Skagboys (47 page)

I feel my stomach contents rising again and I slam the brakes on cause it’s got hold of this farking floppy doll thing. It’s about twelve inches long with a big head and skinny rubbery limbs. It’s like a space alien covered in tomato sauce and dirt and all sorts of gunge. Its leg’s in the dog’s mouth. I don’t like the farking look of this. My blood goes all cold and I can hear it pound it me head. The way this thing’s leg hangs in the pup’s jaws … its eyes are shut, but the blue lids are sorta bulging out. It’s got black, matted hair. There’s a wound on the side of its head, a big hole in the flesh with shit seeping out. This ain’t no farking doll. It looks like –

It’s got me in its mouth
–

By the leg
–

My little face
–

Her little face
–

I can’t move. I just sit there in the rubbish, looking at the puppy and this bloody red, coffee-coloured and blue thing it’s chewing on. The dog lets it go and comes to me. I pick him up, tucking him under me chin. He feels warm and makes little soft whines and I can see the hot breath coming out his tiny nostrils in the cold air.

I’m still looking at the thing lying in the rubbish. Its eyes shut, like it’s at peace, sleeping.

I don’t farking well
…

It ain’t a baby. I ain’t that fucking daft. You’d have ta be one sick cunt ta call this thing a kid; it’s way, way short of that. But that ain’t ta say that some respect ain’t bleedin well called for. It don’t feel right leaving it here like rubbish, like a dirty farking filthy slag would.

Oh my God, what has she farking well done?

I dunno what to do, but I gotta get out, as another parcel of shit comes crashing down from above and thumps against me back. The puppy’s licking me hand and I tuck it under me arm and climb out. I leave the room, locking the door behind me.

I’m stinking of rubbish as I walk for ages with the dog under me coat. The sun goes down and it’s freezin as I find myself heading up by the canal. The dog’s stopped whining now, it must’ve been cold. It feels like he’s fallen asleep. All I can think about is that thing back in the chute. First why, then how and after that when. Dates. Times. The Neighbourhood Housing Office ain’t far, n I drop the key off at the reception. The girl on the desk stares at me like I’m a cunt, like she’s about ta dig me out, but she don’t. I suppose I ain’t looking too clever; I’m farking stinking,
covered
in all sortsa shit, wearing this old coat with a puppy peeking out of it. I’m right outta there; I go back ta the canal.

What can I farking do … what was she farking thinking about …? It was too far gone, it’s against the farking law, surely
…

I keep walking along the bank, under the bridges, and it’s starting ta get dark. The puppy starts crying, in long pathetic whines that get louder. I leaves the canal, stopping off at a Spar for some dog food. I’ve come the full circle back down ta the flat, and head up in the lift. I get in and put the puppy on the floor and head into the kitchen to spoon out some grub for the little cunt …

— Did your giro no come yet, Nicksy, cause, cairds oan the table time, ah need a sub, mate … Renton goes, then clocks the dog, sniffin around on the floor. — We’ve got a dug! That’s barry, he says, big, dark circles under his eyes, then he tells me, — You are mingin, by the way.

— God, aye, Nicksy, ye really are, Sick Boy agrees.

I can’t farking very well dispute that. The dog’s licking Rents’s hand, and they play with him half-heartedly. — Let’s call him Giro … Renton says. As I put the pup’s food down in a soup bowl, I see that they’re smoking some more gear.

— Ah like the pipe, Rents says. — Ah’ve goat shite viens. That’s how ah cannae gie blood, it takes them ages tae find it.

— A total waste ay gear, Sick Boy argues. — Maist ay the stuff just burns intae the air. But ah kin take or leave skag. Ah’m jist daein this cause it’s oor first day at work oan Monday.

— Can’t you cunts do farking nuffink? Eh?

— Geez a fuckin brek. Sick Boy points to the kitchen. — They beer bottles that huv been lyin around for months have gone, he points all proud at himself, — cause guess whae’s jist eftir throwin thum away!

— You wot?

The cunt could’ve farking killed me!

I’m standing with me fists balling up in rage but they don’t even notice. I take off me coat. I hit the foil pipe, taking that shit back inta me lungs and me head and suddenly everything’s better. I ain’t even bothered that cunt Sick Boy’s on the blower ta farking Scotland now, running up the bill. — Of course I’m eating enough now, Mama, eating enough for two. No, naebody’s pregnant. No bambinos. He puts his hand over the phone. — Jesus Cunty Baws Christ! Italian mothers!

I go through ta the room, carrying me coat. I’m sitting with me head in me hands trying ta bleedin think. I can’t hear for that racket they got on. It’s the Pogues album. I go through and ask them ta turn it down.

— It’s
Red Roses for Me
but, Nicksy, ah pit it oan for this track, ‘Sea Shanty’, cause we’re gaunny be seafarin men! Mark says, going through me Northern Soul singles for the upteenth time. — These really do rule, Nicksy.

I have a little smile ta mesel as Mark passes the pipe again; I’m up for a good blast this time. Me lungs and then me head fill up with the shit. I sit back in the chair, enjoying the heavy-limbed, light-headed feeling.

— I couldn’t give a monkey’s. What’s it all about? Music. Waste a time, just lulls ya inta believing that things are less shit than they are. Fucking aspirin against leukaemia, I tell him.

— Barry but, he goes, he ain’t listening. Not that I give a monkey’s now.

Cause no cunt listens ta any cunt else round here. And what’s this farking ‘barry’ all about? How come ya never see Jocks on TV saying that? I’m thinking as the gear flows through me, calming me right down. The puppy’s pissing in the corner and I’m laughing. Mark’s shaking his head and going, — This is the good stuff though, Nicksy.

— You can have them, mate, I tell him. I mean it n all. What good they gonna do me?

— Dinnae say that, or they’ll be in the shops doon Berwick Street before ye can say skag, Mark laughs, then he seems to take fright realising what he’s just said. — I’m no that bad, his voice dips, — keep an eye on Sick Boy but, he whispers, as his mate puts the phone down.

Sick Boy waves away the foil pipe. — I’m off tae make myself look pretty. He does an imitation of this nutty mate of theirs back home, a seriously mad Jock I met at New Year, thrustin out his pelvis. — Fuckin ridin duties the night. Cunt better no be shy!

Poor old Frankie boy’s ears must be burning all the way up in Jockland, cause they don’t half rip the piss outta him. Not the sort of geezer you’d do that ta his face, though.

— That’ll take some time, Rents says, — no the ridin, that’ll be ower in seconds, the makin yersel look pretty bit.

Sick Boy flashes a tired V-sign in response as he heads out.

— Is it awright tae gie a mate back in Edinburgh a wee tinkle? Ah’ll gie ye the money likes, Renton pleads with a dopey smile, holding a clenched fist ta the side of his face.

— Go ahead, you daft cunt, I tell him, cause I ain’t giving a toss now.

— I will then, he smiles with his yellow teeth, — Just as soon as I get another hit ay that pipe … this broon … dead mellow likes, he says, beckoning the dog over to him, — Giro … c’mere the now, pal … barry
name
for a dug … Fuck sake, said ah’d meet Stevie doon the West End later n ah’m Donald Ducked … cunt’s a straightpeg n aw … bound tae ken … but jist one wee hit tae git us sorted …

And I realise I want another n all, in fact I feel like a starving Russian peasant in a well-stocked French patisserie, cause we got ta start farking
work
on Monday morning.

Waters of Leith

THE LIGHT CAME
back. It always came back. Lizzie remembered him from school, the football player. He had always seemed like a nice guy, and he was good-looking. But she had been an aspiring artist, continuing her education past the mandatory sixteen, and moving in different circles. From an early age, an invisible membrane of aspiration had been crystallising between them.

Just back at the College of Art, New Year resolutions still intact, Lizzie McIntosh had had been dealt a crippling blow. Taking her portfolio to her tutor’s room, she had heard Cliff Hammond in conversation with another male lecturer. About to knock on the half-open door, she had frozen at the mention of her name and had stood listening to them tearing up her life. — … stunning-looking girl, but with absolutely no talent whatsoever. I’m afraid people have indulged her, by leading her to believe that she has technical skill and something to offer, when, quite frankly, there’s nothing … Hammond had said, in those tones of tired disdain she’d heard him deploy on others, without ever believing she’d hear them used about her.

Suddenly, the glass floor Lizzie had built was cracking under her feet and she had felt herself falling. Blood pounding in her head, but a numbness pervading her limbs and face, she’d yanked her hair back into a ponytail, holding it with her fist. Then she’d turned, wondering if she’d find the strength to get down the corridor. She’d left her portfolio against the wall outside his office and walked back down the stairs and out of the college building. It was cold, but Lizzie had been only vaguely aware of this as she’d sat down on a bench in the Meadows, looking at the mud on the shiny leather of her boots. As she’d lifted her head, Lizzie had regarded the weak glow of the moon, waiting impatiently to displace the fading late-afternoon orange sunlight, which shone in spokes through a darkening sky. Could she consider herself an artist now? All that vanity and fanciful indulgence!

She’d barely taken in the football game finishing a few yards away from her. But he’d noticed her, lost in herself, and prayed her distraction would
last
till the ref blew his whistle and he could quickly ready himself and emerge from the changing room. Tommy Lawrence had sensed that this was his chance, and the fates had been with him; a perfunctory shower, quickly knocking back drinks invitations, and shooting across the park to her lonely figure. Then he was standing over her, his face earnest and handsome under a wet mop of crayon-brown hair.

Lizzie hadn’t argued when he had said she looked upset. They had gone for a coffee, and he’d listened. He had noted there was no ire in her tone; she had told her story with a detached grace, or perhaps it had been the shock. Tommy had instinctively known he had to enable Lizzie to find her anger and arrogance again. — It’s just his view, one person, he’d told her. — He sounds a right slimy creep. I’ll bet he fancies you.

An understanding had started to dawn. This was Cliff Hammond. On more than one occasion, he’d asked her to come for a drink, or a coffee. He had a reputation. It all made sense. She’d rebuffed this egotistical fop, this wrinkly old predator, and now he was striking back in his pathetic, bitter way.

— Well, he’s no exactly impartial, is he? He’s a sleazebag, Tommy had declared. — You cannae let a wanker like that put ye off!

— No way, Lizzie had said, — no fuckin chance, suddenly realising that this boy had reaffirmed and restored her.

— We should go and get your folder.

— Aye, too fucking right. Lizzie had risen. It all seemed important again. Thanks to Tommy Lawrence from Leith.

The folder had been right where she’d left it the corridor. She had picked it up, just as Cliff Hammond had emerged from his office. — Oh … Liz … there you are. Didn’t we have an appointment over an hour ago?

— Yes. I was there. But I heard you talking to Bob Smurfit.

— Oh … Realising Lizzie had an escort, Hammond’s face had taken on a paler hue.

Then Tommy had stepped uncomfortably close to him, and Hammond had tensed up, involuntarily taking a backward step. — Aye, we heard a lot ay stuff fae you, Tommy had accused, eyes narrowing.

— I … I think … there’s been a … mi … Cliff Hammond had stammered, the word ‘misunderstanding’ caught hopelessly in his throat.

— It’s rude tae talk about people behind their back. Especially when it’s shite. Do you want tae repeat what ye were sayin?

For a man who stressed art’s visceral power, who loved the clutch of young painters currently emerging from Glasgow, Cliff Hammond was
devastated
to be confronted by his own weakness in the face of righteous indignation. Had Lizzie been alone, he’d have tried to explain, to work something out, but now he felt small and puny beside this tall, fit-looking youth, whose bearing and accent suggested harsh places Hammond had previously just seen as peripheral names on the city map, the terminus on the front of the maroon buses, or settings for a seedy newspaper story; places he would never be inclined to go to. One side of his face had broken into a twitching spasm.

It was that uncontrollable reflex that had saved Hammond from physical violence. Tommy’s contempt for Lizzie’s tormentor’s cowardice had quickly turned into self-loathing at his own bullying. Both men had stood paralysed, before Lizzie had said, — Let’s go, Tommy, pulling his sleeve, and they’d left the college for a nearby bar.

So Tommy had come into her life two weeks ago and they’d been inseparable. But any speed Tommy Lawrence had was confined to the football field. So last night, Lizzie had taken matters into her own hands, suggesting they went out drinking, then dragged him to her place and bed. It had been so good to get that out of the way.

Now the late-morning light is shining through the curtains, spreading across them. Lizzie looks at Tommy asleep, his smile a glaze of contentment. Like the books on her shelves and prints on her walls, he promises some sort of paradise. Yet the things she’d heard about him had not been unambiguously good; she knew some of the people he associated with, mainly by reputation. Goodness was not the first quality that came to mind when she thought of them. It might have been the post-coital situation, but could anyone look bad in sleep? Even evil bastards like Frank Begbie probably attained an angelic innocence when they were out for the count. Not that she’d ever want to find
that
out. It’s hard to imagine that Tommy, being such a nice guy, was friendly with a nutcase like Begbie. Lizzie can’t see why he would associate with people like that.