Skagboys

by Irvine Welsh

  Tom, Amelia and Len and the other staff are obviously edgy. The unit might shut down. I refuse tae attend the ‘emergency house meeting’ as I’m hame the morn, preferring instead to watch the news. There’s a big heroin bust and the polis and politicians are lining up tae suck each other’s knobs and lick each other’s fannies, trumpeting on that they’re winning the ‘war against drugs’.

  Aye, right. Of course ye are. Clueless cunts.

  Day 45

  And the next contestant in the Rehab Game is: none other than my old pal Mikey Forrester! Again, he’ll be creaking and sweating in his room for the next week, keeping out of everybody’s road and feart ay his ain shadow.

  I caught the anxiety and confusion in his eyes and regarded his skeletal frame. It couldnae happen tae a nicer cunt, I thought.

  Then, as he saw me, his eyes lit up, and he shuffled ower tae us and went, ‘Mark … awright, mate?’ He looked roond aw shifty and worried. ‘What’s the story here?’

  I realised that I looked just like him, only a few weeks back, and was just as scared. So I took him tae ma room, where he sat shivering, skin pitted like plucked chicken, and gied the cunt ma honest view ay the situ. Apparently, the nondy fucker tried to brek intae a chemist’s at Liberton. ‘Ah hud seen that Christiane F oan video, ken?’

  The fuckin bam slavered on, and I tried tae listen, but kept anticipating Mater n Pater’s arrival in the motor tae take me away fae aw this. Sure enough, Len came in and Mikey let oot a groan, as I handed him the psychic-rehab baton, and the doss cunt was led oaf tae his room and the long days ay detox that stretched ahead.

  But I was oot ay here, packing up the last ay ma shite. The final item ah put in my bag wis ma diary and journal. He’s been a good friend, but I doubt ah’ll be seeing him again. Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards.

  I say goodbye tae Audrey, who still has a week to go, and tell her that her strategy ay saying fuck all and keeping her heid doon is exactly the right yin. A kiss, cuddle and exchange ay numbers, and I’m roond tae the office tae get discharged.

  Postscript – Day 45 (afternoon)

  It’s true what they say: never, ever eavesdrop, cause ye might hear somethin aboot yirsel ye dinnae want tae. Ah’d packed up, was waitin for muh ma n dad, and ah thought ah’d take Carl Rogers back tae Tom. The door ay his office was ajar and ah heard Amelia’s voice, n Sick Boy’s name being mentioned. Well, it wisnae exactly his name, but ah kent for a cert whae she wis talking aboot. — … very manipulative. I think he almost believes his own propaganda.

  Ah closed in, doomed tae pain like a moth aroond a flame. Ah heard her suddenly change track. — … but that’s Simon. Then we’ve got Mark, leaving today.

  Ah froze.

  — I’m not too concerned about him in the long term, Tom’s soft, reedy voice. — If he makes it to twenty-six, twenty-seven, his sense of mortality will kick in, he’ll shed all this existential angst and he’ll be fine. If he can just keep from OD’ing or contracting HIV till then, he’ll simply grow out of heroin addiction. He’s too intelligent and resourceful; eventually he’ll get bored with pretending to be a loser.

  So ah walked in on them, rappin the door as ah went. — Mark … Skinny-Specky blushed tamely. Tom’s pupils visibly dilated. Baith ay them looked as embarrassed as fuck. Was it being caught talking about us, or using the ‘A’ word, or perhaps that unprofessional and pejorative designation, ‘loser’? Whatever, ah savoured the moment, thrusting On Becoming a Person oantae Tom. — Interesting read. You should have a look at it sometime.

  And ah turned on ma heels n headed tae the recky room, where ah said cursory goodbyes tae the other cunts, whom ah couldnae be daein wi; only Audrey was important and ah’d said a proper adieu tae her. Tom steyed in the office, evidently too embarrassed tae pill one ay his farewell caird stunts.

  Ah take my stuff ootside tae wait for muh ma n dad. Vanilla-milkshake clouds splatter ower the light blue sky, as a big oak tree blots oot the sun.

  The pebbles behind me crack under somebody’s steps, and ah see Tom movin stealthily taewards us, a hurt and confused expression oan his coupon. He evidently wants tae kiss n make up. — Mark. Look, I’m sorry …

  He kin git tae fuck and take aw his smarmy platitudes and insincere hugs and stick them right up his manipulative, duplicitous rectum. — You dinnae understand the rage inside. You never will, ah tell him, thinking aboot Orgreave, then, for some reason, Begbie. — Ah hurt myself, disable myself, so ah cannae hurt anybody else that doesnae deserve it. And that’s cause ah cannae get at people like you, cause you’ve got the law on your side. Ah feel the bile rise up inside me. — If ah really could fuck your world right up, ah wouldnae be wastin ma time screwin up ma ain life!

  Just then, a familiar motor crunches intae the driveway, Ma and Dad’s big excited faces negating a large portion ay what ah’d just said. The pain ah’ve caused them makes a mockery ay ma conceit and vanity: the idea that thaire’s any intrinsic nobility in ma actions. But fuck that. Ah turn ma back oan Tom n the centre, and walk taewards the motor.

  — Good luck, Mark, Tom says, — I mean that.

  Ah’m angry at masel, but livid at that cunt. Fuckin lying, smarmy, cowardly bureaucrat. — You are way oot ay touch wi what ye mean. If ye ever meant fuck all in the first place, ah tell him, as muh dad emerges fae the car. — If ye want tae dae something useful, keep yir eye oan that cunt Venters in thaire. Ah swipe the air dismissively. My old man scowls, but they’re delighted tae see me, and me them, as ah climb intae the back ay the car.

  — Ma laddie, ma laddie, ma laddie … muh ma says, pushing intae the back seat after us, huggin me, firin a volley ay questions at us, while my dad talks tae Tom and signs some stuff. Ah’m fuckin scoobied as tae what the documentation is. Release forms?

  After a bit, Dad comes back ower tae the motor and climbs intae the driver’s seat. — What wis that aboot? You and Mr Curzon?

  — Nowt. Just a daft wee argument. It kin sometimes git a wee bit intense in thaire.

  — Funny, that wis exactly what he said, muh dad smiles, shakin his heid, as something sinks in ma chest.

  — Oh son, son, son, muh ma says, tears streamin down her face, on top ay a great big smile. It takes years off her, and ah realise ah huvnae seen it for so long, — ye look that well! Doesn’t he, Davie?

  — He does that, the old boy says, pivoting round and squeezing my bulkier shoulder, contemplating me like a farmer does a prize bull at the Royal Highland Show.

  — Thank God this bloody nightmare’s ower!

  For a couple ay missed heartbeats ah worry that the wheezing motor isnae gaunny start, but Dad wrenches it intae life, n we gratefully pull away fae the centre. Some people have gathered oan the steps, but ah dinnae look back. Ma keeps my hand in her lap in between sparking up, still prisoner tae the cigarette. We’re heading back across the bridge tae Edinburgh, when a familiar song comes oan the radio talking so temptingly about riding that white line highway.

  They dinnae notice, they’re busy chattin aboot how it’s a lovely day, n we can aw start lookin forward again. But my mind and body, pristine pillars ay the temple ay abstinence for six weeks, thrash in unison like a drum machine towards that first bag ay skag. Just thinkin aboot it causes a frozen sweat ay excitement tae gush fae ma pores. Ah cannae fuckin wait. But ah resolve that ah’ll try, for their sakes. The auld boy’s really pushing the motor for some reason, and the auld dear n me cowp intae each other as the tyres screech on every bend.

  June 1969, in Blackpool. The moon still made ay green cheese but soon tae be wrapped up and labelled by Yank astronauts, before being dumped in cold storage. A stroll doon the Golden Mile. The distance between Granda Renton’s stiff, overwrought breaths and the last time we walked the prom so much more than just one year. Remembering when we once looked at his medals in that tin. Him wryly observing, ‘They only want tae pin this metal oantae yir chest tae cover the scars fae the metal thuv pit inside it.’ I minde
d thinking at the time: no, no, Granda, it was the Germans who did that. The British gave you the medals!

  Now ah realise that the poor old cunt had it sussed.

  We head through the city, bound for the port of Leith. It’s no that late; shopkeepers on the Walk are lowerin their iron grilles with a vengeance. When we get tae the hoose, ah sense that somethin is up. Suddenly, the front room lights click on and a sea of puses: Hazel, Tommy, Lizzie, Second Prize (lookin fit and with a cute blonde lassie in tow), Billy, Sharon, Gav Temperley, Mrs McGoldrick fae next door, Billy’s mates Lenny and Granty, aw wearin grins n toastin us wi glesses ay champagne; aw bar Second Prize, whae’s goat an orange juice. In the kitchen above the table, full ay cakes, sandwiches and the mini sausage rolls ye get at weddings and funerals, a home-made banner ay green lettering against a white background proclaims:

  WELL DONE MARK, AND WELCOME HOME!

  No quite the graduation ceremony they had in mind for us, but still. My old man hands us a gless ay champagne. – Get that doon ye. But go easy, mind.

  Go easy.

  Lookin doon at the swirlin, sickly orange glare comin fae the plastic logs in the fireplace, ah sip ma drink, feelin it windin doon ma throat, intae ma stomach, liver, kidneys, goin through ma bloodstream, then lightin ma brain up. The bubbles fizz in my heid, as Hazel rubs ma airm in appreciation, her mooth liftin at the corners. — Are those muscles?

  — Kind ay, ah concede, gettin another drink, in sure-fire knowledge it’ll only render mair acute rather than satiate a need ah can feel creepin up on us. Ah’m headin right back tae her when Tommy intercepts, locking me in a matey embrace. — Leave that shite alaine, Mark, he breathlessly urges.

  — Too right, Tam: ah’ve learned ma lesson. That isnae exactly a lie, cause ah have learned a lesson. Just no the yin they hud in mind. — How’s Spud?

  — Dinnae ask. As bad as ever. Imagine pittin yersel through aw that rehab shite for nowt.

  — Aw, right, ah say aw hangdog, but inside ah’m elated. Go on, the laddie Murphy! — And Matty?

  — As bad as Spud, but in Wester Hailes.

  Ah take Tommy’s point. So it’s about as bad as it can get for oor Mr Connell. Ah note Hazel’s talking tae Second Prize and his bird, so ah grab ma holdall and head tae ma auld bedroom, puttin my diary at the bottom ay a cupboard full ay books and other auld shite.

  When ah go back ben the front room, muh ma is arguin wi Billy, wavin some caird she wants him tae sign. — No way, he shakes his heid, — ah wouldnae sign anything fir they Currans. You no remember how they carried oan at Wee Davie’s funeral?

  — But they’ve been neighbours, son … She looks imploringly tae me. — You’ll sign perr Olly’s git-well caird, won’t ye, pal?

  — Didnae ken he wis … what’s up wi um?

  — Aw, ye willnae huv heard … he hud a massive heart attack, Ma says sadly. — Claims he goat this nasty letter fae the council. Aye, he wis that enraged he jist flung it straight in the fire. Then he went up thaire and started shoutin the odds, aboot coloured people n that, ye ken how they could git …

  — Bams, says Billy.

  — … n he goat himself awfay worked up, cause the council denied aw knowledge ay any letter. But he wis ragin, n he tried tae git at the clerk behind the screens, so they called the polis. Well, he left eftir that, but he collapsed ootside in Waterloo Place, so they took him right intae the Royal.

  Ah feel this chill spreadin over me, n the colour drainin fae my face. Ma thrusts the caird and pen intae my hands. Billy looks at me. — You’re no gaunny sign that, ur ye? You hated that bastard!

  — Ye huv tae live n let live. It’s only a caird, n ah widnae wish that oan anybody, ah tell um. Then ah deek the caird, which has a cartoon ay a downcast-looking boy in a hoaspital bed, thermometer in his gob, wi the caption: SORRY TO HEAR YOU’RE ILL. Ah open it up n the same gadgie’s now full ay zest, gless ay champers in his hand, winking at a sexy nurse, whae pats her hair. The message reads: HERE’S TO GETTING BACK TO YOUR OLD SELF SOON!

  So ah lay the caird doon oan the sideboard and scribble: All the best, Olly. Mark.

  — That’s ma boy, Ma smiles indulgently, then whispers intae my ear, — that’s the real you, son. That’s the goodness ay ye comin oot, before aw they daft drugs made ye aw funny n nasty, n she kisses the real me oan the cheek.

  Ah winks at her n turns tae Billy. — Mind that Wolves team that beat Herts in the Texaco Cup final? Youse won one–nil doon thaire but goat gubbed three–one at Tyney? How many players kin ye name fae that team?

  — Fuck … he says, his brow furrowing, — ah kin hardly name any Herts players! Let me see, there wis Derek Dougan, obviously, Frank Munro … was it Billy Hibbitt? … Kenny Hibbitt … talkin aboot Currans … that was the boy who scored twice, Scottish guy n aw … Hugh Curran! N whae else? Billy turns tae ma faither, whae’s chatting tae Tommy and Lizzie. — Dad, he shouts him ower, — that Wolves team that beat Herts, the Texaco Cup …

  — Some team, muh dad says, wipin his beak wi a paper towel. — Mind, youse aw got Wolves strips that Christmas? Ah hud tae send away for your yin?

  — Aye. Fort Wanderers. You took that team photae at Christmas. It never came oot, ah state, lookin pointedly at Billy. — Shame that, eh? Nivir mind, but; ah kin still see it ma mind’s eye. Left tae right, back row; me, Keezbo, ah glance over tae the boys wi their birds: Tommy, Rab, then back tae Billy, — Franco and Deek Low n aw. In the front, crouchin in front ay us, again, left tae right; Gav, English George, Johnny Crooks, Gary McVie, mind ay poor Gazbo? Chocolateface Dukey and Matty wearin a goalie’s jersey.

  Billy looks a bit disconcerted, as muh Dad cheerfully says, — Well, at least aw that bloody rubbish ye were takin husnae destroyed yir memory!

  No, it has not. Because one thing ah mind ay clearly is a certain address in Albert Street, and the seven digits ay a phone number gied tae us by Seeker. Ah move across tae Hazel n pit my airm around her slender waist. She smiles at me, immaculate in that yellay dress wi they pop socks, and smellin wonderful, lookin like a fifties suburban American girl of the cinema. Ah git a stirrin in my breeks. Ah think aboot whether ah should take her up tae the flat in Monty Street n have crap sex wi her, or track doon Johnny, Spud, Matty, Keezbo and co, or go and see ma good buddy and personal trainer, Seeker.

  Avanti

  WHEN I TELL you that the best part of the place is the railway station, you begin to get some idea of what I’m talking about. Of course, I’d never let them know back in Leith that my mother’s home town is a shithole, far removed from those Tuscan landscapes swathed in breathtaking light, where ah led the gaping simpletons tae believe the Mazzolas originated from. In possibly the most visually stunning country on God’s earth, this toon is a thorn among roses. Even in Italy’s shabbiest region other shitheaps in the locale look down on it. Ah can even see why my mother’s family left for Scotland.

  It never seemed so bad when ah was a kid. The fact that a large section ay it was still buried under a landslide since the 1960s didnae escape me, but then ah only saw a place of mystique, the child’s imagined underground city, rather than the reality of a festering den of municipal complacency and corruption. While hardly artist-inspiring, the auld family farmhouse had seemed romantic, instead of a draughty rural slum, and even the huge car breaker’s yard full ay rusty Fiats that still dominates the dusty hamlet was a playground to us, not an eerie blot on the landscape. And I didn’t notice that the ground around the settlement was barren and its citizens unsavoury and depressed-looking enough no tae seem oot ay place on Gorgie Road.

  The only parts I think of affectionately are this cafe bar in the station, where ah sit drinking fantastic Italian coffee, and the old barn where cousin Antonio thoughtfully left a pile ay knock-off hassocks fae the church before he married and went to Napoli tae become a minor civil servant. In the family tradition, it was there that I finally had my way with Massima. Before ah was allowed to break the seal, I endured two weeks of frustrating kisses and gr
opes and the Catholic girl blow jobs I knew from back home (thank fuck ah went tae a non-denominational school, one thing ah do owe that cunt of a faither), followed by plenty of pleading, cajoling, threatening and, finally, the desperate mentions of love and marriage. And Massima is almost twenty years old! My cousin Carla pointedly warned me, after practically throwing us together in that Italian apprentice matriarch way: she has a boyfriend. So we’ve been sneaking around like fugitives, fae the station tae the barn.

  But persevere is my middle name, and right now ah’m enjoying my coffee, not at all miffed that Massima’s train, coming fae another village two stops down the line, is delayed by almost thirty minutes. Where is the Duce when you need him most? No matter; I can’t think of anywhere better tae wait than this wee bar with its glass door, watching the fat old men playing cards at the next table. Sipping my coffee, comforted by the gleaming, hissing espresso machine, which evokes the old steam engines of yesterday. Thinking about how, for the poor bastards in this town, things dinnae seem tae have changed that much since then: it’s still a lifetime ay commitment for one fuckin ride! It’s a ‘C’ day, and the word is:

  CONTRETEMPS, noun, pl same, an unexpected and unfortunate occurrance, *a minor dispute or disagreement.

  The coffee’s kick pushes against the drowsy effect ay the eftirnoon sun, cascading in through the window. The cashier closes the register with a ping. A fat ginger cat that reminds us ay Keezbo sprawls across a sunlit patch on the tiled floor, looking up indolently as it forces customers to either walk round or step over it.

  Outside, through the half-clear, half-frosted windae, two young gadges, who were at the pinball machine earlier on, playfully jostle each other. One wears a Juve T-shirt, the team Antonio supports. A lot ay them seem tae around here, though that’s probably changed wi Napoli’s signing ay Maradona. Those poor wee fuckers; I predict loads ay pent-up sexual frustration ahead, fratellos. It’s weird the way those wee chappies hud hands here, like lassies ay that age back hame sometimes dae. And it goes right on through their teens! Imagine heading up the Walk, hudin hands with Renton, Spud, Tommy or Franco! Franco would probably enjoy it though, and I entertain the notion ay him in a cabin boy’s outfit, pulling the train up in toff class back on The Freedom of Choice. Thinking of home, my thoughts drift tae Mark and rehab, and ah pull oot the folded pages fae ma wallet. It’s the ones ah liberated from the waste-paper basket in his room, the diary and journal entries. It was all he deserved, and payment for his rudeness in dropping off when I was endeavouring to discuss key concepts. Such carelessness eywis invites a tax; you have to be on your guard in the modern world or ye get punished.