Skagboys (59 page)

The masking tape that he pit doon yonks ago is still oan the flair, running acroas the cairpit. Ah pull it up and see a thick darker line contrastin wi the light, sun-bleached blue. He called that the invisible Berlin Waw, dividin him fae ma Stanton-prominent ’72 League Cup poster, a ’73 Hibs team photae wi the two cups displayed, n a picture ay Alan Gordon in shooting pose. There’s a recent yin ay Jukebox. Ah’ve got a great photae ay the church in St Stephen’s Street where Tommy sprayed IGGY IS GOD oan the side ay the building, and a montage ay teen punk and soul boy pictures, each haircut mair embarrassing than the last. Ah should move ma bed nearer the windae, cause Billy willnae be back in here.

He’s actually gone and
bought a double bed
for Wee Davie’s auld room, soas he kin bang Sharon in comfort when she steys ower. A Jambo shagging pad. How the fuck can the pervert get it up wi my ma n faither lying next door? Has he nae fuckin self-respect? Ah’d never take a burd back here, tae my
ma’s hoose
.

So ah rise late on Saturday morning; it’s the back ay eleven. Ah’m no hungry, but my ma and dad, surprised tae see me, insist ah stey for my Setirday mince. It’s sort ay a tradition that she makes mince early, usually noon, so that we could go tae Easter Road or Tynecastle, or sometimes through tae Ibrox in my dad’s case. Even though the fitba doesnae loom so large in our lives these days, the noon mince custom has perversely carried on. The white tablecloth comes oot, then the casserole dish wi the mince bubblin away in it, a big onion floatin in the middle. Then the mashed tatties, follayed by the peas. But in the silence and stiffness ay muh ma’s movements, there’s a distinct edge tae the proceedings: they seem tae have tippled that something’s up wi me. The auld girl’s wild-eyed at the table and she’s run oot ay fags. She asks Billy, but he shrugs in the negative. Ah mind ay him sayin something
aboot
cuttin doon or tryin tae gie up. — Ah’ll need tae go doon for cigarettes, she says.

— You don’t need cigarettes just now, Catherine, the auld boy says tae her like she’s a child. He seldom uses her formal name, and ah can tell something’s afoot as they’re lookin awkwardly at each other and stealin glances at us. Ah’m pushin the mince roond ma plate. Ah’ve eaten a bit ay the mashed tatties, but this mince seems too salty, stinging my dry and cracked lips, and the peas are like shrivelled wee green ball bearings, through having been left in the oven too long. The auld girl cannae cook for shit, but even if she wis Delia Smith ah couldnae eat fuck all, and ah’m shiverin and blinkin in that light pourin in fae the big windae.

Fuck sake, ah was only doon tae pick up some LPs!

Oot the corner ay my eye ah watch the auld girl rise, ransacking drawers in the sideboard, turning ower the cushions in the settee and chairs, in case a stray smoke has fallen behind yin. She’s creepin us oot, ah want tae say tae her, ‘Please, sit the fuck doon n eat,’ when ma auld man turns oan me and says in steely-eyed accusation, — Ah wahnt tae ask you somethin. Somethin serious. Are you wan ay thaim?

This time he means junky, rather than poof.

— Tell us it’s no true, son, tell us! Ma pleads, standin behind the chair she’d vacated. She’s hudin oantae the back ay it, white-knuckled, as if braced for impact.

For some reason, ah cannae even be ersed lyin. — Ah’m oan the methadone programme but, ah tell them, — ah’m getting off the junk.

— Fuckin idiot, Billy sneers.

— Well, that’s it now then, Dad coldly states. Then he stares at us wi a beseeching, — Eh?

Aw ah kin dae is shrug.

— Yir a junky, ma faither’s eyes narrow, — a dirty, filthy, lyin junky. A drug addict. That’s what ye are, is it no?

Ah look up at him. — Once you label me you negate me.

— What?!

— Jist something Kierkegaard sais.

— Whae the fuck’s that? Billy goes.

— Søren Kierkegaard, Danish philosopher.

My auld man’s fist smashes oan the table. — Well, ye kin cut that crap oot fir a start! Cause that’s aw gone now, aw yir studies, aw yir chances! A bloody philosopher’s no gaunny help ye now! This isnae jist one ay yir
daft
fads, Mark! It’s no something ye kin jist play aroond wi till ye git bored! This is serious! This is yir life yir flingin away here!

— Oh Mark … muh ma starts sobbing, — ah dinnae believe it. Oor Mark … the university … wi wir that proud, weren’t wi, Davie? Wi wir that proud!

— That stuff kills ye, ah’ve read aw aboot it, muh dad declares. — Like messin aboot wi a loaded gun! You’ll end up in the hoaspital like that Murphy laddie; nearly bloody deid, bi Christ!

Ma starts greetin; gaspin, haltin, breathless sobs. Ah want tae comfort her, tae tell her it’ll be okay, but ah cannae move. Ah feel fuckin paralysed in this chair.

— Fuckin mug, Billy jibes, — it’s a radge’s game, that shite.

Normal service between us is evidently resumed, so ah openly regard the muppet in sheer fuckin contempt. — As opposed tae the mature, sensible and socially cohesive practice ay rammin the nut oan total strangers in public places?

Billy looks angry for a beat, but he lets it go as a lenient smile creeps across his coupon.

— We’ve discussed that! my dad shouts. — We’ve discussed this yin n
his
bloody stupidity aw week! He thumbs dismissively at Billy without lookin at him. — It’s
you
we need tae talk aboot now, son!

— Look, ah say tae them, spreadin my palms, — it’s no big deal. Ah’ve been pertyin a bit too much, and got masel ah wee habit. Ah ken ah’ve goat a bit ay a problem but ah’m sortin it oot. Ah’m at the clinic, oan the methadone programme, weanin masel offay the heroin.

— Aye, but it’s no that easy! muh ma suddenly squeals. — Ah’ve heard aw aboot it, Mark! That Aids!

— You’ve goat tae inject it tae git Aids, ah shake ma heid slowly, — n ah wis jist smokin it. But that’s me finished. It’s a mug’s game, like Billy says, but as ah mooth ma agreement, radge that ah am, ah cannae stoap ma eyes gaun tae ma airm.

Ma auld man’s follayed thum and, lightning quick, he grabs it n rolls up ma sleeve, exposin scabby, pus-leaking tracks. — Aye? What’s that then!

Ah reflexively pill the withered limb away. — Ah very, very rarely inject and ah never share needles, ah plead. — Look … ah ken it’s goat oot ay hand but ah’m tryin tae sort it oot.

— Aw aye? muh ma screeches, lookin at ma airm in horror. — Well, yir no tryin very hard, ur ye!

— Well, ah’m daein ma best.

— Mutilatin hissel, Davie!

— At least he admits he’s goat a problem, Cathy, ma dad reassures, — at least that’s wan thing, he seems tae concede. Then he turns they blazin, hungry eyes ay his oan me. — Wis it London that did this?

Ah cannae help but laugh out loud at that yin. I’ve mair access tae gear up here than ah ever hud doon thaire.

— Ye might well laugh, he says in lament, then, — Simon’s no like that, is he? Stevie, wee Hutchy, he’s no like that?

— Nup, ah tell him, for some reason, no wantin tae drop Sick Boy in it. — They nivir touch it, eh. It’s jist me.

— Aye, the bloody mug, muh ma says bitterly.

— But why, son? Dad implores. — Why?

Ah kin never think ay what tae say tae that question. — It’s a good buzz.

His eyes bulge oot like some cunt’s belted the back ay his heid wi a basebaw bat. — Christ, jumpin oaf a cliff’s probably a good buzz, till ye hit the boatum! Wise up, for God’s sake!

— Ah feel like ah’m livin a nightmare, Ma groans, — that’s aw it is: a bloody nightmare!

There follows a gratifying silence, ye can hear the soft ticking ay that posh clock wi the swinging pendulum, the one the old boy got fae his crooked mate, Jimmy Garrett, at Ingliston Market. Then it goes off. It’s slow, sending oot a dozen leaden strikes even though it’s way past twelve, measuring oot our lives in heartbeats … doom … doom … doom …

Ah tries tae get a bit ay mince doon, but ma swallowin mechanism is fucked. Ah can feel it runnin doon ma gullet but the muscles urnae workin. It’s like it’s just buildin up in ma oesophagus n ah’m drownin wi every small mouthful, until ah feel sudden relief as it finally hits ma tight, tennis-ball gut. My mother, whae’s been scrutinisin me, seems tae think ay something, then rises wi a sudden, demented urgency that upsets every cunt in the room, and bounds ower tae the sideboard, pickin up an envelope, which she hands us. — This came for ye, she accuses.

It has a Glasgow postmark. Ah’m scoobied as tae what it is or whae it could be fae. Suddenly, ah’m aware ay the six fervent eyes oan us which say it would be bad form tae pocket it for later. So ah open it up. It’s an invitation.

Mr and Mrs Ronald Dunsmuir

humbly request the attendance of

Mark Renton

at the wedding of their daughter

Joanne April to Mr Paul Richard Bisset

at

St Columba Church of Scotland
,

Duchal Road, Kilmacolm, Renfrewshire, PA
13 4
AU

on

Saturday
, 4
^th
May
1985, 1
p.m
.

and afterwards at

Bowfield Hotel and Country Club
,

Bowfield Road, Howwood, near Glasgow Airport, Renfrewshire, PA
9 1
DB

RSVP
: 115
Crookston Terrace, Paisley, PA
1 3
PF

— What is it? muh ma asks.

— Nowt, just a weddin invite. My auld mate Bisto fae the uni, ah tell her, surprised that they’re gettin married and astonished that they’ve invited me. Joanne must be up the stick; it’s the only wey that would happen as they baith have another year tae go at Aberdeen eftir this. The last time ah saw Joanne was on Union Street. Ah was like a jakey, skulkin doon taewards Don’s. She wis wi another lassie; widnae look at us, but jerked her sweatshirt hood tight tae her face n stepped across the road.

Ma starts lookin oaf intae the distance, shakin her heid as a teary lens amasses ower her eyes. Then she glowers at me in anguish. — That could have been you … wi that lovely Fiona lassie, she sniffs. — Or even wee Hazel. She turns tae my auld man, whae nods tae her and gies her hand a squeeze.

— Aye, a narrow escape, ah say.

— Dinnae start, Mark! Just dinnae bloody well start! You know fine well what yir mother means, my dad shouts.

What ah know fine well is that ah’ve hung aboot here long enough, and now the junk thing’s oot in the open, ah’m disinclined tae listen tae any mair ay their tedious where-did-we-go-wrong disquisitions. Basically, whaire they went wrong wis indulgin thair ain selfish whims in bringin mair lives intae a fucked-up place. Ah didnae ask tae live n ah’m no feart tae die. Aw that’ll happen is that it’ll be like before ah wis alive; it couldnae
have
been that great, but it wisnae that shite either, or ah’d have minded aboot it. Ah was just here tae get ma fuckin records. Billy looks at us, kenin
fine well
what ah’m daein, but sais nowt.

Ah stoap oaf in the bathroom tae swipe the auld girl’s Vallies, n head up the Walk, strugglin wi the weight ay they albums packed in the auld Sealink holdall. Thankfully, ah run intae Matty and Sick Boy at the Kirkgate. They look as shite as ah feel, n neither is too enthusiastic when ah ask them tae take a shot n cairry the bag. Matty takes a shift though, but ye could tell it wis basically jist tae sketch what wis inside. That’s when it aw kicked in wi me: Bowie, Iggy, Lou, they wir aw gaunny go.

— Cunt, that’ll be a sad loss, Matty slyly articulates ma thoughts.

— I’ll tape them, ah sais defensively.

— Cunt, kin see you sittin thaire daein that, right enough, he goes. Sick Boy’s quiet, stooping forward as he walks, his airms folded acroas his chest.

Fucked if ah’m arguin wi this cunt. — Ah’ll get Hazel tae tape them then, she’s goat a capacity for boredom.

Matty shrugs and we git up tae the shoap. Sick Boy hings ootside smokin, while ah stick the records oan the counter. The boy goes through them wi the sort ay face ah ken; ah’ve used it tons ay times masel at work. — Bowie ah kin always shift, he says, — but naebody’s bothered aboot Iggy and the Stooges or Lou and the Velvets. Too seventies.

FUCKIN CUNT.

So ah get a rip-off price for them, Matty pretendin tae look through the records n tapes oan display but mentally countin oot every note n coin the boy pits in ma hand. When we get ootside we see Olly Curran comin up the Walk, the straight-backed National Front closet-buftie fucker. — Awright, Olly?

— Yesss … he sais in that sleekit snake-like wey ay his, lookin doon his beak, first at me, then Sick Boy, then Matty. Ye can tell he thinks we’re the scum ay the earth: a big disgrace tae the white master race. — You’re a Connell, he says tae Matty in mild accusation.

Matty, fag in hand, turns his earring like he’s tryin tae tune in his brain. – So?

— You dinnae stay at the Fort now, Olly shakes his heid.

— Nup, Wester Hailes, eh.

Olly dispenses a security-guard look, one too thick and crass even for a polisman, then thaire’s a silence. So ah goes, — Ye got a fair auld military starch in that collar, Olly.