Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

Why should the future matter? Ah’ve got my ain place, a lassie wi her ain place, even if we kip ower at each other’s aw the time. Sitting in the college library thegither, debating, discussing our assignments, sourcing texts for each other, until we go back to her book-filled wee room or mine. We cook for each other; she’s got me into vegetarianism, which ah’ve been interested in for a while. Ah like meat, but unless ye kin afford really decent stuff it’s just fuckin poison. Fuck eatin aw that processed shite they pit in pies and fast food.

Most importantly, we shag at least twice a day. It’s proper sex, relaxed and unhurried, no done on the sly. The sublime luxury ay removin aw yir clathes and no rushin tae put them back oan again. It strikes me that although I’ve shagged eighteen girls, Fiona’s the only yin that’s really seen us naked for any length ay time. Even now ah still feel as if some cunt’s gaunny intrude. Ah have tae keep telling masel: take yir fuckin time .

But afterwards, when ah’m in her airms, like now, ah feel like ah’m trapped in a vice. Ah want tae get up, tae go oot for a walk. — You’re so restless, Mark, she says. — Why can’t ya evah relax?

— Ah kind ay fancy a wee walk.

— But it’s freezin outside.

— Still but. Might go tae the shops. Get some stuff fir a stir-fry.

— You go, she says dreamily, loosening her embrace, turning and fighting her way back intae sleep.

And ah’m intae my clathes and oot the door. How can ye explain tae somebody ye love that ye still need mair? How dae ye dae that? Love is supposed tae provide aw the answers, tae gie us everything. All you need is love . It’s fuckin bullshit though: ah need something, but it isnae love.

The communal phone in the residences’ corridor is inviting. There’s usually a mad Greek burd on it aw the time, spraffin fir ooirs. But now it’s free, so ah call Sick Boy at Monty Street. He was up in court the other day, giein evidence. He answers, aw chary, — Whae’s this?

— Mark. Call us back, the pips ur gaunny go, and ah shout oot the number, then again, as the line goes deid.

Sure enough, the Greek lassie appears, ghostin doon the institutional white corridor. Pus as tense as a plate at her sister’s weddin. — You are going to use the phone?

— Aye, somebody’s just calling me back.

She tuts loudly, cheeky fuckin monopolisin hoor, but sits doon on one ay the row ay three seats n pulls oot a book.

A minute later the phone rings. — Awright, Rents. Nae fuckin change, ya tight cunt?

— Naw … they phones just eat it up. How did it go up the coort?

— As bad as it possibly could have. A fuckin nightmare. As soon as I walked in and saw the coupon oan that judge, I thought: this isnae gaunny play oot well. Me, big Chris Moncur and another guy called Alan Royce aw said roughly the same thing. But it was Dickson’s word against a deid man’s as tae what actually happened. They bought aw his bullshit; an argument, an exchange ay blows, Coke fell, smashed his heid and died. An ordinary assault conviction wi a poxy five hundred quid fine. Nae jail, no even gaunny lose his fuckin licence.

— You are fuckin jokin …

— Wish I was. Janey’s in shock, and wee Maria was greeting and started shouting at them in the court, she had tae be taken oot by her auntie. All the time the judge sat thaire wi that stony, arrogant coupon. Then he went oan aboot drink being the root cause ay this tragic accident, about how landlords continually have hassle fae drunks, and how Coke was a known pissheid … The family are devastated, Mark. I’m telling ye, it was the most fucked-up day of my life …

Sick Boy goes on and on, and although ah never kent Coke well, ah mind that he was always a happy, singing drunk; an occasional string vest, but never violent or aggressive. — The game’s rigged, ah tell him, lookin doon at the Greek bird, who gies us the evil eye ower the top ay her book.

By the time ah put the phone doon ah’m despondent, n head ootside and walk for a bit. The hammering rain has given way tae a pearly mist that wreathes over the city. Ah prowl for ages, the cold slowly biting intae ma face, then get back up tae Fiona, who’s awake n dressed, n ah tell her aboot Coke. She’s talking about how we should get a campaign going, a campaign for justice, on behalf ay an unemployed alkie, against an ex-cop, Freemason and publican, and a High Court judge.

Ah’m listenin tae her gaun oan, indulgin her, aw the time thinkin: That’s no how it works . Then it’s time for her to go. Ah’m meant tae be going ower tae hers later oan the night. Pulling oan her long, brown coat, Fiona places her loving fingertips oan the back ay my neck. Her eyes so serene ye could get lost in them forever. — What time do yer wanna come owah?

As ah consider this simple question, it seems tae widen until it splits ma thoughts open. What time?

IN 1827, THOMAS SMITH, a graduate of Edinburgh University’s renowned medical school, took over his brother William’s pharmacy. They started manufacturing fine chemicals and medicines prepared from plant sources. Ten years later, they would turn to alkaloids, particularly morphine, which they began to extract from opium.

John Fletcher Macfarlan, an Edinburgh surgeon, had taken over an apothecary’s shop in 1815, establishing a substantial trade in laudanum. Later he made morphine, for which demand rose due to the development of the hypodermic needle. This increased the drug’s effectiveness by allowing its direct injection into the bloodstream. Macfarlan’s trade subsequently flourished and he also made anaesthetics (ether and chloroform) as well as surgical dressings. In 1840 he opened a factory and by the 1900s J.F. Macfarlan & Co. had become one of the largest suppliers of alkaloids in the country.

Both businesses continued to develop through takeovers and acquisitions, and in 1960, they merged to form Macfarlan Smith Ltd. The company was taken over by the Glaxo group in 1963. It still employs over two hundred workers at its plant in Wheatfield Road, in the city’s Gorgie district.

The heroin that flooded the streets of Edinburgh in the early 1980s was widely believed to have been sourced from opiate-based products manufactured at the plant, through breaches of security. When these security issues were resolved, the huge local demand for heroin was satiated by cheap Pakistani product, which by this time had flooded into the rest of the UK. Conspiracy theorists point out that this glut of heroin importation occurred shortly after the widespread rioting of 1981, in many poorer areas of Britain, which was given most notable media attention in Brixton and Toxteth.

JANEY CAN’T SAY she wisnae warned; you’d need tae have been on Mars no tae have noticed that the Tories were cracking down on benefit fraud. So the courts make an example ay her. After issuing the six-month sentence, the judge describes himself as ‘only being moved to leniency’ by her tragic circumstances. He isnae the same yin who’d let her husband’s murderer off with the fine.

That panicked bovine-to-slaughterhouse expression as they cart her away! She’s begging them, imploring those stone faces to exhibit some kind ay mercy. The do-gooding, legal-aid vegetarian they appointed tae defend her looks almost as traumatised as Janey, and is probably already thinking aboot a career in company law. Maria, by my side, is once again in disbelieving tears. — They cannae … they cannae … she dumbfoundedly repeats. Elaine, her auntie and Janey’s sister-in-law, a thin, bloodless woman who looks like a kitchen knife, dabs at her eyes with a snot-rag. Thankfully Grant, as with Dickson’s trial, is kept oot ay the court, ensconced doon in Nottingham with Janey’s brother, Murray.