Skagboys Page 44

  — Nah. It ain’t.

  — Aye, Charlene’s fucked off. She’s goat this boyfriend. He’s just gittin back oot the jail. Renton taps up a vein in his wrist.

  — Well, that ain’t gonna help.

  — It isnae aboot helping, it’s aboot being. If being Scottish is about one thing, it’s aboot gittin fucked up, Renton explains, working the needle slowly into his flesh. — Tae us intoxication isnae just a huge laugh, or even a basic human right. It’s a way ay life, a political philosophy. Rabbie Burns said it: whisky and freedom gang thegither. Whatever happens in the future tae the economy, whatever fucking government’s in power, rest assured we’ll still be pissin it up and shootin shit intae ourselves, he announces, pulsing with glorious anticipation as he sucks his dark blood back into the barrel, then lets his ravenous veins drink the concoction.

  Home, boy …

  Whoa … ya fuckin beauty …

  Renton topples back onto the sagging couch and its pinging coils that hold up his shifting weight like pall-bearers, and laughs in a fathomless yawn, — Smokin shit … it just isnae cost-effective …

  Nicksy has no time for the television or his friend’s junky observations. He can’t settle, the speed has kicked in and he’s vibrating in the armchair. Catching a sharp whiff from his own trainers, he leaps to a standing position. Looks up at the dull cream ceiling.

  Marsha.

  He charges out the door as if the flat was on fire.

  Junk Dilemmas No. 1

  NICKSY DIDNAE HALF tear oot the door. Cunt’s way too uptight these days. Whatever happened tae the cheeky wee cockney sparrer, the ducker and diver whae let nothing get under his skin?

  Probably that Marsha bird upstairs. Women. What a fuckin minefield. The student you hump and dump. The shoplifter steals your heart and –

  SHARP THROB …

  Fuck sake …

  SHARP FUCKIN THROB …

  Whoops … ah’m on ma feet n through tae the bog. A long pish which seems tae last months. The dug’s up, balancing against the bowl wi his front paws, watchin ma pish stream. He pits his nose tae it, gits a splash fi the jet, yelps and dances off, lookin up at me like ah’m a cunt. — Giro … sorry, compadre …

  Ah’m bored wi this pish … end … end … end …

  END …

  END …

  BANG BANG DOOF DOOF –

  A knock on the door. Shake it oot. Pit it back. Move. Open the front door.

  It’s this wee black lassie, that Marsha bird, n she’s screamin a loaday shite at me. Aboot Nicksy, oan a ledge … rantin about dead bairns …

  Fuckin nut job … but then the polis … my God, it’s the fuckin polis … a blobby WPC n a jug-eared copper, n thir tellin us baith tae git doonstairs in the lift …

  The lift goes doon n she’s still screamin aboot Nicksy bein sick and twisted and what does he fuckin well want fae her n ah’m thinkin …

  FUCK ME …

  Thi’ll no lit us back in fir the gear …

  IT’S MA FUCKIN GEAR!

  Towers of London

  LUCINDA IS MY ticket to the good life. It’s time tae stop fannying about and strike; get the ring on her finger, myself moved intae her Notting Hill pad on a permanent basis, then her right up the duff as an insurance policy. At which point her posh Ingloid old boy will have tae come round and acknowledge that Young Williamson is not going away. Then it’s all about sitting tight for a few years before stepping intae the family fortune. In ma pocket is the key that spells commitment with a capital K, the ring ah bought fae that semi-decent jeweller’s in Oxford Street.

  She’s defo the sort ay girl you could take home to Mama, and ah might do just that, as Rents and I are feeling the pull ay Caledonia. The giro syndicate means one fortnightly National Express coach trip south tae sign on, and Nicksy is talking about leaving the flat and heading back tae his ma’s for a bit. Ah also want tae check in on poor Spud. He’s meant tae be in a bad way.

  And Lucinda wants to slum it. It astonishes me that so many ay her friends have that thing going on. Tae the untrained eye, they perhaps look, act, smell and even talk poor, but somewhere along the yellow brick road, stuffed in a hidey-hole up ahead of them, a big stack ay unearned loot awaits. A pile that changes everything. A heap of dosh that says tae me: fuck off, you empty fake, whenever they drone on in their artificial cockney whines. She’s trying this shit on now, wi irony at the moment, but we both know that if ah gie her any encouragement at all, it’ll be shamelessly adopted as a stylistic device. She’s telling me that ah sound like Sean Connery, while displaying a worrying curiosity about Leith and the Bannanay flats. But if she wants scheme, ah can certainly dae scheme, and I have tae admit that the prospect ay pumping her on a mattress saturated wi the spunk stains and fanny juices of a hundred transients in a Hackney tower block does have a certain trash aesthetic. Then, in that post-coital moment, I shall bring out the ring, and we’ll head north tae meet Mama. There are faces (tae say nothing of fannies) ah miss back hame, and most of all, ah want tae make sure that the scumbag whose rancid cock dribbled me intae existence is not messing my mother about.

  We get off the tacky North London Line at Dalston Kingsland, which has the one advantage that it’s effectively free, and head down tae the Holy Street Estate. Lucinda, for all her swagger, tightens her grip on my arm, confirming she’s just that wee bitty too soft for this terrain. Fear not, fair damsel, Simon’s here.

  That thieving wee Charlene Fawcett-Majors-Plant chicky that Rents has been canoodling with is coming across the road. Our heads mutually swivel away; we pretend no tae notice each other. Ah’ve better goods on my airm than that wee hing-oot, thank you very much, although Lucinda’s daein ma crust in, slavering on about how it’s so ‘real’ around here. If ah wanted ‘real’ ah’d’ve steyed in Leith, but ah let her cling tae her rich bird’s delusions. But she’s caught Charlene and me pointedly ignoring each other: more suspicion-framing than any gushing acknowledgement. — Who was that girl?

  — Oh, just this hostile bint Mark’s been shagging.

  — What about that Penny? she says darkly.

  — Exactly, I snap. — He has the morals of a sewer rat, that one. I think –

  What in the name of fuck …

  — What’s going on? Lucinda’s grip tightens on mine again, as a crowd has gathered below Beatrice Webb House. Following the line ay vision ah can see that someone is standing on a ledge ay the tower block, having climbed right oot the fucking windae! It looks like one arm is fastened inside, securing them to this world. And fuck me, it’s Nicksy. — Fuck sakes! That’s my flatmate! Nicksy!

  — Simon, that’s terrible … what’s he doing …?

  I have to admit that ma first instinct is a fervent hope that he jumps; simply in order tae place myself as a central player in the drama of a short and tragic life. Ah think ay that record collection divvied up between Rents and myself. A stake for a wee bit ay brown, exported back up the road. Cunts wouldnae ken what it was. Then ah realise that it’s no our place he’s hanging ootay, it’s right near the top. It’s that dippit wee pump-up-the-breek’s gaff!

  Then ah spy her in the crowd, the doolally Marsha, surrounded by a group ay hungry-eyed black yute and some aulder Caribbean bloaters whae wirnae at the back ay the queue when the rice n peas wis daein its rounds. She clocks me and comes ower, eyes blazing and demented. — He came into my farking flat and started farking shouting! Then he climbed right aht the farking windah, innit!

  — He’s a nut job, ah tell her.

  Marsha looks at me in acknowledgement that ah couldnae gie a fuck, so she shouldnae really bother pretending tae, or at least no that much. Lucinda and her, two London ladies of different social standing, the posh and the impoverished, regard each other in mutual wariness and intimidation. Marsha turns back tae me and says, — You oughta be looking after him! He’s your flatmate!

  — Que sera, sera, ah observe as the wee radge bird’s loony lamps blaze fae me back up tae the fourteen
th floor. We’ve nothing more tae say tae each other.

  Ah spy the ginger heid of the Rent Boy and approach his edgy, quivering back, though when he clocks us his sly eyes still briefly dance across Lucinda’s chest. — The polis telt us tae get ootside, he whinges. — They willnae let anybody in the stair. They’ve sent some cunt up tae talk tae um! Gear on the coffee table n ivraythin!

  He now has ma full attention; ah slap ma heid in exasperation. — If he does anything stupid …

  — Fuckin polis could turn the fuckin gaff ower, Renton snaps through clenched yellow teeth.

  Lucinda pulls on my hand. — It’s okay, Simon, she reassures me, — the Metropolitan Police know what they’re doing. They receive proper training for these situations.

  Receive proper training. Brixton. Broadwater Farm. Stoke Newington. David Martin. Blair Peach. Colin Roach. — Aye, they’re well up wi the game.

  He’s still on that narrow ledge, hanging onto the frame. How the fuck did he git oot there? There’s a safety catch so you have to unscrew it tae open the windae past the point where somebody could step out. There’s a polis cordon at the entrance tae the flats; naebody can get in. One old munter is moaning that she has to get through cause her cat needs fed. It falls on deef polis lugs. What the fuck is that dipstick daein, aw this hassle ower a ten-a-penny wee spunk-bucket? Marsha was jumping around on the spot, now she’s weeping and being comforted by her sister. The wee bird’s a decent enough ride, but so damaged as tae be completely unfixable. He musht be able to shee that, Sean, surely? Love ish blind tho, Shimon. This shavyor complex, Sean, why do sho many people have it? Shearch me, buddy.

  It’s hard to discern whether Nicksy wants tae jump or has decided it’s no such a good idea, and is too frozen up wi fear tae get back inside. Ah catch Rents muttering something that sounds like, — Fuckin attention-seeking cunt, and I couldnae agree more with the sentiment. Then he spoils it by adding, — If any cunt should be daein that it’s me, and he turns his chalky, spotty, druggie face tae us. — Charlene’s jist chucked us!

  — Sorry to hear it, I say, twitching a bit, as you can see Lucinda’s wheels turning as if she’s thinking, I thought he was in a relationship with that Penny … The fucking ginger tramp has only been shagging her for a couple ay weeks; hardly Romeo and Juliet, ah would have thought. — I think he’s trapped himself. I squeeze ‘Cinder’s’ hand, pointing up at floor fourteen, tae divert her dangerous train of thought. Her eyes widen and her mouth forms a fraught, trembling oval.

  I’m thinking that a straight-line fall would see Nicksy smashing onto concrete paving stones, while pushing off in a dedicated hari-kari jump might mean him hitting the gress. Either way, he’s fucked. More ay a nasty clean-up job on the concrete, one would imagine. That’s if the body splits open. At that thought, I feel shivers running up the backs ay my legs and intae my hands as my ringpiece starts to go intae a spasm. Ah suddenly want him no tae jump, tae be saved, and want it wi every fuckin fibre ay ma being. That cunt took me in. The boy is fucking sound. I feel the tight plastic box in my pocket, containing that diamond-studded band of gold, and ah just want to get Lucinda up the stairs and fuck her beautifully, then, when she’s in a demented trance, pop the question and slip the fucking thing onto her finger. Game, set and match, Williamson, and this selfish cunt Nicksy’s ruining everything!

  Cinders shall go to the ball!

  Then you can see this copper appear at the windae. He’s talking to Nicksy, who looks really scared. Ah wish ah had binos, but it’s clear some negotiating is taking place. The cop is still, I can’t make out his features, but his movements are economical. The circus goes on for what seems like an age, though it’s probably just a few minutes tops, before Nicksy glances doon and shuffles along the ledge. The cop takes his airm, smiling reassuringly at him, helping him climb back intae the flat, one leg first, then the other.

  As he vanishes inside a big cheer goes up followed by a polite round ay applause, like clapping at a cricket match. Despite the fact that there is now nothing gaun oan, two retards in polis uniform – a jug-eared gawkoid and a blonde, overweight, low-self-esteem minger – refuse tae take the cordon doon. — We need to wait for clearance, the fat bint says, hudin a scratchy walkie-talkie tae her lug.

  Eventually, the thickoid Old Bill decide that there’s nae mair bodies waiting tae climb oot windaes in the flats, and we’re very graciously allowed back intae our homes.

  Thank you for that, flatfoot.

  The lift is broken again, so it’s a gruelling seven-flight climb. At least it shows a sweating Lucinda how the other half live, while Renton mumbles and snivels away about life’s injustices, the yins supposedly pertaining to him inevitably taking prime spot. I recognise a laughing sneer coming from the stairs up ahead of us, and it’s that Marsha. She looks doon at us, her hands on her hips. — So this is your posh gelfriend then? That why you don come up an fuck me no more, boy?

  Ah see both Lucinda and Renton rubbernecking tae me and feel the blood draining ootay my face. Lucinda turns and storms down the stairs, and ah’m in hot pursuit. — Cinders! Wait!

  She stops and pivots roond tae face me. — Leave me alone! Just fuck off!

  — Every other night he’s up here, innit. Ah look up and see Marsha leaning over the balustrade, cackling like a Caribbean voodoo witch, a mass of huge white teeth in a wizened face.

  — She’s crazy, Cinders! She’s Nicksy’s bird!

  — He gotta big black mole on one of his white balls, she shrieks in laughter, her sister joining in.

  — Which baw? Renton wastedly asks, and in a way that the doss cunt is actually trying tae be fucking helpful. I clutch my forehead in anguish, digging forefinger and thumb intae ma pulsing temples.

  — Just leave me! Fucking leave me! Lucinda shouts, then lowers her voice. — To think … you’re such a liar and a creep … I actually feel sorry for you, she laughs, a horsy, throaty accompaniment tae the shrill sound ay cockney-Jamaican ridicule coming fae above, reverberating around the stairwell.

  — Fuck! I slap my head again as the raucous clucks above recede, Marsha and her sister bolting up the stairs.

  — Gittin ditched is shite … we’ve aw been ditched now … Renton gormlessly observes, — Go eftir her!

  — Not a fucking chance. It’s all ruined now: my life is effectively over, I tell him, pushing past him and mounting the stairs. Then I hear a snakelike — Fuck! And then he’s tearing past me, bounding demonically up the steps. When ah get intae the flat, Renton is manically clearing up the skag and attendant paraphernalia from the coffee table. — HELP AYS YA FUCKIN DINGUL! There’s nothing to do but comply and we’re just in time as the door bangs. They’ve taken Nicksy back down; he’s in the company of the cop, and this woman who wears a disapproving scowl. Renton puts the kettle on and makes some tea. The woman nervously holds a chipped and stained West Ham mug as her and the cop settle Nicksy down on the couch. I’m destroyed, and badly need tae lay doon and consider my ever-shrinking options. Ah go tae the windae tae see Lucinda striding with purpose across the green towards Kingsland Road and the overland station, which will take her west and to real life.

  My life is over. Wrecked.

  — Fuck sakes, you awright? Rents stands behind me.

  — I’ll live, I tell him.

  — Ah meant Nicksy. He points tae the wreckage on the settee.

  — Yeah … Nicksy groans, looking up like a half-drowned sewer rat. The cop puts his hand on the pathetic vegetable’s shoulder. — Brian has to come with us for a chat, then he can go home later. He looks tae the hostile lassie, who ah assume is a fucking social worker. Far be it fae me tae simplistically vilify an entire occupation, but all social workers are fucking cunts. — Nothing sinister, he says, catching Rents’s belligerent expression, — he just needs somebody ta talk to.

  Cinders …

  I sort of loved her.

  — He can talk tae us, Rents says defensively, — we’re his mates.

  I’m th
inking, speak for yourself, Rent Boy. Collecting lame ducks (or at least ones without vaginas) is not my style.

  Oh, Cinders, come back … I even paid for that fucking ring!

  The cop looks at us with a tired smile and a shake ay his heid. Nicksy shrugs in sheepish apology, as if in acknowledgement that he’s been a right twat, which he most certainly has. I’ve changed my mind again. If you’re gaunny dae something like that, at least have the backbone tae go through wi it instead ay crapping out and looking like a dickless clown. Look at poor Spud, fighting for his life on a fucking ventilator, when this spineless Ingloid poof doesnae even have the baws tae throw his away. Look at me, jilted by my almost-fiancée, but still in the game. Still fighting.

  Renton follows the wretch down in the lift. I tag along: just cause ah cannae think ay anything else tae dae. Perhaps Cinders will have turned back.

  At the bottom ay Beatrice Webb House, Nicksy gets in a car wi the social worker woman, who drives him off, doubtless for a hearty mind-hump somewhere. The copper who talked him in turns tae another polisman, then looks up at the council grey ay the tower against the pale blue sky, and notes, — It’s a long way down.

  What brilliant fucking powers ay observation! We’re privileged tae have a Met high-flyer on the case! Nonetheless, ah find masel looking up, thinking ay ways ah can get revenge on that wee black nympho hoor. If fuckin Nicksy had’ve been giein her a proper length, she wouldnae have needed tae have played away wi me, and ah’d be planning a society wedding now!

  Renton seems fascinated by the rescue copper, a tall, thin, shaven-headed mutation wi olive skin. He has these kind ay laughing eyes, which dinnae match up wi his cruel slash ay a mooth. — How did you get him to come in?

  The cop looks at him in mild contempt, then seems tae soften a wee bitty. — Just listened a bit. Talked and listened.

  — What’s up wi him?

  — You’re his mates, the pig shrugs, — maybe he’ll tell you himself, in his own time.