Sick Boy turns to Spud. — If that’s aw you’re worried about, I’ll sort ye oot for fuck sake, then he scowls at Euan. — I’m used to sorting out retards who cannae get laid!
— Yes, you are, Euan shoots scathingly back at him. — A fucking pimp. What a noble trade!
Simon Williamson heatedly retorts, — Aye, well, you and your dippit wee laddie wirnae exactly complaining when youse were sticking your dicks intae hoors!
The crash inside Williamson on this reflexive disclosure is mirrored in his brother-in-law’s expression. Euan looks like he’s just run into a brick wall. He gasps in stunned silence. Then he hauls in a breath, the veins in his neck bulging. — Ross… WHAT DID YOU DO WITH ROSS? his voice roars out, crackling in his throat.
— I helped him oot! Something you should have done!
— You fucking sleazebag! Did you set your own son up with a prostitute when he was below the age of consent?!
— He never asked ays tae, as he didnae need it, Simon Williamson declares, suddenly, mordantly, thinking of his son sucking another man’s cock. — He was brought up the right way!
— Not by you obviously! Do you know that what you did to my son is illegal? It’s fucking child abuse! Fucking paedophilia!
— Fuck off! The wee radge begged ays tae set him up wi a woman. Now he’s as happy as a fly in shite! Where were you when he craved the cherry-popping advice? Thailand, banging fucking hoors! You’ve no seen him since Christmas, ya fucking hypocritical cunt!
Euan lets his head fall into his hands. — It’s true… we’re lost… the human race is lost… we have no discipline and we just look to loud-mouthed, lying tyrants to punish and reward us for it… we’re gone…
— Nae cunt got snout? Mikey asks.
Youssef pulls out a packet, issues one to Mikey, who sparks up, and Sick Boy.
— There is no smoking in here, Dieter the driver barks.
— What? Mikey snaps in anger.
— If you want to smoke, you can walk.
Mikey and Sick Boy suck it up, the former looking at the GPS on his phone. On Mikey’s instructions they pull up on a slip road, by some shops, just before a busy crossroads. Then Mikey, handing the Lifeport to Sick Boy, who sets it on his lap, gets outside, immediately sparking up, prior to dialling on his phone. Renton is trying to talk but Sick Boy urges silence as he attempts to eavesdrop on Mikey’s conversation with Syme. — All good, Vic. Aye, Vic. Conditions were sanitary, Vic.
Then they hear the approaching rumble of a motorbike, which soon pulls up alongside them.
— He’s here, Vic. Ah need tae go, but it’s mission accomplished.
Sick Boy sits, both relieved and still racked with tension, the Lifeport box on his lap. Spud shouts at him, — Gies ays that boax! It’s mine! It’s ma kidney!
Sick Boy ignores him, passing the box out the window to Mikey and the biker. — It’s Syme’s, Spud, he says, looking back. — He needs tae get it or we’re aw fucked!
— No until ah git Toto back! Spud squeals in horror, as Mikey Forrester and the biker put the box into a storage unit on the back of the motorbike. The driver remounts and speeds off, receding within seconds into Berlin’s traffic and the mottled evening light.
Mikey climbs back in and Renton nods to the nervous-looking steroid bouncer, who starts up the car and heads for the festival site. Spud, sprawled on a seat in the back, is ranting as if still groggy from the anaesthetic, or perhaps it’s a fever, Renton worries. — It’s mine… gies it back… Ma dug… Ah need it tae git ma dug… Mikey… what did Syme say aboot Toto?
— Sais eh wis fine, Spud, bein well looked eftir…
Spud tries to assimilate this, decides that he wants to believe it. Has to believe it.
— I gied you something worth more than a kidney, Danny, Sick Boy says soberly. — I gied ye your life.
Renton glances back at Sick Boy, shakes his head, as the vehicle navigates the Berlin streets. — I do not know what this is, but I know that not one of these guys is DJ N-Sign Ewart, Dieter says to Renton, looking pointedly at him.
Renton feels his hand going to his wallet and extracting more euros from the wad. — Aye, I got a message that he found his own way back. For your trouble, and he hands over the notes. Dieter stares at him doubtfully for a beat, before pocketing the money.
— What aboot… what aboot ma kidney? Spud babbles.
— It’s gaun tae a wee lassie in Bavaria, Mikey rubbernecks. — The kidney, likes. Will save her life, mate. The bairn’s been on dialysis for donks. Must make ye feel barry but, ay!
But now Spud can’t even speak. He sits with his eyes closed, his head back on the seat rest, sucking air through his teeth, in hard, sharp bursts.
They drop him off at Renton’s hotel, with Euan and Youssef. As Renton, Sick Boy and Mikey make to leave, Spud panics, — Where are youse gaun?
— I have a gig, mate, Renton says. He looks to Sick Boy.
— Worry not, Danny boy, Sick Boy coos, — Euan and Youssef here, he nods at the semi-pro Turk anaesthetist, — will keep an eye on ye. You really are in the best possible hands. Euan’s cleaned oot aw the muck and he’ll gie you something for the pain. You’ll soon be kipping like a bairn. Nae sense in us hingin aboot. Sick Boy looks to Mikey Forrester, who nods in agreement.
— But youse’ll come back…
— Of course we will, mate, Renton says. — But try and get some solid snooze in. You’ve been through a big trauma.
— Yes, Sick Boy trumpets, — rest is the best medicine.
By the time the trio reach the festival site, Renton feels as shattered as Sick Boy and Mikey Forrester both look, but without being anything like as buzzed. He watches them high-five as Sick Boy roars, — The Nicky Sturgeons did the fucking business, mate. Best left tae the low-grade care team now. Our specialist skills are no longer required, and tonight we celebrate!
As Renton tries to find his game face, Sick Boy and Mikey make their way to the guest bar at the back of the main stage. Sick Boy holds out his hand. — The number ay lassies this boy has fingered, and they try and tell me aboot the steady hand and the deftness ay touch required tae be a surgeon! Fucking amateurs!
— Goat tae admit but, ah wis shitein it, likes, Mikey nods, grabbing two bottles of beer.
— But we held our fucking riverboat gamblers’ nerves while the posh trained cunt went tae fuckin pieces! Sick Boy beams in triumph, as they clink the bottles. Three girls, standing close, look him over, clocking the euphoric power he radiates.
A few seconds ago, Renton didn’t care about anything, but now he’s clicked back into managerial mode. He notes with relief that Carl is present, sitting drinking on a sofa underneath a giant Depeche Mode poster. But something is not right. The DJ looks downcast, and Klaus, standing by the bar close to Sick Boy and Mikey, is visibly angry.
Renton flops down next to his DJ. He goes to speak, but Carl gets in first. — I can’t do it, mate.
— What…? Renton says, surprising himself at how much he still cares. — What, the gig? Why? It’s your big shot tae get back in the frame! Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Conrad and Jensen, who have been hovering by the fridge and table, eating the rider pizza, inching towards him.
— I’ve lost it, Mark, Carl says sadly. — I really appreciate everything that you’ve done for me, he points to his chest, — but N-Sign is finished, mate.
Conrad, listening in, springs over, pointing at the stricken DJ. — I told you he was the drunk and the drug addict and the bag of nerves who is now of zero use, he laughs at Renton.