Skagboys (20 page)

Did you not realise, Tobacco Boy, the detrimental power of your evil smoke, disguise it though you might, on the enfeebled lungs of your younger sibling?

Ah snatch the
NME
ah left oan the sideboard the other day. Mark E’s ironic grin reminds us ay the Fall tape in ma room that ah’d made up for Hazel, who’s sure tae be at the funeral. Ah decide ah’ll bring it along, and ah’m aboot tae decamp tae that fusty auld den ay music and masturbation, when the phone explodes in a shrill ring, shattering every cunt’s pianny-wire nerves. It’s relentless, but naebody’s movin.

Mein bruder Wilhelm, master ay the accusatory glare: — Is some cunt gaunny answer that fuckin phone?!

I sense your dilemma, Tobacco Boy. Answering the phone would mean having to speak into the mouthpiece, thus depriving yourself of a few precious seconds’ inhalation of nicotine, which you so desperately crave!

— I’m sure it’ll happen, ah declare, grinning at Sharon, — Ah mean, some day, likes, n ah’m rewarded wi the faintest ay smiles back.

— Dinnae start gittin fuckin wide, Billy threatens, — no the day!

This bam is big-time nippy, and ah’m guessing he’s recollecting the time he caught me chugging Wee Davie off. A tough sell explainin tae them aw that it wis solely fir the poor wee cunt’s ain benefit; ah certainly derived zero pleasure fae said act. You can operate fae the purest ay motives but some fuckers will eywis misconstrue it tae fit their ain twisted agenda. But ah ken the mood Bilbo’s in, and tae be honest, ah’m a wee bit scaredy-cat. — It’ll no be for me, ah protest.

We hear the phone being snatched up, my ma saying a few words, then joining us tae augment the dense smoke further wi her B&H. We could aw be cramped in this poky room and still play a passable game ay hide-n-seek. — Mark, it’s fir you.

Billy’s eyes narrow: annoyed and vindicated at the same time. The latter wins and, eftir hudin the stare for a second, we baith start tae laugh: loud, tension-releasing sniggers. Don’t like that lairy cunt, never have; but tae ma extreme discomfit ah’m sometimes compelled tae remember that ah sort ay love him. However, this is Chez Renton; as soon as one cunt gets onside, so another is alienated. — What’s fuckin funny? Ma screams. — Ah dinnae find anything funny!

That lingo will see you in hell, Mater. Another set ay Hail Marys chalked up tae some nonce in a frock later!

Ah upturn ma palms in surrender mode. — Ah’ll git the phone, and ah head through tae the perennially draughty hall where we keep the blower, fixed tae the waw. — Hello?

— Mark, is that yur?

— Aye. Fi?

— How are yur, pet?

— No bad; aw the better for hearing your voice, but.

— Listen, Mark, I’m at the Waverley. Ah wannar come to your brother’s funeral with yur.

First emotion: elation. Second: unease at the plethora of potential social embarrassments that loom.
Hazel and Mark E’s tape. Ah well
. — Great, eh … thanks, that’s brilliant, ah go, fiddling aroond in the drawer in the feeble wooden stand under the phone. There’s an empty spec case my ma uses for her auld reading glasses. That’ll dae for they works that Sick Boy gied us. Ah stick it in ma jaykit poakit.

— Ah’m getting a taxi now, pet. Wor shall ah meet yur?

— Ask the driver tae take ye tae a pub on Leith Walk called Tommy Younger’s.

— Okay. See yur in ten minutes.

My mother’s evidently been on surveillance, emerging intae the hallway in gunfighter stance. Her thin frame shakes, the cigarette twitching in her hand. — Yir no meeting anybody in nae pub! The car’s ordered! We’re leaving fae here! We go
as a faimlay
!

— Ah’m meeting my, ehm, muh girlfriend, fae the university.

— Girlfriend? she gasps, as Dad steps oot behind her. — Ye never says nowt tae us aboot nae girlfriend, she accuses, before her big eyes narrow tae slits. — Bit ye widnae, wid ye, Mark, cause it’s aw bloody secrets wi you!

— Cathy … my dad soothes, his hand on her shoodir.

Her heid lashes roond violently, eyes devouring him. — Well, it is, Davie! Mind that wee lassie we heard greetin in the stair? He wisnae gonnae let her intae the hoose!

That wis a cringer … fuckin needy minger followin us hame eftir ah’d cowped her up the goods yerd … them bringin her in n makin a fuss ay her, insistin ah sat up n drank fuckin coffee wi her in the kitchen when ah wanted tae die die die … or thaime tae aw die die die die, ya huns
…

As ah feel my neck n ears flarin rid in recall, Billy’s oot now, suddenly interested. — Whae wis this?

— Never you mind, my dad sais, and ah remain silent as a hatchet-wound grin splits Billy’s coupon.

— Bring her here, Ma appeals, flicking some falling ash fae the sleeve ay her jaundice-yellay cardigan, — we’ll huv room in the cars.

— Naw, eh, ah’ll just see yis aw doon there. It might be a bit too heavy fir her being in the funeral party, when she doesnae ken anybody, likes, ah explain, as Sharon appears alongside Billy, cocking a waxed eyebrow.

— Ye mean too heavy fir
you
! my ma accuses. — He’s
still
embarrassed by us, by his ain faimly! She turns tae the others in appeal. — Well,
he’s
away, now,
he
cannae embarrass ye any mair … that wee sowel that never hurt a fly … that wee angel … and she sparks up again.

— Cathy … my auld man says, still in a conciliatory mode, — lit um go.

— Naw, she says, eyes again shockingly fish-protuberant. — How’s he no gaunny bring the lassie back here? This lassie naebody even kens aboot! He’s never even mentioned her! It’s aw big bloody secrets, as usual! He’s ashamed! she accuses. — Ashamed ay his ain faimlay!

Billy Boy dragons oot some smoke and gies us a feculent glower. — Feelin’s fuckin mutual, ah’ll tell ye that for nowt.

Your powers of smoke inhalation are impressive, Tobacco Boy. Far more so than your cryptic remarks
.

Ma looks ceilingward. — Holy Father … what huv ah done …?

— Dinnae start now, no the day, Dad plea-threatens. — C’moan, everybody. Simmer doon. Show some respect for the wee man. Mark, go and meet this lassie, this … he stalls on the word like it’s a moothfae ay exotic food he’s no quite sure aboot, — … girlfriend, but dinnae you be late for the cemetery. And you’ll be in that front pew wi her, alongside me, yir mother, yir brother and Sharon. Got that?

Aw that fuckin fuss n drama ower whaire some cunt sits
…

Ah gie a slight nod, instantly aware this action will be too minimalist for him.

— Ah sais
got that
?

Suspicion confirmed. — Aye, nae worries, ah tell um, skippin doon the hallway, oot ay the archaic, reeking fug intae the respite ay stair n street, and oantae Junction Strasse. A peckish Joe Baxi rumbles doon the road n ah flag him, and we tear up the Walk tae TY’s.

Inside the big cavern of a pub, ah git a nod fae Willie Farrell and Kenny Thomson, a couple ay aulder boys ah vaguely ken. It’s scary, the wey they epitomise Leith gadges; you bar-hop till ye eventually come tae rest in one dive and then just grow auld there. You’ll ken where tae find them in ten, twenty years’ time. Thankfully, Fiona’s only a couple ay minutes eftir us, her appearance liftin me tae the heavens. — Mark … so good ta see yur, honey, she says, then her tongue caresses those top pearly white teeth. She’s fucking enchanting.

Newcastle Station … Waverley … fuck that
…

We embrace, me no lookin at Willie and Kenny, n Fiona puttin ma stiffness doon tae grief. We settle intae a quiet corner wi two lagers. Ah
tell
her how difficult it’s been wi ma family. She says it’ll be a hard time fir everybody. Ah agree. What ah decide tae dae is just forget aboot aw the bad, stupid, weak shite. Make like it nivir fuckin well happened. Cause it’s her n me now, that’s how it’s gaunny be and the rest is just a pile ay irrelevant fuckin nonsense.

We down our pints, n ah get another shout in. It’s right again. Ah swarm ma senses wi her; touching, looking, kissing, hugging, but when ah try tae talk ah’m aw tongue-tied and cliché-bound. — It’s okay, Mark, she says, and as she holds me, a choking ball ay refluxed gut acid comes up but ah force it back doon. Ah feel ma Adam’s aypil bobbin as ma cauld palms frame her face. — It is just
so fucking good
tae see you.

— Oh, Sweet Vanilla, she says as we get up, me a bit para in case any ay they cunts at the bar have heard the nickname she’s gied us (cause ah look like a vanilla ice cream wi raspberry on toap), then exit oantae the Walk. Ah flag doon an approachin Joey, takin us tae the crematorium.

People are filing intae the chapel ay rest, but we’re no late, we’re just eftir the hearse n coffin, so they make wey fir us. There’s a few ghouls who love this part ay the proceedings, but maist writhe uncomfortably inside their ill-fitting black garments in nervous anticipation ay the peeve tae follay. My ma and dad baith look massively relieved tae see me, as we get intae the seats kept for us, in front ay the Glasgow and Midlothian relatives and assorted friends n neighbours. A drooling simpleton doesnae make a busload ay sentient chums but naebody likes tae see a young cunt stiffed and there’s a healthy turnoot. Ah can see ma mates; Begbie, Matty, Spud, Sick Boy, Tommy, Keezbo, Second Prize, Sully, Gav, Dawsy, Stevie, Mony, Moysie, Saybo and Nelly, as well as Davie Mitchell, Young Bobby and Les fae Gillsland’s. Nae Swanney. Ah clock Hazel, she’s wi Alison, Lesley, Nicky Hanlon and Julie Mathieson, another old tape-trading pal, who had a bairn wi some gadge, and whae’s lookin like two big eyes oan a stick. There’s grandparents, uncles and aunties and some mair auld relatives ah cannae quite recall, aw locked intae a grim, formless dotage. Sometimes a set ay fiery eyes within a puffy or scraggy white heid offer a clue as tae their previous identities as
real people
; but Schopenhauer was right: life has tae be aboot disillusionment; stumbling inexorably towards the totally fucked.

The service is conveyor-belt pish; the radgeworks God-botherer half-heartedly saying something aboot mysterious ways, as ah clock him glance at his watch a couple ay times. Then ah find ma eyes locking oantae the sealed coffin; even with the attentions ay physios and Ma and Dad’s maist sterling efforts, Wee Davie had spazzed up that much that they’d have
needed
tae brek his airms n spine in a couple ay places tae get him tae assume the position in thaire. Nae wonder the auld boy drew the line at the open-casket pape ceremony the old girl craved.

Some strange things happen, but. On the wey oot the chapel, headin tae the cars in the drizzling rain, eftir pressin cauld, bony flesh wi the mourners, my dad kisses us oan ma cheek. It’s the first time he’s done this since ah wis at early primary school. The whiff ay his aftershave and his big gravelly chin against ma skin is infantilisin. Then, when we get in the motor tae go along Ferry Road tae the do at the Ken Buchanan Hotel, my ma crushes my hand and sais, through a blindin mask ay tears, — You’re ma wee baby now. Ah put it down tae grief talkin, but part ay me is thinkin:
This woman is fucking insane
, as resentment and tenderness battle inside me.

At the hotel, as ah drink a whisky and eat a gut-blistering sausage roll, Hazel comes ower tae me and Fiona. Something seems tae flash between the lassies, but this time ah’m too deflated tae feel awkward. — Hi, Haze. Ah kisses her chastely on the cheek. — Thanks for comin. Eh, this is Fiona, then ah add, in stupid, ham-fisted formality, — Fiona Conyers, Hazel McLeod.

Hazel shakes Fiona’s hand. — I’m a friend of Mark’s, she sais. Whatever passes between them is dignified, almost touchin, and ah feel masel briefly openin up inside. Ah take a hard swallay ay the burnin whisky tae snuff the emotion.

Fiona said what people always say under these circumstances: it’s nice tae meet you but it’s a pity it has tae be under these circumstances. Circumstances. Ah’ve goat Hazel’s Fall tape in ma poakit, a mix ay ma fave tracks fae
Slates, Hex Enduction Hour
and
Room to Live
, and aye, ah was planning tae gie it tae her. But it disnae seem right in front ay Fiona. Schopenhauer said male relationships are defined by a natural indifference, but female ones typified by antagonism. Then again, he wis a really cynical cunt.

The Hazel tapes
.

Hazel and me were friends fae school. Since second year. We listened tae music thegither; Velvets, Bowie, T. Rex, Roxy, Iggy and the Stooges, Pistols, Clash, Stranglers, Jam, Bunnymen, Joy Division, Gang ay Four, Simple Minds, Marvin Gaye, Sister Sledge, Wire, Virgin Prunes, Smokey Robinson, Aretha Franklin, Dusty Springfield and
not
Beatles, Stones, Slade, Springsteen, U2, OMD, Flock of Seagulls, Hall and Oates, thegither, in our respective bedrooms. Ah liked her, but fancied other girls; sluttier yins, ah suppose. Girls wi high shrieking laughter who said ‘beat it, son’ or
‘dinnae
bother us’ when ye made yir move. Whae gied ye measured looks and said ‘mibbe’ when ye said ‘you n me then’, like ye were offering them a square-go. But even though it was an obvious imperative, ah never wanted tae just plunge ma cock intae a lassie. Ah was always looking for something mair complicated; possibly drama, mibbe even love, whae the fuck kens?

My mates refused tae believe that Hazel and me wirnae fucking. She’s good-looking, in a depressive sort ay way. A goth in spirit, if one wrapped in straight disco-girl clothing; those incongruously bright pastels ay Top Shop on weekdays, pushing the boat oot tae Etam at the weekend. Then one time ah was playing her a Stranglers album,
Black and White
, and we started necking. Ah think ah initiated it, maybe ah was fed up wi the doss cunts’ assumptions, or it could be ma mind is playing tricks oan us as it often does. Perhaps the Stranglers lyrics gied us a sense ay entitlement. But whoever started it, it stoaped when ah tried tae go further. She had what could only be described as a panic attack, and the ferocity ay it shocked us. She went intae these convulsions, couldnae breathe for a bit, n started gaun rid. It was like an asthma attack ay the sort Spud used tae get, or Wee Davie, spazzing oot …