Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

I’m sweating like a rapist thinking about that poor little dog and I phone me mate Davo who works for the council; thank fuck he’s on OT today. — Don’t care how ya do it, mate, but I need ya ta get us the key ta the bins room at Beatrice Webb House on my estate at Holy Street. Like yesterday.

Fair play to Davo, he don’t even ask no questions. — I’ll try. Hang fire der and I’ll get back to yer on dat number. Warrisit?

I cough out the number and I’m standing in this old gel’s draughty hallway trying to reason with her, as she wants to throw me out. — I didn’t say ya could give out me number, she moans, — I don’t like givin out me number, not ta strangers.

— It ain’t strangers, it’s the council.

— They’re bloody strangers round ere!

— You ain’t wrong, I tell her, and she starts droning on about how badly she’s been treated by them over the years, which is fair enough, but all I’m thinking about is Marsha and that poor little pooch.

Fifteen minutes later the phone rings and it’s Davo, God bless that nasal Scouse whine, and blow me if he ain’t sorted it all out. — The key’s on its way round to yer in a minicab. You’ll have ta pay the friggin driver, but its only come from the Neighbourhood Housing Office so it’ll just be two quid. I need it back in me hand by five o’ clock today.

— I owe ya big time, mate.

— Too friggin right.

As I put the blower down, I leave the old gel, putting some change by her phone, and I get ta the bottom of the flats. It’s got really bollock cold again, and I button up me overcoat. I ain’t waiting too long before a Turkish geezer pulls up in a cab, flashing the key, a big farking solid thing which I stick in me pocket sharpish and square him up.

I open up the big heavy black wooden door, and holy fucking hell, the place smells. There’s a switch and I click it on and a sick, yellow overhead light floods the room. I look ahead to the big aluminium bucket on wheels. It’s about seven foot high. How the fark am I gonna get up there?

Then I see there’s loads of crap discarded furniture piled up along the walls. I lock the door behind me so I don’t get no herberts snooping round and disturbing me. The farking ming is overpowering and I’m gagging for a bit, before I start ta get used ta it, after a fashion. I pull over an old sideboard, jump on it, and look into the bin. It’s almost full to the top with shit. There’s loads of fucking flies, huge bastards, buzzing around me and battering off me face, like I was one of them kiddies in Africa. But I can’t see no dog. — Here, boy … here, boy.

I can’t hear nuffink. I climb in and my feet sink down into the compressed shit. My guts go into spasm, I’m shaking with nausea; it’s like a farking fever. I put my hand up against the top of the chute’s shaft to steady mesel and it’s covered in some kind of farking putrid excrement. I retch again, then try and wipe off as much as I farking can. This is farking horrible; there’s everything here; nappies, household garbage, jam rags, used condoms, bottles, fag ends and spud peelings everywhere. Everything except the farking puppy.

Suddenly there’s a big smashing sound coming from above and I have to duck back against the side of the bin as a load of bottles come whizzing and crashing down. Cunts could’ve farking killed me! Probably came from the top floors I told them useless farking Scotch cunts to farking well guard! The stench is vile; it burns my nostrils and all this grit’s flying inta me eyes, blinding me.

A farking pit bull in a suit of armour couldn’t have survived this. Poor little fucker’ll be smashed and buried under all this crap. I breathe in and the old dirt and fag ash swirling around in the backdraught from the chute gets in my lungs and I cough and puke up. I can only see out of one watery eye. This is making me farking ill, and I’m about to give up when I suddenly hears this faint whimpering. I dig a bit more, then pull back some wet newspaper and it’s the little dog, lying in crushed eggshells, old tea bags and potato peelings. Its big eyes look up at me. But it’s got something in its mouth.

I feel my stomach contents rising again and I slam the brakes on cause it’s got hold of this farking floppy doll thing. It’s about twelve inches long with a big head and skinny rubbery limbs. It’s like a space alien covered in tomato sauce and dirt and all sorts of gunge. Its leg’s in the dog’s mouth. I don’t like the farking look of this. My blood goes all cold and I can hear it pound it me head. The way this thing’s leg hangs in the pup’s jaws … its eyes are shut, but the blue lids are sorta bulging out. It’s got black, matted hair. There’s a wound on the side of its head, a big hole in the flesh with shit seeping out. This ain’t no farking doll. It looks like –

It’s got me in its mouth –

By the leg –

My little face –

Her little face –

I can’t move. I just sit there in the rubbish, looking at the puppy and this bloody red, coffee-coloured and blue thing it’s chewing on. The dog lets it go and comes to me. I pick him up, tucking him under me chin. He feels warm and makes little soft whines and I can see the hot breath coming out his tiny nostrils in the cold air.

I’m still looking at the thing lying in the rubbish. Its eyes shut, like it’s at peace, sleeping.

I don’t farking well …

It ain’t a baby. I ain’t that fucking daft. You’d have ta be one sick cunt ta call this thing a kid; it’s way, way short of that. But that ain’t ta say that some respect ain’t bleedin well called for. It don’t feel right leaving it here like rubbish, like a dirty farking filthy slag would.

Oh my God, what has she farking well done?

I dunno what to do, but I gotta get out, as another parcel of shit comes crashing down from above and thumps against me back. The puppy’s licking me hand and I tuck it under me arm and climb out. I leave the room, locking the door behind me.

I’m stinking of rubbish as I walk for ages with the dog under me coat. The sun goes down and it’s freezin as I find myself heading up by the canal. The dog’s stopped whining now, it must’ve been cold. It feels like he’s fallen asleep. All I can think about is that thing back in the chute. First why, then how and after that when. Dates. Times. The Neighbourhood Housing Office ain’t far, n I drop the key off at the reception. The girl on the desk stares at me like I’m a cunt, like she’s about ta dig me out, but she don’t. I suppose I ain’t looking too clever; I’m farking stinking, covered in all sortsa shit, wearing this old coat with a puppy peeking out of it. I’m right outta there; I go back ta the canal.

What can I farking do … what was she farking thinking about …? It was too far gone, it’s against the farking law, surely …

I keep walking along the bank, under the bridges, and it’s starting ta get dark. The puppy starts crying, in long pathetic whines that get louder. I leaves the canal, stopping off at a Spar for some dog food. I’ve come the full circle back down ta the flat, and head up in the lift. I get in and put the puppy on the floor and head into the kitchen to spoon out some grub for the little cunt …

— Did your giro no come yet, Nicksy, cause, cairds oan the table time, ah need a sub, mate … Renton goes, then clocks the dog, sniffin around on the floor. — We’ve got a dug! That’s barry, he says, big, dark circles under his eyes, then he tells me, — You are mingin, by the way.

— God, aye, Nicksy, ye really are, Sick Boy agrees.

I can’t farking very well dispute that. The dog’s licking Rents’s hand, and they play with him half-heartedly. — Let’s call him Giro … Renton says. As I put the pup’s food down in a soup bowl, I see that they’re smoking some more gear.