Skagboys Read online

  Ah’m thinking, fuck me, could that wee cunt Davie no have checked oot last year? Ah’m attached now n the fanny are queuing up! — Thanks, Nicky, ah appreciate it.

  Spud’s ower with a pint for me; he’s been following Nicky around like a puppy she’s just reprieved fae the cat and dug hame at Seafield.

  — Cheers, bud.

  — Tough yin, Mark: dig in, catboy.

  Ah wink at him, then feel somebody grab ma erse, n ah’m thinking, how good can this get? But it’s only Sick Boy fuckin aboot. — Wee Nicky’s totally hot for you, he whispers, as ah see Billy and Sharon huv got in between Ma n Dad n the Currans. — Ah’d ride her, if only tae upset Spud, he offers, whae we note is back off in hapless pursuit ay her.

  Ah ignore Sicko, looking across at Fiona’s profile. She’s gorgeous and ah just want tae be alone with her. But the cunt persists, so ah tell him, – Aye, ah think ah’m gettin the sympathy shag vote the day.

  — Sympathy for the deceased handicapped brother only tells part ay the story. The crucial element is that you already have a bird.

  — What dae ye mean?

  — The incumbency factor. Lassies see you wi Fiona, tidy by the way, Rent Boy, punching above your weight a bit, he says, lookin ower at her placatin ma mother n faither as the Currans take their leave, — aye, they witness you being a nice, attentive suitor, and they’re drawn tae ye because they think ay the negligent creep they were last out wi.

  Ah cannae believe this cunt’s actually complimenting me. — So it’s cause they see me as a good boyfriend?

  — Most serpently, but they dinnae realise it’s still the honeymoon period. You’ll become that negligent creep soon enough; we all do. So strike while the iron’s hot; when you get a new bird you’re crazy aboot, that’s exactly the time ye should be riding everything else in sight.

  Something thuds in my chest. Ah hear ma voice gaun thin. — But ah dinnae want tae, ah jist want Fiona.

  — Of course, he says smugly, picking up a mini sausage roll which has been sweating oan his paper plate, before deciding against it and setting it back doon. — It’s a paradox. You can only fight through it using force ay will and trusting in the standing prick, which must be obeyed at all times. Allow it tae override any concerns you have, young Skywalker. Fuck, he says in sudden realisation, — I should be getting peyed fir this advice, I shouldnae be giein it free tae another gadge. Thankfully, you’ll be too pished tae remember aw this in the morning.

  Ah realise that this cunt really is light years ahead ay us aw. We’re just daft wee boys. — How the fuck dae you ken aw this?

  — Just through being a keen student ay the game. Experience and observation. I look and I listen, and ah’m prepared to run the gamut of emotions, he declares, throwing back his drink and swanning off. I’m thinking it must be a ‘G’ day for him, as Norrie Moyes comes up and goes on about the Currans. It seems he hates the cunts as much as me, as they’re apparently constantly up at the Housing Department, hassling him. We hatch a revenge plot and start laughing merrily at the prospect.

  Then ah catch Billy, abhorrent glare in his eye, bounding ower. He’s been talkin tae the Weedgie side n seein off Margaret and Olly Curran. Norrie catches the look and sidles away.

  — How goes it, bro? ah quip.

  Billy’s reeking ay whisky. — You’ll be lookin for a new boyfriend now then, eh?

  A controlled rage combusts inside me. Ah roll ma eyes. — Pittin yerself in frame, likes? Keep it the family!

  We baith notice that Fiona and slimy Geoff fae Bonnyrigg are approaching. If that cunt’s been chattin her up …

  — Ya fuckin pervy wee cunt …

  — You’re fantastic, ah tell him.

  — What are you sayin? Eh! he shouts.

  Everybody’s heard and they gather closer. — Nothing, ah say nonchalantly. — Ah’m just saying that you’re brilliant.

  — Mark … Fiona implores, grabbing my arm.

  Sharon’s asking Billy, — What’s wrong, Billy, why are ye shouting at Mark? It’s Wee Davie’s funeral, Billy!

  — Dunno what he’s gettin so steamed up aboot, ah protest in wide-eyed innocence.

  Begbie approaches; his static magnetically tightens the slack features of drunks into temporary sobriety and reason. A reprimanding scowl silences Billy. Charlie and Dougie usher big bro away, Dougie looking back at me wi that sad, forlorn shake ay the heid. It makes me want tae laugh in his stupid coupon. Instead, winking at a tight-faced Franco (do ah love that gadge? Yes I do!), ah grab a biro fae the bar, jump up on a seat and tap the pen against my gless. — Can I have everybody’s attention, please?!

  Eyes swivel in both directions, checking aggravators are onside, then fall oantae me in silence, and the flair is mine. — Wee Davie and I … ah look tae ma bemused parents and ma seething older brother, — despite his profound handicap, had a special relationship. Ah lit ma smile settle oan an incensed Billy for a couple ay beats. — My mum and dad gave him the best possible life anybody could, and they never, ever stopped loving him, caring for him and, in spite ay everything, hoping for the best for him. And he never ceased tae bring joy and laughter intae aw our lives. He’ll be so badly missed, n ah pause tae watch the sobering faces and see thick traces of shame drip fae Billy’s coupon. And ah suddenly feel dizzy up here. The peeve. So ah draw a deep breath and raise ma gless n declare, — Here’s tae Wee Davie!

  The faces in the house briefly sag with sadness and drink, before galvanising for a chorus ay: — Wee Davie!

  Ah’m happy tae git doon offay the chair intae Fiona’s arms, and fuck me if ah’m no battling back burgeoning tears, as the pride and love radiates through the woebegone eyes ay ma mother and faither.

  Notes on an Epidemic 2

  UNDER THE LABOUR government of James Callaghan (1976–79), inflation and unemployment began to rise to post-war record levels.

  The Conservative Party produced a zeitgeist election poster, featuring semi-dejected people waiting in a dole queue, with the slogan ‘LABOUR ISN’T WORKING.’

  Following the election of Margaret Thatcher, in the spring of 1979, unemployment levels tripled from 1.2 million to 3.6 million in 1982, and would stay over the three million mark till 1986.

  The same period saw an increase in the number of long-term unemployed to over one million.

  It was estimated that thirty-five people were chasing one vacancy.

  This interval also saw a replacement of full-time employment by part-time work and (often part-time) college courses, supposedly for ‘retraining’, to meet the requirements of the new economic order.

  Over this period, government statistics became more politicised than ever before; twenty-nine changes in the way unemployment figures were calculated effectively made the real total impossible to determine. Hundreds of thousands of people were removed from the unemployment register by making it progressively harder for people to obtain benefit, then counting only those who were in receipt of benefits, rather than claimants, as genuinely unemployed.

  Through all the political squabbling during this era, one factor remains incontrovertible: hundreds of thousands of young, working-class people in the UK had a lot less money in their pockets and a lot more time on their hands.

  Love Cats

  BORED OOT AY ma skull, man. Walkin they streets so long, singing the same auld song, ken every dirty crack oan the pavements ay Pilrig … Life’s been shite since gettin peyed off fae the removals, been thaire since ah left the school. Thoat it wid be Lou Macari tae be a free man, but ah miss it; the boys, the travel, gaun intae aw they big hooses wi furniture, seein aw they different lives … Now it’s aw gone.

  N it wisnae fair, it wisnae right. Ah couldnae believe it when Eric Brogan sais tae us, — Sorry, Danny, wir gaunny huv tae lit ye go.

  Aw ah sais wis, — Aw … aye … n ah goat ma stuff.

  Ah should’ve says, how me but? Donny n Curtis huvnae been here as long as me. N ah kent it wis that Eleanor woman; her man that grassed us u
p. Pushed us intae the front ay the queue for the redundancies. N aw ah wanted tae dae wis tae help her n be nice, when ah saw her greetin n that. Cause she wis that sad when she telt us aboot her son. When ah came roond that big hoose in Ravelston wi the invoice fir the flit, ken?

  — Sit down and have a drink with me, Danny, she said, her eyes aw full ay tears.

  — Naw, Mrs Simpson, ah cannae …

  — Please, she actually begged us, but; this smart, tidy, posh woman, really sortay pleaded wi me, ken? What wis ah meant tae dae? — Call me Eleanor, she goes. — Please, Danny, just one drink. I could get you a sandwich?

  What could ah say? Ah’d just kent her tae say hiya tae n ah’d listened for a bit when she talked aboot things. Jist bein polite, likesay. She’d opened a boatil ay wine n thaire wis another yin awready empty, but she didnae seem drunk, jist likesay sad.

  N aw wi did wis talk. Well, she talked n ah jist pure listened again. Aboot her son, takin his ain life, only seventeen, and how naebody saw it comin.

  Then he came in, her man. Started shoutin at her, then at me, n she started greetin. So ah jist sais, — Ah’d better go, likes …

  He looked at us and says, — Yes, I think you better had.

  N ah wis too ashamed tae try n explain tae Eric. But ah pure kent the Simpson boy hud belled um, kent by the wey Eric wis taewards us eftir it. N now ah’m oot. Walkin n wanderin. Up the Walk, doon the Walk. Tae Leith Library, then right up the toon. Miles every day. Gaun intae the jobcentre, but there’s nowt thaire. Still go every day, but. Gav Temperley says he’d keep anything decent back fir us, but aw ah goat wis a computer course.

  Ah sees Sick Boy, standin at the bus stop. There’s a dude whae never does a day’s George Raft but seems tae ey have poakits fill ay pretty green, ken? Bet yir life thit it aw comes ootay some chick’s purse, but. Ah follay his line ay vision ower the road tae this big poster, one ay the yins the government’s pit up tae git people tae grass each other up, like in Nazi Germany, whaire they encouraged the bairns tae gie away thair mas n faithers:

  CALL US UP BECAUSE WE’RE DISCREET …

  AND WE’LL CALL TIME ON THE BENEFIT CHEATS!

  N thaire’s a big hotline number tae phone. Sick Boy’s back leg is gently kickin the grey bus-shelter panel. He sees us comin, n goes, — Spud.

  — Awright, Si, ah goes, cause ye kin call um ‘Sick Boy’ in a crowd, but it feels a bit bad-mannered likesay on yir tod, ken? — How goes it?

  — The usual. Bird worries.

  — Me n aw, man, in so far as thaire’s nane bitin, ken?

  He laughs wi a big, open face. It’s yin ay they smiles that makes ye see how chicks dig the sick cat. When it gits turned oan ye, ye pure feel thit you’re the chosen yin. — Cannae live wi them, cannae live withoot them. I should’ve stuck wi the project when ah wis altar boy at St Mary’s, n joined the priesthood. Would’ve been the Holy Papa’s number two by now. A lifetime ay contemplation n serenity, aw given up for chicks who dinnae appreciate it. So how’s you? Nae work prospects?

  — That’ll be the day, ah goes. — Totally brassic n aw. They sent us tae this computer trainin place likes, but ah wis shitein it that ah’d pure brek the computers, by pressin the wrong buttons n that, ken?

  — No my thing, he shakes his heid.

  — Naw, me neither. It’s a bit ay a fad, man, ah cannae really see that sortay stuff catchin oan … ah mean, cats like the human touch. Ken?

  — Aye, he sais, but ye kin tell he isnae really convinced.

  Ah looks back up tae that poster. It seems tae be sayin: we can make you intae bad people. — Shockin but, eh? Ah points ower the road. — Encouragin people that have goat next tae nowt tae grass each other up. It’s like Nineteen Eighty-Four, ah goes, then realises, — Ah mean, ah ken it sortay is 1984, but ah’m talkin aboot the book likesay, no the year.

  — Ah catch yir drift, he sais, lookin doon the road as the bus lumbers up the Walk. He pills a five spot oot ay his poakit. — Here’s ma bus, see ye, he goes, n tae ma shock, crumples the note intae ma mitt.

  — Ah wisnae tryin tae tap ye up, ah’m pure protestin, cause neither ah wis, but, well, it’s sound ay the boy, likesay.

  — Nae worries, mate, he goes, wi a big wink, climbin oantae the bus.

  — Ah’ll gie ye it back next week, ah shout as he heads inside and the bus pills oaf. Sound gadge, Sick Boy, one ay the best.

  So ah’m back doon the Walk wi a wee bit mair ay a spring in the step, Sick Boy’s gesture reviving the faith in the two-legged species. Ah pill intae the shop tae git ma paper n some fags fae Mrs Rylance, n she looks at us wi a big smile as ah pit ma change intae the yellay plastic CAT PROTECTION LEAGUE boax. — You’re a gentleman, Danny son, she goes, they dirty big dentures hingin oot tae dry.

  — Well, ye goat tae look eftir oor feline pals, Mrs R. Four legs good, but mibbe two legs likesay no sae bad either, but, ken?

  — That’s right, son. Ye see, the thing aboot animals is that they cannae tell ye when something’s wrong. Ah think the aulder ah git, the mair ah prefer animals tae people.

  That is one auld catgirl supreme. — Ah kin sortay see that, Mrs R, cause they dinnae start wars, the likesay that Falklands fiasco, n jist as ah’m aboot tae vacate the premises, hello, hello, another catchick appears, this time it’s LA Woman, Los Angelos, Alison Lozinska, wearin a beret n a white jean jaykit, n lookin like a total sex kitten. — Hi, Ali.

  — Hi, Danny, what ye up tae?

  — Hingin oot oan the mean streets ay Leith, nae changes in this cat’s MO, so tae speak. Yirsel?

  — Meetin Kelly n the rest ay them ower in the Percy, she says, buying some tabs fae auld Mrs R. — Tryin tae pack these in, she goes. — My ma …

  — How is she daein? Ah likesay heard offay Mark n Si.

  — Nowt they kin dae, just a matter ay time, Ali sort ay snuffles. Ma hand kind ay hovers ower her back, n she sees it, smiles, and touches ma wrist. — You’re sweet, she goes, then pills hersel thegither. — Aye, meetin the girls in the pub, then wir hittin the toon. It’s Sally’s birthday. Comin along for one?

  By Sally, she must mean Squiggly. Spells problemos for the boy Murphy. Squiggly n me dinnae exactly see eye-tae-eye, but getting an invitation tae Chick Central does not happen every day, man, so ye dinnae refuse in such a situ, ken? So ah sticks the Evening News in the inside jean jaykit poakit as we heads doon Puke Street n ah’m telling her aboot Mark up at Aberdeen, n she goes, — Never thought he had it in him. Ah ken he fancies himself as an intellectual, but I’m surprised he actually managed to get intae uni. He was eywis crap at school.

  Ah think aboot this. — We aw were.

  — Speak for yersel, ah wisnae.

  — Aye but it’s different for lassies. Ah’m talking aboot the boys, likesay, ah goes. Ah kin mind ay seein Ali in that prefect blazer. Whoa, man, telling ye, they things should be banned. Pure filth.

  Ali laughs and pits her hand tae her mooth. She’s goat those cute lace gloves oan, fir the sake ay fashion rather than function, ken? — Danny, you were never at school long enough tae be good or bad at it. And ye were expelled fae two!

  — Aye, ah agree, n as we pass Leithy, one ay my alma maters along wi Augies n Craigy, — but mibbe school isnae the best environment for some cats tae learn. Ah mean, maist animals learn by play, ah wink, — n we dae plenty ay that oan they dirty wee streets doon this auld port!

  That wis me likesay tryin tae flirt but it bounces oaf the chick like bullets fae Superman’s chist, ken? Suppose, though, that this catgirl’s goat other things oan her mind. Bit mibbe she’s oot tae git away fae aw that. N somebody wis sayin she’s seein a gadge; supposed tae be some lucky aulder dude fae her work. Whae kens?

  We hits the Percy and it’s lassies everywhere; Kelly, Squiggly, Claire McWhirter, Lorraine McAllister, that sexy Lizzie McIntosh supergirl fae the auld school, Esther McLaren, n man, wee Nicola Hanlon (the loveliest sex kitten ay them aw, man, ah amnae kiddin likesay) n many mair besides thit ah dinnae ken, cause
it’s Squiggly n this lassie Anna’s twinty-first, so aw the Leith Lovelies are gaun oot fir a big blow-up in fair Edina.

  Squiggers looks soor-faced at ma arrival, cause ah pure gied her that nickname years ago: Sally Quigly = Squiggly Diggly, eftir yon octopus that used tae be oan the telly when wi wir sprogs. Never kent what happened tae that cat, fae the same Hanna-Barbera stable as Top Cat, Yogi Bear n Huckleberry Hound, but never really stuck in the public’s consciousness in the same wey, ken? Aye, Squiggers didnae like it but, even if it wis only a bit ay retaliation for her daein that ‘Scruffy Murphy’ crap. Ah lashed oot cause ah suppose ah wis a bit ay a scruff at school, money bein too tight tae mention at Chez Murphy back in the day, ken?

  Otherwise, though, the vibes are better than sweet, n ah’m pure thinkin: forget the boys, forget hearin aw that cack aboot fitba n music n whae’s claimed whae n whae’s battered whae, n whae’s been a radgeboy oan the peeve. Aye, ye cannae beat bein collapsed intae a big chair, just likesay sittin here surrounded by beauty n totally engagin the senses, man:

  — … so what dae you think, Danny?

  Ah think you rule, catgirl. — Well, Nicky, ah dinnae think ye kin go wrong wi the Hoochie. Everywhere else in Edinburgh is such a meat market, ken?

  — What if you’re wantin some meat, but? she says, the cheeky wee vixen, and it’s breakin ma hert cause the likes ay Sick Boy, Tommy or even Rents or Begbie would say something like, ‘Well, in that case, jist stick wi me, babe.’ But this isnae the kind ay talk that comes oot ay ma mooth, n ah jist smiles at her, thinkin aboot the cruelty ay the world, wi aw that beauty bein wasted oan someone that disnae care, that sees this lovebird as jist another bedpost notch. Ah pure jist want tae say, ‘Fancy gaun oot for a bite tae eat sometime? There’s a smart new Chinky opened up in Elm Row,’ but ah’m no a man ay commerce n a lassie that works fir the Gas Board wid never consent tae go oot wi a common dole mole. N ah bet this dirty, lucky auld boy thit Ali’s seein fae her work, ah kin sortay hear her mentionin a gadgie’s name tae Squiggers, aw that coy wey, ah bet ye he’s goat tons ay spondoolays. It’s aw unfair, man, aw pure unfair.