Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

— Sound, ah goes, watchin her depart, makin her wey taewards Matty n Gav. Ah see Fiona’s talkin tae Tommy and Geoff, so ah sits beside my ma. She’s wearin a daft hat as she husnae dyed the grey-broon roots ay her hair in a while. As she pulls oan her tab, sweaty, peroxide locks cling tae her foreheid and her make-up’s been running wi her tears. Grief’s weight n chain-smoking have gied her a stevedore’s rasp. — Ah sometimes think it’s God’s wey ay punishin me, she sais.

— For what?

— Ah turned against ma faith tae mairry yir faither.

A beam ay smoke streams fae her puckered lips. Her hollowed-oot cheeks and wild stare suggest mental derangement. — Ye honestly believe God’s punishing ye cause yir a Catholic that mairried ootside yir religion?

— Aye. Aye, ah do, she says emphatically, her eyes aw pupils. She’s nipped we never had a service at St Mary’s Star ay the Sea. She’d ey take Wee Davie there when he was younger and easier tae cart aboot.

— What aboot Dad? The auld man’s wi Andy and his Weedgie family, Granny Renton and his brothers Charlie and Dougie. Ma whisky’s tanned in and ah dump the empty gless oan the table. — He’s a Protestant and Wee Davie’s his son n aw. So that means at least God’s even-handed: he hates yis baith.

— Ye cannae say that, Mark, dinnae say that …

— Or mibbe, jist mibbe, he couldnae gie a flyin fuck aboot either ay yis. Ever thought ay that yin?

— No! she shouts, as ah’m thinking, how barry would a God like that be; one that hates fucking Christians, Muslims, Jews and any other cunts that bother Him. And even, or especially, these caste-system justifying cunts: the fuckin Buddhists. But my wee outburst has been picked up and ah’ve inadvertently created a display ay Christian unity. — C’mon, Mark, shape up, son, Kenny goes, n ma dad and his brothers are right ower wi Billy. Dougie’s no sae bad but Charlie’s a vacuous, toxic bigot; it was him that got oor Billy intae aw that Orange shite, and ma faither kens it tae. He scowls at me like ah’m the filth of Hades; ah’m sure Billy’s telt him the story ay Davie’s hand job. They start tae circle roond like vultures. Ah’m lookin for Franco, but he’s ower at the bar wi June. Then Fiona’s by ma side, makin excuses, effortlessly charmin them all. — He’s upset. How, pet …

Upset my hairy ersehole. It’s this shite that upsets me. The proddies and the papes; the lowlife rump ay losers, distilled fae the dregs ay European Christendom’s two most blood-simple white tribes. Sneering, rabid vermin who intuitively know they’re at the bottom ay the trash pile at the scabbiest end ay a bunch ay frozen rocks in the North Sea. Aw they can dae is think ay whae tae scapegoat for thair shabby plight, and when the monster that was ma brother came along, it was a (Christian) God-sent opportunity fir them. The fact escaped them that Wee Davie was probably the nadir that only those sectarian spastics could ever have produced, because whatever pigeon-shit colours they drape aroond their slopin shoodirs, or the crappy one-note ballads of loyalty or rebellion they sing, they’re aw cut fae the same manky cloth ay noxious idiocy.

Ma lettin me n Billy help her make chocolate cake, in that upstairs kitchen at the Fort. Us aw huvin a barry laugh. Then Wee Davie’s screams; aggressive, demanding, violating. Me n Billy lookin at her as if tae say ‘leave him’, but first her, and then us, hopelessly remembering whae we were. The slow surf ay oor breath drawing in unison as she tore doonstairs. Our fingers gaun intae the chocolate mix in bitter consolation .

Wee Davie’s death doesnae upset me. When ah think ay him, aw that comes tae mind is the monstrous, the grotesque. The thing was that he looked like me; sandy rid hair, boatil-white skin, wild blue eyes. Ah used tae think that people just said it tae take the pish, but it was true. Tae poor Billy’s Orangeman shame, it was him who looked like the squat, dark-heided, mono-browed Connemara farm boy transported tae the Midlothian pits, just like aw the male papes oan my ma’s side.

As a boy ah used tae beg tae get taken tae Porty open-air pool wi Wee Davie, Billy and Dad. Porty wis eywis fuckin freezin and ah hated it n Billy’s bullyin seemed tae reach mair psychotic levels there, but gie me that any time before the humiliation ay bein seen oot wi them at Leith Vickie baths.

Ma starts shouting at Margaret ‘Bendix’ Curran, our embittered ex-neighbour, whae believes that we used Davie tae get the Housing Association place wi the main door, then dumped him in a residential care centre for the handicapped. — Aw ah’m sayin is thit thaire wis others oan that list before you, Cathy …

— We never pit um in a care centre! Eh died in the hoaspital, in the Infirmary!

— But now that he’s no here, ye should be giein that hoose up, that’s aw ah’m sayin, n at that point she clocks ma mate Norrie, whae works for the Housing Department. — Aw aye, what’s he daein here? It’s no what ye ken, it’s who ye ken, right enough!

— Get away fae me! my ma shouts, and my auld boy n Olly Curran, the thin racist whae looks like an undertaker, are ower and joining the argy-bargy, as ah skip across tae the bar where Spud queues up tae buy us a pint. Ah eywis like tae avoid other people’s social conflict; ah much prefer tae start ma ain trouble. As ah watch Spud trying tae get the barman’s attention, ah feel some airms around me, circling us fae behind. At first ah think it’s Fiona, but ah can see her chattin tae relatives, and then ah wonder that circumstances might have made Hazel uncharacteristically tactile. Ah look round n it’s Nicola Hanlon. — I just wanted tae gie ye a wee hug, she says, pecking us oan the cheek.

Ah’m thinking, fuck me, could that wee cunt Davie no have checked oot last year? Ah’m attached now n the fanny are queuing up! — Thanks, Nicky, ah appreciate it.

Spud’s ower with a pint for me; he’s been following Nicky around like a puppy she’s just reprieved fae the cat and dug hame at Seafield.

— Cheers, bud.

— Tough yin, Mark: dig in, catboy.

Ah wink at him, then feel somebody grab ma erse, n ah’m thinking, how good can this get? But it’s only Sick Boy fuckin aboot. — Wee Nicky’s totally hot for you, he whispers, as ah see Billy and Sharon huv got in between Ma n Dad n the Currans. — Ah’d ride her, if only tae upset Spud, he offers, whae we note is back off in hapless pursuit ay her.

Ah ignore Sicko, looking across at Fiona’s profile. She’s gorgeous and ah just want tae be alone with her. But the cunt persists, so ah tell him, — Aye, ah think ah’m gettin the sympathy shag vote the day.

— Sympathy for the deceased handicapped brother only tells part ay the story. The crucial element is that you already have a bird.

— What dae ye mean?

— The incumbency factor. Lassies see you wi Fiona, tidy by the way, Rent Boy, punching above your weight a bit, he says, lookin ower at her placatin ma mother n faither as the Currans take their leave, — aye, they witness you being a nice, attentive suitor, and they’re drawn tae ye because they think ay the negligent creep they were last out wi.

Ah cannae believe this cunt’s actually complimenting me. — So it’s cause they see me as a good boyfriend?

— Most serpently, but they dinnae realise it’s still the honeymoon period. You’ll become that negligent creep soon enough; we all do. So strike while the iron’s hot; when you get a new bird you’re crazy aboot, that’s exactly the time ye should be riding everything else in sight.

Something thuds in my chest. Ah hear ma voice gaun thin. — But ah dinnae want tae, ah jist want Fiona.

— Of course, he says smugly, picking up a mini sausage roll which has been sweating oan his paper plate, before deciding against it and setting it back doon. — It’s a paradox. You can only fight through it using force ay will and trusting in the standing prick, which must be obeyed at all times. Allow it tae override any concerns you have, young Skywalker. Fuck, he says in sudden realisation, — I should be getting peyed fir this advice, I shouldnae be giein it free tae another gadge. Thankfully, you’ll be too pished tae remember aw this in the morning.