Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

Swanney gies me a stealthy wink n discreetly pills oot a wee razor blade. Ah clock him nick the inside ay his mooth, catchin the blood in his hands, looking tae Len, whae’s shitein it. — Ma stitch is burst …

— The nurse isn’t in …

— Ah’ll chum um tae git cleaned up, ah quickly volunteer.

— Right …

Ah catch Sick Boy, Keezbo and Spud lookin daggers at us as Swanney n me nash ootside doon the hall tae the bogs. He’s goat works doon his boot n he quickly cooks up. — Last ay the summer wine, buddy. Enjoy it, cause wir in fir a rough ride …

He pills oaf his tie n tourniquets ma airm. We’re dabbin away at a wrap ay speed n it faws oot ma hand as he slams me up and the heroin goes tae ma brain, killin aw the world’s pain.

Fuckin barry, ya cunt …

Ah sit blissed oot oan the crapper as Swanney fixes, tellin me that he wis hudin, n this is the last. He retrieves the speed wrap n we finish it, even though it’s the last thing ah want. — Take it, he commands, as he struggles tae fix his tie. — If they kin tell yir wasted it’s game ower. He rolls his eyes. — But it’s awright here, a great network ay contacts.

— Ta, Johnny, ah gasp, — sound ay ye, man.

— Nae bother, he goes.

When we get back Len-the-Fringe and Skinny-Specky have launched intae this spiel, but nae cunt’s listenin, thir aw slumped back intae thair chairs, n we join thum. It’s gaunny be awright in here. These are ma people: the St Monans crew.

TO ALISON, TIME had become a fractured series of base biological impulses.

Bill and Carole, the other co-workers in her team, knew all about the relationship but were discreet, even supportive, in a quietly protective way. But like Alexander, they noticed the state Alison was coming to work in, when she came in at all. This couldn’t go on. Now here she was again, ghosting in at ten thirty. Alexander made a show of getting her straight into his office, eyes blazing, a gallows set to his mouth. — Look, it might not mean anything to you, he began, — but we’re on the cusp of an epidemic in this city. I can’t show you favouritism above the others. C’mon, Ali, he entreated suddenly, the lowered voice of the lover supplanting that of the boss, — you’re taking the piss here!

— Sorry … it’s just … she blinked at the silver light spearing in between the blinds of the big window behind him, — they buses are mental …

— I really think we should consider getting you transferred, maybe back to the RCP. It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have got involved …

An other-worldly glint sparked in Alison’s eye. Her mouth twisted in sulky defiance. — If it’s your fault, how is it me that’s gettin transferred?

Alexander starkly saw her as a young lassie, and for the first time, experienced a fleetingly snobbish sense of her as common: as a schemie . And it shamed him, thinking that way. He could say nothing in response. It wasn’t fair; he knew that. Yes, he could cite his status and crucial role in fighting this plague, but he didn’t think that was what she’d want to hear. It was time to be honest, as callously forthright as she had been with him, when she’d told him she was seeing other people. — Tanya and me … we’ve decided to make another go of it, for the kids’ sake.

Alison felt herself burn at this news. She didn’t know why; she’d neither wanted nor had any sense of her and Alexander ever being a long-term thing. Perhaps it was just the shock of rejection, or maybe being with him had bestowed more than she’d realised. — Good for you, she responded, with as much grace as she could muster. His doleful stare told her she’d not done too badly. — I’m pleased, and I’m no just saying that, Alison declared, even though, on at least one level, it was a lie. — Kids need both parents, she continued, mustering conviction. — I never wanted tae marry ye , Alexander, it was just shagging. Get a grip.

That slightly mocking, somewhat arcane expression of hers, struck at his core. He loved her, and felt so downcast at the irreparable nature of it all. — I really don’t know if it’s appropriate that we continue working together –

— Oh fuck off, yir really starting tae creep me oot now, and that’s pittin it mildly, she scoffed at him, her laugh hollow and bitter. — I’ve had shit going on, you’ve had shit going on, we shouldnae have ended up in bed, but we did. It’s over, and I’ve nae fuckin interest in broadcasting it tae the world.

— Right … he said falteringly, feeling small, wee-boy weak.

His passivity jolted something inside her. Alison thought about her mother, dying, yet unable to rage against it. The lines from that classic Dylan Thomas poem resonated in her. She had gaped at that withering body, so ruined and decayed it was practically a corpse long before her last heartbeat. It was accompanied by the realisation that she herself was moving forward in life, at the same time as her expectations and ideals were being profoundly shaken. What was it, all this council stuff, this nonsense about fucking trees? It was a pile of meaningless shite, for pompous little cretins to get self-absorbed over. — But ken what? Ah’m gaunny make it easy for ye, she said, in a sudden low growl. — Ah resign. Fae the council. Ah’ve had it here!

— Don’t be silly, you can’t lose your job, Alison, I won’t let you do that, Alexander said, sensing his words falling hopelessly into the widening chasm between them.

— Fuck all tae dae wi you, she said, and walked out of his office, through the open plan, not looking at Bill and Carole, slamming the door shut. Heading down the oak-panelled corridors and across the marble-floored hallway, through the heavy revolving doors, she reached the pillared square outside the City Chambers. Tore up the Royal Mile, the opposite direction of home, feeling better than she’d done in ages, all the time knowing it wouldn’t last.

He was weak, she thought with contempt. She’d also been weak, but she’d been that way with an essentially feeble man. Perhaps that was a blessing. You couldn’t know.

Ye couldnae know anything .

The city was beautiful. It was perfect. Yes, the schemes were horrible and there was nothing in them, but in the centre you had everything. Alison walked on, allowing herself to be awestruck at how amazing her home town was. The light, pouring over the castle, turning the streets of the Old Town silver. It was the most beautiful place in the world. Nothing could compare. The trees were beautiful too. You couldn’t let them take away the trees.

Alison passed under some scaffolding as four drunk, arm-in-arm girls waltzed by, singing as if on a hen night, though it was still morning. She turned, enviously, to watch them sashay up the road, desperate to know the story of their mysterious joy. It inspired her to keep her faith in impulse, propelling her into a functional bar in the shadow of the castle. It was early, and still devoid of custom. A heavyset, sulky girl, with judging eyes, dispensed her a glass of white wine. She sat down on a seat under the window, picking up a discarded Scotsman . The thought amused her: I grabbed hold of a tatty old Scotsman in a grotty bar. Again .

She rubbed the long stem of the glass between her thumb and forefinger, regarding the urine-coloured liquid nestled inside it. Then one sip of the sour vinegary substance almost made her puke. The second one was better, and the third seemed to satisfactorily reset her taste buds. She browsed the paper, arrested by an editorial:

The Scottish Office and Edinburgh District Council are to be commended for their timeous action in tackling the most serious epidemic to face Scotland’s capital. The rampant assault on our treescape, and thus our history and heritage, posed by the terrible Dutch elm threat concerns us all. The disease has taken its toll, but the casualties would have been so much higher had not the current strategy of felling and burning infected trees been so swiftly and decisively enacted.