— Bet the sex was barry, but, Sick Boy says, trying to fuse some enquiry into his voice. After all, he knows this story in all its detail. It was there, in his friend’s own handwriting, on that discarded crumpled ball of a journal entry he’d slyly rescued from the litter basket of Renton’s room in the St Monans Drug Rehabilitation project, as his friend had drifted off to sleep. He’d been surprised by the detail and fluidity in Renton’s prose; how it had all just come out in those unedited sentences, in that thick, flowing scribble. He’d been keeping it back for a laugh, but realises that now isn’t the time to mention it, as big dry sobs explode in Renton’s chest.
Renton feels miserable and pathetic. He’d betrayed Fiona, so he had to end it. And he’d double-crossed Bisto, he couldn’t look at him properly again. There wasn’t any excuse. It was how he was, rank rotten to the core, he thinks miserably … then he considers Tom Curzon’s words, maybe it’s just a phase I’m going through …
And he looks at Sick Boy who now has his head bowed, who seems to understand everything … — What? What have you done? Renton stops in the dark street and faces his friend.
Sick Boy feels something trying to twist up through his body and escape from his mouth, it has to be fought back. Instead he offers a diversionary gasp. — Matty …
— Fuck him.
And now Sick Boy gives relieved thanks for Renton’s intervention, preventing his own disclosures. Thank fuck it always has tae be aboot him. — But … ah think it was that wee cunt … that grassed up Janey Anderson wi the benefits fiddle. Ah mentioned it tae him once, it was stupid, just in passing. He looks at Renton, trying the lie for size. — I think he fucking squealed, Mark.
— Naw … Renton says shakily, — even he wouldnae stoop that low.
Sick Boy buckles, allowing the will holding his queasy, bilious body and soul together to slacken, in order that he might punish himself with the ensuing rush of nausea. — Ah jist feel so fuckin sick …
— Me n aw. But we’re nearly thaire, mate. We jist huv tae hud it thegither a bit longer.
Elm Row approaches, followed by Montgomery Street. Outside the stair door, they fight to compose themselves. — Eftir we doss back the last ay they Vallies, Sick Boy says, eyes watering, — that’s it. It’s over, Mark. Ah’ve done aw the skag ah’m ever gaunny dae.
With his conviction so powerful and certainty so absolute, Renton is visibly moved. He feels his eyes moisten as the image of Keezbo, stranded in no-man’s-land, burns in his skull. — Too right, he says, touching his friend lightly on the shoulder, — we’re done here, and they both look up to the sky, unable to enter their stair door, completely drained in fearful anticipation of that cold multitude of steps to their top-floor flat.
We’re done here.
And with that realisation, looking up to the munificence and radiance of the stars, Renton feels exalted, like he’s been rewarded with a kind of eternal childhood; the idea that the whole of the earth was his to inherit, and to share with every human spirit. Soon he’ll be free again. He recalls how, at the end of his life, Nietzsche realised that you couldn’t simply turn your back on nihilism; you had to live through it and hopefully emerge out the other side, leaving it behind.
Heroin.
That girl at the break-in. How did he know what to do?
Wee Davie.
Without being in that house, watching them tend to him, he’d never have made the cold connection: she’s taken shit, we need to get it up. How? Salt water. Those neural pathways had been scorched into his brain by the searing cries of his agitated brother, instilling that awareness of how to care for someone in distress. One bright star burns at him in the sky, like an affirming wink. And he can’t help it, can’t resist the thought: The Wee Man.
Sick Boy perceives himself as prisoner of his own lying lips. Standing every day at the shaving mirror, watching those eyes grow colder and more pitiless in face of the drug’s dictates and the world’s brutal coarseness. But it’s the lies he’s told to himself and others that permit him this extravagance. Now he feels something poignant stirring in his soul, and this time he realises in elation that it might even be a truth trying to bubble to the surface. He coughs it shakily from his throat. — One thing, Mark, ah know that whatever happens, whatever stunts either ay us pull, it’ll always be you n me, backing each other up, he contends, his chest slowly rising and falling. — We’ll get through this thegither, and he walks into the stair, compelling Renton to follow.
— Ah know that, mate, Renton says, almost distracted under the luminosity of the stars, till the heavy door, closing behind them on the spring, extinguishes their light. — Cauld turkey’s on the menu and we’ll dae it, nae fuckin bother. It’s the end ay the line for me, he smiles in the darkness, kicking the stone steps under his feet. — Ah’ve taken this skag thing as far as it kin go. It wis a nice wee phase but there’s nowt new the drug kin show us, other than mair misery, n ah’m fuckin well done wi aw that.
— Too right, Sick Boy agrees. — Toughest skiers.
Guided by the thin glow of a stair lamp, they reach the summit of their landing. As they unlock the front door and enter the cold flat, the phone explodes in a bone-shaking ring.
They look at each other for a frozen second, into which all time collapses.
Acknowledgements
Thanks to Emer Martin, for reading an early draft of this novel and providing great encouragement and pertinent criticism.
To Robin Robertson, who kept faith with me on this book’s journey — a more convoluted one than we’ve both grown accustomed to over the years.
To Katherine Fry for her great wisdom and incredibly sharp eye.
To everyone at Random House UK in the publicity, rights, sales and marketing teams, who really have given me phenomenal support over the years.
To Tam Crawford, for splitting Ally and I’s sides in the Cenny, with his tales of breasts and budgerigars.
To Kenny McMillan, the original purseman.
To Jon Baird for his Doric.
To Trevor Engleson at Underground management, and Alex, Elan, Jack and everyone at CAA for being in my corner in Hollywood, and Greg and Laura at Independent Talent for the UK representation.
To friends and family in the great cities of Edinburgh, London, Dublin, Chicago, Miami, Sydney and Los Angeles. You keep me going. It really is your fault.
I need and want to thank my friend, the late, great Davie Bryce, of the Calton Athletic Recovery Group in Glasgow. This inspirational man might no longer be with us, but he’s the reason that so many people, who otherwise wouldn’t be around, now have a life to get on with.
Most of all though, thanks beyond words to Beth, for all her love.
Irvine Welsh, Chicago, October, 2011