Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

The clock says yon time, so ah slap Young Bobby on the back, and we down oor tools and head fir the canteen. — Ah kent what ah wis daein, Mark, he protests, — ah wisnae gaunny shoot any cunt, like.

— Fair enough, Bobby, ye got tae watch though, mate.

Bobby nods apologetically. He likes me; all psychos seem tae. Ah’d long accepted the universe as a rough, tangled and flawed place, so ah never judged, at least publicly, and generally indulged the capricious foibles ay the bam. They made life interesting. We walk across the forecourt tae the canteen adjoining the warehouse that services several businesses oan the industrial estate. Sean was still a bit shaken, maintaining a discreet distance fae Bobby, as if the cunt was still tooled up in some wey.

The canteen is pretty basic. They’d started tae dae pies and sausage rolls wi beans and chips or filled rolls, but maist ay the boys still brought their ain pieces. Big Mel, an oil tanker ay a lassie, was oan her ain the day withoot her sidekick Morag.

— Awright, Mel doll?

— Hiya, handsome.

— Nae Mozzer, Mel? ah enquire, as me Sean, Les, Bobby n Mitch join the queue.

— Naw, Mark, she’s took a day oaf … oan the sick. She lowers her voice as Ralphy Gillsland comes in with Bannerman and wee Baxy. We hated those cunts, Fanny-Flaps, Bannerman, the gravel-voiced foreman, and Baxy, his sooky wee sidekick.

— Steel’s order done yet? Bannerman, the big box-like cunt wi the square body and heid, shouts doon the line at me.

Ah resent talking tae Bannerman at the best ay times, especially when ah’m oan ma fuckin brek. — It went oot oan the van this mornin, ah took great delight in telling him. That was maistly doon tae Young Bobby. Deranged he might be, but that troubled son ay Niddrie Mains certainly kent how tae work that gun.

— Good, Bannerman mutters sourly.

Ah dinnae even look back at the miserable cunt. While Ralphy, in spite ay ma antipathy tae him, seems tae perversely like me, Bannerman was my enemy fae the start. The cunt loathes me even mair since ah went oaf tae uni. Ah turn tae Mel. — Still seein that felly, Mel? She’s been humping this big fermer’s boy fae West Calder.

— Him! No way, she replies, blowing air out the side ay her mouth wi the force of Bobby’s gun.

— Big laddie but, Mel, Les says suggestively.

— Tiny wee fuckin welt oan it but, she scoffs. — That’s nae use tae me!

Ah ponder this fir a bit. — Right enough, Mel, ye want tae git yirsel one ay they dwarf boys. Huge knobs oan these cunts … or so they tell me.

— Ah, ya dirty fuckin dwarf-shaggin cunt, Les dives in. Bobby flashes a smile full of teeth and snickers his wheezy, shoulder-shaking laugh.

— Ah’ve been sucked oaf by a few ay they in ma time, ah swivel my hips, — ideal height, nae need for knees, but ah’ve nivir gie’d yin the message. Ah’m relyin oan you fir the details thaire, Lesbo.

— Aye, you can fuck off, ya cunt, Les says. It isnae much ay a retort, but that’s Les. Barry gadgie, but despite his stand-up pretentions, nae Oscar Wilde: even less so in wit than in sexuality.

Young Bobby is dribbling again as he stares at Melanie’s breasts. She clocks him and throws a sulky yin. — Bobby, cut that oot. Ah slap him playfully roond the heid as he shoots me that gurgling toddler smile. Even though he’s only aboot five years younger than me, Young Bobby definitely brings oot some latent paternal instinct in us, which makes me feel a bit uneasy. — Listen, Mel, Boab here’s yir man.

— That skinny wee laddie? Ah’ve seen mair meat in one ay they pies!

For a split second ah think that Young Bobby is gaunny blush. But then he just winks and twists his lower lip downward. — Any time, any place, baby.

Melanie lets oot a horsey laugh n whacks some mashed tatties oan a plate fir Mitch. — They say that aboot skinny guys. Aw prick n ribs, Les ventures. — Frank Sinatra weighed only a hunner n thirty pounds, but Ava Gardner goes, ‘A hunner ay that wis cock.’ Mel hilariously tries tae look a bit demure, but ah clock her shootin Bobby the glance a closing-time drunk gies a fish supper. Ah wag my finger at her as ah’d been the only cunt tae catch this, n she grimaces back at us.

Mel dishes up pie, beans n mash fir me, then does the same for Young Bobby, who picks up the plastic bottle and covers every square centimetre ay tattie and pie wi broon sauce till it farts oot the dregs. Nane left for the approachin Bannerman! — Wasted aw the fuckin sauce, he growls in outrage, clocking Bobby’s plate as he huds up the empty boatil. — Ye couldnae have wanted aw that fuckin sauce!

Bobby thinks aboot this, then announces, — Ah wis jist feelin … he sweeps his hair back tae show a furrowed brow, — … saucy! Then he waltzes tae the table as Les, Mitch and me cannae help chortling away. Even Sean’s lightened up. Wee things like that seem trivial but those were the kind ay glorious mini-victories Bobby effortlessly specialised in. It made getting shot at worthwhile.

After work ah sees Sick Boy at the Fit ay the Walk, standing at the bus stop, large eyes scanning this waiting lassie, as he rubs his pointed five-o’clock-shadow chin in contemplation. Ah watch his expression shift in a heartbeat fae baleful, like a baby animal throwing itself oan yir mercy, tae cruel and arrogant. He’s just ready tae make his move. His black, collar-length, mod-cut hair has a glossy sheen to it, and he’s wearing a white V-neck shirt tae highlight his dusky Mediterranean skin, inherited fae his Eyetie ma. He’s got broon canvas troosers wrapped roond legs that seem a wee bit too long for his body, and he’s wearing decent trainers for a change — he usually wears expensive Italian shoes, always knock-off. Sick Boy’s constantly on the pull, and ah disturb the cunt just as he’s aboot tae pounce. — Rents … he says irritably, nodding at the lassie, — … I was working …

— Take a brek, n come for a beer, ah tell him, cause ah need tae talk aboot movin intae the gaff in Montgomery Street.

— If you’re buying. Too many baboons in this neck ay the woods, anywey, he moans. Baboons are what he calls lassies wi bairns: B rat A ttached, B ugger O ff O nto N ext.

We go intae the Central and start chewing the fat. He collapses oantae a bar stool, while ah elect tae stand. Sick Boy’s doing his usual: running doon Leith, telling us that he’s meant fir better things. — I know things are hard, but there are just so many pusillanimous fuck-ups in Leith.

— What?

— Pusillanimous. It means lacking the will or courage to go on. Moaning. Whingeing.

An auld cunt wi a bunnet and nae teeth, whae’s been standin at the bar next tae us, chips in. — A loat ay people widnae like ye sayin that, he warns, eyes fired up.

— Ever heard ay the term private conversation?

— You ever heard ay the term public house?

Sick Boy raises his brows, seems tae consider this, then goes, — Fair fucks, you’ve got me bang tae rights, boss, and he shouts up another round including the old boy, who pulls up a bar stool, glowing wi a sense ay privilege. However, the auld cunt takes it as an opportunity tae tell us the story ay his life, makin it oor cue tae guzzle up n escape.

As we emerge intae the warm sunlight ay the fading summer night, that nosy saw-faced auld cow fae the Fort, Margaret Curran, is comin up the road, wi her big bag ay washing. She scowls indignantly as she spies a Paki family, well, ah shouldnae really say that cause thir mair likely tae be Bengali, waitin at the bus stop.

— Why is that poisonous minger always carrying a bagful ay washing? Sick Boy asks as she comes closer.

— She goes up the laundromat aw the time, jist soas she kin hing oot wi her mates, ah tell him, mimicking her voice: — Ah always take it up the Bendix, son.