Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

— That’s cause his auld man fucked off wi that younger bird, Renton says.

Keezbo has his glasses off again, and is polishing them on his Clash Combat Rock T-shirt. It’s XXL but it strains across his gut. — That’s right, Mr Mark. Ah saw him up the toon wi her. She’s only aboot twenty-five or something. Goat a bairn, ah hear.

Renton turns away to the screen. Fuck shagging somebody that’s had a bairn . It was bad enough thinking about another guy’s cock having been up the bird you were cowping, but their bairn being pulled through her fanny … no fucking way, he thinks, and gives a shudder to shake off his squeamishness.

— Tidy, is she? Tommy asks.

— No bad, Keezbo admits, — ah’d gie her one.

— Dirty, lucky auld cunt.

— You jist need tae git yir fuckin hole, Tam, Begbie says, then turns to the table. — Saw um tryin tae fuckin chat up that Lizzie McIntosh at the Fit ay the Walk the other day.

— Jist sayin hiya, Tommy shrugs.

— Punchin above yir weight wi that yin, Mr T, Keezbo laughs.

Tommy responds with a calculating smile, while Spud reminisces. — Ah spoke tae her once. She wis paintin, like wi an easel n that, doon the Shore. Barry paintin n aw. That wis what ah sais tae her: barry paintin. She’s at the art college, eh, Tam?

— Aye.

— Wee snobby fanny, Begbie says, — ah mind ay her fae school. Yill git nowt oafay her, Tam. Should come wi me tae the Spiral, met this bird thaire last week. She wisnae fuckin shy!

Renton grinds his teeth, recollecting a school incident with Begbie that he considers bringing up, and then decides against it. Instead he recalls Lizzie from the O-grade art class. A ride and a half, though that class was rammed with them, he considers: it still made up about fifty per cent of his wanking material.

— Lizzie isnae really snobby, but. She swears like a fuckin trooper, Tommy says. As the words spill from his mouth, his own cowardice and that of all them around the table suddenly shames him. They’d all experienced that chance encounter with a girl like a long-absent sun, calling you out of a dark place, opening you up, rendering you as helpless as any blossoming flower.

— You are right on the money wi the McIntosh honey, Renton smiles, discreetly squeezing the bone and cartilage of Tommy’s knee. — She gies off that aloof vibe that a lot ay shaggable rides dae, but it’s basically just a defence mechanism tae stop radges chatting them up. She’s awright when ye get spraffin wi her.

The others seem to accept this contention; all except Begbie. — Aye, bit swearin’s aw fir fuckin show wi they snobby cunts, they dinnae jist fuckin swear naturally like normal cunts fuckin well dae.

For some reason that eludes him, Renton’s suddenly beset with a great love in his heart for Franco, dispensing him an acknowledging wink. — You ain’t wrong thaire, buddy.

Begbie bristles vaingloriously, sitting back, almost purring in contentment. Then his face alters dramatically and paranoia swamps Renton, as he thinks: I’ve misjudged what’s gaun oan in this moody cunt’s heid!

Then he realises that Begbie’s focused on something behind him, so he spins in his seat to see a skinny, angular-framed girl, around eighteen years old, with spiky mousy-blonde hair, shaved short at the sides. Ignoring Lesley at the bar, she advances towards them, stopping a few feet away, her arms folded across her slight chest. They register her one by one as Begbie sits back with a belligerent set to his face. — What are you fuckin well wantin?

— Tae talk, she says.

Renton immediately thinks the girl looks interesting. Actually mair my type than Franco’s. He usually prefers a bit ay meat on dem bones dem bones dem dry bones .

— Talk aw ye want, Begbie scoffs, shrugging off her attentions, — fuckin free country!

— No here, she says, glancing poisonously at the others, who look back to the screen, except Tommy, who gives the girl an anaemic smile, then nods hopefully to Begbie and the door. Franco seems to consider this, then rises and heads across to an adjacent table with his pint, compelling the girl to join him. The others note that he isn’t offering to buy her a drink.

— This does not look good, Tommy muses, as Renton’s other choice, ‘White Lines’ by Grandmaster Flash and Melle Mel strikes up on the jukebox.

— Cause ah ken it’s yours! they hear her screech on top of the beat in high, adenoidal tones, as, on-screen, Platini sweeps a silent effort over the bar.

— Aye, so you fuckin well say, Begbie retorts, sitting back in the seat, composed, now evidently enjoying himself. And the rest of them are too; they are all ears.

— It could only huv been you!

Begbie thinks of the silky distraction of the girl’s clothes that night, the delicacy with which she stepped out of her shoes. How those fleeting memories held sovereignty in his head over any images of her nakedness. He liked her in clothes. Although it was summer, it had gotten nippy outside. She shouldn’t have come out without a jacket. It could get cold down in the port. — Listen, if ye go oot withoot a fuckin jaykit whin thaire’s fuckin snaw flying aboot, ye kin git a fuckin cauld, right?

She stares at him, agog, then bursts into an incredulous shriek: — What the fuck ur ye talking aboot? Jaykit? Snaw?

On the television, Dominique Rocheteau deflects a free kick which sails just past the post. Renton glances from the screen back to Begbie and the girl.

As the record urges Get Higher Baby, so too Begbie’s voice rises. — Ye go oot without a fuckin pill whin thaire’s fuckin spunk flyin aboot, ye git up the fuckin stick!

Lesley raises an eyebrow to Renton as she pretends tae clean the glasses. Mickey Aitken looks over at a couple of curious customers who turn back to the other TV.

The girl examines Begbie in silence for a spell, biting on her bottom lip. Eventually she urges, — So?

— So fuckin well deal wi it. It’s your fuckin problem, no fuckin mine, and Franco Begbie shakes his head, takes a long drink, then sets his glass down carefully on the table. He thinks that the flecks in the Formica look similar to those on an egg he recalled finding in a bird’s nest as a kid. — Ah said tae ye: ‘Gie’s a fuckin ride.’ Ah nivir sais: ‘Gie’s a fuckin bairn.’ How? Cause ah’m intae rides n ah’m no intae fuckin bairns!

The girl stands up, shouting, pointing at him: — YOU’VE NO FUCKIN WELL HEARD THE LAST AY THIS, SON! Then she turns n heads across the pub for the exit as the half-time whistle goes on-screen and the players troop off the field. So far the Spaniards have given a good account of themselves, but it’s France who’ve come the closest.

— HI! Begbie, on his feet, roars back. — YOU’RE FORGETTIN THAT AW THE BOYS WIR THAIRE N AW! He gestures to the others. — THAT FUCKIN LINE-UP THIT YE DID!

The lassie stops abruptly. She turns and looks at them in horror, then shouts to Lesley at the bar in appeal: — HE’S TALKIN SHITE! Lesley looks to Mickey and shrugs, as the girl turns back to Begbie. — YOU’RE FUCKIN WELL GITTIN IT, SON!

— AWREADY FUCKIN HUD IT! he shouts back at her, making the cross with his arms. — N IT WIS FUCKIN SHITE N AW!

Renton watches her cringe in humiliation as she exits through the swinging doors of the bar, her thin, white shoulders the barest he’s ever seen, as if they would only ever need the night as a shawl. He imagines another world, where she was not impregnated with the seed of Begbie, and going after her, walking with her, perhaps placing his jacket over her lissome, delicate back.

Frank Begbie downs his pint, shouts up another round and comes over to rejoin his company. — If this yin goes up tae the fuckin coort ah’ve goat youse boys tae back us up n say youse wir fuckin well in thaire n aw. Every cunt kens thit wi share n share alike doon the fuckin port!