Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

— But it’s fraud, she says, briefly alarmed, her eyes slightly widening. She reaches over and clicks on a small table lamp.

— What is fraud, but? I ask, enjoying her animation within the cocoon of golden-brown light, as ah warm tae ma theme. — Let’s get away from state control, and talk fuckin morality here. Look at what cunts like Dickson get away wi. That’s fucking fraud. Murdered a man and he’s still doonstairs pullin fuckin pints like nowt’s happened!

— Right enough. Fuck them, she spits in defiance, raising the glass tae her lips and taking a sip. — What’s the worst they kin dae tae me now, anywey? She falls back intae a lament. — Ah’m no sayin Colin was a saint, Simon, ah’m no sayin that at aw. Ah mean, he could’ve been a better husband, a better faither … and she crosses her legs, smoothing doon the dress as it clings tae the static ay her nylons.

— He was a damn sight better than ma auld man.

This manifestly obvious news seems tae take her by surprise. — But he always seemed nice, your dad.

— Aw aye, ah scoff, he’d be nice tae you . A good-looking woman, he’ll always be very, very nice tae, ah explain, watching her flush in spite ay herself. — It’s his ain family he’s no very nice tae.

— What dae ye mean?

Remembering that misery loves bedfellows, ah fix her a glum expression. — When ah wis a bairn he used tae take me out n leave me in the car wi Coke and crisps, while he saw tae his fancy women. Our secret wee messages, he used tae called them. As soon as ah sussed oot what he was up tae, he stopped taking me, in fact he lost interest in me aw thegither.

— Surely he wisnae … ah mean, he widnae huv done that tae a wee laddie …

— Aye, right. You dinnae ken the half ay it! I’ll tell ye a wee story that sums up everything about him and our relationship. My faither’s such a cunt that he once took back a watch ah bought him for Father’s Day. The money was chorrie, aye, but that’s beside the point. It was the fucking thought. But naw, the bastard went back tae Samuel’s in St James’s Centre wi the receipt ah had tae keep for guarantee purposes in case it fucked up.

— I never thought he’d dae anything like that …

— Aw aye, the shitebag went up there and even refused goods, insisted that he wanted the cash back, ah spell it oot, enjoying her puzzled but hostile reaction. She lifts the whisky tumbler tae her mouth, and scratches at an itch on her knee, lifting her dress on one side to show a thigh that has remained pleasingly muscular. I get that familiar twinge heralding the start ay a hard-on as ah take another sip ay Scotch. — N that ain’t the half of it. Boasted tae me, and I lean forward, drilling my thumb intae my chest, — and ah was fifteen at the time, fifteen, for fuck’s sake, ah shout wi a full-on, traumatised gape intae her eyes, — … that later on he went doon tae Danube Street for a decent hooker, then tae the Shore for a curry and a few lagers. Telt us he still had enough for a gam oaffay a scabby streetwalker later. ‘Eywis get peckish eftir a ride n horny eftir a scran,’ he fuckin laughed at me, patting his flabby gut. That was the cunt trying to fucking bond , ah shake ma heid in recall. — Ah think about that saint ay a woman he married and what any ay us did tae deserve him!

— But you’re no like him, Janey says hopefully, as she crosses her legs again, and more and more I see her daughter in her, making me think: How the fuck did Coke pull that? — you take mair eftir yir ma. She’s such a lovely woman. And your sisters are n aw.

— And I thank God for that every day ay ma life, I tell her, and glance at the oak-framed clock on the sideboard. — Right, ah should really be heading off.

This seems tae strike panic in Janey, as she hugs herself and looks around the cold, empty tomb of a flat. Her eyes enlarge and her mouth tightens in appeal. — Dinnae go, she half whispers.

— Ah have tae, I find masel pleading back in the same voice.

— Ah cannae be oan ma ain, Simon. No now.

I raise my brows, push myself out of the chair, and move over tae her. Looking deeply intae her wrecked eyes, ah take her hand and she rises and ah’m leading her intae the bedroom. Ah stop at the bottom ay the bed and whisper, — Are you sure you’re awright with this?

— Aye, she says softly, kissing me on the lips, the scent ay spirits and baccy on her breath. Then she turns away from me, but only tae plead in a croaky voice, — Unzip us.

I watch the fastener pull apart under my tug, slicing the gold-and-black dress in two. She lets it fall, steps out of it, then sits on the bed, arching her body to pull off her tights and underpants, giving me a glimpse of a forest of bush, before slipping under the covers.

Ah pull off my gear and get under with her. Slide smoothly into her awaiting embrace. Her body’s warm and a lot firmer than ah would have thought for a woman who must be at least thirty-five. She’s shivering and her teeth are banging together, but I’m hard as fuck and ah ken ah’m gaunny be up her all night and that Coke and regrets will be kept at bay till the morning.

THE KNOCKED-OFF PUB mirror shows up the kitchen behind us tae its mankiest effect. Ah’d love tae gless the taunting pus ay the inscribed McEwan’s Lager Cavalier. Nae wonder he’s aw grins n toasts; getting people tae pey dosh tae drink that tepid, poisonous pish. Another erse-up wi that scabby black tie: ah yank it oaf for aboot the tenth time. — Shite!

Sick Boy’s at ma shoodir, providing succour. He gets the tie right first go. — There we are, he coos, makin me feel aw baba biscuit-erse. — You should git some breakfast.

Eat something in this midden? No ta. — I’ll git somethin at my ma’s. There’s nowt here.

— I made some lasagne. He points tae the oven.

— It’s shite, ah tried some ay it last night. Ah did tae, eftir a quick drink wi a couple ay gadges fae Gillsland’s turned intae a bit ay a sesh.

Sick Boy places his hands on his hips. — That was my mother’s recipe, ya cheeky cunt, he pseudo-bellows, lightening things fir ma benefit.

— Ah’ve hud yir ma’s lasagne, — and that shite in thaire, ah nod tae the oven, — is nowt like it. Ye obviously never follayed her recipe; for one thing lasagne isnae meant tae huv lumps ay tuna in it.

— I was making use ay the resources available. You get doon the Co-op once in a while, then you can critique the culinary skills of others.

Cheeky bastard him. Two words stick treacly in the noggin: rent and money. But fucked if ah kin be ersed arguin wi the cunt right now. — Right, ah’m offski. Ah reach fir ma jaykit, hingin oan a nail at the back ay the door.

— Okay, ah’ll see ye at the cremmy at two o’clock, he goes, then suddenly steps forward and hugs me. — You okay?

— Course ah ah’m, ya radge, ah tell him.

He breks his grip, but lets his hands rest on ma shoodirs. — It’ll kick in, ye know, the grief, he declares, dropping one hand. — But play the stoical Scot aw ye want. My advice though: the Italian way ay mourning is the best. Open up. Feel the burn inside. Let it oot. He flattens his other hand and gies us a couple ay affectionate gentl ish slaps across the chops.

— Aye, right, ah say, then ah’m out the door.

Ah check the time and start heading doon the Walk. The sun’s oot tae play as far as Pilrig, where some big manky clouds appear, tae muscle him fae the frame. Ah get tae Junction Street, narrowly escaping a summer soaking as it starts chuckin.

Ma and Dad are like zombies. Literally. Glazed eyes and bumpin intae things. Ah cannae believe thir still in shock aboot the demise ay somebody whaes death wis signposted since the day he wis born, n by every medical expert in the UK. Did they not understand the term ‘short life expectancy’? Did they believe that by beating the fluid offay Wee Davie’s lungs they could preserve him forever?