Oan the methadone programme ye huv tae report daily at the Leith Hoaspital clinic. The hozzy’s scheduled for closure next year, but we huv tae go thaire for assessment and my bog-cleaner-tastin syrup. It feels a bit like the dole, but wi mair ay a sense ay belongin. Ye meet a lot ay skagheids thaire. Some seem ashamed, skulkin in aw furtively, others dinnae gie a fuck and are swift tae ask if yir hudin. Some ur bams, pure and simple. If it wisnae skag it would’ve been something else. Most urnae, thir just ordinary boys who’ve drugged themselves intae nothingness tae avoid the shame ay daein nothing. Boredom has driven them crazy, drug crazy. By and large they keep aw this inside, maintaining the mask ay composure, through fierce, mocking talk and gallows humour. They cannae afford tae care, and ken if they front apathy for long enough, it’ll soon embrace them. And they’re correct.
The methadone’s shite. Thaire’s nae buzz oaf ay it, but they tell us tae persist, cause wi the ‘fine tuning’ ay ma script, it’ll take away ma discomfort, and be way better than the alternative. Sometimes at the clinic, they look at ye like yir a lab rat and talk in these hushed and reverential tones. They took blood tests; no just for HIV, the boy wis at pains tae stress. At least they’re daein something though. They’ve finally sussed thaire’s shite happening oot here.
Thaire’s certainly nowt much happenin in muh ma’s hoose. It struck me that when ma auld girl and auld man arenae aroond, Billy and me stoap competing, forget that we hate each other, and actually git oan reasonably well. We watched this black American boxer overwhelm the latest hapless white hope.
Then Billy said something like, — Cannae fuckin stick civvy street.
— Reckon ye’ll join up again?
— Mibbe.
Ah resisted the urge tae discuss it further. Billy and me are miles apart oan such issues, and although ah think he’s a complete fuckin tool, it’s his life, n it’s no fir me tae tell him how tae live it. But he talked on for a bit; about the officers bein wankers and shitein it oan the foot patrol, but huvin yir mates behind ye and feelin like ye really belong somewhere. He’s up in coort next week for batterin this cunt in a boozer, so his heid’s aw ower the place.
Billy’s moved intae Davie’s auld room, the good yin that overlooks the river. The allocation ay the prime bedroom tae somebody whae would have been as happy in a cellar or an attic, caused a bit ay united resentment wi me n Billy when we moved doon here fae the Fort a few years back. Wisnae shy aboot stakin his claim following Wee Davie’s demise, the cunt; but fair dos, it’s no like ah’m plannin tae be back. Now his auld side ay the room looks bare. He’s taken his framed picture ay Donald Ford in the Ajax-like seventies Jambo strip, and the calligraphy scroll that he did in art (his one visible accomplishment fae eleven years ay state education), which has the complete lyrics ay ‘Hearts, Glorious Hearts’ inscribed in maroon ink. The plastic King Billy oan the horse that sat oan the windae ledge, lookin oot over the Hibernian-infested tenements wi disapproval, has also thankfully gone.
The masking tape that he pit doon yonks ago is still oan the flair, running acroas the cairpit. Ah pull it up and see a thick darker line contrastin wi the light, sun-bleached blue. He called that the invisible Berlin Waw, dividin him fae ma Stanton-prominent ’72 League Cup poster, a ’73 Hibs team photae wi the two cups displayed, n a picture ay Alan Gordon in shooting pose. There’s a recent yin ay Jukebox. Ah’ve got a great photae ay the church in St Stephen’s Street where Tommy sprayed IGGY IS GOD oan the side ay the building, and a montage ay teen punk and soul boy pictures, each haircut mair embarrassing than the last. Ah should move ma bed nearer the windae, cause Billy willnae be back in here.
He’s actually gone and bought a double bed for Wee Davie’s auld room, soas he kin bang Sharon in comfort when she steys ower. A Jambo shagging pad. How the fuck can the pervert get it up wi my ma n faither lying next door? Has he nae fuckin self-respect? Ah’d never take a burd back here, tae my ma’s hoose.
So ah rise late on Saturday morning; it’s the back ay eleven. Ah’m no hungry, but my ma and dad, surprised tae see me, insist ah stey for my Setirday mince. It’s sort ay a tradition that she makes mince early, usually noon, so that we could go tae Easter Road or Tynecastle, or sometimes through tae Ibrox in my dad’s case. Even though the fitba doesnae loom so large in our lives these days, the noon mince custom has perversely carried on. The white tablecloth comes oot, then the casserole dish wi the mince bubblin away in it, a big onion floatin in the middle. Then the mashed tatties, follayed by the peas. But in the silence and stiffness ay muh ma’s movements, there’s a distinct edge tae the proceedings: they seem tae have tippled that something’s up wi me. The auld girl’s wild-eyed at the table and she’s run oot ay fags. She asks Billy, but he shrugs in the negative. Ah mind ay him sayin something aboot cuttin doon or tryin tae gie up. — Ah’ll need tae go doon for cigarettes, she says.
— You don’t need cigarettes just now, Catherine, the auld boy says tae her like she’s a child. He seldom uses her formal name, and ah can tell something’s afoot as they’re lookin awkwardly at each other and stealin glances at us. Ah’m pushin the mince roond ma plate. Ah’ve eaten a bit ay the mashed tatties, but this mince seems too salty, stinging my dry and cracked lips, and the peas are like shrivelled wee green ball bearings, through having been left in the oven too long. The auld girl cannae cook for shit, but even if she wis Delia Smith ah couldnae eat fuck all, and ah’m shiverin and blinkin in that light pourin in fae the big windae.
Fuck sake, ah was only doon tae pick up some LPs!
Oot the corner ay my eye ah watch the auld girl rise, ransacking drawers in the sideboard, turning ower the cushions in the settee and chairs, in case a stray smoke has fallen behind yin. She’s creepin us oot, ah want tae say tae her, ‘Please, sit the fuck doon n eat,’ when ma auld man turns oan me and says in steely-eyed accusation, — Ah wahnt tae ask you somethin. Somethin serious. Are you wan ay thaim?
This time he means junky, rather than poof.
— Tell us it’s no true, son, tell us! Ma pleads, standin behind the chair she’d vacated. She’s hudin oantae the back ay it, white-knuckled, as if braced for impact.
For some reason, ah cannae even be ersed lyin. — Ah’m oan the methadone programme but, ah tell them, — ah’m getting off the junk.
— Fuckin idiot, Billy sneers.
— Well, that’s it now then, Dad coldly states. Then he stares at us wi a beseeching, — Eh?
Aw ah kin dae is shrug.
— Yir a junky, ma faither’s eyes narrow, — a dirty, filthy, lyin junky. A drug addict. That’s what ye are, is it no?
Ah look up at him. — Once you label me you negate me.
— What?!
— Jist something Kierkegaard sais.
— Whae the fuck’s that? Billy goes.
— Søren Kierkegaard, Danish philosopher.
My auld man’s fist smashes oan the table. — Well, ye kin cut that crap oot fir a start! Cause that’s aw gone now, aw yir studies, aw yir chances! A bloody philosopher’s no gaunny help ye now! This isnae jist one ay yir daft fads, Mark! It’s no something ye kin jist play aroond wi till ye git bored! This is serious! This is yir life yir flingin away here!
— Oh Mark … muh ma starts sobbing, — ah dinnae believe it. Oor Mark … the university … wi wir that proud, weren’t wi, Davie? Wi wir that proud!
— That stuff kills ye, ah’ve read aw aboot it, muh dad declares. — Like messin aboot wi a loaded gun! You’ll end up in the hoaspital like that Murphy laddie; nearly bloody deid, bi Christ!