Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

He’s in such pain that I nearly change ma mind, but naw, it isnae gaunny happen. — No, I’m gaunny go hame tae bed n come roond early the morn’s mornin, tae try n take care ay aw the paperwork n stuff. Register the death n that.

Alexander or Johnny … cock or skag …

My dad’s arms are stretching oot the cab, his hands are locked on mine. — Yir a good girl, Alison … he says, and starts tae sob. I’ve never seen him greet before. Mhairi comforts him and Calum turns away intae the windae tae be somewhere else.

— Goodnight … I hear masel weakly say as his hand slides, wet n fishlike, oot ay mine, and the cab moves off. I watch it rolling away, n suddenly want it tae stop.

Instead I turn n walk down towards Tollcross.

Cock or skag …

When I get up tae Johnny’s I sees Matty, filthy and feral, lurkin outside the building. I come up behind him. — What’s up?

He vernear sheds a skin, the wee snake that he is. — Eh … Ali … eh … nowt … just gaun up tae see Johnny.

— Moan then, I tell him, pointing tae the wrecked intercom n the open stair door, — nae need tae hing aboot!

— Right, he goes, aw cagey, and we go up the stairs. Then Matty makes us stand in front ay the eye spyhole, as he rings the bell. — Cunt, they’ll no let us in, he says, in a low whisper.

— Well, I’m no your Trojan Hoarse, I tell um, really annoyed, as Raymie opens the door. He’s wearin a T-shirt wi I Was Born Under a Wandering Star oan it, but put on in that crappy home-made lettering, blue rounded plastic script against white.

— Paint your wagon … he says, — come on in, then sees Matty. — Naughty, Matthew, naughty, naughty, naughty, he says in the voice ay that wifie that trains the dugs oan telly.

— Gie a white boy a brek, Raymie.

Raymie shrugs and lets us in. I go tae the front room and Johnny’s sittin wi this guy I’ve seen before. It’s Alexander’s brother’s pal, the guy me n Simon caught arguin wi Johnny in the stair. He’s straight-lookin, dressed in ordinary clathes this time, n wi a shorter haircut. His face contorts when he sees me, as Johnny rises fae his chair. — The lovely Ms Lozinska! Always a pleasure, dar—

He stops deid as Matty shuffles in behind me.

— What the fuck are you daein here? Ye wir fuckin well telt!

Matty just sort ay looks aw sheepish and shrugs, but his presence, or probably mine, has made the guy in the chair jumpy. — What’s gaun oan here, Johnny?

Johnny’s inclined tae reassure him. — They’re sound … he says, turning tae smile at me, — although it would have been nice if Ali had brought some of her female pals along …

— So they can get leered and pawed at by you, I sortay half joke, but I dinnae feel like laughin, I’m mair chokin …

OH MY GOD …

— Hi! The White Swan’s always a gentleman, and he stops, cause he can see the tears that I suddenly feel rolling doon my cheeks. — Hi! Ali! What’s up, darlin?

I tell them everything; where I’ve just been, and Johnny is just really nice .

— Fuckin hell, Alison, ah’m so sorry. He shakes his heid. — It’s a horrible disease. Ma faither hud it. It was heartbreakin: he battled every inch ay the way. Ah was pleading wi him at the end, just let go, but naw. It was terrible. Just the fuckin worst, he says, hugging me, then ruffling ma hair like I was a bairn. He moves intae the kitchen and sticks the kettle oan, wi Matty n me following him.

— Eh, ah wis just wonderin aboot gettin sorted oot, Johnny, Matty says.

— Her ma’s just fuckin died, ya dozy wee cunt, he shouts, pointing at me. — Have a bit ay fuckin respect!

— Right, eh, sorry, Ali, Matty says, and he gies my hand an awkward squeeze. It’s amazing tae think that we actually slept thegither a couple ay years back.

The other guy, Alexander’s brother’s pal, has got up and comes through, whispering something tae Johnny, who nods. Then he sais, — That’s me away then, but soas the rest ay us can hear.

— Righto, my bonnie lad, Johnny responds in forced cheer.

As the guy makes tae leave, Matty takes a step taewards him and says, — Sorry, mate, ah didnae catch yir name.

— N ah didnae gie ye it, the guy curtly responds, then he turns tae me. — Ah’m sorry for your loss, hen, but you can tell yir boyfriend that his brother’s a grassin little cunt and he’s fuckin well gittin it!

— Hi, c’mon, buddy, her ma’s just passed away, Johnny snaps, but he’s lookin at me aw quizzically.

— Ah dinnae like the company yir keeping, Johnny, ah dinnae like it one bit, the guy goes, n he walks oot really pissed off. Johnny is as well, and follows him. I can hear them exchanging urgent whispers oan the landing. I run ootside n shout at the boy: — I dinnae ken anything aboot his brother or your fuckin deals, aw I’m daein is shagging a guy who’s got a degree in botany and a high-up council job! Right?!

The boy looks at me, n goes, — Sorry, hen, mibbe it’s nowt tae dae wi you … sorry.

Johnny nods, n I go, — Well then, n head back inside.

They’ve heard the fuss, n Matty tries tae look nonchalant.

Johnny comes storming back into the kitchen. — Sorry aboot that, doll, he sais, then glares at Matty, totally livid, his hands ballin intae fists. — You are really fuckin pushin it the night!

Matty goes cowed n his eyes water, his voice droppin tae a high-pitched pathetic whisper. It’s that wee-laddie defence he uses, I’ve seen it before, n it gits borin awfay quick. — Cunt, how?

— Aw this ‘ah didnae catch yir name’ shite. Ah ken what you’re aw aboot, Matty; just keep yir fuckin neb oot ay ma business. Right?!

— Right, Matty shrugs, now a surly adolescent like our Calum, makin oot he doesnae ken what Johnny’s talking aboot.

And Johnny’s on aboot the time Simon brought that wee Maria roond here. I really hope he didnae mess that lassie aboot like Johnny’s hintin, n like Murray sais, but no Simon, I ken he’d really be tryin tae help her. I kinday wish he was here. I wonder if he’s thinking aboot me right now?

LUCINDA’S LUSTROUS HAIR lifts in the breeze as we surface from Piccadilly Circus tube station into the chaos of the West End. Yes! This is the real London: Soho, that square mile of fun and debauchery. It’s a parky early evening but they’re all out and about on that grid ay narrow streets; advertising execs, record-company types, shop girls, ponces, hustlers and hoors, chancers and tourists. There’s a cheery Christmas vibe in the air, as drunken office parties lurch along in transit between restaurants and bars. The ride-alert button going off so much it’s practically on constant pulse. I watch in jealous awe as some short-arsed media-type scumbag nonentity struts intae a private club, no doubt tae be indulged and cock-sucked by a fawning hostess.

I want what you have and I will get it .

Aye, this is London proper, no some fucking baboon-stuffed south Leith version full ay scum and lowlife going nowhere but fae their ghetto scheme tae bookie, pub, prison or hozzie ward. And my ticket to this urban paradise island could well be Lucinda. We’re walking arm in arm, sleazed up fae a day’s solid cunt-fucking at her place back in Notting Hill. Spunk and fanny juice everywhere, mind games and physical gymnastics, my cock going off like an AK-47 in the hands ay an epileptic. The carnage started when ah began my routine ay murmuring Italian phrases in her ear. The lassies back up the road love that, but she started begging me tae speak in my Scottish voice. Well, ah’d always suspected posh birds were as dirty as fuck, and that certainly confirmed it tae me.