Skagboys Read online

  — What aboot the game? Keezbo moans.

  — We can still watch it, pit the commentary back oan fir the second half. Ah jist fancy some sounds, Renton’s moved to explain, noting that Tommy’s not too happy either.

  Begbie won’t be shifted from the subject of Sick Boy, until his point is made. — Cunt’s eywis oan aboot bein too fuckin good fir the Bannanay flats, but ah hear he’s been hingin aroond his fuckin ma’s bit aw the time.

  — That’s cause his auld man fucked off wi that younger bird, Renton says.

  Keezbo has his glasses off again, and is polishing them on his Clash Combat Rock T-shirt. It’s XXL but it strains across his gut. — That’s right, Mr Mark. Ah saw him up the toon wi her. She’s only aboot twenty-five or something. Goat a bairn, ah hear.

  Renton turns away to the screen. Fuck shagging somebody that’s had a bairn. It was bad enough thinking about another guy’s cock having been up the bird you were cowping, but their bairn being pulled through her fanny … no fucking way, he thinks, and gives a shudder to shake off his squeamishness.

  — Tidy, is she? Tommy asks.

  — No bad, Keezbo admits, — ah’d gie her one.

  — Dirty, lucky auld cunt.

  — You jist need tae git yir fuckin hole, Tam, Begbie says, then turns to the table. — Saw um tryin tae fuckin chat up that Lizzie McIntosh at the Fit ay the Walk the other day.

  — Jist sayin hiya, Tommy shrugs.

  — Punchin above yir weight wi that yin, Mr T, Keezbo laughs.

  Tommy responds with a calculating smile, while Spud reminisces. — Ah spoke tae her once. She wis paintin, like wi an easel n that, doon the Shore. Barry paintin n aw. That wis what ah sais tae her: barry paintin. She’s at the art college, eh, Tam?

  — Aye.

  — Wee snobby fanny, Begbie says, — ah mind ay her fae school. Yill git nowt oafay her, Tam. Should come wi me tae the Spiral, met this bird thaire last week. She wisnae fuckin shy!

  Renton grinds his teeth, recollecting a school incident with Begbie that he considers bringing up, and then decides against it. Instead he recalls Lizzie from the O-grade art class. A ride and a half, though that class was rammed with them, he considers: it still made up about fifty per cent of his wanking material.

  — Lizzie isnae really snobby, but. She swears like a fuckin trooper, Tommy says. As the words spill from his mouth, his own cowardice and that of all them around the table suddenly shames him. They’d all experienced that chance encounter with a girl like a long-absent sun, calling you out of a dark place, opening you up, rendering you as helpless as any blossoming flower.

  — You are right on the money wi the McIntosh honey, Renton smiles, discreetly squeezing the bone and cartilage of Tommy’s knee. — She gies off that aloof vibe that a lot ay shaggable rides dae, but it’s basically just a defence mechanism tae stop radges chatting them up. She’s awright when ye get spraffin wi her.

  The others seem to accept this contention; all except Begbie. — Aye, bit swearin’s aw fir fuckin show wi they snobby cunts, they dinnae jist fuckin swear naturally like normal cunts fuckin well dae.

  For some reason that eludes him, Renton’s suddenly beset with a great love in his heart for Franco, dispensing him an acknowledging wink. — You ain’t wrong thaire, buddy.

  Begbie bristles vaingloriously, sitting back, almost purring in contentment. Then his face alters dramatically and paranoia swamps Renton, as he thinks: I’ve misjudged what’s gaun oan in this moody cunt’s heid!

  Then he realises that Begbie’s focused on something behind him, so he spins in his seat to see a skinny, angular-framed girl, around eighteen years old, with spiky mousy-blonde hair, shaved short at the sides. Ignoring Lesley at the bar, she advances towards them, stopping a few feet away, her arms folded across her slight chest. They register her one by one as Begbie sits back with a belligerent set to his face. — What are you fuckin well wantin?

  — Tae talk, she says.

  Renton immediately thinks the girl looks interesting. Actually mair my type than Franco’s. He usually prefers a bit ay meat on dem bones dem bones dem dry bones.

  — Talk aw ye want, Begbie scoffs, shrugging off her attentions, — fuckin free country!

  — No here, she says, glancing poisonously at the others, who look back to the screen, except Tommy, who gives the girl an anaemic smile, then nods hopefully to Begbie and the door. Franco seems to consider this, then rises and heads across to an adjacent table with his pint, compelling the girl to join him. The others note that he isn’t offering to buy her a drink.

  — This does not look good, Tommy muses, as Renton’s other choice, ‘White Lines’ by Grandmaster Flash and Melle Mel strikes up on the jukebox.

  — Cause ah ken it’s yours! they hear her screech on top of the beat in high, adenoidal tones, as, on-screen, Platini sweeps a silent effort over the bar.

  — Aye, so you fuckin well say, Begbie retorts, sitting back in the seat, composed, now evidently enjoying himself. And the rest of them are too; they are all ears.

  — It could only huv been you!

  Begbie thinks of the silky distraction of the girl’s clothes that night, the delicacy with which she stepped out of her shoes. How those fleeting memories held sovereignty in his head over any images of her nakedness. He liked her in clothes. Although it was summer, it had gotten nippy outside. She shouldn’t have come out without a jacket. It could get cold down in the port. — Listen, if ye go oot withoot a fuckin jaykit whin thaire’s fuckin snaw flying aboot, ye kin git a fuckin cauld, right?

  She stares at him, agog, then bursts into an incredulous shriek: — What the fuck ur ye talking aboot? Jaykit? Snaw?

  On the television, Dominique Rocheteau deflects a free kick which sails just past the post. Renton glances from the screen back to Begbie and the girl.

  As the record urges Get Higher Baby, so too Begbie’s voice rises. — Ye go oot without a fuckin pill whin thaire’s fuckin spunk flyin aboot, ye git up the fuckin stick!

  Lesley raises an eyebrow to Renton as she pretends tae clean the glasses. Mickey Aitken looks over at a couple of curious customers who turn back to the other TV.

  The girl examines Begbie in silence for a spell, biting on her bottom lip. Eventually she urges, — So?

  — So fuckin well deal wi it. It’s your fuckin problem, no fuckin mine, and Franco Begbie shakes his head, takes a long drink, then sets his glass down carefully on the table. He thinks that the flecks in the Formica look similar to those on an egg he recalled finding in a bird’s nest as a kid. — Ah said tae ye: ‘Gie’s a fuckin ride.’ Ah nivir sais: ‘Gie’s a fuckin bairn.’ How? Cause ah’m intae rides n ah’m no intae fuckin bairns!

  The girl stands up, shouting, pointing at him: — YOU’VE NO FUCKIN WELL HEARD THE LAST AY THIS, SON! Then she turns n heads across the pub for the exit as the half-time whistle goes on-screen and the players troop off the field. So far the Spaniards have given a good account of themselves, but it’s France who’ve come the closest.

  — HI! Begbie, on his feet, roars back.— YOU’RE FORGETTIN THAT AW THE BOYS WIR THAIRE N AW! He gestures to the others. — THAT FUCKIN LINE-UP THIT YE DID!

  The lassie stops abruptly. She turns and looks at them in horror, then shouts to Lesley at the bar in appeal: — HE’S TALKIN SHITE! Lesley looks to Mickey and shrugs, as the girl turns back to Begbie. — YOU’RE FUCKIN WELL GITTIN IT, SON!

  — AWREADY FUCKIN HUD IT! he shouts back at her, making the cross with his arms. — N IT WIS FUCKIN SHITE N AW!

  Renton watches her cringe in humiliation as she exits through the swinging doors of the bar, her thin, white shoulders the barest he’s ever seen, as if they would only ever need the night as a shawl. He imagines another world, where she was not impregnated with the seed of Begbie, and going after her, walking with her, perhaps placing his jacket over her lissome, delicate back.

  Frank Begbie downs his pint, shouts up another round and comes over to rejoin his company. — If this yin goes
up tae the fuckin coort ah’ve goat youse boys tae back us up n say youse wir fuckin well in thaire n aw. Every cunt kens thit wi share n share alike doon the fuckin port!

  — They kin tell wi blood tests, Franco, Tommy goes.

  Renton is tempted to mention what he’d read about this new DNA testing in the Scientific American, up the Central Library, but then remembers that he’s in a pub on the Walk, not the students’ union at Aberdeen, where a smart cunt’s conjectures are less likely to be appreciated.

  Begbie’s lips pull back over his teeth. — Ah ken aw that, Tam, fir fuck’s sake, he snaps, then his expression warms, — but it’ll keep the slag away fae the fuckin coort if she thinks half ay fuckin Leith’s gaunny be aboot, claimin thuv been in thaire pumpin away oan Franco’s sloppy fuckin seconds, ya cunt!

  Through their laughter, the rest of them are starting to feel sorry for the girl. Particularly Spud. Too many Bicardi n Cokes, a horny flush, one slip-up and yir bringing up a Begbie for the rest ay yir life. Doesnae matter if the burd’s a wee bit dippit, naebody deserves that.

  The second half resumes and Platini, with an air of inevitability, puts the French ahead. The pub goes crazy, at least the other corner does, and Begbie is visibly riled by the commotion, casting silencing glances down the narrow bar. Tommy wonders if he would ever stand up to Franco again, considers what circumstances might compel him to do so.

  The afternoon spins by in another couple of rounds of drinks. Up on the screen, Platini has reached a personal sporting pinnacle, and in triumph holds aloft the European Nations Cup. Renton and Keezbo are surprised to see that it was two–nil; they hadn’t noticed the other goal. Amphetamine, adrenalin and their own dramas had got in the way.

  — Dinnae even ken her fuckin name, Begbie sais meaning it in a barbed, disparaging way, but it somehow coming out, to his surprise and that of the others, as something between an accusation and a lamentation. For a few moments he thinks of that flecked bird’s egg: unsure of whether he smashed it or left it alone in the nest.

  First Shot: Just Say ‘Aye’

  PERVERSITY AND OBSTINACY are integral tae the Scottish character. Since ah said ‘no’ tae these cunts back in Manchester, ah’ve been obsessed wi heroin. Ah sometimes wish ah’d said ‘aye’, then ah might be mair inclined tae leave it alaine. Also, it’s meant tae be a good painkiller, n this back still nips, especially at night. The doaktir thinks ah’m at it, n they paracetamols are fuckin useless.

  It’s an open secret in oor circle that Matty, whae gets maist ay oor speed, has been skag-happy for donks. Through him ah ken that Johnny Swan, an auld fitba mate ay mine, gets good gear. Ah huvnae really hung oot wi Johnny in ages, no since we played thegither fir Porty Thistle. He wis a decent player. Ah wis shite but applied masel like fuck tae get oot ay gaun tae the boxing club wi Begbie n Tommy.

  It’s time that friendship was re-established.

  In the flat in Monty Street, ah tell Sick Boy aboot it and he’s in. — Sounds fuckin excellent. Ah fancy some ay that shit, have for ages. He starts crooning the seminal Velvet Underground song, about sticking the spike into ma vein … come to Simone, he says, his jaw juttin oot, as he puts doon the dictionary he’s been thumbing through.

  — But jist a wee bit tae try, cause mind wir meetin Franco up toon the night.

  Sick Boy batters his heid wi the palm ay his hand. — I am pig-sick tae the back teeth ay that cunt making arrangements on my behalf. I just don’t need it. Having tae listen aw night tae whae’s gittin killed and whae’s gittin stabbed …

  — Aye, but a wee bit ay smack’ll mellow us oot, n then we’ll go n see him up in Mathers.

  A shrug ay the shoodirs, and he gets up and yanks the cushions oaf the couch, prospectin for coins and shoving the meagre booty deep intae his poakit. — I should get a bigger allowance from the state, he grumbles. — I’m tired ay mooching oaffay chicks tae supplement my income.

  We head oot and dive oantae a 16, bound fir Johnny’s pad at Tollcross. It’s a blindin hot day so we sit doonstairs at the back for a better view ay the passin fanny. Back top deck wi Begbie, tae intimidate wideos, back bottom wi Sick Boy tae leer at lassies. Life has its simple codes.

  — This is gaunny be so much fun, Sick Boy says, and rubs his hands thegither. — Drugs are always fun. Do you believe in cosmic forces, destiny n aw that shite?

  — Nup.

  — Me neither, but bear one thing in mind: today was a ‘T’ day.

  — What …? ah ask, then it dawns on us. — Yir dictionary thingy.

  — All will be revealed, he nods, then starts talking about heroin.

  Smack’s the only thing ah huvnae done, ah’ve never even smoked or snorted it. And ah must confess that ah’m fuckin shitein it. Ah wis brought up tae believe that one joint ay hash would kill me. And, of course, it wis bullshit. Then one line ay speed. Then one tab ay acid; aw lies, spread by people hell-bent on self-extermination through booze and fags.

  But heroin.

  It’s crossing a line.

  But as the boy said, anything once. And Sick Boy doesnae seem concerned, so ah bullshit tae keep ma front up. — Aye, ah cannae wait tae dae some horse.

  — What? Sick Boy looks at me in horror as the bus growls up the hill. — What the fuck are you talking aboot, Renton? Horse? Dinnae say that in front ay yir dealer mate or he’ll laugh in yir face. Call it skag, for Papa John-Paul’s sake, he snaps, then stares oot at a short-skirted lassie meandering wi seductive intent up Lothian Road. — She’s a peach … far too carefree in bearing and expression tae be a baboon …

  — Right … ah feebly respond.

  We get tae Johnny Swan’s place, and even though the stair door’s got an entryphone, it hings open like a daftie’s mooth. We climb the steps, instinctively knowing that it’ll be oan the top flair. It’s the only flat wi nae name oan the scabby black door. Johnny greets us wi a smile, though a wee look passes between him n Sick Boy. — Mr Renton! It’s been a long time … come in …

  — Aye, a couple ay year at least, ah acknowledge. Ah wis at a perty up here back then. Wi Matty. Eftir we came back fae London. Swanney still has the fair hair, but it’s longer n mair straggly now, and these piercing blue eyes, but his choppers are a mass ay green n broon. Wi his permanent look ay surprise and always seemin oan the verge ay outrage, he reminds us ay Ron Moody, who played Fagin in Oliver! A rancid smell like stale sweat hings in the air, emanating fae either tenant or dwelling, and intensifying as we follay him inside. Sick Boy, who ah intro, catches the whiff and makes nae attempt tae disguise his distaste.

  One windae is boarded up, darkening the front room. The others have big, viney plants wi green tomataes oan them, hogging maist ay the remaining light. There’s still fuckin lino oan the flair, though it’s topped wi some distempered rug. Oan the waw, above the fireplace, there’s a barry poster ay Siouxsie Sioux, naked fae the waist up.

  We faw doon oantae a leather couch. A sick joke ay a budgie, greasy feathers, shuffles along a spar in a cage, looking like Richard the Third. Eftir quickly catchin up aboot auld times, Johnny gets doon tae business. — Matty Connell tells us you’re still daein the Northern Soul thing. Ah take it yir lookin fir some speed?

  Ah glances at Sick Boy, then back tae Johnny, tryin tae be aw cool. — Actually, we heard that you’ve goat some nice skag.

  Swanney’s eyebrows arch, n he puckers his lips. — They aw want it now, he grins. — Ivir done the skag before? he asks, rolling up the sleeve ay his shirt. Ah kin see rid marks poking up like angry plukes. — Ah mean, banged up?

  — Aye, ah lie, no lookin at Sick Boy, — back up at Ebirdeen.

  Swanney reads it as such but doesnae gie a fuck. He pulls oot a wooden box fae under a glass coffee table, upon which sits a barry blue-n-gold vase, a Scotland World Cup 82 mug, a candle half melted intae one ay they blue-n-white ringed plates every cunt’s goat, and a tin ashtray fill ay cigarette butts. — Ye want a hit?

  — Aye.

  He opens the box and puts some
white powder fae a wee placky bag intae a spoon and sucks water fae the mug intae a hypodermic syringe. He squirts the contents intae the spoon, which he heats up under the candle, stirring it wi the needle as it dissolves. Catching Sick Boy staring, he spits a cheeky grin ower his shoodir, squeezing one ay they wee Jif things fill ay lemon juice intae the water. Still stirrin wi the needle tip, he then sucks it back intae the barrel ay the syringe.

  Ah sit back, entranced by his preparations. Ah’m no the only yin: Sick Boy’s like a nerdy science student scrutinising his mentor. Johnny looks at me, sitting thaire open-moothed like a spare prick at a hoors’ convention. He gits the score. — Ye want me tae dae it fir ye?

  — Ta, ah nod. Sound cunt Swanney, sparin ma embarrassment like that.

  He sharply tugs ma airm towards him, like it’s a Christmas cracker, resting it on his thigh. Johnny’s jeans are minging and sticky oan ma wrist, like he’s spilt honey or treacle oan his leg. He ties a leather strap round my biceps and starts tapping at ma veins. Ma back throbs wi a phantom truncheon strike, as a shiver spreads through me.

  Ah know that this is crossin a line.

  Ma heart pounds. Ah mean, really pounds. We’re meant tae meet Franco for a peeve n aw, tae watch the Euro 84 fitba, and he hates gittin stood up!

  Say no.

  Johnny tap-tap-tappin at my airm and me distracting masel by lookin at the dry flakes ay skin on his scalp jist at the hairline.

  Begbie. Goat tae meet Begbie at nine!

  Ah’m thinking aboot shoutin ‘stop’ but ah ken that ah could never turn away at this point. If smack is as addictive as they say, then ah’m already aw the junky ah’m ever gaunny be.

  Say no.

  Ah’m thinkin aboot university; ma studies, the philosophy module and free will versus determinism …

  Say no.

  Thinkin aboot Fiona Conyers in the history classes, sweeping her long black hair aside, her wide pale blue eyes and white teeth as she smiles at me …