Ma starts greetin; gaspin, haltin, breathless sobs. Ah want tae comfort her, tae tell her it’ll be okay, but ah cannae move. Ah feel fuckin paralysed in this chair.
— Fuckin mug, Billy jibes, — it’s a radge’s game, that shite.
Normal service between us is evidently resumed, so ah openly regard the muppet in sheer fuckin contempt. — As opposed tae the mature, sensible and socially cohesive practice ay rammin the nut oan total strangers in public places?
Billy looks angry for a beat, but he lets it go as a lenient smile creeps across his coupon.
— We’ve discussed that! my dad shouts. — We’ve discussed this yin n his bloody stupidity aw week! He thumbs dismissively at Billy without lookin at him. — It’s you we need tae talk aboot now, son!
— Look, ah say tae them, spreadin my palms, — it’s no big deal. Ah’ve been pertyin a bit too much, and got masel ah wee habit. Ah ken ah’ve goat a bit ay a problem but ah’m sortin it oot. Ah’m at the clinic, oan the methadone programme, weanin masel offay the heroin.
— Aye, but it’s no that easy! muh ma suddenly squeals. — Ah’ve heard aw aboot it, Mark! That Aids!
— You’ve goat tae inject it tae git Aids, ah shake ma heid slowly, — n ah wis jist smokin it. But that’s me finished. It’s a mug’s game, like Billy says, but as ah mooth ma agreement, radge that ah am, ah cannae stoap ma eyes gaun tae ma airm.
Ma auld man’s follayed thum and, lightning quick, he grabs it n rolls up ma sleeve, exposin scabby, pus-leaking tracks. — Aye? What’s that then!
Ah reflexively pill the withered limb away. — Ah very, very rarely inject and ah never share needles, ah plead. — Look … ah ken it’s goat oot ay hand but ah’m tryin tae sort it oot.
— Aw aye? muh ma screeches, lookin at ma airm in horror. — Well, yir no tryin very hard, ur ye!
— Well, ah’m daein ma best.
— Mutilatin hissel, Davie!
— At least he admits he’s goat a problem, Cathy, ma dad reassures, — at least that’s wan thing, he seems tae concede. Then he turns they blazin, hungry eyes ay his oan me. — Wis it London that did this?
Ah cannae help but laugh out loud at that yin. I’ve mair access tae gear up here than ah ever hud doon thaire.
— Ye might well laugh, he says in lament, then, — Simon’s no like that, is he? Stevie, wee Hutchy, he’s no like that?
— Nup, ah tell him, for some reason, no wantin tae drop Sick Boy in it. — They nivir touch it, eh. It’s jist me.
— Aye, the bloody mug, muh ma says bitterly.
— But why, son? Dad implores. — Why?
Ah kin never think ay what tae say tae that question. — It’s a good buzz.
His eyes bulge oot like some cunt’s belted the back ay his heid wi a basebaw bat. — Christ, jumpin oaf a cliff’s probably a good buzz, till ye hit the boatum! Wise up, for God’s sake!
— Ah feel like ah’m livin a nightmare, Ma groans, — that’s aw it is: a bloody nightmare!
There follows a gratifying silence, ye can hear the soft ticking ay that posh clock wi the swinging pendulum, the one the old boy got fae his crooked mate, Jimmy Garrett, at Ingliston Market. Then it goes off. It’s slow, sending oot a dozen leaden strikes even though it’s way past twelve, measuring oot our lives in heartbeats … doom … doom … doom …
Ah tries tae get a bit ay mince doon, but ma swallowin mechanism is fucked. Ah can feel it runnin doon ma gullet but the muscles urnae workin. It’s like it’s just buildin up in ma oesophagus n ah’m drownin wi every small mouthful, until ah feel sudden relief as it finally hits ma tight, tennis-ball gut. My mother, whae’s been scrutinisin me, seems tae think ay something, then rises wi a sudden, demented urgency that upsets every cunt in the room, and bounds ower tae the sideboard, pickin up an envelope, which she hands us. — This came for ye, she accuses.
It has a Glasgow postmark. Ah’m scoobied as tae what it is or whae it could be fae. Suddenly, ah’m aware ay the six fervent eyes oan us which say it would be bad form tae pocket it for later. So ah open it up. It’s an invitation.
Mr and Mrs Ronald Dunsmuir
humbly request the attendance of
Mark Renton
at the wedding of their daughter
Joanne April to Mr Paul Richard Bisset
at
St Columba Church of Scotland,
Duchal Road, Kilmacolm, Renfrewshire, PA13 4 AU
on
Saturday, 4th May 1985, 1p.m.
and afterwards at
Bowfield Hotel and Country Club,
Bowfield Road, Howwood, near Glasgow Airport, Renfrewshire, PA9 1DB
RSVP: 115 Crookston Terrace, Paisley, PA1 3PF
— What is it? muh ma asks.
— Nowt, just a weddin invite. My auld mate Bisto fae the uni, ah tell her, surprised that they’re gettin married and astonished that they’ve invited me. Joanne must be up the stick; it’s the only wey that would happen as they baith have another year tae go at Aberdeen eftir this. The last time ah saw Joanne was on Union Street. Ah was like a jakey, skulkin doon taewards Don’s. She wis wi another lassie; widnae look at us, but jerked her sweatshirt hood tight tae her face n stepped across the road.
Ma starts lookin oaf intae the distance, shakin her heid as a teary lens amasses ower her eyes. Then she glowers at me in anguish. — That could have been you … wi that lovely Fiona lassie, she sniffs. — Or even wee Hazel. She turns tae my auld man, whae nods tae her and gies her hand a squeeze.
— Aye, a narrow escape, ah say.
— Dinnae start, Mark! Just dinnae bloody well start! You know fine well what yir mother means, my dad shouts.
What ah know fine well is that ah’ve hung aboot here long enough, and now the junk thing’s oot in the open, ah’m disinclined tae listen tae any mair ay their tedious where-did-we-go-wrong disquisitions. Basically, whaire they went wrong wis indulgin thair ain selfish whims in bringin mair lives intae a fucked-up place. Ah didnae ask tae live n ah’m no feart tae die. Aw that’ll happen is that it’ll be like before ah wis alive; it couldnae have been that great, but it wisnae that shite either, or ah’d have minded aboot it. Ah was just here tae get ma fuckin records. Billy looks at us, kenin fine well what ah’m daein, but sais nowt.
Ah stoap oaf in the bathroom tae swipe the auld girl’s Vallies, n head up the Walk, strugglin wi the weight ay they albums packed in the auld Sealink holdall. Thankfully, ah run intae Matty and Sick Boy at the Kirkgate. They look as shite as ah feel, n neither is too enthusiastic when ah ask them tae take a shot n cairry the bag. Matty takes a shift though, but ye could tell it wis basically jist tae sketch what wis inside. That’s when it aw kicked in wi me: Bowie, Iggy, Lou, they wir aw gaunny go.
— Cunt, that’ll be a sad loss, Matty slyly articulates ma thoughts.
— I’ll tape them, ah sais defensively.
— Cunt, kin see you sittin thaire daein that, right enough, he goes. Sick Boy’s quiet, stooping forward as he walks, his airms folded acroas his chest.
Fucked if ah’m arguin wi this cunt. — Ah’ll get Hazel tae tape them then, she’s goat a capacity for boredom.
Matty shrugs and we git up tae the shoap. Sick Boy hings ootside smokin, while ah stick the records oan the counter. The boy goes through them wi the sort ay face ah ken; ah’ve used it tons ay times masel at work. — Bowie ah kin always shift, he says, — but naebody’s bothered aboot Iggy and the Stooges or Lou and the Velvets. Too seventies.