reading

cover

Contents

Cover

About the Book

About the Author

Also by Irvine Welsh

Dedication

Title Page

Kicking

The Skag Boys, Jean-Claude Van Damme and Mother Superior

Junk Dilemmas No. 63

The First Day of the Edinburgh Festival

In Overdrive

Growing Up In Public

Victory On New Year’s Day

It Goes Without Saying

Junk Dilemmas No. 64

Her Man

Speedy Recruitment

Relapsing

Scotland Takes Drugs In Psychic Defence

The Glass

A Disappointment

Cock Problems

Traditional Sunday Breakfast

Junk Dilemmas No. 65

Grieving and Mourning In Port Sunshine

Kicking Again

Inter Shitty

Na Na and Other Nazis

The First Shag In Ages

Strolling Through The Meadows

Blowing It

Courting Disaster

Junk Dilemmas No. 66

Deid Dugs

Searching for the Inner Man

House Arrest

Bang To Rites

Junk Dilemmas No. 67

Exile

London Crawling

Bad Blood

There Is A Light That Never Goes Out

Feeling Free

The Elusive Mr Hunt

Home

Easy Money for the Professionals

A Present

Memories of Matty

Straight Dilemmas No. 1

Eating Out

Trainspotting at Leith Central Station

A Leg-Over Situation

Winter In West Granton

A Scottish Soldier

Exit

Station to Station

Acknowledgements

About the Book

Choose us. Choose life. Choose mortgage payments; choose washing machines; choose cars; choose sitting oan a couch watching mind-numbing and spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fuckin junk food intae yir mooth. Choose rotting away, pishing and shiteing yersel in a home, a total fuckin embarrassment tae the selfish, fucked-up brats ye’ve produced. Choose life.

About the Author

Irvine Welsh is the author of ten previous novels and four books of shorter fiction. He currently lives in Chicago.

Also by Irvine Welsh

Fiction

Porno

The Acid House

Marabou Stork Nightmares

Ecstasy

Filth

Glue

The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs

If You Liked School, You’ll Love Work …

Crime

Reheated Cabbage

Skagboys

The Sex Lives of Siamese Twins

A Decent Ride

The Blade Artist

Drama

You’ll Have Had Your Hole

Screenplay

The Acid House

to Anne

Kicking

The Skag Boys, Jean-Claude Van Damme and Mother Superior

THE SWEAT WIS lashing oafay Sick Boy; he wis trembling. Ah wis jist sitting thair, focusing oan the telly, tryin no tae notice the cunt. He wis bringing me doon. Ah tried tae keep ma attention oan the Jean-Claude Van Damme video.

As happens in such movies, they started oaf wi an obligatory dramatic opening. Then the next phase ay the picture involved building up the tension through introducing the dastardly villain and sticking the weak plot thegither. Any minute now though, auld Jean-Claude’s ready tae git doon tae some serious swedgin.

— Rents. Ah’ve goat tae see Mother Superior, Sick Boy gasped, shaking his heid.

— Aw, ah sais. Ah wanted the radge tae jist fuck off ootay ma visage, tae go oan his ain, n jist leave us wi Jean-Claude. Oan the other hand, ah’d be gitting sick tae before long, and if that cunt went n scored, he’d haud oot oan us. They call um Sick Boy, no because he’s eywis sick wi junk withdrawal, but because he’s just one sick cunt.

— Let’s fuckin go, he snapped desperately.

— Haud oan a second. Ah wanted tae see Jean-Claude smash up this arrogant fucker. If we went now, ah wouldnae git tae watch it. Ah’d be too fucked by the time we goat back, and in any case it wid probably be a few days later. That meant ah’d git hit fir fuckin back charges fi the shoap oan a video ah hudnae even goat a deek at.

— Ah’ve goat tae fuckin move man! he shouts, standing up. He moves ower tae the windae and rests against it, breathing heavily, looking like a hunted animal. There’s nothing in his eyes but need.

Ah switched the box oaf at the handset. — Fuckin waste. That’s aw it is, a fuckin waste, ah snarled at the cunt, the fuckin irritating bastard.

He flings back his heid n raises his eyes tae the ceiling. — Ah’ll gie ye the money tae git it back oot. Is that aw yir sae fuckin moosey-faced aboot? Fifty measley fuckin pence ootay Ritz!

This cunt has a wey ay makin ye feel a real petty, trivial bastard.

— That’s no the fuckin point, ah sais, but withoot conviction.

— Aye. The point is ah’m really fuckin sufferin here, n ma so-called mate’s draggin his feet deliberately, lovin every fuckin minute ay it! His eyes seem the size ay fitba’s n look hostile, yet pleadin at the same time; poignant testimonies tae ma supposed betrayal. If ah ever live long enough tae huv a bairn, ah hope it never looks at us like Sick Boy does. The cunt is irresistible oan this form.

— Ah wisnae … ah protested.

— Fling yir fuckin jaykit oan well!

At the Fit ay the Walk thir wir nae taxis. They only congregated here when ye didnae need them. Supposed tae be August, but ah’m fuckin freezing ma baws oaf here. Ah’m no sick yet, but it’s in the fuckin post, that’s fir sure.

— Supposed tae be a rank. Supposed tae be a fuckin taxi rank. Nivir fuckin git one in the summer. Up cruising fat, rich festival cunts too fuckin lazy tae walk a hundred fuckin yards fae one poxy church hall tae another fir thir fuckin show. Taxi drivers. Money-grabbin bastards … Sick Boy muttered deliriously and breathlessly tae hissel, eyes bulging and sinews in his neck straining as his heid craned up Leith Walk.

At last one came. There were a group ay young guys in shell-suits n bomber jaykits whae’d been standin thair longer than us. Ah doubt if Sick Boy even saw them. He charged straight oot intae the middle ay the Walk screaming: — TAXI!

— Hi! Whit’s the fuckin score? One guy in a black, purple and aqua shell-suit wi a flat-top asks.

— Git tae fuck. We wir here first, Sick Boy sais, opening the taxi door. — Thir’s another yin comin. He gestured up the Walk at an advancing black cab.

— Lucky fir youse. Smart cunts.

— Fuck off, ya plukey-faced wee hing oot. Git a fuckin ride! Sick Boy snarled as we piled intae the taxi.

— Tollcross mate, ah sais tae the driver as gob splattered against the side windae.

— Square go then smart cunt! C’moan ya crappin bastards! the shell-suit shouted. The taxi driver wisnae amused. He looked a right cunt. Maist ay them do. The stamp-peyin self-employed ur truly the lowest form ay vermin oan god’s earth.

The taxi did a u-turn and sped up the Walk.

— See whit yuv done now, ya big-moothed cunt. Next time one ay us ur walkin hame oan oor Jack Jones, wi git hassle fi these wee radges. Ah wisnae chuffed at Sick Boy.

— Yir no feart ay they wee fuckin saps ur ye?

This cunt’s really gittin ma fuckin goat. — Aye! Aye ah fuckin am, if ah’m oan ma tod n ah git set oan by a fuckin squad ay shell-suits! Ye think ah’m Jean-Claude Van Fuckin Damme? Fuckin doss cunt, so ye are Simon. Ah called him ‘Simon’ rather than ‘Si’ or ‘Sick Boy’ tae emphasise the seriousness ay what ah wis sayin.

— Ah want tae see Mother Superior n ah dinnae gie a fuck aboot any cunt or anything else. Goat that? He pokes his lips wi his forefinger, his eyes bulging oot at us. — Simone wants tae see Mother Superior. Watch ma fuckin lips. He then turns and stares intae the back ay the taxi driver, willing the cunt tae go faster while nervously beating oot a rhythm oan his thighs.

— One ay they cunts wis a McLean. Dandy n Chancey’s wee brar, ah sais.

— Wis it fuck, he sais, but he couldnae keep the anxiety oot ay his voice. — Ah ken the McLeans. Chancey’s awright.

— No if ye take the pish oot ay his brar, ah sais.

He wis takin nae mair notice though. Ah stoaped harassing him, knowing thit ah wis jist wastin ma energy. His silent suffering through withdrawal now seemed so intense that thir wis nae wey that ah could add, even incrementally, tae his misery.

‘Mother Superior’ wis Johnny Swan; also kent as the White Swan, a dealer whae wis based in Tollcross and covered the Sighthill and Wester Hailes schemes. Ah preferred tae score fi Swanney, or his sidekick Raymie, rather than Seeker n the Muirhoose-Leith mob, if ah could. Better gear, usually. Johnny Swan hud once been a really good mate ay mines, back in the auld days. We played fitba thegither fir Porty Thistle. Now he wis a dealer. Ah remember um saying tae us once: Nae friends in this game. Jist associates.

Ah thought he wis being harsh, flippant and show-oafy, until ah got sae far in. Now ah ken precisely what the cunt meant.

Johnny wis a junky as well as a dealer. Ye hud tae go a wee bit further up the ladder before ye found a dealer whae didnae use. We called Johnny ‘Mother Superior’ because ay the length ay time he’d hud his habit.

Ah soon started tae feel fucking shan n aw. Bad cramps wir beginning tae hit us as we mounted the stairs tae Johnny’s gaff. Ah wis dripping like a saturated sponge, every step bringing another gush fae ma pores. Sick Boy wis probably even worse, but the cunt was beginning no tae exist fir us. Ah wis only aware ay him slouching tae a halt oan the banister in front ay us, because he wis blocking ma route tae Johnny’s and the skag. He wis struggling fir breath, haudin grimly oantay the railing, looking as if he wis gaunnae spew intae the stairwell.

— Awright Si? ah sais irritably, pissed off at the cunt fir haudin us up.

He waved us away, shaking his heid and screwing his eyes up. Ah sais nae mair. Whin ye feel like he did, ye dinnae want tae talk or be talked at. Ye dinnae want any fuckin fuss at aw. Ah didnae either. Sometimes ah think that people become junkies just because they subconsciously crave a wee bit ay silence.

Johnny wis bombed ootay his box whin we finally made it up the stairs. A shootin gallery wis set up.

— Ah’ve goat one Sick Boy, and a Rent Boy that’s sick n aw! he laughed, as high as a fuckin kite. Johnny often snorted some coke wi his fix or mixed up a speedball concoction ay smack and cocaine. He reckoned that it kept um high, stoaped um fae sittin aroond starin at waws aw day. High cunts are a big fuckin drag when yir feeling like this, because thir too busy enjoying their high tae notice or gie a fuck aboot your suffering. Whereas the piss-heid in the pub wants every cunt tae git as ootay it as he is, the real junky (as opposed tae the casual user who wants a partner-in-crime) doesnae gie a fuck aboot anybody else.

Raymie and Alison wir thair. Ali wis cookin. It wis lookin promising.

Johnny waltzed over tae Alison and serenaded her. — Hey-ey good lookin, whaaat-cha got cookin … He turned tae Raymie, whae wis steadfastly keepin shoatie at the windae. Raymie could detect a labdick in a crowded street the wey that sharks can sense a few drops of blood in an ocean. — Pit some sounds oan Raymie. Ah’m seek ay that new Elvis Costello, bit ah cannae stoap playin the cunt. Fuckin magic man, ah’m telling ye.

— A double-ended jack plug tae the south ay Waterloo, Raymie sais. The cunt ey came oot wi irrelevant, nonsensical shite, which fucked up your brains whin ye wir sick and trying tae score fae him. It always surprised us that Raymie wis intae smack in such a big wey. Raymie wis a bit like ma mate Spud; ah’d eywis regarded them as classic acid-heids by temperament. Sick Boy hud a theory that Spud and Raymie wir the same person, although they looked fuck all like each other, purely because they never seemed tae be seen together, despite moving in the same circles.

The bad-taste bastard breaks the junky’s golden rule by pitten oan ‘Heroin’, the version oan Lou Reed’s Rock ’n’ Roll Animal, which if anything, is even mair painful tae listen tae whin yir sick than the original version oan The Velvet Underground and Nico. Mind you, at least this version doesnae huv John Cale’s screeching viola passage oan it. Ah couldnae huv handled that.

— Aw fuck off Raymie! Ali shouts.

— Stick in the boot, go wi the flow, shake it down baby, shake it down honey … cook street, spook street, we’re all dead white meat … eat the beat … Raymie burst intae an impromptu rap, shakin his erse and rollin his eyes.

He then bent doon in front ay Sick Boy, whae had strategically placed hissel beside Ali, never taking his eyes oaf the contents ay the spoon she heated over a candle. Raymie pulled Sick Boy’s face tae him, and kissed him hard oan the lips. Sick Boy pushed him away, trembling.

— Fuck off! Doss cunt!

Johnny n Ali laughed loudly. Ah wid huv n aw had ah no felt that each bone in ma body wis simultaneously being crushed in a vice n set aboot wi a blunt hacksaw.

Sick Boy tourniqued Ali above her elbow, obviously staking his place in the queue, and tapped up a vein oan her thin ash-white airm.

— Want me tae dae it? he asked.

She nodded.

He droaps a cotton ball intae the spoon n blaws oan it, before sucking up aboot 5 mls through the needle, intae the barrel ay the syringe. He’s goat a fuckin huge blue vein tapped up, which seems tae be almost comin through Ali’s airm. He pierces her flesh and injects a wee bit slowly, before sucking blood back intae the chamber. Her lips are quivering as she gazes pleadingly at him for a second or two. Sick Boy’s face looks ugly, leering and reptilian, before he slams the cocktail towards her brain.

She pulls back her heid, shuts her eyes and opens her mooth, givin oot an orgasmic groan. Sick Boy’s eyes are now innocent and full ay wonder, his expression like a bairn thit’s come through oan Christmas morning tae a pile ay gift-wrapped presents stacked under the tree. They baith look strangely beautiful and pure in the flickering candlelight.

— That beats any meat injection … that beats any fuckin cock in the world … Ali gasps, completely serious. It unnerves us tae the extent that ah feel ma ain genitals through ma troosers tae see if they’re still thair. Touchin masel like that makes us feel queasy though.

Johnny hands Sick Boy his works.

— Ye git a shot, but only if ye use this gear. Wir playin trust games the day, he smiled, but he wisnae jokin.

Sick Boy shakes his heid. — Ah dinnae share needles or syringes. Ah’ve goat ma ain works here.

— Now that’s no very social. Rents? Raymie? Ali? Whit d’ye think ay that? Ur you tryin tae insinuate that the White Swan, the Mother Superior, has blood infected by the human immuno-deficiency virus? Ma finer feelins ur hurt. Aw ah kin say is, nae sharin, nae shootin. He gies an exaggerated smile, exposing a row ay bad teeth.

Tae me that wisnae Johnny Swan talkin. No Swanney. No fuckin way. Some malicious demon had invaded his body and poisoned his mind. This character was a million miles away fae the gentle joker ah once knew as Johnny Swan. A nice laddie, everybody sais; including ma ain Ma. Johnny Swan, so intae fitba, so easy going, that he eywis goat lumbered washin the strips eftir the fives at Meadowbank, and nivir, ivir complained.

Ah wis shitein it that ah widnae git a shot here. — Fuck sakes Johnny, listen tae yirsel. Git a fuckin grip. Wuv goat the fuckin hirays here. Ah pulled some notes ootay ma poakit.

Whether it wis through guilt, or the prospect ay cash, the auld Johnny Swan briefly reappeared.

— Dinnae git aw serious oan us. Ah’m only fuckin jokin boys. Ye think thit the White Swan wid hud oot oan his muckers? Oan yis go ma men. Yir wise men. Hygiene’s important, he stated wistfully. — Ken wee Goagsie? He’s goat AIDS now.

— Gen up? ah asked. Thir wis eywis rumours aboot whae wis HIV and whae wisnae. Ah usually jist ignored thum. Thing is, a few people hud been saying that aboot wee Goagsie.

— Too right. He’s no goat the full AIDS likes, bit he’s tested positive. Still, as ah sais tae um, it isnae the end ay the world Goagsie. Ye kin learn tae live wi the virus. Tons ay cunts dae it withoot any hassle at aw. Could be fuckin years before ye git sick, ah telt um. Any cunt withoot the virus could git run ower the morn. That’s the wey ye huv tae look at it. Cannae jist cancel the gig. The show must go oan.

It’s easy tae be philosophical when some other cunt’s goat shite fir blood.

Anywey, Johnny even helped Sick Boy tae cook up and shoot home.

Just as Sick Boy wis aboot tae scream, he spiked the vein, drew some blood back intae the barrel, and fired the life-giving and life-taking elixir home.

Sick Boy hugged Swanney tightly, then eased off, keeping his airms aroond him. They were relaxed; like lovers in a post-coital embrace. It was now Sick Boy’s turn tae serenade Johnny. — Swanney, how ah love ya, how ah love yah, my dear old Swanney … The adversaries ay a few minutes ago were now soul-mates.

Ah went tae take a shot. It took us ages tae find a good vein. Ma boys don’t live as close tae the surface as maist people’s. When it came, ah savoured the hit. Ali wis right. Take yir best orgasm, multiply the feeling by twenty, and you’re still fuckin miles off the pace. Ma dry, cracking bones are soothed and liquefied by ma beautiful heroine’s tender caresses. The earth moved, and it’s still moving.

Alison is tellin us that ah should go and see Kelly, who’s apparently been really depressed since she hud the abortion. Although her tone’s no really judgemental, she talks as if ah hud something tae dae wi Kelly’s pregnancy n its subsequent termination.

— How should ah go n see her? It’s goat nowt tae dae wi me, ah sais defensively.

— Yir her friend, ur ye no?

Ah’m tempted tae quote Johnny n say that we wir aw acquaintances now. It sounds good in ma heid: ‘We are all acquaintances now.’ It seems tae go beyond our personal junk circumstances; a brilliant metaphor for our times. Ah resist the temptation.

Instead ah content masel wi making the point that we wir aw Kelly’s friends, and questioning why ah should be singled oot fir visiting duties.

— Fuck sake Mark. Ye ken she’s really intae ye.

— Kelly? Away tae fuck! ah say, surprised, intrigued, and mair than a wee bit embarrassed. If this is true ah’m a blind and stupid arsehole.

— Course she is. She’s telt us tons ay times. She’s eywis oan aboot ye. It’s Mark this, Mark that.

Hardly anybody calls us Mark. It’s usually Rents, or worse, the Rent Boy. That is fuckin awful, getting called that. Ah try no tae show that it bugs us, because that only encourages cunts mair.

Sick Boy’s been listening in. Ah turn tae him. — Ye reckon that’s right? Kelly’s goat a thing aboot us?

— Every cunt under the sun kens that she’s goat the hots fir ye. It’s no exactly a well-kept secret. Ah cannae understand her, mind you. She wants her fuckin heid examined.

— Thanks fir tellin us then cunt.

— If you choose tae sit in darkened rooms watchin videos aw day long, no noticing what’s going on around ye, it’s no up tae me tae fuckin point it oot tae ye.

— Well, she nivir sais nowt tae me, ah whinge, biscuit-ersed.

— Ye want her tae pit it oan a t-shirt? Ye dinnae ken much aboot women, do ye Mark? Alison sais. Sick Boy smirks.

Ah feel insulted by that last remark, but ah’m determined tae treat the issue lightly, in case it’s a wind-up, doubtlessly orchestrated by Sick Boy. The mischief-making cunt staggers through life leaving these interpersonal booby-traps fir his mates. What fuckin pleasure the radge derives fae these activities is beyond me.

Ah score some gear fi Johnny.

— Pure as the driven snow, this shit, he tells us.

That meant thit it wisnae cut too much, wi anything too toxic.

It wis soon time fir us tae go. Johnny wis gabbin a load ay shite intae ma ear; things ah didnae want tae listen tae. Problems aboot whae hud ripped off whae, tales ay scheme vigilantes making every cunt’s life a misery wi their anti-drug hysteria. He wis also babbling oan about his ain life in a maudlin sortay wey, and spouting fantasies aboot how he wis gaunnae git hissel straightened oot n take oaf tae Thailand whair the women knew how tae treat a gadge, n whair ye could live like a king if ye had a white skin n a few crisp tenners in yir poakit. He actually sais things a loat worse thin that, a loat mair cynical and exploitative. Ah telt masel, that’s the evil spirit talkin again, no the White Swan. Or wis it? Who knows. Who the fuck cares.

Alison and Sick Boy hud been exchanging terse sentences, sounding like they were arranging another skag deal. Then they got up and trooped ootay the room thegither. They looked bored and passionless, but when they didnae come back, ah knew that they’d be shaggin in the bedroom. It seemed, for women, that fucking was just something that you did wi Sick Boy, like talking, or drinking tea wi other punters.

Raymie wis drawing wi crayons oan the wall. He wis in a world ay his ain, an arrangement which suited himself, and every other cunt.

Ah thought aboot what Alison hud said. Kelly hud jist hud the abortion last week. If ah went and saw her, ah’d be too squeamish tae fuck her, assuming that she’d want us tae. Surely though, there would still be something there, gunge, bits ay the thing, or even a sortay rawness? Ah wis probably being fuckin daft. Alison wis right. Ah didnae really know much aboot women. Ah didnae really know much aboot anything.

Kelly steys at the Inch, which is difficult tae git tae by bus, n ah’m now too skint fir a taxi. Mibbe ye kin git tae the Inch by bus fae here, bit ah dinnae ken which one goes. The truth ay the matter is, ah’m a bit too skaggy-bawed tae fuck n a bit too fucked tae jist talk. A number 10 comes, n ah jump oan it back tae Leith, and Jean-Claude Van Damme. Throughout the journey ah gleefully anticipate the stomping he’s gaunnae gie that smart cunt.

Junk Dilemmas No. 63

AH’M JUST LETTIN it wash all over me, or wash through me … clean me oot fae the inside.

This internal sea. The problem is that this beautiful ocean carries with it loads ay poisonous flotsam and jetsam … that poison is diluted by the sea, but once the ocean rolls out, it leaves the shite behind, inside ma body. It takes as well as gives, it washes away ma endorphins, ma pain resistance centres; they take a long time tae come back.

The wallpaper is horrific in this shite-pit ay a room. It terrorises me. Some coffin-dodger must have put it up years ago … appropriate, because that’s what ah am, a coffin-dodger, and ma reflexes are not getting any better … but it’s all here, all within ma sweaty grasp. Syringe, needle, spoon, candle, lighter, packet ay powder. It’s all okay, it’s all beautiful; but ah fear that this internal sea is gaunnae subside soon, leaving this poisonous shite washed up, stranded up in ma body.

Ah start tae cook up another shot. As ah shakily haud the spoon ower the candle, waitin for the junk tae dissolve, ah think; more short-term sea, more long-term poison. This thought though, is naewhere near sufficient tae stop us fae daein what ah huv tae dae.

The First Day of the Edinburgh Festival

THIRD TIME LUCKY. It wis like Sick Boy telt us: you’ve got tae know what it’s like tae try tae come off it before ye can actually dae it. You can only learn through failure, and what ye learn is the importance ay preparation. He could be right. Anywey, this time ah’ve prepared. A month’s rent in advance oan this big, bare room overlooking the Links. Too many bastards ken ma Montgomery Street address. Cash oan the nail! Partin wi that poppy wis the hardest bit. The easiest wis ma last shot, taken in ma left airm this morning. Ah needed something tae keep us gaun during this period ay intense preparation. Then ah wis off like a rocket roond the Kirkgate, whizzing through ma shopping list.

Ten tins ay Heinz tomato soup, eight tins ay mushroom soup (all to be consumed cold), one large tub ay vanilla ice-cream (which will melt and be drunk), two boatils ay Milk of Magnesia, one boatil ay paracetamol, one packet ay Rinstead mouth pastilles, one boatil ay multivits, five litres ay mineral water, twelve Lucozade isotonic drinks and some magazines: soft porn, Viz, Scottish Football Today, The Punter, etc. The most important item hus already been procured from a visit tae the parental home; ma Ma’s bottle ay valium, removed from her bathroom cabinet. Ah don’t feel bad about this. She never uses them now, and if she needs them her age and gender dictate that her radge GP will prescribe them like jelly tots. I lovingly tick off all the items oan ma list. It’s going tae be a hard week.

Ma room is bare and uncarpeted. There’s a mattress in the middle ay the flair with a sleeping-bag oan it, an electric-bar fire, and a black and white telly oan a small wooden chair. Ah’ve goat three brown plastic buckets, half-filled wi a mixture ay disinfectant and water for ma shite, puke and pish. Ah line up ma tins ay soup, juice and ma medicines within easy reach ay ma makeshift bed.

Ay took ma last shot in order tae git us through the horrors ay the shopping trip. Ma final score will be used tae help us sleep, and ease us oaf the skag. Ah’ll try tae take it in small, measured doses. Ah need some quickly. The great decline is setting in. It starts as it generally does, with a slight nausea in the pit ay ma stomach and an irrational panic attack. As soon as ah become aware ay the sickness gripping me, it effortlessly moves from the uncomfortable tae the unbearable. A toothache starts tae spread fae ma teeth intae ma jaws and ma eye sockets, and aw through ma bones in a miserable, implacable, debilitating throb. The auld sweats arrive oan cue, and lets no forget the shivers, covering ma back like a thin layer ay autumn frost oan a car roof. It’s time for action. No way can ah crash oot and face the music yet. Ah need the old ‘slowburn’, a soft, come-down input. The only thing ah kin move for is smack. One wee dig tae unravel those twisted limbs and send us oaf tae sleep. Then ah say goodbye tae it. Swanney’s vanished, Seeker’s in the nick. That leaves Raymie. Ah go tae bell the cunt fae the payphone in the hall.

Ah’m aware that as ah dial, someone has brushed past us. Ah wince fae the fleeting contact, but have no desire tae look and see whae it is. Hopefully ah’ll no be here long enough tae need tae check out any ay ma new ‘flatmates’. The fuckers dinnae exist fir us. Nae cunt does. Only Raymie. The money goes doon. A lassie’s voice. — Hello? she sniffs. Has she goat a summer cauld or is it the skag?

— Is Raymie thair? It’s Mark here. Raymie has evidently mentioned us because although ah dinnae ken her, she sure as fuck kens me. Her voice chills over. — Raymie’s away, she says. — London.

— London? Fuck … when’s he due back?

— Dinnae ken.

— He didnae leave anything fir us, did he? Chance wid be a fine thing, the cunt.

— Eh, naw …

Ah shakily pit the phone doon. Two choices; one: tough it oot, back in the room, two: phone that cunt Forrester and go tae Muirhoose, get fucked aboot and ripped oaf wi some crap gear. Nae contest. In twenty minutes it wis: — Muirhoose pal? tae the driver oan the 32 bus and quiveringly stickin ma forty-five pence intae the the box. Any port in a storm, and it’s raging in here behind ma face.

An auld boot gies us the evil eye as ah pass her oan the wey doon the bus. No doubt ah’m fuckin boggin n look a real mess. It doesnae bother us. Nothing exists in ma life except masel and Michael Forrester and the sickening distance between us: a distance being steadily reduced by this bus.

Ah sit oan the back seat, doonstairs. The bus is nearly empty. A lassie sits across fae us, listening tae her Sony Walkman. Is she good looking? Whae fuckin cares. Even though it’s supposed tae be a ‘personal’ stereo, ah kin hear it quite clearly. It’s playing a Bowie number … ‘Golden Years’.

Don’t let me you hear you say life’s takin’ you nowhere — Angel …

Look at those skies, life’s begun, nights are warm and the days are yu-hu-hung …

Ah’ve goat every album Bowie ever made. The fuckin lot. Tons ay fuckin bootlegs n aw. Ah dinnae gie a fuck aboot him or his music. Ah only care aboot Mike Forrester, an ugly talentless cunt whae has made no albums. Zero singles. But Mikey baby is the man of the moment. As Sick Boy once said, doubtlessly paraphrasing some other fucker: nothing exists outside the moment. (Ah think some radge oan a chocolate advert said it first.) But ah cannae even endorse these sentiments as they are at best peripheral tae the moment. The moment is me, sick, and Mikey, healer.

Some auld cunt, they’re always oan the buses at this time, is fartin and shitein at the driver; firing a volley ay irrelevant questions about bus numbers, routes and times. Get the fuck oan or fuck off and die ya foostie auld cunt. Ah almost choked in silent rage at her selfish pettiness and the bus driver’s pathetic indulgence of the cunt. People talk aboot youngsters and vandalism, what aboot the psychic vandalism caused by these auld bastards? When she finally gits oan the auld fucker still has the cheek tae have a gob oan her like a cat’s erse.

She sits directly in front ay us. Ma eyes burrow intae the back ay her heid. Ah’m willing her tae have a brain haemorrhage or a massive cardiac arrest … no. Ah stoap tae think. If that happened, it would only haud us back even mair. Hers must be a slow, suffering death, tae pey her back for ma fuckin suffering. If she dies quickly, it’ll gie people the chance tae fuss. They’ll always take that opportunity. Cancer cells will dae nicely. Ah will a core ay bad cells tae develop and multiply in her body. Ah can feel it happening … but it’s ma body it’s happening to. Ah’m too tired tae continue. Ah’ve lost all hate fir the auld doll. Ah only feel total apathy. She’s now ootside the moment.

Ma heid’s gaun doon. It jerks up so suddenly and violently, ah feel it’s gaunnae fly oaf ma shoulders ontae the lap of the testy auld boot in front ay us. Ah haud it firmly in baith hands, elbays oan ma knees. Now ah’m gaunnae miss ma stoap. No. A surge ay energy and ah get oaf at Pennywell Road, opposite the shopping centre. Ah cross over the dual carriageway and walk through the centre. Ah pass the steel-shuttered units which have never been let and cross over the car park where cars have never parked. Never since it was built. Over twenty years ago.

Forrester’s maisonette flat is in a block bigger than most in Muirhouse. Maist are two stories high, but his is five, and therefore has a lift, which doesnae work. Tae conserve energy ah slide along the wall oan ma journey up the stairs.

In addition tae cramps, aches, sweats and an almost complete disintegration ay ma central nervous system, ma guts are now starting tae go. Ah feel a queasy shifting taking place, an ominous thaw in ma long period of constipation. Ah try tae pull masel together at Forrester’s door. But he’ll know that ah’m suffering. An ex-skag merchant always knows when someone is sick. Ah just don’t want the bastard knowing how desperate ah feel. While ah would put up wi any crap, any abuse fae Forrester tae get what ah need, ah don’t see the sense in advertising it tae him any mair than ah can help.

Forrester can obviously see the reflection ay ma ginger hair through the wired and dimpled glass door. He takes an age to answer. The cunt has started fuckin us aboot before ah even set foot in his hoose. He disnae greet us wi any warmth in his voice. — Awright Rents, he sais.

— No bad Mike. He calls us ‘Rents’ instead ay ‘Mark’, ah call him ‘Mike’ instead ay ‘Forry’. He’s calling the shots awright. Is trying tae ingratiate masel tae this cunt the best policy? It’s probably the only one at the moment.

— Moan in, he tersely shrugs and ah dutifully follow him.

Ah sit oan the couch, beside but a bit away fae a gross bitch with a broken leg. Her plastered limb is propped up on the coffee table and there is a repulsive swell of white flesh between the dirty plaster and her peach coloured shorts. Her tits sit on top of an oversized Guinness pot, and her brown vesty top struggles tae constrain her white flab. Her greasy, peroxide locks have an inch of insipid grey-brown at their roots. She makes no attempt tae acknowledge ma presence but lets oot a horrendous and embarrassing donkey-like laugh at some inane remark Forrester makes, which I don’t catch, probably concerning my appearance. Forrester sits opposite me in a worn-out armchair, beefy-faced but thin bodied, almost bald at twenty-five. His hair loss over the last two years has been phenomenal, and ah wonder if he’s goat the virus. Doubt it somehow. They say only the good die young. Normally ah would make a bitchy comment, but at this moment in time ah would rather slag ma granny aboot her colostomy bag. Mikey is, after all, my man.

In the other chair next tae Mikey is an evil-looking bastard, whose eyes are on the bloated sow, or rather the unprofessionally rolled joint she is smoking. She takes an extravagantly theatrical toke, before passing it onto the evil-looking gadge. Ah’ve goat fuck all against dudes with dead insect eyes set deep in keen rodent faces. They are not all bad. It’s this boy’s clathes that gie him away, marking him oot as wide-o extraordinaire. He’s obviously been residing in one ay the Windsor group hotels; Saughton, Bar L, Perth, Peterhead, etc., and has apparently been there for some time. Dark blue flared troosers, black shoes, a mustard polo-neck wi blue bands at the collar and cuffs, and a green parka (in this fuckin weather!) draped ower the back ay the chair.

No intros are made, but that’s the prerogative of my baw-faced icon, Mike Forrester. He’s the man in the chair, and he certainly knows it. The bastard launches intae this spiel, talking incessantly, like a bairn trying tae stay up as late as possible. Mr Fashion, Johnny Saughton ah’ll call the cunt, sais nothing, but smiles enigmatically and occasionally rolls his eyes in mock ecstasy. If ye ever saw a predator’s face it wis Saughton’s. The Fat Sow, god she is grotesque, hee-haws and ah force oot the odd sycophantic chuckle at times ah gauge tae be roughly appropriate.

After listening tae this shite for a while, ma pain and nausea force me tae intervene. My non-verbal signals are contemptuously ignored, so ah steam in.

— Sorry tae interrupt ye thair mate, but ah need tae be pittin ma skates oan. Ye goat the gear thair?

The reaction is over the top, even by the standards ay the crappy game Forrester is playing.

— You shut yir fuckin mouth! Fuckin radge. Ah’ll fuckin tell you whin tae speak. Just shut yir fuckin erse. You dinnae like the company, you kin git tae fuck. End ay fuckin story.

— Nae offence mate … It’s aw tame capitulation oan ma part. After all, this man is a god tae me. Ah’d walk oan ma hands and knees through broken gless fir a thousand miles tae use the cunt’s shite as toothpaste and we baith know it. Ah am but a pawn in a game called ‘The Marketing Of Michael Forrester As A Hard Man’. To all those who know him, it’s a game based on ridiculously flawed concepts. Furthermore, it obviously aw being played fir Johnny Saughton’s benefit, but what the fuck, it’s Mike’s gig, and ah asked tae be dealt a shite hand when ah dialled his number.

Ah take some more crass humiliation for what seems like an eternity. Ah get through it nae bother though. Ah love nothing (except junk), ah hate nothing (except forces that prevent me getting any) and ah fear nothing (except not scoring). Ah also know that a shitein cunt like Forrester would never pit us through aw this bullshit if he intended holding out on me.

It gies us some satisfaction remembering why he hates us. Mike was once infatuated wi a woman who despised him. A woman ah subsequently shagged. It hadn’t meant a great deal tae either masel or the woman concerned, but it certainly bugged the fuck oot ay Mike. Now most people would put this doon tae experience, ye always want what ye cannae have and the things that ye dinnae really gie a toss aboot get handed tae ye oan a plate. That’s life, so why should sex be different fae any other part ay it? Ah’ve hud, and brushed oaf, such reverses in the past. Every cunt has. The problem is that this shite’s intent oan hoarding trivial grievances, like the fat-chopped malignant squirrel that he is. But ah still love him. Ah huv tae. He’s the boy holdin.

Mikey grows bored wi his humiliation game. For a sadist, it must huv aw the interest ay sticking pins intae a plastic doll. Ah’d loved tae have given him some better sport, but ah’m too fucked tae react tae his dull-witted jibes. So he finally sais: — Goat the poppy?

Ah pull oot some crumpled notes fae ma poakits, and wi touching servility, flatten them oot oan the coffee table. Wi an air ay reverence and all due deference tae Mikey’s status as The Man, ah hand them ower. Ah note for the first time that the Fat Sow has a huge arrow drawn oan her plaster in thick black marker pen, oan the inside ay her thigh, pointing tae her crotch. The letters alongside it spell out in bold capitals: INSERT COCK HERE. Ma guts dae another quick birl, and the urge tae take the gear fae Mikey wi maximum force and get tae fuck oot ay thair is almost overwhelming. Mikey snaffles the notes and tae ma surprise, produces two white capsules, fae his poakit. Ah’d never seen the likes ay them before. They were wee hard bomb-shaped things wi a waxy coat oan them. A powerful rage gripped us, seemingly coming fae nowhere. No, not fae nowhere. Strong emotions ay this type can only be generated by junk or the possibility of its absence. — What the fuck’s this shite?

— Opium. Opium suppositories, Mikey’s tone has changed. It’s cagey, almost apologetic. Ma outburst has shattered our sick symbiosis.

— What the fuck dae ah dae wi these? ah sais, withoot thinking, and then brek oot in a smile as it dawns oan us. It lets Mikey off the hook.

— Dae ye really want me tae tell ye? he sneers, reclaiming some ay the power he’d previously relinquished, as Saughton sniggers and Fat Sow brays. He sees that ah’m no amused, however, so he continues: — Yir no bothered aboot a hit, right? Ye want something slow, tae take away the pain, tae help ye git oaf the junk, right? Well these are perfect. Custom-fuckin-designed fir your needs. They melt through yir system, the charge builds up, then it slowly fades. That’s the cunts they use in hoespitals, fir fuck sakes.

— Ye reckon these then, man?

— Listen tae the voice ay experience, he smiles, but mair at Saughton than at me. Fat Sow throws her greasy head back, exposing large, yellowing teeth.

So ah dae jist as recommended. Ah listen tae the voice ay experience. Ah excuse masel, retire tae the toilet and insert them, wi great diligence, up ma arse. It was the first time ah’d ever stuck ma finger up ma ain arsehole, and a vaguely nauseous feeling hits us. Ah look at masel in the bathroom mirror. Red hair, matted but sweaty, and a white face with loads ay disgusting spots. Two particular beauties; these ones really have tae be classified as boils. One oan the cheek, and one oan the chin. Fat Sow and I would make an excellent couple, and ah entertain a perverse vision ay us in a gondola oan the canals ay Venice. Ah return doonstairs, still sick but high fae scoring.

— It’ll take time, Forrester gruffly observes, as ah swan back intae the living-room.

— You’re tellin me. For aw the good they’ve done ah might as well huv stuck thum up ma erse. Ah get ma first smile fae Johnny Saughton for ma troubles. Ah can almost see the blood aroond his twisted mooth. Fat Sow looks at us as if ah had just ritually slaughtered her first born. That pained, incomprehensible expression ay hers makes us want tae pish ma keks wi laughter. Mike wears a very hurt I-crack-the-jokes-here look, but it’s tinged wi resignation through the realisation that his power over me has gone. It ended wi the completion ay the transaction. He was now nae mair tae me than a lump ay dug shite in the shopping centre. In fact, considerably less. End ay story.

— Anywey, catch yis later folks, ah nod ower tae Saughton and Fat Sow. A smiling Saughton gies us a matey wink which seems tae sweep in the whole room. Even Fat Sow tries tae force a smile. Ah take their gestures as further evidence that the balance ay power between me and Mike has fundamentally shifted. As if tae confirm this, he follays us oot ay the flat. — Eh, ah’ll see ye aroond man. Eh … sorry aboot aw the shite ah wis hittin ye wi back thair. That cunt Donnelly … he makes us dead jumpy. A fuckin heidbanger ay the first order. Ah’ll tell ye the fill story later. Nae hard feelins though, eh Mark?

— Ah’ll see ye later Forry, ah reply, ma voice hopefully cairryin enough promise ay threat tae cause the cunt a wee bit unease, if no real concern. Part ay me doesnae want tae burn the fucker doon though. It’s a sobering thought, but ah might need him again. But that’s no the way tae think. If ah keep thinkin like that, the whole fuckin exercise is pointless.

By the time ah hit the bottom ay the stair ah’ve forgotten aw aboot ma sickness; well almost. Ah can feel it, the ache through ma body, it’s just that it doesnae really bother us any mair. Ah know it’s ridiculous tae con masel that the gear is making an impact already, but there’s definitely some placebo effect taking place. One thing that ah’m aware ay is a great fluidity in ma guts. It feels like ah’m melting inside. Ah huvnae shat for about five or six days; now it seems tae be coming. Ah fart, and instantly follow through, feeling the wet sludge in ma pants with a quickening of ma pulse. Ah slam oan the brakes; tightening ma sphincter muscles as much as ah can. The damage has been done, however, and it’s gaunnae git much worse if ah dinnae take immediate action. Ah consider going back tae Forrester’s, but ah want nothing mair tae dae wi that twat for the time being. Ah remember that the bookies in the shopping centre has a toilet at the back.

Ah enter the smoke-filled shop and head straight tae the bog. What a fuckin scene; two guys stand in the doorway ay the toilet, just pishing intae the place, which has a good inch ay stagnant, spunky urine covering the flair. It’s oddly reminiscent ay the foot pool at the swimming baths ah used tae go tae. The two punters shake oot their cocks in the passage and stuff them intae their flies wi as much care as ye’d take putting a dirty hanky intae yir poakit. One ay them looks at us suspiciously and bars ma path tae the toilet.

— Bog’s fuckin blocked, mate. Ye’ll no be able tae shite in that. He gestures tae the seatless bowl fill ay broon water, toilet paper and lumps ay floating shite.

Ah look sternly at him. — Ah’ve goat tae fuckin go mate.

— Yir no fuckin shootin up in thair, ur ye?

Just what ah fuckin needed. Muirhoose’s Charles Bronson. Only this cunt makes Charles Bronson look like Michael J. Fox. He actually looks a bit like Elvis, like Elvis does now; a chunky, decomposing ex-Ted.

— Away tae fuck. Ma indignation must have been convincing, because this radge actually apologises.

— Nae offence meant, pal. Jist some ay they young cunts in the scheme huv been trying tae make this thir fucking shootin gallery. We’re no intae that.

— Fuckin wide-o cunts, his mate added.

— Ah’ve been oan the peeve fir a couple ay days, mate. Ah’m gaun fuckin radge wi the runs here. Ah need tae shite. It looks fuckin awfay in thair, but it’s either that or ma fuckin keks. Ah’ve nae shit oan us. Ah’m fuckin bad enough wi the bevvy, nivir mind anything else.

The cunt gies us an empathetic nod and unblocks ma way. Ah feel the pish soak intae ma trainers as ah step ower the door ridge. Ah reflect oan the ridiculousness ay saying that ah hud nae shit oan ays when ma keks are fill ay it. One piece ay good luck though, is that the lock oan the door is intact. Fuckin astounding, considering the atrocious state ay the bogs.

Ah whip oaf ma keks and sit oan the cold wet porcelain shunky. Ah empty ma guts, feeling as if everything; bowel, stomach, intestines, spleen, liver, kidneys, heart, lungs and fucking brains are aw falling through ma arsehole intae the bowl. As ah shit, flies batter oaf ma face, sending shivers through ma body. Ah grab at one, and tae ma surprise and elation, feel it buzzing in ma hand. Ah squeeze tightly enough tae immobilise it. Ah open ma mitt tae see a huge, filthy bluebottle, a big, furry currant ay a bastard.

Ah smear it against the wall opposite; tracing out an ‘H’ then an ‘I’ then a ‘B’ wi ma index finger, using its guts, tissue and blood as ink. Ah start oan the ‘S’ but ma supply grows thin. Nae problem. Ah borrow fae the ‘H’, which has a thick surplus, and complete the ‘S’. Ah sit as far back as ah can, withoot sliding intae the shit-pit below ays, and admire ma handiwork. The vile bluebottle, which caused me a great deal of distress, has been transformed intae a work of art which gives me much pleasure tae look at. Ah am speculatively thinking about this as a positive metaphor for other things in my life, when the realisation ay what ah’ve done sends a paralysing jolt ay raw fear through ma body. Ah sit frozen for a moment. But only a moment.

Ah fall off the pan, ma knees splashing oantae the pishy flair. My jeans crumple tae the deck and greedily absorb the urine, but ah hardly notice. Ah roll up ma shirt sleeve and hesitate only briefly, glancing at ma scabby and occasionally weeping track marks, before plunging ma hands and forearms intae the brown water. Ah rummage fastidiously and get one ay ma bombs back straight away. Ah rub off some shite that’s attached tae it. A wee bit melted, but still largely intact. Ah stick it oan toap ay the cistern. Locating the other takes several long dredges through the mess and the panhandling of the shite ay many good Muirhoose and Pilton punters. Ah gag once, but get ma white nugget ay gold, surprisingly even better preserved than the first. The feel ay water disgusts us even mair than the shite. Ma brown-stained airm reminds us ay the classic t-shirt tan. The line goes right up past ma elbow as ah hud tae go right aroond the bend.

Despite ma discomfort at the feel ay water oan ma skin, it seems appropriate tae run ma airm under the cauld tap at the sink. It’s hardly the maist extensive or thorough wash ah’ve had, but it’s aw ah can stand. Ah then wipe ma arse wi the clean part ay ma pants and chuck the shite-saturated keks intae the bowl beside the rest ay the waste.

Ah hear a knocking at the door as ah pull oan ma soaking Levis. It’s the sense ay wetness oan ma legs, again, rather than the stench, which makes us feel a bit giddy. The knocking becomes a loud bang.

— C’moan ya cunt, wir fuckin burstin oot here!

— Haud yir fuckin hoarses.

Ah wis tempted tae swallay the suppositories, but ah rejected this notion almost as soon as it crossed ma mind. They were designed for anal intake, and there wis still enough ay that waxy stuff oan them tae suggest that ah’d no doubt huv a hard time keeping them doon. As ah’d shot everything oot ay ma bowels, ma boys were probably safer back thair. Home they went.

Ah goat some funny looks as ah left the bookies, no sae much fae the pish-queue gang whae piled past us wi a few derisory ‘aboot-fuckin-time-n-aws’ but fae one or two punters whae clocked ma wasted appearance. One radge even made some vaguely threatening remarks, but maist were too engrossed in the form cairds, or the racing oan the screen. Ah noted Elvis/Bronson was gesticulating wildly at the telly as ah left.

At the bus stop, ah realised what a sweltering hot day it had become. Ah remembered somebody sais that it wis the first day ay the Festival. Well, they certainly got the weather fir it. Ah sat oan the wall by the bus stop, letting the sun soak intae ma wet jeans. Ah saw a 32 coming, but didnae move, through apathy. The next one that came, ah got it thegither tae board the fucker and headed back tae Sunny Leith. It really is time tae clean up, ah thought, as ah mounted the stairs ay ma new flat.

In Overdrive

I DO WISH that ma semen-rectumed chum, the Rent Boy, would stop slavering in ma fucking ear. There’s a set of VPLs (visible panty lines) on the chicky in front ay us, and all my concentration is required to ensure a thorough examination can be undertaken. Yes! That will do me fine! I am in overdrive, over-fuckin-drive. It’s one ay these days when ma hormones are shooting aroond ma body like a steelie in a pinball machine, and all these mental lights and sounds are flashing in ma heid.

And what is Rents proposing, on this beautiful afternoon of vintage cruisin weather? The cunt has the fuckin audacity tae suggest that we go back to his gaff, which reeks of alcohol, stale spunk and garbage which should have been pit oot weeks ago, tae watch videos. Draw the curtains, block out the sunlight, block out your own fucking brainwaves, and deek him sniggering like a moron wi a joint in his hand at everything that comes on the pox-box. Well, non, non, non, Monsieur Renton, Simone is not cut out to sit in darkened rooms with Leith plebs and junkies rabbiting shite aw affie. Cause ah wis made for lovin you bay-bee, you wir made for lovin me …

… a fat hound has waddled out in front ay the lemon wi the VPLs, blocking my view of that subliminal rear with her obese arse. She has the fuckin cheek tae wear tight leggings — totally and completely oblivious to the delicate nature of Simone’s stomach!!

— There’s a slim chicky! ah sarcastically observe.

— Fuck off ya sexist cunt, the Rent Boy sais.

Ah’m tempted tae ignore the bastard. Mates are a waste of fucking time. They are always ready to drag you down tae their level of social, sexual and intellectual mediocrity. I’d better dismiss the radge though, in case he thinks he’s got one up on us.