Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

— Youse up for another one right now? Sick Boy says, stooping, thought instantly short-circuited by need.

— Hop in the back, Caldwell flashes an affable smirk, — wuv goat the hireys. The lure ay the lira, eh, Si?

— Aye, says Sick Boy, in an absent-minded fug, as he swings inside the cramped space, feeling his aching bones protest against the hard leather seats. — Le cose si fanno per soldi …

AH’M SITTIN IN the hotel bar waitin oan Fiona. Thinkin aboot her heart-melting smile and that sexy, concentrated frown when she evaluates books and the comments made by lecturers. Whenever she comes into a room, ma spirits soar. What ah feel is delight, pure and simple. Our life is all passionate kisses and soft wells of laughter. Ah love watchin her in class; even though we’re shaggin, it’s still great tae just look at her.

We’ve been thegither almost four months. If you dinnae count the weird relationship ah have with Hazel, it’s the longest ah’ve been wi a lassie. But ah still ken next tae fuck all; cause tonight it’s over. Tonight, in this hotel bar, ah’m gaunny dump the best girlfriend I’ve ever had; the prettiest, brightest lassie ah’ve ever known. Okay, so thaire might no be that much competition, but it still holds true.

This is a wee bar in a wee hotel, ah suppose in a wee country, but Scotland’s always felt big tae me, cause ah’ve really only seen my ain wee corner ay it. The gaff has a travelling salesman vibe. A shiny blue cairpit spread apologetically thin across the flair; built-in seats line the waws, wi distressed copper tables and stools positioned aroond them; above the fireplace a signed, framed picture ay Martin Buchan in an Aberdeen strip.

A barman is polishing wine glesses. The door’s opening n ah see what looks like a female figure, briefly hesitating behind its ribbed glass. At first ah think it’s Fiona, but it’s an aulder woman. Probably about ages wi muh ma; forties, wearin a tight black skirt and a white blouse.

Fiona Conyers. The courage tae be cruel. Tae say goodbye. Thoughts in ma heid that cannae be shared. The pint ay lager untouched in front ay me. It isnae what ah want. What ah want’s doon the docks at Don’s. Or back in Edinburgh. At Johnny Swan’s.

Where is she? Ah check the cloak oan the wall; fast, like aw pub clocks, surely. Maybe she’s dumped us first. Hopefully. Problem solved.

Fiona willnae be oan the market for long. She’s a looker; moreover she’s a student wi a fanny, livin away fae hame. She’ll find somebody whae’s proper boyfriend material, as fuckin manky Joanne might say. Mark was okay, but not exactly PBM .

The woman at the bar is chatting tae this mannie … Naw, man. Ah’ve been in Sheepland too long. Ah see it now; she’s a prozzy, a hooker, a dirty big hoor. Ya cunt ye, ah dinnae believe it! Ah love the wey she’s hudin that fag, the manufactured smile, the deep throaty laugh, straight oot ay Hollywood film noir, where the women were hard-arsed, dirty rides with fast, trashy gobs.

Ah’ve decided that this woman is the coolest fucker in the world. A middle-aged Aberdeen prostitute in a hotel bar full ay travelling salesmen whae huv tae haggle wi thair employer for every sandwich oan thair expense account. Do you accept Luncheon Vouchers? Look at the boy. Like me n Fiona in years tae come. Fuck that, ah’ll never be like that. Never, ever.

The prozzy laughs again, loud and proud. Ah love that big, fuck-you laughter in people. In lassies in particular. Fiona n me laughed a lot thegither. She still does. Laughs for two.

Eywis thaire for me. The funeral, Wee Davie n that.

The sex wi Fiona might no have been particularly adventurous, but it was the most emotionally intense ah’d had. She helped us git ower that slightly squeamish thing ah’d eywis hud aboot shaggin. Mind you, jist gittin oot the hoose did that, cause ah’d always associated sex wi spasticated lunacy. Ma n Dad bathin Wee Davie n jokin aboot his erection. My spazzy wee brother’s cock had tae be grotesquely outsized, another cruel joke on us aw, something that he’d never get tae use, in spite ay ma assistance wi Mary, but bigger than anything me or Billy wir packin.

The shame. The embarrassment. The horror .

The postural drainage .

Doof .

Doof .

Doof .

Clear the lungs. Paint the Forth Road Bridge. Patch up the sinking boat .

It’s done .

Dae it again .

No more. I’ll never have tae hear that horrible thumping, wheezing, coughing and gasping again.

Ah never, ever brought a lassie back tae the hoose: only ma closest mates that knew the score. Sick Boy, surprisingly, would be pleasant tae Wee Davie, and effortlessly charmin tae ma folks. Tommy was decent, he’d engage wi the wee fucker, joke aroond and laugh. Keezbo tae. Matty looked embarrassed, but he put up wi Wee Davie drooling and snottering ower him. Spud would attribute Davie wi mystical powers believing he saw mair thin he could express. Begbie was honest; he’d just sit in the kitchen wi Billy, puffin tabs, blowin the smoke oot the windae, ignorin the wee cunt as he twitched and gurgled while my ma constantly beat his back tae stop the build-up ay fluid in his bronchial tubes.

How did I feel about him …?

N ah’m sittin here in this hotel bar aware thit it’s aw bullshit. Tracin a line fae Wee Davie tae aw this; the junk habit, the soon-tae-be-single status when Fiona walks through that door. Cause Sick Boy, Matty, Spud, they nivir hud a Wee Davie. Nivir needed yin tae git oan the gear. Ma big brar, Billy, he hud yin, but he’s nivir even smoked a joint. Cunts that try and psychoanalyse the fucked-up miss the crucial point: sometimes ye jist dae it cause it’s thaire n that’s wey ye are. Ah watched my mother and father tear themselves apart and rip each other’s family trees up at the roots, trying tae work oot where all Wee Davie’s bad genes came fae. But in the end, they grew tae accept that it doesnae matter. It just is .

N here comes Fiona. A dark green hooded top. Tight black canvas troosers. Black gloves. Purple lipstick. Makin me feel like greetin wi her big, easy smile. — Sorry, Mark, me dad was on the phone — She stops abruptly. — Wharrisit, love? What’s wrong?

— Sit doon.

Dinnae say it …

She does. Her face. Ah cannae dae this. Ah need tae dae this. Because somehow ah sense that it’s the very last unselfish thing I’ll ever be able tae dae. Ah can’t stop. Now ah’m gaunny hurt her but it’s for her ain good. Weed-like fear creeps through me. — I was thinking we should go our separate ways, Fi.

Fuck … did ah really say that?

— What? She tries tae laugh in my face. A bitter laugh, like it’s a sick joke ah’m makin. — What’re ya ahn aboot? What d’ya mean, Mark? What’s wrong?

It is a joke. Laugh. Tell her it’s a joke. Say, actually, I was wondering what you thought about us gittin a place together …

— You n me. Ah jist think we should split up. A pause. — Ah want tae split. For us tae stoap gaun oot thegither.

— But why … She actually touches her chest, touches her heart, and at that moment mine nearly breaks in unison. — There’s somebody else. In Edinboro, that Hazel lass …

— Naw, thaire’s naebody else. Honest. Ah jist think wi should baith move oan. Ah’m no wantin tied doon. See, ah’m thinkin ay packin it in, the uni n that.

Tell her you’ve been depressed. You don’t know what you’re saying. TELL HER …

Fiona’s mouth hangs open. She looks dafter and more undignified than ah could ever have conceived. That’s my fault. It’s me. It’s me that this is aw doon tae. This shite. — We wor merkin plans, Mark! We were ganna travel!