Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

Mr and Mrs Ronald Dunsmuir

humbly request the attendance of

Mark Renton

at the wedding of their daughter

Joanne April to Mr Paul Richard Bisset

at

St Columba Church of Scotland ,

Duchal Road, Kilmacolm, Renfrewshire, PA 13 4 AU

on

Saturday , 4 thMay 1985, 1 p.m .

and afterwards at

Bowfield Hotel and Country Club ,

Bowfield Road, Howwood, near Glasgow Airport, Renfrewshire, PA 9 1 DB

RSVP : 115 Crookston Terrace, Paisley, PA 1 3 PF

— What is it? muh ma asks.

— Nowt, just a weddin invite. My auld mate Bisto fae the uni, ah tell her, surprised that they’re gettin married and astonished that they’ve invited me. Joanne must be up the stick; it’s the only wey that would happen as they baith have another year tae go at Aberdeen eftir this. The last time ah saw Joanne was on Union Street. Ah was like a jakey, skulkin doon taewards Don’s. She wis wi another lassie; widnae look at us, but jerked her sweatshirt hood tight tae her face n stepped across the road.

Ma starts lookin oaf intae the distance, shakin her heid as a teary lens amasses ower her eyes. Then she glowers at me in anguish. — That could have been you … wi that lovely Fiona lassie, she sniffs. — Or even wee Hazel. She turns tae my auld man, whae nods tae her and gies her hand a squeeze.

— Aye, a narrow escape, ah say.

— Dinnae start, Mark! Just dinnae bloody well start! You know fine well what yir mother means, my dad shouts.

What ah know fine well is that ah’ve hung aboot here long enough, and now the junk thing’s oot in the open, ah’m disinclined tae listen tae any mair ay their tedious where-did-we-go-wrong disquisitions. Basically, whaire they went wrong wis indulgin thair ain selfish whims in bringin mair lives intae a fucked-up place. Ah didnae ask tae live n ah’m no feart tae die. Aw that’ll happen is that it’ll be like before ah wis alive; it couldnae have been that great, but it wisnae that shite either, or ah’d have minded aboot it. Ah was just here tae get ma fuckin records. Billy looks at us, kenin fine well what ah’m daein, but sais nowt.

Ah stoap oaf in the bathroom tae swipe the auld girl’s Vallies, n head up the Walk, strugglin wi the weight ay they albums packed in the auld Sealink holdall. Thankfully, ah run intae Matty and Sick Boy at the Kirkgate. They look as shite as ah feel, n neither is too enthusiastic when ah ask them tae take a shot n cairry the bag. Matty takes a shift though, but ye could tell it wis basically jist tae sketch what wis inside. That’s when it aw kicked in wi me: Bowie, Iggy, Lou, they wir aw gaunny go.

— Cunt, that’ll be a sad loss, Matty slyly articulates ma thoughts.

— I’ll tape them, ah sais defensively.

— Cunt, kin see you sittin thaire daein that, right enough, he goes. Sick Boy’s quiet, stooping forward as he walks, his airms folded acroas his chest.

Fucked if ah’m arguin wi this cunt. — Ah’ll get Hazel tae tape them then, she’s goat a capacity for boredom.

Matty shrugs and we git up tae the shoap. Sick Boy hings ootside smokin, while ah stick the records oan the counter. The boy goes through them wi the sort ay face ah ken; ah’ve used it tons ay times masel at work. — Bowie ah kin always shift, he says, — but naebody’s bothered aboot Iggy and the Stooges or Lou and the Velvets. Too seventies.

FUCKIN CUNT.

So ah get a rip-off price for them, Matty pretendin tae look through the records n tapes oan display but mentally countin oot every note n coin the boy pits in ma hand. When we get ootside we see Olly Curran comin up the Walk, the straight-backed National Front closet-buftie fucker. — Awright, Olly?

— Yesss … he sais in that sleekit snake-like wey ay his, lookin doon his beak, first at me, then Sick Boy, then Matty. Ye can tell he thinks we’re the scum ay the earth: a big disgrace tae the white master race. — You’re a Connell, he says tae Matty in mild accusation.

Matty, fag in hand, turns his earring like he’s tryin tae tune in his brain. — So?

— You dinnae stay at the Fort now, Olly shakes his heid.

— Nup, Wester Hailes, eh.

Olly dispenses a security-guard look, one too thick and crass even for a polisman, then thaire’s a silence. So ah goes, — Ye got a fair auld military starch in that collar, Olly.

He smiles, his devious eyes fill ay imbecile’s hate, then looks aw self-congratulatory n goes, — Well, some of us like tae keep up standards.

— Aye, well, it’s certainly looking pristine. Heard yir missus takes the dhobi up the Bendix.

— Yesss, he whistles softly, wary but smug, — she certainly does.

Sick Boy nods and says, — Ah kent a bird whae wis mad on that. Ye couldnae stick anything in the washing machine. Eywis hud tae go up the Bendix.

— Aye … sometimes it can be a pest, Olly muses, — because she’s got a perfectly good washing machine.

— But if she’s used tae takin it up the Bendix … Sick Boy sniggers.

Ah’m fuckin well strugglin tae keep a straight face, n Matty’s open-cavern mooth n squashed-grape eyes indicate the cunt’s aware some wind-up’s gaun oan but he’s scoobied as tae what it’s aw aboot.

— Aye, Olly declares, — her mother wis just the same.

— She surely must use the washing machine sometimes but, Sick Boy contends.

— Very rarely.

— I’ll bet you like tae stick a load in there but, eh? Sick Boy goes.

— Oh, ah do try sometimes, but it’s Bendix, Bendix, Bendix aw the way wi her.

— Do ye ever take a load up thaire yirsel? ah ask him.

— In my younger single days, aye. But ah wis a sailor then, and neatness was expect— what … what … Olly’s gaun, as we cannae contain oorsels any mair, — what yis laughin at? Youse ur bloody well on something! Ah ken youse! Ah ken yir game!

— What game is that then? ah goes back.

He looks at ma wrist, pus seeping fae rusted mounds ay crust, on white, goosefleshed skin.

— Industrial accidents, ah wink, but he turns in disgust and strides up the Walk.

— Right up the Bendix! Sick Boy shouts. It hurts tae laugh. My sides sting wi it. But ah realise that the joke is oan me, oan us, as the pain sets in and we look at each other, blinded by snotter, feelin like lepers in our ain place. Passers-by ur starin at us in horror and loathing: ye kin feel their contempt. — Lit’s git the fuck ootay here, Sick Boy sais.

Pain. Psychic pain .

N thaire’s mair ay that tae come when we git up tae Tollcross. Matty opts tae wait ootside. — Cunt, ah’m no welcome, eh, he says. Inside, the tomatay plants in the windae look as rotten and shabby as Johnny, whae sits thaire wi lines ay speed. Ah make the big mistake ay giein him the cash ah owe him. He snaffles it, then refuses tae sub us anything else.

— Jist a wee bag, mate.

— Sorry, chavboax, it’s business, buddy boy.

— But ah jist gie’d ye some dosh, ye ken ah’m good fir it.

— Nae hireys, nae gear. Thaire’s no a lot gaun aroond so what thir is goes tae the boys wi the poppy upfront. Ah’d git the dosh n ah’d move sharpish if ah wis youse.

— C’mon, Johnny, we’re mates …

— Nae mates in this game, chavvy, we’re aw acquaintances now, he goes. — The White Swan’s just a cog in a wheel these days, compadre. He fills his lungs wi sulphate. — Ah’m a branch manager ay Virgin rather than the owner ay Bruce’s Record Shoap. If ye ken what ah mean.