Skagboys (76 page)

She looks aroond n bends in close tae ma ear. — I think I should take you back vis me to my hotel room, where we can drink proper brandy. She huds the plastic beaker up intae the light n screws up her face. — Real brandy. Vood you like that, Dah-nee?

— Eh, aye … barry! ah goes. — Ah’ll, eh, jist tell ma mate thit we’re headin oaf.

She pills this soor pus n looks ower tae Sick Boy, whae’s in his element wi they two birds, him n the guitarist boy fae the band. Ah see her sortay snort, n it’s barry that she’s no as impressed by him n she is by me, but! So ah goes ower tae him n pills um aside. — Eh, ah bit ay a result, catboy. Claudia wants us tae go back wi her. Ah’m no really sure what tae dae, but.

He looks ower tae her, she’s talking tae this lassie, then back tae me. — She’s a fuckin auld boiler but you’ve goat tae get in there! Jist think ay the brownie points! How jealous will Renton be! Fuck sake, Iggy’s
been
there! Lennon n aw. And Jagger. And Jim Morrison. You could have
your cock
in the same place as Iggy’s has been!

Ah nivir thought aboot it like that, but it wid be a bit ay a feather n the auld cap, likesay. — Too right, catboy. Ye pit it that wey, it’s no an opportunity tae be sneezed at, eh.

— Fuckin sure, Sick Boy says, then his expression goes aw tight n he droaps his voice. — Speaking of brownie points, a wee word ay advice: ram it right up her fuckin choc box!

— Eh?

— Fuck her up the erse. Squidgy or hard centres, get them crammed right back up that fuckin shit tube.

That’s no very respectful, so ah sais, — Eh … ah’m no really intae that sort ay talk, likesay …

Sick Boy’s big lamps are burnin. He’s taken something, probably coke, likes. That guitarist boy was defo dishin stuff oot. — Listen tae me. He pills ma sleeve. — Her sweaty auld pie’ll be like the fuckin Grand Canyon. Iggy Pop wrote that song ‘Rich Bitch’ offay
Metallic KO
aboot her. Mind when he sings about the lassie’s cunt being so big you could drive through it in a truck? Well, that was reputedly aboot her. And that was Iggy, who’s hung like a donkey, and this wis back in the seventies, before she’d hud a score ay orphaned bairns, a prolapsed womb and a hysterectomy. Unless yir packin the Eiffel Tower in they troosers, you willnae even touch the fuckin sides. So grease up that pole and gie her it tight up the chestnut stash, he sortay commands, stickin a packet in ma jaykit pocket.

— What … ah’ve goat spunk bags, ah tell um. Wi Aids n that, man, it likesay makes sense tae cairry thum. Nivir ken whae ye might meet, eh.

— Lube. Slather that pole, bend her legs back in the missionary, aim low, n it’ll go up there like a treat. Just persevere. She’ll love it. European lassies dig that sort ay action. In Italy we use it tae avoid the bambinos and keep sweet wi the Holy Papa in Rome. You’re Irish, you should ken aw they moves! Pin the starfish wi that auld shillelagh ay yours n yi’ll no ken whether she’s talkin double Dutch, or speakin in tongues, ya cunt!

— Right …

So ah heads back ower tae Claudia, whae’s rising fae the chair, her heid tossed back in the air, n she leaves the room. Ah follow her, n as a go, ah look back tae see Sick Boy giein me the thumbs up, and the guitarist gadge makin a throat-cuttin gesture. Ah turns away. This wee gadgie’s wi Claudia, and ah’m a bit worried thit he might be in the threesome, ye ken how liberal the Dutch kin be, aw permissive n that, but ah realise
thit
he’s jist the driver. We go ootside n he climbs intae the front ay the car, n her n me are in the back. The cute lassie that was next tae me is waitin ootside, n shouts at Claudia, — WE LOVE YOU!

Ah pure widnae huv minded takin her along wi us, but Claudia just says, — Fuck off, you moron, as we pull away. We’re bound for the Caley Hotel. Man, ah’m as nervous as fuck now, so ah starts totally gabbin tons, tellin her aboot the gig n sayin that ah loved the new version ay ‘The Nightwatchman,’ wi Darren Foster’s guitar work, n she jist pits a hand ower ma mooth n goes, — Shhh. I do not like it when you are for talking so much.

So ah says nowt, but we’re soon at the Caley, n the doorman opens the car n we git oot and intae the hotel. We baith look like jakeys but the staff cats ur bein ultra sooky cause ay it bein her. Ah could pure tell ah would never huv goat sae far acroas this luxurious lobby on ma ain. Big gless chandeliers n pillars n velvet n a thick rug under yir feet … wi walk under a big alcove tae the lift … aw, man …

So we gits intae the lift n up tae the room. It’s a cracker n aw; ye could likesay fit two Kirkgate flats intae one ay they gaffs. Thaire’s a bathroom that’s ginormous, n she flops oantae the big four-poster kip, n pats the space beside her. Ah’m shitein it, cause ah eywis ah’m wi lassies, n ah widnae say this tae the boys, cause ah’ve jist done it wi three lassies before. Steyin cool’s the art, man, but once that adrenalin sets in, that tight, jittery tension, it’ll be pure no go, man, cause ah feel the nerves knittin inside us. Pure shy wi chicks ah fancy, that’s ma downfall, ken? N ah dinnae fancy Claudia much tae be honest, cause she’s gittin oot ay her tight jeans, n she’s goat big flabby thighs, n ah’m lookin at her rows ay chin n ah’m thinkin ay that cover ay
Street Sirens
again, n askin: is this really Claudia Rosenberg?

Now she’s got some stuff oot, and man, she’s totally chasin some skag wi a foil pipe. Her lungs fill up wi smoke n she goes aw that dozy wey. She offers us the pipe n ah ken ah’m tryin tae be cleanish now, but ah’m that nervous ah take a wee bit, n start coughin, makin her laugh aw loud, but ah dinnae care cause ah’m gaun aw swoony n heavy, n it’s pure taken the edge offay the fear, man.

Barry.

Nae nerves at aw now.

So ah start slippin oot ay ma clathes, n ah moves next tae her oan the big bed. She turns her fat wifie face tae mine. — You are a nice boy, she says, runnin her hands ower ma nipples like it wis me thit sort ay hud the tits, likes.

— Ah’ve … eywis … kinday … admired your …

— Shh … Again it’s the finger ower ma mooth, n her other hand goes doon inside the front ay ma pants, which ah kept oan. Man, it’s been that long that even wi that bit ay skag, ah’m still as hard as fuck. — You have a very nice long penis. Very long. Not so wide, but very, very long!

Not so wide
…

Ah’m pure thinkin aboot what Sick Boy said n ah goes tae pit oan the flunky n opens the lube n rubs it doon the shaft ay ma cock. She’s taken oaf her pants n thaire’s a leafy smell, it’s strong, but ah dinnae say nowt. It’s like ye kin tell she’s pure chronic oan the skag n sortay gied up a wee bit oan the personal hygiene, ken? Ah wis totally the same before rehab. But it sortay gets us wonderin aboot Janis Joplin or Billie Holiday, what they would’ve been like in the minge department, ken?

So this Claudia starts tae boom, — Give it to me! Give it to me!

— Awright … So ah mounts her, gits in position n pushes they fat legs back, n goes in low against her ersehole, n pushes …

Her eyes bulge oot n her body stiffens. — VOT ARE YOU DOING?!

— Ah’m … sortay tryin tae … gie ye it up the bum, likesay, ah tells her.

Well, man, she pure pushes us oaf her n grabs us by the hair. — GET AWAY FROM ME! GET OUT!

Ah pulls away but ma scalp’s pure burnin n she’s gone radge, chasin us in slow motion roond the bed, cause we’re baith wasted, me in the buff, her naked fae the waist doon but wi a black T-shirt still oan, n ah try n grab ma troosers n miss, n ah’m gaun, — Ah’m sorry … ah’m sorry … calm doon!

— You think because I am now old you can use me like a toilet?!

— Naw … ah jist thoat –

She lunges at us and batters me above the eye wi her fist. — GET OUT! she roars, n ah’m tellin her thit ah’m gaun, jist tae lit us git ma clathes, but she’s punchin n kickin us n ah’m movin across the room, ah cannae hit her back cause she’s a woman, so ah goes tae lock masel in that big bathroom till she’s calmed doon. — Take mair skag … ah goes. But she’s still shoutin fir us tae go, so ah opens the door, but wi her hassling us it’s the wrong door n it goes oot intae the hotel corridor, n she shoves us through it n slams it shut behind us!

Awww, maaaannnn
…

Ah’m lookin aroond the deserted corridor, beggin, bangin oan the heavy door, pleadin wi her tae fling oot ma clathes at least, n ah hear her scream fae behind it, — All of your stupid clothes are going out of my vindow!

— NAW! DINNAE! ah goes, batterin the door, but a boy fae the next room comes oot n looks at us, n ah goes, — Yuv goat tae help us, ah need a len ay –

The gadge just pulls back intae the room n slams the door shut. Ah looks doon the hall, n aw ah kin think tae dae is tae pick up the metal plate covers ay some cat’s room-service trays n pit one in front ay ma nuts n the other yin behind ma erse. Ah’m headin doon the corridor n the lift clicks open n a couple git oot n start gigglin. Ah gits in, but it stops at the next flair n a woman n her young son go tae get oan, then stoap. — That man’s not got any clothes on, the bairn says, and his posh ma pills him away. Ah hit the button n the lift goes doon n opens up in the busy lobby.

Ah’m totally done for, man, what am ah gaunny say tae the polis? An auld Dutch singer flung ma clathes oot the windae cause ah tried tae stick ma cock up her erse? Ah’ll pure git the jail! So ah jist goes fir it, man, totally bolts across the reception hall, no lookin at anybody, keepin the tin covers held close, n ah kin hear aw the gasps as ah git tae the door.

The doorman boy wi the top hat says, — These dish covers are hotel property!

But ah’m ootside, n ah sees ma jaykit lyin in the wet, oan the pavement by the taxi rank, n thaire’s ma Fred Perry in the gutter … but whaire’s ma jeans? … Aw, man; ah looks up n the keks are caught roond the flagpole, but thir gaunny come doon any second … Ah hears shriekin lassies’ laughter comin fae the boozer across the lane … it’s the Rutland, man … worst place ah kin be … but here come the keks … there’s only one trainer, so ah leave them n drop the dish covers n bundle the clathes up. The doorman, whae’s been shoutin aboot polis, comes eftir us n picks up the dish covers, n ah’m runnin bare-ersed doon the side street, clathes bunched in front ay us. One cabbie, whae’s been watchin n laughin, shouts some encouragement fae his taxi, as ah bounds doon Rutland Street, doon a flight ay stairs intae a mingin auld basement. Ah’m no bothered but; ah pill masel intae the troosers, ma feet cauld n wet oan the rain-soaked, mucky groond cause its been pishin doon, n ah gits ma shirt n jaykit oan. When ah git back up tae street level, ah cannae face gaun past the Caley or the Slutland tae the bus stoap, so ah heads doon the street taewards Rutland Square. Ma bare feet are freezin as ah walk past aw they snobby solicitors’ buildins and posh offices oan the Georgian square wi its big pillars, n ah’m gled that it’s late n naebody’s aroond. Ma paws are black wi the dirt, and cauld and sair, n ah’m gaunny git pneumonia here n be back in yon hoapsital, ah kin jist pure tell.
Ah’m
jist lookin at the cracks oan the pavement, mumblin that auld playgroond rhyme:

Stand oan a line n brek yir spine

Stand oan a crack n brek yir back
.

Never goat the difference between the two cause yir snookered either wey, but mibbe that’s what it’s aboot; sortay pure life in Scotland, likesay. Ah gits roond the corner tae Shandwick Place n ah cross ower the road at the Quaich Bar n stand at the bus stoap ootside that big church, St Dodes, people lookin at ma bare feet like ah’m some kind ay community-care radge. A 12 bus comes and thank God that ah’ve got enough change in ma poakit, that it never fell oot when she flung the keks oot the windae. The bus stoaps n ah pit ma dosh in the slot. The driver looks doon at ma feet. — Bad night?

— Aye.

N as ah’m sittin oan the bus, ah git tae thinkin, mibbe it’s sortay karma. Mibbe God never intended for birds’ erses tae be used fir that sortay thing.
In Through the Out Door
as Zeppelin might huv pit it. So ah gits back doon tae Monty Strasse n up the stair, n intae the hoose. Sick Boy, they nice burds fae backstage at the gig n the guitarist boy ur there, chasin broon. Rents is thaire n aw; he looks bombed n gies us a lazy wave. He’s wi Hazel, whae isnae touchin the gear n doesnae look awfay happy.

Sick Boy’s pittin some mair skag oan the foil. — You’re back early, superstud. Still, ah kin see why ye didnae want tae stey the night! Gory details then, cunt, he snaps.

— Heard ye goat a result … Mark slurs, laughin softly.

— Hi, man … how wis rehab?

— Ye see it aw, he shrugs, lookin aw apologetically tae Hazel, whae turns away.

— Not a kisser n teller, eh? Ah admire that. Shows class in a man, Sick Boy says, comin up tae me wi the foil pipe. — Have some ay this, buddy. Whaire’s yir fuckin shoes, ya radge?

— Long story, man, ah goes, takin the pipe, cause ah’m no really in the mood tae refuse anything, ken?

In Business

IT HAD BEEN
a long, disquieting drive, visibility hampered by the lashing rain against his windscreen. Now fatigue hit him, rapid and unforeseen; his awareness that the thump and swish of the rubber wipers was having a lulling, heavy-eyed effect only became apparent when a series of yawns tore through him. He shook his head, blinked rapidly, and tightened his grip on the wheel. A road sign, flashing luminous green under his headlights, told him he was close to his destination.

Russell Birch had never been to Southend before, and he’d heard it could get lively, but as he came into the Essex seaside town, it was evident that the bad weather had dampened weekend festivities. As he left the A13, drove past the railway station and down onto the Western Esplanade, the world’s largest pier still flashed its attractions, but it was almost deserted. It seemed that people had largely reached where they wanted to go and had holed up in the pub or club of their choice. Only a few brave, underdressed revellers, lashed by rain, scurried down the streets, stoically heading for another port of call.

Russell was driving slowly along the esplanade, looking for his turn-off, stopping at some lights, when two girls, like saturated tea bags hoisted from a pot, suddenly swung from the wet darkness out in front of him, forcing him to brake. — Giz a lift, one shouted, her bottle-blonde hair cascading down her face in soaked ringlets. He was almost tempted; had he not been in a hurry or carrying his disturbing cargo, he probably would have. Instead, he moved on, forcing them over to the side in their heels. — You cunt, he heard one of them screech into the grim night, as he sped away from them.