— Aye, but they offered us Wester Hailes. Cunt, ah’m no gaun oot thaire.
Wester Hailes is aboot as far away fae Leith as it’s possible tae git n still be in Edinburgh. A soulless, Jambo-infested scheme. — Shirley’s no too chuffed ah take it?
— Naw … well, tae tell the truth, it’s this fuckin skag. Cunt, ken how she’s a bit ay a straightpeg but, eh? Well, ah suppose she’s goat the bairn n that …
— Makes a big difference, eh?
— Ah suppose, he goes, wiping away some snotters oan his sleeve. — It’s a barry hit, but see huntin it doon … Swanney just takes the pish, vanishes oaf the face ay the earth whin it suits the cunt. Cunt, ah went up tae his at Tollcross last night n the light wis oan in his hoose, ah jist saw it fae the street, ah could tell thaire wis some cunt in, but he widnae fuckin well answer. The stair door wis loaked, so ah rang another buzzer n goat in. Cunt, ah looked through his letter box n ah fuckin well saw the radge; just walkin acroas the hallway fae the kitchen tae the front fuckin room, Matty’s eyes bulge incredulously. His freckles look like they’ve been painted oan that pale face. — So ah batters the door n starts shoutin through the letter box. Guess what? The cunt still fuckin pretends he’s no fuckin well in!
Ah strike what ah think is a sympathetic expression, but ah’m finding this quite funny.
Matty isnae. He’s now animated, like a puppet operated by an epileptic; hands that jerky that if he tried tae have a wank he’d tear his foreskin tae shreds. — So ah goes n phones um up this morning n the bastard still hus the brass neck tae claim he wis oot. Ah tells um, ‘Beat it, ya mongol, ah fuckin well saw ye, Johnny!’ Cunt turns roond n sais: ‘Ye didnae see me, chavy, ye must huv been hallucinatin,’ but his voice was that wey … Matty pauses a bit, then looks harshly at us. — Ye ken when some cunt’s really jist rippin the fuckin pish oot ay ye?
Ah make a feeble protest on Johnny’s behalf, but Matty cuts me off.
— Ah ken he’s an auld mate ay yours, but fuck um! Wir gaunny meet Goagsie n Raymie at Mikey Forrester’s. Cunt, he’s goat this shootin gallery, wi aw bang up thegither wi they big twinty-mil syringes. Like blood brothers. Matty suddenly smiles, warmed by the thought. — Ye ken Forrester?
— Ken the name.
— Lorne Street originally. No bad cunt, total tea leaf, kin be a bit ay a wideo.
— Did Begbie no kick his cunt in a while back?
— Aye, Matty says, — Lothian Road, but that wis donks ago, he adds, a bit embarrassed.
The story fae Begbie (which ah’ve had tae endure many times) was that he and Matty wir in Lothian Road and they met Gypo, this prick fae Oxgangs, who wis wi this Forrester gadge, and got intae some drunken argument wi them. Matty backed doon but Begbie didnae and ended up battering them baith. He wisnae too chuffed wi Matty for no bailin in. Anyway, the mention ay the story puts Matty back in silent mode. Eventually he breaks the hush and asks, — Seen that fat cunt Keezbo?
— Aye, wis oot wi him the other night.
Matty isnae fond ay Keezbo, cause he once went oot wi Shirley. It was long before Matty, but some cunts never let go ay things like that. Also, Keezbo kin actually play the drums, whereas Matty’s shite oan guitar. No even good enough for us, n that’s what it’s really aw aboot.
— Jambo cunt, he says under his breath.
Ah say nowt, cause me n Keezbo are the best ay buddies, like me n Matty used tae be, when we wir punks n went doon tae London.
We git oaf at Muirhoose, cutting through the deserted shopping centre past units that exhibit only graffiti oan thair steel shutters, n headin for this five-storey block at the back ay the prefabricated library. Schemes like this, Wester Hailes or Niddrie, thaire’s nowt roond thum but mair scheme. Mibbe a wee patch ay crap shoaps selling tinned goods and some rotting, overpriced veg and a murderous pillboax ay a bar. At least in Leith, if ye live in a scheme, yir surrounded by pubs, bookies, cafes, shoaps n loads ay shit tae dae.
Matty tells us that since the bastards shut the needle exchange in Bread Street a few years back, injectin equipment’s been hard tae come by, but he sais this Forrester gadge gets these big syringes fae a hoaspital contact. Sick Boy’s already went and sorted oot his ain works fae this nurse he kens, cause he doesnae like the idea ay sharing needles, but it doesnae bother me. He says he’ll sort me oot wi some n aw, but.
We climb a few flights ay stairs n chap the door, and a figure forms on the other side ay the dimpled wire gless. It opens up tae reveal a tall but chunky-faced gadge wi thinning blond hair. He looks doubtfully at us, then clocks Matty. — Mathew … come in, pal ay mine.
Ah follay Matty inside, tae a front room wi scabby faded rugs slapped on toap ay the oil-black flair tiles. Posters adorn the otherwise bare waws. Thaire’s a nice Zeppelin yin wi the four symbols, and a barry, ginormous Jam Setting Sons but the rest are ay shite bands no even worth mentioning in passing. A burst couch, two identical teak coffee tables, a brutalised armchair and a pair ay grubby mattresses comprise the room’s furnishings. The place seems solely used fir the consumption ay drugs, wi the possible exception ay the odd gang bang.
Best bit is that it’s decked oot wi some kent faces. Goagsie fae Leith’s thaire, as is Raymie, Swanney’s sidekick, and as they vouch for us, Forrester relaxes a bit. Ah’m surprised tae see LA Woman (as Spud calls her), Alison Lozinska, whae ah went tae school wi, and who briefly (in a taste lapse on her part) went oot wi oor Billy. Blondie Lesley fae the boozer’s present, wi a lassie called Sylvia; tall, thin, wi collar-length blondish-broon hair. Two boys are introduced tae me; a guy called ET (which ah git telt is short fir Eric Thewlis) and this aulder gadge, American Andy, whae’s cookin up gear in this big metal spoon under a Calor gas burner, so nae prizes for guessin whae’s oan first dabs. Naebody intros these two other gadges. One looks well dodgy, a hard-faced salt-n-pepper-heided cunt wi a bad Mars bar across his coupon, n whae stares at us till ah look away. The other boy is wee, n hus an awfay big heid, no quite a dwarf, but like a dwarf. Forrester seems awright, a bit hostile at first, probably cause ah’m new, but grins when ah produce the readies, tipplin that ah’m no here tae try n ponce or queue-jump fir ma shot.
Ah sit oan the mattress beside Alison. She says hiya, n kisses me platonically oan the side ay the cheek.
There’s a load bein cooked up intae this big syringe n it’s comin ma way. Ah’m tryin tae get the vein up, ma belt roond ma airm, the wey Johnny did for us, but nowt’s fuckin happening. The syringe goes fae this American Andy, tae ET, tae Mikey, tae Goagsie n thir fawin like dominoes n ah’m next but ah’m still tap-tap-tappin like a ballroom dancer. Ah see Raymie cookin separately on his ain works n fixin hissel a shot, while Ali, Lesley and the Sylvia bird look on, rolling joints, declining all skag offers. Ah’m no lookin at Matty but ah kin hear um snappin at us, — Cunt, c’mon, we’ve no goat aw fuckin day!
Thaire’s nowt ah kin dae but pass it on tae the moanin fucker. Ah gie up n pick up a foil pipe fae one ay the tables n start tae amateurishly burn some gear, tae the contempt ay the others. — Wastin fuckin good gear, Forrester moans, running a hand through his thinning quiff.
— Fuck sakes, Renton, wee Goagsie’s mooth snaps like a pedal bin.
— Aye, sort it oot, ya radge, Matty’s spiteful campfire voice, as a wasted Forrester, who at first looks like he’s playin pin the tail oan the donkey, manages tae inject him.
— Well, yis urnae fuckin hudin oot oan me! Ah peyed ma fuckin dough, ah snaps back. — Swanney fixed us, he kens how tae git a fuckin vein up …