Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

N ah ken the Rise; it’s a scabby narrow steep hill ay a street wi a church at the toap n some mingin shoaps at the bottom. We stops outside the hoose in front ay a skip, nearly full. Franco’s oot the van, pointing tae the right-hand flat oan the groond flair. — That’s the yin, he says, aw focused.

Then he’s scowlin around the street, n he goes tae the skip, rummages for a bit. His eyes widen when he clocks this railing that’s hingin oafay a buckled wrought-iron fence; like a car’s ran intae it n fucked it. He works it free n huds it in baith hands, waving it aboot like a club. Then he heads tae the hoose, leavin his cudgel against the hedge outside thair gate. Aye, thir oan the groond flair, ye kin see them watchin the telly in the front room, n ah cannae believe it when Franco picks up a brick fae the skip n jist fuckin launches it through the windae! Thaire’s an almighty crash follayed by some screams. Ah looks at Nelly n wir ready tae grab the daft cunt n git the fuck oot ay here.

— AVON CALLIN! ANY CUNT HAME? Franco shouts intae the street. You’d think the whole world wid be oot, but bar a few twitchin curtains, there’s nae sign ay life. Maist ay the hooses are empty, derelict or bein renovated.

Apart fae the Frenchard hoose, that is. This big cunt’s first oot the door, n the wifie’s at the windae pointin at Franco n shoutin, — That’s him! YOU! YOU! YOU TRIED TAE KILL MA LADDIE!

— Ah plunged the cunt, Franco half laughs, half sneers. — If ah’d wanted tae kill um he’d be fuckin deid by now!

The big cunt is fuckin incensed and he charges doon the path tae the gate taewards Franco. Franco’s waitin n just takes a step back, picks up the railin and fuckin tans the bastard’s jaw wi it, aw in one sweet motion. The big cunt goes doon like a ton ay bricks, it’s a real fuckin seekner, the way the boy faws, n Franco’s bringin doon the spikey end first wi baith hands n aw his weight oan it, right intae the poor cunt’s baws. Then he leathers the boy a couple ay nasty shots across the coupon. — KEEP THE FUCK AWAY FAE LEITH!

The boy isnae movin at aw, n thaire’s blood spillin ower the pavement. Aw, man, ah’m seek. For some reason ah climb oot ay the van n stand alongside Franco, who jist gies me a sharp, crazed look fae the corner ay his eye, n then ah look doon at the boy. It’s a bad yin. Heid pure burst open. Teeth lyin oan the pavement like dominoes scattered fae a pub table. Jesus fuck.

The wifie’s screamin at the two other boys, — GIT UM! The lassie’s standin beside her chewin her nails, but the auld yin’s jumpin up n doon like a Bowtow fishwife that’s discovered shite oan her doorstep. — AH SAIS FUCKIN GET UM!

— COME AHEAD! Begbie roars tae the other two brothers. This poor big cunt’s still groanin oan the deck at his feet. The brothers are jist standin n shitein it, like thir in shock.

They arenae the only yins. — Fuck sake … Larry goes, leanin oot the windae, his eyes bulging like a stud greyhound’s baws.

The ma’s still screamin at her sons, — GIT UM, YA CRAPPIN BASTARDS!

Begbie glances at them wi a mockin expression. — They’ll fuckin well dae nowt, n he looks doon at the big muscle-bound cunt, sprawled oan the deck, — n he’ll fuckin well dae nowt! He laughs at the burd. — If it’s a laddie, geez a shout, but if it’s a lassie, it’s no fuckin mine!

He flings the railin doon, turns away, noddin tae us, n wi climbs intae the van, him in front, me roond the back. Nelly starts up, and we drive past the scene. The mother’s still shoutin at her laddies, as they try, wi the help ay the burd, tae git the poor boy up offay the pavement.

Franco looks back at me n Larry. — This is what happens when they fuck aboot wi the YLT, n wir drivin past this circle ay run-doon hooses wi crap shoaps, n he’s pushin his heid oot the windae. — PILTON FUCKIN LICE-HEIDED SCRUFFS, KEEP THE FUCK OOT AY OOR BIT, YA FUCKIN TRAMPS!

We’re worried aboot the polis, no that they cunts would grass anybody up, and ah doubt they’d bother interruptin a tea brek at Drylaw Station for rubbish like that, but some auld cunt might have put the call in.

Franco’s buzzin like fuck though, sittin wi a big grin oan his coupon. — An awfay loat ay fuss aboot some fuckin slag gittin up the duff. Next time ah ride her it’ll be up her erse, so thit thaire’s nae fuckin room fir accusations.

— Romance isnae deid, eh, Franco? Nelly grins fae the front, taking the van ootay the scheme, oantae the West Granton Road.

— Mibbe no, but they fuckin Pilton tramps ur. Ah’m no fuckin well finished wi they cunts yit. In fact, his face twists in outrage, — no even fuckin well sterted yit!

Ah have tae admit that ah’m shitein it, and ma heartbeat doesnae get tae normal until we stash the van in the lock-up at Newhaven, which is sortay Nelly’s, but Begbie n Matty baith seem tae huv keys fir it n aw, then start tae headin oaf oor separate weys. Ah’m retracing ma steps tae the Walk, tae meet Mitch n Rents back in the boozer. When ah get back there Mitch is sittin on his tod and the Rent Boy isnae aroond. — Where’s Mark?

Mitch just sortay shrugs. — He headed off wi this wee guy that came in, that boy Matty. Said he hud tae go a wee message wi um, n thit he’d be back, Davie explains, then asks, — Is he awright? He wis acting pretty weird, ah mean, even for Mark, and ah’ve worked wi the cunt for donks.

— Aye … ah laugh, — well, ah think so.

— Ye sure?

— Probably too much hash. N ah think the cunt’s in love n aw; this lassie up at Ebirdeen. He’ll be away for mair grass or speed if ah ken that cunt, ah goes. N ah have tae say that ah envy Rents, everything’s workin oot good for him; a nice bird, a good education, and ye ken that when he graduates, he’ll be off somewhere, he’ll no stick aroond here. Ah admire that aboot him, cause ah’m too much ay a home bird. Ah’d like tae git away, though. It would be great.

— Right, Davie says, raising the gless n drainin it. He shakes the empty tumbler and ah get the picture.

— Same again?

— As always.

ANOTHER DAY OF stoic ambulation through the city, walking down Union Street skelped by licks of hard wind. Edinburgh could be bleak, but Aberdeen really took the pish. A life could be wasted waiting for the sky tae change fae grey tae blue. But ah’m spending mair time up here now, no gaun hame so much.

The last time ah went back, ah got skag-hammered wi Matty, Spud n Keezbo at Swanney’s.

Dunno how ah got tae Johnny’s gaff fae a drug soirée at the abode ay veteran junky Dennis Ross at Scabbeyhill, though ah vaguely recollect gaun through ma pockets for donks, tryin tae find some poppy as a taxi cunt mumped like fuck intae ma lug, but ah resurfaced intae the conscious world at Tollcross. Ah mind the sun comin up, soaking Johnny’s front room in a wreckin light that relentlessly blasted all our mortal decay and foibles back at us. Ah goat up, then Matty, Spud and me met the rest ay the boys in the Roseburn Bar, early doors before the derby, then a bunch ay us went up Haymarket n hit some mair boozers. The two sets ay fans were giein each other aw the big threat shite gaun doon the road, but the polis line stayed firm between them. The game was a grunting, sweating goalless draw. Bein fucked, maist ay the fitba passed us by, but ah mind that Hibs nearly swiped a late winner; McBride skippin past a Jambo and slippin it tae Jukebox, who skinned some other maroon cunt and passed tae Steve Cowan whose right-foot drive just missed the target wi the keeper beaten. Cradle-snatching Sick Boy had been indulgin in the gear as well, but he wis still gaun absolutely crazy, wi that perr wee Maria lassie in tow. She’s a bit young fir him, and looked lost adrift the tempestuous sea ay radges.