Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

He’s right. There’s nae white now, n the broon’s hit toon big time. Swanney’s puntin it for somebody else, so he’s way doon the peckin order. So we wir back tae square one. Matty starts moanin when we hit the bottom ay the stair. — Nowt? Cunt, what dae ye mean, nowt?! The cunt accuses us ay hudin oot oan him n the argument carries oan doon the road. — Fuckin mongol, he goes.

— Ah wish ye’d stoap this mongol shite, Matty.

— Jist cause yir brother wis one, he says, the taboo words sizzling oot ay the mingin wee fucker’s tight campfire mooth.

— Naw, Down’s syndrome was just about the only medical condition the spazzy wee cunt never had, ah tell him, shaming him and myself at the same time.

— Telt ye wuv nae fuckin gear, Sick Boy narks at him. — N stoap aw this hudin oot shite. Tell us how you can possibly hud oot oan a moochin cunt whae’s nivir pit his hand in his poakit in the first fuckin place!

Matty shuts up at that, n we walk on in silence. We get tae the Fit ay the Walk, fucked and shivering, tae hear a blood-coagulatin screech: — SI-MIHN!

Two antsy jailbait chicks are ootside the Central, beckonin us ower. It’s the last place we want tae be right now but they willnae take naw fir an answer. It’s that Maria Anderson lassie and her wee pal, Jenny. It turns oot Jenny’s Shirley’s cousin, so Matty doesnae look too chuffed. Ah’m no either. Ah tell her tae bolt, n she nods like she’s gaun tae, but keeps hingin aboot, no in any hurry tae nash. They willnae git served in the Cenny, so we go tae the Dolphin Lounge. We’re sittin in a corner, aw drinkin Pepsi cause it’s fill ay sugar, n Nelly comes in fae the Crown Bar next door, n gits a pint n joins us. He starts spraffin shite about Begbie and Saybo, but ah’m no interested as ah’m tryin tae tune oot aw the conversations roond us n think ay whae ah kin hound fir skag. He’s droning in ma ear though, and he asks, — Dae ye think thit ah made the wrong move?

Ah huvnae been listenin tae him, n ah’ve no got the faintest idea what he’s oan aboot, so ah say, — You made the decision, Neil, ah shrug, catchin that Jenny’s eye, n ah git an apologetic glare which quickly steels intae defiance. Fuck her, daft wee hairy; thir fawin like dominoes now n ah’m naebody’s social worker, least ay aw ma ain.

Nelly gies us his tortoise-lipped expression. — So?

Another two young girls come in tae join Sick Boy’s harem. — Sealink, one lassie goes, pointing tae the now empty holdall at ma feet, pronouncing it Sealunk , in proper Leith style. Normally ah’d be sniffing at some ay the crumbs ay Sicko’s rich man’s table, but no way right now. Bowie, Iggy and Lou, aw gone. Fuck sakes, ah’m hurtin inside. — Look around the world, baby, it cannot be denied, ah assert tae Nelly.

— Too fuckin right it cannae! the cunt goes, thinkin thit ah gie a fuck aboot his dramas. Ah think it was the Boy Søren who said, one can advise comfortably fae a safe port, and total unconcern is the safest of all.

Sick Boy’s main girl is wee Maria, the death-masked beauty ay the Bannanay flats. A looker, but a proper wee skag hound. There’s whispers that Sick Boy goat her hooked; but in thair stampede tae discern the sinner, people usually miss the point wi aw this ‘which evil bastard got ma son or daughter oan drugs?’ bullshit. Once the shit’s oot there, people are gaunny try it. It’s as futile and pointless as tryin tae blame some other kid at school cause their bairn caught a cauld. Forget transmission, it’s transition that’s the issue. Basically, it’s aw self-loathing because they never saw when thair bairn became somebody else.

Sick Boy is a cunt though, and he certainly didnae help. — Sweet sixteen, ain’t that peachy keen, he grins, the caress of his Judas palms forcing her weirded smile, — n school aw kicked intae touch, eh. That’s us aw legalled up now, eh, babe? A union blessed by the state! He’s wearing a pork-pie rude-boy hat, which he’s somehow picked up, probably off one ay the girls, which ye can see is annoying the fuck oot ay Nelly.

Nelly clocks me looking at the hat. Flashes us a smile that says ‘that is fucked’. Then he goes in a low voice, — See Goagsie’s got the cowie. Cunt was caught sneakin intae that clinic.

— It wid jist be fir his methy script, but. Wir aw gaun thaire now.

— Nah, the cunt broke doon in the boozer whin he goat fuckin pilled up aboot it. Greetin like a wee fuckin lassie, Nelly snorts.

Ah’m lookin tae Sick Boy, who’s aw ower Maria but at the same time flirting wi Jenny. — A wee honey, this lassie. See, if ma hert wisnae devoted tae you, Maria, he half threatens tae her discomfit and Jenny’s giggles.

Matty gies us a tense nod. — Cunt, lit’s fuckin split, ah’m seek tae fuck, he sais oot the side ay his dribbling mooth.

Ah turns tae Sick Boy. — Ye comin?

— No … Ricky Monaghan has a connection. Ah’m gaunny stall here and see if he shows.

— Cunt, Monny’ll no huv nowt, Matty spits in contempt.

— Take yir choice, red or black, spin the fucking wheel. I’m steyin here, n his arm tightens roond Maria, who looks aggressively at us.

Ah nod tae Matty. It seems important tae keep movin, and we elect tae leave them tae it.

So Matty n me’s in the street, exposed in that cruel light wi aw they straightpegs millin roond, cunts whae mean ye nowt but herm n hassle, n ah’m tremblin like a Cadbury’s Flake gaun intae an anorexic model’s mooth.

— Listen, Mark, sorry aboot that … sayin that aboot Davie, likes. It wis oot ay order.

— Forget it, ah goes.

— Cunt, it’s jist thit ah’m aw strung oot n that.

— Forget it, ah repeat, too edgy tae get intae any shite wi the cunt right now.

We shuftie intae the shoap tae procure snout for Matty. Mrs Rylance is behind the counter; magnesium shock ay hair eruptin fae her big ruddy face. She sees ma eyes gaun tae the yellay collection tin. — Animals cannae tell ye when thaire’s something wrong, son. Tae be honest, ah prefer them tae humans. Or some humans, she fixes us in a pitying gaze. — How’s ma Danny boy daein? Lovely laddie.

— Seems tae be better, but eh, ah state gruffly, badly wantin tae split, lookin at Matty slowly prospectin in his pockets for change, hating being a slave tae the petty and pointless addictions ay others. — He’s away oan this project now.

— Project … the auld bat parrots mindlessly as she gingerly fishes the coins fae Matty’s soiled paw like they were jewels fae a blocked toilet bowl.

A group ay young kids come in and her hawk eyes narrow on them from behind those lenses. Ah see Matty’s face freeze as ah pawkle the yellay collection tin oan the counter, swiftly stickin it intae ma holdall. Charlene taught us that yin; eywis huv a chorrin bag. Theft is as much aboot opportunism as planning. Executing the deed, ah’m lookin aw the time fae the steel-wool heid ay Mrs Rylance, as she chastises the bairns, tae Matty, his shifty eyes scannin roond.

We head ootside and as the door shuts behind us Mrs Rylance’s howls tear oot, — MA COLLEKSHUN! MA CATS’ COLLEKSHUN! WHAE’S TOOK MA CATS’ COLLEKSHUN?! But it’s directed tae the perr kids as we steal doon the road. We’re gaun right back up tae Swanney’s once we open this fucker. We catch our puff in Queen Charlotte Street, shakin the placky collection boax. Thaire’s a fair weight in it. It’s fill ay they new pound coins.

We suddenly realise that we’re right acroas the street fae Leith Polis Station, so we get the fuck ootay the road n take a 16 back up tae Tollcross. Johnny’s no in but thankfully Raymie’s hame. — Come and buy my toys, he sighs in a Bowie-Tony-Newley-era voice, before shutting one eye and looking at Matty. — Weren’t you sine die’d , Matty me boy? Perhaps youse might want tae conclude this business before the White Swan returns?