Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

Nicksy n me are ignoring each other under the tepid glaze ay our personal overheid lights as the farts, growls, snores n cackles ay the jakeys oan the rancid coach erupt out ay the semi-darkness at us like the noises ay wild animals in a forest. It’s a cool silence between us though; we’ve kent each other long enough no tae fill the void jist fir the sake ay it. We baith like oor ain space, especially whin wir a wee bit fucked.

Sick Boy wis pretty keen for us tae take Nicksy up tae ours, tellin me how he keeps gaun oan aboot seein Matty, arguin it’s the least we kin dae after him puttin us up. He explained that he’d decided tae stey in London for New Year to go tae parties with Andreas and Lucinda as ‘the histrionics’ ay Edinburgh didnae appeal. He tells me he’s still nipped at Begbie’s ‘aspersions’ towards him, and isn’t inclined to hang out wi him till he gets at least some kind ay apology. Ah telt him no tae hud his breath waitin oan that yin. Ah’m happy tae leave him tae it: fuck being in England at Hogmanay.

As soon as the bus rolls intae St Andrew’s Square we head straight doon tae Montgomery Street, pickin up a cairry-oot on the wey. We’re an ooir late wi aw the traffic tryin tae git intae Edinburgh, cunts comin hame for the New Year, n it’s the back ay ten by the time we gits tae the Monty Street pad, which Spud and Keezbo have sort ay inherited. A perty’s in fill swing and we join in wi gusto. It’s a barry atmosphere, except thit Matty’s barely speakin a word tae Nicksy, whae’s aw ower him, but that wee cunt’s actin like he’s some stranger, instead ay the boy who took us under his wing n showed us London during the height ay punk. Ah’m hacked off wi that wanker. At least Franco’s pally. — So you’re fae London, mate? he asks Nicksy, — Ah shagged a bird fae London once, in Benidorm. Mind ay that, Nelly? Benidorm? They two London birds?

Nelly looks a bit scoobied but nods in agreement.

The instruments are oot, n we start fuckin aboot. It develops intae a wee jam, Nicksy strummin Matty’s acoustic guitar wi a competence its owner cannae match, as Franco sings about drinkin wine and feelin pretty damn good about it, in a strong, clear voice, rich in evocation.

Me n Keezbo pluck and pound, tryin tae keep in time wi each other, n gie Franco n Nicksy some backin. Franco’s voice is something tae hear, it’s like wi it bein Hogmanay, he’s absorbed just the right amount ay alcohol n good vibes and they intersect at this wonderous vector as he briefly becomes something else, this force ay grace and soul.

Ah’m looking roond at aw the candlelit faces; Nicksy, Keezbo, Tommy, Spud (wi his sling now off), Alison, Kelly, Franco, June, Matty, Shirley, Nelly, n some frazzled burd wi long, raven hair that Nelly’s wi but husnae bothered tae intro. The social skills ay a stormtrooper, that cunt. We’ve got a big roaring coal fire blazing away; the council can stick their smokeless zone pish up their erses, and everybody is visibly moved by Franco’s singing. We join him in the chorus and we’re aw the gither as one, sharin that broken dream …

Begbie’s that wrapped up wi the performance, he almost whispers, through his half-closed eyes, about the time people go tae thir kip …

Poor auld Spud, the sentimental cunt, he’s tearin up as Franco croons deeply. Matty’s still mumpy, despite Shirley smilin and shakin his shoodir, and ah’m watchin Kelly and Alison lookin at June, whae’s gapin up at Franco like he’s a rock-n-roll star, and the night he sortay is. Aye, Franco has the flair and Nicksy’s strummin wi tight concentration. Keezbo’s keepin a soft beat n ah’m lulled intae a low-key, simple rhythm on the Shergold fretless, wishin ah hud the Fender, cause it’s hard tae see the locatin dots in this meagre candlelight, as Begbie fills his lungs wi air fir the big climax, that final refrain in the song, which really is pure him.

We wind up tae cheers, which Franco just aboot takes. Ah gie him a subtle wink, which ah can tell the cunt loves best for the understated appreciation it conveys. Ma puny pinkie is numb and dead fae tryin tae hud those octaves.

Spud’s eyes are red and wet. — Franco, man … that wis likesay … amazing, he goes, but his comments make everybody look tae the singer.

— Aye, Begbie goes, but ye kin tell Spud’s annoyed him by makin that fuss, — ye cannae beat Rod Stewart at fuckin New Year, and he fills Spud’s glass wi whisky, tae divert everybody’s attention.

Poor Spud’s too pished tae pick up the vibe but, n he’s still gaun on: — Naw bit that wis amazing, see if ah could sing like you, Franco –

— Shut the fuck up, Begbie says wi soft menace. Nicksy looks ower tae me wi a fraught, raised brow.

— But ah’m jist sayin — Spud pleads.

— Ah sais tae fuckin well shut it! Right!

Spud falls silent, as does the rest ay the room. We all instantly understand how Begbie sees that this wee fragment ay beauty in his soul has been exposed, and how even through his ain ego and the flattery received, he looks on it as a potential weakness, something that might one day compromise him.

— It’s jist fuckin singin, right.

Nicksy puts Matty’s acoustic in its zipper bag. Ah makes a show ay lookin at the clock on the mantelpiece and goes, — Right, we’d better git a bend oan if we’re gaunny git tae Sully’s perty for the bells!

We’re aw relieved tae huv a change ay scene. We get oot oantae the street, intae the cauld, still air. The toon is locked in ice; like a paperweight ay trees, waws and snaw. Everybody else is headin up the Walk tae the city and the Tron for the bells. We’re gaun doonhill though, soles slidin n cracklin oan the icy pavement, Leith-bound. Kelly and Alison have locked airms oan either side ay us, jist for safety oan the treacherous path, but it feels good anyway. Kelly’s heid whips roond lemur-like, her gaze taking a quick snapshot ay me before turning tae Ali. Inside me, ah feel the pulse ay the magnesium scar left by her smile. — Ah’m really sorry aboot your ma, ah whisper intae Ali’s ear, — n aboot no bein up for the funeral. Ah didnae hear till it wis aw ower.

— It’s okay. Tae be honest, it’s a relief, cause she wis suffering that much at the end. Ah ken it sounds horrible, but ah wis willing her: just let go.

— Well, ah’m really sorry ye lost her, and that ye had tae go through aw that.

— Isn’t Mark sweet, says Kelly, looking at me, exciting another tweak in the pit of my stomach, before turning tae Ali.

— He has his moments, Ali acerbically concedes, but gies ma airm a tight squeeze. A big smile ignites Kelly’s face n for a second ah think she’s game for some ginger baws, but it’s a ridic notion; she goes oot wi that Des Feeney gadge, this boy who’s some sort ay relative ay Spud’s.

In your rents, Dream Boy .

The girls look ethereally beautiful in half-profile as they talk tae each other across me, the sodium lamps twinkling in Kelly’s mischievious and Ali’s forlorn eyes. Enobled by ma status as consort, a wasted grace settles in my soul through the whisky’s warm glow. It’s a raw night, but wi nae wind, as ah look back tae see that Nicksy’s bonded wi Spud n Tommy in wild-eyed laughter, while Franco, June and Keezbo are up ahead. — He’s fuckin well tapped, n that’s pittin it mildly, Ali whispers, noddin in Begbie’s direction. — Danny wis only tryin tae compliment him!

Ah’m gaunny say something but decide no tae as Begbie suddenly stops dead, violently hauling June intae a doorway. We walk past them, and hear her saying, — Dinnae Frank, in a loud, scared laugh, — no here …

The manky fucker’s gaunny knee-tremble her oan the spot.

— He’s a total starry-eyed moonlight serenader, ah offer, once we’re safely past them. Alison rolls her eyes in disdain and Kelly tilts her head tae the side, smilin in that cute, sexy way ay hers. She’s such a good-looking girl, her face covered in freckles, with short browny-blonde spiky hair, exuding the quirky new confidence ay somebody who’s grown intae her skin nicely. That’s what the auld boy sometimes says, n ah never got it till now. She’s asking us aboot Aberdeen, telling us she’s started daein this access course for Edinburgh University. Ah tell her ah’ve taken a year off n thit ah’m thinking ay gaun tae Glesgey or doon south.