Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

It’s a mundane red-bricked outbuilding, topped with what looks to be a felt roof. It has a small rectangle of a door, painted green. It sits by the detritus of an older building, now a pile of algae, silt-and-weed-covered bricks and rotting boards. They stall to peer through the fence at it, then quickly move on as two suits emerge from the offices, heading to the car park over the road, lost in business-speak. But they know what they’re going to do. Getting back down to Gorgie Road, they walk into the city, stopping at Bauermeister’s on George IV Bridge to shoplift the Ordinance Survey map covering this segment of inner-city west Edinburgh that now obsesses them.

When they get back to the flat in Montgomery Street, Hazel has gone. Renton says nothing. They’ve barely settled when there’s a timorous knock on the door. They open it to be confronted by Spud and Keezbo, a tearful Laurel and Hardy, ailing and shaky through lack of skag. In the front room, Renton and Sick Boy start to outline their proposition, when there’s another sudden, disquieting knock on the door. It’s Matty, looking completely destroyed. Renton notes that he hasn’t even bothered to try and disguise the receding bits at the side of his hairline by blowing the front central section into a bouffant spread. He smells like an exhumed corpse might, and one side of his face twitches in semi-permanent spasm. He looks sicker than any of them. They glance at each other and decide that they can’t leave him out. So Renton continues with the rundown.

— It’s mental man, never work, we will dae big time , telling ye, and we will dae it big time . Tellin ye, no way, man, no way … Spud gasps.

— Wey we see it, we’ve nae choice, Renton shrugs. — Ah’ve been oantae people in Glesgay, London and Manchester. The polis n customs made a lot ay big seizures lately and thaire’s jist nae fuckin broon. It’s a proper drought. So it’s either take a punt oan this pawkle or dae cauld turkey. It’s as simple as that.

— I’ve been daein too much gear tae try that, Sick Boy shakes his head. Sweat seeps from his pores, his body revolting at the very notion. — It’ll kill us. And I don’t fucking well think that Amelia n Tom in St Monans are gaunny be too keen tae welcome us back intae rehab. And how long is it gaunny take till some cunt has the confidence tae bring another shipment in, or till the polis start puntin it back oot oantae the streets? Too long for me, that’s a fucking cert!

— What dae youse think but, boys? Renton looks around the taut faces, into jittery eyes.

— If it looks a sound plan, ah’m in, Matty says doubtfully.

— Me n aw, Mr Mark, Mr Simon, Keezbo confirms.

Everyone looks at Spud. — Awright, he says in a defeated, barely audible rasp.

Renton shows them two diagrams, which he spreads out on the floor. One is the OS map, supplemented with his felt-tipped pen lines. The other is a drawing they can’t make head nor tail of. — Obviously, dinnae mention this tae any cunt, no even mates. He looks round them all. — Thank fuck Franco’s inside. He’d caw us aw the cunts under the sun then insist oan takin ower. N he’d tell us that we need tae kick the fuck oot ay the security guards instead ay avoidin thum!

They all force a feeble chortle, except Matty, who Renton notes is already acting the cunt. His face is sour, and contemptuous sighs keep erupting from him. Nonetheless, Renton points to the rail lines on the map. — We get oantae the railway line at the old Gorgie Station, just off Gorgie Road. We park the motor and haul the planks up the embankment and walk wi them doon the line towards Murrayfield –

— Planks? Cunt, what fuckin planks? Matty says.

— Sorry, forgot tae mention that we go tae the timber yard in a bit, n git two fifteen-fit planks ay wid cut.

— Cunt, ah think you’re the fuckin plank, Renton.

Renton recalls how they used to be best friends. That summer of 1979 when they went to London as teenage punks. It now seemed a long way away. He fights down his anger. — Bear wi us, mate. The line branches off before Murrayfield. The right-hand fork splits the factory fae the distillery. We take the left, cause it goes right through the chemical plant; there’s a point where the fence gets really close tae the railway embankment. He points to the drawing. — Across the fence, a few feet away, there’s this outbuilding. We take the plank and lay it fae the railway line back oantae the top ay the fence …

— Fuck sake, Matty mumbles.

— … then we walk up the plank, tae the top ay the fence. One ay us stalls there, the rest pass the other plank along. Then we push it doon fae the toap ay the fence oantae the roof ay the outbuilding, then walk doon oantae the roof.

— Cunt, like fuckin Spider-Man, Matty sneers.

— It’s no too high, is it, likesay? Spud asks, eyes full of fear.

— Naw, it’ll be easy. Besides, you’re the best climber oot ay aw ay us, Renton says.

Spud holds a trembling hand out in front of him. — But no like this but, man …

— Lit’s no kid ourselves, it isnae gaunny be a piece ay pish; if it wis some other cunt would’ve done it by now. But it’s far fae impossible, Renton insists, turning back to the map. — There’s a drainpipe on the outbuilding that we can scramble doon tae get intae the plant. Then we find the skag, which’ll probably be in the containers stored in this loading bay, he points out the area on the map, — or in this building here, which is maist likely where they make it.

Matty looks at Renton, then at the others. Shakes his head. — Cunt, some fuckin plan this!

— Let’s hear yours then, Matty, Renton challenges.

— Dinnae be actin the smart cunt cause yuv been tae some daft fuckin sheepshagger college, Mark. Matty dismissively swipes the map with the back of his hand. — This isnae the Great Train Robbery and yir no Bruce Reynolds. Cunt, yir mair like Bruce Forsyth, fruitcakin aboot wi fuckin daft maps n drawins!

Spud and Sick Boy chuckle a little, while Keezbo remains deadpan. Renton sucks in some air, and says, — Look, ah’m no bein Mister Big Time. Ah need gear, he points to the plant on the map, — and it’s in there.

— Cunt, it’s like a fuckin school project tae you! Well, it’ll be like tryin tae find a needle in a haystack. Cunt, ye dinnae even ken whaire the fuckin skag is! They’ve goat guards, probably dugs … Matty looks to the others in appeal.

— First sign ay any bother, we fuckin bolt, Sick Boy says. — Nae dugs or spazzy cunts in uniforms are coming up a plank eftir us.

— Ah still say it’s fuckin mad! Ah mean, cunt, what huv we goat fuckin gaun for us?

Renton sucks in some of the room’s fetid air. Matty is driving him crazy. Withdrawal is gnawing at his brain and bones and it’s crucial when you feel like this to invest your strength in the correct grains of conversation. — Fine. Dae cauld turkey then, he snaps.

Then Sick Boy turns on Matty. — Ever heard ay the element ay surprise? The Charge ay the Light Brigade? Three hundred Spartans? Bannockburn? History’s fuckin littered wi gadges who’ve upset the odds, just by huvin the fucking bottle tae huv a dash. Did they change the motto ay Leith fae ‘persevere’ tae ‘shite it’ when ah wisnae looking?

Matty falls into a silence that’s contagious for a few seconds till the shrill ringing of the phone shatters it, searing their nerve endings. Renton and Sick Boy both pounce and Renton gets there first, instantly deflated to hear the voice of his father on the line. — Mark?

The synapses in his brain stumble over one another. — Dad … what is it?

— We need skag, he hears Sick Boy say to Matty. — They’ve goat it and nae cunt else does. Endy story.