Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

A metal clang comes fae above, soundin like the crashin ay a giant cymbal. Ah feel the engines below me pumpin up the ship, drivin it on across the North Sea. Ah hit the bottom, tae the rows ay vehicles. Ah’m well blissed out; it’s good gear, this broon. So ah’m sittin doon between some cars. Time passes, or it doesnae. Whae cares? Ah start tae idly key a smart estate motor then ah think, fuck it, the class war can wait, the class As cannae. Eftir a bit ah’m roused by the sound ay footsteps and chatterin as people descend and get intae their motors. Risin, ah haul masel up the metal steps back onto the decks and ah go intae the bar, which is totally trashed. — Have ah missed anything exciting? ah smirk at Sick Boy and Nicksy.

The Cream Shirt gadge is here, giein orders tae the staff whae ur tryin tae clean up. One ay the barrow girls is daein her Mrs Mop routine on a trail ay thick droaps ay spilled Roy Hudd. Cream Shirt’s taken a healthy lick across the snout. He clocks me and goes, — Where have you been? Then he inches closer, showin me his burst neb. — Have you been drinking?

— Ah felt really sick, ah say, aw torpid and heavy-eyed, — ah think it’s the flu. Had tae lie doon for a bit. Drank tons ay that Night Nurse. Tell us that stuff doesnae knock ye oot, ah say, lookin tae Sick Boy for backup.

He steps in wi a reluctant, — If you have a wee lassie’s constitution, then aye.

It just aboot throws Creambo off the scent. — If you were sick you should have come to see me or your supervisor.

— That’s the problem, ah concede, — ah dinnae seem tae be oan anybody’s list but, eh … wisnae sure whaire tae go tae, eh, no … ah tell the cunt, sliding intae the slack-jawed schemie defence ay contrived ignorance, a tried and tested method for exasperating authority figures.

— Julian! Cream Shirt calls over Beige Blouse and as sure as Songs of Praise comin oan the telly when you’re brutally hung-over, the cunts cannae reconcile ma name oan their poxy lists. — Right, well then, we’ll have you in the kitchen, working with Chef, the Cream-Shirt-lifting arse bandito pouts in petty triumph.

Aw-aw … hate comes tae toon …

Not good news. But I’ll sort that later, as now we have time off and ah want tae hit ma scratcher. Sick Boy’s hearin nane ay it but, he’s got his Amsterdam party heid oan. — We’re half an hour away from the most fun place on Planet Earth, and you’re going to lie in a box in the sweaty bowels of a docked ship, feeling sick and indulging in half-hearted, feeble attempts at masturbation? Fine. Be my guest. Lightweight!

Ah feel pit oan the spot, cause there’s a few gazes oan me, and that wee Fawcett-Plant’s one ay them, a twinkle in her eye and a crease on her lips.

— Okay, ah hear myself concede. — Ah need some speed but.

One — nil, Williamson .

Nicksy’s reluctant but Sick Boy’s leadin the charge wi gusto. Ah learn that the Fawcett-Plant lassie’s called Charlene, and she sleekitly says, — I’m up for it.

Ah realise that the spawny bastard’s probably went n pulled her. Ah suppose it wis inevitable.

— C’mon, you party-pooping cunts, Sick Boy says, — we’ll get some speed and suss out the situ.

— I dunno, Nicksy goes, — Marriott might want us to, you know … He looks towards Charlene.

She takes the hint and says, — Right, I’m gonna get changed. See you in fifteen minutes?

— Sound, Sick Boy says to her, then snaps at Nicksy, — Fuck Marriott. I’m no that sure about this deal, Nicksy, ah want tae check it oot first.

— Goat tae agree, ah’m noddin. — This is our first night off. Ah’m no hanging aboot wi that junky fag and listenin tae his gangster bullshit. Cunt’ll jist huv tae cool his fuckin jets fir a bit.

Ah thoat Nicksy might be miffed, cause he set aw this up, but he doesnae seem tae gie a fuck. — Okay, he shrugs. — I gotta say that he’s getting right on my farking tits, he looks around the bar, — in yer farking face all the time.

So we get changed, then we’re off the boat and oantae the choo-choo tae the Dam. It’s me, Sick Boy, Nicksy and the lovely Charlene, who’s all made up, and wearing what looks like really expensive threads. It’s like she’s some yuppie gaun tae a presentation or something, but she’s goat her Sealink holdall wi her. As she goes tae the lavvy, Sick Boy whispers tae us, — What’s gaun on there? She fuckin DS or what?

— Naw … dinnae be daft, ah goes.

He raises his eyes, then a slow look ay concentration creeps ower his coupon. — Anyway, listen, ma thinking is that we’re daein this erse about face. We should be punting Swanney’s white Edinburgh skag tae these trolls doon here.

Nicksy looks witheringly at him.

— Sorry, mate, nae offence, but ye ken what ah mean, Sick Boy smiles.

Charlene returns with some coffees, which is very thoughtful, as it helps get the speed doon. I crash a wrap, and we aw take a big dunt, except her, she’s content wi a wee dab.

We get oaf at Central Station. Like maist ay the tourists offay oor boat, we’re heading left, straight for the red-light district. It’s wild watching the lassies in the windaes and every cunt openly dealing gear in the streets aroond the Newmarket. We go tae a bar and me n Sick Boy order lemonade, Charlene and Nicksy settling for a beer that comes in a wee gless. We’re gabbing away, especially me and Nicksy, who’s recountin loads ay tales aboot us in that auld squat at Shepherd’s Bush wi Matty. Charlene seems tae be distracted eftir a while and she heads off.

— She must be an agency hooker, off tae pit in a shift on her back at some hotel, Sick Boy says, but he’s lost interest and quickly departs on ‘a spying mission’ wi instructions tae meet us at Central Station in a couple ay hours. He’s probably arranged something wi Charlene, the sneaky cunt. They dinnae huv tae be aw cloak-n-dagger aboot it. As if we care.

Nicksy’s drinking heavily, those empty beers lining up like sodjirs, and slavering shite. He seems a bit freaked oot. He talks about that Marsha lassie again, then his ma and dad, and how he’s ey fightin wi them, but how much he really loves them. That boy is one ay the best cunts ye could hope tae meet. It was excellent ay um tae pit baith me and Sick Boy up, when he barely kens Sick Boy n aw. Ah’ll make it up tae him one day.

But ah get restless and decide to pad the hoof fae a bit and leave him with his peeve. So ah’m ootside wanderin aroond the cobbled streets, watchin the drunks watchin the lassies in the windaes, thinkin how mental this place is. Ah’m headin doon this canal and end up in this big square they call the Leidseplein. Then ah check the time and realise ah should be gettin back. This wasted-lookin gadgie, whaes accent ah cannae place, starts gabbin tae us in the street. He sells us some speed. Ah take a dab and it’s surprisingly good. In fact, it’s fuckin rocket fuel and ah feel less slumpy and start tae enjoy the skag mair. Amsterdam fuckin rules! One day ah’m gaunny live here. The boy tells us he’s a Serbian, then says that if ah go up this narrow street ay shops, it’ll be quicker tae get back tae Central Station.

Even though it’s late and dark, aw the shoaps ur still open. Britain is a fuckin graveyard compared tae Europe. Headin up the street, ah run intae Charlene, who’s comin oot a lassies’ boutique. First ah clock the Sealink bag she’s carrying, then that hair. — Hiya, ah goes, and she looks aw wild-eyed and jumpy. — Where’s Sick Boy?

— Fuck knows, I ain’t seen him. He’s your mate, she says, chewing and looking busily aroond. She might have hud mair speed.

— Sorry, eh, ah thought you were … eh …

— With him? Do us a favour! He might really fancy himself, but not everybody does!