Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

Maria’s shoutin, — Whaire’s Jenny? If she’s fuckin well sneaked away she’s gittin her cunt battered in!

Ah kin hear Ali sayin somethin tae calm her doon, as Sick Boy n me quickly slip oot the front door, like thieves escapin the scene ay the crime. Matty’s voice screeches eftir us in terror: — Shout us if ye score!

We dinnae stop, dinnae look back. When we emerge fae the stair intae the street, somebody’s shoutin fae the windae, but we’re no turnin roond tae see whae it is .

Lothian Health Board

Private and Confidential

Instances of Reported HIV+ Cases in February

Gordon Ferrier, 18, Edinburgh North, motorcycle messenger and amateur boxer, intravenous drug use.

Robert MacIntosh, 21, Edinburgh North, window cleaner, intravenous drug use.

Julie Mathieson, 22, Edinburgh North, drama student, mother of one, intravenous drug use.

Philip Miles, 38, Edinburgh North, unemployed chef, father of three, intravenous drug use.

Gordon Murieston, 23, Edinburgh North, unemployed welder, intravenous drug use.

Brian Nicolson, 31, West Lothian, unemployed civil engineer, intravenous drug use.

George Park, 27, Edinburgh South, unemployed labourer, father of one, intravenous drug use.

Christopher Thomson, 22, Edinburgh North, unemployed baker, intravenous drug use.

MY HANDS ARE eywis cauld now. Like the circulation’s gone. They didnae used tae be like that. Even oan a warm day ah’m rubbin them, cuppin them, blawin intae them. Ma chist is tight; there’s thick phlegm permanently gummin up ma respiratory system.

Doof doof doof …

But ah’ve done this tae masel. Naebody else has fucked me; neither God nor Thatcher. Ah’ve done it; destroyed the sovereign state ay Mark Renton before those cunts could get anywhere near it wi their wrecking ball.

It’s weird bein back in the parental home. It’s so quiet eftir Wee Davie’s death. Even when he was in the hoaspital he was still a big presence; my ma and dad ran aroond preparing endlessly for visits, gettin stuff tae take intae him, constantly jabberin on aboot his condition tae relatives and neighbours. Now the energy levels in the hoose have tumbled and the sense ay purpose gone; they wir baith already in their kip when ah got doon, late Friday night. Billy was still up.

Ah’d only come doon tae pick up some LPs tae flog, but hud ended up sittin watchin the boxing wi Billy, then just crashin in my auld bed. Ma body’s metabolisin the gear quicker. Ah used tae go fir days between fixes. Now it’s about four fuckin hours. Ah’ve grown mair lethargic and lazy, basically tae conserve energy and no burn off the skag. Ah’m irritable. Bored. Inattentive. Above all, listless. Gettin oaf a couch (for anything other than skag) takes monumental effort.

Keezbo and me went oan the methadone programme, followed by Sick Boy. It takes the edge offay withdrawal, but it’s shite, and we’re still heebie-jeebied n eywis lookin for gear. Ah tell the lassie at the clinic that, and she says that we jist need some ‘tinkering’ before aw the symptoms ay withdrawal sickness are sorted oot. Too fuckin right!

Maist days, when ah’m no huntin junk, ah’m reading Joyce’s Ulysses , which ah wis surprised and delighted to find at McDonald Road Library. Ah’d never really got it before, it wis just tedious waffle tae me, but now ah’m loast in it, trippin oan the words and the images they conjure up like ah’m oan acid. Ah wish ah’d brought it doon tae my ma’s wi us.

Oan the methadone programme ye huv tae report daily at the Leith Hoaspital clinic. The hozzy’s scheduled for closure next year, but we huv tae go thaire for assessment and my bog-cleaner-tastin syrup. It feels a bit like the dole, but wi mair ay a sense ay belongin. Ye meet a lot ay skagheids thaire. Some seem ashamed, skulkin in aw furtively, others dinnae gie a fuck and are swift tae ask if yir hudin. Some ur bams, pure and simple. If it wisnae skag it would’ve been something else. Most urnae, thir just ordinary boys who’ve drugged themselves intae nothingness tae avoid the shame ay daein nothing. Boredom has driven them crazy, drug crazy. By and large they keep aw this inside, maintaining the mask ay composure, through fierce, mocking talk and gallows humour. They cannae afford tae care, and ken if they front apathy for long enough, it’ll soon embrace them. And they’re correct.

The methadone’s shite. Thaire’s nae buzz oaf ay it, but they tell us tae persist, cause wi the ‘fine tuning’ ay ma script, it’ll take away ma discomfort, and be way better than the alternative. Sometimes at the clinic, they look at ye like yir a lab rat and talk in these hushed and reverential tones. They took blood tests; no just for HIV, the boy wis at pains tae stress. At least they’re daein something though. They’ve finally sussed thaire’s shite happening oot here.

Thaire’s certainly nowt much happenin in muh ma’s hoose. It struck me that when ma auld girl and auld man arenae aroond, Billy and me stoap competing, forget that we hate each other, and actually git oan reasonably well. We watched this black American boxer overwhelm the latest hapless white hope.

Then Billy said something like, — Cannae fuckin stick civvy street.

— Reckon ye’ll join up again?

— Mibbe.

Ah resisted the urge tae discuss it further. Billy and me are miles apart oan such issues, and although ah think he’s a complete fuckin tool, it’s his life, n it’s no fir me tae tell him how tae live it. But he talked on for a bit; about the officers bein wankers and shitein it oan the foot patrol, but huvin yir mates behind ye and feelin like ye really belong somewhere. He’s up in coort next week for batterin this cunt in a boozer, so his heid’s aw ower the place.

Billy’s moved intae Davie’s auld room, the good yin that overlooks the river. The allocation ay the prime bedroom tae somebody whae would have been as happy in a cellar or an attic, caused a bit ay united resentment wi me n Billy when we moved doon here fae the Fort a few years back. Wisnae shy aboot stakin his claim following Wee Davie’s demise, the cunt; but fair dos, it’s no like ah’m plannin tae be back. Now his auld side ay the room looks bare. He’s taken his framed picture ay Donald Ford in the Ajax-like seventies Jambo strip, and the calligraphy scroll that he did in art (his one visible accomplishment fae eleven years ay state education), which has the complete lyrics ay ‘Hearts, Glorious Hearts’ inscribed in maroon ink. The plastic King Billy oan the horse that sat oan the windae ledge, lookin oot over the Hibernian-infested tenements wi disapproval, has also thankfully gone.

The masking tape that he pit doon yonks ago is still oan the flair, running acroas the cairpit. Ah pull it up and see a thick darker line contrastin wi the light, sun-bleached blue. He called that the invisible Berlin Waw, dividin him fae ma Stanton-prominent ’72 League Cup poster, a ’73 Hibs team photae wi the two cups displayed, n a picture ay Alan Gordon in shooting pose. There’s a recent yin ay Jukebox. Ah’ve got a great photae ay the church in St Stephen’s Street where Tommy sprayed IGGY IS GOD oan the side ay the building, and a montage ay teen punk and soul boy pictures, each haircut mair embarrassing than the last. Ah should move ma bed nearer the windae, cause Billy willnae be back in here.

He’s actually gone and bought a double bed for Wee Davie’s auld room, soas he kin bang Sharon in comfort when she steys ower. A Jambo shagging pad. How the fuck can the pervert get it up wi my ma n faither lying next door? Has he nae fuckin self-respect? Ah’d never take a burd back here, tae my ma’s hoose .