Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

— Ah’m sorry, ah dinnae want tae dae this … she wails, suddenly rendered weak-kneed with sickness and angst, grabbing the lapel of his silver herringbone jacket, — ah jist want tae be wi you, Simon …

Sick Boy’s shocked at his searing contempt for this girl, so recently an object of unbridled desire. How she seemed to take to the gear so easily. Coke’s pish-heid addict’s genes, he supposes, brushing off her grip and spitting out the News at Ten theme song. — Dih-dih-dih, di-di-dih-dih! We’re sick. Ding! We need gear or we’ll get sicker still. Ding! It costs money. Ding! Maria’s lips curve outwards and she hunches away from him. He looks at her waiflike figure and feels a pang of conscience through his junk need; she isn’t ready for walking the streets. — Okay, okay, baby, you go back tae the hoose. I’ll get somebody along for a wee perty.

— Ye still love me? she whines.

— Course ah do. He takes her in his arms, gratified to feel his prick stiffen. He wants her, believes he loves her. If they were different, if he were different … — Just go back n wait for us.

Maria traipses off. Sick Boy watches her go. There’s something about her walk, more cocky and assured the further she gets from him, that almost gives him the suspicion that he might be being played. Did she really believe he was going to kill an ex-copper with her? The big problem with introducing her to guys was that she was sensing her power over them. She fair had fat Caldwell mesmerised the other night. A dopey prick like that could be made to do anything for sweet young minge. It might be hard to keep a hold of her.

He walks about for a bit, brain burning with stampeding notions. At the Foot of the Walk in Woolies, a sloppy home-made sign with glitter glued around its border proclaims that there are only twenty-one shopping days left till Christmas. Then he spies a dark blue hooded Wrangler top, shivering in the dingy drizzle under the canopy of the Kirkgate shopping centre; knows that Spud Murphy is inside it.

— Ye hudin? they ask each other at the same time.

— Nup, Spud says, as Sick Boy shakes his head.

— Saw ye wi that wee Maria chick earlier, Spud ventures, chalky face long and fretful, like that of an old priest under his cowl.

— Dinnae mention her tae me. Dozy wee hoor thinks she kin keep us gaun oan fiver blow jobs. Not a fuckin scooby. Thir aw eftir tight pussy, tight erse. She could clean up, but she needs tae learn. Too soft, that’s ma fuckin problem.

Forget Maria, Spud is the real innocent, Sick Boy thinks, knowing his friend is probably putting his bilious rant down to junk-stress fantasising, swiftly reconfigurating it in his mind to something acceptable. He can almost hear Spud’s internal mantra of puppies and kittens and fluffy bunny rabbits, drowning out his own loathsome spiel. For a split second he wishes he could be like him, till something quickly rises in him to crush the notion.

The friends walk for a bit, but the rain intensifies beyond annoyance level, compelling them to stop outside the carpet shop under the bridge in the Walk. — Thir takin this doon, Spud says, looking up, — the bridge. It’s the auld line ootay Leith Central Station.

— So it’s confirmed then: no fucking escape fae this rat-trap.

A sulk loosens Spud’s face. Sick Boy knows he hates to hear people talk down Leith, and it’s inexcusable if they’re actual natives. But Spud is desperate, cold and skint, so he informs his friend, — Goat chucked ootay the hoose, eh.

— Too bad.

Spud’s eyes drip with need, as large, luminous and haunted as the most pathetic Disney character. — Ah wis jist wonderin … could ah crash at yours? Jist for a few days, likesay man, till ah git back oan ma feet …

Sick Boy graciously hands him the keys, to Spud’s visible shock. — Course you can, mate, any time, ye ken that. You get up there and get that fire started and I’ll be roond later. I have tae go up the South Side tae my ma’s, he says as Spud’s grubby fist cagily takes them, half expecting them to be cruelly pulled away.

— Cheers, catboy … you’re one ay the best, he says, in a gasp of relief.

You have to back up your mates, Sick Boy thinks, not without a satisfying tickle of virtue, as he heads up the Walk, reappraising his own strategy. Now he’ll tap up his mother and sisters, go to Johnny Swan’s, get sorted, then head back down to the port, hitting a boozer to procure a punter for Maria. He glances back at the grateful Spud, shambling down towards Constitution Street, probably heading for St Mary’s Star of the Sea to light a candle and pray for forgiveness for his friend, and to ask God for some skag. No doubt he’ll spy a distracted Cathy Renton, Sick Boy thinks, trailing caramel fingers in the holy-water font.

Sick Boy has just enough small change for the bus up to the Bridges and his mother’s house. But reaching her new home, as he walks in, he feels something perish inside him. His father sits there, in his old armchair, like he’d never left it; stolid, transfixed on the television cop show. And his mother, wearing a big, contented smile.

— Nice billet, eh? Davy Williamson grins at his son.

— Ye took him back in … Sick Boy gasps at his mother. — I can’t believe it. He turns the full glare of a favoured only son’s accusation on her. — You took him back in. Why? Why did you do that?

She can’t speak. His father plays an invisible violin, a spoof tortured look on his face. — That’s the wey it is. Dry yir eyes, boy.

— Son, me n yira faither … in halting protest his mother finds her tongue, before being gently hushed by her husband.

— Shh, shh, sweetheart, Davy Williamson’s finger at his lips. Having silenced his wife, the father then turns to his son, addressing him in a steady tone. — Keep it oot. He taps his own beak, an impressive hook of broken blood vessels. — Keep that fuckin neb oot!

Sick Boy stands rigid, his fists balling up. — You fuckin –

In a grandiloquent, dismissive gesture, Davy Williamson slowly outstretches an arm and upturns a palm. — Ah dinnae git involved in your love life, so dinnae you be botherin yirsel wi mine, he smiles, cocking his head to the side, his face clownish. His mother looks bewildered, as an involuntary gasp explodes from Sick Boy’s chest. This cunt knows everything . — Aye, ye didnae like that, did ye? his father confirms with a smile. — Well, mind, keep yir neb oot ay ma business!

— What’s aw this aboot …? his mother asks.

Davy Williamson, in mock-formal tones, declares, — Nothing at all, my darling, in control of them all, yet again. He fixes Sick Boy in a coothie grin. — Isn’t that right, my bambino?

— Fuck off, Sick Boy shouts, but he’s the one leaving, his departure soundtracked by his mama’s pleas and his father’s derisive laughter as he vanishes onto South Clerk Street.

Confusion reigns on his burning-necked march down the Bridges; he’s still skint and unsure of whether to stop off at Montgomery Street and see Spud, or to carry on right down into Leith for Maria. That’s the one. He’ll go there and he’ll take her to bed, and hold her and protect her and love her; the way he was meant to, the way he should have done all along. No trawling pubs for dirty tramps to take back to her; they’ll lie in bed for days together, sweating the shit out of their system, holding each other, looking after each other, till the nightmare passes and they finally wake up into a new, golden era.

It’s the only way tae move on …

Then a car horn sounds, as a ruined Datsun pulls up. It transits the corpulent figure of Jimmy Caldwell, who rolls down the window. — Some perty the other night but, eh? That wee bird ay yours. Ah wis tellin Clint here aw aboot it, he nods to a jagged-featured accomplice, riding shotgun, who flashes a lascivious smile. A lone gold tooth gleams like a mansion erected in the centre of a crumbling scheme.