Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

Ah fight an impulse tae get up tae greet Massima, though ah can see her emerging from the train, stepping oantae the platform with such grace, looking aroond, catching my eye and waving a tight, concerned smile that signals something’s up. I hope the Catholic guilt hasnae kicked in tae the extent ah’m gaunny have tae work for ma hole. The seal’s been burst so the deed’s done. So let’s just fuckin well party and repent them aw at once; last ah heard the sin supermarket didnae have an express checkout for fewer items! Massima’s eyes are almost freakishly huge, her hair as black as ink, with big crescent brows to match. Ah seem tae go mair for bold features and left-field beauty now. Conventionally pretty blonde lassies like Marianne and Esther are like bland dolls, their faces purely defined by the cosmetics they fuss ower for hours. When they annoyingly take their make-up off before going to bed, it feels like fucking a ghost.

Massima appears through the swing doors wearing a short, dark blue gingham cloth dress, like a Ben Sherman ah had yonks ago; with her bare pins, it sets up enough horn to make any self-respecting hippo develop rhinoceros tendencies. — Simon, she greets me in that gargly, almost mechanistic burr that a lot ay Italian lassies have, but there’s something no quite right here. Her posture is stiff as she sits down, and there’s defo misgivings in those eyes. — I have been so frightened … she confesses, then says something in Italian, which ah dinnae get. She gleans from my expression that ah’m scoobied, so she reverts back tae her pidgin English. — I am … behind in my time.

Contretemps! Cosmic forces again!

— You mean late? Ah swallow hard. — Your period is late ?

— Si … She looks into my eyes with her glassy lamps.

The key is not to crumble. Keep the heid. You’ve heard this one before, you’ll probably hear it again … you have legs, and there are trains. You will never be the sort who passively accepts cards that are unfairly dealt to him …

So ah take her hands in mine, and say, — Don’t jump to conclusions, babes. Let’s get a wee test done … a test, so that we know one way or the other. Whatever happens, we’ll get through this little contretemps together. C’mon, ah look around, — let’s get ootay here.

And we leave the bar and the station, taking the rocky road out of town towards the auld farm, making plans as we go. By the time we get to the barn at the back of the farmhouse, where scabby goats graze on the feeble grass, I’ve reassured her. So much so that the front straps ay that dress slip easily fae her thin shoodirs, and ah push aside the dark curtain ay her tumbling locks to expose that exquisite neck, which was made tae be kissed, vampire-like.

— You will show me Edinburgh, Simon, she gasps under my love bite.

Ah whisper intae her ear as ah work my hands round her back tae skilfully unhook her white bra, marvelling at just how brown those paps are, — You just try stopping me, babes, you just try stopping me, ah tell her, but you know what? Ah’m not thinking of church, bambinos and watching her bloat and develop kitchen expertise and settle for the Saturday-morning pumping that will allow me to flirt with the town lovelies; no no no, she is mistaking Simone for someone else. My overt concerns might be the almost unfeasibly magnificent curve ay her waist as it cuts intae her hip, but pulsing away in the background is an image ay me on that local train tae Napoli, then heading on to Turin, Paris, London and Edinburgh. — Alone, my darling, always alone, ah murmur in a deep croak, as ah slide my hands down her waist and intae her underpants. — If there is life inside you, Catholic Princess, head north where some cold-blooded Nazi abortionist will scrape it out, or pay the price of living in a papist backwater … She gasps something back, and thank fuck she doesnae ken what ah’m on about, because eftir this ah’m fucking right off hame; a tough sell tae the Holy Papa, this yin, but these are my mountains, and this is my glen. Hail, Caledonia!

AH’M SORTAY KEEPIN ma heid doon cause ah’m still feelin Shakin Stevens eftir rehab n that bout in the hoaspital. Ah wis sweatin bad the other night n pure hit the panic button: jist cause ay bein feart that ah’ve goat that cowie thir aw gittin. At one stage ah couldnae git ma breath; it wis like ah’d forgotten how tae breathe. Ah ken ah likesay took the test n they sais ah wis fine, but somethin’s no right. They used tae say that it wis just poofs that goat it, no that ah’m sayin poofs deserve it like, but it worries us thit ye kin git it jist fir bangin up wi the Jeremy Beadles n that. So ah wis up maist ay the night, tryin tae git ma breath, listenin tae they cats ootside at the back, fightin n huvin sex. Total relief when the mornin light came in; it meant ah could finally git tae sleep.

Everybody’s gittin intae skag nowadays. It used tae be jist a few hip aulder cats like Denny Ross n Sambuca Agnes, then it was the wannabe cool dudes likesay Rents, Sick Boy n moi, whae mibbe goat too enmeshed in the ‘fuck youse’ rock n roll culture, likesay, ken? Tryin too much tae shock the establishment n that, man. As if they cats ivir gied a toss what schemies did, as long as it nivir bothered thaime. Now it’s hit fair Edina’s peripheral concrete bastions (as Sick Boy calls thum) wi a vengeance n aw they boys whae’d huv been oan Tennent’s lager n laughin at us six months ago ur aw huntin it doon, basically cause thuv goat nowt else tae dae. Johnny Swan’s rakin it in, but he’s pure para that the polis’ll be chappin oan his door soon wi aw they radges floatin aboot.

So ah’m steyin in loads. At least things are likesay better wi muh ma, so that’s one good thing. She’s ey oan at us tae move back in, but ah kind ay like it up here in Monty Strasse. It’s cool tae huv yir ain pad for a bit, the sortay sophisticated man-aboot-toon gig, ken? Rents is still in rehab, but due oot any time, n Sick Boy’s back in the mother country. Or the mother’s mother country, mair like. This pad’s good wi two, but mibbe too much wi three, n jist pure decadence fir one, so ah’ll probably relocate back hame whin they cats re-emerge through yon flap. Right now it’s pure peachy sittin here, watchin this Stallone movie, but ah cannae sortay git intae the film. Too much violence, man, which is ey a total bummer pour moi . Cats like Begbie in the jail, they dae bad stuff in real life, n aw they actors like Stallone jist kid oan thir daein it n git peyed the big dosh. Jist fir pretendin tae be radges like the likes ay Franco or Nelly! So that means thit thaire’s nae incentive for a gadge like Franco tae be better, no if every rich Hollywood cat wants tae play at bein thum, likesay.

It’s true but, eh?

So ah takes it oot n pits in The Wizard ay Oz . Ah ken ah might be a bit too auld n that ah’m no a buftie, but ah could easy watch this movie aw day n ivray day, ken? Then ah gits this totally daft idea that it might be bad luck tae watch the film, cause ay aw the bufties gittin the cowie, n they ey watch The Wizard ay Oz . But naw, man, that’s jist plain daft; ye cannae be too much ay a superstitious radge. N it’s great tae watch it oan ma ain, in peace, n withoot likesay gittin slagged off. Ken?

Ah’ve goat ma mug ay tea, it’s actually a soup bowl ay tea (it’s goat a handle like, ah’m no that uncultured!) wi Souper Hibernian oan it, and half a pack ay McVitie’s chocolate digestive bickies. Pure heaven! Went a bit too crazy oan the dunkin but, n totally broke oaf a bicky which sank tae the bottom ay the sea. Never mind, ah’ll reclaim the wreckage once ah’ve drained that ocean ay hoat, sweet tea. Ah’m totally in the zone, thinkin aboot they wee Munchkin gadges, how the Hollywood studio treated them like second-class citizens, a wee bit like us dole-moles under Thatcher, likesay, when ah hears the key in the loak n somebody comin in the door.