Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

— They kin tell wi blood tests, Franco, Tommy goes.

Renton is tempted to mention what he’d read about this new DNA testing in the Scientific American , up the Central Library, but then remembers that he’s in a pub on the Walk, not the students’ union at Aberdeen, where a smart cunt’s conjectures are less likely to be appreciated.

Begbie’s lips pull back over his teeth. — Ah ken aw that, Tam, fir fuck’s sake, he snaps, then his expression warms, — but it’ll keep the slag away fae the fuckin coort if she thinks half ay fuckin Leith’s gaunny be aboot, claimin thuv been in thaire pumpin away oan Franco’s sloppy fuckin seconds, ya cunt!

Through their laughter, the rest of them are starting to feel sorry for the girl. Particularly Spud. Too many Bicardi n Cokes, a horny flush, one slip-up and yir bringing up a Begbie for the rest ay yir life. Doesnae matter if the burd’s a wee bit dippit, naebody deserves that .

The second half resumes and Platini, with an air of inevitability, puts the French ahead. The pub goes crazy, at least the other corner does, and Begbie is visibly riled by the commotion, casting silencing glances down the narrow bar. Tommy wonders if he would ever stand up to Franco again, considers what circumstances might compel him to do so.

The afternoon spins by in another couple of rounds of drinks. Up on the screen, Platini has reached a personal sporting pinnacle, and in triumph holds aloft the European Nations Cup. Renton and Keezbo are surprised to see that it was two — nil; they hadn’t noticed the other goal. Amphetamine, adrenalin and their own dramas had got in the way.

— Dinnae even ken her fuckin name, Begbie sais meaning it in a barbed, disparaging way, but it somehow coming out, to his surprise and that of the others, as something between an accusation and a lamentation. For a few moments he thinks of that flecked bird’s egg: unsure of whether he smashed it or left it alone in the nest.

PERVERSITY AND OBSTINACY are integral tae the Scottish character. Since ah said ‘no’ tae these cunts back in Manchester, ah’ve been obsessed wi heroin. Ah sometimes wish ah’d said ‘aye’, then ah might be mair inclined tae leave it alaine. Also, it’s meant tae be a good painkiller, n this back still nips, especially at night. The doaktir thinks ah’m at it, n they paracetamols are fuckin useless.

It’s an open secret in oor circle that Matty, whae gets maist ay oor speed, has been skag-happy for donks. Through him ah ken that Johnny Swan, an auld fitba mate ay mine, gets good gear. Ah huvnae really hung oot wi Johnny in ages, no since we played thegither fir Porty Thistle. He wis a decent player. Ah wis shite but applied masel like fuck tae get oot ay gaun tae the boxing club wi Begbie n Tommy.

It’s time that friendship was re-established.

In the flat in Monty Street, ah tell Sick Boy aboot it and he’s in. — Sounds fuckin excellent. Ah fancy some ay that shit, have for ages. He starts crooning the seminal Velvet Underground song, about sticking the spike into ma vein … come to Simone, he says, his jaw juttin oot, as he puts doon the dictionary he’s been thumbing through.

— But jist a wee bit tae try, cause mind wir meetin Franco up toon the night.

Sick Boy batters his heid wi the palm ay his hand. — I am pig-sick tae the back teeth ay that cunt making arrangements on my behalf. I just don’t need it. Having tae listen aw night tae whae’s gittin killed and whae’s gittin stabbed …

— Aye, but a wee bit ay smack’ll mellow us oot, n then we’ll go n see him up in Mathers.

A shrug ay the shoodirs, and he gets up and yanks the cushions oaf the couch, prospectin for coins and shoving the meagre booty deep intae his poakit. — I should get a bigger allowance from the state, he grumbles. — I’m tired ay mooching oaffay chicks tae supplement my income.

We head oot and dive oantae a 16, bound fir Johnny’s pad at Tollcross. It’s a blindin hot day so we sit doonstairs at the back for a better view ay the passin fanny. Back top deck wi Begbie, tae intimidate wideos, back bottom wi Sick Boy tae leer at lassies. Life has its simple codes.

— This is gaunny be so much fun, Sick Boy says, and rubs his hands thegither. — Drugs are always fun. Do you believe in cosmic forces, destiny n aw that shite?

— Nup.

— Me neither, but bear one thing in mind: today was a ‘T’ day.

— What …? ah ask, then it dawns on us. — Yir dictionary thingy.

— All will be revealed, he nods, then starts talking about heroin.

Smack’s the only thing ah huvnae done, ah’ve never even smoked or snorted it. And ah must confess that ah’m fuckin shitein it. Ah wis brought up tae believe that one joint ay hash would kill me. And, of course, it wis bullshit. Then one line ay speed. Then one tab ay acid; aw lies, spread by people hell-bent on self-extermination through booze and fags.

But heroin.

It’s crossing a line.

But as the boy said, anything once. And Sick Boy doesnae seem concerned, so ah bullshit tae keep ma front up. — Aye, ah cannae wait tae dae some horse.

— What? Sick Boy looks at me in horror as the bus growls up the hill. — What the fuck are you talking aboot, Renton? Horse? Dinnae say that in front ay yir dealer mate or he’ll laugh in yir face. Call it skag, for Papa John-Paul’s sake, he snaps, then stares oot at a short-skirted lassie meandering wi seductive intent up Lothian Road. — She’s a peach … far too carefree in bearing and expression tae be a baboon …

— Right … ah feebly respond.

We get tae Johnny Swan’s place, and even though the stair door’s got an entryphone, it hings open like a daftie’s mooth. We climb the steps, instinctively knowing that it’ll be oan the top flair. It’s the only flat wi nae name oan the scabby black door. Johnny greets us wi a smile, though a wee look passes between him n Sick Boy. — Mr Renton! It’s been a long time … come in …

— Aye, a couple ay year at least, ah acknowledge. Ah wis at a perty up here back then. Wi Matty. Eftir we came back fae London. Swanney still has the fair hair, but it’s longer n mair straggly now, and these piercing blue eyes, but his choppers are a mass ay green n broon. Wi his permanent look ay surprise and always seemin oan the verge ay outrage, he reminds us ay Ron Moody, who played Fagin in Oliver! A rancid smell like stale sweat hings in the air, emanating fae either tenant or dwelling, and intensifying as we follay him inside. Sick Boy, who ah intro, catches the whiff and makes nae attempt tae disguise his distaste.

One windae is boarded up, darkening the front room. The others have big, viney plants wi green tomataes oan them, hogging maist ay the remaining light. There’s still fuckin lino oan the flair, though it’s topped wi some distempered rug. Oan the waw, above the fireplace, there’s a barry poster ay Siouxsie Sioux, naked fae the waist up.

We faw doon oantae a leather couch. A sick joke ay a budgie, greasy feathers, shuffles along a spar in a cage, looking like Richard the Third. Eftir quickly catchin up aboot auld times, Johnny gets doon tae business. — Matty Connell tells us you’re still daein the Northern Soul thing. Ah take it yir lookin fir some speed?

Ah glances at Sick Boy, then back tae Johnny, tryin tae be aw cool. — Actually, we heard that you’ve goat some nice skag.

Swanney’s eyebrows arch, n he puckers his lips. — They aw want it now, he grins. — Ivir done the skag before? he asks, rolling up the sleeve ay his shirt. Ah kin see rid marks poking up like angry plukes. — Ah mean, banged up?

— Aye, ah lie, no lookin at Sick Boy, — back up at Ebirdeen.