forth, passin the ducks swimmin by the derelict factories and the new apartments. We see the Bannanay flats towerin behind the new constructions across the water, as we slow doon tae catch our wind n try tae look casual. Keezbo’s breathin hard, hands oan his hips, Matty’s heid’s swivellin roond like an owl’s. Ah realise we’ve left the Sealink bag, but that’s fuck all.

  There’s a slip road that cuts oantae a street leadin tae the courtyard ay this new yuppie scheme n we could cut through it, but the homesteaders are unlikely tae be shy at pickin up the blower if they see natives hingin aboot their property. So we press oan, at a brisk march. Oan the bridge at Sandport Place, we dinnae even see them tae oor right, lurkin oan the slip road ay Coalhill, waiting for us, no in a meatwagon, but in two squad motors.

  FUCK …

  Thaire’s nae runnin left in any ay us now. We run oan junk and we’ve burned the dregs ay that ootay oor systems.

  They handcuff me n Matty thegither, and Keezbo on his ain, wi his hands in front, n wir taken tae a holdin cell up the High Street. Funny, but although ah’m bein plunged intae what promises tae be the worst sickness ah’ve ever known, ah’m relieved in a wey, just cause it’s aw ower. Now ah’m anticipatin the next big challenge: gettin detoxed. Ah’m thinkin, they’ll help us, surely tae fuck, they’ll no leave us like this, cause ah’m rattlin n that methadone is fuck all use.

  Keezbo’s really fucked. He’s nearly greetin, as he keeps gaun up tae the Judas Hole n bangin oan the door. — Ah goat oaf the balcony, he moans, — now ah’m stuck in here!

  Dae yir fuckin nut in, that fat cunt.

  Matty’s sittin oan a bench, heid focused oan the flair in front ay him. Two polis come in wi cups ay tea, n he looks up n takes the words oot ma mooth: — We really need the hoaspital, mate, he says tae one copper. — We’re aw really seek, like.

  The polisman keeps his face set in a neutral expression. He’s a fairly lardy cunt but with keen eyes, a porker who’s just demolished his trough’s contents but eagerly awaits its new load ay swill. — I wis thinking that ah might check youse intae the North British Hotel for a couple ay weeks. Till yis ur feelin a wee bit better like. Or maybe youse might prefer the Caledonian?

  Like the daft cunt he is, Matty turns tae me n Keezbo n goes, — Dunno, what dae youse think?

  — Ah think you need tae learn tae spot a wind-up, Matty, ah goes.

  — Aw … right …

  The cops are laughin thair heids oaf at his miserable torn-up coupon. Keezbo’s sittin doon oan the bench and is turned away intae the waw, n while ah feel like ah’m betrayin Matty, ah cannae help, even through ma pain, joinin in the joke.

  Junk Dilemmas No. 3

  THE COPPER STARES at us in utter contempt. Nae wonder; aw he sees in front ay um is this mingin cunt, twitchin n spazzin oan this hard seat in the interview room. — Ah’m oan the programme, ah tell um. — Check if ye like. Ah’m aw seek cause they nivir gied us enough methadone. They said they hud tae fine-tune ma dosage. Check wi the lassie at the clinic if ye dinnae believe us.

  — Boo-fucking-hoo, he sais, a mean expression oan his face. — Why am I not tearing up on your behalf, my sweet, sweet friend?

  This cunt has cold black eyes set in a white face. If he didnae huv a dark pudding-basin haircut and his neb wis bigger, he’d be like one ay Moira and Jimmy’s budgies. The other polisman, a louche, slightly effeminate-looking blond boy, is playing the benign role. — Just tell us who gives you that stuff, Mark. Come on, pal, give us some names. You’re a good lad, far too sensible tae get mixed up in aw this nonsense. He shakes his heid and then looks up at me, lip curled doon thoughtfully. — Aberdeen University, no less.

  — But if ye check yi’ll find that ah’m oan the programme … at the clinic likes.

  — Bet these student birds bang like fuck! In they halls ay residence. It’ll be shaggin aw the time in thaire, eh, pal? the Pudding-Basin-Heided Cunt goes.

  — Just one name, Mark. C’mon, pal, begs Captain Sensible.

  — Ah telt ye, ah say, as sincerely as ah kin, — ah see this boy up at the bookies, ah jist ken him as Olly. Dinnae even know if that’s his right name. Gen up. The staff at the clinic’ll confirm –

  — Ah suppose prison’s like the halls ay residence, apart fae one thing, Pudding Basin goes, — no much chance ay a ride thaire. At least, he laughs, — no the sort ay ride ye’d want, anywey!

  — Just gie the clinic a quick phone, ah beg.

  — If ah hear the word ‘clinic’ come out ay your mooth again, son …

  They keep this shite gaun fir a bit, till a legal-aid lawyer, whae’s been appointed for us, thankfully comes in tae end the torment. The polis leave n the lawyer gadge gies us the news ah want tae hear. It’s a stark choice: basically either jail (at least remand until it goes tae court) or rehab, in a new project, which ah huv tae sign up tae for forty-five days, or ah’m charged wi the original offence. — It’s not the easy option. It means being drug-free, he explains, — even your methadone will be stopped.

  — Fuck … ah gasp. — Ah’m no sure tae definitely get a prison sentence, am ah? No jist fir thievin a poxy collection tin?

  — Nothing’s certain at all these days. It doesn’t look good though, does it? These were monies collected by an elderly shopkeeper for an animal-welfare charity.

  — Ye pit it like that … Ah feel ma shoodirs hunch up in acknowledgement.

  The boy takes his specs off. Rubs at the indentations they’ve left oan the side ay his beak. — On the one hand the government are encouraging the authorities to come down hard on drug use, on the other they’re acknowledging the growing problem of heroin addiction in the community. So there is the strong chance of a custodial sentence if you don’t cooperate with this rehab programme. Your parents are outside, and have been informed of the situation. What do you want to do?

  Decisions, decisions.

  — Ah’ll sign up.

  St Monans (Peer Education)

  AH’M NO CHUFFED aboot the rehab situ but it looked like it wis either that or the jail, n ah wisnae up fir a gamble. Fuck knows what happened tae Matty, but Keezbo went for a similar deal. He moved intae the Monty Street pad wi us, markin time oan the methadone programme, but there was gear oan the streets and we still liked getting fucked up thegither. It wis a barry laugh when ah took him doon tae the clinic fir the first time n they gied him the blood test for the cowie, that Aids, eh. The lassie, askin questions aboot transmission, goes tae um, — Are you sexually active?

  — Usually, aye, Keezbo goes, no gittin her at aw, — but sometimes ah jist like tae lie back, wi a bird oan toap, daein aw the work. Goat tae mix it up, but, eh?

  — What I mean is, do you have a current sexual partner?

  — How, Keezbo goes wi a big smile, — ye pittin yirsel in the frame then?

  That wis the only fun part. Normally it wis loads ay questions. Ah hud a couple ay interviews wi this heid-fucking dwarf-like guy called Dr Forbes, and one fae this big-boned
Englishwoman whae wis a clinical psychologist. Ah telt them what ah thoat they wanted tae hear, jist tae git thum oaf ma case. Keezbo said he wis the same.

  Back in the gaff, we’d tried tae jam fir a bit, but his drums n ma amp, then the Fender went intae Boston’s second-hand shoap oan the Walk, in exchange fir gear. Kept the Shergold fretless, but.

  Some cunts thought it was okay, but ah wisnae gittin intae the methadone, n ah wis feelin sick a lot. When ah wisnae too fucked tae go oot, the toon just seemed deid. Sick Boy had vanished, his ma said he’d went tae his auntie’s in Italy. Swanney had gone tae ground, n Spud wis meant tae huv been transferred fae the hoaspital intae rehab. Begbie wis in jail, Tommy n Second Prize wir in love, Lesley wis rumoured tae be up the stick, n Ali, whae’s seein this straightpeg aulder dude, never answered her phone.

  But the biggest mystery wis Matty; nae cunt had heard anything aboot him. He’d taken the prison option and hud been oan remand, but the rumour wis thit he’d got oaf wi a suspended sentence, which wis fuckin lenient, cause they were meant tae have searched his hoose. If so, they’d have found aw the snidey goods. Ah wondered what he’d telt the polis, sweatin away under they lights, junk sick. As fir everybody else, aw the staples ay Leith – mates, burds, Hibs – jist seemed tae huv nae real appeal. Aw ah cared aboot wis skag.

  Eftir we went for oor swallay doon the clinic at the auld Leith Hoaspital, they gied Keezbo a letter n he wis oaf the next day intae rehab. Ah must’ve looked left oot, cause the nurse, a barry lassie called Rachael, whae wis a mate ay Ali’s, informed us, — You’ll be next, Mark. Just try tae hang in there.

  So ah mainly sat in the flat, readin, n thinkin aboot Matty. How he isnae a grass. You’re either made that wey or yir no. You’re either a scab or a grass or you urnae. N he isnae. So it wis a bit ay a surprise when he crept roond the flat one night, a somewhat chastened look oan the cunt’s normally sleekit pus. He asked us whaire Keezbo wis n ah telt him. — Fuck that, he goes, — ah’m no detoxin. Ah’m no daein cauld turkey.

  — But they gie ye stuff tae help.

  — Baws! They take ye oaf the methadone! Fuck thair sleepin pills or paracetamol or whatever shite they gie ye! However they fuckin try n dress it up, it’s still cauld turkey! Cunt, nae fuckin wey, Matty contends. — Cunt, ye should’ve taken the sentence. Ah jist goat four days in thaire, oan the methadone, then ah wis oot oan a six-month suspended. Cunt, ye could’ve done four days’ remand – better than a week ay cauld turkey n five weeks gittin yir heid fuckin nipped in thair shitey rehab centre!

  Ah hate tae admit it, but the cunt hus us crappin ma keks. The methadone’s far fae perfect, but bein withoot it, n wi nae access tae the Salisbury Crag, wis a fuckin grim prospect. But while ah shat it offay rehab, ah still wisnae prepared tae take a punt oan any jail time, even jist a few days’ remand.

  Matty didnae stick aroond. Ah telt um ah hud nae gear, but ah wis totally hudin oot oan the wee cunt. He fucked off eftir a bit, wi the usual ‘phone us’ shite.

  A couple ay days eftir they took Keezbo, muh ma n dad showed up at the flat. They’d found oot ah wis here oan ma ain, so they telt us they were takin me hame till ah got ma place oan the rehab project. Ah wisnae chuffed, but they insisted that ah might OD or something if ah wis left alaine. By this time the methadone wis kickin in, and wi it a weary, heavy-limbed passivity, so ah allowed masel tae be led. Nowt much happened at my folks’ hoose, ah mainly kipped, read and watched the box. Ah mind Nicksy phoned, sayin that Giro the dug had settled at his ma’s, but he wis bored n thinkin ay movin intae a place wi Tony. Ah kent how he felt. As it was, ah wis only hame fir a few days, reading James Joyce in ma room, when muh dad came in, tellin us tae pack ma stuff up. When he telt me that ah’d ‘got a place’ in rehab, it wis like him boastin tae other people that ah’d ‘got a place’ at the uni a couple ay years back. He couldnae keep the excitement ootay his voice.

  The downside wis that when ah went roond tae the clinic, they’d been informed aboot what wis happenin, n ma methadone wis cut back in prep fir the detox. So ah packed some clathes and books. Ah found some council-headed notepaper Norrie Moyes had gied us yonks ago that ah’d forgotten aboot; we wir plannin a revenge scam on the Currans but it came tae nowt. Ah slipped them in a folder and stuck it in the bag.

  It pishes doon oan the drive tae the middle ay fuckin naewhaire in Fife. Ah sit in the back as ma faither drives in silence, Ma gabbin nervously in between chain-smokes. When we git thaire, gaun through some poxy village wi a few hooses, a church and a pub, and park in front ay this one-storey white buildin, ah’m hurtin bad, cramped and stiff, feelin the reduction in the methadone awready. Ah cannae even climb oot the back seat ay the car when the old boy exits, openin ma door. As cauld air flies in, a sweat-inducing pulse ay terror rises in me. — Ah dinnae want tae dae this!

  As ah hear muh ma say something aboot a fresh start, ma faither goes, — Well, it’s oot ay your hands now, pal, n he grabs ma airm, n starts yankin us oot the motor.

  Ah grip the back ay the seat. — What gies youse the right tae force us tae go here?

  My ma looks at me, twistin roond wi her big doolally eyes, n she wrenches ma hand fae the seat. — We care, son, that’s what gies us the right … Lit go! N muh dad gies us another tug n ah fly oot the motor, stumblin, wi him helpin tae keep me oan ma feet, hudin us up by the jaykit like a rag doll. — C’mon, son, shape up, he says wi gentle, encouragin firmness.

  As ah stand upright oan ma shaky legs, ah realise ma itchy eyes are gushin oot tears n ah wipe thum oan ma sleeve wi aw these snotters. Ma gets oot the car, shakes her head, musing, — Ah dinnae ken why this has happened tae us …

  — Mibbe it’s God, ah venture, as ah feel ma dad’s grip loosen on me, — giein ye another test, likes.

  She looks at me and springs ower, shouting at ma dad, — Did ye hear um, Davie? He’s evil! She points at me. — Listen tae yirsel, ya ungrateful wee –

  — It’s the drug talkin, Cathy, the withdrawal, Dad sais wi grim authority, starin at me wi squinty eyes. Now that the auld girl is kickin oaf, he kin play good cop. The auld boy has a temper but is loath tae lose it. The auld girl is generally easy-going, so ma tactic hus been tae get her tae play the bad fucker, which often strangely disarms the auld boy’s anger. But now ah’m puppy-seek n runnin oot ay time. Ma throat tickles and ma eyeballs feel like they need tae be scratched oot. Ah sneeze twice, seismic convulsions that shake ma body, n ma auld man looks at us in concern.

  Ah glances aroond, but thaire’s naewhaire aboot here tae dae a runner tae. — C’mon, Dad commands, an impatient edge in his voice. We walk doon the gravel path tae the front door ay the white buildin, n step inside. The place hus that omnipresent vibe ay state control: magnolia waws, broon cairpit tiles, harsh overhead strip lighting.

  We’re met by the centre director, a skinny woman wi dark curly hair which is tied back, rid-framed glesses n fine, delicate features. She ignores me, electin instead tae shake hands wi ma parents. A big, wholesome cunt wi a blond fringe smiles at me. — I’m Len. He picks up ma holdall, — I’ll take this tae yir room.

  The auld man swivels his heid roond, takes it aw in. — Seems a no bad billet though, son. He gies ma hand a squeeze. There’s mist in his eyes. — Fight through it, pal, he whispers. — We believe in ye.

  The skinny-specky bird is blabbering oan tae ma mother, whae’s looking warily back at her. — The essence of St Monans is a collaborative venture between two health boards and three social work departments. It comprises detox followed by the client-centred individual therapy and group-counselling sessions.

  — Aye … that’s nice …

  — The group is crucial to our philosophy. It’s seen as the way to combat the peer structures on the outside that support the substance-dependent client’s behaviour.

  — Aye … cosy, Ma sais, lookin at the curtains, rubbin the material between her thumb n forefinger.

  — Well, ye’ll get nae bother fae him, my dad goes, turnin tae me. — You’ll take
yir chance here. Right?

  — Right, ah say, lookin at this timetable thing displayed on the waw behind him. It says WAKE UP 7.00 A.M. Fuck that.

  I’ll take ma first chance tae git the fuck oot.

  — Anything tae get ye oaf they streets, away fae they losers n bams like that Spud laddie. N thon Matty. Nae ambition, that crowd. He shakes his heid.

  — Removal from the environment which supports the drug-taking behaviour is one of the key elements of our programme. We provide a disciplined and structured framework, and give the substance-dependent client the chance to take stock, so sayeth Skinny-Specky.

  — They’ll drag ye doon tae thair level, son. Ah’ve seen it, my ma warns, glaring hauntingly at me.

  — That’s ma mates. Ah’ve goat the right tae hing aboot wi whae ah want, ah say, hearin a door slam somewhere in the distance, follayed by a raised voice makin a threat.

  — Thir junkies, she scowls.

  — So? Thir no hermin anybody, ah goes, catchin Skinny-Specky’s pained look; her recognition that she’s walked intae a family feud, but still wi the sense ay prerogative that it’s takin place in her centre. Naebody else seems tae hear the consternation comin fae a far-off room, the stormin footsteps doon a corridor.

  Could be big fun n games in here, right enough.

  — No hermin anybody? ma faither groans miserably. — Ye wir caught red-handed, son, leavin that shop wi that tin! An auld woman, son. A pensioner, tryin tae make a livin and dae her bit for sick animals. Ye must see how messed up that is, surely, son, and he looks tae an intense but neutral Skinny-Specky fir support, then turns back tae me. — Ye must see how that makes ye look?

  Some auld minger that’s gaunny be fuckin deid soon anywey … grassin auld cunt …

  — Ye were better oaf hingin aboot wi Tommy n Francis n Robert, son, Ma urges. — The fitba n aw that. Ye eywis liked the fitba!

  A sudden bolt ay panic, n ah want tae jist hunker doon cause ay the dizzy chill that assails us. Instead, ah turns tae ma new hostess. — If ah feel really bad, will ah still git ma methadone here?