Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

We climb a few flights ay stairs n chap the door, and a figure forms on the other side ay the dimpled wire gless. It opens up tae reveal a tall but chunky-faced gadge wi thinning blond hair. He looks doubtfully at us, then clocks Matty. — Mathew … come in, pal ay mine.

Ah follay Matty inside, tae a front room wi scabby faded rugs slapped on toap ay the oil-black flair tiles. Posters adorn the otherwise bare waws. Thaire’s a nice Zeppelin yin wi the four symbols, and a barry, ginormous Jam Setting Sons but the rest are ay shite bands no even worth mentioning in passing. A burst couch, two identical teak coffee tables, a brutalised armchair and a pair ay grubby mattresses comprise the room’s furnishings. The place seems solely used fir the consumption ay drugs, wi the possible exception ay the odd gang bang.

Best bit is that it’s decked oot wi some kent faces. Goagsie fae Leith’s thaire, as is Raymie, Swanney’s sidekick, and as they vouch for us, Forrester relaxes a bit. Ah’m surprised tae see LA Woman (as Spud calls her), Alison Lozinska, whae ah went tae school wi, and who briefly (in a taste lapse on her part) went oot wi oor Billy. Blondie Lesley fae the boozer’s present, wi a lassie called Sylvia; tall, thin, wi collar-length blondish-broon hair. Two boys are introduced tae me; a guy called ET (which ah git telt is short fir Eric Thewlis) and this aulder gadge, American Andy, whae’s cookin up gear in this big metal spoon under a Calor gas burner, so nae prizes for guessin whae’s oan first dabs. Naebody intros these two other gadges. One looks well dodgy, a hard-faced salt-n-pepper-heided cunt wi a bad Mars bar across his coupon, n whae stares at us till ah look away. The other boy is wee, n hus an awfay big heid, no quite a dwarf, but like a dwarf. Forrester seems awright, a bit hostile at first, probably cause ah’m new, but grins when ah produce the readies, tipplin that ah’m no here tae try n ponce or queue-jump fir ma shot.

Ah sit oan the mattress beside Alison. She says hiya, n kisses me platonically oan the side ay the cheek.

There’s a load bein cooked up intae this big syringe n it’s comin ma way. Ah’m tryin tae get the vein up, ma belt roond ma airm, the wey Johnny did for us, but nowt’s fuckin happening. The syringe goes fae this American Andy, tae ET, tae Mikey, tae Goagsie n thir fawin like dominoes n ah’m next but ah’m still tap-tap-tappin like a ballroom dancer. Ah see Raymie cookin separately on his ain works n fixin hissel a shot, while Ali, Lesley and the Sylvia bird look on, rolling joints, declining all skag offers. Ah’m no lookin at Matty but ah kin hear um snappin at us, — Cunt, c’mon, we’ve no goat aw fuckin day!

Thaire’s nowt ah kin dae but pass it on tae the moanin fucker. Ah gie up n pick up a foil pipe fae one ay the tables n start tae amateurishly burn some gear, tae the contempt ay the others. — Wastin fuckin good gear, Forrester moans, running a hand through his thinning quiff.

— Fuck sakes, Renton, wee Goagsie’s mooth snaps like a pedal bin.

— Aye, sort it oot, ya radge, Matty’s spiteful campfire voice, as a wasted Forrester, who at first looks like he’s playin pin the tail oan the donkey, manages tae inject him.

— Well, yis urnae fuckin hudin oot oan me! Ah peyed ma fuckin dough, ah snaps back. — Swanney fixed us, he kens how tae git a fuckin vein up …

— Beat it, ya mongol … Matty’s snake-like contempt, as he crumbles, the junk slapping him back intae the couch.

THESE CUNTS .

— Chill, Mark. C’mere, Alison goes, beckonin me closer tae her n Lesley n this Sylvia bird, n thir passin a foil pipe roond. — Yir embarrassin yirsel, n that’s pittin it mildly, she chides.

— Didnae ken youse were intae this, Ali, ah says tae her.

— Everybody is, darling. She chews on some gum. — Jist chasin it like, widnae go near needles!

She lights the underside ay the sheet ay foil, n the gear oan it starts burnin, n ah’m moppin up the smoke.

Fucker …

Ah takes a big couple ay dunts intae ma lungs. Ah hate smoking anything , n ah’m fightin no tae go intae a coughin spasm, though ah’m wincin n bucklin n ma eyes are gushin like a broken hydrant …

Ya cunt, ye …

Ah feel somebody gently take the foil sheet n pipe fae ma hands …

— Smokin wit de laydees … Matty says derisively, in a mock-Jamaican accent, face as pallid as white heather. Forrester adds something aboot the girls being okay, and wee Goagsie laughs n aw. Ah turn roond n say, — If youse cunts … Ah cannae finish the sentence, the gears hittin us like a marshmallow sledgehammer. Ah’m too wasted tae care aboot thir shite, besides ah’d rather be stuck wi the lassies than these fuckin spazwits …

Wanky fucked-up twats …

Alison’s a bit bombed, mooth slack n eyelids heavy, but she’s rabbitin oan aboot some new joab she’s goat that she’s startin the morn, savin fuckin trees. Then she’s tryin tae tell us aboot this poetry group she goes tae. Ah kin believe it, cause she wis eywis bright at school, hud that prefect blazer wi the pipin roond it …

— Emily Dickinson, ah lean intae her, — … that lassie could write a fuckin poem …

— Ye know, Mark … Ali forces her features intae a thick smile, — we should huv a proper conversation … like whin we’re baith straight …

— We did … yonks ago. Zeppelin versus the Doors … in the Windsor that time. Mind?

— Right … but ah wis oan mushrooms then …

— Aye … ah might huv been oan acid … ah recall, but ah’m watchin Forrester withdrawin the big syringe fae Matty’s thin airm, noticin weepin track marks for the first time. That cunt’s a minger: eywis wis. He catches us starin at him. — Naebody wis haudin oot on ye, Mark … cunt, ye wir haudin oot oan yirsel … he sais, now in a contented smirk. — Git some proper wirin, man … then he flops back. Ah start crawlin ower, n pill masel up tae sit next tae him oan the settee. — Sorry, man … he goes, n we share a wee snigger n hud each other’s hand like we wir gaun oot thegither.

The big syringe goes tae the two scary fuckers, Sergeant Salt n Pepper and his Ventriloquist Doll, n the cunts are soon disintegrating. Ah think it’s mibbe time tae git away fae them, but the lassies scurry ower tae us n Ali’s propped herself up against ma legs, ah kin feel her back restin oan ma shins. Her braids ur that black n shiny ah huv an urge tae touch them, but ah resist, smilin instead at that Sylvia burd wi her sharp, keen, white features. Goagsie’s gaun on tae a spilled Sergeant Salt n Pepper aboot how Motörhead are really a punk instead ay a metal band, and people start hudin conversations wi themselves, as the sun goes doon n dark shadows start tae faw across the room.

Ah doze off for a bit, then ah feel ma throat constrictin n jerk awake wi that fawin sensation, like whiplash fae a car suddenly stoapin. Matty’s conscious next tae us; the cunt’s eyes are open, starin straight ahead. He’s sweatin, clenchin his hands, diggin his fingernails intae his palms, like he’s oan so much junk he’s cravin again awready. Fuckin radge, ah’d never let masel git messed up like that oan a poxy drug!

Forrester’s ower, crouchin beside us, n he’s chattin tae the lassies, but in a sleazy wey. Thank fuck they two creepy fuckers ower by are spangled; Sergeant Salt n Pepper’s nearly asleep. The dwarfish fucker’s heid lollin around like it’s gaunny faw oaf his shoodirs. — Naw bit, how long bit …? Forrester slurs at the girls.

— How long what? Ali says, in wasted indifference.

— How long should a gadge n a lassie be gaun oot thegither before they go tae bed?

Ali turns disdainfully away tae Lesley sayin something that ah dinnae catch, but it sounds like, — Chop them doon before they infect everybody, n Forrester looks up like a mumpy bairn tae register ma reaction. Ah try tae keep ma expression neutral. Probably realisin he’s nae chance gittin intae Ali’s or Lesley’s keks, he persists wi this Sylvia lassie. — Naw, how long bit?