Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

— They must still be lookin for moosetraps, ah go.

— Aw aye, Tommy raises his brows, — is that what they fuckin call it now?

Begbie catches something n seems tae tipple. — Thi’ll be hingin aboot wi Matty n that fuckin junky Swan! Another cunt oaf ma fuckin Christmas caird list.

— Didnae ken ye kept a list, likesay, Franco, ah goes, lookin ower at Second Prize, who’s sortay mumblin tae himself, n kinday fawin asleep in the corner, eyelids crashin doon like shoap-windae shutters. Business pure closed fir the day, ken?

No fir Franco, but; the cat looks at us aw jungle-jungle stalky-stalky, low hackles n that. — Every cunt keeps a fuckin list. He taps his heid. — A Christmas caird list, n that cunt’s fuckin well oaf it!

Wi that cat in this mood ye pure jist huv tae … what’s the word? … acqui … acqui … faw intae line. So wi head ower tae the snooker club, leavin Second Prize tae his forty winks. — Fuckin liability, that cunt, Franco goes. Crossin Duke Street, we hits the club bar n Begbie talks tae two shaven-heided wideos wi gold chains n sovie rings. Ah clocks Keezbo oan the green baize, playin a frame wi this wee gadge in a rid hooded toap whae looks a bit like a lassie but no a good-lookin yin, ken? Then ah sees Rents, Sick Boy n Matty ur sittin right at the back in the corner watchin thum. Matty comes ower, n says he has tae go, tae git back tae Shirley. Ye kin see Franco giein um the evil eye, like he’s pittin a hex oan the gadge, ken?

— Did yis git the Agatha Christies, likesay? ah ask Sick Boy n Rents.

— Eh, right, Sick Boy goes, lookin tae Rents. Then he goes, — Ehm … this boy’s gaunny sort it aw oot fir us. Humane likes. They pit doon they pellets n the moose doesn’t feel a thing.

— Good man, ah couldnae handle yon springin trap comin doon oan a furry friend, no somethin warm-bloodied, ken?

— Shut the fuck up aboot fuckin moosetraps! Franco snaps, as he bounds ower wi a boatil ay Beck’s in his hand, then starts tellin them aboot the joab.

Well, they dinnae take tons ay persuadin. These boys huv a different sortay White Christmas in mind. — Sounds good sport, Rents says. Though ye dinnae ken if he’s genuinely agreein or it’s just stallin tactics tae distract and manoeuvre the Generalissimo intae something else. Rents is one ay the few cats that Franco sometimes listens tae, that kens how tae play um a wee bit.

Sick Boy raises a single brow, like Connery walkin intae a casino. — This could be interesting. Gaff like that, bound tae be stacked wi valuables.

— Aye, well, it’s no aw gaun intae your fuckin airms, ya cunt, Begbie says, n this makes Sick Boy pill doon his jersey sleeve ower his track marks, then turn away wi a hurt look, pure upset his cool’s been ruffled.

Begbie gies him, then me and Rents that frosty ‘aye, ah ken youse cunts’ look. — This is fuckin serious. Nae cunt hud better fuck up. We need a big mob cause we’re gaunny clean the fuckin lot ootay that doss n store it doon the lock-up. It isnae a fuckin junky playgroond, ya cunts. Pittin that fuckin garbage intae yir veins … thank fuck that wee cunt Matty’s away …

— Ah’m rarin tae go, Rents says. Ah think the Rent Boy really does want tae dae this. Usually it’s Mark that’s screwin the nut, but now he seems the gadge instigatin aw the villainy. Came back wi his holdall stuffed wi books the other day. Fair play tae um, but, he eywis reads thum aw before he flogs thum. Still a studious sort ay gadge, even wi the skag. N ah suppose he’s eywis liked housebrekin.

— Aye, bit it’s fuckin serious, mind, Franco glares at him. Rents nods back. — Tommy kin drive, Begbie says, — ah kin drive n Sick Boy kin drive. Ah’ve goat a len ay a van fae Denny Ross, a len ay a van fae ma brar Joe, n a len ay a van fae yon smarmy cunt, him fae Madeira Street, what’s it ye call the cunt, him wi the quiff? You n Keezbo wir in that shite band wi the cunt, Rents!

Keezbo suddenly looks ower fae his shot, a bit put-oot. He seems tae huv the wee lassie boy stitched up like John Croan’s breakfast finest, but.

— HP, Rents says. — Hamish Proctor: the Heterosexual Poof.

— That’s the cunt, goes Franco.

— No fucking way is that cunt heterosexual, Sick Boy sneers as Keezbo sinks a red — black — red — pink. Nice brek by the fat laddie. — It’s the classic cover-up scenario. The birds he hings oot wi are either professional virgins or fuckin fag hags. That pansy’s nae threat tae them. Him n Alison went doon tae Reading thegither, then ower tae France. Away a whole week n he never laid a fuckin finger oan her! She telt us so herself … eftir a gentle interrogation.

Rents smiles n turns tae Franco. — Did ye tell thum what the vans are fir? HP n Joe n Dennis n that?

— Did ah fuck. What they dinnae ken nae cunt kin fuckin well beat oot ay thum. N ivray cunt here hud better keep thair fuckin mooths shut, right? He looks at us one by one. That cat’s ridic, cause half the snooker hall can likesay hear the radge, but naebody’s drawin it tae his attention. It’s hard no tae laugh but, man.

— Goes without sayin, Rents says, poker-faced.

— Aye, well, ah’m fuckin sayin it anywey, Franco goes, reprimandin Rents, but ye kin tell it’s really aw aboot the skag. Cat jist disnae git it at aw, man. — You clean? he asks.

— As a fuckin whistle, Rents smiles, but he’s goat that tight jaw, n Sick Boy looks a bit bloated wi water retention, n thir baith blinkin n twitchin a lot. No way, Jose .

Ah ken the junk gits a bad press, but ah think it’s barry. It’s easy tae criticise something fae the ootside, but yuv goat tae experience everythin in life, ken? Think ay how shitey things would huv been for every cat if Jim Morrison hudnae droaped acid. He widnae huv broken oan through tae the other side n aw they barry tunes wid be shiter as a result. The Salisbury Crag is dangerous but, so ah’m sortay no daein it again. Wee Goagsie wis gaun oan about how it was makin him sick. But it’s good stuff; Begbie’s mentalness, Sick Boy’s scams, Tommy’s moans and Keezbo’s crap jokes, and maist ay aw, the auld girl bein aw grumpy aboot us gittin oot fae under her feet n findin a joab, it aw disnae go away on skag; it just disnae bother ye any mair.

We’re offski but; ye kin pure tell Tommy isnae too chuffed, but he comes along. Wi pick up the different vans n head doon tae the industrial estate at Newhaven tae rendezvous. Then we drive up tae the posh gaff n park up the vans doon the side lane ay the hoose, n wi climb ower the back waw, which is easy fir every cunt bar Keezbo, whae’s toilin.

— Hurry up, big yin, Rents goes, blawin intae his hands, even though it’s no that cauld. Wi huv tae push Keezbo up, me n Tam gittin a grip ay that big heavy erse, before he sortay waddles ower n splats oantae the groond oan the other side. It’s too radge how cats kin cairry aw that weight aroond, man. We tiptoe through the gairdin n force the door, which opens wi one ay Begbie’s shoodir charges. Wir ready tae nash wi the alarm, but sure enough, it disnae work! Barry! Wir in!

We comes intae this huge kitchen wi a stane flair n a big island in the middle like one ay they yins ye see in Beverly Hills; likesay in the films n that, ken? Keezbo turns tae Rents n goes, — This’ll be what we’ll have, Mr Mark, when the band takes oaf, but in LA or Miami n wi a pool at the back.

— Sure, Rents scorns, — the only thing that’s rock n roll aboot us is aw the gear we’re takin.

— Disnae affect the rhythm section the same but, Mr Mark, we kin still dae oor joab, Keezbo explains, n he’s gaun through the cupboards, then starts pittin some breid in the toaster. — Look at the jazz men, they jist sit back and groove. Especially oan the skins. Ah mean tae say, take Topper Headon fir example. He pills at his tight Clash City Rockers XXL T-shirt.