Skagboys (65 page)

I’m sitting here, writing this shite and wondering why – probably because there’s fuck all else to do. The folders we’ve been issued have two sections; a diary, with one page for each of this forty-five-day programme, and appendices where there’s what they refer to as a ‘journal’. Skinny-Specky explained that this is for ‘developing any themes from the diaries that we may want to explore further’. Apparently the diaries are for our eyes only, and we can put anything into them. The journals we can elect to read out in the forthcoming group sessions. But nobody is going to write a fucking thing (at least not anything important); there are no locks on the doors here and nothing is secure. The fuckers that run this facility haven’t got a clue as to what the cunts in here are like. Keep a
private diary
when Sick Boy and Swanney are lurking about? Aye, right!

All I can think of is: why the fuck are we here? How the fuck did I get here?

Day 12

WHAT THE FUCK DO THESE CUNTS WANT FROM US?

Day 13

‘
Honesty,’ skinny-Specky says, when I raise the issue at breakfast. A runny egg and toasty sodjirs. ‘You’ll understand more when you join the process review group
.’

Well, that’s me telt. I must have flashed a soor pus as she adds, ‘That’s what the diaries and journals are all about
.’

But when I get back to my room, I immediately start scribbling. If every other fucker’s writing
nothing
(as seems to be the consensus) then I’m going to get
everything
down
.

Skinny-Specky pops round and tells me she’d like me to join the meditation group. I agree, just basically to spend more time in her presence. We’re sitting cross-legged on the flair, as she puts a tape on and takes position in front of us. I’m ogling her small breasts through her tight, elasticated black top, awed by the way she stretches out, catlike, arching her back before getting into position. She gives us breathing exercises, and instructions to tense and then relax various muscle groups in our bodies. We should shut our eyes, but I’m watching her, then I see that Johnny has his lamps trained in the same direction. He gives me a collusive sex–fiend wink, so I close my eyes and breeeeaaaattthhhhheeee
…

After the session, I chat to her for a bit. She’s telling me that by learning to relax our muscles, we can therefore subsequently reduce agitation levels. I don’t trust any theory that inverts cause and effect, and show little enthusiasm for what she’s saying, but when I get to my room, I try the exercises again
.

Keezbo has left us. Spud tells me after lunch, as I’m sitting reading Joyce, looking out the window. The Fat Fort Felly was due to finish detox, but they’ve taken him to the hospital, due to supposed ‘medication complications’, whatever the fuck that means. They say he’ll be rejoining us soon. Fat Jambo cunt’s probably already sitting in the Village Inn with a cold pint of lager now that he’s chemical-free
.

‘
Is that a barry book, Mark?’ Spud asks, looking like he’s formulating something in one of the more intriguing chambers of that labyrinth inside his skull
.

‘
Aye
.’

Then he’s off, and I’m back at the desk. What to write about? Our feelings, says Skinny-Specky. How do I feel? Well, I feel horny as fuck. I can tell that I’m detoxing, not just because I’m by
turn
depressed and miserable, then anxious and excitable, but because the only respite is my increasing carnal obsessions. I think about Lesley in the bed at Sully’s at New Year, wishing I’d licked her oot, had rode my cock between her heavy tits or even got a gam off of her. It now seems like an opportunity missed and I feel foolish and weak, eaten up with self-reproach – another chance blown. YOU CUNT YOU CUNT YOU CUNT YOU CUNT YOU CUNT
.

Later in the afternoon I masturbated about Joanne Dunsmuir
.

Other than Joyce and jerking I keep quiet, detoxing, doing my time
.

Day 14

Reading all this back, I realise that by repeating the dialogues I’ve heard, it’s reading more like a novel or series of stories than a diary. And that suits me. I couldn’t ever be arsed writing a conventional diary
.

Attended my first process review group. It was fucking mental! People got wired right into each other, no punches pulled; a stand-up shouting match between Johnny Swan and that Molly lassie, forcing intervention from Tom and Skinny-Specky. Too much for me in this state, and I opted to lunch in the privacy of my room, some bland steamed fish which I shouldn’t eat as I’m a veggie
.

This evening I shakily joined them all in the recky room. The pool table has its yellow striped ball missing. I suspect Johnny Swan, who ran an appreciative hand over my fresh-cropped skull, had maliciously slung it ower the garden wall, as he’s the only one who doesn’t play. Sick Boy and Swanney were deep in conspiracy, talking aboot Alison. Sick Boy was going, ‘Lozinska the great feminist. How does sucking cock for heroin advance the cause
ay
women’s liberation? Please explain. It was all because I was fucking somebody else as well as her; aw the spiteful bitch wis daein was trying tae keep us away fae the tightest pussy I’ve ever had. Clamps ye like a vice
.’

‘
Quality fanny,’ Johnny conceded
.

Fuck knows who they were talking about, but she must be something special for them to agree. However, I noticed Spud listening in, then cringing and turning away, wilting like a hamster in a microwave
.

I headed back to my room, planning to have another chug about Joanne Dunsmuir
.

Joanne Dunsmuir.

What’s the fascination? She isn’t even particularly good-looking and certainly doesn’t have an agreeable personality, but I wank much more about her than I do about anybody else
.

I’m scene-setting and fluffing up nicely. In my mind’s eye Joanne’s lying on her stomach and I’m pulling up her brown-and-black-checked skirt and hauling down her shiny black panties to expose a tight, curvy pair of buttocks
.

That was as far as I got, as there was a knock and Spud burst in. He was in some distress, failing to notice that my hands were
inside
my tracky bottoms. He sat on the small basket chair fretting, sucking in his bottom lip. ‘People are sayin things … this place is a pure nightmare … ah feel shite, Mark, pure shite, n people are talkin rubbish
.’

I told him not to worry, that it was only Sick Boy and Swanney trying to show off. That it was all bullshit
.

‘
But how does he huv tae say they things aboot Alison? Alison’s a barry lassie!
’

‘
Because he’s a fucked-up arsehole, gadgie. We all are. But hopefully we’re getting better. Forget aw the sexist crap, it’s just them aw posturing tae each other. Aw these radges might talk like rapists among themselves, but they’ll aw grow intae
hen-pecked
husbands who’ll worry like fuck aboot their daughters. It’s just a pose
.’

He looked at me in melancholy accusation, like a bairn who’s been told that Santa Claus doesnae exist. He kept glancing fae me tae the flair n back, as if building up to say something, then he let fly. ‘You n Matty …
you
youse stole that Cat Protection League money!
Off of
Offay Mrs Rylance!
Out of the shop
Ootay the shoap!
’

FUCK THAT
.

‘We certainly did. That’s how we got here, for some poxy cash. When you think of the bother we had opening it.
‘We certainly did. That’s how I wound up here, for a few fuckin bob in a gantin plastic collection boax. The bother we had openin it … that’s what landed us in the fuckin cells! Some troll makin an example ay druggies! A poxy collection tin!
’

‘
Well, ye shouldnae huv done that, Mark,’ Spud bleated, ‘no tae auld Mrs Rylance, no tae the cats …’ Cause it’s no likesay stealin oot ay shoaps, it’s a charity tin likesay, an auld woman, whae’s daein her best fir abandoned animals. Animal charity, likesay
.’

‘
Point taken, buddy, point taken,’ I waved a hand in emphasis. ‘When ah strike it rich, ah’ll write the CPL and Lothian Cat Rescue a big cheque
.’

‘
A cheque …’ he parroted blankly, the notion seeming to calm him down, though our feline pals will be the last cunts
to see any dosh I ever come into
TAE SEE ANY DOSH AH EVER COME INTAE.
(That
is more like how I sound in my
head
heid. Sometimes. Mair like. Sometimes. Why try tae sound different? Why the fuck be the same as every other cunt? Ah mean, whae’s fuckin interest does it serve?)

So ah tells Spud, ‘See, ma idea is tae get clean, then get the habit manageable. Never go ower, say, two or threeish grams a week. Make that a hard n fast rule. Stey at the point where ye git the buzz,
but
if thaire’s a drought, the withdrawal’s fuckin mild n ye can ride it oot oan painkillers n Vallies, till it’s biz as usual. It’s science, Danny. Or maths. Everything has an optimum point. Ah jist goat far too reckless and went past mine
.’

‘
That new lassie that’s came in, that Audrey; she seems a nice lassie, ken? Pure sat next tae me at breakfast,’ he went in that shy primary school qwally way he sometimes goes when manto flutter oantae the scene. ‘She doesnae say much, ken, so ah just looks at her n goes, “Ye dinnae need tae say nowt, but if ye need tae talk, likesay in private, ah’m here, ken.” She jist nods
.’

‘
That was very thoughtful, Spud. Fire in there, mate. Ah’d certainly ride her. In a fuckin minute
.’

‘
Naw, it wisnae like that,’ he bashfully protested, ‘she’s a nice lassie, n ah wis jist tryin tae be helpful, ken?
’

‘
Still, you’ll be oot soon, Spud, free tae impress the fair maidens ay the Port wi yir near-death and rehab tales
.’

‘
Naw, ah dinnae want tae go back tae Leith. Thaire’s nowt tae dae.’ He shook his head. ‘Ah’m pure no ready, man
…’

Then he put his
head
heid in his hands and I felt masel turn tae stone as he
started to cry
started tae greet. Proper greeting, high, snivelling, wee bairnish whines. ‘Ah’ve messed things up that much … wi muh ma
…’

I put ma airm roond him; it felt like hugging a workie’s pneumatic drill. ‘Whoah, c’moan, Danny, take it easy, mate
…’

He stared up at us, face red, beak all snottery. ‘… if ah could jist git a joab, Mark … n a girlfriend … somebody tae care aboot
…’

Then Sick Boy pushed the door open. He rolled his eyes camply, as Spud rubbed at his own red, bloodshot lamps. ‘Am I interrupting anything?
’

Spud sprang to his feet. ‘You kin stoap slaggin oaf Alison! You keep yir mooth shut aboot her, right!
How
you’re like wi lassies … IT’S WRONG, KEN! IT’S JIST PURE WRONG!
’

‘
Daniel …’ Sick Boy went, palms upturned, ‘… what’s wrong?
’

‘
YOU! PEOPLE LIKE YOU!
’

They squared up, shouting at each other, faces inches apart. ‘You need tae git fucking laid!’ Sick Boy sneers
.

‘
N you need tae treat people wi respect!
’

‘
Spare me the tired axioms
.’

‘
Dinnae think ye can get oot ay it by usin big words,’ Spud screamed, his face florid and eyes watering. ‘Ah sais you need tae treat people wi respect!
’

‘
Aye, n it’s done you loads ay fucking good!
’

‘
YOU’RE IN REHAB N AW, SON!
’

‘
AT LEAST I NEED MAIR THAN ONE HAND TAE COUNT THE NUMBER AY RIDES AH’VE HUD!
’

‘
YOU’RE GAUNNY GIT YIR BIG MOOTH SHUT ONE AY THESE DAYS!
’

‘
N YOU’RE GAUNNY DAE IT, LIKE?
’

The palaver rippled through the centre’s wafer-thin walls and Len and Skinny-Specky burst in trying tae calm things doon. I was fucked if I was getting in between them: let them swedge away. Although a gentle soul, Spud can row when he has just cause and I’d wager he could take Sick Boy. It would’ve been damn fine sport tae see them exchange blows
.

‘
This is not the way we deal with conflict, by shouting and making threats. Is it, Simon? Is it, Danny?’ Skinny-Specky ticked rhetorically, in her school-marm style
.

‘
He started it!’ Spud squealed
.

‘
Like fuck ah did! I came in here tae see Mark and you started shoutin the odds!
’

‘
Cause you wir …’ Spud hesitated, ‘… cause your wir sayin things aboot other people!
’

‘
You really do need tae git fuckin laid!
’

As Spud turned away and exited, I ventured, ‘I think we all do, that’s a general axiom,’ stealing
the
latest word Sick Boy’s obviously found in his trusty dictionary, lamely hoping that Skinny-Specky might get flirty, or at least humorous with me, but she pointedly ignored the comment. Poor Spud was seething but he’ll be apologising to Sick Boy for the next ten years, once the Catholic guilt kicks in. If you’re gaunny be saying sorry anyway, you should at least panel the cunt and make it worthwhile: an error of judgement on his part. Len followed after him, while Skinny-Specky looked at Sick Boy n me as if we were going to
disclose
.

We stood staring back at her. ‘It’s a domestic dispute, Amelia,’ I smiled, ‘a sort ay Leith thing
.’

‘
Well, keep it in Leith,’ she snapped
.

‘
Not that easy when half of Leith’s in here,’ Sick Boy observed, as Skinny-Specky looked piqued, then followed Len out
.

Sick Boy looked down the corridor towards the departing Skinny-Specky. ‘Amelia, Amelia, let me fuckin feel ya,’ he said tae naebody, raising his brows and patting his crotch. ‘I reckon she’d go … if conditions were favourable
’.