Renton seems a trifle chagrined by this. He shuffles uncomfortably, then focuses on the polisman. — But what did ye say tae get him tae come back inside?
The cop smiles earnestly. – I just told him that no matter how bad it all seemed right now, it’s just part and parcel of being young. That it gets easier. That he has to remember this and not throw it all away. That life is a gift.
My life with Lucinda. Wrecked. My big chance. Blown. All thanks to Nicksy!
Renton appears tae consider this for a bit. He’s daein the junky pose wi his airms wrapped around himself even though it isnae cauld. Skaggy fucker will draw mair polis heat than Nicksy, rattling away like that in public, and in front ay a copper. — Does it? Get easier, I mean, he asks urgently.
The cop shakes his heid. — Does it fuck; it gets bleedin worse. All that happens is that the expectations you have of life fall. You just get used to all the shit.
Renton looks as perturbed as ah feel, and we gaze at each other and realise that the cop isnae fucking joking. Ah think about poor Spud. Renton looks starkly at Bacon boy. — What if ye don’t get used to it, what if ye can’t get used to it?
The copper looks back up tae the flats, shrugs his shoulders and curls his bottom lip doon. — Well, that window’s still gonna be there.
Wound Botulism
TAM SORTAY AMBLES intae the ward, sees us n comes right ower. He’s goat a worried look oan his coupon, but ah want tae shout, ah kin breathe, man, ah kin pure breathe! How barry is that?! Aye, ah want tae tell um they sais thit ah’m gaunny be awright, but ah cannae say nowt, likesay, cannae answer him back wi this tube in my throat. Aw ah kin dae is breathe. N Tam’s goat the picture, squeezin ma hand. So he starts gabbin, tellin us he’s been away fir a week, up north, likesay hillwalkin wi that Lizzie, n he came as soon as he could. Ah’m sortay thinkin, ah’d certainly be comin quick wi her n aw, even though ah ken that’s no what he means n it’s good ay him tae git here. Now he’s lookin at us aw sad n gaun, — Aw, Danny, ya daft cunt. What are we gaunny dae wi ye?
Ah’m pointin tae the tube, but then the duty nurse, Angie, comes in. Tommy asks her the Hampden Roar.
Ah kin hear Angie giein him the details, like she’s hud tae dae wi everybody thit’s come in tae see us. — He staggered into the A&E with double vision, slurred speech, drooping eyelids, and eye-muscle weakness.
Tommy’s noddin, then lookin at us as if tae say aye? And what’s new, exactly?
— The diagnosis has turned out to be wound botulism, Angie tells um.
— What’s that?
Angie shakes her heid. Brand new, Angie, even if she is a Jambo fae Sighthill! Or mibbe a Jambette if that’s what ye call lassie Jambos. But naw, that might be sexist. — Something very nasty, she tells Tommy. — But thankfully the doctors made a quick diagnosis, so we were able to offer appropriate treatment, including putting Danny on this ventilator and giving him botulinum antitoxin. We’re expecting him to make a full recovery.
— Was it ska … heroin that did this? Tommy’s askin the same question that my ma did the other week when ah wis wakin up. They aw jist talk aroond us n it pure gits oan ma nerves; jist cause ah’ve goat this tube doon ma throat disnae mean that ah cannae hear, likesay. Ken?
Angie doesnae answer him direct, but, she jist pits oan a cross but kind face, like the best teachers at the school used tae dae, n says, — He’s been a right daftie, haven’t ye, Danny?
Thaire’s no a loat ah could say tae that, even if ah didnae huv a tube in my throat, likesay.
— You dae what they say, n shape up when ye git ootside, Tommy says, his piercin broon eyes lookin right intae us, n he squeezes ma hand again.
Ah try tae say ‘sound’ but ah kin feel ma throat muscles contrictin aroond this sortay unyieldin pipe n ah convulse a bit, so ah jist squash his hand back n nod. So Tommy starts bletherin away aboot what he’s been up tae, ken in the Highlands n that? Ah dinnae want tae pish on the pageant ay a man in love wi a barry-lookin bird, but it’s pure ‘me n Lizzie this’ n ‘me n Lizzie that’. Ah suppose it’s his life, but the thing is, other cats’ rooftop trysts are right borin, especially if you’re no gittin any Ian McLagan in yirsel, likesay. Eventually he gies ma hand a real bonecrusher ay a squeeze n says, — See ye behind the goals.
Then he’s away, but that Paki doaktir boy, Mr Nehru, comes in, the yin that saved us by aw accounts, n he’s goat this lassie wi um. She’s in a sortay suit n glesses, but she disnae look like a social worker. She’s goat barry shiny black hair, sortay collar-length.
– Danny … Danny boy … we’re going to have you off this thing tomorrow! That is good, yes! Mr Nehru goes.
Ah gie the cat the thumbs up, cause this gadge is totally cool n pure saved ma life, man. Ah dig the sing-song voice he hus, n the wey his heid moves side tae side when he talks. Aye, man, when a gadgie is that enthused, it sortay gits us aw carried away masel, likesay. Ken? That’s what ah need, man, a motivator by ma side each n every day. Tae coach us n encourage us, likesay. Somebody tae tell us ah’m awright, n ah done good. Somebody like Mr Nehru.
Mr Nehru turns tae this lassie, she’s goat they really cool rid-framed glesses wi a slight tint, and she’s really thin, likesay daddy-long-legs thin, and he says tae her, — Danny had contracted wound botulism. It’s a potentially fatal illness that occurs when spores of the bacterium Clostridium botulinum contaminate a wound then germinate, and produce botulinum nerve toxin. He’s a very lucky chap, aren’t you, Danny boy?! He sings tae me n ah wink back. He tells the thin, specky bird that they’re seeing a higher incidence ay wound botulism, n it’s aw aboot injectin heroin intae skin or muscle.
— Why should this be? the bird asks, in a posh voice.
— The reasons for the increase remain unclear, but may involve contamination of specific batches of heroin as well as changes in injection practices.
— Very disturbing … Can I talk to him?
— Sure! He can hear you fine. I’ll leave you two alone to get acquainted.
The lassie gies Mr Nehru a strained smile, but when she sits doon next tae us, her eyes light up n it’s like she’s really excited. Ah’m pure thinking, ‘what’s gaun oan here?’, but ah cannae say nowt!
— Danny … I understand you’ve had a terrible time, with your illness and your heroin-dependency issues. But I’m here to help you, to help you put it all behind you.
Ah cannae say nowt, but the sun’s up behind the lassie n throwin a big glow ower her, framin her in this luxurious blindin light, n mibbe it’s like they prayers huv been answered, man, cause she’s likesay goat this Virgin Mary-style purity, ken?
— I want to help you, to work with you in this new, innovative unit that we’ve set up. There will be other people like you, in this state-of-the-art facility, and we’ll be working with a guy called Tom Curzon, who is one of the best in the business. He’s probably the UK-wide expert on client-centred drug rehabilitation. Will you work with us, and let us help you to get better?
Ah’m noddin and sayin aye aye aye in ma heid, n ah gie her the thumbs up.
— That’s really, really terrific news, she smiles. — As soon as you feel stronger, I’m going to arrange to get you transferred out of here, and into the rehab project, she says, and the lassie seems really enthusiastic aboot it. — I’m Amelia McKerchar, and I’m here to help you, Danny, n she shakes ma sweaty hand.
N ah feel like ah’ve been pure saved, man, saved by an angel ay mercy! The only wey is up for me now!
Drought
Junk Dilemmas No. 2
THAT CUNT MUST be a baw hair away fae flatlining, the wey he’s been battering the shit intae hissel. Ah stagger ower fae whaire ah’d crashed oot, oan the cauld, manky, broken lino tiles ay the kitchen, n pit ma heid tae his chest: a thin, watery heartbeat. — Matty, wake up.
Ah was soon wishin ah hudnae bothered cause the cunt revives n it’s aw torment and despair. First him and then Alison, whae ah didnae even notice wis lyin oan the couch. They just whine
oan aboot how sick they feel, and how it’s aw fucked up and how they want offay this. Then that wee Maria emerges tremblin fae the bedroom whaire her n Sick Boy crashed, greetin aboot her ma and dad. Sick Boy’s behind her, also shiverin like a new kitten, one eye blinkin in a spasm, sayin, — Shut the fuck up! What a crowd ay deadbeats! Am ah the only cunt here that kens how tae perty?
Ah head oot tae the toilet n dae a pish, too scared tae look in the bathroom mirror. When ah finish, that wee Jenny lassie, Maria’s mate, comes oot ay the bedroom. Wi her big, watery eyes, she looks terrified, and aboot ten years auld, as she tentatively approaches me. — They says that they wir gaunny git some mair ay that stuff, she whimpers, rubbin a red mark in the crook ay her airm. An injury ay commerce? Culture? An industrial accident. — Maria spiked us, jist thaire, she goes. — Ah dinnae want any mair though, ah want tae go hame now. She looks at me, like ah’m some sort ay jailer, n she’s beggin tae be set free. — What d’ye think ah should dae?
— Go hame, ah say, shakin ma heid urgently, then lookin back tae the door ay the front room, — dinnae even go back in thaire tae say cheerio. Yi’ll jist git involved, n ah throw the door open, showin her the stair. — Ah’ll tell them thit ye felt sick n hud tae go hame. Just go, ah urge her, n ah kin hear the high, hysterical voices comin fae the front room and ah want this lassie tae git the fuck oot right now. — Go hame! Hurry …
N she heads oot, noddin at us in fearful gratitude. Ah shuts the door behind her n goes back doon the cauld, fusty hall n ben the front room.
Sick Boy, whae’s slumped doon on a beanbag against the waw, is makin himself heard above the clamour. — I’m oot oan the hunt. His big eyes scan us aw. — Whae’s up fir it?
They aw jist sit there, shiverin and wailin. It’s like some anguish-laden Palestinian mass funeral tae commemorate the latest rock-throwing martyrs. Maria says somethin aboot wishin she wis deid, and Ali’s oaf the couch, comfortin her. — Ye cannae say that, Maria, yir jist a young lassie …
— But it’s like ah’m deid awready … this is like hell, she blubbers, her face scrunched up and utterly wretched.
— Mair fuckin melodrama, Sick Boy says, lookin at me, pullin hissel tae his feet, wi the help ay the radiator. — Whae’s comin oot?
— Ah’m up for it … ah tell um, n wir right oot intae the hall.
He gapes at us wi big sad eyes, and pits his hand gently oan ma shoodir. — Thanks, Mark, he whispers. — Git the fuck away fae these manky birds. Gone are the days when ye could keep them quiet by filling them wi spunk, it’s aw just skag, skag, skag now.
— Aye … ah goes. — Goat tae keep gaun, but, eh?
He nods tightly, n we’re shufflin taewards the front door. — We should never huv came back up tae this place, he moans, shakin his heid, — ah could’ve got us sorted wi Andreas … the giro-drop wi Tony … we were in clover down thaire, man, in fucking clover …
Maria’s shoutin, — Whaire’s Jenny? If she’s fuckin well sneaked away she’s gittin her cunt battered in!
Ah kin hear Ali sayin somethin tae calm her doon, as Sick Boy n me quickly slip oot the front door, like thieves escapin the scene ay the crime. Matty’s voice screeches eftir us in terror: — Shout us if ye score!
We dinnae stop, dinnae look back. When we emerge fae the stair intae the street, somebody’s shoutin fae the windae, but we’re no turnin roond tae see whae it is.
Notes on an Epidemic 6
Lothian Health Board
Private and Confidential
Instances of Reported HIV+ Cases in February
Gordon Ferrier, 18, Edinburgh North, motorcycle messenger and amateur boxer, intravenous drug use.
Robert MacIntosh, 21, Edinburgh North, window cleaner, intravenous drug use.
Julie Mathieson, 22, Edinburgh North, drama student, mother of one, intravenous drug use.
Philip Miles, 38, Edinburgh North, unemployed chef, father of three, intravenous drug use.
Gordon Murieston, 23, Edinburgh North, unemployed welder, intravenous drug use.
Brian Nicolson, 31, West Lothian, unemployed civil engineer, intravenous drug use.
George Park, 27, Edinburgh South, unemployed labourer, father of one, intravenous drug use.
Christopher Thomson, 22, Edinburgh North, unemployed baker, intravenous drug use.
A Safe Port
MY HANDS ARE eywis cauld now. Like the circulation’s gone. They didnae used tae be like that. Even oan a warm day ah’m rubbin them, cuppin them, blawin intae them. Ma chist is tight; there’s thick phlegm permanently gummin up ma respiratory system.
Doof doof doof …
But ah’ve done this tae masel. Naebody else has fucked me; neither God nor Thatcher. Ah’ve done it; destroyed the sovereign state ay Mark Renton before those cunts could get anywhere near it wi their wrecking ball.
It’s weird bein back in the parental home. It’s so quiet eftir Wee Davie’s death. Even when he was in the hoaspital he was still a big presence; my ma and dad ran aroond preparing endlessly for visits, gettin stuff tae take intae him, constantly jabberin on aboot his condition tae relatives and neighbours. Now the energy levels in the hoose have tumbled and the sense ay purpose gone; they wir baith already in their kip when ah got doon, late Friday night. Billy was still up.
Ah’d only come doon tae pick up some LPs tae flog, but hud ended up sittin watchin the boxing wi Billy, then just crashin in my auld bed. Ma body’s metabolisin the gear quicker. Ah used tae go fir days between fixes. Now it’s about four fuckin hours. Ah’ve grown mair lethargic and lazy, basically tae conserve energy and no burn off the skag. Ah’m irritable. Bored. Inattentive. Above all, listless. Gettin oaf a couch (for anything other than skag) takes monumental effort.
Keezbo and me went oan the methadone programme, followed by Sick Boy. It takes the edge offay withdrawal, but it’s shite, and we’re still heebie-jeebied n eywis lookin for gear. Ah tell the lassie at the clinic that, and she says that we jist need some ‘tinkering’ before aw the symptoms ay withdrawal sickness are sorted oot. Too fuckin right!
Maist days, when ah’m no huntin junk, ah’m reading Joyce’s Ulysses, which ah wis surprised and delighted to find at McDonald Road Library. Ah’d never really got it before, it wis just tedious waffle tae me, but now ah’m loast in it, trippin oan the words and the images they conjure up like ah’m oan acid. Ah wish ah’d brought it doon tae my ma’s wi us.
Oan the methadone programme ye huv tae report daily at the Leith Hoaspital clinic. The hozzy’s scheduled for closure next year, but we huv tae go thaire for assessment and my bog-cleaner-tastin syrup. It feels a bit like the dole, but wi mair ay a sense ay belongin. Ye meet a lot ay skagheids thaire. Some seem ashamed, skulkin in aw furtively, others dinnae gie a fuck and are swift tae ask if yir hudin. Some ur bams, pure and simple. If it wisnae skag it would’ve been something else. Most urnae, thir just ordinary boys who’ve drugged themselves intae nothingness tae avoid the shame ay daein nothing. Boredom has driven them crazy, drug crazy. By and large they keep aw this inside, maintaining the mask ay composure, through fierce, mocking talk and gallows humour. They cannae afford tae care, and ken if they front apathy for long enough, it’ll soon embrace them. And they’re correct.
The methadone’s shite. Thaire’s nae buzz oaf ay it, but they tell us tae persist, cause wi the ‘fine tuning’ ay ma script, it’ll take away ma discomfort, and be way better than the alternative. Sometimes at the clinic, they look at ye like yir a lab rat and talk in these hushed and reverential tones. They took blood tests; no just for HIV, the boy wis at pains tae stress. At least they’re daein something though. They’ve finally sussed thaire’s shite happening oot here.
Thaire’s certainly nowt much happenin in muh ma’s hoose. It struck me that when ma auld girl and auld man arenae aroond, Billy and me stoap competing, forget that we hate each other, and actually git oan reasonably well. We watched this black American boxer overwhelm the latest hapless white hope.
Then Billy said somethi
ng like, — Cannae fuckin stick civvy street.
— Reckon ye’ll join up again?
— Mibbe.
Ah resisted the urge tae discuss it further. Billy and me are miles apart oan such issues, and although ah think he’s a complete fuckin tool, it’s his life, n it’s no fir me tae tell him how tae live it. But he talked on for a bit; about the officers bein wankers and shitein it oan the foot patrol, but huvin yir mates behind ye and feelin like ye really belong somewhere. He’s up in coort next week for batterin this cunt in a boozer, so his heid’s aw ower the place.
Billy’s moved intae Davie’s auld room, the good yin that overlooks the river. The allocation ay the prime bedroom tae somebody whae would have been as happy in a cellar or an attic, caused a bit ay united resentment wi me n Billy when we moved doon here fae the Fort a few years back. Wisnae shy aboot stakin his claim following Wee Davie’s demise, the cunt; but fair dos, it’s no like ah’m plannin tae be back. Now his auld side ay the room looks bare. He’s taken his framed picture ay Donald Ford in the Ajax-like seventies Jambo strip, and the calligraphy scroll that he did in art (his one visible accomplishment fae eleven years ay state education), which has the complete lyrics ay ‘Hearts, Glorious Hearts’ inscribed in maroon ink. The plastic King Billy oan the horse that sat oan the windae ledge, lookin oot over the Hibernian-infested tenements wi disapproval, has also thankfully gone.
The masking tape that he pit doon yonks ago is still oan the flair, running acroas the cairpit. Ah pull it up and see a thick darker line contrastin wi the light, sun-bleached blue. He called that the invisible Berlin Waw, dividin him fae ma Stanton-prominent ’72 League Cup poster, a ’73 Hibs team photae wi the two cups displayed, n a picture ay Alan Gordon in shooting pose. There’s a recent yin ay Jukebox. Ah’ve got a great photae ay the church in St Stephen’s Street where Tommy sprayed IGGY IS GOD oan the side ay the building, and a montage ay teen punk and soul boy pictures, each haircut mair embarrassing than the last. Ah should move ma bed nearer the windae, cause Billy willnae be back in here.