Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

Lesley’s smile contains that genuine flash of coyness that Keezbo often manages to kindle, even in the most seasoned girls about town.

— Sack it, ya fat cunt, Begbie says, — she’s mine but, eh, Lesley?

— In yir dreams, son, Lesley tells him, her buoyancy and swagger rallying after Keezbo’s wrong-footing.

— And wet as fuck they ur n aw, Begbie laughs, close-shorn head looking as hard as a crane’s wrecking ball.

Keezbo orders up a round of lagers. For a better view of the screen, they take seats near the corner, in a crescent-shaped booth of slashed leather seating, which spills its foamy guts around a Formica table. Renton has found an old wrap of speed in his jeans pocket and passes it round; each of them, except Begbie, whose eyes are still trained on Lesley, taking a dab. — She’s no shy, he observes on behalf of the company. There’s a big grin on Keezbo’s face as he comes over with the pints on a tray, his beaming expression conveying the eager glee of a man with an obsession to share. Setting the drinks down on the table, he takes his dab of amphetamine, moistened by fraternal gob. Wincing under the salty tang, he washes it down with a mouthful of beer. — Mr Mark, Mr Frank, Mr Tommy, Mr Danny, what about this yin: Leo Sayer versus Gilbert O’Sullivan?

Begbie looks to Renton in anticipation; in the relocation they’ve somehow ended up next-door neighbours. Renton goes to say something, then thinks better of it. Instead, he looks to Tommy, as he takes a sip of lager made even more rancid by the dregs of sulphate powder clinging to the back of his throat.

— It’s a good yin, Tommy concedes. Keezbo habitually invents imaginary square-go scenarios between unlikely participants. This time they seem well matched.

— Gilbert O’Sullivan wrote that fuckin nonce song aboot beastin bairns, Begbie suddenly snaps, — that cunt deserves tae fuckin die. Mind ay that? That fuckin video?

— Eh, ‘Claire’, aye, but ah didnae see it that wey, Franco, Spud ventures, — it wis jist a song aboot babysittin a wee lassie he kens, likesay.

Begbie dispenses him a trademark paint-stripping stare. Spud instantly withers. — So you’re the big fuckin music critic now, eh? Is it fuckin natural for a grown man tae write a fuckin song aboot a wee lassie that isnae even his ain? Eh? Answer us that if ye fuckin well kin!

Renton has learned over the years that the worst thing you can do is to make Frank Begbie feel isolated, so he feels it politic to join in on his side. — You’ve goat tae admit, Spud, that it is a wee bit fuckin suspect.

Spud looks crestfallen but Renton can detect the phantom gratitude in his eyes for the out he’s just given him. — Come tae think ay it, ah suppose so …

— Too fuckin right, Begbie sneers, — listen tae this rid-heided cunt. He points at Renton. — Cunt kens mair aboot music thin any cunt roond this fuckin table — him n Keezbo. The cunts wir in a band wi Stevie Hutchison, he contends, looking around to see if there’s any arguments. No takers.

— What d’yis think but, boys, Keezbo asks again, moving things on, — Leo Sayer or Gilbert O’Sullivan?

— Pushed, ah’d have tae go for Sayer, Renton ventures. — Thir baith light wee gadges, but Sayer’s a dancer, so he’s nippy on his feet, whereas O’Sullivan usually jist sits behind a pianny.

They ponder this proposition for a few seconds. Tommy thinks back to the days at Leith Victoria Boxing Club with Begbie and Renton, how it had been not enough for one and too much for the other, but just right for him. Dropping the fifteen-year-old Begbie in the ring after ‘mermaiding’ him; rendering his opponent apoplectic by tempting him out into deep water in pursuit of his would-be prey, before he tired in impotent frustration, unable to get past that cutting jab and catch Tommy. When he ran out of steam he was picked off, a street fighter given a lesson in the sweet science by a boxer. Tommy had thought at the time he’d pay dearly for that victory, but instead he’d gained Begbie’s respect, though his opponent took the opportunity to stress that any conflict outside the ring would be an entirely different scenario.

And Tommy, who with some regret had chosen football over boxing, had no reason to doubt this. He’d come to admit that Begbie was a more accomplished pavement warrior. Tommy could focus on one foe in the ring, but panicked in the hurly-burly of the urban rammy, where good peripheral vision was required to read what was happening with possible multiple opponents. Frank Begbie thrived on imposing himself on that sort of chaos. — It’s what Rent fuckin well sais, he decrees, — it’s a flyweight’s fight, n that usually goes oan speed. Sayer tae pummel the nonce in three. Tam?

— Aye, sounds aboot right tae me.

— Sayer, they toast, raising their glasses, with Spud adding, — The show must go oan.

— Well, if this show hus tae fuckin well go oan, you git up n git a fuckin round in, ya Jewish cunt, Begbie says, killing his pint in one extended swallow, forcing the others to keep up.

Spud pulls a sullen, petulant expression but complies. He’s still working in the furniture deliveries, though his employer has sold off one lorry, and there’s been talk of further redundancies. But he consoles himself with the fact that he’s been there since he left school: a good, reliable worker. Surely he’s safe. Keezbo hasn’t been so fortunate; he tells them he’s been made redundant from the building firm he works for as a brickie. — Ah’ll still dae some casual work for um, but he cannae afford tae send us tae Telford College tae finish ma City n Guilds.

— Whaire the fuck’s Second Prize? Begbie asks. — Heard the cunt goat a doin. They tell us he’s no sayin whae fuckin well did it.

— He’ll no mind, he went intae the club mingin eftir bein oan the peeve aw weekend. Dunfermline sacked him, freed the cunt. He went oan a bender n he’s been oan it since, Tommy explains, looking at Keezbo and Renton. — We shouldnae huv left him in Blackpool.

— He left us, as ah recall, Renton says.

— Mark’s right, Tommy. Keezbo takes of his specs and rubs at his eye. — Ye cannae nursemaid the boy.

— Cunt’s turnin intae a fuckin alkie, Begbie scoffs.

— Yir no wrong, Mr Frank, Keezbo nods, scoring the air with his specs to make the point.

As the conversation turns to wasted talent, Renton takes his chance to move. Almost to his disappointment, the speed is kicking in, everyone is gabbing with nobody bothering about the game. So he asks Mickey tae turn down the commentary for a bit, which he reluctantly does, but only after looking to Begbie to get the okay. The heads of some silently disgruntled drinkers pivot round to the other screen in the far corner by the entrance to the bar. Then Renton hits the jukebox and puts on Kajagoogoo’s ‘Too Shy’. Thinking of the line Modern medicine falls short of your complaint , he finds it amusing to consider Frank Begbie sporting a haircut like Limahl’s. As the refrain strikes up he flutters his lashes, like a roaring twenties chorus girl, at the back of Begbie’s bullet head, drawing nervous, pained expressions from the others.

Something seems to register on Franco’s psycho radar and he turns quickly, almost catching Renton out. — Seen Sick Boy?

— Aye, bumped intae him in the Walk jist the other day. Had a quick beer in the Cenny on the wey hame fi work, Renton responds coolly. — Movin in wi him up at Montgomery Street.

— What aboot the game? Keezbo moans.

— We can still watch it, pit the commentary back oan fir the second half. Ah jist fancy some sounds, Renton’s moved to explain, noting that Tommy’s not too happy either.

Begbie won’t be shifted from the subject of Sick Boy, until his point is made. — Cunt’s eywis oan aboot bein too fuckin good fir the Bannanay flats, but ah hear he’s been hingin aroond his fuckin ma’s bit aw the time.