Matty stands rooted on the spot, paralysed by a fearful incredulity. — Whaa-aat …? he says again, in disbelief.
Spud is miserably bleating, — Naw, boys, come oan, come oan now … this is ootay order … this isnae right … as Renton and Sick Boy savour Matty’s subconscious unspooling before them.
— It. Will. Play. On. Your. Mind, Sick Boy softly mouths.
Matty seems to cook slowly from the inside, then ignites: — FUCK YOU, YA DIRTY FUCKIN PIMPIN TROLL, throwing his sinew-strained neck forward, as snotters fly from his nostrils. Then he glances down to the stones under his feet and goes to pick one of them up. Renton rushes forward and grabs him. — Fuck off wi that –
— CUNT, AH’LL FUCKIN KILL HIM! AH’LL FUCKIN KILL THAT DIRTY LYIN PIMP BASTARD, and he lunges forward, immediately restrained by Renton and Spud.
Sick Boy stands in a relaxed posture, and takes an exaggeratedly casual drag on his cigarette. — Aye, aye, aye. Sure.
— YOU’RE FUCKIN DEID, WILLIAMSON! Matty half roars and half squeals as he turns on his heel and tears off into the night, as Sick Boy contemptuously feigns getting shot. Matty’s retreating shadow is pursued by Spud. — Hey, Matty, wait the now, catboy …
— Spud … Renton protests weakly.
— Leave the cunts. Sick Boy grabs Renton’s wrist to restrain him. — It’s better we split up anyway. Four’s jist gaunny draw attention.
They watch as Spud scrambles down the banks after Matty, disappearing from their sight onto Gorgie Road and following him not to the van, but down the street, past Stratford’s Bar, unsure of why Matty’s heading in that direction, even more uncertain as to why Spud’s in pursuit.
On the railway line that snakes above the pub and street level, Renton and Sick Boy carry on heading away from the plant. The moon, skulking behind a web of cloud, briefly reminds Renton of Spud’s pallid woebegone face as he vanished from his eyeline.
— Matty, fuckin poisonous wee rodent, Sick Boy says as they hurry down the tracks. — Who rattled that cunt’s cage? We’re aw fuckin seek tae our marrow, but at least try n be a man aboot it.
— Uptight little cunt’s eywis the same, seek or no seek, Renton snaps, now wishing he’d punched Matty’s pus earlier. — Eywis hus tae pish oan the fuckin pageant. Big Keith’s gaunny dae serious jail time for aw ay us, n aw that cunt can dae is slag him oaf!
The pain intensifies, Renton cursing the folly of all that pointless exertion, which has burned off more of the dregs of the junk in their system. They will soon be totally immobilised. They have to get back to the Valium stash. Arms wrapped around themselves, they follow the tracks till they hit the viaduct at the Union Canal, the death’s-head energy having preceded them onto this overland wraithlike void that seems parted from the slumbering city streets by dimensions other than mere height. Yet as the canal slopes down to street level, those cold, grey thoroughfares and closes they’re expelled onto seem equally hellish, as Renton and Sick Boy sweat and scratch like chickens just broken from the shell.
At Viewforth they leave the waterway, and a cold rain starts to fall. Lurching towards Bruntsfield, they watch the orangey smudges of the sodium lamps splash over the wet streets, before cutting across the Meadows and heading towards the North Bridge. The pavements are lifeless save for the odd stray drunks looking for taxis, late bars or parties. An emergency services siren assaulting the night strikes panic, flushing them like rats down the dimly lit back closes of the Royal Mile, which they descend in agitation towards Calton Road. — I just dinnae get this life gig, Sick Boy says out loud, trembling.
As they walk down the dark and desolate street, memories of Wee Davie assail Renton. The house is empty and soulless without his chaos, the family fragmented. Something can seem to be useless, inefficient or unproductive, but then you take it away and things quickly start to fall apart and get shitey. He finally responds in kind to Sick Boy’s statement. — It’s weird that we’re here one minute, gone the next. In a couple ay generations’ time naebody’s gaunny gie a fuck. We’ll just be some funny-dressed wankers in faded photographs that the one sad descendant wi too much time oan their hands pulls oot a sideboard tae occasionally look at. It’s no like some famous cunt’s gaunny come along and make a film ay our lives, is it?
Renton has scared Sick Boy, who comes to an abrupt halt in the empty street. — You’ve given up, mate. That’s what it’s aw aboot. You’ve given up.
— Mibbe, Renton concedes. Has he? Surely you eventually run out of tears and excuses.
— That bugs the fuck oot ay us. If you gie up, we’re aw fucked, he says, finding his stride again, as a lone car rumbles past them. — Ah ken we slag each other off, Mark, but you’re the one that’s got the goods. That time we broke intae that hoose; you saved that lassie, you n Tommy. Begbie wid’ve let her croak, n Spud, Keezbo n me, we never had a fucking clue. But you took charge. How did ye ken tae dae that?
Wee Davie …
Renton feels a burn, then shrugs, as if to say: fucked if I know. Then he turns to his distressed compadre. — It’s you that’s the boy but, Si. You’re miles ahead the rest ay us. Always have been. Wi birds n that –
— Ah’ve done so many fucking bad things but, Mark! Sick Boy slaps his head in sudden violence, as they emerge past the back entrance to Waverley Station. — Ah’ve fucked up big time!
A fissure of pain opens up in Renton and he responds in blind panic, stopping Sick Boy’s disclosure instantly. — Me n aw! Ah ken what ye mean!
— Ye mean Olly Curran? We agreed –
— Fuck that cunt! Renton venomously sneers. — Brought it oan hissel wi his uptight, racist shite. Ah’ve nae sympathy fir that fuckin prick! Ah’m talking aboot Fiona, and he feels something breaking inside him, like a dam crumbling. — Ah loved her n ah fucked it right up! When we were on holiday, ah could see it aw ahead, and he looks up, the Calton Hill towering above them, — me and her, forever. And it scared us … scared us fuckin shiteless. When ah got back … Renton’s eyes are red and puffy, — that lassie ah wis telling ye aboot, her fae Paisley, she was gaun wi ma mate … we were drunk, we started muckin aboot, n ah took her up there, he points to the dark, gloomy hill as they emerge onto the slip road leading to Leith Street, — or she took me thaire, cause Fiona must huv telt her that we’d had this shag in that park in East Berlin … she used us tae get one up oan her fuckin mate and ah wanted it, so ah fucked her in the park … ma mate’s bird … ah didnae even like the lassie …
— Bet the sex was barry, but, Sick Boy says, trying to fuse some enquiry into his voice. After all, he knows this story in all its detail. It was there, in his friend’s own handwriting, on that discarded crumpled ball of a journal entry he’d slyly rescued from the litter basket of Renton’s room in the St Monans Drug Rehabilitation project, as his friend had drifted off to sleep. He’d been surprised by the detail and fluidity in Renton’s prose; how it had all just come out in those unedited sentences, in that thick, flowing scribble. He’d been keeping it back for a laugh, but realises that now isn’t the time to mention it, as big dry sobs explode in Renton’s chest.
Renton feels miserable and pathetic. He’d betrayed Fiona, so he had to end it. And he’d double-crossed Bisto, he couldn’t look at him properly again. There wasn’t any excuse. It was how he was, rank rotten to the core, he thinks miserably … then he considers Tom Curzon’s words, maybe it’s just a phase I’m going through …
And he looks at Sick Boy who now has his head bowed, who seems to understand everything … — What? What have you done? Renton stops in the dark street and faces his friend.
Sick Boy feels something trying to twist up through his body and escape from his mouth, it has to be fought back. Instead he offers a diversionary gasp. — Matty …
— Fuck him.
And now Sick Boy gives relieved thanks for Renton’s intervention, preventing his own disclosures. Thank fuck it always has tae be aboot him. — But … ah think it was that wee cunt … that grassed up Janey A
nderson wi the benefits fiddle. Ah mentioned it tae him once, it was stupid, just in passing. He looks at Renton, trying the lie for size. — I think he fucking squealed, Mark.
— Naw … Renton says shakily, — even he wouldnae stoop that low.
Sick Boy buckles, allowing the will holding his queasy, bilious body and soul together to slacken, in order that he might punish himself with the ensuing rush of nausea. — Ah jist feel so fuckin sick …
— Me n aw. But we’re nearly thaire, mate. We jist huv tae hud it thegither a bit longer.
Elm Row approaches, followed by Montgomery Street. Outside the stair door, they fight to compose themselves. — Eftir we doss back the last ay they Vallies, Sick Boy says, eyes watering, — that’s it. It’s over, Mark. Ah’ve done aw the skag ah’m ever gaunny dae.
With his conviction so powerful and certainty so absolute, Renton is visibly moved. He feels his eyes moisten as the image of Keezbo, stranded in no-man’s-land, burns in his skull. — Too right, he says, touching his friend lightly on the shoulder, — we’re done here, and they both look up to the sky, unable to enter their stair door, completely drained in fearful anticipation of that cold multitude of steps to their top-floor flat.
We’re done here.
And with that realisation, looking up to the munificence and radiance of the stars, Renton feels exalted, like he’s been rewarded with a kind of eternal childhood; the idea that the whole of the earth was his to inherit, and to share with every human spirit. Soon he’ll be free again. He recalls how, at the end of his life, Nietzsche realised that you couldn’t simply turn your back on nihilism; you had to live through it and hopefully emerge out the other side, leaving it behind.
Heroin.
That girl at the break-in. How did he know what to do?
Wee Davie.
Without being in that house, watching them tend to him, he’d never have made the cold connection: she’s taken shit, we need to get it up. How? Salt water. Those neural pathways had been scorched into his brain by the searing cries of his agitated brother, instilling that awareness of how to care for someone in distress. One bright star burns at him in the sky, like an affirming wink. And he can’t help it, can’t resist the thought: The Wee Man.
Sick Boy perceives himself as prisoner of his own lying lips. Standing every day at the shaving mirror, watching those eyes grow colder and more pitiless in face of the drug’s dictates and the world’s brutal coarseness. But it’s the lies he’s told to himself and others that permit him this extravagance. Now he feels something poignant stirring in his soul, and this time he realises in elation that it might even be a truth trying to bubble to the surface. He coughs it shakily from his throat. — One thing, Mark, ah know that whatever happens, whatever stunts either ay us pull, it’ll always be you n me, backing each other up, he contends, his chest slowly rising and falling. — We’ll get through this thegither, and he walks into the stair, compelling Renton to follow.
— Ah know that, mate, Renton says, almost distracted under the luminosity of the stars, till the heavy door, closing behind them on the spring, extinguishes their light. — Cauld turkey’s on the menu and we’ll dae it, nae fuckin bother. It’s the end ay the line for me, he smiles in the darkness, kicking the stone steps under his feet. — Ah’ve taken this skag thing as far as it kin go. It wis a nice wee phase but there’s nowt new the drug kin show us, other than mair misery, n ah’m fuckin well done wi aw that.
— Too right, Sick Boy agrees. — Toughest skiers.
Guided by the thin glow of a stair lamp, they reach the summit of their landing. As they unlock the front door and enter the cold flat, the phone explodes in a bone-shaking ring.
They look at each other for a frozen second, into which all time collapses.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to Emer Martin, for reading an early draft of this novel and providing great encouragement and pertinent criticism.
To Robin Robertson, who kept faith with me on this book’s journey – a more convoluted one than we’ve both grown accustomed to over the years.
To Katherine Fry for her great wisdom and incredibly sharp eye.
To everyone at Random House UK in the publicity, rights, sales and marketing teams, who really have given me phenomenal support over the years.
To Tam Crawford, for splitting Ally and I’s sides in the Cenny, with his tales of breasts and budgerigars.
To Kenny McMillan, the original purseman.
To Jon Baird for his Doric.
To Trevor Engleson at Underground management, and Alex, Elan, Jack and everyone at CAA for being in my corner in Hollywood, and Greg and Laura at Independent Talent for the UK representation.
To friends and family in the great cities of Edinburgh, London, Dublin, Chicago, Miami, Sydney and Los Angeles. You keep me going. It really is your fault.
I need and want to thank my friend, the late, great Davie Bryce, of the Calton Athletic Recovery Group in Glasgow. This inspirational man might no longer be with us, but he’s the reason that so many people, who otherwise wouldn’t be around, now have a life to get on with.
Most of all though, thanks beyond words to Beth, for all her love.
Irvine Welsh, Chicago, October, 2011
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Version 1.0
Epub ISBN 9781409028239
www.randomhouse.co.uk
Published by Jonathan Cape 2012
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
Copyright © Irvine Welsh 2012
Irvine Welsh has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
First published in Great Britain in 2012 by Jonathan Cape
Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,
London SW1V 2SA
www.randomhouse.co.uk
Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm
The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
hardback ISBN 9780224087902
trade paperback ISBN 9780224087919
Irvine Welsh, Skagboys
(Series: # )
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends