Skagboys (75 page)

Contretemps! Cosmic forces again!

— You mean late? Ah swallow hard. — Your period is
late
?

— Si … She looks into my eyes with her glassy lamps.

The key is not to crumble. Keep the heid. You’ve heard this one before, you’ll probably hear it again … you have legs, and there are trains. You will never be the sort who passively accepts cards that are unfairly dealt to him
…

So ah take her hands in mine, and say, — Don’t jump to conclusions, babes. Let’s get a wee test done … a test, so that we know one way or the other. Whatever happens, we’ll get through this little
contretemps
together. C’mon, ah look around, — let’s get ootay here.

And we leave the bar and the station, taking the rocky road out of
town
towards the auld farm, making plans as we go. By the time we get to the barn at the back of the farmhouse, where scabby goats graze on the feeble grass, I’ve reassured her. So much so that the front straps ay that dress slip easily fae her thin shoodirs, and ah push aside the dark curtain ay her tumbling locks to expose that exquisite neck, which was made tae be kissed, vampire-like.

— You will show me Edinburgh, Simon, she gasps under my love bite.

Ah whisper intae her ear as ah work my hands round her back tae skilfully unhook her white bra, marvelling at just how brown those paps are, — You just try stopping me, babes, you just try stopping me, ah tell her, but you know what? Ah’m not thinking of church, bambinos and watching her bloat and develop kitchen expertise and settle for the Saturday-morning pumping that will allow me to flirt with the town lovelies; no no no, she is mistaking Simone for someone else. My overt concerns might be the almost unfeasibly magnificent curve ay her waist as it cuts intae her hip, but pulsing away in the background is an image ay me on that local train tae Napoli, then heading on to Turin, Paris, London and Edinburgh. — Alone, my darling, always alone, ah murmur in a deep croak, as ah slide my hands down her waist and intae her underpants. — If there is life inside you, Catholic Princess, head north where some cold-blooded Nazi abortionist will scrape it out, or pay the price of living in a papist backwater … She gasps something back, and thank fuck she doesnae ken what ah’m on about, because eftir this ah’m fucking right off hame; a tough sell tae the Holy Papa, this yin, but these are my mountains, and this is my glen. Hail, Caledonia!

Chasing Brown

AH’M SORTAY KEEPIN
ma heid doon cause ah’m still feelin Shakin Stevens eftir rehab n that bout in the hoaspital. Ah wis sweatin bad the other night n pure hit the panic button: jist cause ay bein feart that ah’ve goat that cowie thir aw gittin. At one stage ah couldnae git ma breath; it wis like ah’d forgotten
how
tae breathe. Ah ken ah likesay took the test n they sais ah wis fine, but somethin’s no right. They used tae say that it wis just poofs that goat it, no that ah’m sayin poofs deserve it like, but it worries us thit ye kin git it jist fir bangin up wi the Jeremy Beadles n that. So ah wis up maist ay the night, tryin tae git ma breath, listenin tae they cats ootside at the back, fightin n huvin sex. Total relief when the mornin light came in; it meant ah could finally git tae sleep.

Everybody’s gittin intae skag nowadays. It used tae be jist a few hip aulder cats like Denny Ross n Sambuca Agnes, then it was the wannabe cool dudes likesay Rents, Sick Boy n moi, whae mibbe goat too enmeshed in the ‘fuck youse’ rock n roll culture, likesay, ken? Tryin too much tae shock the establishment n that, man. As if they cats ivir gied a toss what schemies did, as long as it nivir bothered thaime. Now it’s hit fair Edina’s peripheral concrete bastions (as Sick Boy calls thum) wi a vengeance n aw they boys whae’d huv been oan Tennent’s lager n laughin at us six months ago ur aw huntin it doon, basically cause thuv goat nowt else tae dae. Johnny Swan’s rakin it in, but he’s pure para that the polis’ll be chappin oan his door soon wi aw they radges floatin aboot.

So ah’m steyin in loads. At least things are likesay better wi muh ma, so that’s one good thing. She’s ey oan at us tae move back in, but ah kind ay like it up here in Monty Strasse. It’s cool tae huv yir ain pad for a bit, the sortay sophisticated man-aboot-toon gig, ken? Rents is still in rehab, but due oot any time, n Sick Boy’s back in the mother country. Or the mother’s mother country, mair like. This pad’s good wi two, but mibbe too much wi three, n jist pure decadence fir one, so ah’ll probably relocate back hame whin they cats re-emerge through yon flap. Right now it’s pure peachy sittin here, watchin this Stallone movie, but ah cannae sortay git intae the film. Too much violence, man, which is ey a
total
bummer
pour moi
. Cats like Begbie in the jail, they dae bad stuff in real life, n aw they actors like Stallone jist kid oan thir daein it n git peyed the big dosh. Jist fir pretendin tae be radges like the likes ay Franco or Nelly! So that means thit thaire’s nae incentive for a gadge like Franco tae be better, no if every rich Hollywood cat wants tae play at bein thum, likesay.

It’s true but, eh?

So ah takes it oot n pits in
The Wizard ay Oz
. Ah ken ah might be a bit too auld n that ah’m no a buftie, but ah could easy watch this movie aw day n ivray day, ken? Then ah gits this totally daft idea that it might be bad luck tae watch the film, cause ay aw the bufties gittin the cowie, n they ey watch
The Wizard ay Oz
. But naw, man, that’s jist plain daft; ye cannae be too much ay a superstitious radge. N it’s great tae watch it oan ma ain, in peace, n withoot likesay gittin slagged off. Ken?

Ah’ve goat ma mug ay tea, it’s actually a soup bowl ay tea (it’s goat a handle like, ah’m no that uncultured!) wi
Souper Hibernian
oan it, and half a pack ay McVitie’s chocolate digestive bickies. Pure heaven! Went a bit too crazy oan the dunkin but, n totally broke oaf a bicky which sank tae the bottom ay the sea. Never mind, ah’ll reclaim the wreckage once ah’ve drained that ocean ay hoat, sweet tea. Ah’m totally in the zone, thinkin aboot they wee Munchkin gadges, how the Hollywood studio treated them like second-class citizens, a wee bit like us dole-moles under Thatcher, likesay, when ah hears the key in the loak n somebody comin in the door.

Aw, man
…

It hus tae be Rents, it cannae be Baxter the landlord, cause Gav Temperley telt us that the perr auld boy was found potted heid in his flat at London Road. Mind you, Sick Boy telt us tae keep a beady oot fir his son, whae’s meant tae be a sharp-taloned mouser, but ah’ve heard neither heid nor hair, ken? But aw, man, that wis such a sin, an auld boy wi aw they hooses n clients that he’s landlord fir, dyin oan his ain, n no bein found fir donks. Just call the perr auld cat
Eleanor Baxter
… aw the lonely people, right enough.

So ah gits up tae investigate, n ah sees Sick Boy in the hall, n he’s goat his bags n hus an
Evening News
under his airm. — Spud.

— Sic— Simon, awright, man?

— Danny boy … lost weight, he says, then goes, — Everything hunky-dory?

— Aye, course it is, ah snaps, cause that’s what cats huv sterted sayin when thir really askin ye aboot Aids. Like the cowie, the David Bowie, ken? — What ye daein back? Thoat ye wir in Italia, likesay?

El Sickerino’s goat that slightly sheepish look n he goes, — Ehm … village politics. Ye cannae behave thaire like ye do ower here, Danny, he pats his baws, — ye goat tae watch where ye stick this; the Holy Papa runs a tighter ship than this slovenly heathen dive. Thaire wis a bit ay heat and I thought it might be prudent tae exit stage left. He throws the
News
doon oan the table. — Check this, Claudia Rosenberg is on at the Venue tonight. I’m on the blag for tickets for us. He pushes past us intae the front room. — Where’s that phone? He sees what’s playin oan the vid. — Phoar, Judy Garland looks well fuckin bangable in that gingham skirt … sorry, mate, did ah disturb ye huvin a crafty wee chug tae yirsel?

— Naw … jist watchin the film, likesay … ah goes, as Sick Boy picks up the phone n starts diallin a number.

— Hello … can I speak tae Conor? … Just tell him it’s Simon David Williamson, he’ll ken … Sick Boy pits his hand ower the receiver. — Fuckin wankstain. ‘Can ah ask whae’s calling …’ He roIls his eyes. — Hello! Con! … Barry! … Not bad, mate, not bad at all. And you? … Excellento! Listen, mucker, time is of the essence, so rudely,
unforgivably
, I’m cutting tae the chase. What’s the chances ay a couple ay buckshee tickets tae see a certain Dutch chanteuse tonight? … Sound as sterling! You, my man, are a fuckin genius!

N that’s him blagged it. Ah’m no really that chuffed, cause ah amnae diggin crowds these days, it’s a pure claustrophobia situ, likesay, ken? But El Sickerino seems that happy, n it’s pure shitey tae bring a cat doon when they’re that keen, ken? Besides it
is
Claudia, the Dutch singer, n she is a total legend!

Sick Boy goes ower tae one ay his bags and unzips, pillin oot a boatil ay rid vino, — Git a couple ay glesses washed Danny, it’s Chianti time! A result for the Leith laddies, cause we’re gettin backstage tae the eftir-show perty n aw! C’mon, compadre, jildy!

So ah goes through tae the kitchen but it’s likesay thaire’s jist one gless left. He kin huv that yin. Ah wash oot the
Souper Hibernian
bowl wi the gungy bicky for masel. We kick back wi a couple ay scoops n watch a bit ay
The Wizard ay Oz
. Then we hoofs it up tae the gig, stoapin en route at Joe Pearce’s for a beer. Ah’m feelin barry, n ah’m no even bothered aboot the crowd when we gits intae the Venue. The great thing aboot Sick Boy is the wey he takes ower, the dude has that sense ay … no sae much authority as mair
right
, it’s bein the Italian bambino n growin up wi Mama and these sisters that spoiled the gadge, that’s whit Rents sais, n he’s spot on, cause it sortay sticks oot a mile. Sound gadge though, Sick Boy. Can be a bit warlock-wicked aroond the chicks, but it seems tae
work
fir him. Ah often wonder if ah treated lassies worse whether they’d like me mair, but ah kin never bring masel tae dae it.

It’s mobbed in here, n the thing is tae git past they annoyin pillars. Sick Boy’s pushing through the crowd like he owns the place but, n ah’m pure in his slipstream. Thaire’s one or two tuts and blank looks, but he’s wearin that big disarming smile, n we soon hit the front. No long eftir, a four-piece band – guitar, bass, drum n keyboards – come oantae the stage n go intae this instrumental. This cool chick standin beside us is gaun: — CLAUDIA! CLAUDIA! WE LOVE YOU! and, sure enough,
The Woman
comes oan, dressed in gothic black, tae big cheers.

Ah ken it’s no right tae say it, but ah’m sortay disappointed, cause ah ey think ay Claudia Rosenberg as lookin like that curly-mopped, willowy, supermodel catgirl oan the cover ay
Street Sirens
, but ah suppose that that wis donks ago, ken? This vintage kinday looks like somebody’s ma. Well, ah suppose she is somebody’s ma, but ken, like a middle-aged Leith wifie up at the bingo. She’s aw bloated and haggard, n she chain-smokes oan the stage. The lassie beside me screams oot again, — WE LOVE YOU, CLAUDIA! n Claudia hears this, n gies the crowd a frosty, sour look n launches intae ‘They Never Stay’. Her voice is as barry and doomy as ever but, n the band’s duck’s-chuff tight, so we’re aw gaun radio rental.

Sick Boy cannae help bein a bad cat though, n he goes tae us, — Look at that ol’ Nazi turkeyneck. Tae think she was such a honey back in the day!

— She’s knockin oan but, man, n she’s no a Nazi, she’s a four-by-two, ah shouts.

— She’s Dutch, and they’re just maritime Germans, he scoffs. — Fuck North Europe, South Europe rules, he bellows, and smiles at the cute catgirl beside me.

— But she’s nae spring chicken, so ye cannae expect her tae look the same as she did in the glory days, ah persist.

— That’s skag-scrag, that, he points tae the stage, — it’s no normal ageing. We got off the merry-go-round at the right time, Danny boy.

— Too right, ah goes. Didnae want tae say mair, cause it’s no like ah huv goat oaf it, as such. Jist tryin no tae git a
proper
habit again, likesay. Ah heard that skag wis meant tae keep ye lookin younger, but ah cannae be ersed debatin it wi Sick Boy, cause ah’m well intae this gig. Ah really like that song ‘My Soul Has Died Again’. It’s aboot feelin shite, n ah kin sortay relate tae that. She goes through the best ay her back catalogue and thaire’s a barry encore wi ‘A Child to Bury’ and a totally sublime version ay ‘The Nightwatchman’s Cold Touch’.

Eftir, Sick Boy says, — Let’s get backstage. How jealous will Renton be?

Ah’m thinkin: aye, a bad yin for the Rent Boy tae miss, likesay.

Backstage it’s pretty radge, wi maist people gittin turned back by the bouncers, but Sick Boy catches a gadge’s eye, n we’re straight through intae this room wi tons ay booze n food. There’s a couple ay sweet-lookin lassies n Sick Boy’s right ower tae them. Ah pure wish thit ah hud his confidence roond the chicks; disnae happen but, man, just does not happen. Eftir a bit, the band come in, and start chattin n sittin doon, n ah suddenly realise that Claudia’s sittin right next tae me! She’s goat a plastic gless ay spirit in her hand.

Ah want tae say, ‘Barry gig,’ but ah go pure shy n jist smile aw nervous, likesay. Then she speaks tae us, pure sais, — So vot do zay call you? in that harsh, sing-songy voice. Her breath really stinks ay fags. Ah mean, everybody’s does likesay, well, no Rents, cause he doesnae smoke, or Tommy, cause he hardly does, but normal people likes. Her breath is as smoky as a certain Mr Robinson, but.

— Eh … Danny …

— I like yoooo … she says, grinning, and ye kin see that her teeth are in a bad wey, man, aw yellaw, n some ay thum broken. A bit like mine, ah suppose. — Vot do you do for a living, Dah-nee?

— Ah’m sortay on the dole, likesay unemployed.

Her elbay goes right intae ma side; man, she’s as radge as Begbie! — I know vot ze dole is. You are vun of Maggie’s millions, yes?

— That’s pure it, man. Cast oan the scrapheap by Thatcherism, likesay.