Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

— Still seein Hazel? Shirley asks, in that coquettish but interrogative wey lassies have.

— Naw, no really, just as mates. Met a lassie doon in Manchester a few weeks back, said ah’d go doon tae see her. Been workin too much though, tryin tae get money for this trip tae Europe.

— Very nice. Wish ah could go tae Europe. Nae chance ay that now. She looks wi rueful affection at the bouncing bairn, jumping up and doon oan ma lap. — Maybe when she gets bigger, she says, then asks, — How’s yir brother?

— Fine … ah say, unsure ay whether she means Wee Davie or oor Billy.

— Any word oan gittin him hame?

Wee Davie. — Naw.

— Funny man! Lisa shouts at us.

— That’s right, pal. Sound judge ay character, ah smile at Shirl, liftin the bairn and makin fartin noises against her belly, which she laps up.

While this weird wee domestic scene is gaun oan, weird for me any roads (it’s scary that cunts actually live like this), ah clock boaxes ay snide goods piled up in the corner, behind the big chair. Kennin Matty it’ll be cheap shite, n ye kin see it in the toap yin that’s already opened; there’s a nylony-style bomber jaykit in a placky bag that looks better quality than the merchandise it contains. You could buy togs oan Junction Street that wid be high-end fashion in comparison. Shirley chuckles as Lisa renews her rusk assault on me, but ma threshold for this shite hus been reached.

Take this bairn oot ay ma fuckin face now .

Matty comes oot fae the kitchen, n makes a face at Shirley whae’s gettin up and headin in, leavin me wi Lisa. Ah can hear raised whispers fae behind the door and Shirley doesnae seem chuffed. Matty eventually appears in time tae save Lisa gurgling mair bits ay rusk ower us n sais, — Cunt, let’s nash.

Shirley isnae happy as she lifts the bairn. Ah’m sayin nowt, n she’s no lookin me in the eye.

Despite huvin the appearance ay a demented leprechaun n snufflin like he’s goat a bad cauld, Matty fair bounces doon that stair like a man possessed, tae the extent that it’s hard tae keep up wi um. Was ey a fast cunt at school n back in the Fort. No that much skill oan the fitba field though, but plenty pace. — What gruesome fuckin knock-off have you goat in they boaxes, Connell?

— Usual shite, he cheerlessly informs us. — Nae room in the bedroom, n Franco’s moanin aboot us pittin too much in the lock-up. Cunt, you goat poppy fir a taxi? he asks.

— Nup, ah lies. Ah shelled oot oan Sick Boy’s fuckin rent n ah’ve goat this Europe trip tae pey fir, so sometimes ye huv tae caw canny.

— Fuck, he goes, — cunt, huv tae be the bus.

— Whaire we gaun?

— Muirhoose.

— Telt ye ah saw Nicksy a while back, eh?

— Aye … London?

— Naw, Manchester. He wis askin eftir ye.

— Aw.

We gits oan a 32 at Junction Street. Matty’s as quiet as a corpse as the bus chugs along. Like he’s tuned oot everything.

— Things okay? ah ask.

He jist smiles, exposin a bank ay yellay teeth. Mingin cunt, takes five minutes a day tae brush yir choppers. — Birds, he rolls his eyes. — We finally goat offered a hoose offay the cooncil.

— That’s awright. The flat’s maybe a bit wee fir youse and truckloads ay squirrelled chorrie.

— Aye, but they offered us Wester Hailes. Cunt, ah’m no gaun oot thaire.

Wester Hailes is aboot as far away fae Leith as it’s possible tae git n still be in Edinburgh. A soulless, Jambo-infested scheme. — Shirley’s no too chuffed ah take it?

— Naw … well, tae tell the truth, it’s this fuckin skag. Cunt, ken how she’s a bit ay a straightpeg but, eh? Well, ah suppose she’s goat the bairn n that …

— Makes a big difference, eh?

— Ah suppose, he goes, wiping away some snotters oan his sleeve. — It’s a barry hit, but see huntin it doon … Swanney just takes the pish, vanishes oaf the face ay the earth whin it suits the cunt. Cunt, ah went up tae his at Tollcross last night n the light wis oan in his hoose, ah jist saw it fae the street, ah could tell thaire wis some cunt in, but he widnae fuckin well answer. The stair door wis loaked, so ah rang another buzzer n goat in. Cunt, ah looked through his letter box n ah fuckin well saw the radge; just walkin acroas the hallway fae the kitchen tae the front fuckin room, Matty’s eyes bulge incredulously. His freckles look like they’ve been painted oan that pale face. — So ah batters the door n starts shoutin through the letter box. Guess what? The cunt still fuckin pretends he’s no fuckin well in!

Ah strike what ah think is a sympathetic expression, but ah’m finding this quite funny.

Matty isnae. He’s now animated, like a puppet operated by an epileptic; hands that jerky that if he tried tae have a wank he’d tear his foreskin tae shreds. — So ah goes n phones um up this morning n the bastard still hus the brass neck tae claim he wis oot. Ah tells um, ‘Beat it, ya mongol, ah fuckin well saw ye , Johnny!’ Cunt turns roond n sais: ‘Ye didnae see me, chavy, ye must huv been hallucinatin,’ but his voice was that wey … Matty pauses a bit, then looks harshly at us. — Ye ken when some cunt’s really jist rippin the fuckin pish oot ay ye?

Ah make a feeble protest on Johnny’s behalf, but Matty cuts me off.

— Ah ken he’s an auld mate ay yours, but fuck um! Wir gaunny meet Goagsie n Raymie at Mikey Forrester’s. Cunt, he’s goat this shootin gallery, wi aw bang up thegither wi they big twinty-mil syringes. Like blood brothers. Matty suddenly smiles, warmed by the thought. — Ye ken Forrester?

— Ken the name.

— Lorne Street originally. No bad cunt, total tea leaf, kin be a bit ay a wideo.

— Did Begbie no kick his cunt in a while back?

— Aye, Matty says, — Lothian Road, but that wis donks ago, he adds, a bit embarrassed.

The story fae Begbie (which ah’ve had tae endure many times) was that he and Matty wir in Lothian Road and they met Gypo, this prick fae Oxgangs, who wis wi this Forrester gadge, and got intae some drunken argument wi them. Matty backed doon but Begbie didnae and ended up battering them baith. He wisnae too chuffed wi Matty for no bailin in. Anyway, the mention ay the story puts Matty back in silent mode. Eventually he breaks the hush and asks, — Seen that fat cunt Keezbo?

— Aye, wis oot wi him the other night.

Matty isnae fond ay Keezbo, cause he once went oot wi Shirley. It was long before Matty, but some cunts never let go ay things like that. Also, Keezbo kin actually play the drums, whereas Matty’s shite oan guitar. No even good enough for us, n that’s what it’s really aw aboot.

— Jambo cunt, he says under his breath.

Ah say nowt, cause me n Keezbo are the best ay buddies, like me n Matty used tae be, when we wir punks n went doon tae London.

We git oaf at Muirhoose, cutting through the deserted shopping centre past units that exhibit only graffiti oan thair steel shutters, n headin for this five-storey block at the back ay the prefabricated library. Schemes like this, Wester Hailes or Niddrie, thaire’s nowt roond thum but mair scheme. Mibbe a wee patch ay crap shoaps selling tinned goods and some rotting, overpriced veg and a murderous pillboax ay a bar. At least in Leith, if ye live in a scheme, yir surrounded by pubs, bookies, cafes, shoaps n loads ay shit tae dae.

Matty tells us that since the bastards shut the needle exchange in Bread Street a few years back, injectin equipment’s been hard tae come by, but he sais this Forrester gadge gets these big syringes fae a hoaspital contact. Sick Boy’s already went and sorted oot his ain works fae this nurse he kens, cause he doesnae like the idea ay sharing needles, but it doesnae bother me. He says he’ll sort me oot wi some n aw, but.