Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

They flow like blood from a deep wound, along the gravel-strewn railway banking. After repeatedly stumbling, they give up and take the easier way, striding along the wooden sleepers, as the subtle curving of the rail track draws their laboured steps to the misty vanishing point.

The edge of the world turns dark as the sun sinks behind the broken tenements and the ancient castle, the chilling air now slightly ozone, but augmenting those fumes that the oncoming chemical plant and distillery boak constantly skywards in hazy, almost phantom, tendrils. Ahead is the plant. Why here, Renton asks himself, why in this city? The Scottish Enlightenment. You could trace the line from that period of the city’s global greatness, to the Aids capital of Europe, going straight through that mix of processing plants and warehouses within those security fences. It was a peculiarly Edinburgh brainchild of medicine, invention and economics; from the analytical minds of the Blacks and Cullens, filtered through the speculations of the Humes and the Smiths. From the deliberations and actions of Edinburgh’s finest sons in the eighteenth century, to its poorest ones poisoning themselves with heroin at the close of this one. A shiver in his eye.

We in Scotland …

They move further down the track, the darkness broken up only by the odd lights emanating from the back rooms of tenements. — We have tae watch for freight trains, they take nuclear waste along this line, Renton whispers.

The upbeat vibe doesn’t last as they move further down the rail tracks. The planks grow viciously heavy on their shoulders. They’re compelled to stop and take a break, sitting on the sleepers protruding from the outside of the rails. Sick Boy, who’s been carrying the bags and making them out to be heavier than they are, is urged to take his shift. — Ah’ve goat a fuckin spel in ma hand, he protests, sucking on a finger.

— How the fuck did you git a spel? You’ve nivir cairried any wid, Renton bites.

— Ah did it earlier, Sick Boy moans, looking at Renton glaring in doubtful accusation back at him. — What? Ah’ll take a fuckin shot!

Matty stretches out, finds some dock leaves and starts rubbing them on his hand. His shoulder aches worse than ever from the plank. He’s fucked if he’s taking another shift with it. Spud looks nervously at Renton. — Ah feel crap, Mark, this is the worst. His haunted eyes expand. — Dae ye think wir gaunny die?

— Nup, calm doon, mate, we’ll be sound. Withdrawal hurts, but it doesnae kill, it’s no like OD.

Spud, his eyes like tennis balls, wiping a cascade of snot from under his nose with the sleeve of his ragged yellow sweater, turns to Sick Boy. — What would you dae but, likesay, if ye jist hud a few weeks tae live? Ah mean, we might huv that cowie by now. Tons ay thum’s gittin it, likes.

— Shite.

— But what wid ye dae if ye jist hud a few weeks left, ken? Jist sayin.

Sick Boy replies without hesitation: — Ah’d get a season ticket fir Tynecastle.

— Yir jokin!

— Naw, cause at least ah’d die wi the satisfaction of knowing that there would be one less ay these cunts.

Spud forces a dark smile. Keezbo briefly looks at Sick Boy as if he’s ready to say something, then turns to contemplate the rails of the track: rusty brown and gleaming silver. He seems deranged with the pain of withdrawal; dislocated and delirious with insomnia. — By rights it’s oor skag. It’s gittin made in oor toon …

— That’s right, Keezbo. Sick Boy blows hard, galvanising himself with outrage. — Glaxo’s poxy shareholders are minted while we fuckin suffer! We’re sick and we fuckin well need it!

— By rights it’s the people ay Gorgie’s skag but, Spud says, — cause it’s in the Jambo end ay toon. Like it’s Scotland’s oil. If we wir livin in a society ay real socialism, likes.

— Here’s the News at Ten . Sick Boy hums the tune. — Ding! We urnae!

Renton looks at Spud’s disconsolate expression, tries to gee him up. — Keezbo’s a Jambo, we’re jist helpin um git his share. Try thinkin ay it that wey.

— Dinnae ken how any cunt fae Leith kin support Herts, Matty says.

— Well, ah do, n so does his brar. Keezbo stands up, as he looks to Renton.

— Cunt, they built the skag plant next tae Tyney cause they kent they’d huv a ready supply ay daft fuckers needin somethin for the pain ay livin, Matty sneers defiantly at Keezbo, who is still breathing hard, hands on his hips.

— Ah goat telt by Drew Abbot that Leith wis traditionally Jambo territory, Spud explains, — it’s only in the last couple ay generations it’s likesay become Hibs, likes cause ay the groond bein near.

— Aye? Sick Boy asks wearily.

— Aye, the dockers were eywis Jambos, cause ye hud tae be a mason tae work oan the docks n shipyards.

— Kin we save this fuckin discussion fir another time?! Renton snaps in exasperation. — If ah wanted a fuckin lecture in history ah’d huv steyed at the university! Let’s get movin!

— Ah’m jist sayin, Spud pouts.

— Ah ken, Danny, Renton says, putting his arm round Spud’s shoulder. A three-quarter moon, which has inched through the clouds, bathes them in its silvery light. Below, the traffic softly rustles by. — But this is the big yin. We need tae keep focused here or wir fucked. You’re ma best buddy, man, sorry ah shouted at ye. He rubs Spud’s back. It’s so thin and puny he can scarcely believe it belongs to a human being.

— Sorry, Mark, ma bottle just likesay pure went, like crash, smash, tinkle, ken? Ah’m tryin tae sortay distract masel, cause ah’m pure shitein it here, man.

— We’ll be fine, Renton says, grabbing a plank and looking at Sick Boy, who tuts, but takes up the other end. Spud and Keezbo get the wood back on their shoulders. They walk slowly down the tracks. This time Matty is taking the break, and picks up the bags.

He walks a few steps behind Renton, then suddenly turns on him. — Cunt, you used tae wear a Rangers strip but, Rents. Primary.

— Look, ah’ve telt every cunt a hundred times, ma auld man bought me n Billy Rangers tops and took us through tae Ibrox when we were wee laddies, tryin tae make us Huns, Renton puffs, harping on at the disembodied voice behind him. — Billy wanted tae support an Edinburgh team, so my dad took us tae Tynecastle n bought us Herts gear. He turns round and looks at Matty, then Spud who is advancing alongside them, carrying the other plank with Keezbo. — Ah hated gaun thaire, hated that dirty maroon n the smell ay the distillery made us totally fuckin Zorba. So ah asked ma Uncle Kenny tae take us tae Easter Road. Then when ah goat aulder, ah started gaun wi aw youse cunts, he looks across to Spud and back to Sick Boy, — everybody except you, Matty, cause you never fuckin go anyway! Renton shouts towards Matty’s face, belligerent and caustic. — Ah fuckin rejected both the Huns and the Jambos through informed fuckin choice , so ah’m mair ay a real, genuine Hibby than you’ll ever be. So shut the fuck up, ya wee tramp!

Matty drops the bags and steps forward, tensed up. This forces Renton and therefore Sick Boy to do the same with their respectve ends of the plank. — So ah’m a fuckin tramp? Cunt, looked at yersel lately, ya fuckin mingin –

— STOAP IT! Spud shouts, as he and Keezbo drop their plank ends and get in between them. — Stoap aw this shite, youse! Ah hate tae see mates arguin!

— Aye, behave yersels, ya fuckin radges. Sick Boy shakes his head, nods across to the back of an overlooking tenement with kitchen lights burning.

— Keep it doon, or they’ll have the polis oantae us! Let’s pick up the fuckin wid!

— It’s aw gaun wrong … Spud muses, but Matty, though mumbling to himself, is picking up the wooden plank, taking over from Spud, and they’re off again.