Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

— We don’t have that sort ay relationship. It’s my parents .

A pensive nod, as Fiona picks up the mug and cradles it in her hands.

— Well, ah kept on wankin him off, every Friday, tae the image ay Mary oan the box. It wisnae easy; things got mair difficult. She’d be readin in the studio and he’d be aboot tae blow, then they’d cut tae an outside broadcast and he’d crumble and start tae scream and sometimes go intae a coughin fit. It went oan like this. It goat soas that tae get him oaf ye really hud tae go for it. Well, one day, ah forgot aboot oor Billy gettin hame on leave fae Belfast. Didnae hear him sneak in, the wey he used tae dae tae surprise my ma. He came up behind us on the couch … just as Mary came back on screen …

Fiona’s eyes widen. — So … so … he caught yer doin this ta yor Davie? Yor Billy?

— Worse. Wee Davie’s knob exploded and he shot off a wad that flew up intae the air and Billy copped the lot ay it, like a party streamer, doon his face and the front ay his army uniform.

Fiona’s hand goes tae her mooth. — Oh my God … oh Mark … what happened?

— He hauled me n Davie apart, dragged me off the couch and booted me in the side. Ah got up and even though ah got a couple ay licks in, ah took a bit ay a doing. Wee Davie was screamin. The neighbours heard the racket and Mrs McGoldrick banged oan the door, threatenin tae call the polis, which probably saved me fae a real paggerin. We baith calmed doon, but when my ma and dad came back, they kent we’d been fightin. So they quizzed us and we each telt our sides ay the story.

It’s started rainin ootside. Ah kin hear it crackle on the windaepane.

— What did they say?

— They mair or less took his part. Called me a twisted, manky wee fucker. Ah’d no that long left the school; ah couldnae articulate what ah wis gittin at by daein that for him. Disabled people’s right tae sexuality! Ah punch ma chest, as if she’s questioned me, but she’s keepin stumpf, noddin in some kind ay sympathy. But through her silence ah suddenly tipple how it aw looks. Ah ken that if she had a disabled sister, the last thing on God’s Earth Fi would contemplate daein would be giein the lassie a frig ower, say, David Hunter fi oot ay Crossroads . For the first time, ah huv tae acknowledge that ah might be, on some level, a sick cunt, or at least misguided. My voice drops in anguished plea, — He wis in torment, n ah wis only tryin tae gie the poor wee fucker some release. It’s no as if ah goat any kicks fae it!

For a while Fiona gazes out of the fading light at me, almost blankly, but her face has the composure of someone perfectly at peace. — Can’t you tell em that now? Yor mam n dad?

— Ah’ve tried it once or twice, but it’s never been the right time. Besides, ah think thair minds are made up aboot us.

She blows out through tight lips. — Why don’t ye write them a letter? Set it all down in black and white?

— Ah dunno, Fi … it would feel like ah wis makin more of it than there was … ah says, suddenly feelin sick n tired, slumpin back in the chair, then lurchin forward, wrappin ma airms roond masel.

— It obviously means something to them though, Mark. And to you, or you wouldn’t be telling me.

— Ah know, ah say, lookin up at her in defeat. — Ah’ll think aboot it. Thanks for listenin.

— Of course, love … Fiona smiles sadly, acknowledgin my sweatin and twitchin. — Ah’ll get off then, pet, let you get some sleep, she coos, risin and touchin my sweaty forehead with her palm, then kissin it. Her airms aroond me feel heavy and constrictin and ah’m relieved when she goes.

As soon as a decent couple ay minutes have passed, ah’m doon tae the payphone, callin Sick Boy at Montgomery Street. Ah go on a rant, tellin him about Don, askin him what he was daein about gear. He sais tae me: — You’ve nae interest in anything but smack.

When protest seems pointless and futile, ah realise for the first time that this statement is basically true. It makes me think, you really need to stop this. Ah dinnae register anything else he sais, till the pips go.

You’re going to have to stop this right now or you’re going to fuck everything up .

So what ah did was ah got ootside and walked through the cauld, squally city, and doon Union Street.

THE TASTE OF metal blood in her mouth signalled to Maria Anderson that she’d run out of chewing gum. Spitting onto the grey wet stone, she pulled a tendril of hair from behind her ear, twirled it into a short spiral on her finger, replaced it; repeated the action. They still hadn’t got Dickson, but her sickness wouldn’t compromise on the imperative of getting sorted out. After all this, her and Simon were going away together, London or somewhere like that. He had big plans.

Sick Boy watched her from a street doorway. Her compulsive behaviour reminded him of that dog the Rentons used to have, how it had to turn around three times in its basket before it settled. Things had gone to shit quickly, after promising so much. Sick Boy had experienced a bitter pang of disappointment on learning that he wasn’t Maria’s first lover. Some boy at school and an opportunistic Spanish waiter had struck gold first. He compensated by expanding her horizons, and a few of his own. She was at her best when starting to get needy; that brief phase before the total debilitation where you imagined you could fuck the growing sickness out of your system. Skagged up she was compliant enough, but getting her to assume the positions with any gusto was problematic.

The bustling of an engine, and a car bumping over drizzled cobblestoned roads, smeared with orange light from the street lamps. A Volvo pulling up alongside Maria; window winding down, and a small-looking man eyeing her up, then addressing the advancing Sick Boy, whose head moves like a falcon’s shaking free from its training hood. — Does your friend need a ride?

— Aye, he says, looking into her vacant face and glassy, abandoned eyes. He converses with the man for a bit then urges her, — Go on, Maria, get in, the boy’s sound. He’s just gaunny take ye for a wee spin, back tae his, then drop ye back here. Ah’ll see ye back at the flats.

Anxiety rocks her frame. — But can we no just take him back up the hoose?

— Ye dinnae want everybody, neighbours n that, kennin our business. That Mrs Dobson was nosin aboot the other day. His big eyes scan the street. — Goan! I’ll see ye the night, honey.

— Ah dinnae want tae … she protests.

This’ll be her third punter. Dessie Spencer from the boozer had gone back, and then Jimmy Caldwell. He hates to share her, but it’s just sex-for-money and it means nothing. — You getting in? the suit in the car whines.

Sick Boy smells off-duty bacon but they have wallets as well and in any case he’s too sick to care. In fact arrest and incarceration now seem less a potential handicap, more a genuine opportunity to get cleaned up. It’s all going wrong. Everybody’s on the gear, not Tommy, Begbie, Second Prize or Gav, but just about everybody else. Maria was keener than he thought; not just sexually, but a proper hound for the junk. Being with her had helped spiral his own habit out of control. She’s stiff and fraught, reluctant to get into the suit’s car. Sick Boy tries to push her forward. — Just go!

She literally digs her heels into the cobblestones. — But ah dinnae want tae, Simon …

— I can’t wait around, the suit moans. — Are you coming or not? Fuck it! And he starts the car up and tears away.

Sick Boy slaps his head, watching a small plastic bag containing a precious white kidney bean and few crumbs’ worth of heroin speeding from him. He turns to Maria and in frustration vocalises what the suit was thinking: — Fuckin unprofessional!