Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

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.