Skagboys Page 47

  – Too fuckin right it cannae! the cunt goes, thinkin thit ah gie a fuck aboot his dramas. Ah think it was the Boy Søren who said, one can advise comfortably fae a safe port, and total unconcern is the safest of all.

  Sick Boy’s main girl is wee Maria, the death-masked beauty ay the Bannanay flats. A looker, but a proper wee skag hound. There’s whispers that Sick Boy goat her hooked; but in thair stampede tae discern the sinner, people usually miss the point wi aw this ‘which evil bastard got ma son or daughter oan drugs?’ bullshit. Once the shit’s oot there, people are gaunny try it. It’s as futile and pointless as tryin tae blame some other kid at school cause their bairn caught a cauld. Forget transmission, it’s transition that’s the issue. Basically, it’s aw self-loathing because they never saw when thair bairn became somebody else.

  Sick Boy is a cunt though, and he certainly didnae help. — Sweet sixteen, ain’t that peachy keen, he grins, the caress of his Judas palms forcing her weirded smile, — n school aw kicked intae touch, eh. That’s us aw legalled up now, eh, babe? A union blessed by the state! He’s wearing a pork-pie rude-boy hat, which he’s somehow picked up, probably off one ay the girls, which ye can see is annoying the fuck oot ay Nelly.

  Nelly clocks me looking at the hat. Flashes us a smile that says ‘that is fucked’. Then he goes in a low voice, — See Goagsie’s got the cowie. Cunt was caught sneakin intae that clinic.

  — It wid jist be fir his methy script, but. Wir aw gaun thaire now.

  — Nah, the cunt broke doon in the boozer whin he goat fuckin pilled up aboot it. Greetin like a wee fuckin lassie, Nelly snorts.

  Ah’m lookin tae Sick Boy, who’s aw ower Maria but at the same time flirting wi Jenny. — A wee honey, this lassie. See, if ma hert wisnae devoted tae you, Maria, he half threatens tae her discomfit and Jenny’s giggles.

  Matty gies us a tense nod. — Cunt, lit’s fuckin split, ah’m seek tae fuck, he sais oot the side ay his dribbling mooth.

  Ah turns tae Sick Boy. — Ye comin?

  — No … Ricky Monaghan has a connection. Ah’m gaunny stall here and see if he shows.

  — Cunt, Monny’ll no huv nowt, Matty spits in contempt.

  — Take yir choice, red or black, spin the fucking wheel. I’m steyin here, n his arm tightens roond Maria, who looks aggressively at us.

  Ah nod tae Matty. It seems important tae keep movin, and we elect tae leave them tae it.

  So Matty n me’s in the street, exposed in that cruel light wi aw they straightpegs millin roond, cunts whae mean ye nowt but herm n hassle, n ah’m tremblin like a Cadbury’s Flake gaun intae an anorexic model’s mooth.

  — Listen, Mark, sorry aboot that … sayin that aboot Davie, likes. It wis oot ay order.

  — Forget it, ah goes.

  — Cunt, it’s jist thit ah’m aw strung oot n that.

  — Forget it, ah repeat, too edgy tae get intae any shite wi the cunt right now.

  We shuftie intae the shoap tae procure snout for Matty. Mrs Rylance is behind the counter; magnesium shock ay hair eruptin fae her big ruddy face. She sees ma eyes gaun tae the yellay collection tin. — Animals cannae tell ye when thaire’s something wrong, son. Tae be honest, ah prefer them tae humans. Or some humans, she fixes us in a pitying gaze. — How’s ma Danny boy daein? Lovely laddie.

  — Seems tae be better, but eh, ah state gruffly, badly wantin tae split, lookin at Matty slowly prospectin in his pockets for change, hating being a slave tae the petty and pointless addictions ay others. — He’s away oan this project now.

  — Project … the auld bat parrots mindlessly as she gingerly fishes the coins fae Matty’s soiled paw like they were jewels fae a blocked toilet bowl.

  A group ay young kids come in and her hawk eyes narrow on them from behind those lenses. Ah see Matty’s face freeze as ah pawkle the yellay collection tin oan the counter, swiftly stickin it intae ma holdall. Charlene taught us that yin; eywis huv a chorrin bag. Theft is as much aboot opportunism as planning. Executing the deed, ah’m lookin aw the time fae the steel-wool heid ay Mrs Rylance, as she chastises the bairns, tae Matty, his shifty eyes scannin roond.

  We head ootside and as the door shuts behind us Mrs Rylance’s howls tear oot, — MA COLLEKSHUN! MA CATS’ COLLEKSHUN! WHAE’S TOOK MA CATS’ COLLEKSHUN?! But it’s directed tae the perr kids as we steal doon the road. We’re gaun right back up tae Swanney’s once we open this fucker. We catch our puff in Queen Charlotte Street, shakin the placky collection boax. Thaire’s a fair weight in it. It’s fill ay they new pound coins.

  We suddenly realise that we’re right acroas the street fae Leith Polis Station, so we get the fuck ootay the road n take a 16 back up tae Tollcross. Johnny’s no in but thankfully Raymie’s hame. — Come and buy my toys, he sighs in a Bowie-Tony-Newley-era voice, before shutting one eye and looking at Matty. — Weren’t you sine die’d, Matty me boy? Perhaps youse might want tae conclude this business before the White Swan returns?

  — Aye …

  So we start fartin aroond wi a knife but we cannae get this cunt ay a tin open! Matty stabs it and the blade skites oaf that reinforced placky, back intae his other hand that’s hudin the boax secure, spurting rid blood onto the yellaw boax n the fag-burned wooden flair. — YA BASTARD! he screams, sucking up his ain blood like a vampire. Ah take ower, but it’s totally fuckin useless. We can see it’s fill ay ten-bob bits n pound coins but we cannae even prise any oot, wi these inverted teeth blockin us.

  Fuckin hell’s bastardcunts!

  Raymie gets a hammer oot and batters it, but the thing just isnae yielding. — I serenade, they decorate, he says, laying down the tool. His remarks, apropos of nothing, once humorous, now grate like fuck. Ah pick up the hammer and huv a go at the fucker but this evil unyielding resin, this synthetic, carcinogenic, non-biodegradable pishy fuckin polymer will barely fuckin scratch. Even a hacksaw widnae dae it; this needs a fuckin grinder oan it. Raymie’s getting impatient. — Gentlemen, you should leave this humble abode before Johnny returns. Business ain’t booming on the supply side, chickadees, and there will be fuck all happening in the Salisbury Crag department till you get this open.

  Raymie’s a strange yin, but he’s daein us a favour. Johnny’s goat funny wi dough and mair volatile wi aw the speed and downers he takes. If he thinks he’s bein fucked ower he’ll hud oot.

  Matty and me look tae each other and decide tae split n see if Sick Boy’s contact, Monny, has somehow emerged. We head back doon tae the port, but then elect tae bodyswerve the Fit ay the Walk n the Kirkgate for Keezbo’s at the Fort. He lives on the D floor ay Fort House, two doors along fae whaire ah grew up. — Ah’m gaun up tae see Keith, Matty, you stey doon here.

  — What fir?

  Ah open up the holdall, takin oot n shakin the collection tin close tae his lug. The side ay his face seems tae seize up like he’s huvin a stroke. — Cause ah’m gaunny droap this fuckin thing doon tae ye. You let it hit the deck n split open, n then fling the dosh intae the bag. Okay?

  Matty’s blinkin like some cunt’s flung pepper in his eyes. — But … cunt, it might go aw ower the place n –

  FUCK WIS THAT?

  Wi baith hears this yabberin sound echo fae above. It rolls around in ma heid. Raw panic crackles ower the back ay ma neck. Ah’m fucked awright, it’s this cunty methadone … Ah tug Matty’s jaykit sleeve. — Keezbo n me’ll be right doon tae help ye, wi dinnae fuckin well huv time tae discuss it!

  Matty sucks back some snotter n nods, lookin roond n shiverin. Ah droap the bag at his feet. Ah’m right in the stair n boundin up tae the D flair. Oan the balcony ah sees Keezbo’s mother n faither; Moira, wi her signature frizzy broon hair n horn-rimmed glesses, n Jimmy, still a chunky wee barrel ay a gadge in white shirt n black trews, standin ootside thair flat. As ah stride taewards thum, the shouts git louder; thaire comin fae inside Keezbo’s. Jimmy n Moira look tae each other in panic n they step back intae the flat n try n shut the door oan us. — What’s up? Is that Keith shoutin?

  — Yir no w
elcome here, nane ay yis, Moira goes, pittin her weight oan the door, but ah’ve goat a shoodir n hip in, n ah’m no budgin. The tin’s in ma hand, oan the inside, n ah’m worried she’ll snatch it so ah push intae the flat. The birds are oot ay the aviary, flappin aroond ma fuckin face! — Dinnae lit they burds oot! Moira screams, now pillin us in n shuttin the door behind us.

  It’s a mental scene: a few budgies and a zebra finch flutter aroond Moira; one’s oan her shoodir n another lands oan the back ay her hand. She’s wearin an angora cardigan, but wi nowt else oan underneath, nae blouse, jist a bra, n the cardy isnae buttoned up right cause ah kin see a faded rid scar gaun doon intae her padding, n ah’m sure ah saw something move doon thaire, like her tits. She pills her cardy thegither n fastens a couple ay buttons, n wi baith look away, mortified. Jimmy’s standin sheepishly in front ay the staircase, wi his mooth turned doon. The birds cheep aroond us, urgent and demanding. — C’mon, Moira … Jimmy, ah appeal, ah jist want tae see Keith …

  Then ah hears this scream: — MARK! GIT THE FAHKIN POLIS!!

  The bird leaves Moira’s hand as Jimmy looks tae the kitchen n roars, — SHUT IT!

  — Jimmy, what’s the fuckin Hampden …

  Fuck sake, ah’m strugglin tae take aw this in, but ah can see that they’ve constructed a wire fence, like a giant cage, tae divide the stairs fae the rest ay the hoose. There’s newspaper aw ower the stair cairpit wi bird shit layerin it. It’s like they’ve made the entire doonstairs ay the hoose – the living room, bedrooms n lavvy – intae a giant aviary, wi thaim just huvin the upstairs hall n kitchen! Moira looks poisonously at me, wi Keezbo shoutin for help, as she opens the cage tae the stairs, guiding the flocking birds through. They follay her like rats wi the pied piper, then she deftly moves oot the wey n shuts them inside, turnin tae me.

  — Go, she sais, openin the front door.

  Keezbo’s still shoutin, but it’s like it’s comin fae ootside the hoose. It hus tae be the auld balcony aviary at the back ay the kitchen! — MARK! HELP US! THUV LOAKED US OOT HERE!

  — What the fuck? Ur you oot oan the balcony, Keezbo?

  Then his sister Pauline appears, standing on the stairs, inside the cage, as yellay n green n blue n white budgerigars flock, chirpin aw aroond her. — They locked him oot oan the balcony. She turns tae them. — Ye cannae keep him oot thaire, Ma, n she starts sobbing.

  Moira’s still hudin the front door open, shoutin, — GIT OOT! and that nosy Margaret Curran cunt pokes her neb in, the hatchet-faced cow a picture ay misery. — Wi cannae stand it, Moira, we’re gaunny huv tae phone the polis if the noise doesnae stoap. It’s been aw day now! N they birds … ah nivir minded the aviary oan the balcony but no in the hoose! It’s insanitary! How much longer?

  — As long as it takes, it’s ma laddie’s life!

  They start oan at each other, but ah cut in and ask Moira, — What huv youse fuckin done tae Keith?

  — They’ve locked him oot oan the balcony, Pauline blubbers, her anguished face pushed against the mesh ay the cage, surrounded by fluttering birds.

  Ah push past Jimmy and Moira intae the kitchen. The wire n dimpled glass that divides the room fae both the aviary and the walk-out section ay the balcony has been removed and boarded ower. Keezbo’s ootside, batterin oan it and screamin, — HELP US, MARK … FUCKIN HELP US!

  — He’s no comin in here till that poison’s oot ay his system, Moira says.

  Ah whip roond, right intae her face. — Are you fuckin mental?! He’s in withdrawal, ah say, thinking aboot Nicksy. — He’ll jump oaf or try n climb doon! Let us see um!

  Ah turns back n ah’m fighting tae get the big bolts oan the door open. Jimmy isnae stoaping us but Moira’s white scraggy fingers wrap roond ma wrist. — No … no … wir pittin um through that wild turkey –

  — Yir killin him, he needs proper fuckin rehab! HE’S SEEK ENOUGH TAE JUMP! ah scream intae her face, and she suddenly relents, loosenin her grip.

  That mawkit-pussed hoor Curran’s goat intae the hoose. Ah hear her moanin away at us fae the hall. — You left here! You’re no welcome back! Away tae yir ain bit doon the river, tae the hoose we should’ve goat!

  — We’re no thaire any mair … moved oot, ah tell her n watch her stupid bovine coupon hing slack in uncomprehending shock, as ah work one bolt open. Ah kin hear Keezbo groan oan the other side. — They gave us a better place doon by the Shore, ah lie tae Curran, as ah work on another bolt. — Aw the windaes face oantae the river … n thaire’s a private balcony that fair catches the sun … lovely spot …

  She’s choking in fury. — Balcony … river … how the … how the bloody hell … how the hell did youse …? she stammers, then a glint snaps intae her eye. — Your auld place … it’ll be empty now then, eh?

  Ah click back another bolt. Fae the corner ay ma eye, ah notice that one budgie’s still attached tae Moira’s angora cardigan just oan the ootside ay her placky tits. Jesus fuck …

  That angora cardy’s worked its wey open again n thaire’s some baby birds in her tits, ye kin see thair wee heids poking up, mooths open, demandin tae be fed. What the fuck … Ah look at her, n she gies us a hard, tight-moothed stare, that says, ‘So?’

  Ah turn back tae the last bolt … ah cannae watch this …

  — Your hoose! Margaret Curran insists, — that’ll be it empty then!

  — Naw … a Paki family moved in last week. Ah work the bolt loose as Jimmy says something tae Moira aboot makin herself decent.

  — How did they … how in the name ay Christ did they …? Curran’s freakin oot n gittin ready tae visit the Housing Association. The bolt snaps back n the door flies open.

  Keezbo stands in his long coat, lookin like a big pink sausage wrapped in black puddin. — They tried tae fuckin kill us! Youse! He points at Jimmy and Moira, — YOUSE!

  The big budgie on Moira’s jumper flies up as she looks at Keezbo in horror, pillin the cardigan tae her tae conceal the nest ay birds in her tits. She realises that he’s ripped doon the mesh they pit ower the balcony. — DINNAE LIT CHEEKY BOY OOT! THE WILD BIRDS’LL KILL UM!

  — FUCK YIR BUDGIES! YOUSE TRIED TAE KILL US!

  — WE’RE THE BUCKIN YINS TRYIN TAE BUCKIN WELL SAVE YE! Moira roars back in his face, n ah realise she’s no goat her teeth in, n she turns tae Jimmy: — TELL UM, JIMMY!

  — Ah wis cauld, Keezbo moans in desolation, — cauld n hungry!

  — Hungry fir buckin drugs, drugs, drugs! Moira squeals, — TELL UM, JIMMY! BE A BUCKIN MAN, BI CHRIST, N TELL YIR LADDIE WHAIRE HE’S GAUN WRONG!

  — Moira … c’mon …

  — Ah’ve goat poppy, Keith. Ah shakes the boax. — We’ll open it up n git sorted oot!

  — Ah ken how tae open these yins, Mr Mark, he goes, his eyes huge and luminous, as Moira scowls at Jimmy n slams the balcony door shut, enticing Cheeky Boy back tae her false bosom.

  — Now everybody hus tae calm doon … Moira – Jimmy pleads.

  — CALM BUCKIN DOON! AH’LL GIE YE CALMIN BUCKIN WELL DOON, JIMMY YULE! IT’S YOUR BLOODY LADDIE!

  — Nae time, ah goes tae Keezbo, lookin ower the balcony tae see Matty standin aroond oan the concrete forecourt. — MATTY! But it’s windy up here n oor voices get carried away as we shout. — MAH-TAY!

  Eventually the daft cunt looks up wi a scoobied coupon.

  — What’s gaun oan here? Jimmy demands, stepping oot ontae the balcony as Moira’s blusterin aboot where she went wrong. Then she suddenly threatens, — Ah’m gittin the buckin polis oantae the baith ay yis! See how yis like that!

  — That’s right, Moira! Margaret Curran shouts.

  — You … well, if you … if you fuckin bring thaim intae it, Keezbo stammers, — ah’ll tell the RSPCA aboot you keeping birds in yir tits! That’s no right in the heid!

  — Thir no in ma tits! Ah’ve nae tits! And now ah’ve nae buckin son, bi Christ!

  As they rage on, ah shakes the tin, as Matty gies a daft wee salute. Ah drops it n watches it fall, hittin the deck wi an explosive crack a
s it splatters open n the coins strew in a glittering shower across the forecourt. Fuck, ah didnae think they’d scatter like that! Matty’s thaire, but a crowd ay young kids are appearin fae fuckin naewhaire n they’re rummagin wi Matty for oor fuckin poppy! — FUCK OFF! FUCK OFF, YA WEE CUNTS … DINNAE LIT THUM … FUCK!

  Keezbo n me are right oot through the kitchen, past his ma, dad, Pauline n fusty-fud Curran, oot the front door, along the balcony, n wir bombin doon the stairs as fast as we can.

  — DINNAE LIT CHEEKY BOY OOT! Moira shouts.

  We gits oot n doon the stairs n thaire’s Matty pathetically shoutin at these thievin wee bastards, — Gie’s it back …

  We’re pickin up the fuckin coins n the wee cunts are leggin it, but then Mrs Rylance comes roond the corner and sees the yellay shards ay the shattered collection box n she’s pointin n screamin, — IT’S MA MONEY … IT’S THE CATS’ MONEY!

  Mrs Curran’s gittin in oan the act, screamin doon fae the balcony, — THIEVES! THIEVES! THE RENTONS N THE CONNELLS. … DURTY THIEVIN GYPSY BASTARDS! THEY GIT EVERYTHING THIT ISNAE MEANT FIR THUM!

  We’re scramblin fir the dosh but Jesus fuck, thaire’s a cop car pullin up, n two polis git oot, so we’re offski, oor poakits laden wi change. We kin hear them radioing fir help, and we head doon Madeira Street, nashin ower Ferry Road, doon Largo Place, n the steps taewards the river, coins swingin n jinglin. One copper’s goat back intae the motor, but one stocky cunt’s fuckin well flyin eftir us as we hit the Water ay Leith walkway. But fuck him, ah even looks back, like he’s gaunny catch us doon here, his wee pish-hole-in-the-snaw eyes set in a white, bulbous face, growin riddir by the second, as he stores air in his cheeks, the fat hamster-faced cunt so comical ah kin feel ma sides spazzin up jist thinkin aboot it. They send this overfed Gumley-raised suburban jackass oot tae chase three Leith schemies? Boys whae wir specifically fuckin bred tae run fae the polis? Labdicks dinnae huv a fuckin scooby!