by Irvine Welsh
— Fine … ah say, unsure ay whether she means Wee Davie or oor Billy.
— Any word oan gittin him hame?
Wee Davie. — Naw.
— Funny man! Lisa shouts at us.
— That’s right, pal. Sound judge ay character, ah smile at Shirl, liftin the bairn and makin fartin noises against her belly, which she laps up.
While this weird wee domestic scene is gaun oan, weird for me any roads (it’s scary that cunts actually live like this), ah clock boaxes ay snide goods piled up in the corner, behind the big chair. Kennin Matty it’ll be cheap shite, n ye kin see it in the toap yin that’s already opened; there’s a nylony-style bomber jaykit in a placky bag that looks better quality than the merchandise it contains. You could buy togs oan Junction Street that wid be high-end fashion in comparison. Shirley chuckles as Lisa renews her rusk assault on me, but ma threshold for this shite hus been reached.
Take this bairn oot ay ma fuckin face now.
Matty comes oot fae the kitchen, n makes a face at Shirley whae’s gettin up and headin in, leavin me wi Lisa. Ah can hear raised whispers fae behind the door and Shirley doesnae seem chuffed. Matty eventually appears in time tae save Lisa gurgling mair bits ay rusk ower us n sais, — Cunt, let’s nash.
Shirley isnae happy as she lifts the bairn. Ah’m sayin nowt, n she’s no lookin me in the eye.
Despite huvin the appearance ay a demented leprechaun n snufflin like he’s goat a bad cauld, Matty fair bounces doon that stair like a man possessed, tae the extent that it’s hard tae keep up wi um. Was ey a fast cunt at school n back in the Fort. No that much skill oan the fitba field though, but plenty pace. — What gruesome fuckin knock-off have you goat in they boaxes, Connell?
— Usual shite, he cheerlessly informs us. — Nae room in the bedroom, n Franco’s moanin aboot us pittin too much in the lock-up. Cunt, you goat poppy fir a taxi? he asks.
— Nup, ah lies. Ah shelled oot oan Sick Boy’s fuckin rent n ah’ve goat this Europe trip tae pey fir, so sometimes ye huv tae caw canny.
— Fuck, he goes, — cunt, huv tae be the bus.
— Whaire we gaun?
— Muirhoose.
— Telt ye ah saw Nicksy a while back, eh?
— Aye … London?
— Naw, Manchester. He wis askin eftir ye.
— Aw.
We gits oan a 32 at Junction Street. Matty’s as quiet as a corpse as the bus chugs along. Like he’s tuned oot everything.
— Things okay? ah ask.
He jist smiles, exposin a bank ay yellay teeth. Mingin cunt, takes five minutes a day tae brush yir choppers. — Birds, he rolls his eyes. — We finally goat offered a hoose offay the cooncil.
— That’s awright. The flat’s maybe a bit wee fir youse and truckloads ay squirrelled chorrie.
— Aye, but they offered us Wester Hailes. Cunt, ah’m no gaun oot thaire.
Wester Hailes is aboot as far away fae Leith as it’s possible tae git n still be in Edinburgh. A soulless, Jambo-infested scheme. — Shirley’s no too chuffed ah take it?
— Naw … well, tae tell the truth, it’s this fuckin skag. Cunt, ken how she’s a bit ay a straightpeg but, eh? Well, ah suppose she’s goat the bairn n that …
— Makes a big difference, eh?
— Ah suppose, he goes, wiping away some snotters oan his sleeve. — It’s a barry hit, but see huntin it doon … Swanney just takes the pish, vanishes oaf the face ay the earth whin it suits the cunt. Cunt, ah went up tae his at Tollcross last night n the light wis oan in his hoose, ah jist saw it fae the street, ah could tell thaire wis some cunt in, but he widnae fuckin well answer. The stair door wis loaked, so ah rang another buzzer n goat in. Cunt, ah looked through his letter box n ah fuckin well saw the radge; just walkin acroas the hallway fae the kitchen tae the front fuckin room, Matty’s eyes bulge incredulously. His freckles look like they’ve been painted oan that pale face. — So ah batters the door n starts shoutin through the letter box. Guess what? The cunt still fuckin pretends he’s no fuckin well in!
Ah strike what ah think is a sympathetic expression, but ah’m finding this quite funny.
Matty isnae. He’s now animated, like a puppet operated by an epileptic; hands that jerky that if he tried tae have a wank he’d tear his foreskin tae shreds. — So ah goes n phones um up this morning n the bastard still hus the brass neck tae claim he wis oot. Ah tells um, ‘Beat it, ya mongol, ah fuckin well saw ye, Johnny!’ Cunt turns roond n sais: ‘Ye didnae see me, chavy, ye must huv been hallucinatin,’ but his voice was that wey … Matty pauses a bit, then looks harshly at us. — Ye ken when some cunt’s really jist rippin the fuckin pish oot ay ye?
Ah make a feeble protest on Johnny’s behalf, but Matty cuts me off.
— Ah ken he’s an auld mate ay yours, but fuck um! Wir gaunny meet Goagsie n Raymie at Mikey Forrester’s. Cunt, he’s goat this shootin gallery, wi aw bang up thegither wi they big twinty-mil syringes. Like blood brothers. Matty suddenly smiles, warmed by the thought. — Ye ken Forrester?
— Ken the name.
— Lorne Street originally. No bad cunt, total tea leaf, kin be a bit ay a wideo.
— Did Begbie no kick his cunt in a while back?
— Aye, Matty says, — Lothian Road, but that wis donks ago, he adds, a bit embarrassed.
The story fae Begbie (which ah’ve had tae endure many times) was that he and Matty wir in Lothian Road and they met Gypo, this prick fae Oxgangs, who wis wi this Forrester gadge, and got intae some drunken argument wi them. Matty backed doon but Begbie didnae and ended up battering them baith. He wisnae too chuffed wi Matty for no bailin in. Anyway, the mention ay the story puts Matty back in silent mode. Eventually he breaks the hush and asks, — Seen that fat cunt Keezbo?
— Aye, wis oot wi him the other night.
Matty isnae fond ay Keezbo, cause he once went oot wi Shirley. It was long before Matty, but some cunts never let go ay things like that. Also, Keezbo kin actually play the drums, whereas Matty’s shite oan guitar. No even good enough for us, n that’s what it’s really aw aboot.
— Jambo cunt, he says under his breath.
Ah say nowt, cause me n Keezbo are the best ay buddies, like me n Matty used tae be, when we wir punks n went doon tae London.
We git oaf at Muirhoose, cutting through the deserted shopping centre past units that exhibit only graffiti oan thair steel shutters, n headin for this five-storey block at the back ay the prefabricated library. Schemes like this, Wester Hailes or Niddrie, thaire’s nowt roond thum but mair scheme. Mibbe a wee patch ay crap shoaps selling tinned goods and some rotting, overpriced veg and a murderous pillboax ay a bar. At least in Leith, if ye live in a scheme, yir surrounded by pubs, bookies, cafes, shoaps n loads ay shit tae dae.
Matty tells us that since the bastards shut the needle exchange in Bread Street a few years back, injectin equipment’s been hard tae come by, but he sais this Forrester gadge gets these big syringes fae a hoaspital contact. Sick Boy’s already went and sorted oot his ain works fae this nurse he kens, cause he doesnae like the idea ay sharing needles, but it doesnae bother me. He says he’ll sort me oot wi some n aw, but.
We climb a few flights ay stairs n chap the door, and a figure forms on the other side ay the dimpled wire gless. It opens up tae reveal a tall but chunky-faced gadge wi thinning blond hair. He looks doubtfully at us, then clocks Matty. — Mathew … come in, pal ay mine.
Ah follay Matty inside, tae a front room wi scabby faded rugs slapped on toap ay the oil-black flair tiles. Posters adorn the otherwise bare waws. Thaire’s a nice Zeppelin yin wi the four symbols, and a barry, ginormous Jam Setting Sons but the rest are ay shite bands no even worth mentioning in passing. A burst couch, two identical teak coffee tables, a brutalised armchair and a pair ay grubby mattresses comprise the room’s furnishings. The place seems solely used fir the consumption ay drugs, wi the possible exception ay the odd gang bang.
Best bit is that it’s decked oot wi some kent faces. Goagsie fae Leith’s th
aire, as is Raymie, Swanney’s sidekick, and as they vouch for us, Forrester relaxes a bit. Ah’m surprised tae see LA Woman (as Spud calls her), Alison Lozinska, whae ah went tae school wi, and who briefly (in a taste lapse on her part) went oot wi oor Billy. Blondie Lesley fae the boozer’s present, wi a lassie called Sylvia; tall, thin, wi collar-length blondish-broon hair. Two boys are introduced tae me; a guy called ET (which ah git telt is short fir Eric Thewlis) and this aulder gadge, American Andy, whae’s cookin up gear in this big metal spoon under a Calor gas burner, so nae prizes for guessin whae’s oan first dabs. Naebody intros these two other gadges. One looks well dodgy, a hard-faced salt-n-pepper-heided cunt wi a bad Mars bar across his coupon, n whae stares at us till ah look away. The other boy is wee, n hus an awfay big heid, no quite a dwarf, but like a dwarf. Forrester seems awright, a bit hostile at first, probably cause ah’m new, but grins when ah produce the readies, tipplin that ah’m no here tae try n ponce or queue-jump fir ma shot.
Ah sit oan the mattress beside Alison. She says hiya, n kisses me platonically oan the side ay the cheek.
There’s a load bein cooked up intae this big syringe n it’s comin ma way. Ah’m tryin tae get the vein up, ma belt roond ma airm, the wey Johnny did for us, but nowt’s fuckin happening. The syringe goes fae this American Andy, tae ET, tae Mikey, tae Goagsie n thir fawin like dominoes n ah’m next but ah’m still tap-tap-tappin like a ballroom dancer. Ah see Raymie cookin separately on his ain works n fixin hissel a shot, while Ali, Lesley and the Sylvia bird look on, rolling joints, declining all skag offers. Ah’m no lookin at Matty but ah kin hear um snappin at us, — Cunt, c’mon, we’ve no goat aw fuckin day!
Thaire’s nowt ah kin dae but pass it on tae the moanin fucker. Ah gie up n pick up a foil pipe fae one ay the tables n start tae amateurishly burn some gear, tae the contempt ay the others. — Wastin fuckin good gear, Forrester moans, running a hand through his thinning quiff.
— Fuck sakes, Renton, wee Goagsie’s mooth snaps like a pedal bin.
— Aye, sort it oot, ya radge, Matty’s spiteful campfire voice, as a wasted Forrester, who at first looks like he’s playin pin the tail oan the donkey, manages tae inject him.
— Well, yis urnae fuckin hudin oot oan me! Ah peyed ma fuckin dough, ah snaps back. — Swanney fixed us, he kens how tae git a fuckin vein up …
— Beat it, ya mongol … Matty’s snake-like contempt, as he crumbles, the junk slapping him back intae the couch.
THESE CUNTS.
— Chill, Mark. C’mere, Alison goes, beckonin me closer tae her n Lesley n this Sylvia bird, n thir passin a foil pipe roond. — Yir embarrassin yirsel, n that’s pittin it mildly, she chides.
— Didnae ken youse were intae this, Ali, ah says tae her.
— Everybody is, darling. She chews on some gum. — Jist chasin it like, widnae go near needles!
She lights the underside ay the sheet ay foil, n the gear oan it starts burnin, n ah’m moppin up the smoke.
Fucker …
Ah takes a big couple ay dunts intae ma lungs. Ah hate smoking anything, n ah’m fightin no tae go intae a coughin spasm, though ah’m wincin n bucklin n ma eyes are gushin like a broken hydrant …
Ya cunt, ye …
Ah feel somebody gently take the foil sheet n pipe fae ma hands …
— Smokin wit de laydees … Matty says derisively, in a mock-Jamaican accent, face as pallid as white heather. Forrester adds something aboot the girls being okay, and wee Goagsie laughs n aw. Ah turn roond n say, — If youse cunts … Ah cannae finish the sentence, the gears hittin us like a marshmallow sledgehammer. Ah’m too wasted tae care aboot thir shite, besides ah’d rather be stuck wi the lassies than these fuckin spazwits …
Wanky fucked-up twats …
Alison’s a bit bombed, mooth slack n eyelids heavy, but she’s rabbitin oan aboot some new joab she’s goat that she’s startin the morn, savin fuckin trees. Then she’s tryin tae tell us aboot this poetry group she goes tae. Ah kin believe it, cause she wis eywis bright at school, hud that prefect blazer wi the pipin roond it …
— Emily Dickinson, ah lean intae her, — … that lassie could write a fuckin poem …
— Ye know, Mark … Ali forces her features intae a thick smile, — we should huv a proper conversation … like whin we’re baith straight …
— We did … yonks ago. Zeppelin versus the Doors … in the Windsor that time. Mind?
— Right … but ah wis oan mushrooms then …
— Aye … ah might huv been oan acid … ah recall, but ah’m watchin Forrester withdrawin the big syringe fae Matty’s thin airm, noticin weepin track marks for the first time. That cunt’s a minger: eywis wis. He catches us starin at him. — Naebody wis haudin oot on ye, Mark … cunt, ye wir haudin oot oan yirsel … he sais, now in a contented smirk. — Git some proper wirin, man … then he flops back. Ah start crawlin ower, n pill masel up tae sit next tae him oan the settee. — Sorry, man … he goes, n we share a wee snigger n hud each other’s hand like we wir gaun oot thegither.
The big syringe goes tae the two scary fuckers, Sergeant Salt n Pepper and his Ventriloquist Doll, n the cunts are soon disintegrating. Ah think it’s mibbe time tae git away fae them, but the lassies scurry ower tae us n Ali’s propped herself up against ma legs, ah kin feel her back restin oan ma shins. Her braids ur that black n shiny ah huv an urge tae touch them, but ah resist, smilin instead at that Sylvia burd wi her sharp, keen, white features. Goagsie’s gaun on tae a spilled Sergeant Salt n Pepper aboot how Motörhead are really a punk instead ay a metal band, and people start hudin conversations wi themselves, as the sun goes doon n dark shadows start tae faw across the room.
Ah doze off for a bit, then ah feel ma throat constrictin n jerk awake wi that fawin sensation, like whiplash fae a car suddenly stoapin. Matty’s conscious next tae us; the cunt’s eyes are open, starin straight ahead. He’s sweatin, clenchin his hands, diggin his fingernails intae his palms, like he’s oan so much junk he’s cravin again awready. Fuckin radge, ah’d never let masel git messed up like that oan a poxy drug!
Forrester’s ower, crouchin beside us, n he’s chattin tae the lassies, but in a sleazy wey. Thank fuck they two creepy fuckers ower by are spangled; Sergeant Salt n Pepper’s nearly asleep. The dwarfish fucker’s heid lollin around like it’s gaunny faw oaf his shoodirs. — Naw bit, how long bit …? Forrester slurs at the girls.
— How long what? Ali says, in wasted indifference.
— How long should a gadge n a lassie be gaun oot thegither before they go tae bed?
Ali turns disdainfully away tae Lesley sayin something that ah dinnae catch, but it sounds like, — Chop them doon before they infect everybody, n Forrester looks up like a mumpy bairn tae register ma reaction. Ah try tae keep ma expression neutral. Probably realisin he’s nae chance gittin intae Ali’s or Lesley’s keks, he persists wi this Sylvia lassie. — Naw, how long bit?
— Wi you, ah’d say forever.
— What?
— Even here, Mikey, naebody’s gaunny sleep wi ye, and she blows some cigarette smoke right in his face. — Even. Fuckin. Here.
— Dinnae count on it, Raymie says, standin up n pullin oot a big, white cock, then comin ower and wavin it in Mikey’s coupon. — Get them roond this then, gadgie, c’mon honeybunch!
— Fuck off! Mikey shouts fae his hunkers, pushin him away as we aw start chucklin.
Raymie thankfully complies, floppin back oan a mattress, tellin us ay his youthful amateur gymnast days, when he practised obsessively until he was able tae perform self-fellatio. — Ah kin still git the bell-end n even a bit ay the shaft oan a good day, but no a proper right-tae-the-back-ay-the-throat gam.
— Tragic, Lesley says.
— Agreed. So if any ay you fair damsels would like tae help oot …
Nae takers, as the Sylvia lassie gets up, then forces herself doon next tae us on the couch, makin us bunch along n push up against Matty, whae mumbles something vaguely hostile. Sylvia’s chewing gum but ah cannae mind i
f she chased some skag like me n Ali n Les. A John Lennon song plays fae a shitey tape deck but ah’m hummin that Grandmaster Flash yin in ma heid …
— If ah could dae that ah’d nivir leave the hoose … Goagsie says tae Raymie.
— You never do anyway, Gordon. You are one housebound, helmet-suckin, hamster-chopped harridan …
Everybody has a wee chuckle at that, cause Goagsie is a bit ay a baw-faced cunt.
— Cunt, Matty laughs, and he sounds a bit like his auld self, — ah’d be telling masel a hud a heidache eftir a couple ay weeks!
— You’re a new face, this Sylvia’s sayin tae me, — A nice yin tae.
Ah ken she’s just flirtin wi us tae wind up Forrester, whae’s takin aw this in, but ah get intae it. Eftir a bit ay wasted small talk we start snogging. Her lips feel numb on mine, but her proximity is comforting and ah’ve never felt so relaxed neckin a bird before. Ma tongue is probing every crevice in her mooth, gaun ower her teeth n gums, but despite the intimacy it feels more detached than sexual. It obviously doesnae look that wey fae the ootside, cause we hear a shout: — You’re a cunt, Sylvia, a total fuckin cunt!
We breks off tae see Forrester standin ower us, lookin well pissed off, hand goin through his sparse hair.
— That’s no a very nice thing tae say tae a lady, ah interject. And it isnae, ye kin call a gadge a cunt, but it isnae very congenial tae say that tae a bird.
— You fuckin well keep oot ay this.
Fuck …
Ah’m tryin tae get up but ah’m wedged in between Matty and Sylvia, and wi the gear in ma system ah kin hardly move. Ah push up but ma hand’s oan Sylvia’s thin black leggings and Matty’s filthy jeans, and he twists away wi a curse like ah wis tryin tae molest him.
— You’re nae good, Sylvia. Always the fuckin slag. Never been any good. Anywhere. Have ye? Forrester taunts in a low, creepy voice.
— Aye, right, she goes.
Ah squeeze her thigh n shout at him, — Steady, ya fuckin choob.
— Aye, fuckin well calm doon, you, eh? Ali says.