Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

Postural drainage … doof-doof-doof, like strength-sapping body punches intae the big bags at the Leith Victoria gym .

As those teen months progressed, ah tried a few mair times, oddly, usually at her instigation. But the same thing happened. She would just freeze up, then have a violent reaction; it was as if she had a physical allergy tae sex. She wouldnae even gie us a blow job, though she did J. Arthur me off, focused oan ma cock like a scientist conducting an experiment. Once, when ah shot ma duff, the spunk went in her ear and oan her hair at the side ay her face. When she touched the stringy paste, she said, — That’s horrible, that mess … and started mair convulsive heaves, before gaun away tae wash her face. When she came back her hair was wet, she’d washed that n aw. Ah mind ay really desirin her then, wantin tae ride her so bad, just seeing her standin there wi the wet hair. And I’d only just blown a wad.

But there wis nae wey.

When we eventually did shag, it was grim, but that’s another tale. Nowadays we dinnae see each other for yonks, then end up back thegither oan the pretext ay gaun tae a gig or listenin tae some sounds, and have bad sex. Really bad sex. We baith think ‘never again’ till one ay us, usually her, picks up the phone.

Stevie Hutchison and his bird are talkin tae my ma n dad. He comes ower in that kind ay shufflin walk, shiftin weight fae one leg oantae the other, n pits his arm roond ma shoodir. — Bearin up, bro?

— Awright, Hutchy, aye, jist huv tae git oan wi it but, eh? How’s you?

— Seek tae fuck, he goes, his big eyes burnin. — Peyed oaf fae Ferranti’s. Applied tae Marconi’s doon in Essex. Thaire’s fuck all up here. Anywey, ah fancy giein London a wee crack. Mibbe git involved wi a band doon thaire. He glances at his bird, Chip Sandra, whae’s chattin tae Keezbo. She’s quite a bam, nae way good enough fir Stevie, n ah sortay blame her a bit for brekin up oor auld band, Shaved Nun. — She’s no keen tae go, he says wi a crinkly smile. — Elbay time, ah reckon, he winks.

Ah smile back. Aboot time n aw .

— What’s up, Stephen? Chip Sandra goes, pickin up the vibe.

— Jist music talk, you ken us. Stevie winks at me again, turning tae her. — C’mon, lit’s git a peeve, n he steers her away tae the bar wi the vickies placed against her back soas ah kin see thum.

Chip Sandra goat her name cause she wis eatin chips while gittin rode by Matty in a knee-trembler up the Goods Yard. That wis yonks ago. Embarrassing yin fir Matty, huvin a burd eatin chips ower yir shoodir, while you’re banging her up against a waw. Even mair so when aw the boys came filin past. Ah cheekily asked Sandra fir a chip n she extended the packet tae us, so ah took yin. Matty wis shoutin, — Fuck off, Renton! Ah didnae ken that aw ay thum — Begbie, Nelly, Saybo, Dawsy, Gav n some others — hud formed a queue n wir helping themselves tae chips as perr Matty thrusted hopelessly oan, his bare erse poking ootay the shadows. Ah mind ay Saybo sayin tae us, lickin the broon sauce fae his chops as we exited oantae the Walk, — Best line-up for the boys that cow’s ivir done, ya cunt!

Franco and that June Chisholm bird he’s riding are ower, and she’s talking tae Hazel. The Beggar Boy digs us in the ribs wi a jab fae the fore-knuckles ay his chunky fist; that yin’ll leave a bruise the morn, although it’s meant in affection. — Git this doon ye. He hands me a large whisky. You fuckin well hudin it thegither, mate?

— Aye, ah tell him, takin a sip.

My auld man shoots us a glance as if tae say, ‘Bad form, with these two ladies, old boy.’ The disapproval is tinged wi qualified relief as ah can see that, in his eyes, ah’ve just gone fae possible buftie boy tae philandering rogue.

Franco looks tae Fiona, then turns tae me. — Introduce us then, ya rude cunt.

— Fiona, this is my mate, Frank Begbie. Or Franco.

Or Beggars. Or the Beggar Boy. Or the Generalissmo. Or Psychotic Bullying Prick. I was the bony bag that took those strength-sapping body punches at Leith Vic. Doof-doof-doof …

— Hello, Frank. She goes tae shake his hand but is rewarded wi quite a sophisticated peck oan the cheek. The cunt can occasionally pull oot a welcome (non-violent) surprise. Nice one, Beggars. — Mark talks about yur a lot.

The nutter’s para glint ignites in Begbie’s eye. — Aw does he now? He gazes right intae ma soul, or what’s left ay it.

— In very complimentary terms, I might add, Fiona says, wi relaxed grace.

Begbie’s coupon softens and humanises in a light smile. Fuck me, she’s even managed tae charm that cunt. He drapes an airm roond ma shoodirs. — Well, wir best mates but, eh, Mark? Kent him since fuckin primary. Five years auld.

Ah smile tightly, takin a good blooter ay whisky back, n feelin the burn. — One ay the best, this man, and caught in the moment, ah totally believe it as well. Enjoying a certain licence, ah pump a reasonably heavy dig intae his chist.

Begbie doesnae even notice; he’s in his element, particularly good at funerals in the way a lot ay psychopaths tend tae be. Ah suppose if bringing death and despair is yir life’s work, then being somewhere like this must feel like a result; the job’s already done and you can just kick back and relax. He tightens his grip oan us, n pushes his face psycho-affectionately intae mine, his hot, dark, smoky essence assailing ma senses. — Ye nivir come roond fir us, tae go oot fir a fuckin peeve, jist the two ay us like wi fuckin well used tae.

Because you eywis end up batterin some cunt . — Ah’m in Ebirdeen maist ay the time, Frank.

— No aw the fuckin time, but. It’s probably cause wi eywis end up batterin some cunt!

What d’ya mean ‘we’, ya fuckin bam?

— Naw … we eywis huv a barry laugh whin we go oot, the two ay us, like.

— Too right wi fuckin well dae, he announces tae Fiona, then sweeps an airm roond the room, huggin me tighter wi the other yin. — Nae cunt’s git oor sense ay humour, eh, no, Rents? Ye cannae fuckin explain it tae maist cunts, pardon ma French, he apologises, then indeed does attempt tae elucidate tae her this unique style ay jocular absurdity that only he and I share.

Hazel’s heard it aw before n turns tae us. — Ah made you a tape ay that live Joy Division album.

— Still ?

— Aye.

— Barry, thanks. Ah hear there’s a great version ay ‘Sister Ray’ oan it, ah smile in gratitude. Ah’ve hud the album since it came oot but ah’m no gaunny tell her. Wi made-up tapes, despite what Sick Boy says aboot it bein a covert act ay aggression and egotistical mind control, it’s the kindness ay compiling that counts. In my mind’s eye ah can see it written oot oan the index caird spine ay the cassette in Hazel’s neat handwriting:

An awkward moment passes between us as ah smile n kill the whisky, while Hazel blinks, lowering her heid demurely, excusing herself and headin tae the buffet table. Ah catch Fiona’s eye and we circulate, me pickin up another nip, talkin first tae Keezbo’s ma n dad, Moira n Jimmy, then some ay Ma’s relatives, the Bonnyrigg — Penicuik crowd, who comfort her.

Ah see Alison headin tae the buffet table and intercept her. — Ali … really sorry tae hear aboot yir ma. How bad is it?

— This is me getting intae practice. She gies us a Stanley-knife smile. — No be long now, ah think. Thanks for askin, but, and she sidles oaf taewards the bar, whaire the rest ay the lassies are standin. Then she seems tae think ay something n turns. — Kelly sends her commiserations, she’s sorry she cannae be here, but she’s got exams aw next week.