Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

— Oo-er, missus! Sick Boy goes.

Mrs Curran passes us and ah cannae resist it, n go, — Ye been takin the dhobi up the Bendix again, Mrs Curran?

— Aye, Mark, every day. It’s a never-endin struggle, even wi Susan movin oot tae get mairried. Ma Olly n Duncan get through a lot ay washin.

— It must be a bit sair, Sick Boy says, the bad bastard, — ah mean, a big load up the Bendix every single day .

She looks dumbfounded and hostile, her mooth curling doonwards, heid jerkin back like it’s oan an invisible chain, as if she’s tippled.

— Ah mean, yir hands n yir airms n that, he qualifies.

Ma Curran relaxes. — Naw, son, ah git a walk up thaire, n chat tae ma pals, n ah take the bus back tae the Fort, she explains, then looks at me in hostility. — So how’s the new place?

— It’s no that new. We’ve been thaire four years now.

— No bad fir some, she says bitterly. — They’ve goat thaime on D Landin now. She turns tae the Asians, climbin oantae the 16 bus. — A whole faimly, n the Johnstones’ auld hoose. She purses in disgust. — The smell ay that cookin makes ye seek. Bloody seek tae the gills, n it stinks the dryin green right oot. That’s how ah take it up the Bendix sae much.

— Any excuse, ah chide, noting that Sick Boy’s lost interest in the game and is now checkin oot this passing lassie; coupon, tits, erse, legs, but maist ay aw, handbag.

— Nae excuses aboot it, this country isnae fir the white people thit made it any mair. Mrs Curran shakes her heid, then turns and continues her goose-step up the Walk.

Sick Boy’s also oan his heels. — Listen, Mark, huv tae go, catch ye later, he says, off in pursuit ay the lassie. Ah watch him for a bit and he soon falls intae first step, then conversation, wi her. Cunt. If ah tried that wi some bird, she’d huv the polis right oan us in a second. Naebody could accuse him ay bein pusill-whatever-the-fuck-ye-call-it.

So ah’m left on ma tod, but ah’m quite chuffed aboot it. The sun comes oot and ah test ma back by grippin the bus shelter roof, n daein a couple ay pull-ups, before headin oaf doon the road.

AT A NATIONAL referendum on 1 March 1979, the people of Scotland voted by a majority to reinstitute a parliament. This would restore some degree of sovereignty to their country, after almost three hundred years of undemocratically imposed union with England. George Cunningham, a Scottish, London-based Labour MP, put forward an amendment to the Devolution Bill, which rejigged the rules so that this parliament would not be automatically offered to Scottish citizens.

The Conservative Party, led by Margaret Thatcher, came to power in May 1979. With a meagre percentage of the Scottish vote, it was thus argued that they had no democratic mandate, but they steadfastly opposed and vetoed the setting up of the Edinburgh parliament.

— THAT’S THE FUCKIN tragedy ay Scotland. Frank ‘Franco’ Begbie, heavyset, with a number-two cut, tattoos on his hands and neck inching towards the light, makes the declaration from a bar stool in an austere Leith Walk hostelry, one never destined to feature in any Edinburgh Pub Guide. For emphasis he punches Spud Murphy’s thin biceps, the casual sledgehammer blow almost knocking his friend off his seat. — Nae fuckin qualification fir the European Nations Cup again!

In evidence Franco points to the television mounted in the corner of the pub, above the jukebox, which, through blazing luminous colours, shows two sets of Continental footballers taking the field. Tommy Lawrence tenses his tight, muscular frame, arching his neck towards the screen, and even lazy-eyed Mark Renton does too, because it’s Platini time again. They scrutinise the lines of alert players in mid-shot as the camera pans along their ranks, looking for clues as to how the game might unfold. From the shabby bar they find themselves in — nicotine-stained walls, cracked floor tiles and battered furniture — they’re wondering how it feels to be up there, chests expanded, mentally focused, ninety minutes away from at least some kind of immortality.

Spud, dirty-blond hair sticking up in tufts, grimaces, massages his injury, trying to dissipate that insistent throb Renton and Tommy knew so well. Regarding his near-tearful expression, Renton is moved to affectionately consider that if Oor Willie grew up in the Kirkgate, wore washed-out Fred Perry shirts, shoplifted and took loads of speed, he and Spud would be dead ringers. Apart from the Dudley D. Watkins scribbled golden smile, Spud has two expressions: totally-scoobied-as-to-what-the-fuck’s-going-on and the constantly-on-the-verge-of-tears look he is currently deploying. Assailed with self-pity and self-loathing, regarding his folly in sitting next to Begbie, he glances around. — Aye … it’s bad, likesay, he concedes, wondering how he can manoeuvre into another seat. However, Tommy and Renton particularly, himself suffering with an injured arm and back, are determinedly keeping Spud in between themselves and the animated Franco. Staring down the lighted barrel of Frank Begbie’s Regal King Size, the tip blazing like a third eye as inhalation hollows the smoker’s cheeks, an overwhelming sense of ‘what the fuck am I doing here?’ descends on Renton.

Tommy, meantime, takes in that bull-like neck and stocky frame. Franco isn’t that tall, about the same height as Renton, just shy of six foot, and thus smaller than him, though he’s brawny enough, his dense body seeming to aggregate the mass of the bar’s other occupants. He’s wearing a leather bomber jacket, which Tommy notes is a dead ringer for Renton’s, though he insists on getting complimented for it. — Aye … fuckin barry jaykit but, eh … suave as fuck, he announces yet again, as he hangs it carefully on the back of the stool.

Spud scans the twisting cables of Frank Begbie’s biceps and forearms, unravelling from under the sleeves of his white Adidas T-shirt, marvelling at their power in comparison to his and Renton’s thin, milky limbs. Tommy coldly eyes the expanse of Begbie’s ribcage, thinks of the pivoting right hook that would open it up and send Franco sprawling to the floor. The execution of such a blow is well within Tommy’s capabilities, and the follow-up of boot to head also inside his emotional and martial lexicon. But it was no-go, because with Begbie, that’s when the real problems would start. Besides, he was a mate.

A belligerent nod from Begbie to Mickey Aitken behind the bar, and the old boy moves like an oil tanker in a cardigan, picking up the handset and attacking the TV, ramping up ‘La Marseillaise’. Platini, a man-of-destiny glint in his eye, is giving it the big one as Keezbo’s ample frame swaggers jauntily into the pub. Tommy, Spud and Renton all share a solitary, unacknowledged thought: Maybe that fat Jambo bastard can sit beside Begbie and take the pummelling . In the sparsely populated boozer Keezbo instantly registers his friends at the bar, then Lesley the barmaid, who has emerged from the office to commence her shift. Forget Platini, she’s the obvious attraction here, with her ratty good looks, collar-length blonde hair and substantial cleavage, although it’s the tight jeans and exposed midriff that catches the sly eye of Mark Renton.

Keezbo takes in a more generic sweep of the barmaid before asking, — How’s the light ay ma life?

Lesley returns his evaluating look, though limits her scope to Keezbo’s strangely stirring pale blue eyes, framed by his black specs. Trying to ascertain where he is on the joking/flirting matrix, she keeps her tone pleasantly neutral. — No bad, Keith. Yirsel?

— In the pink, now thit ah’m feastin on your beauty, Miss Lesley.