Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

— Ken what he sais tae me? Kristen was asking Alison, while shooting a malevolent gaze in the direction of another crusty-looking relative. Perhaps it was her mother’s brother. — He goes, ‘What do you do?’ Ah felt like sayin back tae him, ‘What? What d’ye mean, what dae ah do? Ah make love. Ah watch telly. Ah go for a drink.’ How dae people eywis huv tae assume that when they ask that, that it hus tae mean a career ?

Alison shifted her gaze to the barbecue, watching the flames rise and lick at the grease around the sizzling sausages. Enjoying the frown of concentration on Bertie’s face, as he loaded chicken breasts onto the grill with his tongs. Though her senses were pleasantly dulled, she was aware that Alexander was raising his voice, cognisant of those assured, workplace tones. — And you think it’s better for my children to live in one house with two parents who hate each other, or live in two normal households with sane people?

As Bertie Birch turned his bangers, the flames slithering around the hissing, spitting meat, Alison sensed he was quietly savouring the public spat between his wife and eldest son. For him, Kristen’s lowlife suitors and relentless downward mobility, Russell’s fatuous but wounded demeanour, and Alexander’s ecological arrogance had probably come to embody exotic, mystical qualities.

Even Kristen had fallen silent, now also engrossed in the swelling disputation, inching closer, compelling Alison to follow suit, as Rena raised her voice shrilly: — So this is really about me and your father, is it? Well, have the spine to say it! Poor little you; the Stewart’s Melville fees we could barely afford, the summer camps in Bavaria and Oregon to look at your precious trees –

A high shriek suddenly erupted from Alexander. It alarmed everyone. It seemed to have no context, even within the growing storm of his argument with Rena. To Alison, it looked as if he was having some kind of seizure; his hands started flailing wildly in the air and he ran, stumbling into his father and the barbecue. Just as she realised that Alexander had been stung or was at least being pursued by a bee or a wasp, the next thing Alison saw was a sheet of flame flashing in ignition up the back of her boss’s legs.

People froze in the gaping horror of disbelief as Alexander ineffectually flapped at his blazing trousers. Russell reacted first, dragging his brother over to the paddling pool, which Alexander fell gratefully into, rolling in a way that reminded Alison of a child at the beach. He sat up in the water, gasping, a black, charred patch visible up the back of his jacket. As if suddenly realising where he was, he quickly stood up, and stepped out of the rubber pool, in mortification rather than shock. He resisted all attempts to call an ambulance. — I’m fine, he asserted, and though his suit was ruined, he miraculously seemed not to have suffered any significant burns.

— I’m going home to change, he said, shaking off the storm of fuss around him. He made his point by stiffly marching his soaked, blackened legs and arse outside. His mother was now arguing with Kristen, and Alison could hear Skuzzy saying, — Leave it, it jist causes arguments, repeatedly, as if on a demented loop. Heading out after Alexander, she saw him striding down the street. She had to run to catch up with him, calling his name as she drew closer. He stopped, evidently embarrassed to see her approaching.

— I’m really sorry, that was my fault, she said, — it was the petrol n that.

— It’s okay, it was an accident. It was all down to my own clumsy panicking … the wasp … a double accident. He suddenly laughed, and she found herself joining in.

When that moment passed, he said forlornly, — I’m really sorry I brought you to such a scene.

Alison immediately thought of her own family, where so much had been left unsaid since her mother’s illness. The tension was often insufferable. At least here everything seemed out in the open. — It was kind of exciting, she confessed, then, mindful of his distress, raised her hand to her mouth.

Alexander shook his head. — I don’t like bees and wasps. That’s why I was trying to stay beside the barbecue, for the smoke. I was stung as a kid and nearly died, you see.

Alison didn’t understand how anybody could nearly die from a bee sting, but felt compelled to make the appropriately jolted reaction.

— Yes, it turned out I had a severe allergy and went into anaphylactic shock, he explained, and in response to her nonplussed look, added, — I fainted and they slung me in an ambulance. My blood pressure had dropped dangerously, and I went into a coma for a couple of days.

— God! Nae wonder ye were scared.

— Yes, I feel such a wimp, making a scene like that over an insect, but I’d rather risk being burnt than –

— Shush, Alison said, stepping forward and kissing this still-smouldering man in the suburban street.

AH FIRST MET Fiona Conyers in the economic history seminar. A standard teaching room; small, wi a U-shaped range ay tables and whiteboard along one waw. The felt pens never worked; it was the one thing that bugged the lecturer, Noel, an otherwise phlegmatic gadge, ubiquitously clad in a scuffed black leather jaykit. There wis aboot a dozen ay us in the group. Only four were chatty: me, Fiona, a tall, aulder boy fae Sierra Leone called Adu, and a plumpish, sweet-faced Iranian lassie, Roya. The other eight were beyond mute: socially retarded tae the point ay being terrified ay gettin asked anything .

Fiona wis confrontational wi Noel, challengin every orthodoxy, but in a cool way, no strident like a lot ay the politicos. Her accent was educated Geordie, which became thicker as we grew closer. Like ma ain Edinburgh yin, ah suppose. Ah wis instantly attracted tae her. No only was she gorgeous, but she had a voice. Maist lassies ah’d been wi back hame were silent, wily and formless, precisely, ah realised, because that’s exactly how ah wis wi them. But nowt happened wi Fiona and me — ah’ve eywis been shite at kennin if a bird fancies us. Ah thoat her mate, Joanne Dunsmuir, fae my English lit class last year, wis game; but ah wisnae interested in her. She wis a nosy Weedgie bird, no proper Weedgie, but fae somewhere near thaire. Unlike a lot ay Edinburgh punters who disdain them as tramps, ah’ve nowt against Soapdodgers, cause ay ma faither being yin. But thaire wis a fussy, domineering air aboot Joanne that ah disliked. The type ay lassie who went tae uni tae look for a felly she could boss aboot forever.

Back hame ah was a waster; frivolous and fucked-up, always looking for some sort ay adventure. Getting wasted, screwin hooses, trying tae screw lassies. Here ah wis the opposite. Why not? It made perfect sense tae me. Why go away, jist tae dae the same shite that ye dae at hame? Tae be the very same person? Ma reasoning is ah’m young; ah want tae learn, tae add tae masel. At uni ah’m deadly serious, and most of all, hard-working and disciplined. Not because ah wanted tae ‘get on’. As far as ah was concerned ah already was on . Sitting in the brightly lit library, surrounded by books, in total silence, that was ma personal zenith. Nothing in the world made me feel better. So ah studied hard: ah wisnae at Aberdeen tae make friends. Maist weekends in first year, ah headed back tae Edinburgh for the fitba or tae go tae gigs or clubs wi ma mates or my on — off girlfriend, Hazel. But ah made one good pal, Paul Bisset, an Aberdonian gadge. ‘Bisto’ wis a workin-class boy fae Torry, quite short but stocky, white-blond hair, looked like he worked on a farm even though he was a townie. He ran wi the thug element at A’deen, lived at hame wi his ma and, like me, put in a proper shift workwise. Another bond was that we’d both had proper jobs (he was a printer) and kent how shite that wis, and appreciated bein at uni mair than the punters who came straight fi sixth year at school or some poxy college.