Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

She’s choking in fury. — Balcony … river … how the … how the bloody hell … how the hell did youse …? she stammers, then a glint snaps intae her eye. — Your auld place … it’ll be empty now then, eh?

Ah click back another bolt. Fae the corner ay ma eye, ah notice that one budgie’s still attached tae Moira’s angora cardigan just oan the ootside ay her placky tits. Jesus fuck …

That angora cardy’s worked its wey open again n thaire’s some baby birds in her tits, ye kin see thair wee heids poking up, mooths open, demandin tae be fed. What the fuck … Ah look at her, n she gies us a hard, tight-moothed stare, that says, ‘So?’

Ah turn back tae the last bolt … ah cannae watch this …

— Your hoose! Margaret Curran insists, — that’ll be it empty then!

— Naw … a Paki family moved in last week. Ah work the bolt loose as Jimmy says something tae Moira aboot makin herself decent.

— How did they … how in the name ay Christ did they …? Curran’s freakin oot n gittin ready tae visit the Housing Association. The bolt snaps back n the door flies open.

Keezbo stands in his long coat, lookin like a big pink sausage wrapped in black puddin. — They tried tae fuckin kill us! Youse! He points at Jimmy and Moira, — YOUSE!

The big budgie on Moira’s jumper flies up as she looks at Keezbo in horror, pillin the cardigan tae her tae conceal the nest ay birds in her tits. She realises that he’s ripped doon the mesh they pit ower the balcony. — DINNAE LIT CHEEKY BOY OOT! THE WILD BIRDS’LL KILL UM!

— FUCK YIR BUDGIES! YOUSE TRIED TAE KILL US!

— WE’RE THE BUCKIN YINS TRYIN TAE BUCKIN WELL SAVE YE! Moira roars back in his face, n ah realise she’s no goat her teeth in, n she turns tae Jimmy: — TELL UM, JIMMY!

— Ah wis cauld, Keezbo moans in desolation, — cauld n hungry!

— Hungry fir buckin drugs, drugs, drugs! Moira squeals, — TELL UM, JIMMY! BE A BUCKIN MAN, BI CHRIST, N TELL YIR LADDIE WHAIRE HE’S GAUN WRONG!

— Moira … c’mon …

— Ah’ve goat poppy, Keith. Ah shakes the boax. — We’ll open it up n git sorted oot!

— Ah ken how tae open these yins, Mr Mark, he goes, his eyes huge and luminous, as Moira scowls at Jimmy n slams the balcony door shut, enticing Cheeky Boy back tae her false bosom.

— Now everybody hus tae calm doon … Moira — Jimmy pleads.

— CALM BUCKIN DOON! AH’LL GIE YE CALMIN BUCKIN WELL DOON, JIMMY YULE! IT’S YOUR BLOODY LADDIE!

— Nae time, ah goes tae Keezbo, lookin ower the balcony tae see Matty standin aroond oan the concrete forecourt. — MATTY! But it’s windy up here n oor voices get carried away as we shout. — MAH-TAY!

Eventually the daft cunt looks up wi a scoobied coupon.

— What’s gaun oan here? Jimmy demands, stepping oot ontae the balcony as Moira’s blusterin aboot where she went wrong. Then she suddenly threatens, — Ah’m gittin the buckin polis oantae the baith ay yis! See how yis like that!

— That’s right, Moira! Margaret Curran shouts.

— You … well, if you … if you fuckin bring thaim intae it, Keezbo stammers, — ah’ll tell the RSPCA aboot you keeping birds in yir tits! That’s no right in the heid!

— Thir no in ma tits! Ah’ve nae tits! And now ah’ve nae buckin son, bi Christ!

As they rage on, ah shakes the tin, as Matty gies a daft wee salute. Ah drops it n watches it fall, hittin the deck wi an explosive crack as it splatters open n the coins strew in a glittering shower across the forecourt. Fuck, ah didnae think they’d scatter like that! Matty’s thaire, but a crowd ay young kids are appearin fae fuckin naewhaire n they’re rummagin wi Matty for oor fuckin poppy! — FUCK OFF! FUCK OFF, YA WEE CUNTS … DINNAE LIT THUM … FUCK!

Keezbo n me are right oot through the kitchen, past his ma, dad, Pauline n fusty-fud Curran, oot the front door, along the balcony, n wir bombin doon the stairs as fast as we can.

— DINNAE LIT CHEEKY BOY OOT! Moira shouts.

We gits oot n doon the stairs n thaire’s Matty pathetically shoutin at these thievin wee bastards, — Gie’s it back …

We’re pickin up the fuckin coins n the wee cunts are leggin it, but then Mrs Rylance comes roond the corner and sees the yellay shards ay the shattered collection box n she’s pointin n screamin, — IT’S MA MONEY … IT’S THE CATS’ MONEY!

Mrs Curran’s gittin in oan the act, screamin doon fae the balcony, — THIEVES! THIEVES! THE RENTONS N THE CONNELLS. … DURTY THIEVIN GYPSY BASTARDS! THEY GIT EVERYTHING THIT ISNAE MEANT FIR THUM!

We’re scramblin fir the dosh but Jesus fuck, thaire’s a cop car pullin up, n two polis git oot, so we’re offski, oor poakits laden wi change. We kin hear them radioing fir help, and we head doon Madeira Street, nashin ower Ferry Road, doon Largo Place, n the steps taewards the river, coins swingin n jinglin. One copper’s goat back intae the motor, but one stocky cunt’s fuckin well flyin eftir us as we hit the Water ay Leith walkway. But fuck him, ah even looks back, like he’s gaunny catch us doon here, his wee pish-hole-in-the-snaw eyes set in a white, bulbous face, growin riddir by the second, as he stores air in his cheeks, the fat hamster-faced cunt so comical ah kin feel ma sides spazzin up jist thinkin aboot it. They send this overfed Gumley-raised suburban jackass oot tae chase three Leith schemies? Boys whae wir specifically fuckin bred tae run fae the polis? Labdicks dinnae huv a fuckin scooby!

Sure enough, when ah look back again, he’s stoaped, gaspin, bent ower hudin his knees, as we pass under the Junction Street Bridge. Then he stands like an incompetent fitba player, blawin hard, shaking his fat noggin in disbelief, as if a ref will blaw the whistle and we’ll suddenly stop n take a disgruntled walk intae a meatwagon as a rid caird gits raised skywards. No dice, fat boy! This tree-lined riverbank loves us, this rash ay warehouses, cobbled streets and tenemented dwellings adores its sons and hates auld flatfoot who’s brought nowt but grief doon here since the year dot. Even Keezbo’s takin the pish oot ay him, breathin quite smoothly, though his face is crimson n the sweat’s whippin offay him. Matty’s away ahead, then lookin back, stoapin, n littin us faw intae line. — Cunt, he says breathlessly, — wee cunts were right in thaire … it wis they wee Maxwells fae Thomas Fraser’s … shouldnae even be at the Fort …

Ah’m thinkin ah could nip up the steps at West Bowling Green Street n duck intae the parental home, but ye never shite oan yir ain doorstep, so we keep tearin doon taewards the Forth, passin the ducks swimmin by the derelict factories and the new apartments. We see the Bannanay flats towerin behind the new constructions across the water, as we slow doon tae catch our wind n try tae look casual. Keezbo’s breathin hard, hands oan his hips, Matty’s heid’s swivellin roond like an owl’s. Ah realise we’ve left the Sealink bag, but that’s fuck all.

There’s a slip road that cuts oantae a street leadin tae the courtyard ay this new yuppie scheme n we could cut through it, but the homesteaders are unlikely tae be shy at pickin up the blower if they see natives hingin aboot their property. So we press oan, at a brisk march. Oan the bridge at Sandport Place, we dinnae even see them tae oor right, lurkin oan the slip road ay Coalhill, waiting for us, no in a meatwagon, but in two squad motors.

FUCK …

Thaire’s nae runnin left in any ay us now. We run oan junk and we’ve burned the dregs ay that ootay oor systems.

They handcuff me n Matty thegither, and Keezbo on his ain, wi his hands in front, n wir taken tae a holdin cell up the High Street. Funny, but although ah’m bein plunged intae what promises tae be the worst sickness ah’ve ever known, ah’m relieved in a wey, just cause it’s aw ower. Now ah’m anticipatin the next big challenge: gettin detoxed. Ah’m thinkin, they’ll help us, surely tae fuck, they’ll no leave us like this, cause ah’m rattlin n that methadone is fuck all use.