Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

THE BRIGHTER MORNINGS don’t make this place look any better, and it’s whiffy as a wrestler’s jockstrap. Every cunt just throws the rubbish in the corner; there’s a poxy little plastic bucket under that pile of crap somewhere, and it’s been a bleedin war of attrition ta see who’s gonna crack first and tidy up. And all those farking beer bottles.

The phone rings. I pick it up.

— Is Simon there? Another posh bird’s voice.

— Not at the moment. Can I take a message?

— Can you tell him that Emily Johnson from South Ken tube station was trying to get in touch? And she gives me a number, which I scribbles down on the notepad beside the rest.

I goes ta the kitchen and I can’t stand it any longer. I get a couple of bin liners and start filling them up.

— Did you get your Hackney giro, Nicksy? Rents asks, the farking div, wandering around in his underpants and T-shirt with his skinny legs, like a milk-bottle ginger Jock Biafran.

— Nah, it ain’t farking well come yet, I tell him as I’m heading out with the rubbish to the chute, cause those fuckers won’t shift their arses from neither couch nor mattress. All these cunts been doing is farking gear; stupid fuckers seem ta think smoking skag don’t count, and we gotta start work on Monday. I’m putting myself on the farking line here, with that Marriott geezer. If they fack it up …

— Who was oan the blower?

— Some other posh tart for Sick Boy, need ya ask, I tell him, stepping outside. It’s still a bit nippy, but spring’s definitely in the air.

All of a sudden I hears this high-pitched whine, and when I get to the stairwell I see these little herberts have got this puppy, a tiny black thing, and they’re putting it in the farking rubbish chute! A cute little black Lab n all! — Oi! You little fackers!

I run to them but this farking scumbag drops it and it yelps as they shut the door on it and when I yank it open it’s disappeared, like a rabbit in a magician’s hat. You can hear a descending squeal, all the farking way down. — You cunt! I turn on the little bastard, absolutely farking livid.

— My mum says I gotta get rid of it, innit, says this urchin.

— Take it back ta the farking pet shop, you dozy little troll!

— It’s shut, innit. My mum said if I came back with it here she’d kill me!

— Farking wally … I jump in the lift with the bags, and I ain’t gonna put nuffink down there on top of that little puppy. I get down ta the rubbish room. It’s locked and there ain’t no collection till Monday. Could it have survived the fall? But the rubbish would be mostly soft garbage. I gotta check. I drop the bin liners outside the door. It’s cold out here. I can’t think. I go back into the stair. Fack! I see her coming out the lift. Alone. Blue jacket. Fag in hand. Marsha.

She looks like shit. Her eyes are all puffy n swollen. — Marsha, stop. Wait.

— What you want? she says, turning away from me as if I’m farking nuffink.

I stand looking at her. — I wanna talk ta ya. About … the baby. She swivels back round and looks me in the eye. — There ain’t no baby, is there? Not no more, and she pulls her yellow T-shirt tight to her.

— Wot you talking about? Wot happened?

With a big farking sneer, she goes, — Got rid of it, didn’t I?

— You wot?

— Mi mam was sayin dere’s too many babies havin babies roun here.

— A bit farking late, wasn’t it?

— A’ll ya need ta knows is it’s gan.

— How? What d’ya mean?

— I ain’t fucking talking ta you bout nuffink, she suddenly explodes in a loud squeal. — Get the fuck outta my face!

— But we gotta talk abaht this … we was –

— What’s ta farking talk abaht? she says, but in estate London. — I was seein ya, now I ain’t. I was havin a baby, now I farking well ain’t.

— You was put up to this by somebody! That was my farking kid n all, didn’t I have no farking say in the matter?

— Nope, you fucking well didn’t, she shouts, a look of raw fucking hatred on her face.

My farking kid n all …

I feel the pulse racing through me body, as I watch her turnin away and walkin off through the stair door with a strut, her tight little arse moving slowly in those jeans, doing the catwalk model thing, like she’s just taking the farking piss. — Please come back, babe, I hear myself say, following her outside.

I dunno if she can hear me, but she don’t look round and she don’t stop moving off, down the path between Fabian and Ruskin houses.

Then I hears this breathing noise and look down ta find this big Alsatian sniffing around me bollocks. A thickset skinhead looks over at me. — Hatchet! Leave it!

The dog turns away and bounds towards him, and I think again about the little puppy trapped in the rubbish. I hurry back up ta the flat where Mark and Sick Boy are sitting on the couch, smoking gear off the foil. Jesus Christ, at this time of farking day. — Celebrations … working men, Mark says, all farking ripped. — A wee celebration, Nicksy.

I didn’t want no farking kid, she did the right thing. I just wanted to help, that’s all. To be kept in the bleedin picture …

Sick Boy’s talking to himself, in that rambling, junked-up way. — That Lucinda, it’s like the worse ye treat her the mair she wants ye; total daddy complex. Could pimp her oot easy. Like some ay they wee hairies around here, eh, Nicksy … only this yin would be quids in … quids in, ya cunt …

Rents puts the foil pipe down on the coffee table. Then he starts waffling n all. — Ah hud tae gie Begbie career advice oan fuckin criminality at New Year. Me! That’s ma problem; ah’m too fuckin poncy tae be a proper Leith gadgie n too fuckin schemie tae be an arty student type. My whole life is betwixt and between … He slumps back into the couch.

I stand in front of them. — Listen, I cut in, — I need you two ta stand guard on a couple ay floors. Floor fifteen and floor fourteen. Don’t let any cunt put rubbish down the chute.

Of course, Mark starts farking protesting. — But Crown Court’s on in a minute.

— Fark Crown Court ! There’s a puppy trapped in the rubbish downstairs! Fucking useless junky cunts!

As I tear out I can hear Mark saying, — Speed psychosis. Classic symptoms.

Cheeky cunt; it’s these Jock fuckers, doing my farking head in! I get downstairs again, sharpish. The caretakers ain’t been here for a long time cause of council cutbacks, but there’s a big black woman I talk ta on the stairs who tells me that a Mrs Morton on the second floor has got keys for the waste room. — It wan ah dem chunky T-shaped tings.

I gotta hurry or the dog, and this is assuming the poor little cunt has survived the fall, will get buried under more rubbish, or crushed by empty bottles. I get ta the second floor and at Flat 2/1 there’s the name — MORTON — on the door. I gives it a bang and before long a stocky barrel of a old gel comes out.

— Mrs Morton?

— Yeah …

— I need the keys ta the waste room. Some kids’ve only gone and put a puppy down the chute. It’s trapped in there.

— Can’t help ya, Mrs Morton says, — you’ll ave ta see the council.

— But it’s Saturday!

— They work Saturdays. Well, some of em does.

I argue the toss, but the old gel ain’t budging. At least she lets me in ta use the phone. I get through ta the council cunts and my blood’s soon boiling, cause when I’m trying to convey the farking seriousness of the situation, they put me onto the Cleansing Department who put me onta Housing who transfer me onta Environmental Health, who put me in touch with the central office, who tell me to see the local area office, who then say that it really should all go through the farking RSPCA! And all the time this Mrs Morton’s glowering at me, then at the clock on her wall.