Skagboys by Irvine Welsh

ain’t wrong thaire, buddy.
    Begbie bristles vaingloriously, sitting back, almost purring in contentment. Then his face alters dramatically and paranoia swamps Renton, as he thinks:
I’ve misjudged what’s gaun oan in this moody cunt’s heid!
    Then he realises that Begbie’s focused on something
behind
him, so he spins in his seat to see a skinny, angular-framed girl, around eighteen years old, with spiky mousy-blonde hair, shaved short at the sides. Ignoring Lesley at the bar, she advances towards them, stopping a few feet away, her arms folded across her slight chest. They register her one by one as Begbie sits back with a belligerent set to his face. — What are you fuckin well wantin?
    — Tae talk, she says.
    Renton immediately thinks the girl looks interesting.
Actually mair my type than Franco’s. He usually prefers a bit ay meat on dem bones dem bones dem dry bones
.
    — Talk aw ye want, Begbie scoffs, shrugging off her attentions, — fuckin free country!
    — No here, she says, glancing poisonously at the others, who look back to the screen, except Tommy, who gives the girl an anaemic smile, then nods hopefully to Begbie and the door. Franco seems to consider this, then rises and heads across to an adjacent table with his pint, compelling the girl to join him. The others note that he isn’t offering to buy her a drink.
    — This does not look good, Tommy muses, as Renton’s other choice, ‘White Lines’ by Grandmaster Flash and Melle Mel strikes up on the jukebox.
    — Cause ah ken it’s yours! they hear her screech on top of the beat in high, adenoidal tones, as, on-screen, Platini sweeps a silent effort over the bar.
    — Aye, so you fuckin well say, Begbie retorts, sitting back in the seat, composed, now evidently enjoying himself. And the rest of them are too; they are all ears.
    — It could only huv been you!
    Begbie thinks of the silky distraction of the girl’s clothes that night, the delicacy with which she stepped out of her shoes. How those fleeting memories held sovereignty in his head over any images of her nakedness. He liked her in clothes. Although it was summer, it had gotten nippy outside. She shouldn’t have come out without a jacket. It could get cold down in the port. — Listen, if ye go oot withoot a fuckin jaykit whin thaire’s fuckin snaw flying aboot, ye kin git a fuckin cauld, right?
    She stares at him, agog, then bursts into an incredulous shriek: — What the fuck ur ye talking aboot? Jaykit? Snaw?
    On the television, Dominique Rocheteau deflects a free kick which sails just past the post. Renton glances from the screen back to Begbie and the girl.
    As the record urges Get Higher Baby, so too Begbie’s voice rises. — Ye go oot without a fuckin pill whin thaire’s fuckin spunk flyin aboot, ye git up the fuckin stick!
    Lesley raises an eyebrow to Renton as she pretends tae clean the glasses. Mickey Aitken looks over at a couple of curious customers who turn back to the other TV.
    The girl examines Begbie in silence for a spell, biting on her bottom lip. Eventually she urges, — So?
    — So fuckin well deal wi it. It’s your fuckin problem, no fuckin mine, and Franco Begbie shakes his head, takes a long drink, then sets his glass down carefully on the table. He thinks that the flecks in the Formica look similar to those on an egg he recalled finding in a bird’s nest as a kid. — Ah said tae ye: ‘Gie’s a fuckin ride.’ Ah nivir sais: ‘Gie’s a fuckin bairn.’ How? Cause ah’m intae rides n ah’m no intae fuckin bairns!
    The girl stands up, shouting, pointing at him: — YOU’VE NO FUCKIN WELL HEARD THE LAST AY THIS, SON! Then she turns n heads across the pub for the exit as the half-time whistle goes on-screen and the players troop off the field. So far the Spaniards have given a good account of themselves, but it’s France who’ve come the closest.
    — HI! Begbie, on his feet, roars back.— YOU’RE FORGETTIN THAT AW THE BOYS WIR THAIRE N AW! He