— This is gaunny be so much fun, Sick Boy says, and rubs his hands thegither. — Drugs are always fun. Do you believe in cosmic forces, destiny n aw that shite?
— Nup.
— Me neither, but bear one thing in mind: today was a ‘T’ day.
— What …? ah ask, then it dawns on us. — Yir dictionary thingy.
— All will be revealed, he nods, then starts talking about heroin.
Smack’s the only thing ah huvnae done, ah’ve never even smoked or snorted it. And ah must confess that ah’m fuckin shitein it. Ah wis brought up tae believe that one joint ay hash would kill me. And, of course, it wis bullshit. Then one line ay speed. Then one tab ay acid; aw lies, spread by people hell-bent on self-extermination through booze and fags.
But heroin.
It’s crossing a line.
But as the boy said, anything once. And Sick Boy doesnae seem concerned, so ah bullshit tae keep ma front up. — Aye, ah cannae wait tae dae some horse.
— What? Sick Boy looks at me in horror as the bus growls up the hill. — What the fuck are you talking aboot, Renton? Horse? Dinnae say that in front ay yir dealer mate or he’ll laugh in yir face. Call it skag, for Papa John-Paul’s sake, he snaps, then stares oot at a short-skirted lassie meandering wi seductive intent up Lothian Road. — She’s a peach … far too carefree in bearing and expression tae be a baboon …
— Right … ah feebly respond.
We get tae Johnny Swan’s place, and even though the stair door’s got an entryphone, it hings open like a daftie’s mooth. We climb the steps, instinctively knowing that it’ll be oan the top flair. It’s the only flat wi nae name oan the scabby black door. Johnny greets us wi a smile, though a wee look passes between him n Sick Boy. — Mr Renton! It’s been a long time … come in …
— Aye, a couple ay year at least, ah acknowledge. Ah wis at a perty up here back then. Wi Matty. Eftir we came back fae London. Swanney still has the fair hair, but it’s longer n mair straggly now, and these piercing blue eyes, but his choppers are a mass ay green n broon. Wi his permanent look ay surprise and always seemin oan the verge ay outrage, he reminds us ay Ron Moody, who played Fagin in Oliver! A rancid smell like stale sweat hings in the air, emanating fae either tenant or dwelling, and intensifying as we follay him inside. Sick Boy, who ah intro, catches the whiff and makes nae attempt tae disguise his distaste.
One windae is boarded up, darkening the front room. The others have big, viney plants wi green tomataes oan them, hogging maist ay the remaining light. There’s still fuckin lino oan the flair, though it’s topped wi some distempered rug. Oan the waw, above the fireplace, there’s a barry poster ay Siouxsie Sioux, naked fae the waist up.
We faw doon oantae a leather couch. A sick joke ay a budgie, greasy feathers, shuffles along a spar in a cage, looking like Richard the Third. Eftir quickly catchin up aboot auld times, Johnny gets doon tae business. — Matty Connell tells us you’re still daein the Northern Soul thing. Ah take it yir lookin fir some speed?
Ah glances at Sick Boy, then back tae Johnny, tryin tae be aw cool. — Actually, we heard that you’ve goat some nice skag.
Swanney’s eyebrows arch, n he puckers his lips. — They aw want it now, he grins. — Ivir done the skag before? he asks, rolling up the sleeve ay his shirt. Ah kin see rid marks poking up like angry plukes. — Ah mean, banged up?
— Aye, ah lie, no lookin at Sick Boy, — back up at Ebirdeen.
Swanney reads it as such but doesnae gie a fuck. He pulls oot a wooden box fae under a glass coffee table, upon which sits a barry blue-n-gold vase, a Scotland World Cup 82 mug, a candle half melted intae one ay they blue-n-white ringed plates every cunt’s goat, and a tin ashtray fill ay cigarette butts. — Ye want a hit?
— Aye.
He opens the box and puts some white powder fae a wee placky bag intae a spoon and sucks water fae the mug intae a hypodermic syringe. He squirts the contents intae the spoon, which he heats up under the candle, stirring it wi the needle as it dissolves. Catching Sick Boy staring, he spits a cheeky grin ower his shoodir, squeezing one ay they wee Jif things fill ay lemon juice intae the water. Still stirrin wi the needle tip, he then sucks it back intae the barrel ay the syringe.
Ah sit back, entranced by his preparations. Ah’m no the only yin: Sick Boy’s like a nerdy science student scrutinising his mentor. Johnny looks at me, sitting thaire open-moothed like a spare prick at a hoors’ convention. He gits the score. — Ye want me tae dae it fir ye?
— Ta, ah nod. Sound cunt Swanney, sparin ma embarrassment like that.
He sharply tugs ma airm towards him, like it’s a Christmas cracker, resting it on his thigh. Johnny’s jeans are minging and sticky oan ma wrist, like he’s spilt honey or treacle oan his leg. He ties a leather strap round my biceps and starts tapping at ma veins. Ma back throbs wi a phantom truncheon strike, as a shiver spreads through me.
Ah know that this is crossin a line.
Ma heart pounds. Ah mean, really pounds. We’re meant tae meet Franco for a peeve n aw, tae watch the Euro 84 fitba, and he hates gittin stood up!
Say no.
Johnny tap-tap-tappin at my airm and me distracting masel by lookin at the dry flakes ay skin on his scalp jist at the hairline.
Begbie. Goat tae meet Begbie at nine!
Ah’m thinking aboot shoutin ‘stop’ but ah ken that ah could never turn away at this point. If smack is as addictive as they say, then ah’m already aw the junky ah’m ever gaunny be.
Say no.
Ah’m thinkin aboot university; ma studies, the philosophy module and free will versus determinism …
Say no.
Thinkin aboot Fiona Conyers in the history classes, sweeping her long black hair aside, her wide pale blue eyes and white teeth as she smiles at me …
Say naw.
Johnny still tap-tap-tappin like a patient old prospector looking for gold. He looks at me and shoots us a cracked smile. — You’ve goat shite veins.
Not too late! No too late tae make an excuse, he gied ye an out thaire, say no, no, no …
— Aye, ah cannae gie blood.
Say something else … say fuckin naw …
NAW, NAW, NAW …
— That might be just as well, he smiles as he stabs the needle intae my airm. Ah look at him petulantly, upset at the sharp pain, the intrusion. He smiles wi those rotten teeth and sucks some ay ma blood back intae the syringe. The word ‘dinnae’ briefly forms on ma lips but he pushes and empties the contents ay the barrel intae me. Ah look at the empty hypo. Ah can’t believe he’s just put that shit inside me.
Fear rises up ma spine like mercury touched by heat up a thermometer. Then it’s gone. Ah smile at Johnny. Just as the thought forms: is that aw there is tae it? ah get a sudden rush and a glow, then ma insides, body and brain, are like a fruit pastille, melting in a huge mooth. Suddenly everything that was burning in ma heid, every fear and doubt, just dissolves, ah can just feel them receding intae the distance …
Aye, Aye, Aye, Aye, AYE, AYE
In my mind’s eye, ah’ve goat an image ay ma brar Billy, when we were walkin along Blackpool prom, crossin ower the road n turnin intae a side street ay red-bricked guest hooses. It’s a hot summer’s day n ah’m eatin a 99 ice-cream cone.
Johnny says something like, — Good shit but, eh?