Skagboys by Irvine Welsh Page A

gestures to the others. — THAT FUCKIN LINE-UP THIT YE DID!
    The lassie stops abruptly. She turns and looks at them in horror, then shouts to Lesley at the bar in appeal: — HE’S TALKIN SHITE! Lesley looks to Mickey and shrugs, as the girl turns back to Begbie. — YOU’RE FUCKIN WELL GITTIN IT, SON!
    — AWREADY FUCKIN HUD IT! he shouts back at her, making the cross with his arms. — N IT WIS FUCKIN SHITE N AW!
    Renton watches her cringe in humiliation as she exits through the swinging doors of the bar, her thin, white shoulders the barest he’s ever seen, as if they would only ever need the night as a shawl. He imagines another world, where she was not impregnated with the seed of Begbie, and going after her, walking with her, perhaps placing his jacket over her lissome, delicate back.
    Frank Begbie downs his pint, shouts up another round and comes over to rejoin his company. — If this yin goes up tae the fuckin coort ah’ve goat youse boys tae back us up n say youse wir fuckin well in thaire n aw. Every cunt kens thit wi share n share alike doon the fuckin port!
    — They kin tell wi blood tests, Franco, Tommy goes.
    Renton is tempted to mention what he’d read about this new DNA testing in the
Scientific American
, up the Central Library, but then remembers that he’s in a pub on the Walk, not the students’ union at Aberdeen, where a smart cunt’s conjectures are less likely to be appreciated.
    Begbie’s lips pull back over his teeth. — Ah ken aw that, Tam, fir fuck’s sake, he snaps, then his expression warms, — but it’ll keep the slag away fae the fuckin coort if she thinks half ay fuckin Leith’s gaunny be aboot, claimin thuv been in thaire pumpin away oan Franco’s sloppy fuckin seconds, ya cunt!
    Through their laughter, the rest of them are starting to feel sorry for the girl. Particularly Spud.
Too many Bicardi n Cokes, a horny flush, one slip-up and yir bringing up a Begbie for the rest ay yir life. Doesnae matter if the burd’s a wee bit dippit, naebody deserves that
.
    The second half resumes and Platini, with an air of inevitability, puts the French ahead. The pub goes crazy, at least the other corner does, and Begbie is visibly riled by the commotion, casting silencing glances down the narrow bar. Tommy wonders if he would ever stand up to Franco again, considers what circumstances might compel him to do so.
    The afternoon spins by in another couple of rounds of drinks. Up on the screen, Platini has reached a personal sporting pinnacle, and in triumph holds aloft the European Nations Cup. Renton and Keezbo are surprised to see that it was two–nil; they hadn’t noticed the other goal. Amphetamine, adrenalin and their own dramas had got in the way.
    — Dinnae even ken her fuckin name, Begbie sais meaning it in a barbed, disparaging way, but it somehow coming out, to his surprise and that of the others, as something between an accusation and a lamentation. For a few moments he thinks of that flecked bird’s egg: unsure of whether he smashed it or left it alone in the nest.

First Shot: Just Say ‘Aye’
    PERVERSITY AND OBSTINACY are integral tae the Scottish character. Since ah said ‘no’ tae these cunts back in Manchester, ah’ve been obsessed wi heroin. Ah sometimes wish ah’d said ‘aye’, then ah might be mair inclined tae leave it alaine. Also, it’s meant tae be a good painkiller, n this back still nips, especially at night. The doaktir thinks ah’m at it, n they paracetamols are fuckin useless.
    It’s an open secret in oor circle that Matty, whae gets maist ay oor speed, has been skag-happy for donks. Through him ah ken that Johnny Swan, an auld fitba mate ay mine, gets good gear. Ah huvnae really hung oot wi Johnny in ages, no since we played thegither fir Porty Thistle. He wis a decent player. Ah wis shite but applied masel like fuck tae get oot ay gaun tae the boxing club wi Begbie n Tommy.
    It’s time that friendship was re-established.
    In the flat in Monty