Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

His words stung Davie Renton at the core of his soul. He felt another version of himself, long discarded fifty miles back on the M8 motorway, rising to the surface of his skin. His features stiffened and grew coarser. He witnessed a hint of trepidation on Dickson’s face, which combusted into anger when Davie coldly mentioned an incident where a policeman had been hacked to death in a London riot. — Heard one ay your boys lost the heid doon south.

Dickson stood hyperventilating on the spot for two seconds. — Ah’ll show ye losin the heid, ya Weedgie bastard, he snapped. — Get the fuck oot ay here!

— Dinnae worry, Davie smiled stiffly, — this place stinks ay scabby bacon, and he stared evenly at Dickson, before slowly finishing his drink, then turning and walking outside, leaving the landlord seething.

As he headed back towards the deserted shipyard, distress gnawed at Davie Renton, now almost in tears when he thought of the decapitated policeman, his family and widow. How, in a moment of rage, he’d shamefully used this man’s horrific death at the hands of a demented, hateful mob as a way of hitting back at that creep in the pub. What had happened to this country? He thought of his father’s generation, where men of all classes had stood together against the greatest tyranny known to the human race. (Though one class, as always, had borne disproportionate casualties.) The esprit de corps engendered by two world wars and an expansive empire now seemed a long way away. We were slowly, but irrevocably, coming apart.

When the boys in the corner had seen Davie come into the pub, Lenny had run a narcissistic hand through his crop of sandy hair. He’d turned a crimson, high-blood-pressure face to Billy. — Yir auld man no comin ower?

— Naw, ah think he’s jist in tae git oot the hoose, Billy had said, a bit miffed, as he loved his dad’s companionship in a pub. The old man was never an imposition; far from it, he was the life and soul, always with a good tale to tell, but never hogging the floor, a great listener and full of banter. It distressed him to think his dad might assume that he bored the younger men. — The auld girl’s been crackin up since Wee Davie died, n oor Mark fuckin oaf tae London husnae helped.

— How’s he gittin oan doon thaire? Peasbo, angular-faced and flinty-eyed, had enquired, casting a shifty glance to the door as a cloth-capped pensioner entered and creaked his way slowly to the bar.

— Fuck knows.

— Saw his mate Begbie in the Tam O’Shanter the other day, gaun oan about some cunts fae Drylaw that did his Uncle Dickie, Lenny smiled slyly, fixing Billy in his gaze, — Jambos seemingly, he half jokingly accused. — Spat on Joe Baker’s picture, so Dickie got stroppy n pilled them up. The boys gied him a real leatherin. Broad daylight n aw.

Though sensing his buttons were being pushed, Billy reacted anyway. — Ah’ll check that oot next week at the Merchy Herts Club before the game. See if ah kin git some names fir Franco. Ah hate youse Hibby bastards, he only partly jested in retort, — but it’s no right daein that tae an auld man, especially faimlay …

Lenny nodded in approval, locking his hands together and cracking his knuckles, displaying sinewy, cord-like muscles in his long arms. — Well, Franco Begbie isnae the kind ay cunt anybody wants tae git oan the wrong side ay.

They’d acknowledged this point and sipped at their drinks. Billy had looked across to his dad again, thought about trying one more time to entice the stubborn auld cunt over for a peeve. He couldn’t get Davie’s eye though, engrossed as he was in the paper. Then the next time Billy Renton saw his father, he was exiting from the bar. Distracted and angry, he hadn’t even acknowledged them as he’d went. There had been some sort of exchange with Dickson, the landlord, which Billy had half witnessed, putting it down to pub banter. Maybe no , he thought, as he watched the still swinging pub doors.

Billy turned his gaze back to the bar. He knew Dickson from the Lodge. He’d always been okay with him, but he was a funny cunt and a known liberty-taker. Springing up from his seat, Billy hastily headed across the floor, towards the counter. Noting his swift movements, his friends looked to each other in confirmation that the weather had gotten stormier.

— What was up wi the boy there, Dicko? Billy asked, nodding back to the door.

— Jist some fuckin mingin jakey. Dirty commie Weegie bastard. Telt him tae fuck off oot ay here.

— Right, Billy nodded thoughtfully, then headed for the toilet. He took a long piss, looking at his face in the mirror above the latrine. He’d had a big row with Sharon over money last night. She didn’t want him back in the army, but there was fuck all for him here. She wanted a hoose. A ring. A bairn. Billy himself was as keen to move on to the next phase of his life as she was. He was tiring of things as they stood; drinking, talking shite, punching radges, watching his jeans size go from a 32 to a 34 and tightening still. A house and a kid would be good. But that took money. She didn’t seem to get that. Unless you wanted to live like a fuckin tramp on the state with no self-respect, it all took money . And when you had no money, everybody, every single cunt , seemed to be takin the fuckin pish. Sharon, Mark, the mouthy twat at the Elm and now this fuckin ex-bizzy prick at the bar.

Billy finished, zipped up, washed his hands and returned to the bar. He flashed an insurance man’s smile at the landlord. — Hi, Dicko, you’ll never guess what, that auld jakey ye flung oot, he’s gone roond the back n he’s sittin on one ay the beer barrels, rat-arsed. Ah think he’s done a pish oot there.

Dickson sprung to alertness. — Is he now? he waxed in anticipation. — Ah’ll show that cunt! Doesnae ken ah’ve got him just where ah fuckin well want him! And he hurried towards the side exit to the yard, followed by Billy.

In the small, paved quadrangle, Dickson glared around in confusion. Looked behind the stacked empty barrels. The place was otherwise deserted. His eyes registered that the back brown door to the side street was bolted from the inside. Where was that auld cunt? He turned round to face Billy Renton. — Where is that mingin bastard?

— He’s away, Billy said quietly, — but his son’s here.

— Aw … Dickson’s mouth fell open. — … Ah didnae ken it wis your dad, Billy, it was a mistake –

— Fuckin right it wis, Billy Renton noted as he booted Dickson full force in the balls, watching the publican turn red and gasp, holding his testicles and collapsing to his knees on the cold stone floor. Billy’s second kick knocked Dickson’s two front teeth clean out, and loosened a few more.

Lenny and Peasbo had followed Billy out and, quickly surveying the situation, weighed in with a couple of hefty boots each on the prone figure, to show solidarity with their friend. Big Chris Moncur came out to investigate and looked on, lips twisting in a grin. Alec Knox, an old drunkard who’d experienced Dickson’s manhandling on several occasions, took cold revenge with two vicious kicks to the head of the insentient landlord’s spreadeagled body.

Peasbo strode back through to the bar, nodded at Granty, and brushing the barely protesting barmaid aside, opened the cash register, snaffling notes and pound coins, while Lenny, following behind, grabbed a bottle of whisky from the gantry and hurled it through a mounted television screen. Three old boys playing dominoes close by shuddered as they looked up briefly to the source of the impact, then went back to their hand, as Granty shot them a fire-starting glare. The group of assailants quickly departed, with instructions to staff and regulars of what to tell the police. The consensus was that three Jambos from Drylaw perpetuated the damage to the landlord and his property.