Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

Swanney reads it as such but doesnae gie a fuck. He pulls oot a wooden box fae under a glass coffee table, upon which sits a barry blue-n-gold vase, a Scotland World Cup 82 mug, a candle half melted intae one ay they blue-n-white ringed plates every cunt’s goat, and a tin ashtray fill ay cigarette butts. — Ye want a hit?

— Aye.

He opens the box and puts some white powder fae a wee placky bag intae a spoon and sucks water fae the mug intae a hypodermic syringe. He squirts the contents intae the spoon, which he heats up under the candle, stirring it wi the needle as it dissolves. Catching Sick Boy staring, he spits a cheeky grin ower his shoodir, squeezing one ay they wee Jif things fill ay lemon juice intae the water. Still stirrin wi the needle tip, he then sucks it back intae the barrel ay the syringe.

Ah sit back, entranced by his preparations. Ah’m no the only yin: Sick Boy’s like a nerdy science student scrutinising his mentor. Johnny looks at me, sitting thaire open-moothed like a spare prick at a hoors’ convention. He gits the score. — Ye want me tae dae it fir ye?

— Ta, ah nod. Sound cunt Swanney, sparin ma embarrassment like that.

He sharply tugs ma airm towards him, like it’s a Christmas cracker, resting it on his thigh. Johnny’s jeans are minging and sticky oan ma wrist, like he’s spilt honey or treacle oan his leg. He ties a leather strap round my biceps and starts tapping at ma veins. Ma back throbs wi a phantom truncheon strike, as a shiver spreads through me.

Ah know that this is crossin a line .

Ma heart pounds. Ah mean, really pounds. We’re meant tae meet Franco for a peeve n aw, tae watch the Euro 84 fitba, and he hates gittin stood up!

Say no .

Johnny tap-tap-tappin at my airm and me distracting masel by lookin at the dry flakes ay skin on his scalp jist at the hairline.

Begbie. Goat tae meet Begbie at nine!

Ah’m thinking aboot shoutin ‘stop’ but ah ken that ah could never turn away at this point. If smack is as addictive as they say, then ah’m already aw the junky ah’m ever gaunny be.

Say no .

Ah’m thinkin aboot university; ma studies, the philosophy module and free will versus determinism …

Say no .

Thinkin aboot Fiona Conyers in the history classes, sweeping her long black hair aside, her wide pale blue eyes and white teeth as she smiles at me …

Say naw .

Johnny still tap-tap-tappin like a patient old prospector looking for gold. He looks at me and shoots us a cracked smile. — You’ve goat shite veins.

Not too late! No too late tae make an excuse, he gied ye an out thaire, say no, no, no …

— Aye, ah cannae gie blood.

Say something else … say fuckin naw …

NAW, NAW, NAW …

— That might be just as well, he smiles as he stabs the needle intae my airm. Ah look at him petulantly, upset at the sharp pain, the intrusion. He smiles wi those rotten teeth and sucks some ay ma blood back intae the syringe. The word ‘dinnae’ briefly forms on ma lips but he pushes and empties the contents ay the barrel intae me. Ah look at the empty hypo. Ah can’t believe he’s just put that shit inside me .

Fear rises up ma spine like mercury touched by heat up a thermometer. Then it’s gone. Ah smile at Johnny. Just as the thought forms: is that aw there is tae it? ah get a sudden rush and a glow, then ma insides, body and brain, are like a fruit pastille, melting in a huge mooth. Suddenly everything that was burning in ma heid, every fear and doubt, just dissolves, ah can just feel them receding intae the distance …

Aye, Aye, Aye, Aye , AYE, AYE

In my mind’s eye, ah’ve goat an image ay ma brar Billy, when we were walkin along Blackpool prom, crossin ower the road n turnin intae a side street ay red-bricked guest hooses. It’s a hot summer’s day n ah’m eatin a 99 ice-cream cone.

Johnny says something like, — Good shit but, eh?

— Aye …

Aye …

Ah’m overwhelmed wi the sense that everything is, was and would be, completely okay. A state ay pure fuckin euphoric bliss passes through us, like sunshine ower shadow, makin things no only right, but just right.

Aye …

A sudden nausea curdles in my gut and ah feel this moist sickness risin up intae ma throat. Swanney sees me dry-retching and passes ower a sheet ay newspaper. — This shit’s strong, forgot ye were a novice, deep breaths … he says.

Oh aye, but nae fear now, Swanolito, ah’m fuckin flyin …

Ah swallow it back doon, ridin it oot, and ah feel great, propping maself up against the back ay the couch. Ah dunno what ah’d expected, mibbe acid-like hallucinations, but there’s nowt like that, everything is as it eywis wis, but it no sae much looks as feels beautiful, welcoming and just damn fine , like aw the sharp edges in the world have blurred and smoothed. Ma stiff and jagged spine is now like a bendy piece ay rubber. A polis baton would bounce right oaf it, smashing the cunt right back in the chops …

Oh aye .

— Good, mate, eh? Swanney says.

— You did something … interesting … there, John. Ah feel the words tumble slowly oot n we’re laughin softly thegither.

Sick Boy is next up, and watching me in wonderment. Then the tourniquet is oan his airm, and Johnny’s spike is gaun intae his big, dark vein.

— This is the best, ah say, as ah watch it hit him, and feel him slump against me, as warm and soft as a big stuffed toy.

— Oh … ya fuckin beauty … he gasps, then throws up onto the newspaper. When he sits up, he fixes me in a dopey smile. — The word … the ‘T’ word … ma dictionary … wis tourniquet … by the … by the Holy Papa’s sweet, low-swingin nutsack … that’s fuckin cosmic …

— Cosmic … ah parrot in slow laughter. We’re gaun naewhaire, we’ve scored a gram fae Swanney, which Sick Boy’s pocketed, and we’re sitting here for a wee while longer in the deep, dozy silence ay afternoon heat, broken only by a kid’s shout or passing car horn ootside. Swanney pits oan a Doors album. Never liked that shite before but ah’m sortay gittin it now. Maist ay aw ah’m enjoyin the slow stream ay delicious talk, wise and daft, posturings and retorts, and how ah’m baskin in the hypnotic afterglow ay ‘Riders on the Storm’, even as ah luxuriate in the track on the first side he’s pit back oan. As the darkness presses in tight around us, ah feel great. Fuck gaun intae toon, and the mean backstreets, where edgy club bouncers spar verbally wi sly, have-a-go drunks, cheered oan by underdressed, goosefleshed lassies wi cries as shrill as seagulls. I’ve nowt but a withering disdain for it all. Disnae matter if it’s Mickey Platini or Franco Begbie, they will aw just have tae wait.

BELLE FRENCHARD HEARD the retching sounds coming from the bathroom, as she advanced up the stairs with a cup of milky tea for her daughter. Instantly, she prayed that it wasn’t Samantha making those noises. Please let it be Ronnie, Alec or George, they were aw oot last night. But no Samantha .

When her daughter, grey and frail, emerged to face her, they exchanged a dark, slow acknowledgement, and Belle just knew. The words tumbled from her slack mouth. — Yir in the family wey …

Samantha didn’t try to deny it. She felt herself stiffening up as she faced the bull-like figure of her mother. She thought about the life growing inside her, and was startled by the absurd truth that she herself had emerged from Belle’s doughy, sweaty frame.

That wee bastard Sean … The first notion Belle settled on quickly crumbled. — But Sean’s been in the fuckin army for six fuckin months … she thought out loud, before demanding, — Whae’s is it!