Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

Now, rubbing those notes, there is no question as to how they would be disbursed. Maria sees the two tenners in the pornographic rub between his finger and thumb, catches his eye, and he’s about to explain, when a voice booms in his ear, — These’ll do nicely, and he turns to see the burly, slick-haired figure of Young Baxter has stepped out of the bus shelter right in front of him.

What the fuck! — Graham …

— I’ll take those, Young Baxter says, extending a leather gloved hand. — And I’ll have the rest by the end of the month, or you’ll find all your shit in the street and the locks changed.

— Right … Sick Boy swallows hard, looks into Young Baxter’s glacial eyes, then hands over the notes, his lips trembling. — I haven’t seen your dad around, I heard he wasn’t well … that’s why I’m a little behind with the rent. A bit of a communication breakdown between me and the flatmate –

— I couldnae give a toss about your bullshit, Young Baxter snaps, — You might be able to mess the old man around, but you’ll no dae the same wi me.

— I never –

— No rent, no flat, Young Baxter shakes a chunky head, — and I’ll be right in there, taking everything you’ve got and flogging it and then if that’s no enough tae reimburse me, I’ll be taking you tae a small claims court.

Sick Boy stands speechless in abject misery, as Baxter gets into his car and drives off.

— Who wis that? Maria asks. — What did ye gie um money fir?

— My fucking landlord’s son … he’s been stalking me! Jesus fuck!

— We’ve still goat money for gear but, Simon? Eh?

She reminds him of a crazed bird in a nest, frantically yearning for a feed. — Aye, we’ll get it. Stay calm, he says, though he himself feels anything but.

When they get back to the Andersons’ home, Sick Boy drinks some cold tap water, but a skull-splitting headache sets in. Thinking of Young Baxter with rancour, he delves into his small notebook and immediately sees the name: Marianne Carr. Guiltily moving on past the ‘C’s, he hears Maria in the toilet, wonders why can’t she be more like Marianne, with a job and money. Hunting for two is tiresome. He calls Johnny Swan but is dismissed outright. — Nae hireys, nae skag. Ah cannae dae tick, buddy, specially no whin thaire’s a drought oan.

Then it was back to ‘C’, but this time Matty Connell. Matty seems to be back in with Shirley, but Sick Boy gets the same forlorn tale. — No go, mate. The boy let us doon, eh, Matty says, — cunt, somebody got busted, a contact ay Swanney’s.

To Sick Boy’s pained ears his voice drips with wily bullshit. — I see, he replies, — catch ye later, and puts the phone down without waiting for a response.

So there had been some kind of a bust, and there was a shortage. But Swanney would have a personal stash to ride out the rough times. With a habit like his, he had to. Sick Boy calls him again.

— Sorry, mate, Swanney says, and Sick Boy can see his grin down the line, as if he’s sitting in the chair opposite, — when ah said ah cannae help ye, ah meant ah cannae help ye. Ah hate repeatin masel. Squawk. Ah hate repeatin masel. Squawk … and he hears Raymie’s hyena-like laughter, high-pitched and derisive, resonate in the background.

— Listen, Sick Boy’s voice drops, — ah’ve goat a wee bird back here in Leith, tidy as fuck n gantin oan it, but ah’m too skaggy-bawed tae ride her. She’s horned up tae fuck: wants tae perty big time.

He hears Maria slamming the bathroom door shut, heading into her bedroom.

— Aw aye? Johnny’s voice is cynical, and he responds in the parodied Crown Court tones now ubiquitous within their company: — I put it to you that this is nothing more than a tissue of lies, carefully constructed in order for you to get sorted out with free skag!

But Sick Boy can feel the hook’s tug, though he knows he’ll have to play the game. — Objection, Your Honour! I would humbly request that this hearing be adjourned for one hour, then reconvened at Tollcross, where Exhibit One can be presented to the court.

A silence. Then, — I would sincerely hope that for your sake, Mr Williamson, the said exhibit is up to scratch. This court takes a very dim view indeed of its time being wasted.

— Gen up, Johnny. She’s a very naughty wee raver. Sick Boy’s voice drops as he hears Maria going through the cupboards, rummaging, cursing. — You’re welcome tae a poke at that hot wee pussy. Fir a wee fix, likes.

The line goes quiet once again, for two horrible beats within which Sick Boy dies a thousand deaths. — Aye? Fit, is she?

— Johnny, this is a ballissimo wee angel. Pure as the driven snaw, till ah broke the seal myself, like, he lies. — Been teachin her some moves n aw, he expands, now enjoying his spiel, countering his own crushing need by trying to set up a greater one in his opponent. He reverts back to Crown Court -speak, this time casting himself in aggressive prosecution tones: — I put it you that you will be every bit as bewitched by this young vixen as I myself was, then adds, — She just wants tae perty.

— Well, we aw want that. So come on down, Johnny says expansively, before snapping like a sprung trap, — Just youse two, mind!

— Nae worries, telt her aw aboot ye, she’s keen tae meet up. Sick Boy fights back a gasp, watching Maria appear, ghostlike, in the doorway. He speaks to her, but into the phone: — We’ll see ye awright, eh, Maria?

The only response, though, is from Johnny. — Right then, see yis.

— See ye in an hour tops. Sick Boy rests the phone on its cradle. — Game on!

Maria greets this news with an ulcerated smile. Sick Boy heads into the bedroom to see that she’s taken everything from her drawers and wardrobe and dumped them on the floor. She follows in behind him. — Ah’ve goat nowt tae wear!

He manages to find an orange-and-white top in the laundry basket that isn’t too soiled, and coaxes her to change into it.

Soon they’re outside again, shivering at a bus shelter in Junction Street. They board the bus which wheels up Lothian Road. An amber-coloured sky hangs behind blue-grey ropes of smoky cloud. — No long now, Sick Boy says into the window, feet tapping on the floor of the bus, watching girls through the muck-streaked glass, imagining them naked, relieved to feel a twinge in his trousers. Resolves he’ll never let junk master his libido.

The bus wheels up Lothian Road and by the time it reaches Tollcross, Sick Boy is shattered. Maria is worse, shaking so much he’s moved to reach down and place his hands on her knees. Stepping off the vehicle, he affects nonchalance. — Mind, Maria, be cool. Flirty. Sexy. Dinnae think aboot gear n say nowt till Johnny mentions it. Did you, ehm … take the pill this morning?

— Course ah did!

— Ah’ll only be in the next room, so dinnae worry. Johnny’s nice, he says faithlessly, as they mount the stairs of the tenement dwelling.

Maria starts chattering, biting on her nails, but as they approach the black door, Sick Boy raises his palm to silence her. He tries to look into the letter box before he knocks, but it won’t yield to the push of his fingers. He bangs on the door and whoever opens it shouts, — Come in, and heads right back into the flat, and they follow. Sick Boy looks back, seeing that a piece of plywood has been nailed over the letter box.

In the living room, along with a couch and chair, a coffee table with a broken vase, an empty birdcage on an old sideboard, an advent calender with each day already opened and all the chocolates removed, and what appears to be a bloodstain on the battered floorboards, Maria registers two men and looks anxiously at Sick Boy, before he introduces them. — Maria, my good friend Mr Raymond Airlie, and our host, Mr Johnny Swan. This is Maria, and he steers her forward, both hands on her shoulders.