Welsh, Irvine - Skagboys by Welsh Irvine

Author:Welsh, Irvine [Welsh, Irvine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2012-04-26T21:47:24+00:00

— Aye, ah say. Ah’ve been tryin tae avoid the Scottish skag n the bangin up, cause it’s fuckin lethal shit, n ye kin realy feel it gittin a hud ay ye. The broon’s easier: doesnae seem tae cunt ye up sae much. But fuck it, ah’m sortay oan hoaliday … oan hoaliday at hame …

We troop off through tae a bedroom and sit cross-legged oan this big, tartan duvet-covered brass bed, as Lesley starts cookin. It shocks me, as ah thoat she jist chased, but she’s goat a fil set ay works n she’s highly competent. She lights up a candle, stickin it in a baccy tin, and switches off the main light. We fix up wi oor separate equipment, me gaun first. Ma vein sucks the shit in so greedily, it’s like ah barely need tae put any pressure oan the plunger.

Ohhh … YA FUCK –

Ya fucker … aw man … oooh … nice, nice, nice …

Ya fucker … aw man … oooh … nice, nice, nice …

Ah forgot the power ay this shite. Lesley never prepped up that much but ah colapse back oantae the Royal Stuart …

— Ah found this the other day in ma jeans poakit, she explains, pushin her blonde hair behind her ears n tappin patiently before fixin, as ah lie back melted.

— Forgot aw aboot it fae weeks back. Ah took it up the Bendix, n vernear put it through the wash, jist as wel ah didnae, cause thaire’s a drought oan … What ye giggling at?

… aw ya fuckin beauty …

Ah try tae tel her the Bendix joke, but ah kin barely speak, n in any case, she’s banged up hersel and a few seconds later she’s in the same state.

Mother of Bendix, wash house gods, ah give youse thanks for king heroin; thank you for that whiter than white wash …

The candlelight goes oot n we’re baith spangled oan the bed, then hugging each other, wi emotion, but sortay chastely. Lesley’s wearing a blue slidey-material top, which feels like silk but isnae. Then we’re sort ay crashed out, me restin my heid oan her stomach, her top roled up, listenin tae the sounds her guts make. — Bubbles n sizzles, bubbles n sizzles, ah goes.

— Ah’m wasted …

— Me n aw. It’s cauld … Ah kick oaf ma trainers n pil oaf ma jeans n git under the tartan duvet. She does the same, scrambling alongside me, kissin us cooly on the lips. Then she puts her index finger inside ma jumper n traces it ower ma ribcage. — You’re that thin, Mark.

— Ah’ve kind ay lost a bit ay weight. Fast metabolism, ah suppose, and ah props masel up on ma elbaws tae look at her.

Lesley smiles grimly at me through the semi-dark. There’s light pouring in fae under the door, and through the curtains fae the street lamp ootside. — Skag metabolism, mair like. You’re a pretty weird guy, she goes, stil outlining ma ribs.

— How? ah ask, interested tae ken if she means cool weird or geeky, spazzy weird.

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