Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

A fuckin lose — lose situ.

Somethin seems tae tipple wi auld Dickie, cause he goes, — Power’s thugs huv been oan aboot us takin thair fuckin fruit machines. He puffs hissel up. What the auld cunt disnae ken is that he’s no seen thugs yit. — But ah telt them tae git fucked. What’re they gaunny dae tae me? Batter us? Big deal. Ah’m no feart ay Power, ah kent the cunt whin he hud nae erse in his troosers, he goes wi a big smile.

Power’s no the only cunt he kent back in the day. — You kent ma Uncle Gus well, eh, Dickie?

The auld boy’s eyes go aw moist. — Frank, me n Gus, we wir like brothers. Ah kent the whole family on yir mother’s side, the McGilvarys. Good people. The auld cunt grips ma sleeve. — Gus n me, God rest his soul, we wirnae like brothers, we wir brothers. Yir ma, Val; her and ma Maisie wir best friends for years!

Ah’m starin at him, and he lets go the grip n looks worried.

— Look, ah goes, — cause you n me go back, ah’m no gaunny bullshit ye. Ah’m workin fir Power, ah tells um. — He sent us doon here tae pit the bite oan ye.

Ah watch the auld cunt’s face fuckin faw doon like it’s gaunny smack the fuckin lino. — Aw … he says.

— But the wey ah see it, you n Gus wir like brothers. That makes you like ma uncle. Mind ah ey used tae call ye Uncle Dickie?

— Ah mind fine well, Frank.

— Cause ye wir like an uncle tae me. N nowt’s changed. Mind ye used tae take us tae the pictures?

His worn auld face lights up. — Aye. The Seturday-morning matinees. You n Joe. The State, the Salon. How is Joe, by the way?

— Wir no talkin right now, ah tell um.

— Aw … sorry tae hear that.

— Well, it’s doon tae that cunt, ah goes, then ah changes the subject cause ah dinnae want tae talk aboot ma fuckin brar. — Aye, n ye took us tae Easter Road n aw.

— Aye … we were thaire that night when Jimmy O’Rourke scored that second half hat-trick against Sportin Lisbon, mind ay that?

— Aye … ah goes, mindin ay it well, barry fuckin game n aw, — Jimmy O’Rourke … that wis a gadgie that fuckin well played for the jersey, could dae wi some cunts like that nowadays!

Cunt took us tae Hampden n up tae Dens Park n aw. The good thing aboot Gus n Dickie wis that when they took ye tae an away game n went tae the boozer, they lit ye stey in the motor wi crisps n Coke. No like the auld man whae locked up that scabby fuckin van n telt us tae play ootside the pub, usually in some fuckin Weedgie slum. Make a fuckin man ay ye, the cunt goes. A wonder we wirnae kidnapped by fuckin nonces. Nae bairn ay mine’s gaunny be fuckin well treated like that.

But the auld cunt Dickie jist fuckin well smiles aw sad like he’s gaunny burst intae tears n shrugs, — Any blood ay Gussie’s wis eywis gaunny be faimlay tae me, Frank.

— Aye. N as ah say, you wir like ma uncle, n nowt’s fuckin changed, ah goes. Cause ah mind that’s what happened; the auld cunt basically took ower eftir poor Gus fell offay that fuckin bridge. So ah knocks back the nip. — N that’s the story Power’s gittin.

Dickie shakes his heid. — Listen, Frankie, son, ah’ll take the machine. Oot ay respect for your position, that auld white heid nods aw sad. — Ah dinnae want ye fawin oot wi Power if yir workin fir him.

— Nup, ah goes. — Yir no takin any fuckin machine ye dinnae fuckin well want, ah dinnae care what Power or any cunt sais. If the cunt wants tae make a drama oot ay it, ah’ll tell um tae fuckin well git oan the stage.

— Dinnae be daft! I’ll take it, Frank, n the auld cunt’s fuckin beggin us. — Ah’ll take the machine. It isnae really a big deal.

— Nup, ah’ll fuckin well sort it, ah goes, headin oot. — See ye later.

So ah gits ootside intae the car n Nelly goes, — Is that it sorted?

— It will be, ah says. — Take us back up tae Power’s office.

Nelly shrugs n lights a fag, without fuckin crashin thum, which is bad fuckin manners, n drives oaf. We gits back up the toon, n ah bails oot n heads tae the office. That cunt steys in the motor, wi the fuckin mumpy face oan um.

Ah’m back in Power’s office, lookin at the young receptionist bird that wisnae here before, n ah kin feel ma hert gaun boom-boom-boom. But then ah’m thinkin, what’s he gaunny dae? He’ll huv tae fuckin well kill us tae fuckin well stoap us. Ah dinnae fuckin well care if it’s Power or Skuzzy or any cunt; they’ve goat tae fuckin well realise that. But ah’ll stey cool. Eftir aw, the cunt’s been awright tae me.

Whin ah goes through Skuzzy isnae thaire n Power’s leanin back in the big chair. — Frank, take a pew. How did it go?

— Listen, Davie, ah goes, sittin doon in the seat oan the other side ay the desk, — mind whin ah started like, you sais any time ah needed a favour?

— Aye … ah mind, Frank, Power goes, suddenly lookin cagey. Cunts like him dinnae like it whin ye answer a question wi another fuckin question.

— It’s Dickie Ellis; ah never kent it wis him that had the boozer. He’s a sortay relative ay mines. Ma uncle. Ah ken you’ve been good tae us …

— You’ve been good tae me, Frank. Power stubs oot a cigar. — Ah like the wey ye handle things.

— … but ah dinnae want the auld cunt tae git any hassle. So ah’d appreciate it, as a favour tae me, likes, if ye could lit the fruit machine pass here. Any other cunt ah dinnae gie a fuck aboot, but no auld Dickie.

Power sinks even further back in that big fuckin padded chair, then suddenly moves forward, pittin his elbays oan the desk n restin that big shaved heid oan his fists. He looks us right in the eye. — Ah see.

Ah huds the gaze, starin straight back at the cunt. — Ah’m askin ye this as a favour between you n me. Nae fuckin strings. If you say naw, ye cannae dae it, ah’m right back doon thaire n that fruit machine goes in. No matter what it fuckin well takes, ah goes, makin sure the cunt gits what the fuck ah’m oan aboot.

Power picks up a pen and drums it oan the desk. He never breks the stare. — You’re loyal, Frank, n ah like that. Ah can understand that this has put ye in a difficult position. Tell me, though, now the cunt’s tappin his front teeth wi the pen, then pointin at us wi it, — why dae ye think ah sent ye doon thaire?

— Tae git the fuckin machine pit in, ah goes.

Power shakes his heid. — Ah dinnae gie a fuck aboot the machine. Ye dinnae run a business by strong-armin n threatenin every cunt. Maist times they see sense, n if they dinnae, we move on and respect thair decision; if they huv enough fuckin savvy tae stey discreet. He raises his brows tae make sure ah’m gittin his fuckin drift. Then he goes, — But auld Dickie’s got a fuckin mooth oan him, Frank. Ah’m perfectly happy for him no tae have any ay our machines in his pub, but his gob is such that he sees that beneficence as a weakness. In short, the auld cunt thinks that me, he points tae hissel wi the pen, — and, by extension, you, n now the cunt’s pointin the pen at me, — are a pair ay fuckin fannies.

Ah feel masel tense up. Ah’m thinkin aboot that auld cunt doon the boozer. Cunt’s been playin us fir a fuckin mug!

Fat Tyrone Power kin see that ah’m no fuckin happy. — What I suggest, Franco, is that you go back doon there and have a wee conversation wi yir Uncle Dickie. He gets tae keep the machine oot ay the boozer, ma favour tae you, Power smiles like a big fuckin fat cat thit’s jist stuffed a budgie doon its fuckin throat, — but make sure he kens that this is solely down tae his connection wi you, ma respect for you as a colleague, and, the cunt grins even mair, — ma general sunny disposition.

— Right … cheers, ah sais, n ah gits up n turns tae go.