Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

Franco thinks aboot this for a bit. Looks ower tae Nelly, then back tae me. Seems tae agree. — Aye, mibbe ah’m bein a wee bit hard oan the cunt. Sound cunt Nelly, eywis wis, he says as Nelly looks ower tae us. — Awright, Nelly, ya cunt! Git thum in then! Lager n whisky fir me, lager n voddy for this dirty ginger-heided fucker! N the boys here n the lassies n aw! C’moan, Tam, ya fuckin lightweight, he roars at Tommy, whae returns fae the bog lookin like a ghost. He creases his face up in pain as somebody hands him a drink.

Nelly gies a strangely fetching wee salute and leaves the fruit machine tae shout up a round. We join in a chorus ay ‘We Are Hibernian FC’ which blasts oot fae another table, then doss back the drinks and head off tae the game.

THEY CALLED HIM Andy. Most people said he was American due to his accent, even though he held a British passport. He was a largely circumspect individual, but nobody bothered much about that. Strangers appeared, came and went, were free to be silent or tell tall stories as they saw fit, to try out new identities before vanishing like ghosts. If you had gear or money, few searching questions were asked.

One persistent version of his tale was that Andy’s parents emigrated to Canada from Scotland when he was four years old. As he grew into his youth, he became estranged from his family and drifted over to America, then joined the Marine Corps, in order to obtain US citizenship. Saw active service in Vietnam. Perhaps came back with undiagnosed post-traumatic stress, or maybe just couldn’t settle into life outside the disciplined structures of the military. Drifted through several American towns till he ended up in the Tenderloin District of San Francisco. Became a political activist in the Vietnam Veterans movement. Fell foul of the authorities. They saw his UK passport, and discounting his American service record, sent him back to a home he scarcely remembered.

Whether its genesis was in Vietnam, or the Tenderloin, came through sharing needles, blood transfusions or unprotected sex, a sickness settled on Andy. Back in Edinburgh he fell in with a loosely federated group of desperados who adopted him. They had access to the medicine he needed. There was Swanney from Tollcross, Mikey from Muirhouse, the old hippy Dennis Ross. Shifty Alan Venters from Sighthill, a little thief from Leith called Matty, and a sinister biker named Seeker. They were just some of the prominent members of a diffuse, often fractious community, which grew exponentially with every closing factory, warehouse, office and shop. It was in this scene, where, unknown to himself or anyone else, through sharing those big hospital syringes in Edinburgh’s shooting galleries, Andy became the Johnny Appleseed of Aids.

AH SAIS TAE fuckin June earlier, ah goes: thank fuck that’s January nearly ower. A shite fuckin month. Baw cauld n every cunt steyin in aw the time, Renton sneakin away back doon tae fuckin London wi that wee cunt he hud up here. Wisnae a bad wee fucker, but every cunt should stey whaire they fuckin well come fae, that’s what ah eywis fuckin well say. At least Rents came back; Sick Boy nivir even fuckin showed up at aw.

That Cha Morrison cunt fae Lochend’s inside eftir daein Larry ower. Still runnin oaf at the fuckin mooth, n aw, or so they fuckin well tell us. How come Begbie nivir does time? Makes ye wonder if the cunt’s a fuckin grass . Fuckin innuendo. Ah’ll gie that cunt a fuckin grass awright. That cunt dies: spreadin fuckin innuendo. Cunt’s nipped cause it’s me the likes ay Davie Power wants to git fuckin involved in the world ay business. No a schemie tramp like that fuckin fandan. But that Hong Kong Fuey, the Pilton cunt that goat his jaw tanned when he goat wide eftir ah bairned his slag ay a sister, he’s the cunt ah really feel fuckin lit doon by. No a peep oot ay that cunt, but ah suppose he must’ve goat seek using fuckin straws tae eat his dinner. Still, it’ll be company fir her fuckin bairn whin it comes; that’s what ah fuckin well sais tae fuckin Nelly the other day: her fuckin bairn’ll be oan fuckin solids before that cunt!

Thaire’s nae conversation oot ay fuckin June, good fir pokin jist, yon. Now thit she’s huvin a bairn, she’s chuffed tae jist sit in the hoose watchin the box wi her fags n Babychams. So ah’m gled tae git oot n sign oan the fuckin dole then head up toon n dae some graft. Gav Temperley’s sound, he kens no tae bother us by sendin us tae fuckin interviews, cause ah telt the cunt oan the quiet that ah’ve been daein a bit ay work fir Fat Tyrone Power.

So ah gies them ma autograph, then gits in the motor wi Nelly n shoots up tae George Street, tae the office. Goes up tae see Fat Power n he’s in thaire wi big Skuzzy. Ah’m lookin at this big fuckin map ay Edinburgh oan the waw, n it’s goat aw they coloured plastic tag things pinned intae it, showin whaire Power’s fruit machines are sited. Aw the pins are green, except a couple ay white yins. Power points tae yin wi a chubby finger like a fuckin sausage in a butcher’s windae. — This poxy little boozer. A very lippy auld chap just took it ower. Doesnae want a fruit machine in the shop. Your mission, gentlemen, should you choose tae accept it, the cunt laughs at his ain Mission: Impossible joke, but ah keep ma face straight cause ah’m no here tae laugh at any cunt’s jokes and if that cunt’s goat a fuckin problem wi that, it’s too fuckin bad fir him, — is to convince him of the considerable benefits that would accrue should he choose to reconsider his position.

Nelly’s huvin a wee lassie’s giggle n even Skuzzy’s goat a grin oan his fuckin coupon. Fucked if ah’m playin sidekick tae a two-bob villain but; if the cunt wants his fuckin equity caird he kin git up oanstage at the King’s fir the Christmas fuckin panto. So me n Nelly leave Skuzzy n the fat fucker n head off tae the boozer, tae see this auld cunt.

We’re comin up tae the bar n ah’m realisin that this place is ringin a few fuckin warnin bells. Somethin isnae fuckin right here.

— Lit us handle this, ah tells Nelly, — You stall here.

The cunt looks like he’s aboot tae say something, then shrugs as ah nashes ootay the motor n intae the bar.

Ya cunt, ah’m no wrong aboot this boozer. Sixth fuckin sense. Ah believe thit some cunts’ve goat it; ah’ve fuckin well goat it n it’s stood me in good fuckin stead. Ah ken this shop awright, but ah’m even mair surprised when ah see the auld cunt thit’s workin here. It’s Uncle Dickie, Dickie Ellis, well, he’s really a mate ay ma Uncle Gus, whae wis my ma’s brar, but he wis like an uncle tae me n aw, n the cunt’s delighted tae fuckin well see us. — Frankie boy! Long time no see, son. How goes it? How’s yir mother?

— No bad, Dickie, she’s okay … ah goes. — When did ye take ower this place?

The bar’s a mahogany-panelled shop, stocked wi aw they different whiskies. It’s goat a clean lino flair n it’s smellin ay polish. Auld n tidy, a bit like Dickie, wi the sortay white hair but thin enough tae see the spammy bits oan the scalp, n a neat, trimmed beard n mowser, n they thin, gold-rimmed specs. His coupon fair creases up like an auld accordion. — Goat the licence aboot three months ago.

Ah’m lookin around, casin the doss. — No goat a telly fir the hoarse racin, then?

— Nae telly, nae jukebox n nae fruit machines, he goes, — people come here tae drink n tae talk, Frank. That’s how a pub should be!

— Right, ah goes. Aye, they git aw they commie student cunts in here, and aw the auld fuckers. Aw talkin politics. Like Dickie. Ah’m thinking ah cannae dae nowt tae this auld fucker, but at the same time, ah cannae fuckin disappoint Power. If ah dae that it jist means thit ah git nae fuckin wages n that cunt Nelly or Skuzzy comes in n deals wi auld Dickie. N then Power gits some cunt like Cha Morrison tae dae ma fuckin joab! Ah kin hear that jailbait cunt’s stirrin voice in muh heid right now: Begbie wisnae up tae it, too sentimental …