Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

— Aye, course it is, ah’d say, tryin tae maintain an acceptable degree ay focus and concentration.

But the waws were closin in oan us, everything aroond me turnin tae shite. Sick Boy was on at me tae head tae London wi him, for us tae stay with my ‘Ingloid mates’ for a bit. It grew a mair tempting prospect every day. But even wi a growin junk habit ah was too restless no tae look for clues. Ah read wi a voracious desperation. Read everything but what ah was supposed tae read for ma classes. In lectures ah’d sit at the back half dozin and ask some swotty kid tae photocopy their notes. In seminar groups ah often took speed tae buck us up, manoeuvrin the discussions towards ma personal obsessions, wi long, ramblin druggie speeches as ah mentally groped aroond, tryin tae scratch at the phantom itch in ma brain. Phlegm sat in my chist cavity like Wee Davie’s, tricklin down from a constant stream in my sinuses. Ma breathin was fucked. Ah even noticed the wey ma ain voice had changed; it was as if it was easier tae force the sound up through my nose, producing a tinny, whiny sound ah hated but couldnae stop emittin. One lecturer looked sadly at us n said, — Are you sure you should be here?

— Naw, ah told him, — but ah don’t know where else tae go.

It was true. At least ah had some sort of reason to be here, even if ah’d ceased handin in work: ah knew ah’d never get close tae ma 70 per cent threshold ay acceptability now. Ah stopped checkin ma student pigeonhole. People often seemed tae assume ah’d already left, appearin surprised when ah occasionally showed up. In a sense ah had; all they were seein wis the ghostly remnants.

The odd time ah went in the student union bars, ah mocked people and their daft projects, their bands, InterRail travel plans, sporting activities, just because ah knew ah could no longer join in. Ah grew tae hate Bob Marley’s music; ah’d loved it as a punk in London, but loathed the way white middle-class students had shamelessly appropriated it. Headin home tae the residences one night, I saw some drunk and emotional public-school wankers singing about sitting in a government block in Trenchtown. They were singin about livin in a scheme in Kingston, Jamaica. Ah shot them a brutal look and they snapped intae a guilty sobriety. It was pathetic. Ah wis pathetic. People avoided me. Ah’d gone fae being regarded as a warm, witty, fun-loving sceptic, tae a cynical bore: cold and caustic. Yet the more ah alienated people, the stronger ah felt. Ah fed off rejection. There was nowt good or normal or straight that ah couldnae sneer at. Ah was a critic ay everything, one ay the worst kind, whose every ounce ay bile is generated by their ain sense ay failure and inadequacy, risin off them like steam fae a jakey’s pish.

And ah started tae stink like a wino in classes. Before, ah’d always been a bit compulsive aboot personal hygiene, tidiness and order; now ah could feel a permanent swamp ay fire and scum aroond ma weddin tackle, erse and airmpits. It wis like ah wis gaunny combust. One time ah met Fiona in a corridor. We couldnae avoid eye contact wi each other. — You still here then, she said, like a challenge.

But ah could tell that she still cared, or maybe no, perhaps ah was just kiddin myself. Aw ah could say was, — Hi, eh, see ye … n move the fuck on.

After this incident ah more or less stopped gaun tae the uni. Basically, ma plan, such as it was, wis tae stay in ma residence. Ah’d bang junk with Don and, occasionally, genitals with Donna, ironically, the prostitute from the bar where ah’d ditched Fiona. Ah started visiting it regularly, working up the bottle tae approach her. She took us tae a functional flat with Van Gogh sunflower prints, which was obviously just used for clients. Ah spent maist of the time eatin her pussy rather than fuckin her. I wanted to develop some expertise in that. Tae ma embarrassment, she had tae tell us it was called cunnilingus. Sick Boy would never have made that mistake. Ah’d cairry on till dosh or libido was exhausted, or ah formally got kicked oot, whichever came first.

Ah still wandered through the city like a phantom. At all hours. Then one day Don was gone. Naebody in the dockside pubs had seen him. There were aw sorts ay theories as tae where the radge had fucked off tae, maist ay them based oan his ramblings; Copenhagen, New York, London, Hamburg, Peterheid. Ma money was on the latter. It was mair than possible that Don could’ve been lying deid in his flat, overdosed oan the couch, but ah couldnae be ersed tae check. Then ah saw Donna in the street, and a Down’s syndrome wee lassie came running up intae her arms. Ah shuffled doon the road, and kent ah would never visit her again.

Aberdeen suddenly seemed to have an omnipresent silence about it; a post-apocalyptic hush and stillness, where you could sense the sky sealin you in, like glass round a snow-shaker toy. It was ower for us here and ah was sweatin and shiverin oan a bus back tae Edinburgh. One bag full ay filthy clathes, the other stuffed wi books. And ma very first port ay call was Tollcross and Johnny Swan’s doss.

Ah’m there for aboot ten minutes when the door goes and it’s Spud and Sick Boy, lookin as fucked as me, but delighted tae be in the hoose ay pain relief. We’re literally drooling, eye-popping, neck-sinew-strained, skin-crawling monsters as Swanney takes his sweet time cooking. He’s in exuberant form, offloading his fucked-up obsessions oantae us. — Ah’ve nowt against darkies as such, but thaire’s way too many ower here now. Pakis tae. That sort ay unselective breedin dilutes the fortitude ay a race. The morals go tits up. If the Germans invaded now, we’d huv nae chance. Ye git us?

— Aye, ah’m sayin, but feelin as alienated fae the boys here as ah did the right-on students in Aberdeen. Twat. Fuckin Nazi twat. But ah don’t care. Gie’s the gear . — You cookin, or what?

It’s like he disnae hear us. — Ah dinnae believe n sendin thum aw back; the birds kin stey, especially they westernised Asian birds … phoar … he smirks, showin his rotten teeth. Sick Boy turns away in disgust.

— Luckily maist ay them widnae come tae Scotland, too cauld fir the dark skin.

Shut the fuck up and cook cook cook cook …

— Ah dinnae think that’s right, likesay, Spud says. — It’s mair like cause thaire’s nae jobs up here, ken? N computers dinnae really count, cause ah dinnae believe in computers, man.

But now, thank fuck, Swanney’s giein the matter at hand some proper attention; the gear has been placed in the spoon wi the water, and the lighter’s burnin away underneath it. — Jobs dinnae come intae it. It’s a well-known fact that niggers jist come ower here tae sponge offay the state, but. It’s like revenge fir aw they years ay slavery wi the British Empire n that. Post-colonialism or some shite, that’s the fuckin scientific term. Tell thum, Rents, he signals us tae suck the gear intae ma works, oh thank you, Swanney, thank God tae fuck, ah will goose-step aw the wey tae the pollin booth tae vote National Front if ye like … — Psychology. He taps his heid.

— Too right, ah tell him. It’s mair physiology ah’m worried aboot right now, wi ma dodgy Danny McGrain’s; ah’ve got this boy tapped up and ah’m worried that ah’ll lose the cunt, he’s as precarious as a hard-on after a bottle ay whisky. But ah pierce the skin, slide it in, then let go … — Got ye again, ah gasp in laughter, smilin at the others. — Too quick for youse cunts …

Escape tae oblivion, where they cannae get at me …

Then it’s back tae the flat wi Sick Boy and Spud, whae’s moved intae the room, so ah was on the couch. We’re daein a bit mair gear, even though ah’m still buzzin oan the last shot. These boys certainly huvnae been hudin back in my absence. — You should’ve stuck wi the uni, Sick Boy coolly tells us as he cooks, then expertly tourniquets hissel wi a Leith Academy school tie, dark blue wi that badge wi the boat n ‘Persevere’ emblazoned on it. His veins triumphantly spring intae the light like an army advancing over a hill. — You were the only cunt oot ay the lot ay us that could have got an education.