Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

— You could’ve. Ah heard you were a swotty wee cunt at primary.

— At primary , aye, he concedes.

— Ah watched yir academic career explode in hormones the day Elaine Erskine came intae school in second year, wearin that rid miniskirt.

— Less talk mair rock, man, Spud moans, impatient for his turn as he watches the Scottish news. Mary Marquis is readin, n ah think ay Wee Davie’s monstrous cock in ma hand and his gurglin spazzy breathin.

— Aye, Sick Boy recalls, big broon eyes glazing, — when she got sent hame tae change, ah wis right doon the road eftir her. Telt Munro in Geography ah wis feelin totally fuckin Zorba n gaunny puke up. Caught up wi Elaine oan the Links, provided a shoulder tae cry on, while complimenting her on her spot-on fashion sense. Fit birds should wear nothing but miniskirts –

— C’moan, Si … bang it! Spud pleads.

— Those fucking lovely tits that squeezed every bit ay sense fae me, made us brainless sluts thegither, stupefied by each other’s flesh. And me, constantly planning and scheming tae manoeuvre her away fae the older, cooler cunts who coveted her minge …

— Simon, c’moan, mate, please, ah’m pure sufferin a bit, Spud gasps.

— … within the week, ma cherry was exploding like the last firework above the fuckin Castle on Hogmanay.

— SI! C’MOAN!

— Patience, Danny boy, a wee bitty shadow before the sunshine, Sick Boy smiles, suckin up some gear and passin the spoon tae the grateful Spud, — Aye … aw ah’m sayin is it set us on a path, Rents, and it’s no necessarily the one I’d have chosen, he muses, his teeth clampin ontae the tie as his lovely big veins bulge in his arm, mair options than you ken what tae dae wi. — No necessarily the one I’d have chosen … he repeats, piercing, sliding in the needle, drawing back blood intae the barrel ay the syringe, then slamming the potion towards base.

A cauld but bright morning, the groond thick wi snaw and the hooses weighed wi a dense filigree ay ice, as a cheery sun glints offay towers ay cloud. After a derisory bit ay kip, ah got up and dressed, steppin ower Spud, washed up oan the flair in the narrow hall, n wis back at Gillsland’s, hollow and metallic, like an empty, discarded can ay shavin cream. They’d taken ower the unit next door, and Gillsland had completely swerved fae high-end shopfitting and custom joinery, tae building even mair house panels to desecrate central Scotland wi shitey boxes.

Les was still obsessed wi his Monday-morning shitein competitions, but now ah struggled tae produce a Malteser. — What’s up wi you, Mark? Les asked me, aw hurt. — What kind ay diet you been oan up in Aberdeen?

The skag diet. Soon it’ll be the diet ay choice for all our porky, suburban housewives .

But the work suited us. While the other boys moaned about becoming de-skilled, just robotically workin the compressed airguns, knockin nails intae frames and boltin aluminium ties onto them, wis fair game fir me. Ah could stand there, junk-sick and miserable, and batter off ten panels in an hour withoot exchangin a single word wi any cunt.

TOTALLY SKINT, MAN, n the bread trap ay Christmas n New Year looms. It’s a awfay scene. Mind you, everybody’s in the same boat. Begbie comes roond the gaff, n yuv nivir seen a rooster in such a foul mood, ken? — Spud, he goes, pushin past us intae the flat, lookin around fir Rents n Sick Boy. — Whaire the fuck ur they two cunts?

— Dinnae ken, man, every cat jist sortay comes n goes here, ken? ah tell um. Ah’m feelin a bit shitey, jist tryin tae tidy up a bit roond the gaff, ken? Sortay pill ma weight a bit, likesay.

The Beggar Boy isnae a happy camper but, n it’s Cha Morrison fae Lochend that’s gettin the blame. He’s up in coort next month fir chibbin Larry Wylie, and everybody except Franco is pretty chuffed, man. Two dodgy bamsticks oot ay circulation through the jail and hozzy gigs, likes, sortay a pure result aw roond, ken? For every cat except Francis James Begbie but, whae’s takin Larry’s chibbin as a personal attack oan him. Franny Jim husnae been too chuffed lately, so whin he comes tae us wi news ay a hoose thit wants screwed, ah’m wary, Christmas hireys or no.

Cause yet again it wis a pure case ay me n ma big mooth! Thing is, it’s the same gaff ah mentioned tae him likesay yonks ago, huvin inside info fae the deliverance ay a sideboard thaire last year. Thoat it wid be in one ear n oot the other. But the Beggar Boy’s a pure elephant gadgie; sort ay never forgets, ken? — No that hoose but, Franco! The polis’ll pure go through the list ay aw the people that’ve been thaire ower the last year, n guess whae thi’ll pit in the frame, man? The disgruntled ex-delivery gadgie that’s been peyed oaf!

— Shite, Begbie shakes his noggin aw that dismissive wey, — this is the fuckin Lothian and Borders Polis. These doss cunts are fuckin useless for anything other thin fuckin parkin tickets. Aw water under the fuckin bridge now, ya cunt, trail way fuckin cauld, n he opens the curtains n looks oot acroas the street.

— But the boy’s a barrister, Franco, Conrad Donaldson QC!

Ken whin somebody jist isnae hearin ye, but? That’s pure Franco. News he disnae want tae hear, that cat’s pointy ears jist swivel roond n aw the bad sound jist flies intae space. — Any fuckin peeve in this doss?

— Eh, aye … The ears twist back intae position, n he goes tae the kitchen n helps hissel tae a boatil fae the fridge, one ay they Peroni’s Sick Boy bought fae the posh offy. He opens up n takes a glug glug slug, screwin his coupon up, hudin it at airm’s length n lookin at the label. — Fuckin Italian? Beer? Italians make fuckin wine. Sick Boy ay aw people should fuckin well ken that. Ah’ll pit that cunt right! Fuckin Italian beer!

— But Conrad Donaldson QC, ah says again, notin Franco’s still drinkin the Tally ale.

— Aye, but aw the mair fuckin reason, cause the cunt’s a defender, Franco says, pointin the boatil at us. — Defends bams like Morrison, so the polis hate the cunt. They’ll dae fuck all fir that bastard, he sais, readin the Peroni label again.

— But, Frank –

— Nae fuckin danger at aw! Lexo fae the casuals wis telling us thit this QC fucker … QC, what’s that fuckin stand fir … queer cunt? He punches ma airm sair, n ah wish the cat wid stoap that, man; even though it’s meant in affection, it’s like still bullyin, ken, it’s still likesay sayin ‘ah’m the big hard gadgie n you’re the wee sappy dude’, likesay. — Aye, the queer cunt wis defendin um in that case, n he’s gaun oan holidays for six weeks tae America. Ah’ve cased the hoose, big fuckin Ravvy Dykes pad. Nae cunt aboot, so wi go thaire the night. Endy fuckin story. He looks ootside again. — Ye must huv some fuckin clue whaire Rents n Sick Boy ur? Might huv fuckin well sais whaire they wir gaun! Fuckin Italian beer … Still, nae sense in cuttin oaf yir cock tae spite yir baws. He gulps it doon n opens up a second.

— Eh, ah think they might be away gittin moosetraps. We’ve goat mice, likesay.

Franco raises his furry brows n looks aroond the kitchen. — Ah thoat this fuckin hovel wis way too gantin fir any fuckin self-respectin moose!

Well, ah dinnae say nowt, cause ah hud a big argument wi Rents n Sick Boy aboot it, cause ah dinnae hud wi killin mice. Thaire hus tae be a humane wey ay deterrin thum, without hurtin thum, likesay. Ma idea wis tae git a cat, jist tae scare thum. One or two might huv goat killed, but the rest wid git the message n move oan. But Rents started gaun oan aboot being allergic.

Me n Franco decide tae head oot n track thum doon, so wi pads the hoof doon tae the Walk. We gits tae the Cenny n Tommy’s thaire; soas Second Prize, blootered, wi pish marks oan his troosers but like thuv sortay dried in, ken? But thaire’s nae sign ay Rents or Sick Boy.