Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

— Wi you, ah’d say forever.

— What?

— Even here, Mikey, naebody’s gaunny sleep wi ye, and she blows some cigarette smoke right in his face. — Even. Fuckin. Here.

— Dinnae count on it, Raymie says, standin up n pullin oot a big, white cock, then comin ower and wavin it in Mikey’s coupon. — Get them roond this then, gadgie, c’mon honeybunch!

— Fuck off! Mikey shouts fae his hunkers, pushin him away as we aw start chucklin.

Raymie thankfully complies, floppin back oan a mattress, tellin us ay his youthful amateur gymnast days, when he practised obsessively until he was able tae perform self-fellatio. — Ah kin still git the bell-end n even a bit ay the shaft oan a good day, but no a proper right-tae-the-back-ay-the-throat gam.

— Tragic, Lesley says.

— Agreed. So if any ay you fair damsels would like tae help oot …

Nae takers, as the Sylvia lassie gets up, then forces herself doon next tae us on the couch, makin us bunch along n push up against Matty, whae mumbles something vaguely hostile. Sylvia’s chewing gum but ah cannae mind if she chased some skag like me n Ali n Les. A John Lennon song plays fae a shitey tape deck but ah’m hummin that Grandmaster Flash yin in ma heid …

— If ah could dae that ah’d nivir leave the hoose … Goagsie says tae Raymie.

— You never do anyway, Gordon. You are one housebound, helmet-suckin, hamster-chopped harridan …

Everybody has a wee chuckle at that, cause Goagsie is a bit ay a baw-faced cunt.

— Cunt, Matty laughs, and he sounds a bit like his auld self, — ah’d be telling masel a hud a heidache eftir a couple ay weeks!

— You’re a new face, this Sylvia’s sayin tae me, — A nice yin tae.

Ah ken she’s just flirtin wi us tae wind up Forrester, whae’s takin aw this in, but ah get intae it. Eftir a bit ay wasted small talk we start snogging. Her lips feel numb on mine, but her proximity is comforting and ah’ve never felt so relaxed neckin a bird before. Ma tongue is probing every crevice in her mooth, gaun ower her teeth n gums, but despite the intimacy it feels more detached than sexual. It obviously doesnae look that wey fae the ootside, cause we hear a shout: — You’re a cunt, Sylvia, a total fuckin cunt!

We breks off tae see Forrester standin ower us, lookin well pissed off, hand goin through his sparse hair.

— That’s no a very nice thing tae say tae a lady, ah interject. And it isnae, ye kin call a gadge a cunt, but it isnae very congenial tae say that tae a bird .

— You fuckin well keep oot ay this.

Fuck …

Ah’m tryin tae get up but ah’m wedged in between Matty and Sylvia, and wi the gear in ma system ah kin hardly move. Ah push up but ma hand’s oan Sylvia’s thin black leggings and Matty’s filthy jeans, and he twists away wi a curse like ah wis tryin tae molest him.

— You’re nae good, Sylvia. Always the fuckin slag. Never been any good. Anywhere. Have ye? Forrester taunts in a low, creepy voice.

— Aye, right, she goes.

Ah squeeze her thigh n shout at him, — Steady, ya fuckin choob.

— Aye, fuckin well calm doon, you, eh? Ali says.

— Whae the fuck ur you? Forrester ignores her, challengin me.

Ah grips Sylvia’s leg again. — Bruce Wayne, ah goes, n that gits some laughs. In frustration, Forrester kicks the sole ay ma trainer, n ah lunges in slo-mo tae ma feet n squares up tae the cunt n we’re right in each other’s faces.

— Ladies, please. No handbags, Raymie lisps, — I beg of thee.

— Neither ay you boys is much ay a fighter. N yir baith skagged up, wee Goagsie helpfully reminds us.

Forrester and me baith have the grace tae look embarrassed, as a mutual tremor ay wary acknowledgement passes between us. Then our host looks witheringly back at Sylvia. — Fuck who ye like, ya daft bitch, he says, turnin oan his heels and headin oot, slammin the door shut behind him. As ah faw back intae the couch, ah hear his feet gaun up the stairs.

— Thanks very much, she shouts back at him, then turns tae the room in appeal. — Like ah need his fuckin permission? Last ah looked he wisnae ma faither, n ah dinnae mind ay mairryin um!

— Ah nivir bother askin ma faither whae ah kin shag, ah idly observe.

— Gled tae hear it, Sylvia says in clipped tones as Ali stifles a giggle.

— Me neither … groans Matty, — … unless it’s muh ma.

— That’s only good manners, ah shrugs.

Raymie looks at the Eric Thewlis gadge, n his face goes straight and he says, — You really should gie yir ma a bell, n eftir a puzzled silence, every cunt tipples n laughs. A daft round ay shite talk starts up, but aw this effort has knackered me n ah’m driftin back intae a semi-crash. Ah kin vaguely hear Goagsie arguing wi one or baith ay these dinguls in the corner aboot people ah dinnae ken, n one gadge called Seeker, whaes name’s been bandied aroond a lot lately. The next thing ah ken is ah’m ootside blinkin in the cauld n gittin in a taxi wi Matty, Goagsie, Lesley and this Sylvia bird, headin back tae Leith.

— Did you ken that Ali’s ma’s dying? Lesley goes.

— Aye? Fuckin hell …

Sylvia’s hand on my thigh.

— She’s goat the big C.

— Cancer? ah goes.

— Aye … Lesley cringes, as if hearin the word exposes ye tae the disease. — It wis in her breasts. Hud a double mastectomy, but it’s no done any good. It’s terminal.

— A double mastectomy … cunt, that’s where they cut baith the tits oaf, right? sais Matty, and ah cannae help glancin at Lesley’s ample cleavage. Lesley shivers and nods. — Sair yin, Matty goes, — especially as it never worked. Cunt, how bad would that be, tae go through gittin yir tits cut oaf n still telt yir gaunny die? he speculates in noxious cheer. Then he says, as if inspired, — Cunt, Fat Keezbo’s ma, Moira Yule, she hud that, eh, Rents?

— Aye, but she wis awright, they goat it in time, ah goes as Sylvia whispers tae me that ah’ve goat a nice erse.

— She went fuckin scatty but. They fuckin budgies, Matty laughs.

Ah gie him a harsh look tae tell um tae shut up, then rub Sylvia’s thigh. Keezbo’s ma did go a wee bit doolally wi gittin that aviary in the hoose, but ye dinnae start talkin aboot a mate’s faimlay business like that. Fair play, the wee cunt doesnae make a meal ay it. — Where is Ali, anyway? ah goes, suddenly worried that she’s no wi us.

— Cunt, she went wi Raymie tae Johnny’s, Matty goes.

Goagsie’s melted intae the windae n makes a sort ay groan. — Tryin tae tell me aboot Seeker … he mumbles, — ah ken fuckin Seeker …

Ah’ve goat the tweakins ay a semi in ma troosers. — Ye game? ah whispers in Sylvia’s ear, catchin the smell ay fags n cheap perfume.

— If yir huntin, she smiles back harshly.

The rest disembark at the Fit ay the Walk, n me and Sylvia carry on doon Duke Street n up tae hers at Lochend. She calls it ‘Restalrig’ but it’s pure Lochend. And ah hate Lochend. It’s beyond wide. The place teems wi psychic assassins ready tae burst yir mooth. Normally ah’d be twitchin anxiously at shadows up here at this time ay night, especially as ah’m aboot tae bang one ay their birds, but as the taxi pulls away and a group ay swaggering wideos are lopsidedly winding towards us, ah strangely feel nae fear whatsoever.

The leader ay the pack gies Sylvia a gelid smile, carving concern oantae her coupon, then ah git the same treatment. — You’re Begbie’s mate, eh? Billy Renton’s brar?

Ah’ve never met this cunt before in ma puff but ah ken fae Franco’s obsessions exactly whae he is. — Mr Charles Morrison.

— What? Ah get a hollow-moothed, limp-jawed stare as his lips crawl back fae his teeth and his eyes bug oot.