Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

— You’re Calum’s big sister, eh?

— Aye. Ye ken ma brar, like?

— Aye. Really sorry tae hear aboot yir ma, likes.

— Thanks.

— It’s shite, eh? My ma died two years ago. Ah stey at ma auntie’s now.

— Sorry … she said, then acknowledged, — Yir right. It is shite. She was going to add that was putting it mildly, but Kelly had half jokingly pulled her up for saying that a lot. She realised he was chewing, and he noticed her noticing, and offered her some gum, which she accepted. Moved to reciprocate in some way, she gave him a cigarette.

— Was meant tae be gaun tae Easter Road, but ah couldnae be bothered. Fancied a wee walk instead, he explained, bending in to accept her light. — What’s your name?

— Alison.

He extended his hand and she felt herself reaching out to take it. — Bobby, he nodded, then rose and awkwardly blew out some smoke. — You’re a barry lassie, Alison, he said quite ruefully. — Wish ah hud a sister like you, and he gave a small wave and went off down the walkway. He held the cigarette strangely, like he wasn’t a smoker. She watched him go, all the time wondering how this daft, sweet wee boy had left her on a riverside bench with her heart in fragments.

It had grown cold down by the water but she sat there for ages, until jakeys and perverts started hassling her for cash and sex. One really old, frail man, going past painstakingly slowly on a Zimmer frame, asked grimly, — Whaes fanny dae ye need tae lick tae git a gam in these parts?

It was time to go.

Crossing from Constitution Street, Alison came round the corner onto the Foot of the Walk. She saw him straight away, sat down on the bench under Queen Victoria’s statue, still and silent. It’s like he’s waiting till closing time tae smash the first lippy cunt he sets eyes on . — Frank. How’s it goin?

He looked at her as she joined him on the bench, his eyes narrowing into sharp focus. She could smell the drink off him, but his movements and thoughts seemed premeditated, everything deliberately executed; he was holding onto a form of sobriety through the exercise of his will. It took him a couple of seconds to respond. — Awright. Sorry tae hear aboot yir ma n that.

— Ta. Alison stretched her legs out, staring at the fur trim at the top of her boots. She looked up the Walk. The rim of a full moon shimmered over them, opening up the layers in the dense, smoky sky, casting curious shadows. Queen Victoria towered above, partly concealing them from the street lamp. — Where ye been?

— Dockers’ Club. Some ay the boys ur still in thaire. Frank Begbie cast a brief glance towards Constitution Street. — Jist came oot cause a couple ay cunts wir gittin oan ma fuckin nerves. A bunch ay us went doon eftir the fitba n got stuck intae the peeve. Ah wanted tae go up the toon, but they wir jist sittin thaire. Playin at bein two-bob gangsters, acting like an auld-fashioned pagger wi some wide cunts wis fuckin beneath them. Especially Nelly wi his fuckin Davie Power this n Davie Power that bullshit!

Alison could see them all, sitting round a table in the club; the stylised movements and slick gab. No wonder Tommy wasn’t into that any more. No wonder Simon and Mark had left for London. Under the amber glow of the street lamp, she thought of Calum again: saw what her gangly, dopey young brother might become. She wanted to ask Franco about the game, whether there was any trouble.

— Nearly smashed a fuckin tumbler intae that cunt’s face, Francis Begbie snarled — jist went ootside tae git some air n clear ma fuckin heid but, eh. Aye, it’s aw changed now. Nivir fuckin well see Rents or Sick Boy, eh, no. Dinnae ken whaire Spud is. Every cunt’s oan that smack. Tommy never even fuckin showed up fir the fitba.

As Franco spat out his bitter litany of grievances, the air seemed to gather mass, like a barometric dip before the descent of a thunderstorm. Alison felt herself wincing inside.

— It wis London that fuckin ruined the likes ay Rents n Sick Boy; they cunts doon thaire, Begbie declared. — They wir fine till they went doon thaire; nae airs n graces. That wee cunt they broat up, he wis awright, ah’m no sayin nowt against him, but it wis London that fucked wi thair heids.

It was unmitigated nonsense, but Alison didn’t feel like arguing. Nutters. How did they keep it going? Sustain the energy levels required to fuel all that rage and indignation? Didn’t they ever just get tired ?

— Ye git a laugh wi Rents n Sick Boy n that. Nelly n Saybo n they cunts dinnae git ma sense ay humour, Begbie said sadly. Then he looked pointedly at her. — June loast the bairn.

— Aw … I’m really sorry, Franco. Poor June … ah didnae even ken shi wis … how long … is she okay?

— Aye, course she is. Franco looked at Alison as if she was crazy, then explained, — It’s the bairn that’s no okay, she’s fuckin fine. He lit up a cigarette, then as an afterthought, offered her one. She hesitated for a second, then took it and leaned into him to accept a light. Franco took a drag, filled his lungs with smoke and sat back. — Aw she hud tae dae wis keep the fuckin thing up thaire, n she couldnae even dae that! Fuckin useless. Tae me that’s murder, or as fuckin good as; murder by peeve, murder by snout! Ah telt her that, n she sterted fuckin greetin, showin us aw this rid-brown stuff in her fuckin pants. Ah jist took thum n rubbed thum in her fuckin pus. Telt her it was her fault: telt her she wis a fuckin murderer!

Alison stared at him in disbelief.

— Aye, ah caught her puffin oan a fag the other week. Whae’s tae say it wisnae that thit made it fuckin well fire oot before its time?

Alison felt a gasp of incredulity tear from her. — It doesnae work that way, Frank. It’s a terrible thing for a lassie. Naebody kens why it happens.

— Ah ken! Ah ken awright; it happens cause ay snout! It happens cause ay peeve, he moaned, his brown and yellow fingers pointing with the fag in them up the Walk. He suddenly shook his head with implausible vigour, reminding her of a dog emerging from the sea. — Maybe it’s the best fuckin thing thit could’ve happened, cause if she’s that bad now, what kind ay mother would she have fuckin well been whin the bairn wis born? Eh?

— It’s no her fault, Frank. She’ll be in bits. Ye should go hame n comfort her.

— Ah’m nae good at aw that shite, he shook his head.

— Just go tae her, Frank, she’ll appreciate it.

For a second, Alison almost entertained the notion that the blurred reflection of the burning sodium light was a tear in Franco’s eye, but it was probably her own. Then he said in cold certainty, — Nup. It’s doon tae her. She’s goat mates n sisters for aw that shite.

Alison stood up. She’d grown to believe that suffering only led to more suffering. There was just comfort, it was the only thing we could offer each other. Yet her hand, hovering in stasis over Franco’s dense shoulder, couldn’t quite bring itself to land. She saw they were fated to their separate pains, and was relieved by the discernment. — Right, Frank, take care ay yirsel, ah’ll see ye.

— Aye, see ye.

And she marched up the Walk, now too numbed to feel the cold’s burn. She could see the sparkle and hear the occasional crunch of the spring frost under her feet as she looked for the night bus that would take her to Tollcross and Johnny Swan’s place. Closer still was Pilrig, and her dead mother’s morphine. She’d quickly, instinctively, expropriated it, telling her dad it was going back to the hospital, and her friend Rachael, who was a nurse, would know what to do with it. To his befuddled, grateful mind, it had just been another practical task she’d completed, like registering the death, booking the crematorium, the Dockers’ Club for the do, arranging the catering, putting the notice of the death and funeral in the Evening News , taking her mother’s old clothes round to the charity shop.