Skagboys (10 page)

— 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 …

Say naw
.

Johnny still tap-tap-tappin like a patient old prospector looking for gold. He looks at me and shoots us a cracked smile. — You’ve goat shite veins.

Not too late! No too late tae make an excuse, he gied ye an out thaire, say no, no, no
…

— Aye, ah cannae gie blood.

Say something else … say fuckin naw
…

NAW, NAW, NAW
…

— That might be just as well, he smiles as he stabs the needle intae my airm. Ah look at him petulantly, upset at the sharp pain, the intrusion. He smiles wi those rotten teeth and sucks some ay ma blood back intae the syringe. The word ‘dinnae’ briefly forms on ma lips but he pushes and empties the contents ay the barrel intae me. Ah look at the empty hypo. Ah can’t believe he’s just put that shit
inside me
.

Fear rises up ma spine like mercury touched by heat up a thermometer. Then it’s gone. Ah smile at Johnny. Just as the thought forms: is that aw there is tae it? ah get a sudden rush and a glow, then ma insides, body and brain, are like a fruit pastille, melting in a huge mooth. Suddenly everything that was burning in ma heid, every fear and doubt, just dissolves, ah can just feel them receding intae the distance …

Aye, Aye,
Aye, Aye
, AYE,
AYE

In my mind’s eye, ah’ve goat an image ay ma brar Billy, when we were walkin along Blackpool prom, crossin ower the road n turnin intae a side street ay red-bricked guest hooses. It’s a hot summer’s day n ah’m eatin a 99 ice-cream cone.

Johnny says something like, — Good shit but, eh?

— Aye …

Aye
…

Ah’m overwhelmed wi the sense that everything is, was and would be, completely okay. A state ay pure fuckin euphoric bliss passes through us, like sunshine ower shadow, makin things no only right, but
just
right.

Aye
…

A sudden nausea curdles in my gut and ah feel this moist sickness risin up intae ma throat. Swanney sees me dry-retching and passes ower a sheet ay newspaper. — This shit’s strong, forgot ye were a novice, deep breaths … he says.

Oh aye, but nae fear now, Swanolito, ah’m fuckin flyin
…

Ah swallow it back doon, ridin it oot, and ah feel great, propping maself up against the back ay the couch. Ah dunno what ah’d expected, mibbe acid-like hallucinations, but there’s nowt like that, everything is as it eywis wis, but it no sae much
looks
as
feels
beautiful, welcoming and just
damn fine
, like aw the sharp edges in the world have blurred and smoothed. Ma stiff and jagged spine is now like a bendy piece ay rubber. A polis baton would bounce right oaf it, smashing the cunt right back in the chops …

Oh aye
.

— Good, mate, eh? Swanney says.

— You did something … interesting … there, John. Ah feel the words tumble slowly oot n we’re laughin softly thegither.

Sick Boy is next up, and watching me in wonderment. Then the tourniquet is oan his airm, and Johnny’s spike is gaun intae his big, dark vein.

— This is the best, ah say, as ah watch it hit him, and feel him slump against me, as warm and soft as a big stuffed toy.

— Oh … ya fuckin beauty … he gasps, then throws up onto the newspaper. When he sits up, he fixes me in a dopey smile. — The word … the ‘T’ word … ma dictionary … wis tourniquet … by the … by the Holy Papa’s sweet, low-swingin nutsack … that’s fuckin cosmic …

— Cosmic … ah parrot in slow laughter. We’re gaun naewhaire, we’ve scored a gram fae Swanney, which Sick Boy’s pocketed, and we’re sitting here for a wee while longer in the deep, dozy silence ay afternoon heat, broken only by a kid’s shout or passing car horn ootside. Swanney pits
oan
a Doors album. Never liked that shite before but ah’m sortay gittin it now. Maist ay aw ah’m enjoyin the slow stream ay delicious talk, wise and daft, posturings and retorts, and how ah’m baskin in the hypnotic afterglow ay ‘Riders on the Storm’, even as ah luxuriate in the track on the first side he’s pit back oan. As the darkness presses in tight around us, ah feel great. Fuck gaun intae toon, and the mean backstreets, where edgy club bouncers spar verbally wi sly, have-a-go drunks, cheered oan by underdressed, goosefleshed lassies wi cries as shrill as seagulls. I’ve nowt but a withering disdain for it all. Disnae matter if it’s Mickey Platini or Franco Begbie, they will aw just have tae wait.

Family Planning

BELLE FRENCHARD HEARD
the retching sounds coming from the bathroom, as she advanced up the stairs with a cup of milky tea for her daughter. Instantly, she prayed that it wasn’t Samantha making those noises.
Please let it be Ronnie, Alec or George, they were aw oot last night. But no Samantha
.

When her daughter, grey and frail, emerged to face her, they exchanged a dark, slow acknowledgement, and Belle just knew. The words tumbled from her slack mouth. — Yir in the family wey …

Samantha didn’t try to deny it. She felt herself stiffening up as she faced the bull-like figure of her mother. She thought about the life growing inside her, and was startled by the absurd truth that she herself had emerged from Belle’s doughy, sweaty frame.

That wee bastard Sean
… The first notion Belle settled on quickly crumbled. — But Sean’s been in the fuckin army for six fuckin months … she thought out loud, before demanding, — Whae’s is it!

Samantha glared back into Belle’s deranged eyes, wanted to truculently proclaim, ‘It’s mine.’ But all that spilled from her was a limp, — What d’ye mean?

— What the fuck d’ye think ah mean? Belle stood, hands on her hips, veins bulging in her neck. — WHAE’S THE FUCKIN FAITHER?!

At that point Ronnie, who had been slowly lumbering up the stairs, nursing a brutal hangover, shot into higher animation. A heavy-muscled gym rat, he rarely drank, and was glad of the rush of adrenalin supplanting the lethargy of the booze still clogging up his system. Cold eyes in tight focus, he asked in low, threatening tones, — What’s aw this?

— Tell um, Belle insisted, crossing her meaty forearms. — Tell us whae the fuckin faither is!

— It’s nowt tae dae wi youse!

— Aw aye? If it’s gaunny be livin under this fuckin roof it’s goat plenty tae dae wi me! Belle stridently trumpeted. — Thaire’s nae money comin intae this fuckin hoose! George’s idle; he’s idle. She pointed at Ronnie who felt a rage burn inside him. He hated the way his mother used that term for his employment status. — Alec’s idle!

And now George, lean-framed, with the piercing eyes of his older brother, and Alec, heavier, slower and softer, were up the stairs, lining up behind their mother, the judge, and brother, the sheriff, of the posse that had already decided it was a lynching party. Samantha felt the oxygen being sucked out of the air. — Ye dinnae ken um. He’s fae Leith.

— If we dinnae ken um, we soon fuckin will, dinnae worry aboot that, Ronnie said, voice low wi threat, tensing the muscles in his arm and back, enjoying the power he felt surge through his frame.

— He’s takin responsibility, whaever he is, Belle rasped, head shaking, hand squeezing the banister, then was suddenly zapped by an incredulous afterthought. — How the fuck did ye faw fuckin pregnant in this day n age?

Samantha chewed on her bottom lip, swallowed hard. — Ah wis oot drinkin with Wilma and Katie. Ah forgoat tae git ma faimlay plannin … wi Sean bein away … She cringed at the thought. — Ah met this felly. Wi goat pished, n then …

— Sean’s gaunny dae his nut, George said in malicious glee, savouring the thought, like a connoisseur does a drop of good wine, then added, — but ye ken that, eh?

Samantha half turned into the wall. Sean was not a comforting thought.

— What’s his name? Ronnie demanded.

Samantha’s thin jaw shot defiantly forward. — He’s goat a lassie, he’s no interested in us bein thegither, n he doesnae care aboot the bairn, she said in a righteous burst, feeling the sway and impact of her information. — Sais if ah try n claim it’s his he’ll git a dozen ay his mates tae stand up in coort n say they wir aw wi us n aw, she blurted out, then began to cry.

— Ye surely didnae … Belle couldn’t stop herself.

— COURSE AH DIDNAE! Samantha wailed at her mother. — What dae ye take us fir?!

— Well, this felly’ll huv tae stand by ye, Belle mumbled, a little guilty.

— He’s no gaunny but! He telt us!

— We’ll fuckin well see aboot that, Ronnie said in soft, measured fury.

Belle’s rage cooled, and she put her arm around the girl, all the time perfectly aware that her daughter was manipulating her. — There, there, darlin … we’ll git through this.

Ronnie, though, his huge muscles pumping up with blood, right in front of her, was like a superhero in transition. The way that Franco bastard had treated her had been an insult to him as much as her. He had ripped the pish out of her in that pub, and now he was going to fucking well
get
it. — Ah’m no gaunny ask ye again, Ronnie said in a low wheeze. — What’s his name?

— Francis, she said softly, — Francis Begbie.

The brothers looked to each other. — Dinnae ken um. Ronnie turned to George, estimating that his younger brother was more likely to be a peer of this boy who had disgraced their sister.

— He’s a wide cunt, George conceded warily, now concerned that he would be the one delegated by Ronnie to take revenge. He looked into his older brother’s murderous eyes, then considered the growing reputation of this Francis Begbie boy. Estimated the potential squeeze of being caught between those two forces.

George’s silent younger brother, Alec, who, due to his prematurely thinning hair, was often taken for the senior of the pair, suddenly spoke. — He’s a deid cunt, if he disnae dae the right thing by oor Sam.

— Too fuckin right, Ronnie snapped. — Youse two go and pey this Francis Begbie cunt a wee visit. Pit him in the picture. Sort it oot. Jist tell um he disnae want
me
comin n seein um!

With her mother’s arms around her slender body, Samantha unleashed another cataract of sobs, even as she cracked a smile, unseen and buried in that meaty bosom.