Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

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 hears 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.