Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

— No way, Lizzie had said, — no fuckin chance, suddenly realising that this boy had reaffirmed and restored her.

— We should go and get your folder.

— Aye, too fucking right. Lizzie had risen. It all seemed important again. Thanks to Tommy Lawrence from Leith.

The folder had been right where she’d left it the corridor. She had picked it up, just as Cliff Hammond had emerged from his office. — Oh … Liz … there you are. Didn’t we have an appointment over an hour ago?

— Yes. I was there. But I heard you talking to Bob Smurfit.

— Oh … Realising Lizzie had an escort, Hammond’s face had taken on a paler hue.

Then Tommy had stepped uncomfortably close to him, and Hammond had tensed up, involuntarily taking a backward step. — Aye, we heard a lot ay stuff fae you, Tommy had accused, eyes narrowing.

— I … I think … there’s been a … mi … Cliff Hammond had stammered, the word ‘misunderstanding’ caught hopelessly in his throat.

— It’s rude tae talk about people behind their back. Especially when it’s shite. Do you want tae repeat what ye were sayin?

For a man who stressed art’s visceral power, who loved the clutch of young painters currently emerging from Glasgow, Cliff Hammond was devastated to be confronted by his own weakness in the face of righteous indignation. Had Lizzie been alone, he’d have tried to explain, to work something out, but now he felt small and puny beside this tall, fit-looking youth, whose bearing and accent suggested harsh places Hammond had previously just seen as peripheral names on the city map, the terminus on the front of the maroon buses, or settings for a seedy newspaper story; places he would never be inclined to go to. One side of his face had broken into a twitching spasm.

It was that uncontrollable reflex that had saved Hammond from physical violence. Tommy’s contempt for Lizzie’s tormentor’s cowardice had quickly turned into self-loathing at his own bullying. Both men had stood paralysed, before Lizzie had said, — Let’s go, Tommy, pulling his sleeve, and they’d left the college for a nearby bar.

So Tommy had come into her life two weeks ago and they’d been inseparable. But any speed Tommy Lawrence had was confined to the football field. So last night, Lizzie had taken matters into her own hands, suggesting they went out drinking, then dragged him to her place and bed. It had been so good to get that out of the way.

Now the late-morning light is shining through the curtains, spreading across them. Lizzie looks at Tommy asleep, his smile a glaze of contentment. Like the books on her shelves and prints on her walls, he promises some sort of paradise. Yet the things she’d heard about him had not been unambiguously good; she knew some of the people he associated with, mainly by reputation. Goodness was not the first quality that came to mind when she thought of them. It might have been the post-coital situation, but could anyone look bad in sleep? Even evil bastards like Frank Begbie probably attained an angelic innocence when they were out for the count. Not that she’d ever want to find that out. It’s hard to imagine that Tommy, being such a nice guy, was friendly with a nutcase like Begbie. Lizzie can’t see why he would associate with people like that.

A pigeon coos noisily from the window ledge and Tommy’s eyes spring open. He gratefully fills them with Lizzie, sitting up next to him reading Slaughterhouse-Five . She wears reading glasses; he’s never seen her in them before. Her curly brunette hair is pinned back. She has a T-shirt on, and he wonders how long she’s been awake and if she’s somehow put her blue knickers back on. — Hiya.

— Hiya. Lizzie looks down at him with a smile.

He pushes himself up on his elbows, to better take in the airy, scented room.

— Ye want some breakfast? Lizzie asks.

— Aye … he hesitates. — Ehm … what d’ye fancy?

— I think I’ve got some eggs in the fridge. Scrambled egg and toast?

— Great.

Then a sudden loud, truculent bang on the door. — Who the fuck can that be? Lizzie angrily wonders aloud, but instantly rises and pulls on a dressing gown. Looks back at Tommy, to catch him looking at her. She is wearing her blue knickers but the sight of her still makes his lips sting.

— Leave it, he pleads.

She considers this. Then that knock again, insistent like a polisman’s. — It sounds important.

Lizzie momentarily wonders if her flatmate Gwen will get it, before recalling that she’s away for the weekend. That’s why she brought Tommy back. She finds her cat-face slippers and goes through to the hallway, as the pounding on the door starts again, matching the rhythm of last night’s red wine in her head. — Alright! Ah’m coming!

She opens the door and is astonished to see Francis Begbie standing before her.

— Tommy here?

Lizzie is briefly rendered speechless. She brought Tommy back and now this nutcase knows where she lives!

— Sorry tae disturb ye. Begbie cracks a facsimile of a smile, evidently not sorry at all.

— Wait here, she says, turning away.

Begbie keeps his foot in the door so it won’t spring shut on him. Lizzie can feel his eyes tracking her as she moves down the hallway. She gets into the bedroom, where Tommy is getting dressed. He thinks he heard Franco’s voice; surely not . But Lizzie’s scowl, it tells him, surely yes . — It’s for you.

As Tommy departs, Lizzie seethes, rethinking everything.

— Fuckin result, Tommy boy! Franco bellows as Tommy moves down the hallway. It totally disarms his anger, and Tommy has to fight back the urge to smile.

— What you daein here?

— Thoat ye’d fuckin well be here, ya cunt! Ma cousin Avril steys in this stair: nowt thit fuckin well goes oan in Leith gits past Franco, mind ay that, ya cunt. Fill hoose fuckin last night then, Tommy, eh? Oafay wee teeny drawers n aw! That’ll seeken Sick Boy’s fuckin pus, ya cunt!

Tommy smiles, glancing back down the hallway. The cold stings his bare arms in his T-shirt. Begbie, though clad in an Adidas tee and thin jacket, doesn’t appear at all uncomfortable. — What d’ye want, Franco?

— What the fuck d’ye think? What wis ah fuckin well sayin aw this week, ya daft cunt? Heid too fill ay aw this fanny nonsense, that’s your fuckin trouble! Ebirdeen! The day. Easter Road. The YLT: show they wee casual cunts how it’s done. You, me, Saybo, Nelly, Dexy, Sully, Lenny, Ricky Monaghan, Dode Sutherland, Jim Sutherland, Chancy McLean n loads ay other cunts. Larry’s oot ay hoaspital! Some fuckin mob! The auld school ur back oan the rampage! Cannae git a fuckin hud ay Spud but he’s jist like Renton n Sick Boy doon in London: nae fuckin loss. Fuckin liabilities whin it comes tae the fuckin swedge, they cunts.

Tommy stands agog, listening in disbelief to Franco’s spiel.

— Aye, wir aw doon the Cenny right now. Even Second Prize! No drinkin n aw. Meant tae be oaf the peeve; like that’s gaunny fuckin last! Hates a bevvy, that cunt. That’ll be a laugh, him n that fuckin Ebirdeen cunt that looks like Bobby Charlton, rollin around in the fuckin gutter thegither! Mind ay him, the cunt thit’s baldy as fuck at twinty-two?

— Scargill, Tommy says, remembering this plump guy with a frizzy comb-over, leading an Aberdeen ambush in King Street from the Pittodrie Bar. — Ah’ll see yis doon thaire later, he says with as much enthusiasm as he can muster.

— Be sure ye fuckin well dae. Franco looks on in accusation. — Thuv brought doon a big fuckin mob, n it’s aw hands oan the fuckin deck. Thir no fuckin swaggerin aroond Leith, fuckin well surein thair no. A bunch ay fuckin sheepshaggers wi thair diddy European Cup Winners’ Cup, comin doon here, drinkin in oor pubs, chattin up oor … Franco hesitates, looks at Tommy.