Skagboys Page 24

  — Did yis git the Agatha Christies, likesay? ah ask Sick Boy n Rents.

  — Eh, right, Sick Boy goes, lookin tae Rents. Then he goes, — Ehm … this boy’s gaunny sort it aw oot fir us. Humane likes. They pit doon they pellets n the moose doesn’t feel a thing.

  — Good man, ah couldnae handle yon springin trap comin doon oan a furry friend, no somethin warm-bloodied, ken?

  — Shut the fuck up aboot fuckin moosetraps! Franco snaps, as he bounds ower wi a boatil ay Beck’s in his hand, then starts tellin them aboot the joab.

  Well, they dinnae take tons ay persuadin. These boys huv a different sortay White Christmas in mind. — Sounds good sport, Rents says. Though ye dinnae ken if he’s genuinely agreein or it’s just stallin tactics tae distract and manoeuvre the Generalissimo intae something else. Rents is one ay the few cats that Franco sometimes listens tae, that kens how tae play um a wee bit.

  Sick Boy raises a single brow, like Connery walkin intae a casino. — This could be interesting. Gaff like that, bound tae be stacked wi valuables.

  — Aye, well, it’s no aw gaun intae your fuckin airms, ya cunt, Begbie says, n this makes Sick Boy pill doon his jersey sleeve ower his track marks, then turn away wi a hurt look, pure upset his cool’s been ruffled.

  Begbie gies him, then me and Rents that frosty ‘aye, ah ken youse cunts’ look. — This is fuckin serious. Nae cunt hud better fuck up. We need a big mob cause we’re gaunny clean the fuckin lot ootay that doss n store it doon the lock-up. It isnae a fuckin junky playgroond, ya cunts. Pittin that fuckin garbage intae yir veins … thank fuck that wee cunt Matty’s away …

  — Ah’m rarin tae go, Rents says. Ah think the Rent Boy really does want tae dae this. Usually it’s Mark that’s screwin the nut, but now he seems the gadge instigatin aw the villainy. Came back wi his holdall stuffed wi books the other day. Fair play tae um, but, he eywis reads thum aw before he flogs thum. Still a studious sort ay gadge, even wi the skag. N ah suppose he’s eywis liked housebrekin.

  — Aye, bit it’s fuckin serious, mind, Franco glares at him. Rents nods back. — Tommy kin drive, Begbie says, — ah kin drive n Sick Boy kin drive. Ah’ve goat a len ay a van fae Denny Ross, a len ay a van fae ma brar Joe, n a len ay a van fae yon smarmy cunt, him fae Madeira Street, what’s it ye call the cunt, him wi the quiff? You n Keezbo wir in that shite band wi the cunt, Rents!

  Keezbo suddenly looks ower fae his shot, a bit put-oot. He seems tae huv the wee lassie boy stitched up like John Croan’s breakfast finest, but.

  — HP, Rents says. — Hamish Proctor: the Heterosexual Poof.

  — That’s the cunt, goes Franco.

  — No fucking way is that cunt heterosexual, Sick Boy sneers as Keezbo sinks a red–black–red–pink. Nice brek by the fat laddie. — It’s the classic cover-up scenario. The birds he hings oot wi are either professional virgins or fuckin fag hags. That pansy’s nae threat tae them. Him n Alison went doon tae Reading thegither, then ower tae France. Away a whole week n he never laid a fuckin finger oan her! She telt us so herself … eftir a gentle interrogation.

  Rents smiles n turns tae Franco. — Did ye tell thum what the vans are fir? HP n Joe n Dennis n that?

  — Did ah fuck. What they dinnae ken nae cunt kin fuckin well beat oot ay thum. N ivray cunt here hud better keep thair fuckin mooths shut, right? He looks at us one by one. That cat’s ridic, cause half the snooker hall can likesay hear the radge, but naebody’s drawin it tae his attention. It’s hard no tae laugh but, man.

  — Goes without sayin, Rents says, poker-faced.

  — Aye, well, ah’m fuckin sayin it anywey, Franco goes, reprimandin Rents, but ye kin tell it’s really aw aboot the skag. Cat jist disnae git it at aw, man. — You clean? he asks.

  — As a fuckin whistle, Rents smiles, but he’s goat that tight jaw, n Sick Boy looks a bit bloated wi water retention, n thir baith blinkin n twitchin a lot. No way, Jose.

  Ah ken the junk gits a bad press, but ah think it’s barry. It’s easy tae criticise something fae the ootside, but yuv goat tae experience everythin in life, ken? Think ay how shitey things would huv been for every cat if Jim Morrison hudnae droaped acid. He widnae huv broken oan through tae the other side n aw they barry tunes wid be shiter as a result. The Salisbury Crag is dangerous but, so ah’m sortay no daein it again. Wee Goagsie wis gaun oan about how it was makin him sick. But it’s good stuff; Begbie’s mentalness, Sick Boy’s scams, Tommy’s moans and Keezbo’s crap jokes, and maist ay aw, the auld girl bein aw grumpy aboot us gittin oot fae under her feet n findin a joab, it aw disnae go away on skag; it just disnae bother ye any mair.

  We’re offski but; ye kin pure tell Tommy isnae too chuffed, but he comes along. Wi pick up the different vans n head doon tae the industrial estate at Newhaven tae rendezvous. Then we drive up tae the posh gaff n park up the vans doon the side lane ay the hoose, n wi climb ower the back waw, which is easy fir every cunt bar Keezbo, whae’s toilin.

  — Hurry up, big yin, Rents goes, blawin intae his hands, even though it’s no that cauld. Wi huv tae push Keezbo up, me n Tam gittin a grip ay that big heavy erse, before he sortay waddles ower n splats oantae the groond oan the other side. It’s too radge how cats kin cairry aw that weight aroond, man. We tiptoe through the gairdin n force the door, which opens wi one ay Begbie’s shoodir charges. Wir ready tae nash wi the alarm, but sure enough, it disnae work! Barry! Wir in!

  We comes intae this huge kitchen wi a stane flair n a big island in the middle like one ay they yins ye see in Beverly Hills; likesay in the films n that, ken? Keezbo turns tae Rents n goes, — This’ll be what we’ll have, Mr Mark, when the band takes oaf, but in LA or Miami n wi a pool at the back.

  — Sure, Rents scorns, — the only thing that’s rock n roll aboot us is aw the gear we’re takin.

  — Disnae affect the rhythm section the same but, Mr Mark, we kin still dae oor joab, Keezbo explains, n he’s gaun through the cupboards, then starts pittin some breid in the toaster. — Look at the jazz men, they jist sit back and groove. Especially oan the skins. Ah mean tae say, take Topper Headon fir example. He pills at his tight Clash City Rockers XXL T-shirt.

  — They threw him oot fir skag, Keith, Rents shakes his heid at the big gadgie. Man, how kin he eat at a time like this?

  — Aye, they didnae like him takin skag, Keezbo says, findin a jar ay Marmite, — but they reinstated him when they realised it didnae affect his performance oan the drums. He wis still a better skins man than Terry Chimes, but.

  These cats will argue anything rock n roll aw day, man. Begbie looks disgusted at Keezbo, but pills oot some cigarettes and the radge is aboot tae light up, so ah goes, — Dinnae, Franco, yi’ll set oaf the smoke alarms!

  — Aye, yi’ll have tae go ootside wi that, Mr Frank, Keezbo says. Begbie isnae chuffed at aw. — It’s fuckin freezin ootside!

  — But, Franco –

  — Ah need fuckin snout, right, and he looks at Keezbo n goes, — Ivray cunt else is daein what they fuckin well want! Some cunt’s gaunny huv tae go up n shut that fuckin alarm oaf!

  We look at each other, then aw the beady eyes settle oan me. That’s ma story, man. Cursed as a tea leaf fae the off by they monkey-boy climbin talents. It started as a sprog, brekin in tae help auld girls that hud forgot thair keys n shut thirsels oot. Then came the time ma auld man telt us his mate wis locked oot the hoose, pointin up tae a tenement flat at the back ay Burlington Street. ‘Climb up thaire, Danny, that windae, perr Freddy here’s loast his keys, eh,’ the auld boy goes, lookin at his mate standin wi a glum pus. So ah shimmies up the pipe n nips in the windae, goes through the hoose n opens the front door tae lit them in, before they’ve even climbed up the stairs. The Freddy boy bungs us a couple ay bob, n the auld man tells us tae git oaf hame. Ah waited oan the snide ootside but, duckin behind a motor; pure sketched thum takin the chorrie fae the hoose intae a van.

  So thaire’s what the sports commentator cats call ‘a certain inevitability’ aboot it aw, likesay. Ah admits defeat n
looks ower tae this utility room, through an alcove. — Thaire’s ledders in here, n ah goes through n brings oot they big aluminium steps, — that should dae it.

  — Hurry up, ya cunt, Franco goes, — fuckin gaspin here!

  So ah climbs up the steps headin for that red light that’s blinkin away oan that white disc. Ah kin hear Keezbo n Rents still gaun at it, but this time thuv switched tae fitba: — Robertson should be a fixture in the Scotland side, Mr Mark, the stats speak fir themselves.

  — But Jukebox is a goalscorer and a goalmaker. A scorer and a creator’s ey gaunny bring mair benefit tae a team than a ten-a-penny penalty-box chunkoid.

  Ah’m thinking that Rents is bein unfair tae Robbo, cause ah like the wee gadge. A Hibby originally, before his corruption by the dark side, n ah’m aboot tae say something but ah’m no that happy cause they ledders are wibbly-wobbly oan that uneven stane flair, but ma eager mitt’s closin in oan the detector n ah’m jist aboot tae unscrew it when ah feel a twist, n the squeak ay ma soles separatin fae the metal n ah’m flyin through the air, n next thing ah ken is thit ah’m lyin oan the stane flair …

  … jist likesay lyin thaire, lookin up at that blinkin rid light …

  — Oh ya fucker, Spud … Ah hear the panic in Tommy’s voice.

  — Fuck sake! Danny! Are ye awright? Sick Boy’s gaun.

  — Dinnae move, Rents goes, — dinnae try n git up. Jist try n move yir taes. Then yir feet.

  Ah do, n it’s awright, so ah try tae sit up but thaire’s a funny sick pain comin fae ma airm, man. — Aw ma airm, ah’m fucked …

  — Useless cunt, Begbie goes, n he’s steppin ootside n lightin up, — fuckin well freezin oot here!

  Ah’m up oan ma feet but ma airm is way, way fucked, man, cannae move it, it jist hings thaire by ma side. Whin ah try liftin it, it’s jist this sick, sick, sick feelin, risin up in ma guts. The boys take us through to the lounge n sit us doon oan the couch. — Stey thaire, Danny, dinnae move, Rents goes, — we’ll get ye tae the hoaspital once wi git loaded up.

  Keezbo’s chompin away oan his toast n Marmite spread, n ma airm’s gaun throb throb throb

  Begbie comes in and sees Rents defacing the waw wi a Magic Marker, pittin up in big, black letters:

  CHA MORRISON IS INNOCENT

  — Donaldson isnae gonnae try that hard tae defend the cunt now, he grins.

  Franco starts laughin his heid oaf, n shouts: — Tam! Keezbo! Look at what Rents’s done! That’ll teach the cunts! He punches Rents oan the airm. — See this rid-heided cunt, then slaps his back, — some fuckin patter!

  Ah feel shite but ah want tae see what sort ay a haul wir due, so ah stick ma wrist inside ma jaykit, buttonin up the boatum tae make a sortay sling, ken, n help the boys case the gaff. We’re intae every nook n cranny, n it looks barry, especially some jewellery in a boax oan the dresser ay the marital boudoir. Ah ken it’s wrong, but wi this airm giein us gyp, it means ah might no have sae much claim oan the big loot, so ah stash a couple ay rings, bracelets, brooches n necklesses intae ma pocket for percy, before ah announce the haul tae the boys.

  Suddenly Tommy comes lurchin oot one ay the bedrooms, n he’s white as a sheet. — Thaire’s a lassie in that bed, he goes in this panicky whisper, — In thaire.

  — What …? Franco’s neck muscles tense up.

  — Fuck sakes, Rents goes.

  — But she’s sortay asleep … ah mean it’s like … it’s like she’s fuckin deid! Tam’s eyes are like elephant pish-holes in the snaw. If elephants kent whit snaw wis, likesay. — Thaire’s pills thaire … n voddy … this bird’s fuckin well topped herself, man!

  Ah’m pure shitein it now n aw. — Whoa man … we’ve goat tae git right oot ay here …

  Sick Boy comes up the stairs, eyes aw bulging oot. — Deid? A lassie? Here?

  Franco shakes his heid. — The wey ah fuckin see it, he goes, — is if the cunt’s deid, then wi keep daein what wir fuckin daein. Obviously nae cunt kens or gies a fuck aboot it.

  — Nae fuckin wey, Tommy says tae Begbie, — ah gie a fuck aboot it, ah’m ootay here!

  — Hud oan, says Rents, and he’s movin quietly intae the bedroom. We follay um. Right enough, thaire’s a burd jist lyin in the bed, looks sortay foreign. Spooky as, man. N ah’m pure gutted, cause it’s bad when a young cat does that, like that Eleanor Simpson woman’s laddie. So sad, man: a posh kid wi loads tae look forward tae n aw. It’s likesay the no-hopers like muggins here whae ye think should jist cash in the chips, ken? Mind you, kenin ma luck, ah’d jist dae it n then some wee sweetheart like Nicky Hanlon would be at the funeral sayin, ‘Funny, ah wis jist aboot tae gie Danny a bell tae see if he wanted tae come ower fir his hole, n aw.’ That wid pure be it, kennin ma luck but, eh?

  Oan the table beside the lassie, thaire’s a load ay tablets n a boatil ay voddy thit’s been practically tanned. Ah grabs a few leftower pills, fir the shoodir pain, n necks thum wi the last shot ay voddy.

  — Fuckin stupid cunt, Franco hisses, — yir saliva’s aw ower the neck ay that boatil!

  — If you’re likesay aw keen oan forsensic science, man, how come ye never sais nowt whin Keezbo wis makin toast? ah asks, pure annoyed.

  — CAUSE AH NIVIR KENT THAIRE WIS A FUCKIN DEID BOADY IN THE BED, YA DAFT CUNT! he shouts in ma face, then quietens tae a low sizzle. — You could be a fuckin accessory if she’s fuckin potted!

  Ah nods, cause thaire’s nowt tae say except, — Right enough … good thinking, Franco.

  — As well some cunt’s fuckin well thinkin!

  Rents bends ower her, shakes her shoodir. — Miss … wake up … you have tae wake up … The lassie’s totally spangled, but. He takes her wrist n feels fir a beat. — She’s goat a faint pulse, he goes, n pure slaps her chops. — YOU HAVE TO WAKE UP! He turns tae Tommy. — Help us git her oan her feet!

  Tommy n Rents start tae pill the burd oot the bed; she’s quite a nice-looking lassie or she wid be if she didnae look shite, but sortay heavy-built, n she’s wearin a long nightdress but ye cannae see nowt through it, likesay. No thit ye wid look that hard in they circumstances, but.

  — What the fuck’s aw this St Andrew’s Ambulance shite aboot? Begbie moans.

  Tommy n Rents urnae hearin um, but; thuv goat the burd whae’s groanin wi snotters comin oot ay her beak, and they’re draggin her intae the toilet. — Keezbo, Rents says, — goan git some hoat water in a teapot, no boilin but, n wi loads ay salt in it. Goan!

  — Right, Mr Mark …

  They’ve goat the lassie sittin balanced oan the edge ay the bath. Rents hus his hand under her chin, liftin her heid up, lookin intae her eyes, but she’s aw ower the place. — How much did ye take?

  Then the burd’s mumblin somethin in a sortay foreign language. — Sounds like Italian, Tommy goes, n turn tae Sick Boy. — What’s she sayin?

  — It isnae Italian.

  — It sounds fuckin Italian!

  Begbie goes tae Tommy, — Dinnae look at that cunt: kens nae fuckin Italian, that cunt!

  — Aye ah do, but this is sortay like Spanish … Sick Boy goes taewards her.

  Begbie stands in front ay him. Blockin his wey. — Keep the fuck away fae her.

  — What? Ah’m just tryin tae help!

  — Rents n Tam huv goat it sorted oot. The lassie disnae need your fuckin help. Ah’ve heard aboot the kind ay fuckin help you’ve been giein burds, he goes and Sick Boy disnae like it but says nowt. — Jist watch what yir fuckin well daein, the Beggar Boy advises. — Yir startin tae git a fuckin name.

  — What dae ye mean? Sick Boy’s chin juts oot.

  — You fuckin ken.

  Sick Boy silently shifts his weight.

  — What’s your name? Rents is shoutin at the lassie. — How many pills did ye take!

  The burd’s heid’s shakin and floppin tae the side. Rents huds it again n looks intae her eyes. — WHAT’S. YOUR. NAME?

  — Carmelita … she manages tae gasp.

  Ma airm’s really nippin, n ah’m distractin masel by read
ing this plaque oan the waw that hus a rhyme in it:

  Please remember, don’t forget,

  Never leave the bathroom wet,

  Nor leave the soap still in the water,

  That’s the thing you never ought’er …

  We should pure huv that in oor hoose cause oors is like a bomb hus hit it eftir ma wee sister Erin’s been in thaire. Cannae tell her nowt, but. The flat wi Rents n Sick Boy, well, that’s pure beyond any principles ay hygiene, man. Thaire’s a barry spider in oor bathroom called Boris. He keeps fawin intae the bath. Ah keep takin him oot n pittin him oan the windae ledge. But whenever ye come back, he’s in the bath again, tryin tae climb oot, up the slope, then slidin back. Ye’d think the gadge might learn, ken?

  Keezbo comes back wi a teapot. — This is fill ay hoat salty water.

  — A fuckin teapot, right enough, Begbie scoffs, headin away.

  — Right, Carmelita, fuck knows what you’ve been takin but it’s comin up. Rents pulls her heid back n pinches her nostrils, while Keezbo puts the spout in her mooth n tips the pot. Tommy’s still goat a grip oan her, balancin her oan the edge ay the bath.

  She swallays a bit, then pure sortay chokes, as the water flies aw ower the place. Then suddenly she snaps forward n starts boakin up intae the bath; man, ye kin pure see aw they chalky, undigested pills in the mix, jist loads n loads ay thum. When she stops, Rents pits the pot tae her mooth again. — No … no … no … She’s pushin it away.

  — She’s mibbe hud enough, Tommy says.

  — We goat tae empty yir stomach ay everything. Rents is insistent, n he forces her tae drink mair. Sure enough, she retches again and it aw comes up, n then once mair, till it’s completely clear. Tommy n Rents keep her thaire till everything’s up n it’s just dry boaks. The way they’re hudin the chick’s hair back, n ah ken it’s totally no a nice thing tae say, but it’s pure like a porno film ah once saw when this lassie wis giein two boys a blow job!