Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

— Any gear? Maria begs.

Fuck , thinks Sick Boy.

From the armchair by the empty fireplace, Johnny laughs loudly. — Aw in good time, honeychile. The rules ay the house are: you be nice tae the White Swan, n the White Swan is nice tae you. Ah’m sure Simon here’s telt ye the drill.

Maria moves over and immediately disconcerts him by sitting on his knee. Her hand reaches up and strokes his rough chin. — Let’s go tae the bedroom.

— That’s much, much better, Swanney says in a low growl, then motions her to rise, winking at Sick Boy who cringes as they step out together.

— The flowers of romance, Raymie says disdainfully, but Sick Boy notes, glory, glory, that he’s cooking up.

— You’re a prince, Raymie.

— Prince Buster Hymen, he laughs, nodding to the door, then singing, — This may not be downtown Lee-heeth, but we promised you a fix …

Twenty minutes later, Sick Boy emerges from his daze to hear shouting. It’s Maria. — Jist cook up! she shrieks, following Johnny into the front room. Her top is on inside out, thick braided orange seams running down her arms.

— The impatience ay youth. Let the White Swan have his wee post-coital moment, Johnny protests, clad in a red silk kimono, with golden dragons emblazoned on it. He turns to Sick Boy. — These moves ye taught her … that the best ye kin dae?

— Just gie the lassie her shot, Sick Boy responds with a mimimal shrug.

— Awright, Johnny says, briefly shamed, then starts preparing the shot in cold deliberation.

He insists on fixing for her, seemingly enjoying this penetration even more. As Maria gasps in gratitude, falling into his arms, he covetously strokes the girl’s tousled hair with a tenderness that disturbs Sick Boy.

So he’s over to them, thanking Johnny; begging, hustling and pleading for a ‘wee something’ to take away with him. Johnny stonewalling in response, delivering a smug lecture on the basic laws of supply and demand, but eventually succumbing and dangling a bag in front of a grasping, grateful Sick Boy.

A smile on his face masks the violence of his yank, as he pulls Maria to her feet. Despite Johnny’s mild, skagged protests, the wasted duo depart, heading off on the bus back down to Leith, Sick Boy with his arm around his girl. — Ah’m really, really sorry you hud tae dae that, babe.

— It doesnae bother us, cause it’s for you, she says, then corrects herself, — for us, you n me. It feels barry now. You’re right good tae me, Simon, she says, although he knows she knows that he isn’t, but is hoping to somehow shame him into becoming the version of himself she wants him to be, — dinnae ever leave us …

— No danger, babe, you’re stuck wi me. We’ll get back doon tae yours. I ken a couple ay boys who want tae perty, it’ll be a laugh.

In the bus window, Sick Boy surveys Maria’s reflection, surprised at how young she looks; pallid, wonderstruck. He turns away, anxiously surveying the other passengers. Back in Leith they eagerly head up the stairs of Cables Wynd House, where Maria immediately retreats to the bedroom to lie down.

Sick Boy heads out again, returning an hour later with Chris Moncur from the Grapes of Wrath pub. Chris is six foot two and solid muscle, the first in his family for at least three generations not to work in the now practically defunct docks. Sick Boy wonders if he’s built in proportion. — Go easy oan her, he says in sudden anxiety.

Chris nods in acquiescence, but is offended. If she cannae take a good panelling, what the fuck was she daein in this game?

He emerges twenty minutes later and squares Sick Boy up. Neither man can bear to meet the other’s eyes as the notes change hands. Then Chris says, quite sadly, thumbing back towards the bedroom, — Ah think she’s pished the bed. Ah’d git her showered oaf n change the sheets if ah wis you. No gaunny dae much business thaire.

Shortly after this, Maria comes out. — Ah feel sair, Simon.

He’d been fixing up; it was as if she could smell the cooking skag, and they both take another shot. Maria lies back on the couch and whispers in broken contentment, — Ah feel better, Simon … sorry aboot the sheets … ah feel barry now, but …

— No worries. He slowly but cheerfully rises, getting the old bedclothes, bundling them up and dragging them into the washing machine. He looks outside as a round moon blazes magnesium in the mauve sky, above tenement windows frosted with stark yellow light. Heading back to the bedroom, he curses as his wasted limbs struggle to turn the mattress over. He finds some fresh sheets and makes the bed up as best he can.

When Maria sees his handiwork, she’s right back under the covers. She wants to doze, and him to join her. He slides in and feels a jolt of fear. — Was he big?

She nods.

— Bigger than me?

— That fix … it was barry …

— Aye, but how would you compare us, like, size-wise?

— You’re bigger, Maria says, as Sick Boy senses with both gratitude and regret that she’s learning the game, — but he isnae as gentle as you. He didnae make us come like you do.

Is the correct answer, he concludes, in bleak admiration.

He’s quickly up and dressed in anticipation, slotting a cassette of Pink Floyd’s Meddle into his Walkman. It’s a little slower than usual, as the batteries are starting to go. The next guest is punctual, and Sick Boy lets him in with a blank look, securing payment up front, watching him go into the room where Maria dozes in the bed. The client pulls back the duvet and admires her nakedness. Then he looks pointedly at Sick Boy who steps back from the door, but keeps it ajar so he can look through the crack, where the man undresses in a few swift movements. Thank fuck his dick is small . Sick Boy feels a relief, as, in a sudden violent leap and series of thrusts, he’s on her and inside her.

Maria becomes aware that the mass is heavier than the cloak of sleep and drugs. Sick Boy can’t see her face but she almost says his name, — Si … before realising that the weight, the dimensions, the scent, the feel are all wrong. Her body freezes and she opens her eyes into a nightmare.

— Ah’m sorry about yir daddy, darlin, he says with a slack grin, as he thrusts inside her.

— Naw … leave us … LEAVE US! Maria screams, trying to push him away with her thin, wasted arms, as Sick Boy cringes outside, looking away, turning up Floyd’s epic track ‘Echoes’ on his dodgy Walkman.

— Nivir mind though, ah’m your daddy now, sweetheart, Dickson says, as the batteries die and the guitar riff fades. Sick Boy visualises him putting his hand over Maria’s mouth, simultaneously twisting her head round so she has to look into his eyes.

It’s Sick Boy’s chance, and he runs through to the coat cupboard, and drags the claw hammer from Coke’s toolbox. He watches the white flabby arse of the beast going up and down, these black flannels round his ankles. The ex-cop’s skull is waiting to be smashed to pulp by his heroic intervention, as his beautiful princess twists her head away to scream loud enough to shake the Bannanay flats, then is smothered by the landlord’s hand again.

I could do the cunt now … it would be rape …

But his grip weakens and he lets the hammer fall to the floor as he stands rocking himself slowly, watching the grim proceedings through the door crack.

Dickson seems to take an age, before finally spazzing up and bucking then flopping to a grateful rest on top of the trapped girl. He removes his hand and Maria’s disbelieving whimper rises to a blood-curdling bellow: — No … no … no … Simon … SI-MIN! SI-MI-HI-HIN …

Watching Dickson roll off the girl, Sick Boy notes him hesitate for a second, then pulling on his clothes and springing out the room. — You’re some fuck-up, he says admiringly at the door, and slapping his host’s shoulder, sees himself out.