Skagboys by Irvine Welsh Page B

Street, ah tell Sick Boy aboot it and he’s in. — Sounds fuckin excellent. Ah fancy some ay that shit, have for ages. He starts crooning the seminal Velvet Underground song, about sticking the spike into ma vein … come to Simone, he says, his jaw juttin oot, as he puts doon the dictionary he’s been thumbing through.
    — But jist a wee bit tae try, cause mind wir meetin Franco up toon the night.
    Sick Boy batters his heid wi the palm ay his hand. — I am pig-sick tae the back teeth ay that cunt making arrangements on my behalf. I just don’t
need
it. Having tae listen aw night tae whae’s gittin killed and whae’s gittin stabbed …
    — Aye, but a wee bit ay smack’ll mellow us oot, n then we’ll go n see him up in Mathers.
    A shrug ay the shoodirs, and he gets up and yanks the cushions oaf the couch, prospectin for coins and shoving the meagre booty deep intae his poakit. — I should get a bigger allowance from the state, he grumbles. — I’m tired ay mooching oaffay chicks tae supplement my income.
    We head oot and dive oantae a 16, bound fir Johnny’s pad at Tollcross. It’s a blindin hot day so we sit doonstairs at the back for a better view ay the passin fanny. Back top deck wi Begbie, tae intimidate wideos, back bottom wi Sick Boy tae leer at lassies. Life has its simple codes.
    — This is gaunny be so much fun, Sick Boy says, and rubs his hands thegither. — Drugs are
always
fun. Do you believe in cosmic forces, destiny n aw that shite?
    — Nup.
    — Me neither, but bear one thing in mind: today was a ‘T’ day.
    — What …? ah ask, then it dawns on us. — Yir dictionary thingy.
    — All will be revealed, he nods, then starts talking about heroin.
    Smack’s the only thing ah huvnae done, ah’ve never even smoked or snorted it. And ah must confess that ah’m fuckin shitein it. Ah wis brought up tae believe that one joint ay hash would kill me. And, of course, it wis bullshit. Then one line ay speed. Then one tab ay acid; aw lies, spread by people hell-bent on self-extermination through booze and fags.
    But heroin.
    It’s crossing a line.
    But as the boy said, anything once. And Sick Boy doesnae seem concerned, so ah bullshit tae keep ma front up. — Aye, ah cannae wait tae dae some horse.
    — What? Sick Boy looks at me in horror as the bus growls up the hill. — What the fuck are you talking aboot, Renton?
Horse?
Dinnae say that in front ay yir dealer mate or he’ll laugh in yir face. Call it skag, for Papa John-Paul’s sake, he snaps, then stares oot at a short-skirted lassie meandering wi seductive intent up Lothian Road. — She’s a peach … far too carefree in bearing and expression tae be a baboon …
    — Right … ah feebly respond.
    We get tae Johnny Swan’s place, and even though the stair door’s got an entryphone, it hings open like a daftie’s mooth. We climb the steps, instinctively knowing that it’ll be oan the top flair. It’s the only flat wi nae name oan the scabby black door. Johnny greets us wi a smile, though a wee look passes between him n Sick Boy. — Mr Renton! It’s been a long time … come in …
    — Aye, a couple ay year at least, ah acknowledge. Ah wis at a perty up here back then. Wi Matty. Eftir we came back fae London. Swanney still has the fair hair, but it’s longer n mair straggly now, and these piercing blue eyes, but his choppers are a mass ay green n broon. Wi his permanent look ay surprise and always seemin oan the verge ay outrage, he reminds us ay Ron Moody, who played Fagin in
Oliver!
A rancid smell like stale sweat hings in the air, emanating fae either tenant or dwelling, and intensifying as we follay him inside. Sick Boy, who ah intro, catches the whiff and makes nae attempt tae disguise his distaste.
    One windae is boarded up, darkening the front room. The others have big, viney plants wi green tomataes oan them, hogging maist ay the remaining light. There’s still fuckin lino oan the flair, though it’s topped wi some