Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

But then the cunt sais, — One good turn deserves another. Ah need a wee favour.

— Nae worries. Ah sink back intae the seat.

— This fuckin smack, it’s aw ower the toon. Every cunt’s intae it.

— Tell us aboot it. Fuckin daft cunts, ah goes.

— Too right, a mug’s game for sure; but thaire’s money in it, big money. The place is flooded wi it, n some cunt that isnae me is laughin aw the wey tae the bank. Ah’d love tae ken whae’s puntin it and whaire thir gittin it fae. If ye could keep yir eyes n ears open, ah’d be obliged.

— Right, ah goes, — ah’ll dae that, n ah’m thinkin ay Rents n Sick Boy n Spud n Matty n aw they daft cunts that’ve goat intae that fuckin shite. Ah kin see what it’s daein tae they fuckers, especially that rid-heided cunt Renton, n if ah find oot whaire it’s comin fae, ah’ll no be pittin it Power’s wey, ah’ll be dumpin it in the fuckin Forth n droonin the cunts fuckin well puntin it!

So ah heads right back doon tae the motor. Nelly’s reading the Record n eatin a bacon roll. Cunt nivir even sais eh wis gittin a fuckin roll. We’d aw like tae fuckin well sit thaire readin the paper n eatin fuckin bacon rolls! Wide cunt. So ah tells um thit wir gaun back tae the boozer. Cunt looks aw snidey n goes, — Power tell ye it’s goat tae go in?

— Power telt us fuckin nowt, ah tells the cunt, n that shuts his fuckin pus.

Nelly does that slow noddin ay the heid he ey does whin the cunt’s impressed but disnae want tae say. He takes a bite ootay his roll. The cunt kens thit that means thit it’s me thit’s Power’s main fuckin man in Leith, no him, even though that means fuckin nowt tae me. Whin wi gits back doon tae the pub, ah tell um tae keep the fuckin motor runnin.

Ah goes inside n takes Dickie through the back tae the office. — It’s aw sorted, nae fruit machine’s gaun in here.

— Thanks, son, but ye shouldnae huv went tae any trouble, he whines, n he’s gaun oan aboot muh uncle n muh ma n grandma, right until ma heid stoatin intae his fuckin coupon shuts the auld cunt right up. The specs fly offay his face n hit the flair, n ah’ve goat ma hands roond that scrawny auld throat n ah’m throttlin him ower the desk. — Ahh … ah … Frank … ah’ll take it … ah’ll take the fruit mach—

— AH DINNAE WANT YE TAE TAKE THE FUCKIN MACHINE! Then ah lits ma voice go doon tae a whisper: — Ah telt ye: that’s aw fuckin well sorted oot!

— Heeeuughhh … Francis … heeeuughh … it’s … dinnae …

— But if you fuckin well mooth oaf aboot Power again, ah haul the auld cunt doon oantae the deck n boot um in the ribs, — that fuckin fruit machine is the least ay yir fuckin worries! Right?!

— Ri-right … the auld cunt gasps.

Ah boots the fucker again, n he lits oot this big groan n starts pukin up. Thaire’s nae real buzz fae daein an auld cunt, but ah hate the bastard fir pittin us in this fuckin position, so he takes a fair auld leatherin.

Eftir a bit, ah realises it’s jist ma auld Uncle Dickie, the gadge that took us up tae the Salon fir the pictures and Easter Road fir the fitba, when ma auld man never gied a fuck n couldnae be ersed leavin the fuckin boozer. So ah helps um up n finds the specs, pits thum oan um, gits him oot intae the bar. — Ah’m sorry, Frank … sorry tae pit ye in this position … he wheezes.

Ah kin smell the fuckin whiff n realise thit the auld cunt’s pissed hissel. Like a fuckin jakey! Mingin auld bastard! A big dark wet stain, right acroas the auld cunt’s baws n thighs. The lassie oan the bar looks like she’s gaunny fuckin well shite hersel. — Ye awright, Mr Ellis?

— Aye … it’s okay, Sonia … take charge the now …

— Does he fuckin look awright? ah snaps at the dozy fuckin hoor. — He’s hud a bad faw. Ah’m takin him up tae the hoaspital.

So ah gits the moanin auld cunt intae the bogs, n tells um tae clean up best he fuckin well kin before gittin um oot the side door n intae the back ay the motor. Nelly looks at him. — Auld Dickie goat a fright n pished hissel, ah goes. Nelly says nowt, but ye kin tell wi the look he gies Dickie he’s no that fuckin well impressed wi him either. Too right. Fuckin disappointment tae me, that auld cunt.

AT THE KITCHEN table, Cathy Renton silently gaped into space, smoking her cigarette, occasionally pretending to read the Radio Times . Her husband Davie could hear his own breath, heavy with fatigue and stress, over the bubbling pot of stovies on the hob. Time seemed to hesitate, as frail and weary as either of them; Davie found the burden of his wife’s silence even more heartbreaking in its insidious, levelling way than her sobs and tortured soliloquies. Standing in the doorway, letting his fingers pick at the paint on the frame, he considered just how much they had all interacted through Wee Davie. Now he was gone, and Billy, idle and unsettled in civilian life since his army discharge, was in bother with the police. As for Mark, well, he didn’t even want to think about what he was up to down in London.

His middle son had become a stranger to him. As a kid it had seemed that Mark, studious, obliging and with a cogent serenity, was the one who embodied the pre-eminent qualities of both he and Cathy. But a contrary, wilful streak was always apparent. While lacking Billy’s upfront aggression, a colder aspect was often visible in Mark. He was odd with Wee Davie, seeming repelled and fascinated by him in equal measures. With adolescence’s onslaught his secretive nature had acquired an underhanded, calculating feel. Davie Renton optimistically believed that we all hit a point in life where we strived to become the best possible versions of ourselves. Neither of his remaining sons had gotten to that junction yet. He hoped that by the time they did, they hadn’t ventured too far down the wrong track to get back. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand the respective angers of Billy and Mark. The problem was he understood them only too well. It was Cathy’s love, he thought, watching the blue smoke rising from the tip of her cigarette, that had been his own get-out-of-jail-free card.

Dismayed to see a pile of filthy dishes soaking in the sink’s cold, stagnant water, Davie moved over, busying himself on them, his Brillo pad rasping against the stubborn waste encrusted onto china and aluminium. Then he felt something he hadn’t for a long time: his wife’s arms as they wrapped themselves around his expanding waist. — Sorry, she breathed softly into his shoulder. — Ah’ll sort maself oot.

— It takes time, Cathy. I know that, he said, his finger tracing a vein on the back of her hand, which he pressed as if to urge her to continue talking.

— It’s just … she hesitated, — wi Billy getting intae bother n Mark bein away in London …

Davie turned round, breaking her grip, but only to take Cathy in his own arms. He stared into her big, haunted eyes. The light from the window revealed some new lines in her face, and some of the older ones cutting a little deeper. He pulled her head into his chest, not just to comfort her, but because this sudden confrontation with her mortality was too much for him to endure. — What’s wrong, love?

— When ah wis doon at the church, the other day, lighting a candle for Wee Davie …

David Renton senior forced himself not to roll his eyes or unleash an exasperated breath, his habitual responses when he learned that his wife had been at St Mary’s.

Cathy raised her head, digging her sharp chin into his collarbone. Her body felt so slight against him. — Ah saw the laddie Murphy thaire, she coughed, wriggling free from his embrace, moving over to the ashtray on the table and crushing out the last of her cigarette. She briefly hesitated, and then promptly lit another, with a semi-apologetic shrug. — Ye should’ve seen the mess ay um, Davie, he looked terrible; skin and bone. He’s been taking that heroin — Colleen telt me when ah saw her in the Canasta. She flung him oot, Davie, he wis stealin fae her. Her rent money, her club money wi the Provi …