Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

The rest have stopped tae let us catch up, but there’s nae sign ay Franco, whae’s probably banging June wi extreme prejudice in that scabby stair.

We carry on taewards Easter Road as Sully’s gaff’s at that end ay Iona Street. The derby game’s oan the morn, so we’re well set. — These cunts have no beaten us on New Year’s Day since 1966, Matty, brandishing a bottle ay whisky, declares, lookin challengingly at Keezbo.

— That record’s gaunny go the morn, Keezbo says.

— Beat it, ya mongol, is it fuck, Matty spits, then snipes under his breath, — fuckin fat cunt.

That’s a bit nippy and uncalled for, but Keezbo lets it slide. Shirley pouts n looks at the pavement. Matty’s eywis oan Keezbo’s case. One ay these days the big felly’s gaunny turn roond n lamp that stroppy wee fucker. N ah fir one will shed nae tears when it happens.

We see Begbie and June emergin fae the stair. They head taewards us, Franco wi a dirty smile oan his chops, June lookin awkward n coy as they come up the road. We wait for them in silence. Franco has picked up the vibe. Despite bein willy-nilly aboot causing aggro, he kin git awfay sensitive when some other fucker creates an atmosphere. Maybe Sick Boy’s called it right wi the festive plans eftir aw. — What’s up wi every cunt?

Matty breaks the silence, and points at Keezbo. — Cunt, jist telling this fat Jambo fucker that his team’s pish!

— Ah’m no arguing wi ye aboot fitba before the bells, Matty, Keezbo goes.

— Aye, Franco asks Matty, — what ye oan fuckin Keezbo’s case fir, ya fuckin radge?

— Cause he’s a fat Herts cunt.

Franco’s airm whips oot n smacks Matty roond the heid. It’s quite a sair yin, but also a fuckin humiliation cause ay it bein in front ay Shirley. — Shut yir fuckin mooth! Wir aw fuckin mates the day, fitba or nae fuckin fitba! He looks tae Keezbo wi a predatory grin. — If ah see this fat ginger cunt the morn, ah knock his fuckin teeth doon his throat, He turns to Matty. — But the night wir best fuckin mates, right?

In the absence ay any argument tae the contrary, we swing roond tae Iona Street n climb the stairs in a close jist doon fae the Iona Bar. Ah cannae wait tae get intae the warm. Sully greets us aw; a big, gruff genial host wi craggy features and slick-backed rockabilly haircut that ah ey think belongs oan an aulder dude. Ah hit the kitchen and see Lesley, Anne-Marie Combe, a skinny, short-haired brunette, who inevitably works as a hairdresser n whom ah felt up in the Goods Yard years ago whin wi wir fill ay voddy, and Stu Hogan, a chunky blond gadge wi a penchant for practical jokes, whae pours us a nip ay whisky. Ah much prefer voddy, but somebody says something aboot it bein New Year, n everybody’s gittin yin. Ah’m no touching skag right now, or even speed. Gittin masel thegither a bit. Stu’s askin us aboot London, telling me that Stevie Hutchison’s been doon thaire, n gies me a number fae a tatty auld address book. That’s good news; Stevie’s a sound cunt, decent singer n aw, or at least he wis whin we wir in Shaved Nun thegither. Like anybody wi talent, he outgrew us. — He’s in Forest Hill, Stu tells us, — is that near you?

— Aye, quite near, ah goes. It isnae really but. Well, it is and it isnae, in that London sortay wey. — Is he still seein that dozy fucker?

— Sandra? Stu goes.

— Aye, that’s her, Chip Sandra, they used tae call her. Liked eatin thum n wearin thum oan her shoodir.

— Naw … they split up before he went doon tae London.

— Good, she’s a fuckin sour-faced hoor. Ah fuckin cannae stick her. Did ah tell ye the story ay — ah goes, then ah hesitate as Stu’s face has gone aw serious.

— Actually, ah’m seein Sandra now, he cuts in. — She’s jist oan her wey roond here. In fact, before ye start making any mair snidey comments aboot people, ah’d better lit ye ken that we jist goat engaged the other week.

Fuck …

— Oh … ah mean … ah dinnae really ken Sand—

Stu’s face lights up as laughter erupts fae somewhere deep in the cunt’s chist. — Goat ye, he grins, slappin ma shoodir n headin off.

— Bastard! Ah’ll fuckin remember that yin, Hogan!

Fuckin nailed tae the waw big time thaire, but whae cares, the perty’s in fill swing. Tommy’s toppin up a half-pint gless wi a big dash ay whisky. — Whaire’s Second Prize?

— Fuck knows, no seen him. He’ll be lyin in a gutter somewhaire.

Tommy grins in acknowledgement n tops up ma gless, but ah’m no fuckin well enjoying this drink. It burns ma guts. Lesley notices me wince, n as Tam looks eftir Nicksy, she sidles up tae us. — Any skag?

— Naw.

— Want a hit?

— Aye, ah say. Ah’ve been tryin tae avoid the Scottish skag n the bangin up, cause it’s fuckin lethal shit, n ye kin really feel it gittin a hud ay ye. The broon’s easier: doesnae seem tae cunt ye up sae much. But fuck it, ah’m sortay oan hoaliday … oan hoaliday at hame …

We troop off through tae a bedroom and sit cross-legged oan this big, tartan duvet-covered brass bed, as Lesley starts cookin. It shocks me, as ah thoat she jist chased, but she’s goat a fill set ay works n she’s highly competent. She lights up a candle, stickin it in a baccy tin, and switches off the main light. We fix up wi oor separate equipment, me gaun first. Ma vein sucks the shit in so greedily, it’s like ah barely need tae put any pressure oan the plunger.

Ohhh … YA FUCK –

Ya fucker … aw man … oooh … nice, nice, nice …

Ah forgot the power ay this shite. Lesley never prepped up that much but ah collapse back oantae the Royal Stuart …

— Ah found this the other day in ma jeans poakit, she explains, pushin her blonde hair behind her ears n tappin patiently before fixin, as ah lie back melted. — Forgot aw aboot it fae weeks back. Ah took it up the Bendix, n vernear put it through the wash, jist as well ah didnae, cause thaire’s a drought oan … What ye giggling at?

… aw ya fuckin beauty …

Ah try tae tell her the Bendix joke, but ah kin barely speak, n in any case, she’s banged up hersel and a few seconds later she’s in the same state.

Mother of Bendix, wash house gods, ah give youse thanks for king heroin; thank you for that whiter than white wash …

The candlelight goes oot n we’re baith spangled oan the bed, then hugging each other, wi emotion, but sortay chastely. Lesley’s wearing a blue slidey-material top, which feels like silk but isnae. Then we’re sort ay crashed out, me restin my heid oan her stomach, her top rolled up, listenin tae the sounds her guts make. — Bubbles n sizzles, bubbles n sizzles, ah goes.

— Ah’m wasted …

— Me n aw. It’s cauld … Ah kick oaf ma trainers n pill oaf ma jeans n git under the tartan duvet. She does the same, scrambling alongside me, kissin us coolly on the lips. Then she puts her index finger inside ma jumper n traces it ower ma ribcage. — You’re that thin, Mark.

— Ah’ve kind ay lost a bit ay weight. Fast metabolism, ah suppose, and ah props masel up on ma elbaws tae look at her.

Lesley smiles grimly at me through the semi-dark. There’s light pouring in fae under the door, and through the curtains fae the street lamp ootside. — Skag metabolism, mair like. You’re a pretty weird guy, she goes, still outlining ma ribs.

— How? ah ask, interested tae ken if she means cool weird or geeky, spazzy weird. No that ah’m bothered either wey, cause ah’m feelin fuckin barry.

— Well, maist guys, ye kin tell if they fancy ye. Lesley’s pupils seem slitty n catlike in this meagre light. — But ah dinnae ken wi you …

— Course ah do, ah tell her, — everybody fancies you. You’re a beautiful girl, ah go, pushing her hair behind her ear, the wey she did when she prepared the gear. She is. Kind ay.