Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

When ah get out, there’s nae sign ay Coke, so I sit in the corner, at one with this lovely world, though part of me is realising that drawing attention tae yourself by being junked up in an ex-polisman’s bar wi a bagful ay skag might no be such a good idea, especially as I’ve nae drink in front ay us.

So I rise and glide across tae the bar where two mutants are standing. One ay them bears that strange smile where ye cannae tell if the cunt’s a sweetie wife or a psychopath. — Dickson’s taken yir mate through the back for one ay they special wee chats ay his.

By the sweet-smelling baw bag of the Holy Papa himself, I think it might be time for me tae leave. There’s little tae be gained in trying tae stop Coke fae getting the same treatment as Second Prize, especially in this fucking state wi shite in ma veins and the best part ay a gram in my pocket. But Dickson suddenly comes back in, and he looks shaken tae fuck. The Big Man mantle has definitely fallen and I’m thinking: surely Coke hasnae put the shits up him? The chunky ex-pig approaches me wi a scared and apologetic hang tae his face. — Yir mate … he’s through the back. Ah never touched him, we were just arguin n he fell ower the barrel and dunted his heid, and Dickson’s face is flushed as his lips tremble. — It looks a sair yin. He shakes his head, sucking his lip under his front teeth. Every grotesque expression on his face seems slowed doon, it’s like being in a zoo, but one where you’re observing your own species in their minuscule behaviour. Then his voice ascends in petition tae the assembled bar: — Ah never laid a hand oan him!

Ah go through tae the back with this big cunt called Chris Moncur, where we find Coke totally fucking prone and battered. I’m down by his side, shaking him, and he’s deadweight, ah cannae get any response. — Coke … Coke!

Coke … aw naw …

His face is swollen, and his mooth is burst open. — Thought he fell ower a barrel, Moncur says, kneeling alongside us, looking up accusingly at Dickson. — Did eh faw forwards?

— Chris … c’mon … he jist cowped ower, he wis pished, Dickson says, now really shitein it.

— Looks tae me like it wis a bit mair thin him jist bein pished, some other wide-lookin cunt says, his hands on his hips. Dickson was daft enough tae think those wideos were his mates, but naebody loves ex-bacon, and it’s evident they’ve just been waiting patiently tae turn on him.

But Coke …

He’s gone. Ah’m standing ower the cunt, regarding his rubbery slavering mouth and ah look up at Dickson’s fearful face, turned away in profile. — He’s away, ah say, standing up.

Another boy wi a red nylon jerkin crouches over him. — Naw, he’s still got a pulse, he’s breathing …

Thank fuck for that …

Ah go back tae the bar: ah’m fucking well right out ay here. A couple ay the boys follow me through, one gadge dialling 999 on the payphone, asking for the police as well as an ambulance. Dickson has come after us and is still totally crappin hissel. — The boy wis pished, just fuckin out ay it. He was telt tae go!

I’m heading, but big Moncur sees me sneaking out and shouts, — Hi! Simon! You’d better stey here!

— Most serpently, I groan, and there’s nothing ah can dae, wasted and wi a G ay gear on us, as the ambulance and polis arrive. The paramedics try tae resuscitate Coke, while the polis take statements. One young cop, a country simpleton by the look and sound ay him, gapes at me and asks us if I’ve been smoking ‘wacky baccy’.

— Naw, I’m just a bit pished, been oot aw day, ah tell him. He moves onto some others while an aulder polisman quizzes Dickson. The paramedics have loaded an oxygen-masked Coke intae the back ay thair van. I feel the gear rubbing at me, in ma system and in my pocket, so ah slip the fuck away from this sordid drama, heading up tae Junction Street where I jump in a cab up tae the Infirmary. I’m sitting in the A&E, feeling great, waiting for Coke, but I drift into a doze and when I snap out of it the clock on the waw says it’s forty minutes later, and there’s a gungy taste in my dry mooth. It takes ages but ah manage tae locate the ward Coke’s been admitted tae. When I get up there, Janey, Maria and Grant are sitting outside in a cul-de-sac waiting area. — What happened? Janey gasps, rising.

For a perverse second I think of the chips Coke never brought back. — Dunno, ah wis in the bogs, and when ah came oot he wis gone. Then they said he wis through the back wi Dickson. He was unconscious when we found him lying there. We called the polis and the ambulance. What did the doctors say?

— Head injuries; thir runnin tests. But he’s no woke up, Simon. He husnae woken up! And I feel Janey’s full, ripe body against me, see wee Grant looking wacko and the tears condensing in Maria’s eyes, tears ah want tae lick dry, and ah’m telling them all, — It’s awright … he’ll be fine … they ken what they’re daein … he’ll be fine.

And I know it’s just not the case, but ah’m hugging Janey and thinking about how much a life can change in the time it takes tae fix up.

THE VISIT TAE the parental home was a mistake. Once you’ve vanished it’s best tae stey that way; tae return is tae rematerialise intae the madness of others. Ma and Dad gab urgently aboot Wee Davie in the hospital, pressing me tae visit him. I cannot stand my mother’s fantasy that he ‘asks after me’ when the poor wee fucker scarcely has a scooby as tae whae’s in the room. Ah felt like screaming: try tellin some cunt whae gies a fuck.

— You ken how he goes, son, you ken how he says: Maaarrryyyk … and she obscenely imitated that scary chant he does in the early evenings.

Wee Davie gets aw the expert attention he needs fae the NHS. He not only has chronic cystic fibrosis, he’s also been diagnosed with muscular dystrophy and extreme autism. The odds ay aw these conditions occurring in the one person have been estimated at aroond four billion tae one by a senior medical examiner at Edinburgh University, tae whom my wee brar is somethin ay a celebrity.

Just when ay thoat the beer-swilling discussion roond the kitchen table couldnae get any worse, it sure as fuck did, as my ma and dad, succumbing tae mild drunkenness, started ludicrously talking aboot Emma Aitken, a lassie fae ma primary school. — Aye, he ey liked that wee Emma. Took her tae the school qually, Dad teased.

— What did ye git offay her? Billy asked wi leering malevolence.

— Fuck off, ah bit back at the contemptible clown.

— Ah’m sure he was a perfect gentleman. My ma idly ran her fingers through ma hair, making us pull away, as she turned tae Billy. — Unlike some.

— You’re no telling me that ye didnae go fir the tit, Billy laughed, then guzzled oan his can ay Export.

— Git tae fuck, you, ya bam.

My auld man’s index finger swings between Billy n me like a clock’s pendulum. — Enough, youse pair. This conversation’s for the pub, no the hoose. Show a bit ay respect tae yir mother.

So it was great tae relaunch back up tae Montgomery Street. Despite his name bein on the rent book (or maybe because ay it) Sick Boy’s seldom here. The gaff’s in a perfect location: at the Walk end ay the street, just in between Leith and Edinburgh. It needs some new furniture, but. There’s an auld couch in the front room and a couple ay beanbags n these two auld wooden chairs by a nasty-swaying table. In the bedroom you’ve goat a shitey divan n an auld cunt’s wardrobe. There’s a wee box bedroom n aw, but it’s fill ay Sick Boy’s clathes. The kitchen has another wee table n two dodgy chairs sittin oan these broken flair tiles that trip ye up in the dark, n a cooker ye cannae see cause it’s that covered in grease, while the fridge makes these scary rattlin noises. The bog … enough said.