Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

— They threw him oot fir skag, Keith, Rents shakes his heid at the big gadgie. Man, how kin he eat at a time like this?

— Aye, they didnae like him takin skag, Keezbo says, findin a jar ay Marmite, — but they reinstated him when they realised it didnae affect his performance oan the drums. He wis still a better skins man than Terry Chimes, but.

These cats will argue anything rock n roll aw day, man. Begbie looks disgusted at Keezbo, but pills oot some cigarettes and the radge is aboot tae light up, so ah goes, — Dinnae, Franco, yi’ll set oaf the smoke alarms!

— Aye, yi’ll have tae go ootside wi that, Mr Frank, Keezbo says. Begbie isnae chuffed at aw. — It’s fuckin freezin ootside!

— But, Franco –

— Ah need fuckin snout, right, and he looks at Keezbo n goes, — Ivray cunt else is daein what they fuckin well want! Some cunt’s gaunny huv tae go up n shut that fuckin alarm oaf!

We look at each other, then aw the beady eyes settle oan me. That’s ma story, man. Cursed as a tea leaf fae the off by they monkey-boy climbin talents. It started as a sprog, brekin in tae help auld girls that hud forgot thair keys n shut thirsels oot. Then came the time ma auld man telt us his mate wis locked oot the hoose, pointin up tae a tenement flat at the back ay Burlington Street. ‘Climb up thaire, Danny, that windae, perr Freddy here’s loast his keys, eh,’ the auld boy goes, lookin at his mate standin wi a glum pus. So ah shimmies up the pipe n nips in the windae, goes through the hoose n opens the front door tae lit them in, before they’ve even climbed up the stairs. The Freddy boy bungs us a couple ay bob, n the auld man tells us tae git oaf hame. Ah waited oan the snide ootside but, duckin behind a motor; pure sketched thum takin the chorrie fae the hoose intae a van.

So thaire’s what the sports commentator cats call ‘a certain inevitability’ aboot it aw, likesay. Ah admits defeat n looks ower tae this utility room, through an alcove. — Thaire’s ledders in here, n ah goes through n brings oot they big aluminium steps, — that should dae it.

— Hurry up, ya cunt, Franco goes, — fuckin gaspin here!

So ah climbs up the steps headin for that red light that’s blinkin away oan that white disc. Ah kin hear Keezbo n Rents still gaun at it, but this time thuv switched tae fitba: — Robertson should be a fixture in the Scotland side, Mr Mark, the stats speak fir themselves.

— But Jukebox is a goalscorer and a goalmaker. A scorer and a creator’s ey gaunny bring mair benefit tae a team than a ten-a-penny penalty-box chunkoid.

Ah’m thinking that Rents is bein unfair tae Robbo, cause ah like the wee gadge. A Hibby originally, before his corruption by the dark side, n ah’m aboot tae say something but ah’m no that happy cause they ledders are wibbly-wobbly oan that uneven stane flair, but ma eager mitt’s closin in oan the detector n ah’m jist aboot tae unscrew it when ah feel a twist, n the squeak ay ma soles separatin fae the metal n ah’m flyin through the air, n next thing ah ken is thit ah’m lyin oan the stane flair …

… jist likesay lyin thaire, lookin up at that blinkin rid light …

— Oh ya fucker, Spud … Ah hear the panic in Tommy’s voice.

— Fuck sake! Danny! Are ye awright? Sick Boy’s gaun.

— Dinnae move, Rents goes, — dinnae try n git up. Jist try n move yir taes. Then yir feet.

Ah do, n it’s awright, so ah try tae sit up but thaire’s a funny sick pain comin fae ma airm, man. — Aw ma airm, ah’m fucked …

— Useless cunt, Begbie goes, n he’s steppin ootside n lightin up, — fuckin well freezin oot here!

Ah’m up oan ma feet but ma airm is way, way fucked, man, cannae move it, it jist hings thaire by ma side. Whin ah try liftin it, it’s jist this sick, sick, sick feelin, risin up in ma guts. The boys take us through to the lounge n sit us doon oan the couch. — Stey thaire, Danny, dinnae move, Rents goes, — we’ll get ye tae the hoaspital once wi git loaded up.

Keezbo’s chompin away oan his toast n Marmite spread, n ma airm’s gaun throb throb throb

Begbie comes in and sees Rents defacing the waw wi a Magic Marker, pittin up in big, black letters:

CHA MORRISON IS INNOCENT

— Donaldson isnae gonnae try that hard tae defend the cunt now, he grins.

Franco starts laughin his heid oaf, n shouts: — Tam! Keezbo! Look at what Rents’s done! That’ll teach the cunts! He punches Rents oan the airm. — See this rid-heided cunt, then slaps his back, — some fuckin patter!

Ah feel shite but ah want tae see what sort ay a haul wir due, so ah stick ma wrist inside ma jaykit, buttonin up the boatum tae make a sortay sling, ken, n help the boys case the gaff. We’re intae every nook n cranny, n it looks barry, especially some jewellery in a boax oan the dresser ay the marital boudoir. Ah ken it’s wrong, but wi this airm giein us gyp, it means ah might no have sae much claim oan the big loot, so ah stash a couple ay rings, bracelets, brooches n necklesses intae ma pocket for percy, before ah announce the haul tae the boys.

Suddenly Tommy comes lurchin oot one ay the bedrooms, n he’s white as a sheet. — Thaire’s a lassie in that bed, he goes in this panicky whisper, — In thaire.

— What …? Franco’s neck muscles tense up.

— Fuck sakes, Rents goes.

— But she’s sortay asleep … ah mean it’s like … it’s like she’s fuckin deid! Tam’s eyes are like elephant pish-holes in the snaw. If elephants kent whit snaw wis, likesay. — Thaire’s pills thaire … n voddy … this bird’s fuckin well topped herself, man!

Ah’m pure shitein it now n aw. — Whoa man … we’ve goat tae git right oot ay here …

Sick Boy comes up the stairs, eyes aw bulging oot. — Deid? A lassie? Here?

Franco shakes his heid. — The wey ah fuckin see it, he goes, — is if the cunt’s deid, then wi keep daein what wir fuckin daein. Obviously nae cunt kens or gies a fuck aboot it.

— Nae fuckin wey, Tommy says tae Begbie, — ah gie a fuck aboot it, ah’m ootay here!

— Hud oan, says Rents, and he’s movin quietly intae the bedroom. We follay um. Right enough, thaire’s a burd jist lyin in the bed, looks sortay foreign. Spooky as, man. N ah’m pure gutted, cause it’s bad when a young cat does that, like that Eleanor Simpson woman’s laddie. So sad, man: a posh kid wi loads tae look forward tae n aw. It’s likesay the no-hopers like muggins here whae ye think should jist cash in the chips, ken? Mind you, kenin ma luck, ah’d jist dae it n then some wee sweetheart like Nicky Hanlon would be at the funeral sayin, ‘Funny, ah wis jist aboot tae gie Danny a bell tae see if he wanted tae come ower fir his hole, n aw.’ That wid pure be it, kennin ma luck but, eh?

Oan the table beside the lassie, thaire’s a load ay tablets n a boatil ay voddy thit’s been practically tanned. Ah grabs a few leftower pills, fir the shoodir pain, n necks thum wi the last shot ay voddy.

— Fuckin stupid cunt, Franco hisses, — yir saliva’s aw ower the neck ay that boatil!

— If you’re likesay aw keen oan forsensic science, man, how come ye never sais nowt whin Keezbo wis makin toast? ah asks, pure annoyed.

— CAUSE AH NIVIR KENT THAIRE WIS A FUCKIN DEID BOADY IN THE BED, YA DAFT CUNT! he shouts in ma face, then quietens tae a low sizzle. — You could be a fuckin accessory if she’s fuckin potted!

Ah nods, cause thaire’s nowt tae say except, — Right enough … good thinking, Franco.

— As well some cunt’s fuckin well thinkin!

Rents bends ower her, shakes her shoodir. — Miss … wake up … you have tae wake up … The lassie’s totally spangled, but. He takes her wrist n feels fir a beat. — She’s goat a faint pulse, he goes, n pure slaps her chops. — YOU HAVE TO WAKE UP! He turns tae Tommy. — Help us git her oan her feet!