Skagboys (23 page)

Ah think aboot this. — We aw were.

— Speak for yersel, ah wisnae.

— Aye but it’s different for lassies. Ah’m talking aboot the boys, likesay, ah goes. Ah kin mind ay seein Ali in that prefect blazer. Whoa, man, telling ye, they things should be banned. Pure filth.

Ali laughs and pits her hand tae her mooth. She’s goat those cute lace gloves oan, fir the sake ay fashion rather than function, ken? — Danny, you were never at school long enough tae be good or bad at it. And ye were expelled fae two!

— Aye, ah agree, n as we pass Leithy, one ay my alma maters along wi Augies n Craigy, — but mibbe school isnae the best environment for some cats tae learn. Ah mean, maist animals learn by play, ah wink, — n we dae plenty ay that oan they dirty wee streets doon this auld port!

That wis me likesay tryin tae flirt but it bounces oaf the chick like bullets fae Superman’s chist, ken? Suppose, though, that this catgirl’s goat other things oan her mind. Bit mibbe she’s oot tae git away fae aw that. N somebody wis sayin she’s seein a gadge; supposed tae be some lucky aulder dude fae her work. Whae kens?

We hits the Percy and it’s lassies everywhere; Kelly, Squiggly, Claire McWhirter, Lorraine McAllister, that sexy Lizzie McIntosh supergirl fae the auld school, Esther McLaren, n man, wee Nicola Hanlon (the loveliest sex kitten ay them aw, man, ah amnae kiddin likesay) n many mair besides thit ah dinnae ken, cause it’s Squiggly n this lassie Anna’s twinty-first, so aw the Leith Lovelies are gaun oot fir a big blow-up in fair Edina.

Squiggers looks soor-faced at ma arrival, cause ah pure gied her that nickname years ago: Sally Quigly = Squiggly Diggly, eftir yon octopus that used tae be oan the telly when wi wir sprogs. Never kent what happened tae that cat, fae the same Hanna-Barbera stable as Top Cat, Yogi Bear n Huckleberry Hound, but never really stuck in the public’s consciousness in the same wey, ken? Aye, Squiggers didnae like it but, even if it wis only a bit ay retaliation for her daein that ‘Scruffy Murphy’ crap. Ah lashed
oot
cause ah suppose ah
wis
a bit ay a scruff at school, money bein too tight tae mention at Chez Murphy back in the day, ken?

Otherwise, though, the vibes are better than sweet, n ah’m pure thinkin: forget the boys, forget hearin aw that cack aboot fitba n music n whae’s claimed whae n whae’s battered whae, n whae’s been a radgeboy oan the peeve. Aye, ye cannae beat bein collapsed intae a big chair, just likesay sittin here surrounded by beauty n totally engagin the senses, man:

— … so what dae you think, Danny?

Ah think you rule, catgirl. — Well, Nicky, ah dinnae think ye kin go wrong wi the Hoochie. Everywhere else in Edinburgh is such a meat market, ken?

— What if you’re wantin some meat, but? she says, the cheeky wee vixen, and it’s breakin ma hert cause the likes ay Sick Boy, Tommy or even Rents or Begbie would say something like, ‘Well, in that case, jist stick wi me, babe.’ But this isnae the kind ay talk that comes oot ay ma mooth, n ah jist smiles at her, thinkin aboot the cruelty ay the world, wi aw that beauty bein wasted oan someone that disnae care, that sees this lovebird as jist another bedpost notch. Ah pure jist want tae say, ‘Fancy gaun oot for a bite tae eat sometime? There’s a smart new Chinky opened up in Elm Row,’ but ah’m no a man ay commerce n a lassie that works fir the Gas Board wid never consent tae go oot wi a common dole mole. N ah bet this dirty, lucky auld boy thit Ali’s seein fae her work, ah kin sortay hear her mentionin a gadgie’s name tae Squiggers, aw that coy wey, ah bet ye he’s goat tons ay spondoolays. It’s aw unfair, man, aw pure unfair.

Then thir finishin thair drinks, oan Squiggly’s instructions, n movin away, n Nicky looks sadly at me, n says, — Ah feel bad us leavin ye here, Danny –

— C’mon, Nicky! Squiggly shouts.

— It’s awright, ah’ll catch up wi the boys ower oan the Walk, thi’ll be in the Cenny or the Spey or the Volley or somewhaire like that, inching upwards taewards toon and oblivion, man. You ken, the usual circuit.

She smiles, n her n Ali baith sais cheerio. They aw head oaf, leavin ma hert in a million pieces. It’s shite when birds take a shine tae ye, but
as a mate
. Happens tae me aw the time; pure cast in the role ay the
nice guy that they dinnae want tae ride
. Ah’d love tae play the
bastard that they bang senseless
, but the likes ay Sick Boy’s goat that market sortay cornered in this neck ay the woods, ken?

So ah’m headin doon Gordon Strasse tae cut fae Easter Road oantae the Walk, and as ah’m crossin ower the grand thoroughfare ah clocks two boys leavin the Volley n headin up the street quite sharpish. Next thing
ah
ken is that Begbie’s ootside behind them, shoutin eftir them, — Youse cunts want a fuckin photae?

Uh-aw … puppies, kittens n bunnies … puppies, kittens n bunnies
…

The boys turn roond n look the Beggar Boy up and doon. One’s a bit feart, he’s a chubby boy, n young, but still sortay spamy-heided. The other gadge’s goat the swagger, but, wi this killer glare comin oot fae under that that flouncy light broon hair. This laddie isnae a closet poof, frontin it fir aw he’s worth; thaire’s evil intent in they eyes. — You wir muckin ma sister aboot …

Domestic affairs, man. So ah’ve crossed the road n ah’m alongside Begbie. Goat tae at least provide moral support likesay. The Beggar Boy’s ma mate; besides, ah huv tae see him nearly every day, unlike those stranger dudes. Baith the feral and fat domestic cat glance at us, n baith seem tae decide that ah’ll mibbe no make much ay a difference. Cannae sortay really argue wi that likes.

No that the Beggar Boy’s actin like he needs assistance. — Ah’ve mucked a few cunts’ sisters aboot, he laughs. He turns tae me n goes, — If thir game thir gittin banged, right? Then back tae the boy, — You goat a fuckin problem wi that, cunty-baws?

Well, ye kin see that this cat really hates his sister at this point in time, man, wishin that the lassie had gied her hole tae anybody but Franco or hud swallayed the auld Jack n Jill wi her cup ay English Breakfast that fateful morning, ken? Fair play tae the gadge but, he takes a step forward n says, — Ah dinnae think you ken whae yir fuckin aboot wi here!

Aw naw, man, ah feel ma eyes quiver n water like thaire’s grit in thum. Ah’m wonderin: whaire’s the rest ay the boys?

But Franco stands his groond, in fact ye kin tell he’s chuffed tae fuck, cause that cat jist loves a row n they boys huv sortay played intae his swipey, swipey paws. — See the fuckin jealousy ay some cunts, eh, Spud? Ah’ve jist been gittin you boys’ sloppy seconds, or so yir hoor ay a sister fuckin well says!

That does the trick: the radge boy flips oot n runs up n swings at Franco, hittin him on the shoodir. Begbie gits a hook in at his side, and the boy thinks he’s been punched, but ah see the glint, n his next blow’s square intae the laddie’s gut, which stops um in his tracks. As he looks doon at the blood soakin his blue shirt, the gadge’s face is frozen in horror. Begbie’s pocketed the blade but he’s jist standin thaire, coolly appraisin his work, like a foreman oan a site checkin the quality ay the job. The chubby boy comes forward n ah’m movin slowly taewards him, but wi ma hands oot, cause it’s a square-go n thaire’s need for us tae go at it …

Uh-aw
…

But now Tommy n some ay the boys have come oot, and Tommy runs up and smacks fatboy in the chops. — Git the fuck up the road, fir yir ain good, he sais, then as the boy staggers away, hudin his burst mooth, Tommy looks at the other gadge bleedin, n jumps oot intae the Walk and flags doon a taxi.

The cab stops and Tommy is sortay escortin the chibbed psycho boy intae it, telling um, — Git that seen tae right away, the gut’s no that bad, but the side yin, he might huv hit an organ, and ah’m worried, man, now thit ye kin see the fear oan the boy’s face, he disnae look mental now, jist a scared laddie, as Tam’s shuttin the door behind um, n the cab speeds oaf.

The chunky, spammy gadge is staggerin up the Walk, hudin his face as he looks back. We’re aw laughin, then git back intae the pub. Ye kin tell, though, that Tommy’s pissed oaf wi Begbie. Eventually he says, — What wir ye fuckin thinking aboot, bringin oot a fuckin chib in the Walk? Thaire wis nae need. They came in here, clocked us, n they didnae fancy the odds.

— Wisnae gaunny go swedgin wi the cunt in the fuckin Walk, wis ah? Franco sneers. — So ah jist plunged the radge a couple ay times, gie um something tae fuckin well think aboot oan the wey hame, eh?

The gadge makes it aw sound so reasonable.

Tommy’s bitin doon oan his bottom lip. — Well, we’ll huv tae move oan and you’ll need tae sling that chib in case the polis come roond.

— It’s a fuckin barry chib but, Franco protests, — best bit ay Sheffield ah’ve hud in fuckin yonks, so he turns tae an auld boy whae’s on the wey oot, — Jack, goan take this hame wi ye n ah’ll git it oaf ye the morn.

— Nae bother, son, the auld gadge sais, poakitin the blade and shufflin oot ay the pub.

— All solved, Begbie smiles. — Calls fir a wee peeve. He turns tae the bar. — Les, nips ay Grouse aw roond, then, hen! Yin fir yersel n aw, princess!

As Lesley nods and starts firin up the shorts, Tommy’s shakin his heid. — Fuckin madness, he goes.

Nelly’s hearin nane ay it, but. — Franco’s fuckin right. It’s between him n the burd, these cunts should have kept thair fuckin nebs oot, faimlay or nae faimlay. Consentin fuckin adults. Cunts start tae make it thair problem, we make it oor fuckin problem.

— Too fuckin right, Franco goes. — The wey things ur gaun these days, ye cannae fuckin well hud back. Cunts jist try n take the fuckin pish if ye dae but, eh?

Tommy sees thit thaire’s nowt tae be gained in discussin it further. — Cunt’s face wis a treat gittin intae that taxi, right enough.

Franco slaps um oan the back as Lesley lines up the nips. Ah’m no really wantin whisky, rum would suit me, bein mair ay seafarin man ay the port, but the Generalissimo’ll get humpty if ah refuse. — That wis good thinkin but, Tam, he says, — gittin that fucker intae the taxi. Dinnae want him bleedin up n doon the Walk, drawin polis eyes.

— That’s what ah thoat: git the cunt oot the road.

— Anywey, Nelly goes, passin the nips around, — cheers.

We aw toast Franco n that awfay whisky burns like a poker as it goes doon, but it leaves a nice wee glow. Ye kin feel it whin ye git outside.

N we head up tae Tommy Younger’s en route tae Edinburgh, aw buzzed up, n it’s the same excitement that ah used tae feel when ah goat up fir work oan a good mornin at the furniture deliveries, where ye wondered if ye were gaunny dae a big run, maybe up tae Perth or even Inverness or somewhere like that, or if it wis jist gaunny be local, and aw the laughs ye’d huv wi the boys. Now thaire’s nowt like that, nae work fir the unskilled man like me. But this feels good, no chibbin boys likes, Tam’s right, Franco’s oot ay order, but bein part ay a team, huvin somethin tae talk aboot, a tale tae tell. Cause wi aw need that; wi aw need something tae dae n a tale tae tell.

Freedom

THEY SAY THAT
freedom never came free. My grant’s soon tae be abolished and made intae a loan, then it’s game over. Fuck accruin arrears ye’ll never be able tae pey oaf. Might as well have a baw n chain fastened tae yir ankle aw yir puff. When the likes ay Joanne and Bisto get hitched, become teachers or local government officers, they’ll spend the rest ay their lives rackin up shitloads ay debt; student loans, mortgages, car payments. Then they’ll look back on it aw, n see they were fuckin conned.

Why should the future matter? Ah’ve got my ain place, a lassie wi her ain place, even if we kip ower at each other’s aw the time. Sitting in the college library thegither, debating, discussing our assignments, sourcing texts for each other, until we go back to her book-filled wee room or mine. We cook for each other; she’s got me into vegetarianism, which ah’ve been interested in for a while. Ah like meat, but unless ye kin afford really decent stuff it’s just fuckin poison. Fuck eatin aw that processed shite they pit in pies and fast food.

Most importantly, we shag at least twice a day. It’s proper sex, relaxed and unhurried, no done on the sly. The sublime luxury ay removin aw yir clathes and no rushin tae put them back oan again. It strikes me that although I’ve shagged eighteen girls, Fiona’s the only yin that’s really seen us naked for any length ay time. Even now ah still feel as if some cunt’s gaunny intrude. Ah have tae keep telling masel:
take yir fuckin time
.

But afterwards, when ah’m in her airms, like now, ah feel like ah’m trapped in a vice. Ah want tae get up, tae go oot for a walk. — You’re so restless, Mark, she says. — Why can’t ya evah relax?

— Ah kind ay fancy a wee walk.

— But it’s freezin outside.

— Still but. Might go tae the shops. Get some stuff fir a stir-fry.

— You go, she says dreamily, loosening her embrace, turning and fighting her way back intae sleep.

And ah’m intae my clathes and oot the door. How can ye explain tae somebody ye love that ye still need mair? How dae ye dae that? Love is supposed tae provide aw the answers, tae gie us everything.
All
you
need is love
. It’s fuckin bullshit though: ah need something, but it isnae love.

The communal phone in the residences’ corridor is inviting. There’s usually a mad Greek burd on it aw the time, spraffin fir ooirs. But now it’s free, so ah call Sick Boy at Monty Street. He was up in court the other day, giein evidence. He answers, aw chary, — Whae’s this?

— Mark. Call us back, the pips ur gaunny go, and ah shout oot the number, then again, as the line goes deid.

Sure enough, the Greek lassie appears, ghostin doon the institutional white corridor. Pus as tense as a plate at her sister’s weddin. — You are going to use the phone?

— Aye, somebody’s just calling me back.

She tuts loudly, cheeky fuckin monopolisin hoor, but sits doon on one ay the row ay three seats n pulls oot a book.

A minute later the phone rings. — Awright, Rents. Nae fuckin change, ya tight cunt?

— Naw … they phones just eat it up. How did it go up the coort?