Skagboys (48 page)

A pigeon coos noisily from the window ledge and Tommy’s eyes spring open. He gratefully fills them with Lizzie, sitting up next to him reading
Slaughterhouse-Five
. She wears reading glasses; he’s never seen her in them before. Her curly brunette hair is pinned back. She has a T-shirt on, and he wonders how long she’s been awake and if she’s somehow put her blue knickers back on. — Hiya.

— Hiya. Lizzie looks down at him with a smile.

He pushes himself up on his elbows, to better take in the airy, scented room.

— Ye want some breakfast? Lizzie asks.

— Aye … he hesitates. — Ehm … what d’ye fancy?

— I think I’ve got some eggs in the fridge. Scrambled egg and toast?

— Great.

Then a sudden loud, truculent bang on the door. — Who the fuck can that be? Lizzie angrily wonders aloud, but instantly rises and pulls on a dressing gown. Looks back at Tommy, to catch him looking at her. She is wearing her blue knickers but the sight of her still makes his lips sting.

— Leave it, he pleads.

She considers this. Then that knock again, insistent like a polisman’s. — It sounds important.

Lizzie momentarily wonders if her flatmate Gwen will get it, before recalling that she’s away for the weekend. That’s why she brought Tommy back. She finds her cat-face slippers and goes through to the hallway, as the pounding on the door starts again, matching the rhythm of last night’s red wine in her head. — Alright! Ah’m coming!

She opens the door and is astonished to see Francis Begbie standing before her.

— Tommy here?

Lizzie is briefly rendered speechless. She brought Tommy back and now this nutcase knows where she lives!

— Sorry tae disturb ye. Begbie cracks a facsimile of a smile, evidently not sorry at all.

— Wait here, she says, turning away.

Begbie keeps his foot in the door so it won’t spring shut on him. Lizzie can feel his eyes tracking her as she moves down the hallway. She gets into the bedroom, where Tommy is getting dressed. He thinks he heard Franco’s voice;
surely not
. But Lizzie’s scowl, it tells him,
surely yes
. — It’s for you.

As Tommy departs, Lizzie seethes, rethinking everything.

— Fuckin result, Tommy boy! Franco bellows as Tommy moves down the hallway. It totally disarms his anger, and Tommy has to fight back the urge to smile.

— What you daein here?

— Thoat ye’d fuckin well be here, ya cunt! Ma cousin Avril steys in this stair: nowt thit fuckin well goes oan in Leith gits past Franco, mind ay that, ya cunt. Fill hoose fuckin last night then, Tommy, eh? Oafay wee teeny drawers n aw! That’ll seeken Sick Boy’s fuckin pus, ya cunt!

Tommy smiles, glancing back down the hallway. The cold stings his bare arms in his T-shirt. Begbie, though clad in an Adidas tee and thin jacket, doesn’t appear at all uncomfortable. — What d’ye want, Franco?

— What the fuck d’ye think? What wis ah fuckin well sayin aw this
week,
ya daft cunt? Heid too fill ay aw this fanny nonsense, that’s your fuckin trouble! Ebirdeen! The day. Easter Road. The YLT: show they wee casual cunts how it’s done. You, me, Saybo, Nelly, Dexy, Sully, Lenny, Ricky Monaghan, Dode Sutherland, Jim Sutherland, Chancy McLean n loads ay other cunts. Larry’s oot ay hoaspital! Some fuckin mob! The auld school ur back oan the rampage! Cannae git a fuckin hud ay Spud but he’s jist like Renton n Sick Boy doon in London: nae fuckin loss. Fuckin liabilities whin it comes tae the fuckin swedge, they cunts.

Tommy stands agog, listening in disbelief to Franco’s spiel.

— Aye, wir aw doon the Cenny right now. Even Second Prize! No drinkin n aw. Meant tae be oaf the peeve; like that’s gaunny fuckin last! Hates a bevvy, that cunt. That’ll be a laugh, him n that fuckin Ebirdeen cunt that looks like Bobby Charlton, rollin around in the fuckin gutter thegither! Mind ay him, the cunt thit’s baldy as fuck at twinty-two?

— Scargill, Tommy says, remembering this plump guy with a frizzy comb-over, leading an Aberdeen ambush in King Street from the Pittodrie Bar. — Ah’ll see yis doon thaire later, he says with as much enthusiasm as he can muster.

— Be sure ye fuckin well dae. Franco looks on in accusation. — Thuv brought doon a big fuckin mob, n it’s aw hands oan the fuckin deck. Thir no fuckin swaggerin aroond Leith, fuckin well surein thair no. A bunch ay fuckin sheepshaggers wi thair diddy European Cup Winners’ Cup, comin doon here, drinkin in oor pubs, chattin up oor … Franco hesitates, looks at Tommy.

Tommy can’t resist it. — Sheep?

Franco just shuts down for a few seconds. He goes still and silent and the oxygen seems to leave the stair. Then a thin smile dances on his lips. He laughs loudly, allowing Tommy to expel the air he hasn’t realised he’s been holding on to. — Good yin, ya cunt! Right, mind, jist be thaire, Begbie says, turning abruptly and bouncing down the stairs. He looks back up at Tommy from the stairbend and says in a low, even growl, — Mind, dinnae keep us waitin.

Tommy shuts the door and tries to gather himself. Lizzie’s quick appearance with her hands on her hips, and that expression on her face that says,
well?
It shunts him from despondency to desperation. — Franco … ah forgot ah’d arranged tae go tae the game with the boys.

— Ah dinnae like fuckin psychopaths comin tae ma door in the morning, Tommy.

— Franco’s awright … he says half-heartedly. — His cousin steys doonstairs. Avril.

— Aye. I know who she is. Three kids and aw wi different faithers … she begins in disapproval but his wretched, cartoonish expression of repentance under that chestnut wedge of hair softens her. — We’ve nae milk.

— I’ll go doon for some, he volunteers.

Tommy sticks on his jumper before venturing outside. There is a skip in his step as he emerges from Lizzie’s stair. But one thought ignites inside him:
me and Lizzie
. Even Franco can’t dampen that. It
is
a result.

The street is slowly coming to life, as bleary party heads who’ve stayed up all night merge with those making a fresh assault on the weekend. As he passes a phone box, Tommy feels a surge of inspiration, as Franco’s words, sly and crass but also thoroughly vindicating, ricochet inside his lit-up skull.
Fill hoose fuckin last night then, Tommy, eh? Oafay wee teeny drawers n aw! That’ll seeken Sick Boy’s fuckin pus, ya cunt!

He double-backs to make a call to London. A faraway voice answers, as he drops in the coins. — Hello, hello, it’s good to be back …

It’s Renton. He sounds wasted. — Mark.

— Tommy … yir nivir gaunny believe it, ah wis jist gaunny phone ye … what did ah jist say tae you, Nicksy?

A cockney voice, which Tommy recognises;
the wee guy we met at Blackpool, the boy that was up at New Year. Nicksy
. — Olroight, Tommy mate? Come dahn ere n take these cunts back up ta Jockoland … we gotta bitta farking graft lined up tamorra and them fuckahs ain’t able …

— Naw, mate, you’re stuck wi them now. We dinnae want these bams back up here!

— Another flaming cross ta bear … Alright, geezer, see ya …

— Cheers, gadge …

And then Rents is back on. — How goes bonnie Scotland, Tam?

— The usual. Begbie’s oan the fuckin warpath again.

— Aye … the boy just needs a wee bit ay love …

— Wantin tae go battlin at the fitba wi Aberdeen. It’s bad enough wi Lochend n that, now he’s wantin us tae fight wi cunts ah dinnae even ken! What’s it tae me if these Aberdeen boys batter some gadgie fae Granton or somewhere? Begbie’s aw fired up by aw this casuals shite. He’s six or seven years aulder than these wee cunts. It’s pathetic.

— Ye ken the Generalissimo. Any excuse for aggro. It’s his thing … Renton collapses into a strange laughter Tommy hasn’t heard from him before. — Heuh … heuh …

— What was that?

— Sick Boy’s sayin that he needs tae git rode.

— Makes nae difference. That Samantha Frenchard tramp fae Pilton’s hud his bairn and now he’s goat that June Chisholm up the stick.

— Aye, but they’d need tae a bit fuckin doolally lettin Franco ride them in the first place. So what aboot youse then? Any serious girl action? Or is it aw still drugs?

A pause. Then Renton says: — Ah ha! Guess whae’s shaggin and phonin up jist tae rub it in oor faces!

— Well, aye, ah met somebody the weekend before last. And it’s aw goin pri-tay fuckin sweet if ah say so masel.

— Aboot time you got yir Nat King. Anybody we ken?

— Lizzie, Lizzie McIntosh.

— No way!

— Aye way. We’re proper gaun oot.

— Jammy cunt! Snobby ultra-shag Lizzie fae ower the Links –

— Whaat … he hears Sick Boy saying, —
Tommy’s
riding Lizzie Mac?

— Aye, it’s mental, Rents goes, then says into the phone, — Ah used tae wank aboot her … Did ah tell ye aboot the time ah once caught Begbie wanking ower her at the school sports – no wanking
ower
her physically, or like
ower
her in porn, wanking
aboot
her –

— Ah sais
we’re gaun oot
, Mark! Tommy protests, remembering how Rents and Sick Boy together are often a devastatingly cruel combination. While professing to get on each other’s nerves, they constantly egg each other on like malevolent twins fixated on the woe of others.

There follows another uncomfortable hiatus on the line, which Renton eventually ends. — Aye … eh, sorry, Tam, we should be mair, eh, mature … nice yin. Result. Nae riding gaun oan wi me, but Sick Boy … well, Sick Boy’s Sick Boy, eh?

— Ingloid fanny-fest! Sick Boy shouts defiantly into the phone.

— We’ve goat a dug but, Renton continues. — Nicksy wanted tae call it Clyde, eftir Clyde Best, cause he’s a black Lab, but me n Sick Boy started callin him Giro n that’s what he answers tae –

The pips start to rattle. — Right. See ye later, Mark.

— Right … Tell Swanney … Rents starts to ramble and Tommy enjoys the sensation of the line going dead before he lowers the phone to its cradle.

In the shop Tommy buys some milk and a newspaper. His inclination is the
Record
, but he thinks the
Scotsman
might impress Lizzie more. He picks it up and is about to hand it over to the shop assistant, then decides
to
swap it for the
Herald
on last-minute considerations of sexism. He doesn’t know whether Lizzie is a feminist of some sort, but this early in the gig, it pays to tick every box.

Lizzie versus Begbie. Could anything be less of a contest? At twenty-two he’s too old to be fighting boys from Aberdeen, or Lochend for that matter. It’s nonsense. You grow out of that shite. That Kevin McKinlay boy from Lochend’s sound. He met him recently, playing football. They crossed swords before and on seeing him in the changing rooms at the Gyle, Tommy was geared up for a confrontation or at least a hateful stare and a snub. But the McKinlay boy just nodded and smiled at him, as if to say:
Water under the bridge. Silly boys’ stuff. All over now
.

It’s different with bams. There’s never any water under the bridge. There are no bridges. One day they’ll be MALT: Middle Aged Leith Team, and still fighting the old battles of their youth. Not him. Now, for the first time, he’s seeing that there really is a way out of this, and it’s all so simple. You don’t have to run away. You just meet somebody special and step sideways into a parallel universe. Tommy has never been in love before. He’d wanted to with previous girls but he hadn’t felt it. Now it’s squeezing at every part of him; beautiful, silly, obsessive and taking up all his time and thoughts. He’s hungry to get back to Lizzie, with a desperation that completely unnerves him.

Alison, laying down a tray of toast and tea on the glass coffee table, now saw her family home as a hotchpotch of furniture from different eras. In the small front room a seventies teak fireplace jostled for space with a Victorian mahogany chest of drawers, a contemporary oak-framed suite, while the blobs of a sixties lava lamp grew fat before launching themselves north. Her father, Derrick, had never been able to give up on an old piece of furniture, simply shuffling it around the house. Now his mind seemed as full of unconnected clutter as she watched him attempt to interrogate her brother, Calum. — You think ah dunno what yir up tae? Think ah wis born yesterday?

Calum’s disdainful look seemed to say:
If ye were born yesterday that would make ye a greetin-faced bairn. So, aye, it sortay fits
.

— Eh? Answer us!

Calum remained mute, having barely spoken two words to anyone since their mother’s death. Alison knew this wasn’t good. Nonetheless, she sympathised with her brother, hating it when their father was like this. She’d always considered him a clever man, but grief and anger had rendered him stupid. Had he any idea what a spaz he looked with that retarded
tache,
crouched hung-over in front of the lecky bar fire, that tartan dressing gown hanging over his thin shoulders?

Derrick couldn’t hold back another dose of cliché. — It’s just that ah dinnae want ye tae make the same mistakes ah did.

— It’s only natural, Cal, Alison supportively intervened. — Dad widnae be human if he didnae care … right, Dad?

Derrick Lozinska chose to ignore his oldest daughter, remaining focused on his son. Calum’s eyes were on the soundless TV where Daffy Duck silently scammed a bemused Porky Pig. — Ye ken fine well what that crowd are. Trouble. Big trouble. Ah ken. Ah seen yis, mind!

This couldn’t be contested. Their father regularly bored Alison by recounting his unfortunate witnessing of the Baby Crew in action. That ambush at the Crawford Bridge at Bothwell Street; mob on mob, then in pursuit of an escaping group of Rangers fans. Calum had been to the fore, with a piece of broken stone cladding in his hand. When she’d asked her brother for his version of the events, he hadn’t denied it, just retorted that Derrick and his dingul mate shouldn’t have been there, as nobody went that way but away fans and boys looking for an off.

Calum hit the handset, changed the channel. Alison looked at the screen.
That auld bag wi aw the make-up oan her coupon’s reading the lunchtime news. Funny, she usually does the evenings
.