— What …? That’s goat nowt tae dae wi anything, Matty protests, wretched and feeble.
Sick Boy turns on him. — Heard it wis a fill-hoose job, her n Keezbo.
— Whaaa …? Matty gasps in disbelief. He looks at his friends, twisted, other-worldly, their cold eyes and zombie-like pallor, and he’d rather have stayed to face the dogs.
— Jist gaun by what I heard, Sick Boy says, mouth tightening.
— Heard fae who? Matty bites back, enraged. — FAE THAT FAT CUNT!?
— Burds talk n aw.
— What’re you fuckin well sayin, Williamson?
Sick Boy trains a studied gaze on Matty. — It wis her first time, when she went wi Keezbo. A big, fat ginger-pubed cock up ye, inside ye, burstin yir maidenhood, yir virgin blood trickling doon its shaft; it’s bound tae have been memorable for her. It’s only natural that she thinks ay that moment every single time she sets eyes on Keezbo. So it’s bound tae play on your mind but, mate, ah kin totally understand that.
Matty stands rooted on the spot, paralysed by a fearful incredulity. — Whaa-aat …? he says again, in disbelief.
Spud is miserably bleating, — Naw, boys, come oan, come oan now … this is ootay order … this isnae right … as Renton and Sick Boy savour Matty’s subconscious unspooling before them.
— It. Will. Play. On. Your. Mind, Sick Boy softly mouths.
Matty seems to cook slowly from the inside, then ignites: — FUCK YOU, YA DIRTY FUCKIN PIMPIN TROLL, throwing his sinew-strained neck forward, as snotters fly from his nostrils. Then he glances down to the stones under his feet and goes to pick one of them up. Renton rushes forward and grabs him. — Fuck off wi that –
— CUNT, AH’LL FUCKIN KILL HIM! AH’LL FUCKIN KILL THAT DIRTY LYIN PIMP BASTARD, and he lunges forward, immediately restrained by Renton and Spud.
Sick Boy stands in a relaxed posture, and takes an exaggeratedly casual drag on his cigarette. — Aye, aye, aye. Sure.
— YOU’RE FUCKIN DEID, WILLIAMSON! Matty half roars and half squeals as he turns on his heel and tears off into the night, as Sick Boy contemptuously feigns getting shot. Matty’s retreating shadow is pursued by Spud. — Hey, Matty, wait the now, catboy …
— Spud … Renton protests weakly.
— Leave the cunts. Sick Boy grabs Renton’s wrist to restrain him. — It’s better we split up anyway. Four’s jist gaunny draw attention.
They watch as Spud scrambles down the banks after Matty, disappearing from their sight onto Gorgie Road and following him not to the van, but down the street, past Stratford’s Bar, unsure of why Matty’s heading in that direction, even more uncertain as to why Spud’s in pursuit.
On the railway line that snakes above the pub and street level, Renton and Sick Boy carry on heading away from the plant. The moon, skulking behind a web of cloud, briefly reminds Renton of Spud’s pallid woebegone face as he vanished from his eyeline.
— Matty, fuckin poisonous wee rodent, Sick Boy says as they hurry down the tracks. — Who rattled that cunt’s cage? We’re aw fuckin seek tae our marrow, but at least try n be a man aboot it.
— Uptight little cunt’s eywis the same, seek or no seek, Renton snaps, now wishing he’d punched Matty’s pus earlier. — Eywis hus tae pish oan the fuckin pageant. Big Keith’s gaunny dae serious jail time for aw ay us, n aw that cunt can dae is slag him oaf!
The pain intensifies, Renton cursing the folly of all that pointless exertion, which has burned off more of the dregs of the junk in their system. They will soon be totally immobilised. They have to get back to the Valium stash. Arms wrapped around themselves, they follow the tracks till they hit the viaduct at the Union Canal, the death’s-head energy having preceded them onto this overland wraithlike void that seems parted from the slumbering city streets by dimensions other than mere height. Yet as the canal slopes down to street level, those cold, grey thoroughfares and closes they’re expelled onto seem equally hellish, as Renton and Sick Boy sweat and scratch like chickens just broken from the shell.
At Viewforth they leave the waterway, and a cold rain starts to fall. Lurching towards Bruntsfield, they watch the orangey smudges of the sodium lamps splash over the wet streets, before cutting across the Meadows and heading towards the North Bridge. The pavements are lifeless save for the odd stray drunks looking for taxis, late bars or parties. An emergency services siren assaulting the night strikes panic, flushing them like rats down the dimly lit back closes of the Royal Mile, which they descend in agitation towards Calton Road. — I just dinnae get this life gig, Sick Boy says out loud, trembling.
As they walk down the dark and desolate street, memories of Wee Davie assail Renton. The house is empty and soulless without his chaos, the family fragmented. Something can seem to be useless, inefficient or unproductive, but then you take it away and things quickly start to fall apart and get shitey. He finally responds in kind to Sick Boy’s statement. — It’s weird that we’re here one minute, gone the next. In a couple ay generations’ time naebody’s gaunny gie a fuck. We’ll just be some funny-dressed wankers in faded photographs that the one sad descendant wi too much time oan their hands pulls oot a sideboard tae occasionally look at. It’s no like some famous cunt’s gaunny come along and make a film ay our lives, is it?
Renton has scared Sick Boy, who comes to an abrupt halt in the empty street. — You’ve given up, mate. That’s what it’s aw aboot. You’ve given up.
— Mibbe, Renton concedes. Has he? Surely you eventually run out of tears and excuses.
— That bugs the fuck oot ay us. If you gie up, we’re aw fucked, he says, finding his stride again, as a lone car rumbles past them. — Ah ken we slag each other off, Mark, but you’re the one that’s got the goods. That time we broke intae that hoose; you saved that lassie, you n Tommy. Begbie wid’ve let her croak, n Spud, Keezbo n me, we never had a fucking clue. But you took charge. How did ye ken tae dae that?
Wee Davie …
Renton feels a burn, then shrugs, as if to say: fucked if I know. Then he turns to his distressed compadre. — It’s you that’s the boy but, Si. You’re miles ahead the rest ay us. Always have been. Wi birds n that –
— Ah’ve done so many fucking bad things but, Mark! Sick Boy slaps his head in sudden violence, as they emerge past the back entrance to Waverley Station. — Ah’ve fucked up big time!
A fissure of pain opens up in Renton and he responds in blind panic, stopping Sick Boy’s disclosure instantly. — Me n aw! Ah ken what ye mean!
— Ye mean Olly Curran? We agreed –
— Fuck that cunt! Renton venomously sneers. — Brought it oan hissel wi his uptight, racist shite. Ah’ve nae sympathy fir that fuckin prick! Ah’m talking aboot Fiona, and he feels something breaking inside him, like a dam crumbling. — Ah loved her n ah fucked it right up! When we were on holiday, ah could see it aw ahead, and he looks up, the Calton Hill towering above them, — me and her, forever. And it scared us … scared us fuckin shiteless. When ah got back … Renton’s eyes are red and puffy, — that lassie ah wis telling ye aboot, her fae Paisley, she was gaun wi ma mate … we were drunk, we started muckin aboot, n ah took her up there, he points to the dark, gloomy hill as they emerge onto the slip road leading to Leith Street, — or she took me thaire, cause Fiona must huv telt her that we’d had this shag in that park in East Berlin … she used us tae get one up oan her fuckin mate and ah wanted it, so ah fucked her in the park … ma mate’s bird … ah didnae even like the lassie …