by Irvine Welsh
— McDowall.
— That’s the cunt! He says triumphantly. He turns tae Sick Boy again. — Whair’s yir wee burd the day?
— Eh? Whae’s that? Sick Boy asks, totally scoobied.
— That wee blonde piece, the one ye wir in here wi the other night.
— Aw, aye, her.
— Tidy wee bit ay fanny . . . if ye dinnae mind us sayin, likesay. Nae offence likes, pal.
— Naw, nae problem mate. Yours fir fifty bar, n that’s nae joke. Sick Boy’s voice droaps.
— You serious?
— Aye. Nae kinky stuff, jist a straight hump. Cost ye fifty bar.
Ah couldnae believe ma ears. Sick Boy wisnae jokin. He wis gaun tae try tae set up Planet Ay The Apes wi wee Maria Anderson, this junky he’d been fucking on and oaf for a few months. The cunt wanted tae pimp her oot. Ah felt sickened at what he’d come tae, what we’d aw come tae, and started tae envy Spud again.
Ah pull um aside. — Whit’s the fuckin score?
— The score is ah’m looking eftir numero uno. Whit’s your fuckin problem? When did you go intae social work?
— This is fuckin different. Ah dinnae ken whit the fuck’s gaun oan wi you mate, ah really dinnae.
— So you’re Mister fuckin Squeaky Clean now, eh?
— Naw, bit ah dinnae fuck ower any cunt else.
— Git ootay ma face. Tell us it wisnae you thit turned Tommy oantae Seeker n that crowd. His eyes wir crystal clear and treacherous, untainted by conscience or compassion. He turned away n moved back ower tae Planet Ay The Apes.
Ah wis gaunny say thit Tommy hud a choice; wee Maria disnae. Aw that would huv done wis precipitate an argument aboot whair choice began and ended. How many shots does it take before the concept ay choice becomes obsolete? Wish tae fuck ah knew. Wish tae fuck ah knew anything.
As if oan cue, Tommy came intae the pub; follayed by Second Prize, whae wis guttered. Tommy’s started using. He nivir used before. It’s probably our fault; probably ma fault. Speed wis eywis Tommy’s drug. Lizzy’s kicked um intae touch. He’s awfay quiet, awfay subdued. Second Prize isnae.
— The Rent Boy knocks it oaf! Hey! Ya fuckin cunt thit ye are! he shouts, crushin ma hand.
A chorus ay ‘there’s only one Mark Renton’ echoes throughout the pub. Auld, toothless Willie Shane is giein it laldy. So’s Beggars’s grandfaither, a nice auld cunt wi one leg. Beggars and two ay his psychotic friends whae ah dinnae even ken ur singing, so’s Sick Boy n Billy, even ma Ma.
Tommy slaps us oan the back. — Nice one ma man, he sais. Then: — Goat any smack?
Ah tell um tae forget it, leave it alane while he still can. He tells us, aw the cocky cunt like, thit he can handle it. Seems tae me ah’ve heard that line before. Ah’ve spun it masel, n probably ah’ll dae so again.
Ah’m surrounded by the cunts thit ur closest tae us; but ah’ve nivir felt so alone. Nivir in ma puff.
Planet Ay The Apes hus insinuated hissel intae the company. The thought ay that cunt shaggin wee Maria Anderson is not aesthetically appealing. The thought ay that cunt shaggin anybody isnae aesthetically appealing. If he tries tae talk tae ma Ma, ah’ll gless the fucker’s primate pus.
Andy Logan comes intae the pub. He’s an exuberant cunt who reeks ay petty crime and prison. Ah met Loags a couple ay years ago when we were baith workin as park attendants at a council golf course, and pocklin loads ay cash. It wis the ticket checker in the park patrol van whae pit us oantae the scam. Lucrative times; ah nivir used tae touch ma wages. Ah like Loags, bit oor friendship nivir developed. Aw he could talk aboot wir these times.
Everybody wis at it, the reminiscing game. Each conversation began wi ‘mind the time whin . . .’ and we were talkin aboot perr auld Spud now.
Flocksy came intae the boozer and gestured us ower tae the bar. He asked us fir skag. Ah’m oan the programme. It’s mad. It wis ironic thit ah git nicked fir stealin books whin ah’m tryin tae git sorted oot. Its this methadone though, it’s a fuckin killer. Gies us the heebie-jeebies. Ah hud it bad in the bookshoap whin that baw-faced cunt hud tae try tae play the hero.
Ah tell Flocksy ah’m oan the maintenance, n he jist fucks off without sayin another word.
Billy clocked us talkin tae um n follays the cunt ootside, but ah bombs ower n pulls his airm.
— Ah’m gaunnae brek that fuckin trash up . . . he hisses through his teeth.
— Leave um, he’s awright. Flocksy’s headin doon the road, oblivious tae aw this, oblivious tae everything except the procurement ay smack.
— Fuckin trash. Ye deserve eveything ye fuckin git hingin aboot wi that scum.
He goes back in n sits doon, bit only because he sees Sharon n June comin doon the road.
When Begbie clocks June in the pub, he glowers accusingly at her.
— Whair’s the bairn?
— He’s at ma sisters, June sais timidly.
Begbie’s belligerent eyes, open mouth and frozen face turn away from her, trying to absorb this information and decide whether he feels good, bad or indifferent about it. Eventually he turns tae Tommy and affectionately tells him that he’s some cunt.
What huv ah goat here? Billy’s fuckin nosey, reactionary bastard’s outrage. Sharon lookin at us like ah’ve goat two heids. Ma, drunk and sluttish, Sick Boy . . . the cunt. Spud in the jail. Matty in the hospital, and nae cunt’s been tae see um, nae cunt even talks aboot um, it’s like he never existed. Begbie . . . fuck sakes, glowing, while June looks like a pile ay crumpled bones in that hideous shell-suit, an unflattering garment at the best ay times, but highlighting her jagged shapelessness.
Ah go tae the bog and when ah finish ma pish ah ken ah cannae go back in thair tae face that shite. Ah sneak out through the side door. It’s still fourteen hours n fifteen minutes until ah kin git ma new fix. The state-sponsored addiction: substitute methadone for smack, the sickly jellies, three a day, for the hit. Ah’ve no known many junkies oan that programme whae didnae take aw three jellies at once and go oot scorin. The morn’s mornin, that’s how long ah’ve goat tae wait till. Ah decide ah cannae wait that long. Ah’m off tae Johnny Swan’s for ONE hit, just ONE FUCKIN HIT tae get us ower this long, hard, day.
Junk Dilemmas No. 66
It’s a challenge tae move: but it shouldnae be. Ah can move. It has been done before. By definition, we, humans, likes, are matter in motion. Why move anyway, when you have everything you need right here. Ah’ll soon huv tae move though. Ah’ll move when ah’m sick enough; ah know that through experience as well. Ah jist cannae conceive ay ever being that sick that ah’ll want tae move. This frightens me, because ah’ll need tae move soon.
Surely ah’ll be able tae dae it; surely tae fuck.
Deid Dugs
Ah . . . the enemy ish in shite, as the old Bond would have said, and what a fuckin sight the cunt looks as well. Skinheid haircut, green bomber-jaykit, nine-inch DMs. A stereotypical twat; and there’s the woof-woof trailing loyally behind. Pit Bull, shit bull, bullshit terrier . . . a fuckin set ay jaws on four legs. Aw, it’s pishing by a tree. Here boy, here boy.
The sport ay living over a park. Ah fix the beast in ma telescopic sights; it could just be my imagination, but they seem tae be a wee bitty out these days, veering tae the right. Still, Simone is a good enough marksman tae compensate for this malfunction in his trusted technology, this old .22 air rifle. Ah swing ower tae the skinheid, targeting his face. Ah then travel up and doon his body, up and doon, up and doon . . . take it easy baby . . . take it one more time . . . nobody has ever given the bastard this much attention, this much care, this much . . . yes, love, in his puff. It’s a great feeling, knowing that you have the power to inflict such pain, fae yir ain front room. Call me the unsheen ashashin Mish Moneypenny.
It’s the Pit Bull ah’m eftir though; ah want tae get him tae turn on his master, tae sever the touching man-beast relationship along with his owner’s testicles. I hope the shit-bull’s got mair bollocks than that stupid Rottweiler ah shot the other day.
Ah blasted the big cunt in the side ay the face, and did the pathetic bastard turn on his glakit master in the shell-suit? Did he heckers laik, as Vera and Ivy oot ay Coronation Street would say. The cunt just started whimpering.
They call me the Sick Boy, the scourge of the schemie, the blooterer of the brain-dead. This one’s for you Fido, or Rocky, or Rambo, or Tyson or whatever the fuck your shite-brained, fuck-wit of an owner has dubbed you. This is fir aw the bairns you’ve slaughtered, faces you’ve disfigured and shite you’ve deposited in our streets. Above all though, it’s for the shite you’ve done in the parks, shite which always finds its way onto Simone’s body whenever he puts in a sliding tackle in his midfield role for Abbeyhill Athletic in the Lothian Sunday Amateurs’ League.
They’re now alongside each other, man and beast. Ah squeeze the trigger and take a step back.
Brilliant! The dug yelps and leaps at the skinhead, attaching its jaws ontae the cunt’s airm. Good shooting Shimon. Why shank you Sean.
— SHANE! SHANE! YA CUNT! AH’LL FUCKIN KILL YE! SHAAYYNNE! the boy’s screamin, and bootin at the dug, but his Docs are nae use against this monster. It has just clamped him, and these things do not let go; the only attraction ay huvin them for doss cunts is their ferocity. The boy is really gaun mental, first strugglin, then tryin tae stey still, because it’s too sair tae struggle; alternatively threatening then pleading with this fucking compassionless killing machine. An auld cunt comes ower tae try tae help, but backs oaf as the dug swivels his eyes roond and growls through its nose, as if to say: You’re next cunt.
Ah’m doon the stair at high speed, aluminium baseball bat in ma hand. This is what ah’ve been waitin for, this is what it’s all about. Man the hunter. Ma mooth’s dry wi anticipation; the Sick Boy is on safari. A little problem for you to short out, Shimon. I think I can handle that, Sean.
— HELP US! HELP US! the skinhead squeals. He’s younger than ah thought.
— S awright mate. Stay cool, ah tell um. Have no fear, Simone’s here.
Ah stealthily creep up behind the dug; ah don’t want the fucker tae break its grip and go for me, even though there is very little chance ay that. Blood is oozing fae the guy’s airm and the dug’s mooth, saturating the side ay the boy’s jaykit. The guy thinks ah’m gaunnae batter the dug’s nut wi the bat, but that would be like sending Renton or Spud tae sexually satisfy Laura McEwan.
Instead ah gently lift the dug’s collar up and stick the bat’s handle under it. Ah twist, and twist . . . Twist and shout . . . Still the cunt hauds oan. This skinheid’s falling tae his knees, nearly ready tae black oot wi the pain. Ah just keep twisting, and ah can feel the thick muscles in the dug’s neck beginning tae yield, tae relax. Ah keep twisting. Let’s twist again, like wi did last suhmah.
The dug lets oot a series ay hideous gasps through its nose and muffled jaws, as ah throttle the cunt tae death. Even in its death throes, and after, when it’s as still as a sack ay tatties, it keeps its grip. Ah take the bat fae its collar, tae help us lever its jaws open, freeing the gadge’s airm. By this time the polis have arrived, and ah’ve wrapped the boy’s airm wi the rest ay his jaykit.
The skinhead is singing ma praises tae the polis n the ambulanceman. He’s upset at Shane, he still cannae understand what turned this loving pet whae ‘wouldnae hurt a fly’, the cunt actually said that, mouthed that hideous cliché, intae a deranged monster. Theshe beashts can turn at any time.
As they led him into the ambulance, the young cop shook his heid. — Fuckin stupid works. These things are just killers. It’s a big ego-trip for these daft cunts tae own them, but they always go berserk sooner or later.
The aulder polisman is gently interrogative aboot ma need tae huv a baseball bat, and ah tell him it’s for home security, as there have been a lot of break-ins in the area. Not that Simone, I explain, would ever dream of talking the law into his own hands, but, well, it just gives one a certain peace of mind. Ah wonder if anybody this side of the Atlantic has ever bought a baseball bat with playing baseball in mind.
— Ah can understand that, the auld cop says. I’ll bet you can, you dippet cunt. The offishers of the law are rather shilly, eh Sean? Not particularly impreshiff, Shimon.
The guys are telling me that I’m a brave gadge, and that they will be recommending a commendation. Why shank you offisher, but it’sh nothing really.
The Sick Boy is going round tae Marianne’s the night for some sick fun. Doggy style must certainly be on the menu, if only as a tribute to Shane.
I am as high as a kite and horny as a field of stags. It’s been a fucking beautiful day.
Searching for the Inner Man
Ah’ve never been incarcerated for junk. However, loads ay cunts have had stabs at rehabilitating me. Rehabilitation is shite; sometimes ah think ah’d rather be banged up. Rehabilitation means the surrender ay the self.
Ah’ve been referred tae a variety of counsellors, wi backgrounds ranging fae pure psychiatry through clinical psychology to social work. Doctor Forbes, the psychiatrist, used non-directive counselling techniques, basing his approach largely on Freudian psychoanalysis. This involved getting us tae talk aboot ma past life and focus oan unresolved conflicts, the assumption presumably bein that the indentification and resolution ay such conflicts will remove the anger which fuels ma self-destructive behaviour, that behaviour manifesting itself in ma use ay hard drugs.
A typical exchange:
Dr Forbes: You mentioned your brother, the one with the, eh, disability. The one that died. Can we talk about him?
(pause)
Me: Why?
(pause)
Dr Forbes: You’re reluctant to talk about your brother?
Me: Naw. It’s just that ah dinnae see the relevance ay that tae me bein oan smack.
Dr Forbes: It seems that you started using heavily around the time of your brother’s death.
Me: A loat happened aroond that time. Ah’m no really sure how relevant it is tae isolate ma brar’s death. Ah went up tae Aberdeen at the time; the Uni. Ah hated it. Then ah started oan the cross-channel ferries, tae Holland. Access tae aw the collies ye could hope fir.
(pause)
Dr Forbes: I’d like to go back to Aberdeen. You say you hated Aberdeen?
Me: Aye.
Dr Forbes: What was it about Aberdeen you hated?
Me: The University. The staff, the students and aw that. Ah thought they were aw boring middle-class cunts.
Dr Forbes: I see. You were unable to form relationships with people there.
Me: No sae much unable, as unwilling, although ah suppose it means the same, for your purposes (noncommittal shrug fae Dr Forbes) . . . ah hudnae any interest in any fucker thair.
(pause)
Ah mean ah didnae really see the point. Ah knew ah wisnae gaunnae stey fir long. If ah wanted a blether, ah’d go tae the pub. If ah wanted a ride ah’d go tae a prostitute.
Dr Forbes: You spent time with prostitutes?
Me: Aye.
Dr Forbes: Was this because you lacked confidence in your ability to form social and sexual attachments with women at the University?
(pause)
Me: Naw, ah did meet a couple ay lassies.
Dr Forbes: What happened?
Me: Ah wis only interested in sex, rather than a relationship. Ah didnae really huv the motivation tae disguise that fact. Ah saw these women purely as a means ay satisfying ma sexual urges. Ah decided it wis mair honest tae go tae a prostitute instead, rather than play a game ay deception. Ah wis quite a moral fucker in these days. So ah blew ma grant money oan prostitutes, and nicked food and books. That’s what started the thievin. It wisnae really the junk, though that obviously didnae help.
Dr Forbes: Mmmm. Can we go back to your brother, the one with the handicap. How did you feel about him?
Me: No really sure . . . look, the guy wis jist ootay it. He wisnae thair. Totally paralysed. Aw he’d dae wis tae sit in that chair wi his heid turned tae the side. Aw he could dae wis blink n
swallow. Sometimes he made wee noises . . . he wis like an object, rather than a person.
(pause)
Ah suppose ah resented um whin ah wis younger. Ah mean, ma Ma would just take um oot in this pram. This big, outsized thing in a fuckin pram, likes. It made me n ma big brar, Billy, the laughin stock wi the other kids. Wid git: ‘Your brother’s a spastic’ or ‘Your brother’s a zombie’ and aw that sortay shite. Jist bairns, ah ken, but itdoesnae seem like that at the time. Because ah wis tall n awkward as a wee laddie, ah started tae believe thit thir wis something wrong wi me n aw, that ah wis somehow like Davie . . .
(long pause)
Dr Forbes: So you felt a resentment towards your brother.
Me: Aye, as a bairn, a wee laddie, like. Then he went intae the hoespital. Ah suppose it wis, likes, problem solved, ken. Sortay ootay sight, ootay mind. Ah visited um a few times, but thir didnae seem tae be any point. Nae interaction, ken? Ah jist saw it as a cruel twist ay life. Pen* Davie goat dealt the shitest possible hand. Fuckin sad, but ye cannae greet aboot it fir the rest ay yir puff. He wis in the best place fir um, gittin well looked eftir. Whin he died, ah felt guilty aboot resentin um, guilty aboot mibbe no huvin made a bit mair ay an effort. What kin ye dae though?
(pause)
Dr Forbes: Have you talked about these feelings before?
Me: Naw . . . well, mibbe mentioned it tae ma Ma n faither
That was how it used tae go. A loat ay issues brought up; some trivial, some heavy, some dull, some interesting. Sometimes ah telt the truth, sometimes ah lied. When ah lied, ah sometimes said the things that ah thought he’d like tae hear, n sometimes said something which ah thought would wind him up, or confuse him.
Fucked if ah could see the connection between any ay that and me takin smack, but.
Ah did learn a few things though, based oan Forbes’s disclosures and ma ain researches into psychoanalysis and how ma behaviour should be interpreted. Ah have an unresolved relationship wi ma deid brother, Davie, as ah huv been unable tae work oot or express ma feelings about his catatonic life and subsequent death. Ah have oedipal feelings towards ma mother and an attendant unresolved jealousy towards ma faither. Ma junk behaviour is anal in concept, attention-seeking, yes, but instead of withholding the faeces tae rebel against parental authority, ah’m pittin smack intae ma body tae claim power over it vis-à-vis society in general. Radge, eh?