Skagboys (33 page)

— Don’t do it any more, Mark. Hamish shakes his head, aw full ay pomp, as one ay the lassies, blonde bob, cool made-up eyes, looks devoured by this affay news. — All I do now is write poetry. Music is a crass, vulgar and commercial art form. It’s spiritually bankrupt.

The blonde (Lynsey, I think) bats her eyes in rough grief, while Wendy-the-possible-blow-job-specialist stays neutral. Hamish sees me standing beside him and kisses me on the cheek. — Hey … Alison. How goes?

— No bad, I smile.

Mark’s slavering away tae the lassies, the usual sortay bullshit he comes oot wi. — Myself and some friends in London are involved in this industrial art-rock project, he speed-lies, droppin me a wee wink. — It’s sort of Einstürzende Neubauten meets the early Meteors, ‘In Heaven’ rather than ‘Wreckin Crew’, but with a four-four disco beat and big ska influence, and featuring a Marianne Faithfullesque vocalist. Think of a Kraftwerk who had loads ay sex in their teens and hung around Scottish and Newcastle brewers’ chain pubs listening tae Labi Siffre and Ken Boothe on the jukebox and dreaming ay well-paid jobs in the Volkswagen factory in Hanover.

— Sounds cool! this blonde-maybe-Lynsey lassie goes. — What are you called?

— Fortification.

Cue for a slightly wrong-footed Hamish tae deftly change the subject back tae his ‘Baudelaire-, Rimbaud- and Verlaine-influenced’ poems, and for one ay the lassies tae say something aboot
Marquee Moon
. And for me tae elbay Mark, tae git his attention. — Fort chancer, lowerin the tone!

He looks me up n doon. Even though Mark’s wasted, he fixes me in an appreciative stare I haven’t seen from him before. — Wow, Ali. You’re lookin very gorgeous.

No the compliment I expect fae him, but it fair puts Hamish on his taes, as his heid swivels taewards us. — And you’re looking very … Mark.

He laughs at that, and gestures me to move aside, as Hamish havers oantae the girls aboot some gig he n Mark once played at the Triangle Club in Pilton. — How’s it gaun?

— Fine. You?

— No bad. The bouncers widnae lit Spud in though, jist cause he hud a sling oan his airm.

— Poor Danny!

— Aye, he hud tae head hame. But ah saw Kelly in here earlier. Wi Des.

— Right.

He lowers his voice and leans intae me. Mark’s a laddie who’s taller than he first seems. — Anything gaun oan?

— By that do you mean what I think ye mean?

— Aye, ah think so.

— Naw, I called Johnny earlier, but he wisnae in or wisnae picking up.

— Aye, me n aw, he goes. Then there’s a silence, and he asks, — How’s things wi yir ma?

— Shite, pittin it mildly, I goes, no wanting tae talk aboot it, but it’s good ay him tae ask.

— Right … sorry tae hear it. Ehm, if ye hear anything fae Johnny or Matty or that, gies a shout, he requests.

— Thanks, right, you n aw, I says.

Hamish breaks off fae Wendy and Lynsey n hands me this slim book ay poems. — Life-changing, he says emphatically, as Mark rolls his eyes.

— Right … ta … I goes, but ma attention’s oan Simon, who’s still chatting tae that horrible Esther at the bar. Lynsey’s asking Hamish aboot the book, and he starts going on aboot Charles Simic’s work. — Can you believe that at one time he couldn’t speak a word of English?

I turn tae Mark. — At one time nane ay us could speak a word ay English, n he grins back, as I nod ower tae Esther. — Do you think she’s good-looking? That platinum-blonde Simon’s chattin tae?

Mark looks across, almost drooling. — Marianne? Aye, as fit as a butcher’s dug.

— That’s no Marianne, it’s Esther.

— Aye? They look jist the same.

— Believe it: totally interchangeable. Lit’s go n say hello, I suggest, slippin Hamish’s thin book ay poems intae my bag. As soon as Simon meets my eye, he’s right ower and we throw our airms roond each other and his head’s buried in my neck. — Hey, gorgeous, he whispers, — don’t say a thing, just let me hold you.

I do, but cannae resist cracking an over-the-shoulder smile at Esther who’s been lumbered wi manky Mark! Ha! I swear tae God she looks a broken woman as Simon and me snog, and ah hear Mark rabbiting tae her, first aboot the Minds’
New Gold Dream
album, then his fictitious industrial rock-n-roll project, adding some new components as he goes. As Simon’s tongue and scent fills ma heid, ah hear Esther’s fractured voice moan how it must be hard tae get aw they different elements tae work thegither. Simon and me come up for air, and watch the show. Mark’s
agreeing
wi her: — This is essentially the main challenge we face, but also what makes the assignment so intrinsically rewarding …

When she asks what it’s called he tells her, but under the jaw-clicking roll ay the amphetamine, he’s wasted and mumbly and it comes oot something like ‘Fornication’ and Esther thinks he’s being fuckin wide, and looks tae us in appeal! Mark just shrugs and ditches her as this cute Asian lassie, but wi a total schemie accent, comes ower n announces, — Ah’m speeding oot ay ma nut!

— Me n aw, Mark eagerly goes, as Esther realises that even
he’s
KB’d her!

She goes to say something tae Simon, but he cuts in, — To be continued, and tugs on my wrist and we head intae a corner for a cosy wee chat! I look back at Esther:
take that, ya fuckin trampy posh bitch! Let’s just keep the best Leith lengths in fuckin Leith!

The music’s a lot louder than usual for the Hooch, and the speaker’s close tae our seat, so Simon n me have tae sort ay shout intae each other’s lugs. As I tug the back ay my belt tae ensure my arse-crack’s covered, I ask him about Spud no gittin in, just cause ay his airm bein in a sling.

— I’m with the door staff on that one, he sniffs. — An unpardonable lapse in style. The fact he looked like a jakey probably didn’t help.

Then we start talking aboot that wee Maria Anderson, cause my brother and his pals hang about with her and her mates fae the school. People’s been saying that Simon and her are
gaun oot
thegither. I can’t quite believe that cause she’s just a wee lassie, and why would he when he’s got loads ay girlfriends?

He pins me wi his big sad stare, telling me he’s walked intae a nightmare. — It’s a mess, he moans over Prince urging the revellers tae go crazy. — I’m her neighbour, and with her dad deid and her ma in the jail, I felt kinday responsible cause she’ll no go tae her uncle’s doon in Nottingham. He draws in a deep breath and looks tae the ceiling. — The problem is that she’s formed a big attachment tae me, and worse, tae the skag. Ah’m trying tae keep her away fae it, but it’s aw she wants.

— But what’s aw this got tae dae wi you? It’s no fair that you’re lumbered like this!

— It’s my ain fault. I stupidly … aw shite, he groans, — we ended up in bed … ah slept wi her. I was trying to comfort her and she was aw that needy, desperate wey and one thing led tae another. It was a
big
mistake.

— Fuckin hell, Simon, I tell him, trying tae tick him off without sounding jealous, cause I am a wee bit. Still, ye cannae blame the lassie for bein oot ay control wi everything that’s happened tae her.

— She was
way
too young and distressed, and I can see now that ah was weak and stupid, and took advantage ay somebody in a bad situation. Now she thinks we’re gaun out thegither. Ah’m gaunny see her mum in prison wi her next week, hopefully tae convince her tae go back doon tae her uncle’s and get hersel sorted oot. This mess … it’s just taken ower my life! I only wanted tae dae the right thing, but it’s backfired big time. He draws in some breath, staring oot vacantly across the dance floor. — The thing is, even now, I’m worried sick about her being alone in that flat; you dunno what a young lassie in her state’s gaunny dae. She’s already had a dash at the boy that killed her faither, that Dickson fae the Grapes. I worry that she’s jist gaunny end up like her ma or her dad: in jail or six fit under. She’s been hanging aroond wi some sleazy creeps; I’m tryin tae keep her away fae them, but I cannae be around her every single minute ay the day, it’s sick … twisted … he shakes his heid, — and I cannae keep sleeping wi her and bringing her fuckin skag, but it’s aw that calms her doon … She should be sitting fuckin O grades, he gasps miserably, then looks intae my eyes. — God, here I am going on about
my
stuff, when your mother … he grabs my hand and squeezes it.

I feel myself tearing up. — Sorry, Simon, I … and I cannae speak, as music and people swirl roond us. Eventually I hear myself think out loud: — Why is life such a fucking mess?

— Search me, he says, gripping my hand tighter, his own eyes misting up. Then he looks around in distaste as the Style Council’s ‘You’re the Best Thing’ comes on.

— Dae ye no like this tune?

— I like it
too
much – it’s far too good for the poseurs and pricks in this dreary howf, he spits. — I hate that these people are actually
allowed
tae listen to music like this.

— Ah ken what ye mean, I nod, bewildered; lookin ower at Esther, I sortay git the gist. She’s makin her escape fae the rabid bluster ay Mark and that wee Asian lassie, whae I remember is called Nadia.

— Listen, I’ve a suggestion. Why don’t we go round to Swanney’s, get a wee something, then head back tae yours or mine and have a little of what we fancy and just hang out and talk? We’ve both got a lot ay shite gaun oan and this crowd in here are startin tae dae my nut in. Mark’s going a bit crazy wi the skag n the Lou Reed; I’m no saying I’m an angel, but he’s got so fucking myopic …

We watch Mark rantin away wi that mental wee Nadia, baith ay them aw ower the place on the speed.

— Now there’s a marriage made in powder, Simon smirks, then says,
— I’d
rather get sorted before he shows up at Johnny’s, or we’ll never get rid ay the fucker.

I don’t take any persuading at all. A coffee and poetry night wi Hamish will have tae wait. And Alexander had left a message sayin he wanted tae hook up, but now that’s off tonight’s agenda n aw. — Sound. Let’s go.

We walk outside into a chilly night. Something unnameable turns behind my eyes. Simon’s hand feels warm and his hot breath is like the whisper ay angels in ma ear.

Johnny’s stair door’s open; somebody’s blootered in the lock and the security intercom – a spaghetti of wires spews oot a black hole where the aluminium grille box used to be. We can hear him on the first-floor landing, arguing with this guy, who shouts back in a voice I sortay recognise: — You’ve nae fuckin idea, mate!

Simon pulls me back into the shadows at the bottom of the steps.

— Yir
mate’s
been huckled, Michael, we hear Johnny’s low heckle, —
you’ve
no, you’re still in the game. Find another fuckin wey tae git it oot!

— Ah telt ye: that cunt’ll grass us right up. Watch this fuckin space, the boy half whispers, turns away, then we can hear him comin doon the steps. He stops, cranes his neck and shouts back up the stairs: — It’s game ower, and he twists roond and nearly walks intae us, pushin past us wi a nasty look on his face, but daein a quick double take when he sees me. Johnny’s followed him doon the stairs tae the first bend. He looks a bit surprised tae see us, then shouts a stagey cheerio tae the boy, who doesnae answer back. Thing is, ah ken where I’ve seen that guy before: in this pub in Dalry Road wi Alexander’s brother.

— Fuckin business, Johnny shrugs at us, but he’s aw tense and bothered. — It’s gettin like Waverley Station up this fuckin gaff. How we’ve no been busted by the polis, ah dinnae ken.

— This is Edinburgh, Simon laughs. — The cops in this city aren’t particularly big on law enforcement.

We go up tae the flat and make the deal. Johnny wants tae dae some wi us right now, but we’re anxious tae get away. Then the door bangs and it’s Matty. Johnny cheerlessly lets him in and heads back through the front room. Matty follows him like an anxious lap dog. — Ali. Si.

— Matteo, says Simon. — How goes? Lookin a wee bit peely-wally there, my old chum.

— No bad, he says, n he does look terrible, his eyes are rid n it’s like the side ay his face is streaked wi dirt. He barely acknowledges us as he glares at Johnny. — Cunt, ah need sorted oot, Mikey Forrester tae.

— Let’s see the colour ay yir dough then chavy, Johnny says coldly.

Simon gies me a ‘fuck this’ nod and we’re off. As we depart Johnny and Matty start arguing and it seems tae get mair heated as we head doon the stairs, where we run right intae Mark, charging up towards us wi demented octopus eyes as we hear Johnny’s door slamming shut. I wonder which side ay it Matty’s oan. — Marco … Simon says, raising a brow, pointing at his ghastly green fleece. — What the well-dressed man about town
isn’t
wearing … No luck with the girlies, I take it?

— Whaire are youse gaun?

— A party. For two. As in
you
ain’t invited, Simon emphatically says. Then he nods upstairs, adding, — If you want sorted oot, I’d get in there sharpish. Young Matteo’s just arrived wi a horse-choker ay a wad, dropping Forrester’s name like it was premium acid. I think he wants tae sort oot the whole ay Muirhoose.

Mark needs nae mair encouragement, pushing past us and storming up the stairs. We hear him hammering on Johnny’s door, stifling our laughter as we exit into the street.

We walk for a bit, step by step across the black pavements in the incessant rain. We’re soaked through by the time we get a cab doon tae my place at Pilrig. I put on the fire and go to the bathroom tae get some towels. Alexander’s shaving bag is still sitting there on the cistern. I put it in the linen press, in case Simon sees it. Heading back into the front room, a towel wrapped round my heid, I hand him another and switch on the answerphone messages.

—
It’s Dad, princess. Just tae let ye know that Mum had a good night last night. Very peaceful. She was a wee bit agitated and confused cause ay the stuff they’re giving her
…

Sweet Simon tightly grabs my hand.

—…
but she sends her love and she’s looking forward tae seeing ye. Bye then, darlin … love you
.

Simon intensifies his grip and kisses the side of my face.