Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

— You think because I am now old you can use me like a toilet?!

— Naw … ah jist thoat –

She lunges at us and batters me above the eye wi her fist. — GET OUT! she roars, n ah’m tellin her thit ah’m gaun, jist tae lit us git ma clathes, but she’s punchin n kickin us n ah’m movin across the room, ah cannae hit her back cause she’s a woman, so ah goes tae lock masel in that big bathroom till she’s calmed doon. — Take mair skag … ah goes. But she’s still shoutin fir us tae go, so ah opens the door, but wi her hassling us it’s the wrong door n it goes oot intae the hotel corridor, n she shoves us through it n slams it shut behind us!

Awww, maaaannnn …

Ah’m lookin aroond the deserted corridor, beggin, bangin oan the heavy door, pleadin wi her tae fling oot ma clathes at least, n ah hear her scream fae behind it, — All of your stupid clothes are going out of my vindow!

— NAW! DINNAE! ah goes, batterin the door, but a boy fae the next room comes oot n looks at us, n ah goes, — Yuv goat tae help us, ah need a len ay –

The gadge just pulls back intae the room n slams the door shut. Ah looks doon the hall, n aw ah kin think tae dae is tae pick up the metal plate covers ay some cat’s room-service trays n pit one in front ay ma nuts n the other yin behind ma erse. Ah’m headin doon the corridor n the lift clicks open n a couple git oot n start gigglin. Ah gits in, but it stops at the next flair n a woman n her young son go tae get oan, then stoap. — That man’s not got any clothes on, the bairn says, and his posh ma pills him away. Ah hit the button n the lift goes doon n opens up in the busy lobby.

Ah’m totally done for, man, what am ah gaunny say tae the polis? An auld Dutch singer flung ma clathes oot the windae cause ah tried tae stick ma cock up her erse? Ah’ll pure git the jail! So ah jist goes fir it, man, totally bolts across the reception hall, no lookin at anybody, keepin the tin covers held close, n ah kin hear aw the gasps as ah git tae the door.

The doorman boy wi the top hat says, — These dish covers are hotel property!

But ah’m ootside, n ah sees ma jaykit lyin in the wet, oan the pavement by the taxi rank, n thaire’s ma Fred Perry in the gutter … but whaire’s ma jeans? … Aw, man; ah looks up n the keks are caught roond the flagpole, but thir gaunny come doon any second … Ah hears shriekin lassies’ laughter comin fae the boozer across the lane … it’s the Rutland, man … worst place ah kin be … but here come the keks … there’s only one trainer, so ah leave them n drop the dish covers n bundle the clathes up. The doorman, whae’s been shoutin aboot polis, comes eftir us n picks up the dish covers, n ah’m runnin bare-ersed doon the side street, clathes bunched in front ay us. One cabbie, whae’s been watchin n laughin, shouts some encouragement fae his taxi, as ah bounds doon Rutland Street, doon a flight ay stairs intae a mingin auld basement. Ah’m no bothered but; ah pill masel intae the troosers, ma feet cauld n wet oan the rain-soaked, mucky groond cause its been pishin doon, n ah gits ma shirt n jaykit oan. When ah git back up tae street level, ah cannae face gaun past the Caley or the Slutland tae the bus stoap, so ah heads doon the street taewards Rutland Square. Ma bare feet are freezin as ah walk past aw they snobby solicitors’ buildins and posh offices oan the Georgian square wi its big pillars, n ah’m gled that it’s late n naebody’s aroond. Ma paws are black wi the dirt, and cauld and sair, n ah’m gaunny git pneumonia here n be back in yon hoapsital, ah kin jist pure tell. Ah’m jist lookin at the cracks oan the pavement, mumblin that auld playgroond rhyme:

Stand oan a line n brek yir spine

Stand oan a crack n brek yir back .

Never goat the difference between the two cause yir snookered either wey, but mibbe that’s what it’s aboot; sortay pure life in Scotland, likesay. Ah gits roond the corner tae Shandwick Place n ah cross ower the road at the Quaich Bar n stand at the bus stoap ootside that big church, St Dodes, people lookin at ma bare feet like ah’m some kind ay community-care radge. A 12 bus comes and thank God that ah’ve got enough change in ma poakit, that it never fell oot when she flung the keks oot the windae. The bus stoaps n ah pit ma dosh in the slot. The driver looks doon at ma feet. — Bad night?

— Aye.

N as ah’m sittin oan the bus, ah git tae thinkin, mibbe it’s sortay karma. Mibbe God never intended for birds’ erses tae be used fir that sortay thing. In Through the Out Door as Zeppelin might huv pit it. So ah gits back doon tae Monty Strasse n up the stair, n intae the hoose. Sick Boy, they nice burds fae backstage at the gig n the guitarist boy ur there, chasin broon. Rents is thaire n aw; he looks bombed n gies us a lazy wave. He’s wi Hazel, whae isnae touchin the gear n doesnae look awfay happy.

Sick Boy’s pittin some mair skag oan the foil. — You’re back early, superstud. Still, ah kin see why ye didnae want tae stey the night! Gory details then, cunt, he snaps.

— Heard ye goat a result … Mark slurs, laughin softly.

— Hi, man … how wis rehab?

— Ye see it aw, he shrugs, lookin aw apologetically tae Hazel, whae turns away.

— Not a kisser n teller, eh? Ah admire that. Shows class in a man, Sick Boy says, comin up tae me wi the foil pipe. — Have some ay this, buddy. Whaire’s yir fuckin shoes, ya radge?

— Long story, man, ah goes, takin the pipe, cause ah’m no really in the mood tae refuse anything, ken?

IT HAD BEEN a long, disquieting drive, visibility hampered by the lashing rain against his windscreen. Now fatigue hit him, rapid and unforeseen; his awareness that the thump and swish of the rubber wipers was having a lulling, heavy-eyed effect only became apparent when a series of yawns tore through him. He shook his head, blinked rapidly, and tightened his grip on the wheel. A road sign, flashing luminous green under his headlights, told him he was close to his destination.

Russell Birch had never been to Southend before, and he’d heard it could get lively, but as he came into the Essex seaside town, it was evident that the bad weather had dampened weekend festivities. As he left the A13, drove past the railway station and down onto the Western Esplanade, the world’s largest pier still flashed its attractions, but it was almost deserted. It seemed that people had largely reached where they wanted to go and had holed up in the pub or club of their choice. Only a few brave, underdressed revellers, lashed by rain, scurried down the streets, stoically heading for another port of call.

Russell was driving slowly along the esplanade, looking for his turn-off, stopping at some lights, when two girls, like saturated tea bags hoisted from a pot, suddenly swung from the wet darkness out in front of him, forcing him to brake. — Giz a lift, one shouted, her bottle-blonde hair cascading down her face in soaked ringlets. He was almost tempted; had he not been in a hurry or carrying his disturbing cargo, he probably would have. Instead, he moved on, forcing them over to the side in their heels. — You cunt, he heard one of them screech into the grim night, as he sped away from them.

It took him a while to find the rendezvous point. It was a little out of town, a rather prim alehouse with the rustic pretensions characterising many such places in suburban England. He turned into a small car park at the back of the pub, surrounded by trellis fencing which struggled to hold back the encroaching hedges and trees of the neighbouring gardens. A few lights cut through the almost pitch blackness, showing him only one other car, a black BMW. Russell parked a discreet distance from it. It had to be them, and they would be inside. He opened the door and stepped out into the rain, aware that his hands were shaking.