Skagboys (46 page)

Billy finished, zipped up, washed his hands and returned to the bar. He flashed an insurance man’s smile at the landlord. — Hi, Dicko, you’ll never guess what, that auld jakey ye flung oot, he’s gone roond the back n he’s sittin on one ay the beer barrels, rat-arsed. Ah think he’s done a pish oot there.

Dickson sprung to alertness. — Is he now? he waxed in anticipation. — Ah’ll show that cunt! Doesnae ken ah’ve got him just where ah fuckin well want him! And he hurried towards the side exit to the yard, followed by Billy.

In the small, paved quadrangle, Dickson glared around in confusion. Looked behind the stacked empty barrels. The place was otherwise deserted. His eyes registered that the back brown door to the side street was bolted from the inside. Where was that auld cunt? He turned round to face Billy Renton. — Where is that mingin bastard?

— He’s away, Billy said quietly, — but his son’s here.

— Aw … Dickson’s mouth fell open. — … Ah didnae ken it wis your dad, Billy, it was a mistake –

— Fuckin right it wis, Billy Renton noted as he booted Dickson full force in the balls, watching the publican turn red and gasp, holding his testicles and collapsing to his knees on the cold stone floor. Billy’s second kick knocked Dickson’s two front teeth clean out, and loosened a few more.

Lenny and Peasbo had followed Billy out and, quickly surveying the situation, weighed in with a couple of hefty boots each on the prone figure, to show solidarity with their friend. Big Chris Moncur came out to investigate and looked on, lips twisting in a grin. Alec Knox, an old drunkard who’d experienced Dickson’s manhandling on several occasions, took cold revenge with two vicious kicks to the head of the insentient landlord’s spreadeagled body.

Peasbo strode back through to the bar, nodded at Granty, and brushing the barely protesting barmaid aside, opened the cash register, snaffling notes and pound coins, while Lenny, following behind, grabbed a bottle of whisky from the gantry and hurled it through a mounted television screen. Three old boys playing dominoes close by shuddered as they looked up briefly to the source of the impact, then went back to their hand, as Granty shot them a fire-starting glare. The group of assailants quickly departed, with instructions to staff and regulars of what to tell the police. The consensus was that three Jambos from Drylaw perpetuated the damage to the landlord and his property.

The Chute

THE BRIGHTER MORNINGS
don’t make this place look any better, and it’s whiffy as a wrestler’s jockstrap. Every cunt just throws the rubbish in the corner; there’s a poxy little plastic bucket under that pile of crap somewhere, and it’s been a bleedin war of attrition ta see who’s gonna crack first and tidy up. And all those farking beer bottles.

The phone rings. I pick it up.

— Is Simon there? Another posh bird’s voice.

— Not at the moment. Can I take a message?

— Can you tell him that Emily Johnson from South Ken tube station was trying to get in touch? And she gives me a number, which I scribbles down on the notepad beside the rest.

I goes ta the kitchen and I can’t stand it any longer. I get a couple of bin liners and start filling them up.

— Did you get your Hackney giro, Nicksy? Rents asks, the farking div, wandering around in his underpants and T-shirt with his skinny legs, like a milk-bottle ginger Jock Biafran.

— Nah, it ain’t farking well come yet, I tell him as I’m heading out with the rubbish to the chute, cause those fuckers won’t shift their arses from neither couch nor mattress. All these cunts been doing is farking gear; stupid fuckers seem ta think smoking skag don’t count, and we gotta start work on Monday. I’m putting myself on the farking line here, with that Marriott geezer. If they fack it up …

— Who was oan the blower?

— Some other posh tart for Sick Boy, need ya ask, I tell him, stepping outside. It’s still a bit nippy, but spring’s definitely in the air.

All of a sudden I hears this high-pitched whine, and when I get to the stairwell I see these little herberts have got this puppy, a tiny black thing, and they’re putting it in the farking rubbish chute! A cute little black Lab n all! — Oi! You little fackers!

I run to them but this farking scumbag drops it and it yelps as they shut the door on it and when I yank it open it’s disappeared, like a rabbit in a magician’s hat. You can hear a descending squeal, all the
farking
way down. — You cunt! I turn on the little bastard, absolutely farking livid.

— My mum says I gotta get rid of it, innit, says this urchin.

— Take it back ta the farking pet shop, you dozy little troll!

— It’s shut, innit. My mum said if I came back with it here she’d kill me!

— Farking wally … I jump in the lift with the bags, and I ain’t gonna put nuffink down there on top of that little puppy. I get down ta the rubbish room. It’s locked and there ain’t no collection till Monday. Could it have survived the fall? But the rubbish would be mostly soft garbage. I gotta check. I drop the bin liners outside the door. It’s cold out here. I can’t think. I go back into the stair. Fack! I see
her
coming out the lift. Alone. Blue jacket. Fag in hand. Marsha.

She looks like shit. Her eyes are all puffy n swollen. — Marsha, stop. Wait.

— What
you
want? she says, turning away from me as if I’m farking nuffink.

I stand looking at her. — I wanna talk ta ya. About … the baby. She swivels back round and looks me in the eye. — There ain’t no baby, is there? Not no more, and she pulls her yellow T-shirt tight to her.

— Wot you talking about? Wot happened?

With a big farking sneer, she goes, — Got rid of it, didn’t I?

— You wot?

— Mi mam was sayin dere’s too many babies havin babies roun here.

— A bit farking late, wasn’t it?

— A’ll ya need ta knows is it’s gan.

— How? What d’ya mean?

— I ain’t fucking talking ta you bout nuffink, she suddenly explodes in a loud squeal. — Get the fuck outta my face!

— But we gotta talk abaht this … we was –

— What’s ta farking talk abaht? she says, but in estate London. — I was seein ya, now I ain’t. I was havin a baby, now I farking well ain’t.

— You was put up to this by somebody! That was my farking kid n all, didn’t I have no farking say in the matter?

— Nope, you fucking well didn’t, she shouts, a look of raw fucking hatred on her face.

My farking kid n all
…

I feel the pulse racing through me body, as I watch her turnin away and walkin off through the stair door with a strut, her tight little arse moving slowly in those jeans, doing the catwalk model thing, like she’s
just
taking the farking piss. — Please come back, babe, I hear myself say, following her outside.

I dunno if she can hear me, but she don’t look round and she don’t stop moving off, down the path between Fabian and Ruskin houses.

Then I hears this breathing noise and look down ta find this big Alsatian sniffing around me bollocks. A thickset skinhead looks over at me. — Hatchet! Leave it!

The dog turns away and bounds towards him, and I think again about the little puppy trapped in the rubbish. I hurry back up ta the flat where Mark and Sick Boy are sitting on the couch, smoking gear off the foil. Jesus Christ, at this time of farking day. — Celebrations … working men, Mark says, all farking ripped. — A wee celebration, Nicksy.

I didn’t want no farking kid, she did the right thing. I just wanted to help, that’s all. To be kept in the bleedin picture
…

Sick Boy’s talking to himself, in that rambling, junked-up way. — That Lucinda, it’s like the worse ye treat her the mair she wants ye; total daddy complex. Could pimp her oot easy. Like some ay they wee hairies around here, eh, Nicksy … only this yin would be quids in … quids in, ya cunt …

Rents puts the foil pipe down on the coffee table. Then he starts waffling n all. — Ah hud tae gie Begbie career advice oan fuckin criminality at New Year. Me! That’s ma problem; ah’m too fuckin poncy tae be a proper Leith gadgie n too fuckin schemie tae be an arty student type. My whole life is betwixt and between … He slumps back into the couch.

I stand in front of them. — Listen, I cut in, — I need you two ta stand guard on a couple ay floors. Floor fifteen and floor fourteen. Don’t let any cunt put rubbish down the chute.

Of course, Mark starts farking protesting. — But
Crown Court’s
on in a minute.

— Fark
Crown Court
! There’s a puppy trapped in the rubbish downstairs! Fucking useless junky cunts!

As I tear out I can hear Mark saying, — Speed psychosis. Classic symptoms.

Cheeky cunt; it’s these Jock fuckers, doing my farking head in! I get downstairs again, sharpish. The caretakers ain’t been here for a long time cause of council cutbacks, but there’s a big black woman I talk ta on the stairs who tells me that a Mrs Morton on the second floor has got keys for the waste room. — It wan ah dem chunky T-shaped tings.

I gotta hurry or the dog, and this is assuming the poor little cunt has
survived
the fall, will get buried under more rubbish, or crushed by empty bottles. I get ta the second floor and at Flat 2/1 there’s the name – MORTON – on the door. I gives it a bang and before long a stocky barrel of a old gel comes out.

— Mrs Morton?

— Yeah …

— I need the keys ta the waste room. Some kids’ve only gone and put a puppy down the chute. It’s trapped in there.

— Can’t help ya, Mrs Morton says, — you’ll ave ta see the council.

— But it’s Saturday!

— They work Saturdays. Well, some of em does.

I argue the toss, but the old gel ain’t budging. At least she lets me in ta use the phone. I get through ta the council cunts and my blood’s soon boiling, cause when I’m trying to convey the farking seriousness of the situation, they put me onto the Cleansing Department who put me onta Housing who transfer me onta Environmental Health, who put me in touch with the central office, who tell me to see the local area office, who then say that it really should all go through the farking RSPCA! And all the time this Mrs Morton’s glowering at me, then at the clock on her wall.

I’m sweating like a rapist thinking about that poor little dog and I phone me mate Davo who works for the council; thank fuck he’s on OT today. — Don’t care how ya do it, mate, but I need ya ta get us the key ta the bins room at Beatrice Webb House on my estate at Holy Street. Like yesterday.

Fair play to Davo, he don’t even ask no questions. — I’ll try. Hang fire der and I’ll get back to yer on dat number. Warrisit?

I cough out the number and I’m standing in this old gel’s draughty hallway trying to reason with her, as she wants to throw me out. — I didn’t say ya could give out me number, she moans, — I don’t like givin out me number, not ta strangers.

— It ain’t strangers, it’s the council.

— They’re bloody strangers round ere!

— You ain’t wrong, I tell her, and she starts droning on about how badly she’s been treated by them over the years, which is fair enough, but all I’m thinking about is Marsha and that poor little pooch.

Fifteen minutes later the phone rings and it’s Davo, God bless that nasal Scouse whine, and blow me if he ain’t sorted it all out. — The key’s on its way round to yer in a minicab. You’ll have ta pay the friggin driver, but its only come from the Neighbourhood Housing Office so it’ll just be two quid. I need it back in me hand by five o’ clock today.

— I owe ya big time, mate.

— Too friggin right.

As I put the blower down, I leave the old gel, putting some change by her phone, and I get ta the bottom of the flats. It’s got really bollock cold again, and I button up me overcoat. I ain’t waiting too long before a Turkish geezer pulls up in a cab, flashing the key, a big farking solid thing which I stick in me pocket sharpish and square him up.

I open up the big heavy black wooden door, and holy fucking hell, the place smells. There’s a switch and I click it on and a sick, yellow overhead light floods the room. I look ahead to the big aluminium bucket on wheels. It’s about seven foot high. How the fark am I gonna get up there?

Then I see there’s loads of crap discarded furniture piled up along the walls. I lock the door behind me so I don’t get no herberts snooping round and disturbing me. The farking ming is overpowering and I’m gagging for a bit, before I start ta get used ta it, after a fashion. I pull over an old sideboard, jump on it, and look into the bin. It’s almost full to the top with shit. There’s loads of fucking flies, huge bastards, buzzing around me and battering off me face, like I was one of them kiddies in Africa. But I can’t see no dog. — Here, boy … here, boy.

I can’t hear nuffink. I climb in and my feet sink down into the compressed shit. My guts go into spasm, I’m shaking with nausea; it’s like a farking fever. I put my hand up against the top of the chute’s shaft to steady mesel and it’s covered in some kind of farking putrid excrement. I retch again, then try and wipe off as much as I farking can. This is farking horrible; there’s everything here; nappies, household garbage, jam rags, used condoms, bottles, fag ends and spud peelings everywhere. Everything except the farking puppy.

Suddenly there’s a big smashing sound coming from above and I have to duck back against the side of the bin as a load of bottles come whizzing and crashing down. Cunts could’ve farking killed me! Probably came from the top floors I told them useless farking Scotch cunts to farking well guard! The stench is vile; it burns my nostrils and all this grit’s flying inta me eyes, blinding me.

A farking pit bull in a suit of armour couldn’t have survived this. Poor little fucker’ll be smashed and buried under all this crap. I breathe in and the old dirt and fag ash swirling around in the backdraught from the chute gets in my lungs and I cough and puke up. I can only see out of one watery eye. This is making me farking ill, and I’m about to give up when I suddenly hears this faint whimpering. I dig a bit more, then pull back some wet newspaper and it’s the little dog, lying in crushed eggshells,
old
tea bags and potato peelings. Its big eyes look up at me. But it’s got something in its mouth.