Drought
Junk Dilemmas No. 2
THAT CUNT MUST be a baw hair away fae flatlining, the wey he’s been battering the shit intae hissel. Ah stagger ower fae whaire ah’d crashed oot, oan the cauld, manky, broken lino tiles ay the kitchen, n pit ma heid tae his chest: a thin, watery heartbeat. — Matty, wake up.
Ah was soon wishin ah hudnae bothered cause the cunt revives n it’s aw torment and despair. First him and then Alison, whae ah didnae even notice wis lyin oan the couch. They just whine oan aboot how sick they feel, and how it’s aw fucked up and how they want offay this. Then that wee Maria emerges tremblin fae the bedroom whaire her n Sick Boy crashed, greetin aboot her ma and dad. Sick Boy’s behind her, also shiverin like a new kitten, one eye blinkin in a spasm, sayin, — Shut the fuck up! What a crowd ay deadbeats! Am ah the only cunt here that kens how tae perty?
Ah head oot tae the toilet n dae a pish, too scared tae look in the bathroom mirror. When ah finish, that wee Jenny lassie, Maria’s mate, comes oot ay the bedroom. Wi her big, watery eyes, she looks terrified, and aboot ten years auld, as she tentatively approaches me. — They says that they wir gaunny git some mair ay that stuff, she whimpers, rubbin a red mark in the crook ay her airm. An injury ay commerce? Culture? An industrial accident. — Maria spiked us, jist thaire, she goes. — Ah dinnae want any mair though, ah want tae go hame now. She looks at me, like ah’m some sort ay jailer, n she’s beggin tae be set free. — What d’ye think ah should dae?
— Go hame, ah say, shakin ma heid urgently, then lookin back tae the door ay the front room, — dinnae even go back in thaire tae say cheerio. Yi’ll jist git involved, n ah throw the door open, showin her the stair. — Ah’ll tell them thit ye felt sick n hud tae go hame. Just go, ah urge her, n ah kin hear the high, hysterical voices comin fae the front room and ah want this lassie tae git the fuck oot right now. — Go hame! Hurry …
N she heads oot, noddin at us in fearful gratitude. Ah shuts the door behind her n goes back doon the cauld, fusty hall n ben the front room.
Sick Boy, whae’s slumped doon on a beanbag against the waw, is makin himself heard above the clamour. — I’m oot oan the hunt. His big eyes scan us aw. — Whae’s up fir it?
They aw jist sit there, shiverin and wailin. It’s like some anguish-laden Palestinian mass funeral tae commemorate the latest rock-throwing martyrs. Maria says somethin aboot wishin she wis deid, and Ali’s oaf the couch, comfortin her. — Ye cannae say that, Maria, yir jist a young lassie …
— But it’s like ah’m deid awready … this is like hell, she blubbers, her face scrunched up and utterly wretched.
— Mair fuckin melodrama, Sick Boy says, lookin at me, pullin hissel tae his feet, wi the help ay the radiator. — Whae’s comin oot?
— Ah’m up for it … ah tell um, n wir right oot intae the hall.
He gapes at us wi big sad eyes, and pits his hand gently oan ma shoodir. — Thanks, Mark, he whispers. — Git the fuck away fae these manky birds. Gone are the days when ye could keep them quiet by filling them wi spunk, it’s aw just skag, skag, skag now.
— Aye … ah goes. — Goat tae keep gaun, but, eh?
He nods tightly, n we’re shufflin taewards the front door. — We should never huv came back up tae this place, he moans, shakin his heid, — ah could’ve got us sorted wi Andreas … the giro-drop wi Tony … we were in clover down thaire, man, in fucking clover …
Maria’s shoutin, — Whaire’s Jenny? If she’s fuckin well sneaked away she’s gittin her cunt battered in!
Ah kin hear Ali sayin somethin tae calm her doon, as Sick Boy n me quickly slip oot the front door, like thieves escapin the scene ay the crime. Matty’s voice screeches eftir us in terror: — Shout us if ye score!
We dinnae stop, dinnae look back. When we emerge fae the stair intae the street, somebody’s shoutin fae the windae, but we’re no turnin roond tae see whae it is.
Notes on an Epidemic 6
Lothian Health Board
Private and Confidential
Instances of Reported HIV+ Cases in February
Gordon Ferrier, 18, Edinburgh North, motorcycle messenger and amateur boxer, intravenous drug use.
Robert MacIntosh, 21, Edinburgh North, window cleaner, intravenous drug use.
Julie Mathieson, 22, Edinburgh North, drama student, mother of one, intravenous drug use.
Philip Miles, 38, Edinburgh North, unemployed chef, father of three, intravenous drug use.
Gordon Murieston, 23, Edinburgh North, unemployed welder, intravenous drug use.
Brian Nicolson, 31, West Lothian, unemployed civil engineer, intravenous drug use.
George Park, 27, Edinburgh South, unemployed labourer, father of one, intravenous drug use.
Christopher Thomson, 22, Edinburgh North, unemployed baker, intravenous drug use.
A Safe Port
MY HANDS ARE eywis cauld now. Like the circulation’s gone. They didnae used tae be like that. Even oan a warm day ah’m rubbin them, cuppin them, blawin intae them. Ma chist is tight; there’s thick phlegm permanently gummin up ma respiratory system.
Doof doof doof …
But ah’ve done this tae masel. Naebody else has fucked me; neither God nor Thatcher. Ah’ve done it; destroyed the sovereign state ay Mark Renton before those cunts could get anywhere near it wi their wrecking ball.
It’s weird bein back in the parental home. It’s so quiet eftir Wee Davie’s death. Even when he was in the hoaspital he was still a big presence; my ma and dad ran aroond preparing endlessly for visits, gettin stuff tae take intae him, constantly jabberin on aboot his condition tae relatives and neighbours. Now the energy levels in the hoose have tumbled and the sense ay purpose gone; they wir baith already in their kip when ah got doon, late Friday night. Billy was still up.
Ah’d only come doon tae pick up some LPs tae flog, but hud ended up sittin watchin the boxing wi Billy, then just crashin in my auld bed. Ma body’s metabolisin the gear quicker. Ah used tae go fir days between fixes. Now it’s about four fuckin hours. Ah’ve grown mair lethargic and lazy, basically tae conserve energy and no burn off the skag. Ah’m irritable. Bored. Inattentive. Above all, listless. Gettin oaf a couch (for anything other than skag) takes monumental effort.
Keezbo and me went oan the methadone programme, followed by Sick Boy. It takes the edge offay withdrawal, but it’s shite, and we’re still heebie-jeebied n eywis lookin for gear. Ah tell the lassie at the clinic that, and she says that we jist need some ‘tinkering’ before aw the symptoms ay withdrawal sickness are sorted oot. Too fuckin right!
Maist days, when ah’m no huntin junk, ah’m reading Joyce’s Ulysses, which ah wis surprised and delighted to find at McDonald Road Library. Ah’d never really got it before, it wis just tedious waffle tae me, but now ah’m loast in it, trippin oan the words and the images they conjure up like ah’m oan acid. Ah wish ah’d brought it doon tae my ma’s wi us.