Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

— Ah like the pipe, Rents says. — Ah’ve goat shite viens. That’s how ah cannae gie blood, it takes them ages tae find it.

— A total waste ay gear, Sick Boy argues. — Maist ay the stuff just burns intae the air. But ah kin take or leave skag. Ah’m jist daein this cause it’s oor first day at work oan Monday.

— Can’t you cunts do farking nuffink? Eh?

— Geez a fuckin brek. Sick Boy points to the kitchen. — They beer bottles that huv been lyin around for months have gone, he points all proud at himself, — cause guess whae’s jist eftir throwin thum away!

— You wot?

The cunt could’ve farking killed me!

I’m standing with me fists balling up in rage but they don’t even notice. I take off me coat. I hit the foil pipe, taking that shit back inta me lungs and me head and suddenly everything’s better. I ain’t even bothered that cunt Sick Boy’s on the blower ta farking Scotland now, running up the bill. — Of course I’m eating enough now, Mama, eating enough for two. No, naebody’s pregnant. No bambinos. He puts his hand over the phone. — Jesus Cunty Baws Christ! Italian mothers!

I go through ta the room, carrying me coat. I’m sitting with me head in me hands trying ta bleedin think. I can’t hear for that racket they got on. It’s the Pogues album. I go through and ask them ta turn it down.

— It’s Red Roses for Me but, Nicksy, ah pit it oan for this track, ‘Sea Shanty’, cause we’re gaunny be seafarin men! Mark says, going through me Northern Soul singles for the upteenth time. — These really do rule, Nicksy.

I have a little smile ta mesel as Mark passes the pipe again; I’m up for a good blast this time. Me lungs and then me head fill up with the shit. I sit back in the chair, enjoying the heavy-limbed, light-headed feeling.

— I couldn’t give a monkey’s. What’s it all about? Music. Waste a time, just lulls ya inta believing that things are less shit than they are. Fucking aspirin against leukaemia, I tell him.

— Barry but, he goes, he ain’t listening. Not that I give a monkey’s now.

Cause no cunt listens ta any cunt else round here. And what’s this farking ‘barry’ all about? How come ya never see Jocks on TV saying that? I’m thinking as the gear flows through me, calming me right down. The puppy’s pissing in the corner and I’m laughing. Mark’s shaking his head and going, — This is the good stuff though, Nicksy.

— You can have them, mate, I tell him. I mean it n all. What good they gonna do me?

— Dinnae say that, or they’ll be in the shops doon Berwick Street before ye can say skag, Mark laughs, then he seems to take fright realising what he’s just said. — I’m no that bad, his voice dips, — keep an eye on Sick Boy but, he whispers, as his mate puts the phone down.

Sick Boy waves away the foil pipe. — I’m off tae make myself look pretty. He does an imitation of this nutty mate of theirs back home, a seriously mad Jock I met at New Year, thrustin out his pelvis. — Fuckin ridin duties the night. Cunt better no be shy!

Poor old Frankie boy’s ears must be burning all the way up in Jockland, cause they don’t half rip the piss outta him. Not the sort of geezer you’d do that ta his face, though.

— That’ll take some time, Rents says, — no the ridin, that’ll be ower in seconds, the makin yersel look pretty bit.

Sick Boy flashes a tired V-sign in response as he heads out.

— Is it awright tae gie a mate back in Edinburgh a wee tinkle? Ah’ll gie ye the money likes, Renton pleads with a dopey smile, holding a clenched fist ta the side of his face.

— Go ahead, you daft cunt, I tell him, cause I ain’t giving a toss now.

— I will then, he smiles with his yellow teeth, — Just as soon as I get another hit ay that pipe … this broon … dead mellow likes, he says, beckoning the dog over to him, — Giro … c’mere the now, pal … barry name for a dug … Fuck sake, said ah’d meet Stevie doon the West End later n ah’m Donald Ducked … cunt’s a straightpeg n aw … bound tae ken … but jist one wee hit tae git us sorted …

And I realise I want another n all, in fact I feel like a starving Russian peasant in a well-stocked French patisserie, cause we got ta start farking work on Monday morning.

THE LIGHT CAME back. It always came back. Lizzie remembered him from school, the football player. He had always seemed like a nice guy, and he was good-looking. But she had been an aspiring artist, continuing her education past the mandatory sixteen, and moving in different circles. From an early age, an invisible membrane of aspiration had been crystallising between them.

Just back at the College of Art, New Year resolutions still intact, Lizzie McIntosh had had been dealt a crippling blow. Taking her portfolio to her tutor’s room, she had heard Cliff Hammond in conversation with another male lecturer. About to knock on the half-open door, she had frozen at the mention of her name and had stood listening to them tearing up her life. — … stunning-looking girl, but with absolutely no talent whatsoever. I’m afraid people have indulged her, by leading her to believe that she has technical skill and something to offer, when, quite frankly, there’s nothing … Hammond had said, in those tones of tired disdain she’d heard him deploy on others, without ever believing she’d hear them used about her.

Suddenly, the glass floor Lizzie had built was cracking under her feet and she had felt herself falling. Blood pounding in her head, but a numbness pervading her limbs and face, she’d yanked her hair back into a ponytail, holding it with her fist. Then she’d turned, wondering if she’d find the strength to get down the corridor. She’d left her portfolio against the wall outside his office and walked back down the stairs and out of the college building. It was cold, but Lizzie had been only vaguely aware of this as she’d sat down on a bench in the Meadows, looking at the mud on the shiny leather of her boots. As she’d lifted her head, Lizzie had regarded the weak glow of the moon, waiting impatiently to displace the fading late-afternoon orange sunlight, which shone in spokes through a darkening sky. Could she consider herself an artist now? All that vanity and fanciful indulgence!

She’d barely taken in the football game finishing a few yards away from her. But he’d noticed her, lost in herself, and prayed her distraction would last till the ref blew his whistle and he could quickly ready himself and emerge from the changing room. Tommy Lawrence had sensed that this was his chance, and the fates had been with him; a perfunctory shower, quickly knocking back drinks invitations, and shooting across the park to her lonely figure. Then he was standing over her, his face earnest and handsome under a wet mop of crayon-brown hair.

Lizzie hadn’t argued when he had said she looked upset. They had gone for a coffee, and he’d listened. He had noted there was no ire in her tone; she had told her story with a detached grace, or perhaps it had been the shock. Tommy had instinctively known he had to enable Lizzie to find her anger and arrogance again. — It’s just his view, one person, he’d told her. — He sounds a right slimy creep. I’ll bet he fancies you.

An understanding had started to dawn. This was Cliff Hammond. On more than one occasion, he’d asked her to come for a drink, or a coffee. He had a reputation. It all made sense. She’d rebuffed this egotistical fop, this wrinkly old predator, and now he was striking back in his pathetic, bitter way.

— Well, he’s no exactly impartial, is he? He’s a sleazebag, Tommy had declared. — You cannae let a wanker like that put ye off!