Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

Now they’ve nane ay the tension ay listening for his breathing, nane ay the doof-doof-doof and the hack-hack-hack ay the postural drainage sessions, following which Wee Davie wid collapse intae exhausted sleep as his creaking lungs filled up wi air. Meanwhile, the rest ay us waited in nervous dread for it aw tae start up again. That’s aw gone. Why are they no kind ay relieved?

It’s gone forever .

Ah leave them holding white-knuckled oantae the worktops in the cramped, dull kitchen they seem perpetually stuck in. In the front room’s light, the air is thick with cigarette smoke. Billy and his bird are ripping through them; nae Wee Davie, so nae need tae sit at the bedroom windae blowin the fumes ootside. Now we can all have our lungs decimated. My eyes sting and leak; it takes a few seconds fir them tae clear enough tae see Billy shoot me his ‘you fuckin weirdo’ look, making us conscious ay every step ah take. Ah feel like we’ve regressed about a decade.

You have the advantage of me, Tobacco Boy .

Sharon’s a ride, in a trashy, chain-store boutique sort ay wey. She’s got the tits, erse, blonde wedge cut and slender waist that pushes male buttons, everything apart fae the pins, which are a tad shortish n stumpy. An evaluating shrewdness in her eyes engenders speculation that she might be worth spraffin wi ootside ay Billy’s stultifying proximity. She’s havering oan aboot a lassie called Elspeth, n ah’m inclined tae hear mair cause it’s probably Begbie’s cute sister (thankfully she looks nothing like him), but the smoke and Billy’s mean vibes have a throttling impact, squeezing oot valuable oxygen. A quote fae the Schopenhauer gadgie asserts itself, namely: almost all of our sorrows spring oot ay oor relations wi other people.

Did you not realise, Tobacco Boy, the detrimental power of your evil smoke, disguise it though you might, on the enfeebled lungs of your younger sibling?

Ah snatch the NME ah left oan the sideboard the other day. Mark E’s ironic grin reminds us ay the Fall tape in ma room that ah’d made up for Hazel, who’s sure tae be at the funeral. Ah decide ah’ll bring it along, and ah’m aboot tae decamp tae that fusty auld den ay music and masturbation, when the phone explodes in a shrill ring, shattering every cunt’s pianny-wire nerves. It’s relentless, but naebody’s movin.

Mein bruder Wilhelm, master ay the accusatory glare: — Is some cunt gaunny answer that fuckin phone?!

I sense your dilemma, Tobacco Boy. Answering the phone would mean having to speak into the mouthpiece, thus depriving yourself of a few precious seconds’ inhalation of nicotine, which you so desperately crave!

— I’m sure it’ll happen, ah declare, grinning at Sharon, — Ah mean, some day, likes, n ah’m rewarded wi the faintest ay smiles back.

— Dinnae start gittin fuckin wide, Billy threatens, — no the day!

This bam is big-time nippy, and ah’m guessing he’s recollecting the time he caught me chugging Wee Davie off. A tough sell explainin tae them aw that it wis solely fir the poor wee cunt’s ain benefit; ah certainly derived zero pleasure fae said act. You can operate fae the purest ay motives but some fuckers will eywis misconstrue it tae fit their ain twisted agenda. But ah ken the mood Bilbo’s in, and tae be honest, ah’m a wee bit scaredy-cat. — It’ll no be for me, ah protest.

We hear the phone being snatched up, my ma saying a few words, then joining us tae augment the dense smoke further wi her B&H. We could aw be cramped in this poky room and still play a passable game ay hide-n-seek. — Mark, it’s fir you.

Billy’s eyes narrow: annoyed and vindicated at the same time. The latter wins and, eftir hudin the stare for a second, we baith start tae laugh: loud, tension-releasing sniggers. Don’t like that lairy cunt, never have; but tae ma extreme discomfit ah’m sometimes compelled tae remember that ah sort ay love him. However, this is Chez Renton; as soon as one cunt gets onside, so another is alienated. — What’s fuckin funny? Ma screams. — Ah dinnae find anything funny!

That lingo will see you in hell, Mater. Another set ay Hail Marys chalked up tae some nonce in a frock later!

Ah upturn ma palms in surrender mode. — Ah’ll git the phone, and ah head through tae the perennially draughty hall where we keep the blower, fixed tae the waw. — Hello?

— Mark, is that yur?

— Aye. Fi?

— How are yur, pet?

— No bad; aw the better for hearing your voice, but.

— Listen, Mark, I’m at the Waverley. Ah wannar come to your brother’s funeral with yur.

First emotion: elation. Second: unease at the plethora of potential social embarrassments that loom. Hazel and Mark E’s tape. Ah well . — Great, eh … thanks, that’s brilliant, ah go, fiddling aroond in the drawer in the feeble wooden stand under the phone. There’s an empty spec case my ma uses for her auld reading glasses. That’ll dae for they works that Sick Boy gied us. Ah stick it in ma jaykit poakit.

— Ah’m getting a taxi now, pet. Wor shall ah meet yur?

— Ask the driver tae take ye tae a pub on Leith Walk called Tommy Younger’s.

— Okay. See yur in ten minutes.

My mother’s evidently been on surveillance, emerging intae the hallway in gunfighter stance. Her thin frame shakes, the cigarette twitching in her hand. — Yir no meeting anybody in nae pub! The car’s ordered! We’re leaving fae here! We go as a faimlay !

— Ah’m meeting my, ehm, muh girlfriend, fae the university.

— Girlfriend? she gasps, as Dad steps oot behind her. — Ye never says nowt tae us aboot nae girlfriend, she accuses, before her big eyes narrow tae slits. — Bit ye widnae, wid ye, Mark, cause it’s aw bloody secrets wi you!

— Cathy … my dad soothes, his hand on her shoodir.

Her heid lashes roond violently, eyes devouring him. — Well, it is, Davie! Mind that wee lassie we heard greetin in the stair? He wisnae gonnae let her intae the hoose!

That wis a cringer … fuckin needy minger followin us hame eftir ah’d cowped her up the goods yerd … them bringin her in n makin a fuss ay her, insistin ah sat up n drank fuckin coffee wi her in the kitchen when ah wanted tae die die die … or thaime tae aw die die die die, ya huns …

As ah feel my neck n ears flarin rid in recall, Billy’s oot now, suddenly interested. — Whae wis this?

— Never you mind, my dad sais, and ah remain silent as a hatchet-wound grin splits Billy’s coupon.

— Bring her here, Ma appeals, flicking some falling ash fae the sleeve ay her jaundice-yellay cardigan, — we’ll huv room in the cars.

— Naw, eh, ah’ll just see yis aw doon there. It might be a bit too heavy fir her being in the funeral party, when she doesnae ken anybody, likes, ah explain, as Sharon appears alongside Billy, cocking a waxed eyebrow.

— Ye mean too heavy fir you ! my ma accuses. — He’s still embarrassed by us, by his ain faimly! She turns tae the others in appeal. — Well, he’s away, now, he cannae embarrass ye any mair … that wee sowel that never hurt a fly … that wee angel … and she sparks up again.

— Cathy … my auld man says, still in a conciliatory mode, — lit um go.

— Naw, she says, eyes again shockingly fish-protuberant. — How’s he no gaunny bring the lassie back here? This lassie naebody even kens aboot! He’s never even mentioned her! It’s aw big bloody secrets, as usual! He’s ashamed! she accuses. — Ashamed ay his ain faimlay!

Billy Boy dragons oot some smoke and gies us a feculent glower. — Feelin’s fuckin mutual, ah’ll tell ye that for nowt.

Your powers of smoke inhalation are impressive, Tobacco Boy. Far more so than your cryptic remarks .