Skagboys (60 page)

He smiles, his devious eyes fill ay imbecile’s hate, then looks aw self-congratulatory n goes, — Well, some of us like tae keep up standards.

— Aye, well, it’s certainly looking pristine. Heard yir missus takes the dhobi up the Bendix.

— Yesss, he whistles softly, wary but smug, — she certainly does.

Sick Boy nods and says, — Ah kent a bird whae wis mad on that. Ye couldnae stick anything in the washing machine. Eywis hud tae go up the Bendix.

— Aye … sometimes it can be a pest, Olly muses, — because she’s got a perfectly good washing machine.

— But if she’s used tae takin it up the Bendix … Sick Boy sniggers.

Ah’m fuckin well strugglin tae keep a straight face, n Matty’s open-cavern mooth n squashed-grape eyes indicate the cunt’s aware some wind-up’s gaun oan but he’s scoobied as tae what it’s aw aboot.

— Aye, Olly declares, — her mother wis just the same.

— She surely must use the washing machine sometimes but, Sick Boy contends.

— Very rarely.

— I’ll bet you like tae stick a load in there but, eh? Sick Boy goes.

— Oh, ah do try sometimes, but it’s Bendix, Bendix, Bendix aw the way wi her.

— Do ye ever take a load up thaire yirsel? ah ask him.

— In my younger single days, aye. But ah wis a sailor then, and neatness was expect– what … what … Olly’s gaun, as we cannae contain oorsels any mair, – what yis laughin at? Youse ur bloody well on something! Ah ken youse! Ah ken yir game!

— What game is that then? ah goes back.

He looks at ma wrist, pus seeping fae rusted mounds ay crust, on white, goosefleshed skin.

— Industrial accidents, ah wink, but he turns in disgust and strides up the Walk.

— Right up the Bendix! Sick Boy shouts. It hurts tae laugh. My sides sting wi it. But ah realise that the joke is oan me, oan us, as the pain sets in and we look at each other, blinded by snotter, feelin like lepers in our ain place. Passers-by ur starin at us in horror and loathing: ye kin feel their contempt. — Lit’s git the fuck ootay here, Sick Boy sais.

Pain. Psychic pain
.

N thaire’s mair ay that tae come when we git up tae Tollcross. Matty opts tae wait ootside. — Cunt, ah’m no welcome, eh, he says. Inside, the tomatay plants in the windae look as rotten and shabby as Johnny, whae
sits
thaire wi lines ay speed. Ah make the big mistake ay giein him the cash ah owe him. He snaffles it, then refuses tae sub us anything else.

— Jist a wee bag, mate.

— Sorry, chavboax, it’s business, buddy boy.

— But ah jist gie’d ye some dosh, ye ken ah’m good fir it.

— Nae hireys, nae gear. Thaire’s no a lot gaun aroond so what thir is goes tae the boys wi the poppy upfront. Ah’d git the dosh n ah’d move sharpish if ah wis youse.

— C’mon, Johnny, we’re mates …

— Nae mates in this game, chavvy, we’re aw acquaintances now, he goes. — The White Swan’s just a cog in a wheel these days, compadre. He fills his lungs wi sulphate. — Ah’m a branch manager ay Virgin rather than the owner ay Bruce’s Record Shoap. If ye ken what ah mean.

He’s right. There’s nae white now, n the broon’s hit toon big time. Swanney’s puntin it for somebody else, so he’s way doon the peckin order. So we wir back tae square one. Matty starts moanin when we hit the bottom ay the stair. — Nowt? Cunt, what dae ye mean, nowt?! The cunt accuses us ay hudin oot oan him n the argument carries oan doon the road. – Fuckin mongol, he goes.

— Ah wish ye’d stoap this mongol shite, Matty.

— Jist cause yir brother wis one, he says, the taboo words sizzling oot ay the mingin wee fucker’s tight campfire mooth.

— Naw, Down’s syndrome was just about the only medical condition the spazzy wee cunt never had, ah tell him, shaming him and myself at the same time.

— Telt ye wuv nae fuckin gear, Sick Boy narks at him. — N stoap aw this
hudin oot
shite. Tell us how you can possibly
hud oot
oan a moochin cunt whae’s nivir pit his hand in his poakit in the first fuckin place!

Matty shuts up at that, n we walk on in silence. We get tae the Fit ay the Walk, fucked and shivering, tae hear a blood-coagulatin screech: — SI-MIHN!

Two antsy jailbait chicks are ootside the Central, beckonin us ower. It’s the last place we want tae be right now but they willnae take naw fir an answer. It’s that Maria Anderson lassie and her wee pal, Jenny. It turns oot Jenny’s Shirley’s cousin, so Matty doesnae look too chuffed. Ah’m no either. Ah tell her tae bolt, n she nods like she’s gaun tae, but keeps hingin aboot, no in any hurry tae nash. They willnae git served in the Cenny, so we go tae the Dolphin Lounge. We’re sittin in a corner, aw drinkin Pepsi cause it’s fill ay sugar, n Nelly comes in fae the Crown Bar next door, n gits a pint n joins us. He starts spraffin shite about Begbie and
Saybo,
but ah’m no interested as ah’m tryin tae tune oot aw the conversations roond us n think ay whae ah kin hound fir skag. He’s droning in ma ear though, and he asks, — Dae ye think thit ah made the wrong move?

Ah huvnae been listenin tae him, n ah’ve no got the faintest idea what he’s oan aboot, so ah say, — You made the decision, Neil, ah shrug, catchin that Jenny’s eye, n ah git an apologetic glare which quickly steels intae defiance. Fuck her, daft wee hairy; thir fawin like dominoes now n ah’m naebody’s social worker, least ay aw ma ain.

Nelly gies us his tortoise-lipped expression. — So?

Another two young girls come in tae join Sick Boy’s harem. — Sealink, one lassie goes, pointing tae the now empty holdall at ma feet, pronouncing it
Sealunk
, in proper Leith style. Normally ah’d be sniffing at some ay the crumbs ay Sicko’s rich man’s table, but no way right now. Bowie, Iggy and Lou, aw gone. Fuck sakes, ah’m hurtin inside. — Look around the world, baby, it cannot be denied, ah assert tae Nelly.

– Too fuckin right it cannae! the cunt goes, thinkin thit ah gie a fuck aboot his dramas. Ah think it was the Boy Søren who said, one can advise comfortably fae a safe port, and total unconcern is the safest of all.

Sick Boy’s main girl is wee Maria, the death-masked beauty ay the Bannanay flats. A looker, but a proper wee skag hound. There’s whispers that Sick Boy goat her hooked; but in thair stampede tae discern the sinner, people usually miss the point wi aw this ‘which evil bastard got ma son or daughter oan drugs?’ bullshit. Once the shit’s oot there, people are gaunny try it. It’s as futile and pointless as tryin tae blame some other kid at school cause their bairn caught a cauld. Forget transmission, it’s
transition
that’s the issue. Basically, it’s aw self-loathing because they never saw when thair bairn became somebody else.

Sick Boy
is
a cunt though, and he certainly didnae help. — Sweet sixteen, ain’t that peachy keen, he grins, the caress of his Judas palms forcing her weirded smile, — n school aw kicked intae touch, eh. That’s us aw legalled up now, eh, babe? A union blessed by the state! He’s wearing a pork-pie rude-boy hat, which he’s somehow picked up, probably off one ay the girls, which ye can see is annoying the fuck oot ay Nelly.

Nelly clocks me looking at the hat. Flashes us a smile that says ‘that is fucked’. Then he goes in a low voice, — See Goagsie’s got the cowie. Cunt was caught sneakin intae that clinic.

— It wid jist be fir his methy script, but. Wir aw gaun thaire now.

— Nah, the cunt broke doon in the boozer whin he goat fuckin pilled up aboot it. Greetin like a wee fuckin lassie, Nelly snorts.

Ah’m lookin tae Sick Boy, who’s aw ower Maria but at the same time flirting wi Jenny. — A wee honey, this lassie. See, if ma hert wisnae devoted tae you, Maria, he half threatens tae her discomfit and Jenny’s giggles.

Matty gies us a tense nod. — Cunt, lit’s fuckin split, ah’m seek tae fuck, he sais oot the side ay his dribbling mooth.

Ah turns tae Sick Boy. — Ye comin?

— No … Ricky Monaghan has a connection. Ah’m gaunny stall here and see if he shows.

— Cunt, Monny’ll no huv nowt, Matty spits in contempt.

— Take yir choice, red or black, spin the fucking wheel.
I’m
steyin here, n his arm tightens roond Maria, who looks aggressively at us.

Ah nod tae Matty. It seems important tae keep movin, and we elect tae leave them tae it.

So Matty n me’s in the street, exposed in that cruel light wi aw they straightpegs millin roond, cunts whae mean ye nowt but herm n hassle, n ah’m tremblin like a Cadbury’s Flake gaun intae an anorexic model’s mooth.

— Listen, Mark, sorry aboot that … sayin that aboot Davie, likes. It wis oot ay order.

— Forget it, ah goes.

— Cunt, it’s jist thit ah’m aw strung oot n that.

— Forget it, ah repeat, too edgy tae get intae any shite wi the cunt right now.

We shuftie intae the shoap tae procure snout for Matty. Mrs Rylance is behind the counter; magnesium shock ay hair eruptin fae her big ruddy face. She sees ma eyes gaun tae the yellay collection tin. — Animals cannae tell ye when thaire’s something wrong, son. Tae be honest, ah prefer them tae humans. Or some humans, she fixes us in a pitying gaze. — How’s ma Danny boy daein? Lovely laddie.

— Seems tae be better, but eh, ah state gruffly, badly wantin tae split, lookin at Matty slowly prospectin in his pockets for change, hating being a slave tae the petty and pointless addictions ay others. — He’s away oan this project now.

— Project … the auld bat parrots mindlessly as she gingerly fishes the coins fae Matty’s soiled paw like they were jewels fae a blocked toilet bowl.

A group ay young kids come in and her hawk eyes narrow on them from behind those lenses. Ah see Matty’s face freeze as ah pawkle the yellay collection tin oan the counter, swiftly stickin it intae ma holdall. Charlene taught us that yin; eywis huv a chorrin bag. Theft is as much
aboot
opportunism as planning. Executing the deed, ah’m lookin aw the time fae the steel-wool heid ay Mrs Rylance, as she chastises the bairns, tae Matty, his shifty eyes scannin roond.

We head ootside and as the door shuts behind us Mrs Rylance’s howls tear oot, — MA COLLEKSHUN! MA CATS’ COLLEKSHUN! WHAE’S TOOK MA CATS’ COLLEKSHUN?! But it’s directed tae the perr kids as we steal doon the road. We’re gaun right back up tae Swanney’s once we open this fucker. We catch our puff in Queen Charlotte Street, shakin the placky collection boax. Thaire’s a fair weight in it. It’s fill ay they new pound coins.

We suddenly realise that we’re right acroas the street fae Leith Polis Station, so we get the fuck ootay the road n take a 16 back up tae Tollcross. Johnny’s no in but thankfully Raymie’s hame. — Come and buy my toys, he sighs in a Bowie-Tony-Newley-era voice, before shutting one eye and looking at Matty. — Weren’t you
sine die’d
, Matty me boy? Perhaps youse might want tae conclude this business before the White Swan returns?

— Aye …

So we start fartin aroond wi a knife but we cannae get this cunt ay a tin open! Matty stabs it and the blade skites oaf that reinforced placky, back intae his other hand that’s hudin the boax secure, spurting rid blood onto the yellaw boax n the fag-burned wooden flair. — YA BASTARD! he screams, sucking up his ain blood like a vampire. Ah take ower, but it’s totally fuckin useless. We can see it’s fill ay ten-bob bits n pound coins but we cannae even prise any oot, wi these inverted teeth blockin us.

Fuckin hell’s bastardcunts!

Raymie gets a hammer oot and batters it, but the thing just isnae yielding. — I serenade, they decorate, he says, laying down the tool. His remarks, apropos of nothing, once humorous, now grate like fuck. Ah pick up the hammer and huv a go at the fucker but this evil unyielding resin, this synthetic, carcinogenic, non-biodegradable pishy fuckin polymer will barely fuckin scratch. Even a hacksaw widnae dae it; this needs a fuckin grinder oan it. Raymie’s getting impatient. — Gentlemen, you should leave this humble abode before Johnny returns. Business ain’t booming on the supply side, chickadees, and there will be fuck all happening in the Salisbury Crag department till you get this open.

Raymie’s a strange yin, but he’s daein us a favour. Johnny’s goat funny wi dough and mair volatile wi aw the speed and downers he takes. If he thinks he’s bein fucked ower he’ll hud oot.

Matty and me look tae each other and decide tae split n see if Sick Boy’s contact, Monny, has somehow emerged. We head back doon tae the
port,
but then elect tae bodyswerve the Fit ay the Walk n the Kirkgate for Keezbo’s at the Fort. He lives on the D floor ay Fort House, two doors along fae whaire ah grew up. — Ah’m gaun up tae see Keith, Matty, you stey doon here.

— What fir?

Ah open up the holdall, takin oot n shakin the collection tin close tae his lug. The side ay his face seems tae seize up like he’s huvin a stroke. — Cause ah’m gaunny droap this fuckin thing doon tae ye. You let it hit the deck n split open, n then fling the dosh intae the bag. Okay?

Matty’s blinkin like some cunt’s flung pepper in his eyes. — But … cunt, it might go aw ower the place n –

FUCK WIS THAT?

Wi baith hears this yabberin sound echo fae above. It rolls around in ma heid. Raw panic crackles ower the back ay ma neck. Ah’m fucked awright, it’s this cunty methadone … Ah tug Matty’s jaykit sleeve. — Keezbo n me’ll be right doon tae help ye, wi dinnae fuckin well huv time tae discuss it!

Matty sucks back some snotter n nods, lookin roond n shiverin. Ah droap the bag at his feet. Ah’m right in the stair n boundin up tae the D flair. Oan the balcony ah sees Keezbo’s mother n faither; Moira, wi her signature frizzy broon hair n horn-rimmed glesses, n Jimmy, still a chunky wee barrel ay a gadge in white shirt n black trews, standin ootside thair flat. As ah stride taewards thum, the shouts git louder; thaire comin fae
inside
Keezbo’s. Jimmy n Moira look tae each other in panic n they step back intae the flat n try n shut the door oan us. — What’s up? Is that Keith shoutin?

— Yir no welcome here, nane ay yis, Moira goes, pittin her weight oan the door, but ah’ve goat a shoodir n hip in, n ah’m no budgin. The tin’s in ma hand, oan the inside, n ah’m worried she’ll snatch it so ah push intae the flat. The birds are oot ay the aviary, flappin aroond ma fuckin face! — Dinnae lit they burds oot! Moira screams, now pillin us in n shuttin the door behind us.