Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

I ain’t met the little chap’s old man, and maybe he’s back on the scene; I dunno if he’s got any claims on her. All she would say when I broached the subject was, — Nah, it’s all cool, man.

Cause I know the lie of the land; I certainly ain’t enough of a farking div to step on some big spade’s territory. The white man’s long moved out to the Shires; bar a few pockets like Bermondsey (and them Millwall cunts don’t count), inner London’s pretty much ruled by the spade and the yuppie. It sometimes feels as if the likes of us are just farking guests in our own city. You gotta behave yourself, and besides, wars over skirt: you can forget it.

But I really thought that me and her had something. Then I thought about how a lot of people, black and white, don’t like the idea of a white geezer and a black bird getting it on. One day it won’t matter a fuck; we’ll all be coffee-coloured with a tint of yellow. Till then we got a load of grief ta get through.

THANK GOD THAT wee Maria lassie is safely back at her Uncle Murray’s in Nottingham. I found her a couple ay weeks ago, a total mess, begging up the Bridges, when I was heading back fae work, so I brought her wi me tae Johnny’s. But she freaked when we got tae the stair; said she’d been here before, and was too feart tae go in. So I went up and sorted her oot something, then got her uncle’s number and phoned him. I took her hame wi me — I was shitein it that she’d rob us in the night when I left her on that couch — and the next day we went up tae St Andrew’s Square bus station. I bought her a Nottingham ticket and stuck her on that National Express coach n didnae leave until it pulled away. I called her Uncle Murray the next day, tae make sure she got there, and he telt me he was looking tae line up treatment for her. Murray was really tearing intae Simon, blaming him for Maria being on junk, but I didnae want tae get intae that with him. Sometimes families jist project their shit onto other people. Fair play tae her Uncle Murray but, he sent me up a cheque for the ticket.

The last thing I wanted was tae go oot the night after work. Alexander wis aw funny the day, probably because I’ve no been seeing him, outside the office, as much as he wants. Sometime I catch him watchin me, lookin out from his wee room aw sad-eyed and hopeful, like a dug wi a leash in its mooth. Ah like him but it’s too much right now, and that’s pittin it mildly. Toon’s cauld and mingin: thaire’s been a thaw, n the melting snow and ice has left the city like a giant ashtray ay fag ends, grit and dug shit. I even thought I’d gie it a miss going up tae see Mum the night, but Dad’s left a message on the answerphone, telling me to come up tae the hospital right away, saying he’d telt Mhairi and Calum tae get there n aw. I didnae like his tone. I get changed quick, all jumpy with nerves and head oot.

When I get tae the ward my mum looks like she’s sinking intae her bed. Wi her bandages she’s like her ain mummified remains, like she should be in an Egyptian tomb. I’m about tae speak when it hits me in stark horror: this isnae my ma. I realise I’m in the wrong room, and I numbly trot one down, where my mother looks almost exactly the same as the poor cow next door. It’s as if she’s leaking intae the mattress, like a deflating balloon. My dad’s by her side, his thin shoulders shaking, like he’s fighting tae control his breathing. He’s pale and his pencil moustache has been almost shaved off on one side, like he’s made a real mess of trimming it. I nod to him, and bend over Mum. Her eyes, dead and glassy, like my old teddy bear’s, stare vacantly up the ceiling. What’s left of her is pumped so full of morphine I doubt she even registers me as I bend tae kiss her papery cheek, smelling her fetid breath. She’s rotting away from the inside.

The ward sister comes in and puts her hand on Dad’s shoulder. — She’s going now, Derrick, she says softly.

He locks his hands roond my mother’s scraggy claw, and he’s pleading, — No … no … Susan … no … no little Susie … no ma little Susie … it wisnae supposed tae be like this …

I’m minding how he used tae sometimes sing that song, ‘Wake Up Little Susie, tae her, usually when he brought her breakfast in bed oan a Sunday. I’m doon beside her, saying tae her, — I love you, Mum, over and over again, tae this sack ay skin, bone and tumour, wrapped in bandages across the chest the surgeon’s made flat; hoping and praying for a God I’ve never really thought much about tae suddenly enter those wounds.

My dad rests his heid on her stomach, and I run my fingers through his still thick, spiky black hair, but wi some silver strands in it that look like ghosts, walking among the living. — It’s okay, Daddy, I say stupidly, — it’s okay. I realise I huvnae called him that since I was about ten.

Somewhere in all this, Mum convulses mildly, then stops breathing. I didn’t see her last breath, and I’m glad. We wait there in silence for a bit, my dad making groaning noises, like a small, wounded animal, me feeling guilt at the awful swathes of relief that cascade over me. It wasn’t Mum any more, she could barely recognise us on the drugs they were giving her. Now she’s gone and nothing can hurt her. But no tae see her again, ever, that’s just way too much tae get ma heid roond.

I’m twenty-one years old and I’ve just watched my mother die .

My wee brother, Calum, and wee sister, Mhairi, come in, both of them destroyed. They’ve got that condemning stare, like they think I’ve stolen something, as Dad rises, himself looking like a man pulling his body oot ay a grave, and hugs both me and Mhairi. After he goes over to Calum and tries tae dae the same to him, but Cal pushes him away and looks tae the bed. — Is that it then, he asks, — is that Ma away?

— She’s at peace now, she didnae suffer … she didnae suffer … my dad keeps repeating.

My brother is shaking his heid, as if to say, ‘She had cancer for four years, a double mastectomy and loads of chemotherapy, of course she fuckin well suffered.’

I’m gripping the cold metal bars at the foot ay the bed. Looking at the oxygen outlet in the wall. The plastic jug on the locker. The two stupid Christmas cards on the shelf by the windae. Focusing on anything but that corpse. I’m thinking about my mum’s morphine stash that I took fae the hoose and is in the bedside table back at mine. For a rainy day. Fucked if they’re getting that back, the hospitals; they owe us that, at least.

I take Mhairi ootside for a fag. — We shouldnae be daein this, I tell her, — no after Ma.

— It’ll happen tae us anyway, Mhairi says, silent tears ruining her eye make-up, faced scrunched in misery. — Tits cut oaf n dyin like that, like a freak! What’s the point?

— You dunno that’ll happen tae you!

— It gits handed doon!

— Ye dinnae ken that! C’mere you, ya dough heid, n ah wrap my arms aroond her. — We’ve got tae look eftir these boys in thaire, you n me, right? That’s what Mum would want. Ye ken how fuckin useless they are. Seen Dad’s tache? Christ almighty! She laughs in a painful explosion, then screws her face up n greets again. Ah kin smell the Coco Chanel on her, that stuff that went missin before ah moved oot, the fuckin wee thief, but it’s no exactly the time tae say anything.

Cal and Dad come oot, but I want tae leave them now, tae go n see Alexander or mibbe go tae Johnny’s and get sorted oot. Some hash or even a wee bit ay skag; anything tae take the edge off aw this crap. We stand ootside for ages, chattin aboot Ma, then I flag doon a cab and get them intae it, but I’m no getting in masel. Dad winds doon the windae. — Ye no comin back wi us the night? he plaintively asks.