Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

Bisto and me had planned a trip tae Istanbul. Ah’d eywis wanted tae travel. Ah’d only been abroad twice, tae Amsterdam wi the boys for some teenage japes, and before that tae Spain, for a family holiday. That wis barry; it wis just me, Ma, Dad and Billy, cause ma Auntie Alice wis lookin eftir spazzy Wee Davie. Dad wis happy, but Ma worried aboot Wee Davie, and spent a fortune phonin hame. Ah lapped it up, it wis the best holiday we’d had, nae freak tae embarrass Billy n me.

When Fiona and Joanne heard aboot our proposed trip, they jist sortay invited themselves along. First it was a joke, then it became mair serious. Even when phone numbers were exchanged and concrete plans made, Bisto n me were still like: aye, well, we’re gaunny believe it when they show up.

Eftir the final class oan the last day ay the term, Fiona, Joanne n Bisto wanted tae get pished in the students’ union. Ah wis game, but first ah hud tae see the English lit boy, Parker. The cunt had gied us 68 per cent for ma essay oan F. Scott Fitzgerald. That wis nae fuckin use tae me: it was the first time ah’d dropped under 70 per cent for a marked assignment, n ah wisnae happy. Ah mind ay Joanne sayin, — You’re mental, Mark, 68 per cent is goooood!

Fuck good; ah’d grafted, and set fuckin standards. Ah wanted a first-class, joint honours degree in History and Literature; well, history, having dropped the literature component this year. Analysing novels meant ripping oot their soul and it destroyed my enjoyment of them. Ah couldnae allow masel tae be trained tae think that way. Only by refusing tae study literature was ah able tae maintain ma passion for it. Ah was also thinking about changing my major fae history tae economics. But ah usually topped every class, only African Adu rivalled me in some, him and Lu Chen, this scarily focused Chinese lassie. So ah tore off, aw ready tae dae battle wi the tweedy Parker, a snotty wee gerbil in a bow tie whae acted like he wis an Oxford don or something. He’d insisted in his notes back that this wis ma weakest essay, that ah’d misunderstood F. Scott’s life and work, and the character ay Dick Diver in Tender Is the Night .

So when ah got there this cunt’s sittin back in his padded chair. His wee office is stowed wi books and papers. It had shelves aw the way up tae the ceilin and a pair ay ladders tae get at the high-stacked dusty auld books. Aw they books, crammed intae this cosy wee hidey-hole. And he had one ay they Rolodex things for aw his contacts, which ah pretend tae hate but secretly think is as cool as fuck. Ah envied the bastard huvin this space; somewhere ye could just lock yourself in, read and ponder. The realisation that ah kent this cunt and the likes ay Frank Begbie, Matty Connell and Spud Murphy astonished me. Parker cultivated that detached, slightly superior look, wi his gold-rimmed specs resting oan the bridge ay his neb, and when he deigned tae focus on ye, it wis in that interrogative polis wey, like ye’d done something wrong. So ah put ma case forward, but he wis unrepentant. — You’re missing a key element, Mark, he goes, — which I must confess somewhat surprises me.

— What element? ah said, casting my eye oan what looked like a really auld copy ay Jane Eyre , oan the shelving tae the side ay the windae.

— Read the book again, the critical essays, and also the supplementary biog of F. Scott, he offered, standing up in response tae some cunt’s tap oan the door. — Now, if you’ll excuse me …

As he turned his back and went tae investigate, ah took ma chance n reached ower, swiftly slippin the copy ay Jane Eyre intae ma holdall. He ushered in some postgrad twat, dismissing me in the same extended sweep ay his airm. Ah left his office bilious, but buzzed at having taxed the bourgeois cheat oot ay his vintage wares. Hittin the bar, ah told Fiona, Joanne, Bisto and some others aboot the conversation, omitting ma virtuous retaliation through the act ay ‘resource reallocation’ as Sick Boy and me call theft, lest they misinterpreted it. — Wants us tae read it again, cheeky bastard, ah moaned, raisin the lifeless lager tae ma lips.

— You’ll be able ter read it on the trains in Europe, Fiona said wi a cool smile, takin a heart-stopping drag on her Marlboro, as Joanne giggled, making me mair convinced than ever that they were takin the pish. When ah goat back tae Edinburgh, however, Bisto called tae say they were definitely coming, they’d bought the InterRail tickets. Ah telt him ah’d believe it when ah saw it.

And fuck me, when the day came roond, ah did a double take when ah first clocked Joanne at Waverley Station, sitting in the big hall. She was reading Life & Times of Michael K by J. M. Coetzee, inevitably cause it had won some poxy prize and people like her, despite their free-thinker affectations, would eywis need tae be telt what tae read. We boarded the slick InterCity in an uncomfortable mutual antipathy; like me she wis probably wondering how the fuck we were gaunny stand each other’s proximity for four weeks. Thankfully, Bisto was waiting on the train, having got oan at Aberdeen, and he had a cairry-oot. We drank a beer or two each en route tae Newcastle, me electrified at the prospect of seeing Fiona, then forcing nonchalance when ah spied her at the platform, getting oan the train. Joanne suddenly screamin in that Weedgie voice, — Fiona, wur heee-ur!

Fiona looking so gorgeous, rubbing her tongue in concentration against her small, even front teeth, as she slung her bag oan the luggage rack and came towards us. Her presence and series ay movements casually ravaged everything inside us. — Hi, she said directly tae me, and ah’m sure ma skin went as rid as ma fuckin hair or the Aberdeen fitba strip Bisto wis wearin, wi the white pinstripes and 1983 ECWC crest. Aw ah could dae was tae coolly raise a can in a stagey toast, when ma insides were like chopped liver. She had on a black leather jacket turned up at the collar, and removed it tae display a Gang of Four T-shirt, while sweeping her hair back. Ah’d never fancied anybody so much in ma life.

We were on the road: London — Paris — Berlin — Istanbul.

Whaire else but Paris? Sittin at this pavement cafe in the Latin Quarter drinking Pernods wi chunks ay ice. It was warm and heady and we were getting rapidly pished. There was a flirty, sexy vibe in the air. Fuck knows how, but a daft drinking game started up, where we passed these chunks ay ice mooth-tae-mooth tae each other. This precipitated the performance ay deep kisses; Joanne and Fiona, tae me n Bisto’s open-moothed awe, then Joanne and me, and Bisto and Fiona as ah wept inside, then me and Bisto (we pushed stiff, closed mooths against each other, hamming it up), tae the cheers ay the lassies, then a quick bit ay musical chairs and ma heart poundin as me and Fiona looked at each other and in a suspended moment flashed a contract: I’m yours, your mine , before going at it. Eventually aware, wi the cheers turning tae groans, that the ice had melted, and it wisnae the only thing. Our faces stayed welded together as we ignored Bisto’s jocularly nervy comments and the controlling Joanne’s shrill protests. We’d gone and spoiled it aw for her. She wanted tae meet foreign boys, enjoy a splurge ay Continental cock before hooking some spotty bam at uni for life. Later on, Fiona even telt me she’d said, — This isnae how it was meant tae happen! Loved up, Fiona and me were an embarrassment tae Bisto and Joanne. They had nae interest in each other, but we were rubbing their faces in it, withoot meanin tae.

Like fuck .

Ah loved rubbin it in! It wis obvious that when we got back tae the hotel, near Gare du Nord, that we’d be sleeping thegither. It wis an Algerian grot-hole, but tae me the last word in sophistication. It was like livin wi a bird, but in Europe, which it was really. Growin up wi two brothers, a lassie’s simple domestic proximity fascinated me. Ah marvelled at her oan the edge ay the bed, in the surprisingly smart towelling robe they provided, sitting on the frayed and threadbare candlewick bedspread. Stepping oot ay the robe and intae the bath and shaving her legs. No just brushing her teeth, but daein something called flossing, wi this twiney stuff. Sittin at the table in front ay the mirror, putting oan make-up or idly filing nails, her wet hair wrapped in a towel.