The train leaves at nine, but ah lets Toto oot n takes um fir a walk n tae dae his business, so the time goes quick. Ah heads back as it gits dark n huv tae bag the dug up tae git him oan the choo-choo, but ah’m chuffed cause it’s a nice wee carriage aw tae ourselves, so ah let him oot. There we are sittin back, bound fir Berlin. Toto’s oan the seat opposite, his wee heid bobbin away like a noddin toy dug in the back ay a car windae, as we go past stuff at speed. Ah opens the cardboard boax, n see that the other boax inside is white, n looks like a mini fridge or a microwave cooker. It’s goat aw controls n things oan it. Yon kidney’ll be inside. Ah dozes off for a bit n wakes up when ah hears the ticket wifie comin. Wir in Bucharest, so ah gits Toto back in the Sherpa bag. It steys thaire for ages. The train disnae seem too busy though.
By the time we gits tae Prague ah’m pure starvin cause ah’ve eaten aw the stuff ah boat at the station. Ah’ve let Toto out the bag n ah tells um tae hang loose a bit while ah goes tae the lavy tae take a slash, then investigate the buffet, tae git something fir me n the dug. Ah sees they hot dugs, which sounds like cannibalism for perr Toto, but obviously isnae likes. The lassie pure speaks English, and that’s barry, cause nae wey wid ye git a lassie oan the railways in Britain thit spoke German. No unless she wis German. But ah dinnae think any bilingual Deutsch chick wid be wastin her talents trolley-dollyin oan Britain’s railways. But cats huv tae dae anything tae make a livin these days, even brainy overqualified yins need tae dae shite joabs. Which makes the likes ay me pretty much useless, man. But no now. Now ah’ve finally goat a wee tickle; the part-time warehouse gig back hame n the international jet-set boy whae’s oan a mission here!
When ah gits back tae the carriage, ah cannae believe it…
Toto’s knocked ower the boax. He’s pushed it off the seat oantae the flair. It’s opened. Aw that chemical stuff is spilt acroass the flair. Aw naw, man… How did it open…? N eh’s goat the kidney oot n eh’s eatin it. Aw naw… — Aw, Toto man…
He looks up at ays. It’s lodged in ehs jaws, wriggling like it wis alive. Ah touches it n it’s aw cauld and smelling ay chemicals.
Ma life is ower, man, ah’ve fucked up big time.
— Droap it, boy! ah goes, n eh does. It’s goat ehs teeth marks in it… That’s evidence… Ah picks it up n it’s cauld in ma hand, but no frozen through… It feels sort ay burnin in ma hand… Ah tell um tae stey n ah goes outside n lobs it doon the lavy ay the train n flushes it away.
Ah dinnae ken what the fuck tae dae now! The rest ay the trip tae Berlin, man, ah’m jist pure shitein it. Thaire’s a rock in ma guts the size ay an asteroid, n ah’m brekin oot in chilly sweats. Ah’m thinkin aboot what Syme’ll dae tae ays. Like droonin me. Or burnin ays. Or setting aboot ma nipples wi pliers. Ah’m thinkin: anything but the eyes n baws. N ah cannae even blame perr Toto, no his fault; shouldnae huv left the dug unsupervised. Ah shouldnae huv flung it away: but it hus the dug’s teeth marks in it. Whin we gits oaf ah’m still in shock, pure in a trance, n Toto kens thaire’s something wrong as eh jist walks alongside ays, lookin up.
So ah’m no really thinkin straight, n ah goes tae a local butcher n buys a kidney tae replace it. Thin ah goes tae the lavy in the station n makes the swap. It looks nowt like the one Toto goat at. It’s a different shape n colour, mair ay a broonish thing like a Jambo strip. But ah pits it in the ice boax anyway, n ah ken thi’ll find oot, but it just buys ays a bit mair time tae think.
But thaire isnae time tae think cause whin ah gits back tae the platform thaire’s a boy waitin thaire, another biker, whae, funnily enough, looks a bit like the last gadge but isnae. This yin talks, seems mair chilled oot. — All is good?
— Aye, sound, ah goes n ah hands it ower tae the guy n eh leaves withoot checkin it or sayin nowt.
Ah suppose they willnae ken till they open it. But if they pill ays up fir it, ah’ll need tae hud ma hand up, cause it widnae be fair tae git the biker boy intae bother. As long as they dinnae try n pit this kidney intae a bairn or anything! That wid be the worst… Bit naw, calm doon, thi’ll no dae that. Thi’ll check it’s no right first.
Ah taxi tae the airport tae git the flight back. Ah think aboot steyin here wi Toto, but ah’d nivir survive, ah’m no a cat like Renton or Sick Boy, that kin jist take off like that n everything’s hunky-dory. Ah need tae face the music. But ah’m gaun back tae Mikey… and it’s no really Mikey, it’s the boys behind um, like that cat Syme, and whae kens who else. Ah looks at Toto, whae disnae understand that he’s done wrong, it’s no the dug’s fault, but ah cannae help sayin tae um, — Aw, Toto, what huv ye done tae us, man?
12
RENTON – DJ SHAGGER
That queasy admixture ay sad embarrassment and rip-roaring affirmation kicks in as I feel that presence ay another in the kip. And it’s somebody that shouldnae be there. And we are, like, where? Amsterdam–Berlin–Ibiza–London… No fuckin Edinburgh, please no fuckin Edinburgh, and oh fuck… there she is; so young, and ma lines, jowls, n burst blood vessels are gaunny get the full treatment fae the wrecking sun flooding in through the half-open blinds. She’s looking right at ays, her heid propped on her elbow, smiling, eyes hungry and rapaciously mocking, raven locks tumbling, that beauty-spot mole oan her chin. — Mor-ning! You were snoring!
What the fuck tae say? Why Edinburgh? Ewart’s birthday bash at Cabaret Voltaire. Conrad, who seems happier about the new track, though he won’t let me hear it, tae my amazement, volunteered tae come over and play. Of course I realised too late that his purpose was tae play a shit-hot deep-house set and blow everybody away, thus humiliating Carl in front ay his ain people. It worked. The young Dutch maestro took all the plaudits while Carl, coke-fuelled and sour, sloped off with his mate Topsy and their crew, into a dull night and a party in some west Edinburgh rat trap. Rab Birrell stuck around. So did Juice Terry. And Emily was there and did a great set too… Then I remember her swinging her hips on her cork wedge pumps, saying something vampish like ‘I think I’m enticing all the Scottish boys…’ I said something cheesy in retort and her lips were on mine, and then… for fuck sake.
Ching. Voddy. E: I fucking hate ye. She’s tons younger than me. She was pretty dirty, and I lost myself. Fuck sake, I huvnae done some ay they things since ah was thirty!
I got the three-month all-clear a few weeks ago. Huvnae heard fae Vicky since the incident, though I’ve been tempted tae get back tae her and apologise. She’s due that, even if she’ll have long moved on by now. But it’s no been easy tae pick up the phone: I just cannae let ‘sorry about giving you the clap’ be my last interaction wi her.
So now I’ve done what I excel the fuck oot ay: compound a bad situation wi another stupid decision. Emily is my fucking client. I slide oot ay the bed, and pull a hotel robe, thankfully close tae hand, round me.
— Where are you going? she asks. — Let’s order some breakfast on room service. All that shagging has given me an appetite!
— I’m truly flattered that I’m your son of a preacher man, Emily, but we cannae go any further wi this –
— What the fuck are you talking about?
— Dusty Springfield: ‘Son of a Preacher Man’. It was about the only boy who could get this lassie who swang the other way onside.
Emily flicks her dark curls. Her expression is incredulous. — You really believe that’s what that song’s about?