Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

Sick Boy shakes his heid slowly. — Mark’s accepted this as the truth, cause he knows me. And he trusts me. He knows that I’d never do anything like that with his girlfriend. He’s my best buddy, right since first year at school, he gasps, tears welling in his eyes. — Mark! Tell her!

Lucinda’s stiff gaze is trained on me. She’s a nice girl. She doesnae deserve one lying Leither in her life, never mind two. Her big orbs are wide and pleading and ah think she really does want tae be convinced. So ah gie them what they baith need. — I was annoyed, Lucinda. In fact I was fucking livid. I mean tae say, you know how it looked. Her face makes the slightest flicker ay acknowledgement, as ah turn tae Sick Boy. — If that cunt had’ve been shagging ma Penny, well, ah’d’ve fuckin well glassed the bastard!

— Fuck off, Mark, hear him! He turns tae Lucinda, then tae me. — It’s like you dinnae believe me either!

— Ah’m no saying that, Simon, ah’m just saying how it looks!

Lucinda nods in affirmation, then turns tae him. — Well, how else would it look, Simon? Try seeing it from other people’s point of view, and she looks again to me, her big eyes hungry for alliance.

— Exactly my fucking point, ah chip in.

Sick Boy lets out some air. In the painful silence that follows ah kin hear, Williamson: one — nil, in my heid. Ah feel that if ah look at him, ah’ll burst oot laughin. But ah do, n somehow keep it together as he nods sadly. — I see how it is, he says accusingly, his face full ay hurt.

Ah had nae option but tae suck it doon n go through wi the spiel. — I’m sorry, mate, I do believe ye. It’s jist that Penny n me, well, we’ve no been gettin on so well lately, and ah suppose ah wis just as para as fuck.

Slapping his heid, Sick Boy briefly turns away in disgust, before facing me again. — Yes, you certainly were, he scolds, face fraught with bitterness. He’s sprinted to the moral high ground and it would take an atrocity for him tae relinquish this position. — A little word of advice, Mark: don’t take amphetamines and stay up all night if you cannae handle the consequences, the cheeky bastard reprimands. Then he looks at a softening Lucinda with a deeply nuanced expression. — And I think I might just be due an apology for those histrionics. He folds his airms and turns away fae her.

— Okay, okay … Simon … I’m … I’m sorry … but surely you can see how it looked … Lucinda tries tae put her airm roond him.

A huffy brush-off, before he regally sits up, as if addressing the pub’s occupants, and some red-faced suits do briefly look round as he sings, — One little word which might not mean anything down here in the metropolis, but still has some currency back up the road: trust. Lucinda goes to speak but he raises his hand tae silence her as he spells it oot: — T-R-U-S-T.

After playing hard tae get for a bit, he allows her to embrace him, and then they’re necking deeply and wetly. Ma cue tae retire tae the bar, wondering what this Penelope was like. Anybody else, ah’d have said she must’ve been a looker tae risk alienating a bird like Lucinda, but this is Sick Boy. He really is a total cunt as far as girls go.

But now it’s time for business. We’re biddin tae enter the dual worlds ay modern employment: a legit job on the ferries and drug scamming through a contact ay Nicksy’s. Ah look at ma watch, signal tae the others, and we drink up and cross the road tae Liverpool Street Station. Sick Boy has one last snog wi Lucinda on the platform, before he follows Nicksy and me oantae the Harwich train.

— Unbelievable, he sais, shaking his heid in a strange mixture ay disgust n sadness as a million possibilities seem tae spin through his brain. — Thirsty work, though. He drums the table. — Is there a buffet car oan this fuckin train? Tell ye what, this cunt had better be oan the level, Nicksy, cause ah kin get hooked up wi Andreas in Finsbury Park any fucking time.

This constant Andreas stuff is really gettin oan my fuckin tits, but if I say anything, he’ll put it down tae jealousy. He really is such a total fuckin prick.

But Nicksy remains silent, sitting crumpled against the windae. — You awright? ah ask the cunt, wondering if he’s sick eftir that wee bit we chased this morning. My throat and lungs still huv that bad taint ay the foil.

— Yeah, he sais, — the thing is, Mark –

— Ship ahoy. The carriage door flew open and a scraggy gadgie wi bad skin stands before us. Must be aroond thirty-plus. Nicksy intros him wearily as Paul Marriott, an auld junky acquaintance ay his and Tony’s, whae’s been a seasonal oan the Sealink boats fir yonks. Marriott has a gammy leg and lurches up tae us, fawin intae the vacant seat beside Sick Boy. — Alroight, chaps? he enquires, in the tones ay that cat cunt, the purple fucker, thit wis Roobarb the green dug’s mate. Nicksy had explained that he wis basically the fall guy for the real gangsters further up the line, the sacrificial lamb that wid dae the serious jail time if it aw went erse ower tit. Tae be fair, he seems under few illusions aboot his status; his heavy habit means that he’s naewhaire near as risk-averse as a man intending tae transport a fair auld amount of class As should be. That said, he doesnae want tae go tae jail if he can help it, and he looks us ower with a keen eye. It’s obvious that need is something he can scent a mile away in others. He frowns at Nicksy’s punk gear. — That quiff’ll need flattened down before we go in to see Benson.

Nicksy says something under his breath aboot it no bein a quiff. Marriott doesnae hear or chooses no tae respond, looking mair approvingly at Sick Boy, who has his hair scraped back and tied in a ponytail. Poor Nicksy looks sweaty and strung-out, displaying aw the composure ay a spider trying tae get oot a bathtub.

— So what’s the story with this Benson character? Sick Boy asks, wi his usual taking-over air ay authority.

Marriott looks warily at the cunt. He seems tae suss right away that Sick Boy will either be an incredible asset tae him or a total cuckoo in the nest: there’ll be nae middle groond. — He’s the man you need to get past at the interview to get a start. Remember, he’s looking for cheap, seasonal labour, Marriott sais in his camp, skaggy whine. — His big catchphrase is ‘willing cooperation’. That’s what he wants in a start.

— Don’t we all, Sick Boy grins.

Ignoring him, Marriott carries on. — The ferries were union shops for years but Maggie’s mob fucked them over with new contracts after this privatisation lark and the split from BR. So no bullshit about industrial militancy, workers’ rights, n all that ‘it ain’t my job’ shit. What Benson wants is flexibility. He wants you to say you’ll work anywhere — kitchens, cabins, car decks — and you’ll do anything — cleaning up the puke, unblocking the shithouses. That you’ll do double shifts if he needs you to, and you’ll do it with a farking big smile on your face.

It suits me fine. Ah kin keep ma tongue in ma cheek n dae three-bags-full, if the rewards wir thaire.

— What aboot the gear? Sick Boy enquires.

— You sort out the employment first, then we worry about that later, he snaps, and looks accusingly round at Nicksy, who turns miserably back intae the windae.

The train snakes right intae the port at Harwich International Station at Parkeston Quay. We disembark and go practically fae the platform intae a warren ay prefabricated office buildings, merging with other anxious bodies, being ushered intae a sterile room. Although ah’m starting tae feel badger’s-erse rough, ah check oot the crowd. There’s about a dozen of us, and we look like the dregs, apart fae this cute lassie with crazy hair. We’ve a form tae fill in, then we get our individual interview wi Benson. He comes ower as hostile, a snowman wi hot coals for haemorrhoids. He’s flanked by a fat, middle-aged, personnel officer wifie.