— I… I think so… the Euan guy stammers.
— You should fuckin know so! You trained in medicine as a physician! You studied fuckin surgery! Sick Boy’s eyes ignite ower the mask. — Is it on the same bit as the video!
— Yes!
— Right. I’m going to cut it… now… right?
— I dunno, I…
— Ah sais right! Either we sit here aw day or I fuckin cut! Is this the right place? It looks likes it on the video! Is it the fucking right place, Euan?
— Okay! Yes! Euan shrieks.
— Here goes!
I look away, my arsehole clenching, then turn back, and Sick Boy snips it and he’s hudin the clamp on the bastard. And as there’s no blood spurting like a fountain, I have tae assume that it’s fucking working.
— Yes! Ya fuckin beauty! Sick Boy roars. — Now let’s lift that bastard out! Mikey, git that fuckin boax ower…
Forrester wheels a trolley across to the operating bed. There is something that looks like a miniature fridge sittin on it. With these long surgical tongs, Sick Boy lifts this slithery thing out of Spud’s body… fuck me, this is like a scene fae a fucking sci-fi alien intrusion movie, cause this bloody thing wriggles, as he drops it into this high-tech box. I feel boak rise inside me and fight it back down into my acrid guts. Ma legs are weak and shaky, and I grip the back ay a chair for support.
Mikey seals the box up, as he catches ays looking at it. — State-ay-the-art technology, Mark. This is a Lifeport organ-recovery system. Ah thoat it wid jist be an ice boax like ye huv tae keep bevvy cauld, but naw, it’s aw sophisticated. Ye dinnae want tae ken the favours ah hud tae pill tae git this beauty!
— What is this… this fuckin dystopian science-fiction shit?! What did ye take oot ay him? WHAT THE FUCK IS GAUN OAN?!
Sick Boy punches the air as the Euan guy starts tending to Spud. — I’VE SAVED THE FUCKIN DAY AS USUAL, he roars, then points to Euan. — Suture! Stitch the cunt up! Quick!
— I am! Euan hisses. Then he turns tae me, his eyes filled with trauma above the mask. — I only got into this mess through going out for a Christmas drink. He spiked my drink with Ecstasy –
— Ecstasy? What the fu —
— That’s right! Why not blame Simon? Sick Boy snaps, but he’s euphoric, as if he’s scored the winning goal in a Cup final. — Something of a cottage industry in these parts! I’m the only cunt whae hud the fucking baws tae sort oot this fucking mess! And did I no sort it? Surgeon Si! He bursts into song, pointing at himself, — Like a surgeon… cut for the very first time…
My heid is spinning. I’m getting phone calls and texts from Klaus, Conrad… and now Carl, but I dinnae gie a fuck. We’re sitting there, watching Spud unconscious, beyond white, already looking like a corpse, the big gash in his stomach being sewn up by this Euan gadge.
— What’s in that box? What did you take out ay him?
— A kidney, Sick Boy says. — It had a Graham Parker and the Rumour on it.
— Cause that’s what youse cunts specialise in, life-saving surgery, ah mean, what the fuck is wrong wi hoaspitals? Fuck it, ah throw my hands up, — ah dinnae want tae ken!
— It’s for the best, me old chum, Sick Boy says.
— This is what’s best for Spud, is it?
Sick Boy seems tae come doon instantly, and looks sheepishly at me. — Believe it or not, yes. Which shows the extent ay the fucking mess we’ve got into. But, he taps the white box-like device, — we finally have a ticket out of it.
Forrester and the Turkish-looking guy have been rummaging in a stainless-steel fridge, I thought for some medical supplies, but they return with some bottles ay German beer. Mikey opens them and passes them aroond. My hands are shaking as I take one.
— Any ching? Sick Boy asks ays.
— Well, aye…
— Rack them the fuck oot then.
Right now I cannae think ay a reason no tae get ripped and stey ripped forever. — Whae’s in?
Forrester nods in agreement. So does the Turkish boy, introduced finally as Youssef. The Euan gadge looks away, so I rack up four on a stainless-steel table.
— I could have been a surgeon, if I had the training, likes, Sick Boy advances. — But they say surgeons are cold and mercenary. I’m probably too Italian, too warm-bloodied.
They tell ays what’s been happening, and I cannae believe it. How the fuck did Sick Boy and this Euan guy, whom he tells me is his sister Carlotta’s doctor husband, get involved wi some gangster called Syme? — And what the fuck are you going to dae with Spud’s kidney? I ask the last one out loud.
— He owes it tae Syme, Mikey says.
— He’s donating a kidney… for money? Tae this Syme boy?
— Sort ay. He wrecked one ay Syme’s. No actually one ay Syme’s, but one Syme peyed for, Mikey explains.
— Jesus fuck, you guys really are off yir fuckin heids!
Sick Boy looks gloomy at me. — Unfortunately we’ve no telt Spud yet…
Then I hear the croaky voice from the rattling bed behind us. — Telt ays what?
22
POST-OP BLUES
The people carrier twists, stalls and tears through the choked streets of rush-hour Berlin. Mark Renton sits up front alongside Dieter the driver, talking softly into his phone. Spud Murphy, whom they’d had to carry to the vehicle, sits in the back, barely sentient. Flanked by his medical team of Youssef and Euan, he feverishly struggles to make sense of the latest twist in the grim saga of those last few days. Extrapolates this shit-show to his life in general. He tries to think of the turning point, the moment when it went bad. He looks at Renton, the ginger-brown fuzz on his scalp greying, thinks of that money his friend gave him, all those years ago. It set him right back on a drug path he’s rarely deviated from since. — Tell ays again… he begs Simon Williamson, Michael Forrester, Euan McCorkindale and the Turkish man he knows only as Youssef.
— Yes, you now only have one kidney, Sick Boy glumly confirms. — It was the only way we could square things with Syme.
— But how…? Spud touches the bandaged wound. It is sore. Despite the painkillers he’s been given, his body burns in agony.
Mikey, who sits in the middle seats with Sick Boy, explains, — Syme had tae have it fresh, and getting ye oot here was the best way tae dae it. The skag deal wis an opportunity. Two birds wi one stane.
— So ye didnae really pit… skag… in ays…
— Aye. Mikey holds up a red-stained plastic bag of white powder. — Two birds wi one stane but, ay, he repeats emphatically. — Thaire wis a drought oan ower here, n Syme kent a boy, so…
Spud can’t speak. He shakes his head slowly and sinks back into the seat. To Euan, he looks like a jumble of rags. The foot doctor feels moved to make a plea of innocence to his patient. — I only got involved because I’d never been with another woman properly…
— You, Spud points at him, — you’re married tae his sister… His eyes burn into Simon Williamson.
— Yes, Carlotta, Euan sadly nods.
Spud’s eyes grow wistful. — She was beautiful… as a young lassie…
— Still is, Euan says, adopting Spud’s baleful tone.
— Ye love her?
— Yes, Euan says, with tears in his eyes.
— What aboot me? Spud starts whimpering. — Ah’ll never be wi a lassie again! Ah’ve no hud ma hole in years! It’s aw ower for me n it never even started!