Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

Then thir finishin thair drinks, oan Squiggly’s instructions, n movin away, n Nicky looks sadly at me, n says, — Ah feel bad us leavin ye here, Danny –

— C’mon, Nicky! Squiggly shouts.

— It’s awright, ah’ll catch up wi the boys ower oan the Walk, thi’ll be in the Cenny or the Spey or the Volley or somewhaire like that, inching upwards taewards toon and oblivion, man. You ken, the usual circuit.

She smiles, n her n Ali baith sais cheerio. They aw head oaf, leavin ma hert in a million pieces. It’s shite when birds take a shine tae ye, but as a mate . Happens tae me aw the time; pure cast in the role ay the nice guy that they dinnae want tae ride . Ah’d love tae play the bastard that they bang senseless , but the likes ay Sick Boy’s goat that market sortay cornered in this neck ay the woods, ken?

So ah’m headin doon Gordon Strasse tae cut fae Easter Road oantae the Walk, and as ah’m crossin ower the grand thoroughfare ah clocks two boys leavin the Volley n headin up the street quite sharpish. Next thing ah ken is that Begbie’s ootside behind them, shoutin eftir them, — Youse cunts want a fuckin photae?

Uh-aw … puppies, kittens n bunnies … puppies, kittens n bunnies …

The boys turn roond n look the Beggar Boy up and doon. One’s a bit feart, he’s a chubby boy, n young, but still sortay spamy-heided. The other gadge’s goat the swagger, but, wi this killer glare comin oot fae under that that flouncy light broon hair. This laddie isnae a closet poof, frontin it fir aw he’s worth; thaire’s evil intent in they eyes. — You wir muckin ma sister aboot …

Domestic affairs, man. So ah’ve crossed the road n ah’m alongside Begbie. Goat tae at least provide moral support likesay. The Beggar Boy’s ma mate; besides, ah huv tae see him nearly every day, unlike those stranger dudes. Baith the feral and fat domestic cat glance at us, n baith seem tae decide that ah’ll mibbe no make much ay a difference. Cannae sortay really argue wi that likes.

No that the Beggar Boy’s actin like he needs assistance. — Ah’ve mucked a few cunts’ sisters aboot, he laughs. He turns tae me n goes, — If thir game thir gittin banged, right? Then back tae the boy, — You goat a fuckin problem wi that, cunty-baws?

Well, ye kin see that this cat really hates his sister at this point in time, man, wishin that the lassie had gied her hole tae anybody but Franco or hud swallayed the auld Jack n Jill wi her cup ay English Breakfast that fateful morning, ken? Fair play tae the gadge but, he takes a step forward n says, — Ah dinnae think you ken whae yir fuckin aboot wi here!

Aw naw, man, ah feel ma eyes quiver n water like thaire’s grit in thum. Ah’m wonderin: whaire’s the rest ay the boys?

But Franco stands his groond, in fact ye kin tell he’s chuffed tae fuck, cause that cat jist loves a row n they boys huv sortay played intae his swipey, swipey paws. — See the fuckin jealousy ay some cunts, eh, Spud? Ah’ve jist been gittin you boys’ sloppy seconds, or so yir hoor ay a sister fuckin well says!

That does the trick: the radge boy flips oot n runs up n swings at Franco, hittin him on the shoodir. Begbie gits a hook in at his side, and the boy thinks he’s been punched, but ah see the glint, n his next blow’s square intae the laddie’s gut, which stops um in his tracks. As he looks doon at the blood soakin his blue shirt, the gadge’s face is frozen in horror. Begbie’s pocketed the blade but he’s jist standin thaire, coolly appraisin his work, like a foreman oan a site checkin the quality ay the job. The chubby boy comes forward n ah’m movin slowly taewards him, but wi ma hands oot, cause it’s a square-go n thaire’s need for us tae go at it …

Uh-aw …

But now Tommy n some ay the boys have come oot, and Tommy runs up and smacks fatboy in the chops. — Git the fuck up the road, fir yir ain good, he sais, then as the boy staggers away, hudin his burst mooth, Tommy looks at the other gadge bleedin, n jumps oot intae the Walk and flags doon a taxi.

The cab stops and Tommy is sortay escortin the chibbed psycho boy intae it, telling um, — Git that seen tae right away, the gut’s no that bad, but the side yin, he might huv hit an organ, and ah’m worried, man, now thit ye kin see the fear oan the boy’s face, he disnae look mental now, jist a scared laddie, as Tam’s shuttin the door behind um, n the cab speeds oaf.

The chunky, spammy gadge is staggerin up the Walk, hudin his face as he looks back. We’re aw laughin, then git back intae the pub. Ye kin tell, though, that Tommy’s pissed oaf wi Begbie. Eventually he says, — What wir ye fuckin thinking aboot, bringin oot a fuckin chib in the Walk? Thaire wis nae need. They came in here, clocked us, n they didnae fancy the odds.

— Wisnae gaunny go swedgin wi the cunt in the fuckin Walk, wis ah? Franco sneers. — So ah jist plunged the radge a couple ay times, gie um something tae fuckin well think aboot oan the wey hame, eh?

The gadge makes it aw sound so reasonable.

Tommy’s bitin doon oan his bottom lip. — Well, we’ll huv tae move oan and you’ll need tae sling that chib in case the polis come roond.

— It’s a fuckin barry chib but, Franco protests, — best bit ay Sheffield ah’ve hud in fuckin yonks, so he turns tae an auld boy whae’s on the wey oot, — Jack, goan take this hame wi ye n ah’ll git it oaf ye the morn.

— Nae bother, son, the auld gadge sais, poakitin the blade and shufflin oot ay the pub.

— All solved, Begbie smiles. — Calls fir a wee peeve. He turns tae the bar. — Les, nips ay Grouse aw roond, then, hen! Yin fir yersel n aw, princess!

As Lesley nods and starts firin up the shorts, Tommy’s shakin his heid. — Fuckin madness, he goes.

Nelly’s hearin nane ay it, but. — Franco’s fuckin right. It’s between him n the burd, these cunts should have kept thair fuckin nebs oot, faimlay or nae faimlay. Consentin fuckin adults. Cunts start tae make it thair problem, we make it oor fuckin problem.

— Too fuckin right, Franco goes. — The wey things ur gaun these days, ye cannae fuckin well hud back. Cunts jist try n take the fuckin pish if ye dae but, eh?

Tommy sees thit thaire’s nowt tae be gained in discussin it further. — Cunt’s face wis a treat gittin intae that taxi, right enough.

Franco slaps um oan the back as Lesley lines up the nips. Ah’m no really wantin whisky, rum would suit me, bein mair ay seafarin man ay the port, but the Generalissimo’ll get humpty if ah refuse. — That wis good thinkin but, Tam, he says, — gittin that fucker intae the taxi. Dinnae want him bleedin up n doon the Walk, drawin polis eyes.

— That’s what ah thoat: git the cunt oot the road.

— Anywey, Nelly goes, passin the nips around, — cheers.

We aw toast Franco n that awfay whisky burns like a poker as it goes doon, but it leaves a nice wee glow. Ye kin feel it whin ye git outside.

N we head up tae Tommy Younger’s en route tae Edinburgh, aw buzzed up, n it’s the same excitement that ah used tae feel when ah goat up fir work oan a good mornin at the furniture deliveries, where ye wondered if ye were gaunny dae a big run, maybe up tae Perth or even Inverness or somewhere like that, or if it wis jist gaunny be local, and aw the laughs ye’d huv wi the boys. Now thaire’s nowt like that, nae work fir the unskilled man like me. But this feels good, no chibbin boys likes, Tam’s right, Franco’s oot ay order, but bein part ay a team, huvin somethin tae talk aboot, a tale tae tell. Cause wi aw need that; wi aw need something tae dae n a tale tae tell.

THEY SAY THAT freedom never came free. My grant’s soon tae be abolished and made intae a loan, then it’s game over. Fuck accruin arrears ye’ll never be able tae pey oaf. Might as well have a baw n chain fastened tae yir ankle aw yir puff. When the likes ay Joanne and Bisto get hitched, become teachers or local government officers, they’ll spend the rest ay their lives rackin up shitloads ay debt; student loans, mortgages, car payments. Then they’ll look back on it aw, n see they were fuckin conned.