— Planks? Cunt, what fuckin planks? Matty says.
— Sorry, forgot tae mention that we go tae the timber yard in a bit, n git two fifteen-fit planks ay wid cut.
— Cunt, ah think you’re the fuckin plank, Renton.
Renton recalls how they used to be best friends. That summer of 1979 when they went to London as teenage punks. It now seemed a long way away. He fights down his anger. — Bear wi us, mate. The line branches off before Murrayfield. The right-hand fork splits the factory fae the distillery. We take the left, cause it goes right through the chemical plant; there’s a point where the fence gets really close tae the railway embankment. He points to the drawing. — Across the fence, a few feet away, there’s this outbuilding. We take the plank and lay it fae the railway line back oantae the top ay the fence …
— Fuck sake, Matty mumbles.
— … then we walk up the plank, tae the top ay the fence. One ay us stalls there, the rest pass the other plank along. Then we push it doon fae the toap ay the fence oantae the roof ay the outbuilding, then walk doon oantae the roof.
— Cunt, like fuckin Spider-Man, Matty sneers.
— It’s no too high, is it, likesay? Spud asks, eyes full of fear.
— Naw, it’ll be easy. Besides, you’re the best climber oot ay aw ay us, Renton says.
Spud holds a trembling hand out in front of him. — But no like this but, man …
— Lit’s no kid ourselves, it isnae gaunny be a piece ay pish; if it wis some other cunt would’ve done it by now. But it’s far fae impossible, Renton insists, turning back to the map. — There’s a drainpipe on the outbuilding that we can scramble doon tae get intae the plant. Then we find the skag, which’ll probably be in the containers stored in this loading bay, he points out the area on the map, — or in this building here, which is maist likely where they make it.
Matty looks at Renton, then at the others. Shakes his head. — Cunt, some fuckin plan this!
— Let’s hear yours then, Matty, Renton challenges.
— Dinnae be actin the smart cunt cause yuv been tae some daft fuckin sheepshagger college, Mark. Matty dismissively swipes the map with the back of his hand. — This isnae the Great Train Robbery and yir no Bruce Reynolds. Cunt, yir mair like Bruce Forsyth, fruitcakin aboot wi fuckin daft maps n drawins!
Spud and Sick Boy chuckle a little, while Keezbo remains deadpan. Renton sucks in some air, and says, — Look, ah’m no bein Mister Big Time. Ah need gear, he points to the plant on the map, – and it’s in there.
— Cunt, it’s like a fuckin school project tae you! Well, it’ll be like tryin tae find a needle in a haystack. Cunt, ye dinnae even ken whaire the fuckin skag is! They’ve goat guards, probably dugs … Matty looks to the others in appeal.
— First sign ay any bother, we fuckin bolt, Sick Boy says. — Nae dugs or spazzy cunts in uniforms are coming up a plank eftir us.
— Ah still say it’s fuckin mad! Ah mean, cunt, what huv we goat fuckin gaun for us?
Renton sucks in some of the room’s fetid air. Matty is driving him crazy. Withdrawal is gnawing at his brain and bones and it’s crucial when you feel like this to invest your strength in the correct grains of conversation. — Fine. Dae cauld turkey then, he snaps.
Then Sick Boy turns on Matty. — Ever heard ay the element ay surprise? The Charge ay the Light Brigade? Three hundred Spartans? Bannockburn? History’s fuckin littered wi gadges who’ve upset the odds, just by huvin the fucking bottle tae huv a dash. Did they change the motto ay Leith fae ‘persevere’ tae ‘shite it’ when ah wisnae looking?
Matty falls into a silence that’s contagious for a few seconds till the shrill ringing of the phone shatters it, searing their nerve endings. Renton and Sick Boy both pounce and Renton gets there first, instantly deflated to hear the voice of his father on the line. — Mark?
The synapses in his brain stumble over one another. — Dad … what is it?
— We need skag, he hears Sick Boy say to Matty. — They’ve goat it and nae cunt else does. Endy story.
— What are you up tae? Are you keeping oaf that dirty stuff? his father asks.
— Nae option. Thaire’s nane, he coldly announces as he hears an argument rage behind him.
— Well, dinnae seem sae disappointed aboot it!
— What dae ye want, Dad? Has Ma been on your case?
— This is nowt tae dae wi yir ma! Ah’ve got Hazel doon here! She’s heartbroken, she’s telling us that you’ve been oan that bloody crap again!
Grassin fuckin fucked-up frigid wee hoor …
— Look, this is nonsense. Tell us what ye want, or ah pit the phone doon.
— You willnae pit the phone doon on me, son!
A surge of welcome adrenalin shoots through Renton, briefly short-circuiting the pain. — In ten seconds, unless you can convince me otherwise.
— You’re ruinin everybody’s life, Mark … your mother n me … eftir Wee Davie, it’s no been –
— Nine …
— … what have we ever asked offay ye?
— Eight …
— Ye dinnae care, dae ye? Ah used tae think it wis aw a game wi you –
— Seven …
— … but now ah know, ye jist dinnae –
— Six …
— … CARE! YE DINNAE CARE!
— Five, what dae ye want?
— Ah want you tae stoap! Tae stoap daein this! Wee Hazel, she –
— Four …
— COME HAME, SON! PLEASE COME HAME!
— Three …
— WE LOVE YE! Please, Mark –
— Two …
— Dinnae pit the phone doon, Mark –
— One … so if there’s nowt else –
— MAAARK!
Renton rests the phone down gently onto the cradle. He turns to face the boys who stand staring at him, open-mouthed like fat goldfish in a botanical pond at feeding time. — The old man’s gone vigilante oan us, so it might be a good idea tae git the fuck oot ay here in case he comes roond. Wuv no goat time for aw that shite right now.
Sundown, and the bellies of the clouds flush pink. Renton reflecting that no matter how early you rise or how late you turn in, you never see that point where light begins or the first bruise of darkness bleeds in under its fragile skin; the beauty, and the scary, unfathomable wisdom of transition. They head out from the lock-up in Matty’s van, stopping at the Canasta Cafe in Bonnington Road, ostensibly for some food, but really to dispense the Valium that Renton liberated from his mother’s medicine cabinet. They wash the pills down with milky coffees.
Renton is watching Keezbo eating two doughnuts and licking the third and fourth free of sugar. The power of smack: fat cunt actually seems tae be losing weight. He himself struggles to get down some scrambled egg on soggy toast. It still cramps his guts. Sick Boy is the same. Spud and Matty manage only the coffee and six cigarettes each. The elderly proprietor becomes disturbed by the shaking of Matty’s mug on the Formica table. Sick Boy pacifies him with, — È stanco: influenza.
— You’ve been knockin aboot wi Swanney fir years, Renton whispers to Matty. — You must ken whaire he gits his gear.
Matty’s tight mouth twists, mean and salty. — He’s no gaunny tell the likes ay me anything, is he?
— You’ve goat eyes n ears. N yir no stupid, Matty.
Keezbo rises and heads to the toilet. Matty looks, then shrugs and moves closer in. — Cunt, this is between us. Right?
— Aye … nae worries, likesay, Spud says.
— Swanney’s mate, this boy Mike Taylor, he hud a job at the plant. He was in stores. You’ve seen the cunt, he half challenges Renton, who nods, but can’t place the boy. — Mike’s mate worked fir a caterin firm deliverin meals tae their canteen. Ken the grub that comes in they big aluminium trays?
— Like school dinners? Spud asks.
— The very same, Matty grants, but evidently annoyed at the interruption. — Well, the skag came oot in they trays. Mike set it up for
Swanney, n some other cunts were involved. But he goat huckled, n basically, they sacked him without prosecutin the cunt. Kept it quiet, cause it’s bad publicity fir them. But now the security for the staff is meant tae be unbelievable; cameras everywhere, random searches, the lot. Cunt, ye cannae git a fart oot in yir troosers now.
— What aboot Seeker? Sick Boy asks.
— Cunt, ye dinnae want tae ken aboot him, Matty shivers. He clamps his yellow and brown teeth together to stop them chattering. — He’s a law untae hissel. Even the likes ay Fat Tyrone huvnae been able tae git thair hooks intae that cunt.
Keezbo returns from the toilet, and Matty pointedly clams up. They settle up and head outside into the street. A newsagent’s billboard for the local paper declares:
CITY STREETS ‘AWASH WITH HEROIN’
They look at it in grim, derisive laughter. – If only, Sick Boy sneers.
They go round to the timber yard, where they have two planks of wood cut into fifteen-foot lengths. Vince, a chunky operative with dark, spiky hair, can tell that they’re up to no good, but he knows Renton, Matty and Keezbo of old from the Fort and won’t grass. The noise and relentless power of the saw distresses Spud. He imagines the wood as his limbs, being violently sheared off. Matty is fucked; he stands outside in the yard, frantically trying to light a cigarette, wasting match after match. He gives up and begs Sick Boy for his lighter. As they load the planks in the back, and over the front passenger seat, he reveals he’s too fucked to drive. The Vallies have had no impact. — Ah cannae dae it.
Everybody looks to each other, then Keezbo sticks out a doughy hand. Matty hesitates, but after the prompting of the others, drops the keys into it. He gets in the front with Keezbo, while the others climb in the back, cramped and awkward with the diagonally placed planks. They are still unable to shut the back doors and Keezbo has to get out and tie them together. – Gaunny git fuckin well huckled before we get anywhere near there, Matty complains.
Sick Boy flicks a V-sign at the back of his head as Keezbo returns, starts up the van and drives. Renton watches the sweat beads grow and spot his shaved dome and neck like he was a cold bottle of beer. As they pull up onto Ferry Road they see Second Prize out running, and most look away in some sort of shame. As he passes the van, lost in his own world, Renton notes how good he looks.
They turn off Gorgie Road, onto a path by some wasteland, parking the van against a wall. They can hear the rumble of traffic on the street, but are out of sight as they exit, Renton and Sick Boy emerging from the back of the van with two Sealink bags. Although he lost his, Renton’s learned that Sick Boy filched a good few from their brief employ. The heavier of the two contains a short crowbar. Sick Boy glances at the thick pieces of wood, and opts for the holdalls. Taking Renton’s bag, he bounds ahead, leaving Renton and Matty to each carry an end of the first plank, with Keezbo and Spud taking the second. They are cramping, sweating and shivering as they slowly make their way up the overgrown path towards the embankment.
— Cunt, this isnae a good idea, Matty says again.
— Geez a better yin, then, Renton once more retorts, as they wrestle the wood up towards the fenced-off railway line.
Sick Boy, scurrying ahead along the banking, has found a hole through the patchwork of metal and wooden fencing, shrubbery and barbed wire. He throws the Sealink bags through and scrambles after them. They all squeeze in, although they have to hold up the fence while Keezbo commando-crawls through on his belly. Matty winces as he reaches out and a cluster of nettles brush and spear into his hand. He squeals, watching miserably as it throbs up in white, poisonous spots. — Cunt …
— You goat stung by a jaggy nettle, Spud helpfully informs him, as misanthropy burns through Matty like the venom in his hand. But there’s a surge of euphoria induced by their meagre success, which he can’t help but share in: they are on the railway embankment. They feel a sense of anticipation building, as they look down the tree-and-shrub-lined rail track in the fading light.
They flow like blood from a deep wound, along the gravel-strewn railway banking. After repeatedly stumbling, they give up and take the easier way, striding along the wooden sleepers, as the subtle curving of the rail track draws their laboured steps to the misty vanishing point.
The edge of the world turns dark as the sun sinks behind the broken tenements and the ancient castle, the chilling air now slightly ozone, but augmenting those fumes that the oncoming chemical plant and distillery boak constantly skywards in hazy, almost phantom, tendrils. Ahead is the plant. Why here, Renton asks himself, why in this city? The Scottish Enlightenment. You could trace the line from that period of the city’s global greatness, to the Aids capital of Europe, going straight through that mix of processing plants and warehouses within those security fences. It was a peculiarly Edinburgh brainchild of medicine, invention and economics; from the analytical minds of the Blacks and Cullens, filtered through the speculations of the Humes and the Smiths. From the deliberations and actions of Edinburgh’s finest sons in the eighteenth century, to its poorest ones poisoning themselves with heroin at the close of this one. A shiver in his eye.
We in Scotland …
They move further down the track, the darkness broken up only by the odd lights emanating from the back rooms of tenements. — We have tae watch for freight trains, they take nuclear waste along this line, Renton whispers.
The upbeat vibe doesn’t last as they move further down the rail tracks. The planks grow viciously heavy on their shoulders. They’re compelled to stop and take a break, sitting on the sleepers protruding from the outside of the rails. Sick Boy, who’s been carrying the bags and making them out to be heavier than they are, is urged to take his shift. – Ah’ve goat a fuckin spel in ma hand, he protests, sucking on a finger.
— How the fuck did you git a spel? You’ve nivir cairried any wid, Renton bites.
— Ah did it earlier, Sick Boy moans, looking at Renton glaring in doubtful accusation back at him. — What? Ah’ll take a fuckin shot!
Matty stretches out, finds some dock leaves and starts rubbing them on his hand. His shoulder aches worse than ever from the plank. He’s fucked if he’s taking another shift with it. Spud looks nervously at Renton. — Ah feel crap, Mark, this is the worst. His haunted eyes expand. — Dae ye think wir gaunny die?
— Nup, calm doon, mate, we’ll be sound. Withdrawal hurts, but it doesnae kill, it’s no like OD.
Spud, his eyes like tennis balls, wiping a cascade of snot from under his nose with the sleeve of his ragged yellow sweater, turns to Sick Boy. — What would you dae but, likesay, if ye jist hud a few weeks tae live? Ah mean, we might huv that cowie by now. Tons ay thum’s gittin it, likes.
— Shite.
— But what wid ye dae if ye jist hud a few weeks left, ken? Jist sayin.
Sick Boy replies without hesitation: — Ah’d get a season ticket fir Tynecastle.
— Yir jokin!
— Naw, cause at least ah’d die wi the satisfaction of knowing that there would be one less ay these cunts.
Spud forces a dark smile. Keezbo briefly looks at Sick Boy as if he’s ready to say something, then turns to contemplate the rails of the track: rusty brown and gleaming silver. He seems deranged with the pain of withdrawal; dislocated and delirious with insomnia. — By rights it’s oor skag. It’s gittin made in oor toon …
— That’s right, Keezbo. Sick Boy blows hard, galvanising himself with outrage. — Glaxo’s poxy shareholders are minted while we fuckin suffer! We’re sick and we fuckin well need it!
— By rights it’s the people ay Gorgie’s skag but, Spud says, — cause it’s in the Jambo end ay toon. Like it’s Scotland’s oil. If we wir livin in a society ay real socialism, likes.
— Here’s the News at Ten. Sick Boy hums the tune. — Ding! We urnae!
Renton looks at Spud’s disconsolate expression, tries to gee him up. — Keezbo’s a Jambo, we’re jist helpin um git his share. Try thinkin ay it that wey.
— Din
nae ken how any cunt fae Leith kin support Herts, Matty says.
— Well, ah do, n so does his brar. Keezbo stands up, as he looks to Renton.
— Cunt, they built the skag plant next tae Tyney cause they kent they’d huv a ready supply ay daft fuckers needin somethin for the pain ay livin, Matty sneers defiantly at Keezbo, who is still breathing hard, hands on his hips.
— Ah goat telt by Drew Abbot that Leith wis traditionally Jambo territory, Spud explains, — it’s only in the last couple ay generations it’s likesay become Hibs, likes cause ay the groond bein near.
— Aye? Sick Boy asks wearily.
— Aye, the dockers were eywis Jambos, cause ye hud tae be a mason tae work oan the docks n shipyards.
— Kin we save this fuckin discussion fir another time?! Renton snaps in exasperation. — If ah wanted a fuckin lecture in history ah’d huv steyed at the university! Let’s get movin!
— Ah’m jist sayin, Spud pouts.
— Ah ken, Danny, Renton says, putting his arm round Spud’s shoulder. A three-quarter moon, which has inched through the clouds, bathes them in its silvery light. Below, the traffic softly rustles by. — But this is the big yin. We need tae keep focused here or wir fucked. You’re ma best buddy, man, sorry ah shouted at ye. He rubs Spud’s back. It’s so thin and puny he can scarcely believe it belongs to a human being.
— Sorry, Mark, ma bottle just likesay pure went, like crash, smash, tinkle, ken? Ah’m tryin tae sortay distract masel, cause ah’m pure shitein it here, man.
— We’ll be fine, Renton says, grabbing a plank and looking at Sick Boy, who tuts, but takes up the other end. Spud and Keezbo get the wood back on their shoulders. They walk slowly down the tracks. This time Matty is taking the break, and picks up the bags.
He walks a few steps behind Renton, then suddenly turns on him. — Cunt, you used tae wear a Rangers strip but, Rents. Primary.
— Look, ah’ve telt every cunt a hundred times, ma auld man bought me n Billy Rangers tops and took us through tae Ibrox when we were wee laddies, tryin tae make us Huns, Renton puffs, harping on at the disembodied voice behind him. — Billy wanted tae support an Edinburgh team, so my dad took us tae Tynecastle n bought us Herts gear. He turns round and looks at Matty, then Spud who is advancing alongside them, carrying the other plank with Keezbo. — Ah hated gaun thaire, hated that dirty maroon n the smell ay the distillery made us totally fuckin Zorba. So ah asked ma Uncle Kenny tae take us tae Easter Road. Then when ah goat aulder, ah started gaun wi aw youse cunts, he looks across to Spud and back to Sick Boy, — everybody except you, Matty, cause you never fuckin go anyway! Renton shouts towards Matty’s face, belligerent and caustic. — Ah fuckin rejected both the Huns and the Jambos through informed fuckin choice, so ah’m mair ay a real, genuine Hibby than you’ll ever be. So shut the fuck up, ya wee tramp!