by Irvine Welsh
So we trawl the pubs, heading towards the river, then going in a circle, ending up in the fucking Grapes. It’s against my better judgement, but I’m bursting for a pish, so needs must. By this time Coke is half blootered and hanging onto the bar, railing against some perceived injustice or other. I head tae the lavvy, now definitely tempted tae shoot up some mair ay that shit I got fae Johnny Swan. The barrel-like figure of the heathen Dickson stops me en route: — Get him oot ay here, okay?
— He’s no botherin anybody.
— He’s botherin me. Get him the fuck oot!
— Aye, awright, geez a minute. I turn and go intae the bogs.
That Dickheid is as wide as fuck, so ah resolve tae dae some ay this magnificent gear on the cunt’s premises. I have tae develop some expertise in cooking up and fixing, cause you know that sure as fuck Renton will be all anal about it. That cunt will have read everything on heroin by now, and be talking as if he invented the fucking stuff. So I sit on the bog, bolting the door and go through the ritual: lighter, spoon, cotton balls, Jif, water in small screw-on container, syringe, needle and, above all, gear. I don’t load up too much before whipping off my belt, daein ma airm the wey that Swanney creep showed us. Slide it in, like a plane landing, rather than jab it, like a helicopter. Ah find a vein easy, some ay us have fucking oil pipes in our airms, no wee lassie’s wiring like Rent Boy.
He shoots home … whae-hae-hae … this rush is going through me, but it’s probably just the adrenalin …
Fuck …
Is it fuck the adrenalin … ah’m being broiled fae the inside … surging up tae glory, glory …
Jesus fuck, it’s strong gear and ah’m fucking melted! Ah feel the sweat beading on my forehead n ma pulse racing. Ah have tae stey parked on the seat for a while. Some mutant bangs the door. Again. But fuck them; this feels so good. Let them shite their fusty pants; minging cunts ought tae have defecated before they fucking well went out.
Sky rockets in flight … ooh ah!
Although I could quite happily sit here all day, I force masel tae rise.
When ah get out, there’s nae sign ay Coke, so I sit in the corner, at one with this lovely world, though part of me is realising that drawing attention tae yourself by being junked up in an ex-polisman’s bar wi a bagful ay skag might no be such a good idea, especially as I’ve nae drink in front ay us.
So I rise and glide across tae the bar where two mutants are standing. One ay them bears that strange smile where ye cannae tell if the cunt’s a sweetie wife or a psychopath. — Dickson’s taken yir mate through the back for one ay they special wee chats ay his.
By the sweet-smelling baw bag of the Holy Papa himself, I think it might be time for me tae leave. There’s little tae be gained in trying tae stop Coke fae getting the same treatment as Second Prize, especially in this fucking state wi shite in ma veins and the best part ay a gram in my pocket. But Dickson suddenly comes back in, and he looks shaken tae fuck. The Big Man mantle has definitely fallen and I’m thinking: surely Coke hasnae put the shits up him? The chunky ex-pig approaches me wi a scared and apologetic hang tae his face. — Yir mate … he’s through the back. Ah never touched him, we were just arguin n he fell ower the barrel and dunted his heid, and Dickson’s face is flushed as his lips tremble. — It looks a sair yin. He shakes his head, sucking his lip under his front teeth. Every grotesque expression on his face seems slowed doon, it’s like being in a zoo, but one where you’re observing your own species in their minuscule behaviour. Then his voice ascends in petition tae the assembled bar: — Ah never laid a hand oan him!
Ah go through tae the back with this big cunt called Chris Moncur, where we find Coke totally fucking prone and battered. I’m down by his side, shaking him, and he’s deadweight, ah cannae get any response. — Coke … Coke!
Coke … aw naw …
His face is swollen, and his mooth is burst open. — Thought he fell ower a barrel, Moncur says, kneeling alongside us, looking up accusingly at Dickson. — Did eh faw forwards?
— Chris … c’mon … he jist cowped ower, he wis pished, Dickson says, now really shitein it.
— Looks tae me like it wis a bit mair thin him jist bein pished, some other wide-lookin cunt says, his hands on his hips. Dickson was daft enough tae think those wideos were his mates, but naebody loves ex-bacon, and it’s evident they’ve just been waiting patiently tae turn on him.
But Coke …
He’s gone. Ah’m standing ower the cunt, regarding his rubbery slavering mouth and ah look up at Dickson’s fearful face, turned away in profile. — He’s away, ah say, standing up.
Another boy wi a red nylon jerkin crouches over him. — Naw, he’s still got a pulse, he’s breathing …
Thank fuck for that …
Ah go back tae the bar: ah’m fucking well right out ay here. A couple ay the boys follow me through, one gadge dialling 999 on the payphone, asking for the police as well as an ambulance. Dickson has come after us and is still totally crappin hissel. — The boy wis pished, just fuckin out ay it. He was telt tae go!
I’m heading, but big Moncur sees me sneaking out and shouts, — Hi! Simon! You’d better stey here!
— Most serpently, I groan, and there’s nothing ah can dae, wasted and wi a G ay gear on us, as the ambulance and polis arrive. The paramedics try tae resuscitate Coke, while the polis take statements. One young cop, a country simpleton by the look and sound ay him, gapes at me and asks us if I’ve been smoking ‘wacky baccy’.
— Naw, I’m just a bit pished, been oot aw day, ah tell him. He moves onto some others while an aulder polisman quizzes Dickson. The paramedics have loaded an oxygen-masked Coke intae the back ay thair van. I feel the gear rubbing at me, in ma system and in my pocket, so ah slip the fuck away from this sordid drama, heading up tae Junction Street where I jump in a cab up tae the Infirmary. I’m sitting in the A&E, feeling great, waiting for Coke, but I drift into a doze and when I snap out of it the clock on the waw says it’s forty minutes later, and there’s a gungy taste in my dry mooth. It takes ages but ah manage tae locate the ward Coke’s been admitted tae. When I get up there, Janey, Maria and Grant are sitting outside in a cul-de-sac waiting area. — What happened? Janey gasps, rising.
For a perverse second I think of the chips Coke never brought back. — Dunno, ah wis in the bogs, and when ah came oot he wis gone. Then they said he wis through the back wi Dickson. He was unconscious when we found him lying there. We called the polis and the ambulance. What did the doctors say?
— Head injuries; thir runnin tests. But he’s no woke up, Simon. He husnae woken up! And I feel Janey’s full, ripe body against me, see wee Grant looking wacko and the tears condensing in Maria’s eyes, tears ah want tae lick dry, and ah’m telling them all, — It’s awright … he’ll be fine … they ken what they’re daein … he’ll be fine.
And I know it’s just not the case, but ah’m hugging Janey and thinking about how much a life can change in the time it takes tae fix up.
Held Out
THE VISIT TAE the parental home was a mistake. Once you’ve vanished it’s best tae stey that way; tae return is tae rematerialise intae the madness of others. Ma and Dad gab urgently aboot Wee Davie in the hospital, pressing me tae visit him. I cannot stand my mother’s fantasy that he ‘asks after me’ when the poor wee fucker scarcely has a scooby as tae whae’s in the room. Ah felt like screaming: try tellin some cunt whae gies a fuck.
— You ken how he goes, son, you ken how he says: Maaarrryyyk … and she obscenely imitated that scary chant he does in the early evenings.
Wee Davie gets aw the expert attention he needs fae the NHS. He not only has chronic cystic fibrosis, he’s also been diagnosed with muscular dystrophy and extreme autism. The odds ay aw these conditions occurring in the one person have been estimated at aroond four billion tae one by a senior medical examiner at Edinburgh University, tae whom my wee brar is somethin ay a celebrity.
Just when ay thoat the beer-swilling discussion roon
d the kitchen table couldnae get any worse, it sure as fuck did, as my ma and dad, succumbing tae mild drunkenness, started ludicrously talking aboot Emma Aitken, a lassie fae ma primary school. — Aye, he ey liked that wee Emma. Took her tae the school qually, Dad teased.
— What did ye git offay her? Billy asked wi leering malevolence.
— Fuck off, ah bit back at the contemptible clown.
— Ah’m sure he was a perfect gentleman. My ma idly ran her fingers through ma hair, making us pull away, as she turned tae Billy. — Unlike some.
— You’re no telling me that ye didnae go fir the tit, Billy laughed, then guzzled oan his can ay Export.
— Git tae fuck, you, ya bam.
My auld man’s index finger swings between Billy n me like a clock’s pendulum. — Enough, youse pair. This conversation’s for the pub, no the hoose. Show a bit ay respect tae yir mother.
So it was great tae relaunch back up tae Montgomery Street. Despite his name bein on the rent book (or maybe because ay it) Sick Boy’s seldom here. The gaff’s in a perfect location: at the Walk end ay the street, just in between Leith and Edinburgh. It needs some new furniture, but. There’s an auld couch in the front room and a couple ay beanbags n these two auld wooden chairs by a nasty-swaying table. In the bedroom you’ve goat a shitey divan n an auld cunt’s wardrobe. There’s a wee box bedroom n aw, but it’s fill ay Sick Boy’s clathes. The kitchen has another wee table n two dodgy chairs sittin oan these broken flair tiles that trip ye up in the dark, n a cooker ye cannae see cause it’s that covered in grease, while the fridge makes these scary rattlin noises. The bog … enough said.
A knock at the door and it’s the landlord, Baxter. A bit ay a mumpy-faced auld cunt, but if ye mention Gordon Smith, Lawrie Reilly or any bygone Hibs stars, his coupon fair lights up. — They say Smith was the best ever, ah volunteer, as he pulls oot a tatty auld rent book, his emphysemic wheeze like an auld diesel train grinding intae Waverley Station.
Only one ay Baxter’s eyes works. The functioning lamp blazes wi imposing luminescence. The other yin looks like a shaved twat in Penthouse, crusted ower wi fanny batter. — Matthews, Finney … he croaks wistfully, settling doon intae a rickety chair at the kitchen table, as he licks his thumb and turns the book’s pages, — nane ay them were in same league as Gordon. Ask Matt Busby who wis the best player he ever saw!
Second Prize?
There’s nae real wey tae respond tae that, so ah gie the auld cunt an inane smile n soak up his reminiscences.
Auld Baxter eventually departs, banging on about Bobby Johnstone as he goes. He’ll get tae Willie Ormond by the time he hits the Fit ay the Walk. Wi the place tae masel, ah consider huvin a J. Arthur Rank but ah’m too fucked eftir that shift at Gillsland’s the day. At least we were oot ay the factory, daein real joinery, fitting oot another pub, this time in William Street. Ah cannae wait tae go back tae the uni. Ah enjoy the crack wi the boys, but ye bring a book in there n every cunt’s takin the pish, except Mitch, but he’s packin it in, so thi’ll soon be nae cunt left tae talk sense wi. But before that it’s the InterRail, wi Bisto, Joanne and Fiona. Of course, that’s if the lassies show up and it isnae aw jist talk.
I’m watchin a World in Action programme aboot Ugandan Asians in Britain, and Sick Boy comes in, eyes rid, face colourless, lookin like he’s seen a ghost. As it happens, that isnae too wide ay the mark. — It’s Coke. He’s deid.
— Coke Anderson? Fae your bit? Yir jokin!
Fuck me, a sombre shake ay his heid tell us he isnae. — He was in a coma and they pulled the plug this morning.
Apparently Dickson fae the Grapes panelled Coke and smashed his heid in. That boy’s a cunt; wis chucked oot the polis for daein people ower in the cells. Every copper does that, n fair enough, maist drunken radges that git banged up for a night would rather take a couple ay skelps fae some inadequate fascist, and be turfed oot in the mornin, than face the hassle n expense ay a coort appearance. Dickson got really overzealous though, n wis asked tae leave, or so the story goes. They say it wis him that panelled Second Prize eftir he went oan that bender when Dunfermline freed him: that could have been any cunt though. Poor Coke but; Sick Boy tells us the lights went oot and never came back oan. Thaire’s a coroner’s report next week. That is beyond fucking brutal.
Sick Boy keeps running his hands through his hair, then shaking his heid. The occasional ‘fuck’ explodes fae him in a gasp. — Janey and the kids are devastated, he says, lookin roond the flat like he’s just stepped in it for the first time and doesnae like what he sees. — I’m goin doon thaire … Cables Wynd House … lend a bit ay moral support.
Ah ken he’s in shock cause ah’ve never, ever heard him call the Bannanay flats ‘Cables Wynd House’ before, unless it’s tryin tae impress some rich festival bird fae oot ay toon.
— Thing is … he looks away, then ruefully back to me, — … ah goat a bit skagged up when it was aw gaun on …
— What?
— Ah banged up in the lavvy in the Grapes, the stuff we goat fae Swanney. When ah came oot, next ah kent, that pig cunt hud blootered Coke.
What the fuck …
— Right … ah goes, unable tae hide ma disappointment, cause we’d made a pact tae dae it thegither back here. Ah’ve goat tae admit ah wis tempted eftir spending the evening wi Franco. The cunt kept gaun oan aboot what a barry ride that June is, in between tellin us his ain personal version ay the Duke ay Edinburgh Awards; whae wis getting chibbed, and the poor unfortunates that merely had a burst mooth tae look forward tae.
Sick Boy forgets aboot Coke for a second; turns keenly on me. — Did you dae any?
— You’ve goat the stuff! How could ah huv fuckin well done any?
— Ye might’ve sneaked up tae Johnny’s.
Ah realise that if Begbie hudnae dragged us oot n filled us fill ay pish, ah probably would’ve. — Naw, ah tell him, — ye goat tae watch that stuff … then ah panic. — You’ve still goat it, right? Ye didnae dae it aw?
— No way, only a wee bit. Thaire’s still nearly a fill gram left, he says, hudin up the placky bag, showing me the main bean’s intact and maist ay the crumbs are still there.
— Ye wantin some, likes?
— Naw … ah’m takin it easy.
— Aye, ah hud the heebie-jeebies a wee bit, Sick Boy admits. — It’s a bit fuckin rough when it leaves yir system, so that’s me oaf it for a while. Goat tae respect that shite; ah’ll stick tae speed right now, he says, stubbin oot a cigarette in the McEwan’s Export ashtray oan the shoogly table, and producing a wrap and taking a dab. — Wantin a bit?
— Naw, ah’m just gaunny sit in front ay the box, ah tell um.
— Right, see ye. He gits up.
— Ah peyed the rent. Baxter came roond.
— Good man, ah’ll square ye up later oan. Catch ye in a bit, he goes, and the cunt’s oot the door.
Nae point in pressin him for poppy eftir the shite he’s hud tae deal wi, and anywey, it feels good tae be oan ma ain. Ah decide tae have a wank eftir aw, visualising this skinny lassie wi big teeth that works in this baker’s up in Aberdeen. Once ah’ve shot ma duff ower the threadbare broon couch, ah feel a bit low, n realise that um thinkin aboot gear. Ah should’ve took that skag oaffay Sick Boy. Cunt. That wis barry, the other night thaire.
Ah call Johnny, but the phone’s jist ringing, so ah grab ma jaykit and head doon tae Matty’s. He answers the door, pasty-faced n wi spiky black hair, blow-dried off tae the sides tae hide slight premature recession at the temples. His swivel-eyed suspicion only slightly abates whin he sees thit ah’m oan ma tod. A rivulet of snot runs fae his nostril acroas his gaunt cheek like a duelling scar. Fae the angle ay it, he’s been lyin oan the couch in a semi-doze. Matty has the demeanour ay a man destined tae scavenge the remnants ay some other cunt’s feast. Beckoning me in wi a twist ay his heid, he promptly vanishes intae the kitchen, leavin me in the tiny front room. It’s goat this obscenely huge telly dominatin the place, the biggest ah’ve seen.
Matty’s bird Shirley comes ben, a pretty lassie wi an oval-shaped face and big pools for eyes, figure a bit wrecked since havin the bairn, Lisa, whae’s in her airms, dressed in a one-piece romper suit. It’s sortay like Shirl’s still huvin a bairn. As ah sit doon oan the couch, Lisa climbs oan toap ay us. — Hiya, pal … terrible twos, eh? ah nod tae Shirley as the bairn goes fir a tug ay ginger hair.
— Tell us aboot it. So how’s university life? Shirley asks. Despite the extra pounds there’s still something sexy aboot her. It has tae be they big hazelnut eyes, eywis pregnant wi pathos.
— First year wis great, Shirl, looking forward tae gaun back, ah say, takin evasive action as Lisa’s goat what looks like a Farley’s rusk in her hand and seems determined tae wedge it intae in ma coupon, — Thanks, pal, but ah ate awready … Ah turn back tae Shirley. — Ah’m enjoying working back at Gillsland’s for the break, the crack wi the boys n that, ah tell her.
Ah’ve goat tae say that the flat is fuckin mingin, n it’s no jist the bairn wi the nappies n that. It’s like Matty’s dragged Shirley doon tae his level; she wis nivir a scruff at school. Ah ken Matty’s a mate n his dad wis an alkie, but it hus tae be said that the cunt is, eywis wis, n will eywis be, a fuckin tramp.
— Still seein Hazel? Shirley asks, in that coquettish but interrogative wey lassies have.
— Naw, no really, just as mates. Met a lassie doon in Manchester a few weeks back, said ah’d go doon tae see her. Been workin too much though, tryin tae get money for this trip tae Europe.
— Very nice. Wish ah could go tae Europe. Nae chance ay that now. She looks wi rueful affection at the bouncing bairn, jumping up and doon oan ma lap. — Maybe when she gets bigger, she says, then asks, – How’s yir brother?