Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

Tommy n Rents start tae pill the burd oot the bed; she’s quite a nice-looking lassie or she wid be if she didnae look shite, but sortay heavy-built, n she’s wearin a long nightdress but ye cannae see nowt through it, likesay. No thit ye wid look that hard in they circumstances, but.

— What the fuck’s aw this St Andrew’s Ambulance shite aboot? Begbie moans.

Tommy n Rents urnae hearin um, but; thuv goat the burd whae’s groanin wi snotters comin oot ay her beak, and they’re draggin her intae the toilet. — Keezbo, Rents says, — goan git some hoat water in a teapot, no boilin but, n wi loads ay salt in it. Goan!

— Right, Mr Mark …

They’ve goat the lassie sittin balanced oan the edge ay the bath. Rents hus his hand under her chin, liftin her heid up, lookin intae her eyes, but she’s aw ower the place. — How much did ye take?

Then the burd’s mumblin somethin in a sortay foreign language. — Sounds like Italian, Tommy goes, n turn tae Sick Boy. — What’s she sayin?

— It isnae Italian.

— It sounds fuckin Italian!

Begbie goes tae Tommy, — Dinnae look at that cunt: kens nae fuckin Italian, that cunt!

— Aye ah do, but this is sortay like Spanish … Sick Boy goes taewards her.

Begbie stands in front ay him. Blockin his wey. — Keep the fuck away fae her.

— What? Ah’m just tryin tae help!

— Rents n Tam huv goat it sorted oot. The lassie disnae need your fuckin help. Ah’ve heard aboot the kind ay fuckin help you’ve been giein burds, he goes and Sick Boy disnae like it but says nowt. — Jist watch what yir fuckin well daein, the Beggar Boy advises. — Yir startin tae git a fuckin name.

— What dae ye mean? Sick Boy’s chin juts oot.

— You fuckin ken.

Sick Boy silently shifts his weight.

— What’s your name? Rents is shoutin at the lassie. — How many pills did ye take!

The burd’s heid’s shakin and floppin tae the side. Rents huds it again n looks intae her eyes. — WHAT’S. YOUR. NAME?

— Carmelita … she manages tae gasp.

Ma airm’s really nippin, n ah’m distractin masel by reading this plaque oan the waw that hus a rhyme in it:

Please remember, don’t forget,

Never leave the bathroom wet,

Nor leave the soap still in the water,

That’s the thing you never ought’er …

We should pure huv that in oor hoose cause oors is like a bomb hus hit it eftir ma wee sister Erin’s been in thaire. Cannae tell her nowt, but. The flat wi Rents n Sick Boy, well, that’s pure beyond any principles ay hygiene, man. Thaire’s a barry spider in oor bathroom called Boris. He keeps fawin intae the bath. Ah keep takin him oot n pittin him oan the windae ledge. But whenever ye come back, he’s in the bath again, tryin tae climb oot, up the slope, then slidin back. Ye’d think the gadge might learn, ken?

Keezbo comes back wi a teapot. — This is fill ay hoat salty water.

— A fuckin teapot, right enough, Begbie scoffs, headin away.

— Right, Carmelita, fuck knows what you’ve been takin but it’s comin up. Rents pulls her heid back n pinches her nostrils, while Keezbo puts the spout in her mooth n tips the pot. Tommy’s still goat a grip oan her, balancin her oan the edge ay the bath.

She swallays a bit, then pure sortay chokes, as the water flies aw ower the place. Then suddenly she snaps forward n starts boakin up intae the bath; man, ye kin pure see aw they chalky, undigested pills in the mix, jist loads n loads ay thum. When she stops, Rents pits the pot tae her mooth again. — No … no … no … She’s pushin it away.

— She’s mibbe hud enough, Tommy says.

— We goat tae empty yir stomach ay everything. Rents is insistent, n he forces her tae drink mair. Sure enough, she retches again and it aw comes up, n then once mair, till it’s completely clear. Tommy n Rents keep her thaire till everything’s up n it’s just dry boaks. The way they’re hudin the chick’s hair back, n ah ken it’s totally no a nice thing tae say, but it’s pure like a porno film ah once saw when this lassie wis giein two boys a blow job!

Me n Sick Boy head oot n tae whaire Begbie’s waitin in the hallway. — So now the daft cunts’ve went n revived a fuckin witness that can finger us aw bein in a QC’s hoose. Brilliant, Si snaps.

— Shut up, Franco goes. — Start gittin the fuckin stuff doonstairs.

— Like what? Sick Boy shrugs.

— Like they rugs oan the fuckin waws, fir starters. Any cunt thit pits a fuckin rug oan a fuckin waw is fuckin well beggin tae git it fuckin chorried!

Ah’m away back intae the bedrooms. Man, ma airm’s killin us thanks tae Begbie, so the jewellery’s totally ma speed.

— Keep that burd in thaire, Begbie shouts tae Tommy n Rents. — If she clocks ma coupon she’ll git mair thin a few fuckin pills n some voddy doon her fuckin gullet!

They ken he’s no jokin, so it’s pure, likesay, ‘we obey, oh master’.

In another bedroom, like a teenage lassie’s, thaire’s some nice wee pieces, n ah’m gittin thum in ma jayket poakit. But it’s aw awkward wi one airm, and Sick Boy comes in. He’s caught us as rid-handed as an East Belfast march, but he says nowt cause he’s pure ragin. — Did you hear that fucking psychopath? Him, he goes in a low, hissy whisper, — passing judgements on other people? And Tommy, Mr Straight Cunt; so desperate tae join the ranks of the Perfect People.

— What d’ye mean, likesay?

— You ken them, Spud. The Perfect People. Never takin drugs, unless it’s hash or alcohol, which doesn’t count. Always saying the right things. Never stepping out of line. He’s just dying tae be one ay them.

— He’s only tryin tae help the lassie, but, Si.

— And that fucking smarmy little poof Hamish and his poxy van … who the fuck does he –

Well, thaire’s nae reasonin wi the cat whin he’s like this, so ah’m relieved when we hear Begbie’s voice blastin up the stairwell: — SICK BOY! GET YIR FUCKIN ERSE DOON HERE! YOU N AW, SPUD!

— Fuck, Sick Boy snaps, but he’s headin doon anyway, n ah’m right behind um.

So we’re loadin up, me daein wee bits, n eftir a while Rents comes doon n helps. Ah’ve fair cleaned up wi the auld tomfoolery, but it’s makin a jangle in ma poakits, so ah sneak back up tae the bog n relieve Tommy, whae’s been watchin the lassie. She’s sittin oan the lavvy seat, gittin her breath. — Eh, yir muscle’s needed, Tam, ah point at ma airm.

— Right … Keep an eye oan her, Tommy goes. — When she’s strong enough tae stand up, get her back intae the bedroom so she kin lie doon.

The lassie looks at us, n she’s sobbin softly, pillin this gown somebody’s brought for her roond herself, sippin a gless ay water. Thaire’s something aboot her face, round, kind, n wi big, dark eyes; she’ll no grass us up. Ye kin pure tell. Wi gits chattin n she tells us that she felt depressed bein here, away fae her family.

Eftir a bit ah helps her stand wi ma good airm, n takes her back tae her room n tells her tae lie doon, then ah goes n lits the boys ken the score. We decide that Tam’s gaunny leave separate wi her n me, n git us a cab up the hoaspital. The story’ll be she’ll be thaire when the doss goat turned ower, n it’ll pure be oan the hozzy records. When she comes back, she’ll sortay discover the burglary n call the polis. The lassie’s totally game for this: ye kin tell thaire’s no much love loast wi the employers.

— She sais she’ll no grass us up, but whae kens what the sow’s gaunny be fuckin sayin tae other people up thaire, in fuckin Spanish? Franco goes.

— She’s just properly seen me n Tommy n Spud, we’re really the only yins at risk, Rents says. — We just fuckin well saved her life, so ah’m happy tae take a punt thit she’ll keep stumpf.