Skagboys (11 page)

Way of the Dragon

WE FUCKING WELL
shat ourselves this afternoon, the Rent Boy and me. We’re in the flat, me sprawled over my two corded black beanbags, Renton spreadeagled oan the couch, discussing the barry time wi the skag the other night; puffing Denis Law and watching Bruce Lee and Chuck Norris’s climactic fight scene in
The Way of the Dragon
. This gram bag wi goat fae Swanney’s fair burning a hole in ma pocket, but Rents wants tae leave it for a bit n we’ve made a pact that we’re daein it thegither. I’m about tae broach the subject again when there’s a hammering on the door. Then a voice, booming through the letter box down the hall: — Youse cunts! Open the fuck up!

We look at each other and the thought flashes between us:
It’s Begbie! We stood the cunt up!

Neither ay us are in a hurry tae move. Renton can get it and take the blow across the chops. But he’s thinking the same thing. — We ignore it, ah whisper.

Rents eyes widen. — He’s probably heard the telly, but.

— Fuck! Right, we’ll both go. You talk … naw, I’ll talk … naw, you talk!

— What’s it tae fuckin well be!

— You talk!

We get up and head tae the door, mentally preparing excuses, and ah snip it open, and Begbie, excited, pushes past us intae the flat. He’s carrying six tins ay lager. — Sorry tae fuckin well stand yis up the other night, boys, a wee pressy tae fuckin well make it up likes, he says, as we follow him back intae the front room wi a glance ay bemused relief passing between us. Franco collapses oantae the couch. — Bruce Lee … fuckin barry! Aye, ah met this fuckin burd, eh? Mind ay that June, June Chisholm fae Leithy? Wisnae much back then but see the fuckin tits oan it now, ya cunt! Wisnae fuckin shy, tell yis that fir nowt …

— Aw aye, Rents sais, tentatively standing next tae him and springing a can. He chucks me one ower and ah crack it open, even though it’s Tennent’s pish, which ah cannae drink as the inside ay ma mooth instantly tastes like the tin. I slump back onto the bags.

— Hud that yin in ma fuckin sights fir donks, ya cunt. Franco rubs his baws through his jeans and treats us tae a pelvic thrust. — Saw her up the fuckin Spiral oan Friday night n ah jist fuckin well gits up n fires right in thaire! Anywey, been fuckin well nailin it aw weekend. Fill hoose, the loat. Wisnae even gaunny gie us a fuckin gam at first. Ah goes: ‘Ya cunt, giein us a fuckin gam’s the least yuv goat tae worry aboot!’ Aye, wisnae that fuckin shy once ah goat her gaun! And he thrusts forward on the couch, hudin his can up for clinking, so it’s toast time again. I stretch over tae oblige. I recall that Chisholm slag: a baboon-in-waiting. Our Francis is surely the man to help her fulfil her sordid destiny.

— You’re on a molten streak right now, Franco, Rents goes.

— Too right. Youse two probably ended up fuckin pished n shaggin the lovely ‘Pam’ again, he waves a hand in the air, — whin ah wis fuckin pulverisin that June’s pussy aw weekend. He slams his fist repeatedly intae his open hand. — Stick wi me, ah’ll git yis yir fuckin hole awright, ya useless cunts!

Ah force another slug ay what tastes like rancid, liquid aluminium. — I feel inspired by your success, Frank, I grin, rising and secreting the can and its vile contents onto the windae ledge behind the curtains. — I’ve a couple ay prospects so ah’m gaunny leave you boys and check them oot. Don’t wait up, Mark.

Poor Rent Boy. Not only have ah lumbered him with Begbie, he also has his video ruined at its climax. Fuck watching kung fu movies wi Franco, it’s as dangerous as it gets as he tries to demonstrate his versions ay the moves, usually on you. As Renton has moved into this flat, he can share the entertainment and hosting duties.

I’m off to see
mama mia
and, of course, our good neighbours Coke and Janey. I’ve been doing my fair share ay hingin oot down the Bannanay flats, and it ain’t just been for some of Mama’s home cooking. Yeah, life at the old place is better
sans
Cunty Fud, and my ma has heard the great news that she’s finally got that new Housing Association gaff in the South Side she’s been eftir for years. That will seeken his pus!

Enthusiastically trotting down the Walk to my old power base, I elect tae body-swerve Mama’s homestead for my neighbours’ identical abode. Janey, wearing a flattering blue top and tight black leggings, beckons me in and settles me doon in an armchair. Another Mogadon saga of
Coronation Street
, the British brain-dead’s perennial drug of choice, seeps intae the magnolia walls ay the Anderson household.

But Simone is finding it rather hard tae stay cool with Maria sitting opposite on the couch. My leg beats out an insistent rhythm as I sneak
glances
at her; blonde hair pinned back, but fringe cascading forward into those big blue eyes. With the heavy lids, long lashes and that hair flopping into them, they have a sleepy aspect that screams ‘bed’. That delectable honey-coloured flesh revealed as she’s wearing a backless one-piece brown dress, properly displaying that slender neck and strong limbs, covered in the faintest of downy blonde hair. The dress comes just above the knee, her long shapely legs tapering down to painted toenails and gold flip-flops. Then a sudden mock fight with wee Grant erupts; her magazine dropped and retrieved, the manoeuvre briefly exposing a sliver of white panties, so electric against those Majorca-tanned thighs that I almost cream on the spot.

Quit mitherin! Deirdre says on the box.

Those big full lips …

Thankfully,
hatefully
, Coke turns his wizened coupon tae me, chomping at the bit. — Ah’m thinking it might be time for a wee drink. Ye comin doon the boozer, Janey?

Am ah eckers like, rooster-puffs Ivy Tilsley, as Janey, curled up like a cat in the big chair, says, — Nah, I’m steyin in and catching up oan ma soaps. If ye go oot, bring us back a fish supper.

— Mince pie supper for me, wee Grant says in squeaky enthusiasm.

I look to Maria, buried in her magazine, ignoring everybody.

— You no wantin anything back fae the chippy later oan, hen? Janey asks her.

She looks up from the mag. That sweetly contemptuous pout: my God, I’m closer than I’ve ever been to love. — Nup.

Coke raises his eyebrows, and signals for me tae rise. And so we depart. — Teenagers, he muses as we turn intae the stair.

— Aye, it must be hard, bringing up kids, like. Wouldnae be me, ah can tell ye. It’s aw my ma wants but; me, Carlotta and Louisa wi stacks ay bairns tae bring roond tae her place and spoil.

— Naw, stey young free and single for as long as ye can, Coke advises. — No that ah’ve any regrets, he qualifies stridently, though I know I’ll hear a fucking shedload of them in the pub once the drink starts to flow, — cause Maria’s a crackin lassie, never gied us a minute’s trouble. And the wee man, he’s brand new n aw.

Do you actually know how phenomenally fucking rideable your daughter is?

We emerge from the grey stairs intae blinding sunshine and take a stroll doon tae the Bay Horse in Henderson Street. Inevitably, Coke starts gabbing once the alcohol goes down. He has two moods: sober, morose and quiet, then drunk, slavering and noisy. — Heard that boy, the fitba player, your mate, took a bad doin in the Grapes.

That cunt Dickson again, I’ll wager. Still, it’s probably the one occasion it was warranted. — Rab McLaughlin. Second Prize, we call him, on account ay the number ay kickins he’s had. Always wants tae row when he’s pished. I’m sure he no only asked for it, but begged, I inform Coke, thinking that it’s only a matter ay time before he and Second Prize meet up and become best mates. I can see them now down at the hostel, swapping jakey tales of woe.

I’m getting a bit antsy. I should have called in at my mother’s, and I’m thinking ay daein some ay that gear ah got fae Johnny Swan. Rents made me agree we should wait a few days and shoot it together, but he’ll be stuck on the pish with Begbie now and probably heading for the cells in Queen Charlotte Street or the High Street with that psychotic wretch in tow. Now I’m wanting tae get shot ay Coke, but without alienating him, as I need tae maintain the open-house policy. That wee Maria is a frosty chicky, and I reckon it’ll take something special tae get intae those snooty wee keks. A case of the ugly ducking who becomes the swan overnight and starts tae sense her power. I see a Kathleen Richardson or Lizzie McIntosh No. 2 in the making; she needs tae get a taste of SDW meat before she develops the same cock-teasing habits. The fear that I might have missed the boat suddenly overwhelms me, and makes me think of how tae up my game.

So we trawl the pubs, heading towards the river, then going in a circle, ending up in the fucking Grapes. It’s against my better judgement, but I’m bursting for a pish, so needs must. By this time Coke is half blootered and hanging onto the bar, railing against some perceived injustice or other. I head tae the lavvy, now definitely tempted tae shoot up some mair ay that shit I got fae Johnny Swan. The barrel-like figure of the heathen Dickson stops me en route: — Get him oot ay here, okay?

— He’s no botherin anybody.

— He’s botherin me. Get him the fuck oot!

— Aye, awright, geez a minute. I turn and go intae the bogs.

That Dickheid is as wide as fuck, so ah resolve tae dae some ay this magnificent gear on the cunt’s premises. I have tae develop some expertise in cooking up and fixing, cause you know that sure as fuck Renton will be all anal about it. That cunt will have read everything on heroin by now, and be talking as if he invented the fucking stuff. So I sit on the bog, bolting the door and go through the ritual: lighter, spoon, cotton balls, Jif, water in small screw-on container, syringe, needle and, above all, gear. I don’t load up too much before whipping off my belt, daein ma airm the wey that Swanney creep showed us. Slide it in, like a plane
landing,
rather than jab it, like a helicopter. Ah find a vein easy, some ay us have fucking oil pipes in our airms, no wee lassie’s wiring like Rent Boy.

He shoots home … whae-hae-hae … this rush is going through me, but it’s probably just the adrenalin
…

Fuck
…

Is it fuck the adrenalin … ah’m being broiled fae the inside … surging up tae glory, glory
…

Jesus fuck, it’s strong gear and ah’m fucking melted! Ah feel the sweat beading on my forehead n ma pulse racing. Ah have tae stey parked on the seat for a while. Some mutant bangs the door. Again. But fuck them; this feels so good. Let them shite their fusty pants; minging cunts ought tae have defecated before they fucking well went out.

Sky rockets in flight … ooh ah!

Although I could quite happily sit here all day, I force masel tae rise.

When ah get out, there’s nae sign ay Coke, so I sit in the corner, at one with this lovely world, though part of me is realising that drawing attention tae yourself by being junked up in an ex-polisman’s bar wi a bagful ay skag might no be such a good idea, especially as I’ve nae drink in front ay us.

So I rise and glide across tae the bar where two mutants are standing. One ay them bears that strange smile where ye cannae tell if the cunt’s a sweetie wife or a psychopath. — Dickson’s taken yir mate through the back for one ay they special wee chats ay his.

By the sweet-smelling baw bag of the Holy Papa himself, I think it might be time for me tae leave. There’s little tae be gained in trying tae stop Coke fae getting the same treatment as Second Prize, especially in this fucking state wi shite in ma veins and the best part ay a gram in my pocket. But Dickson suddenly comes back in, and he looks shaken tae fuck. The Big Man mantle has definitely fallen and I’m thinking: surely
Coke
hasnae put the shits up him? The chunky ex-pig approaches me wi a scared and apologetic hang tae his face. — Yir mate … he’s through the back. Ah never touched him, we were just arguin n he fell ower the barrel and dunted his heid, and Dickson’s face is flushed as his lips tremble. — It looks a sair yin. He shakes his head, sucking his lip under his front teeth. Every grotesque expression on his face seems slowed doon, it’s like being in a zoo, but one where you’re observing your own species in their minuscule behaviour. Then his voice ascends in petition tae the assembled bar: — Ah never laid a hand oan him!

Ah go through tae the back with this big cunt called Chris Moncur,
where
we find Coke totally fucking prone and battered. I’m down by his side, shaking him, and he’s deadweight, ah cannae get any response. — Coke … Coke!

Coke … aw naw
…

His face is swollen, and his mooth is burst open. — Thought he fell ower a barrel, Moncur says, kneeling alongside us, looking up accusingly at Dickson. — Did eh faw forwards?

— Chris … c’mon … he jist cowped ower, he wis pished, Dickson says, now really shitein it.

— Looks tae me like it wis a bit mair thin him jist bein pished, some other wide-lookin cunt says, his hands on his hips. Dickson was daft enough tae think those wideos were his mates, but naebody loves ex-bacon, and it’s evident they’ve just been waiting patiently tae turn on him.

But Coke …

He’s gone. Ah’m standing ower the cunt, regarding his rubbery slavering mouth and ah look up at Dickson’s fearful face, turned away in profile. — He’s away, ah say, standing up.

Another boy wi a red nylon jerkin crouches over him. — Naw, he’s still got a pulse, he’s breathing …

Thank fuck for that
…

Ah go back tae the bar: ah’m fucking well right out ay here. A couple ay the boys follow me through, one gadge dialling
999
on the payphone, asking for the police as well as an ambulance. Dickson has come after us and is still totally crappin hissel. — The boy wis pished, just fuckin out ay it. He was telt tae go!

I’m heading, but big Moncur sees me sneaking out and shouts, — Hi! Simon! You’d better stey here!

— Most serpently, I groan, and there’s nothing ah can dae, wasted and wi a G ay gear on us, as the ambulance and polis arrive. The paramedics try tae resuscitate Coke, while the polis take statements. One young cop, a country simpleton by the look and sound ay him, gapes at me and asks us if I’ve been smoking ‘wacky baccy’.