Skagboys (7 page)

Ah exit and wash my hands, swallayin another two paracetamol. Sean Harrigan, a Weedgie exile dumped in Livvy, is already oot, a sure sign that he’s done the business. Barry McKechnie is next, followed by Mitch. Then Seb; ah cannae see his yin being unbroken. Finally Russ Wood shows, with an unhappy shake ay the heid.

So we slide the fruits ay oor labour out oantae the flair in a neat row while Les goes tae work wi his measuring tape. He commentates as he judges aw the shites: — Barry McKechnie: a poor effort, son. What sort ay a weekend did you huv? At hame in front ay the telly?

— Win some, lose some, Barry says wi a shrug. He’s a new boy, didnae work here back when ah wis full-time, but he seems sound enough.

— Seb: no bad, mate. That’s coiled a bit but, Les observes. Poor Seb’s destined tae be perennial bridesmaid; a bit too fat tae balance right n git the proper technique gaun. It requires a certain athleticism. — Davie Mitchell: excellent.

— Aye, ah hud a curry oan Saturday and an all-day session eftir the Hibs game at Falkirk.

Livvy Sean slides his paper out. There’s a big, ugly, steaming, black-and-tan tortoise on that
Record
. — Sean Harrigan: a beauty! Les declares, — as tarbrushed as the Princess Royal’s first bastard. The yin ye never hear aboot.

— Ah wis oan the Guinness at Baird’s in the Gallowgate.

— Be mastered by nae Orange bastard, ma soapy chum, Les smiles. — Worked a treat for ye, Sean. Russ Wood … He looks at Russ’s skittery wee effort.

— … C’mon, Russ … that’s a poor show.

— It’s the wife wi this diet and veggie nonsense. Shite like a trooper. Ah hud tae go earlier, it was a cracker n aw.

— Aye, right, Sean says.

— Honest, Sean, Russ protests, — it’s this high-fibre diet. First thing every morning a drop a log the size ay big Morag in the canteen’s thighs.

— Ye need tae change the diet if you’re serious about playing wi the big boys, Russ, Les dismisses. — Right, Marky. He looks at me, then at ma offering which lies steamin oan top ay Aberdeen’s Gordon Strachan. — Excellent result, coming in at fourteen and a quarter inches n the undisputed winner. No a weak link in it, nice and compacted but sliding oot intae a nice straight line.

— That boyfriend ay yours packin the fudge nice n tight again, Rents? Sean laughs, jealousy in his mean, tight eyes.

Ah wink at him. — Ah’m ewyis the postman rather than the letter box, Sean, you should ken that mair than maist.

Sean’s aboot tae say something back, but Les beats him tae the punch. — Ye’d want a condom before ye’d go near a mingin Weedgie’s hole!

— Ya cunt, ah’d want a fuckin diver’s suit!

— Shoatie, Young Bobby hisses, his gangly frame bent roond the door, — Gillsland n Bannerman!

We pick up the papers, open the windaes and fling oor bombs oot oantae the flat roof as Barry heads back oot wi Bobby tae stall the gaffer. They didnae hud them back for too long, cause we’re just shuttin the windaes n makin fir the wash handbasins, when ye hear that nasal mewl. — What’s aw this then? Gillsland moans. — Thaire’s a joab needs daein! What yis hingin roond here like a bunch ay queers fir?

— We wir waitin oan you comin in n showin us how tae gie a proper gam, Ralphy. Les pushes out his cheek with his tongue, making a cock-sucking motion. — Blew the whole Jubilee Gang ootside the Granton chippy one night, eh, Ralph? Swallayed ivray time, they tell us. Went hame n licked the missus oot tae prove thit eh swung baith weys, then retched up aw ower her muff. Nine months later she hud a bairn that looked like every cunt in Granton, eh, Ralphy?

— What are ye talking aboot? Gillsland says indignantly, then retorts, — Takes yin tae ken yin!

— Ah, those summer nights ay love doon old Granton toon, ah well-a, well-a, well-a, well, tell me more … Les muses, sliding into song, as we ignore Ralphy and Bannerman, who, registering the creeping stench, waves his hand in front ay his face, and we head back oot oantae the tedious job.

POOKOW.

POOKOW.

POOKOW.

Sean and Mitch are asking us aboot ma weekend. — Blackpool. Northern night. No bad, but it’ll never be another Wigan.

POOKOW.

WHEEEESSSSHHH …

THOK.

Never saw it coming, but it whistled past Sean’s heid at bullet velocity, embedding a good two inches intae a plank in the woodpile behind him. Ma blood ran cauld for a church-length second, presumably Sean’s did tae, before he dived behind a pile ay frames stacked up oan pallets. Ah wasnae far behind, and a good thing n aw; another whistle and a THOK and another six-inch nail wedged into the wood in front ay us.

—
YA
FUCKIN WEE BAM! NEARLY FUCKIN WELL KILT US! Sean roars, ower at Bobby, who’s blasting off aw ower the place with the high-powered compressed airgun.

— Gonna blow your brains out, muthafuckah, Bobby grimaces, sending another couple ay bullet nails ower into the widden pallets in front ay us.

— FUCKIN COOL IT, YA DAFT WEE CUNT! Les shouts at him. This wee fucker is oaf his fuckin heid and he’s gaunny kill somebody. He loves that gun, standin thaire wi the idiot grin across his coupon. But he’s stalled now cause Les never usually halts a prank.

— Hi, Bobby, ah goes, standin up, — c’mon, buddy, git that fuckin safety catch back oan! If Gillsland comes in wir aw fucked. C’mon, mate, screw the fuckin nut, eh?

Bobby looks ower at us n ah
think
ah see him discreetly click the catch oan, but fear gobbles up ma spinal column as he turns the compressed airgun at us and fires …

Fuck sakes
…

Of course, nowt happens, except ah almost defecate again, in spite ay the empty bowels. — You’re fuckin nuts, Bobby. C’mon, pal, lit’s git they ties sorted.

So Bobby starts firing into the ties, using the airgun for its true purpose, but Sean isnae chuffed at aw. — That wee cunt’s fuckin well away wi it, he says, screwing his finger into his heid. — Tellin ye, Mark, he’s no fuckin real. See if the cunt does it again, Gillsland’s gittin tae hear ay it!

— Ah’ll huv a blether wi um. Dinnae say nowt.

— Ah’m no a grass, Mark, n ah’m no wantin nae cunt tae lose thair joab, but he’s no right in the heid. He shouldnae be daein a fuckin joab like this!

It was true. Bobby was the open-moothed, slack-jawed, drooling, fearless superstar ay the outfit; a deranged youth whae’d come intae oor humble midst via a rehabilitation scheme ay some sorts, the speculation ay the nature ay which got mair and mair outlandish in concert with his nutty deeds. We aw loved this laddie dearly, he brightened up the drab monotony ay the factory, but we kent that he could completely fuck us up at any minute, dragging us oan a crazy whim intae the abyss ay unemployment or serious industrial injury. It was times like this that ah was glad ay the escape hatch ay university; this was gaunny end in tears.

The clock says yon time, so ah slap Young Bobby on the back, and we down oor tools and head fir the canteen. — Ah kent what ah wis daein, Mark, he protests, — ah wisnae gaunny shoot any cunt, like.

— Fair enough, Bobby, ye got tae watch though, mate.

Bobby nods apologetically. He likes me; all psychos seem tae. Ah’d long accepted the universe as a rough, tangled and flawed place, so ah never judged, at least publicly, and generally indulged the capricious foibles ay the bam. They made life interesting. We walk across the forecourt tae the canteen adjoining the warehouse that services several businesses oan the industrial estate. Sean was still a bit shaken, maintaining a discreet distance fae Bobby, as if the cunt was still tooled up in some wey.

The canteen is pretty basic. They’d started tae dae pies and sausage rolls wi beans and chips or filled rolls, but maist ay the boys still brought their ain pieces. Big Mel, an oil tanker ay a lassie, was oan her ain the day withoot her sidekick Morag.

— Awright, Mel doll?

— Hiya, handsome.

— Nae Mozzer, Mel? ah enquire, as me Sean, Les, Bobby n Mitch join the queue.

— Naw, Mark, she’s took a day oaf … oan the sick. She lowers her voice as Ralphy Gillsland comes in with Bannerman and wee Baxy. We hated those cunts, Fanny-Flaps, Bannerman, the gravel-voiced foreman, and Baxy, his sooky wee sidekick.

— Steel’s order done yet? Bannerman, the big box-like cunt wi the square body and heid, shouts doon the line at me.

Ah resent talking tae Bannerman at the best ay times, especially when ah’m oan ma fuckin brek. — It went oot oan the van this mornin, ah took great delight in telling him. That was maistly doon tae Young Bobby. Deranged he might be, but that troubled son ay Niddrie Mains certainly kent how tae work that gun.

— Good, Bannerman mutters sourly.

Ah dinnae even look back at the miserable cunt. While Ralphy, in spite ay ma antipathy tae him, seems tae perversely like me, Bannerman was my enemy fae the start. The cunt loathes me even mair since ah went oaf tae uni. Ah turn tae Mel. — Still seein that felly, Mel? She’s been humping this big fermer’s boy fae West Calder.

— Him! No way, she replies, blowing air out the side ay her mouth wi the force of Bobby’s gun.

— Big laddie but, Mel, Les says suggestively.

— Tiny wee fuckin welt oan it but, she scoffs. — That’s nae use tae me!

Ah ponder this fir a bit. — Right enough, Mel, ye want tae git yirsel one ay they dwarf boys. Huge knobs oan these cunts … or so they tell me.

— Ah, ya dirty fuckin dwarf-shaggin cunt, Les dives in. Bobby flashes a smile full of teeth and snickers his wheezy, shoulder-shaking laugh.

— Ah’ve been sucked oaf by a few ay they in ma time, ah swivel my hips, — ideal height, nae need for knees, but ah’ve nivir gie’d yin the message. Ah’m relyin oan you fir the details thaire, Lesbo.

— Aye, you can fuck off, ya cunt, Les says. It isnae much ay a retort, but that’s Les. Barry gadgie, but despite his stand-up pretentions, nae Oscar Wilde: even less so in wit than in sexuality.

Young Bobby is dribbling again as he stares at Melanie’s breasts. She clocks him and throws a sulky yin. — Bobby, cut that oot. Ah slap him playfully roond the heid as he shoots me that gurgling toddler smile. Even though he’s only aboot five years younger than me, Young Bobby definitely brings oot some latent paternal instinct in us, which makes me feel a bit uneasy. — Listen, Mel, Boab here’s yir man.

— That skinny wee laddie? Ah’ve seen mair meat in one ay they pies!

For a split second ah think that Young Bobby is gaunny blush. But then he just winks and twists his lower lip downward. — Any time, any place, baby.

Melanie lets oot a horsey laugh n whacks some mashed tatties oan a plate fir Mitch. — They say that aboot skinny guys. Aw prick n ribs, Les ventures. — Frank Sinatra weighed only a hunner n thirty pounds, but Ava Gardner goes, ‘A hunner ay that wis cock.’ Mel hilariously tries tae look a bit demure, but ah clock her shootin Bobby the glance a closing-time drunk gies a fish supper. Ah wag my finger at her as ah’d been the only cunt tae catch this, n she grimaces back at us.

Mel dishes up pie, beans n mash fir me, then does the same for Young Bobby, who picks up the plastic bottle and covers every square centimetre ay tattie and pie wi broon sauce till it farts oot the dregs. Nane left for the approachin Bannerman! — Wasted aw the fuckin sauce, he growls in outrage, clocking Bobby’s plate as he huds up the empty boatil. — Ye couldnae have wanted aw that fuckin sauce!

Bobby thinks aboot this, then announces, — Ah wis jist feelin … he sweeps his hair back tae show a furrowed brow, — … saucy! Then he waltzes tae the table as Les, Mitch and me cannae help chortling away. Even Sean’s lightened up. Wee things like that seem trivial but those were the kind ay glorious mini-victories Bobby effortlessly specialised in. It made getting shot at worthwhile.

After work ah sees Sick Boy at the Fit ay the Walk, standing at the bus stop, large eyes scanning this waiting lassie, as he rubs his pointed five-o’clock-shadow chin in contemplation. Ah watch his expression shift in a heartbeat fae baleful, like a baby animal throwing itself oan yir mercy, tae cruel and arrogant. He’s just ready tae make his move. His black,
collar-length,
mod-cut hair has a glossy sheen to it, and he’s wearing a white V-neck shirt tae highlight his dusky Mediterranean skin, inherited fae his Eyetie ma. He’s got broon canvas troosers wrapped roond legs that seem a wee bit too long for his body, and he’s wearing decent trainers for a change – he usually wears expensive Italian shoes, always knock-off. Sick Boy’s constantly on the pull, and ah disturb the cunt just as he’s aboot tae pounce. — Rents … he says irritably, nodding at the lassie, — … I was
working
…

— Take a brek, n come for a beer, ah tell him, cause ah need tae talk aboot movin intae the gaff in Montgomery Street.

— If you’re buying. Too many baboons in this neck ay the woods, anywey, he moans. Baboons are what he calls lassies wi bairns:
B
rat
A
ttached,
B
ugger
O
ff
O
nto
N
ext.

We go intae the Central and start chewing the fat. He collapses oantae a bar stool, while ah elect tae stand. Sick Boy’s doing his usual: running doon Leith, telling us that he’s meant fir better things. — I know things are hard, but there are just so many pusillanimous fuck-ups in Leith.

— What?

— Pusillanimous. It means lacking the will or courage to go on. Moaning. Whingeing.

An auld cunt wi a bunnet and nae teeth, whae’s been standin at the bar next tae us, chips in. — A loat ay people widnae like ye sayin that, he warns, eyes fired up.

— Ever heard ay the term
private
conversation?

— You ever heard ay the term
public
house?

Sick Boy raises his brows, seems tae consider this, then goes, — Fair fucks, you’ve got me bang tae rights, boss, and he shouts up another round including the old boy, who pulls up a bar stool, glowing wi a sense ay privilege. However, the auld cunt takes it as an opportunity tae tell us the story ay his life, makin it oor cue tae guzzle up n escape.

As we emerge intae the warm sunlight ay the fading summer night, that nosy saw-faced auld cow fae the Fort, Margaret Curran, is comin up the road, wi her big bag ay washing. She scowls indignantly as she spies a Paki family, well, ah shouldnae really say that cause thir mair likely tae be Bengali, waitin at the bus stop.