Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

A knock at the door and it’s the landlord, Baxter. A bit ay a mumpy-faced auld cunt, but if ye mention Gordon Smith, Lawrie Reilly or any bygone Hibs stars, his coupon fair lights up. — They say Smith was the best ever, ah volunteer, as he pulls oot a tatty auld rent book, his emphysemic wheeze like an auld diesel train grinding intae Waverley Station.

Only one ay Baxter’s eyes works. The functioning lamp blazes wi imposing luminescence. The other yin looks like a shaved twat in Penthouse , crusted ower wi fanny batter. — Matthews, Finney … he croaks wistfully, settling doon intae a rickety chair at the kitchen table, as he licks his thumb and turns the book’s pages, — nane ay them were in same league as Gordon. Ask Matt Busby who wis the best player he ever saw!

Second Prize?

There’s nae real wey tae respond tae that, so ah gie the auld cunt an inane smile n soak up his reminiscences.

Auld Baxter eventually departs, banging on about Bobby Johnstone as he goes. He’ll get tae Willie Ormond by the time he hits the Fit ay the Walk. Wi the place tae masel, ah consider huvin a J. Arthur Rank but ah’m too fucked eftir that shift at Gillsland’s the day. At least we were oot ay the factory, daein real joinery, fitting oot another pub, this time in William Street. Ah cannae wait tae go back tae the uni. Ah enjoy the crack wi the boys, but ye bring a book in there n every cunt’s takin the pish, except Mitch, but he’s packin it in, so thi’ll soon be nae cunt left tae talk sense wi. But before that it’s the InterRail, wi Bisto, Joanne and Fiona. Of course, that’s if the lassies show up and it isnae aw jist talk.

I’m watchin a World in Action programme aboot Ugandan Asians in Britain, and Sick Boy comes in, eyes rid, face colourless, lookin like he’s seen a ghost. As it happens, that isnae too wide ay the mark. — It’s Coke. He’s deid.

— Coke Anderson? Fae your bit? Yir jokin!

Fuck me, a sombre shake ay his heid tell us he isnae. — He was in a coma and they pulled the plug this morning.

Apparently Dickson fae the Grapes panelled Coke and smashed his heid in. That boy’s a cunt; wis chucked oot the polis for daein people ower in the cells. Every copper does that, n fair enough, maist drunken radges that git banged up for a night would rather take a couple ay skelps fae some inadequate fascist, and be turfed oot in the mornin, than face the hassle n expense ay a coort appearance. Dickson got really overzealous though, n wis asked tae leave, or so the story goes. They say it wis him that panelled Second Prize eftir he went oan that bender when Dunfermline freed him: that could have been any cunt though. Poor Coke but; Sick Boy tells us the lights went oot and never came back oan. Thaire’s a coroner’s report next week. That is beyond fucking brutal.

Sick Boy keeps running his hands through his hair, then shaking his heid. The occasional ‘fuck’ explodes fae him in a gasp. — Janey and the kids are devastated, he says, lookin roond the flat like he’s just stepped in it for the first time and doesnae like what he sees. — I’m goin doon thaire … Cables Wynd House … lend a bit ay moral support.

Ah ken he’s in shock cause ah’ve never, ever heard him call the Bannanay flats ‘Cables Wynd House’ before, unless it’s tryin tae impress some rich festival bird fae oot ay toon.

— Thing is … he looks away, then ruefully back to me, — … ah goat a bit skagged up when it was aw gaun on …

— What?

— Ah banged up in the lavvy in the Grapes, the stuff we goat fae Swanney. When ah came oot, next ah kent, that pig cunt hud blootered Coke.

What the fuck …

— Right … ah goes, unable tae hide ma disappointment, cause we’d made a pact tae dae it thegither back here. Ah’ve goat tae admit ah wis tempted eftir spending the evening wi Franco. The cunt kept gaun oan aboot what a barry ride that June is, in between tellin us his ain personal version ay the Duke ay Edinburgh Awards; whae wis getting chibbed, and the poor unfortunates that merely had a burst mooth tae look forward tae.

Sick Boy forgets aboot Coke for a second; turns keenly on me. — Did you dae any?

— You’ve goat the stuff! How could ah huv fuckin well done any?

— Ye might’ve sneaked up tae Johnny’s.

Ah realise that if Begbie hudnae dragged us oot n filled us fill ay pish, ah probably would’ve. — Naw, ah tell him, — ye goat tae watch that stuff … then ah panic. — You’ve still goat it, right? Ye didnae dae it aw?

— No way, only a wee bit. Thaire’s still nearly a fill gram left, he says, hudin up the placky bag, showing me the main bean’s intact and maist ay the crumbs are still there.

— Ye wantin some, likes?

— Naw … ah’m takin it easy.

— Aye, ah hud the heebie-jeebies a wee bit, Sick Boy admits. — It’s a bit fuckin rough when it leaves yir system, so that’s me oaf it for a while. Goat tae respect that shite; ah’ll stick tae speed right now, he says, stubbin oot a cigarette in the McEwan’s Export ashtray oan the shoogly table, and producing a wrap and taking a dab. — Wantin a bit?

— Naw, ah’m just gaunny sit in front ay the box, ah tell um.

— Right, see ye. He gits up.

— Ah peyed the rent. Baxter came roond.

— Good man, ah’ll square ye up later oan. Catch ye in a bit, he goes, and the cunt’s oot the door.

Nae point in pressin him for poppy eftir the shite he’s hud tae deal wi, and anywey, it feels good tae be oan ma ain. Ah decide tae have a wank eftir aw, visualising this skinny lassie wi big teeth that works in this baker’s up in Aberdeen. Once ah’ve shot ma duff ower the threadbare broon couch, ah feel a bit low, n realise that um thinkin aboot gear. Ah should’ve took that skag oaffay Sick Boy. Cunt . That wis barry, the other night thaire.

Ah call Johnny, but the phone’s jist ringing, so ah grab ma jaykit and head doon tae Matty’s. He answers the door, pasty-faced n wi spiky black hair, blow-dried off tae the sides tae hide slight premature recession at the temples. His swivel-eyed suspicion only slightly abates whin he sees thit ah’m oan ma tod. A rivulet of snot runs fae his nostril acroas his gaunt cheek like a duelling scar. Fae the angle ay it, he’s been lyin oan the couch in a semi-doze. Matty has the demeanour ay a man destined tae scavenge the remnants ay some other cunt’s feast. Beckoning me in wi a twist ay his heid, he promptly vanishes intae the kitchen, leavin me in the tiny front room. It’s goat this obscenely huge telly dominatin the place, the biggest ah’ve seen.

Matty’s bird Shirley comes ben, a pretty lassie wi an oval-shaped face and big pools for eyes, figure a bit wrecked since havin the bairn, Lisa, whae’s in her airms, dressed in a one-piece romper suit. It’s sortay like Shirl’s still huvin a bairn. As ah sit doon oan the couch, Lisa climbs oan toap ay us. — Hiya, pal … terrible twos, eh? ah nod tae Shirley as the bairn goes fir a tug ay ginger hair.

— Tell us aboot it. So how’s university life? Shirley asks. Despite the extra pounds there’s still something sexy aboot her. It has tae be they big hazelnut eyes, eywis pregnant wi pathos.

— First year wis great, Shirl, looking forward tae gaun back, ah say, takin evasive action as Lisa’s goat what looks like a Farley’s rusk in her hand and seems determined tae wedge it intae in ma coupon, — Thanks, pal, but ah ate awready … Ah turn back tae Shirley. — Ah’m enjoying working back at Gillsland’s for the break, the crack wi the boys n that, ah tell her.

Ah’ve goat tae say that the flat is fuckin mingin, n it’s no jist the bairn wi the nappies n that. It’s like Matty’s dragged Shirley doon tae his level; she wis nivir a scruff at school. Ah ken Matty’s a mate n his dad wis an alkie, but it hus tae be said that the cunt is, eywis wis, n will eywis be, a fuckin tramp.