Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

Samantha glared back into Belle’s deranged eyes, wanted to truculently proclaim, ‘It’s mine.’ But all that spilled from her was a limp, — What d’ye mean?

— What the fuck d’ye think ah mean? Belle stood, hands on her hips, veins bulging in her neck. — WHAE’S THE FUCKIN FAITHER?!

At that point Ronnie, who had been slowly lumbering up the stairs, nursing a brutal hangover, shot into higher animation. A heavy-muscled gym rat, he rarely drank, and was glad of the rush of adrenalin supplanting the lethargy of the booze still clogging up his system. Cold eyes in tight focus, he asked in low, threatening tones, — What’s aw this?

— Tell um, Belle insisted, crossing her meaty forearms. — Tell us whae the fuckin faither is!

— It’s nowt tae dae wi youse!

— Aw aye? If it’s gaunny be livin under this fuckin roof it’s goat plenty tae dae wi me! Belle stridently trumpeted. — Thaire’s nae money comin intae this fuckin hoose! George’s idle; he’s idle. She pointed at Ronnie who felt a rage burn inside him. He hated the way his mother used that term for his employment status. — Alec’s idle!

And now George, lean-framed, with the piercing eyes of his older brother, and Alec, heavier, slower and softer, were up the stairs, lining up behind their mother, the judge, and brother, the sheriff, of the posse that had already decided it was a lynching party. Samantha felt the oxygen being sucked out of the air. — Ye dinnae ken um. He’s fae Leith.

— If we dinnae ken um, we soon fuckin will, dinnae worry aboot that, Ronnie said, voice low wi threat, tensing the muscles in his arm and back, enjoying the power he felt surge through his frame.

— He’s takin responsibility, whaever he is, Belle rasped, head shaking, hand squeezing the banister, then was suddenly zapped by an incredulous afterthought. — How the fuck did ye faw fuckin pregnant in this day n age?

Samantha chewed on her bottom lip, swallowed hard. — Ah wis oot drinkin with Wilma and Katie. Ah forgoat tae git ma faimlay plannin … wi Sean bein away … She cringed at the thought. — Ah met this felly. Wi goat pished, n then …

— Sean’s gaunny dae his nut, George said in malicious glee, savouring the thought, like a connoisseur does a drop of good wine, then added, — but ye ken that, eh?

Samantha half turned into the wall. Sean was not a comforting thought.

— What’s his name? Ronnie demanded.

Samantha’s thin jaw shot defiantly forward. — He’s goat a lassie, he’s no interested in us bein thegither, n he doesnae care aboot the bairn, she said in a righteous burst, feeling the sway and impact of her information. — Sais if ah try n claim it’s his he’ll git a dozen ay his mates tae stand up in coort n say they wir aw wi us n aw, she blurted out, then began to cry.

— Ye surely didnae … Belle couldn’t stop herself.

— COURSE AH DIDNAE! Samantha wailed at her mother. — What dae ye take us fir?!

— Well, this felly’ll huv tae stand by ye, Belle mumbled, a little guilty.

— He’s no gaunny but! He telt us!

— We’ll fuckin well see aboot that, Ronnie said in soft, measured fury.

Belle’s rage cooled, and she put her arm around the girl, all the time perfectly aware that her daughter was manipulating her. — There, there, darlin … we’ll git through this.

Ronnie, though, his huge muscles pumping up with blood, right in front of her, was like a superhero in transition. The way that Franco bastard had treated her had been an insult to him as much as her. He had ripped the pish out of her in that pub, and now he was going to fucking well get it. — Ah’m no gaunny ask ye again, Ronnie said in a low wheeze. — What’s his name?

— Francis, she said softly, — Francis Begbie.

The brothers looked to each other. — Dinnae ken um. Ronnie turned to George, estimating that his younger brother was more likely to be a peer of this boy who had disgraced their sister.

— He’s a wide cunt, George conceded warily, now concerned that he would be the one delegated by Ronnie to take revenge. He looked into his older brother’s murderous eyes, then considered the growing reputation of this Francis Begbie boy. Estimated the potential squeeze of being caught between those two forces.

George’s silent younger brother, Alec, who, due to his prematurely thinning hair, was often taken for the senior of the pair, suddenly spoke. — He’s a deid cunt, if he disnae dae the right thing by oor Sam.

— Too fuckin right, Ronnie snapped. — Youse two go and pey this Francis Begbie cunt a wee visit. Pit him in the picture. Sort it oot. Jist tell um he disnae want me comin n seein um!

With her mother’s arms around her slender body, Samantha unleashed another cataract of sobs, even as she cracked a smile, unseen and buried in that meaty bosom.

WE FUCKING WELL shat ourselves this afternoon, the Rent Boy and me. We’re in the flat, me sprawled over my two corded black beanbags, Renton spreadeagled oan the couch, discussing the barry time wi the skag the other night; puffing Denis Law and watching Bruce Lee and Chuck Norris’s climactic fight scene in The Way of the Dragon . This gram bag wi goat fae Swanney’s fair burning a hole in ma pocket, but Rents wants tae leave it for a bit n we’ve made a pact that we’re daein it thegither. I’m about tae broach the subject again when there’s a hammering on the door. Then a voice, booming through the letter box down the hall: — Youse cunts! Open the fuck up!

We look at each other and the thought flashes between us: It’s Begbie! We stood the cunt up!

Neither ay us are in a hurry tae move. Renton can get it and take the blow across the chops. But he’s thinking the same thing. — We ignore it, ah whisper.

Rents eyes widen. — He’s probably heard the telly, but.

— Fuck! Right, we’ll both go. You talk … naw, I’ll talk … naw, you talk!

— What’s it tae fuckin well be!

— You talk!

We get up and head tae the door, mentally preparing excuses, and ah snip it open, and Begbie, excited, pushes past us intae the flat. He’s carrying six tins ay lager. — Sorry tae fuckin well stand yis up the other night, boys, a wee pressy tae fuckin well make it up likes, he says, as we follow him back intae the front room wi a glance ay bemused relief passing between us. Franco collapses oantae the couch. — Bruce Lee … fuckin barry! Aye, ah met this fuckin burd, eh? Mind ay that June, June Chisholm fae Leithy? Wisnae much back then but see the fuckin tits oan it now, ya cunt! Wisnae fuckin shy, tell yis that fir nowt …

— Aw aye, Rents sais, tentatively standing next tae him and springing a can. He chucks me one ower and ah crack it open, even though it’s Tennent’s pish, which ah cannae drink as the inside ay ma mooth instantly tastes like the tin. I slump back onto the bags.

— Hud that yin in ma fuckin sights fir donks, ya cunt. Franco rubs his baws through his jeans and treats us tae a pelvic thrust. — Saw her up the fuckin Spiral oan Friday night n ah jist fuckin well gits up n fires right in thaire! Anywey, been fuckin well nailin it aw weekend. Fill hoose, the loat. Wisnae even gaunny gie us a fuckin gam at first. Ah goes: ‘Ya cunt, giein us a fuckin gam’s the least yuv goat tae worry aboot!’ Aye, wisnae that fuckin shy once ah goat her gaun! And he thrusts forward on the couch, hudin his can up for clinking, so it’s toast time again. I stretch over tae oblige. I recall that Chisholm slag: a baboon-in-waiting. Our Francis is surely the man to help her fulfil her sordid destiny.

— You’re on a molten streak right now, Franco, Rents goes.

— Too right. Youse two probably ended up fuckin pished n shaggin the lovely ‘Pam’ again, he waves a hand in the air, — whin ah wis fuckin pulverisin that June’s pussy aw weekend. He slams his fist repeatedly intae his open hand. — Stick wi me, ah’ll git yis yir fuckin hole awright, ya useless cunts!