— Ah telt ye, ah say, as sincerely as ah kin, — ah see this boy up at the bookies, ah jist ken him as Olly. Dinnae even know if that’s his right name. Gen up. The staff at the clinic’ll confirm –
— Ah suppose prison’s like the halls ay residence, apart fae one thing, Pudding Basin goes, — no much chance ay a ride thaire. At least, he laughs, — no the sort ay ride ye’d want, anywey!
— Just gie the clinic a quick phone, ah beg.
— If ah hear the word ‘clinic’ come out ay your mooth again, son …
They keep this shite gaun fir a bit, till a legal-aid lawyer, whae’s been appointed for us, thankfully comes in tae end the torment. The polis leave n the lawyer gadge gies us the news ah want tae hear. It’s a stark choice: basically either jail (at least remand until it goes tae court) or rehab, in a new project, which ah huv tae sign up tae for forty-five days, or ah’m charged wi the original offence. — It’s not the easy option. It means being drug-free, he explains, — even your methadone will be stopped.
— Fuck … ah gasp. — Ah’m no sure tae definitely get a prison sentence, am ah? No jist fir thievin a poxy collection tin?
— Nothing’s certain at all these days. It doesn’t look good though, does it? These were monies collected by an elderly shopkeeper for an animal-welfare charity.
— Ye pit it like that … Ah feel ma shoodirs hunch up in acknowledgement.
The boy takes his specs off. Rubs at the indentations they’ve left oan the side ay his beak. — On the one hand the government are encouraging the authorities to come down hard on drug use, on the other they’re acknowledging the growing problem of heroin addiction in the community. So there is the strong chance of a custodial sentence if you don’t cooperate with this rehab programme. Your parents are outside, and have been informed of the situation. What do you want to do?
Decisions, decisions.
— Ah’ll sign up.
St Monans (Peer Education)
AH’M NO CHUFFED aboot the rehab situ but it looked like it wis either that or the jail, n ah wisnae up fir a gamble. Fuck knows what happened tae Matty, but Keezbo went for a similar deal. He moved intae the Monty Street pad wi us, markin time oan the methadone programme, but there was gear oan the streets and we still liked getting fucked up thegither. It wis a barry laugh when ah took him doon tae the clinic fir the first time n they gied him the blood test for the cowie, that Aids, eh. The lassie, askin questions aboot transmission, goes tae um, — Are you sexually active?
— Usually, aye, Keezbo goes, no gittin her at aw, — but sometimes ah jist like tae lie back, wi a bird oan toap, daein aw the work. Goat tae mix it up, but, eh?
— What I mean is, do you have a current sexual partner?
— How, Keezbo goes wi a big smile, — ye pittin yirsel in the frame then?
That wis the only fun part. Normally it wis loads ay questions. Ah hud a couple ay interviews wi this heid-fucking dwarf-like guy called Dr Forbes, and one fae this big-boned Englishwoman whae wis a clinical psychologist. Ah telt them what ah thoat they wanted tae hear, jist tae git thum oaf ma case. Keezbo said he wis the same.
Back in the gaff, we’d tried tae jam fir a bit, but his drums n ma amp, then the Fender went intae Boston’s second-hand shoap oan the Walk, in exchange fir gear. Kept the Shergold fretless, but.
Some cunts thought it was okay, but ah wisnae gittin intae the methadone, n ah wis feelin sick a lot. When ah wisnae too fucked tae go oot, the toon just seemed deid. Sick Boy had vanished, his ma said he’d went tae his auntie’s in Italy. Swanney had gone tae ground, n Spud wis meant tae huv been transferred fae the hoaspital intae rehab. Begbie wis in jail, Tommy n Second Prize wir in love, Lesley wis rumoured tae be up the stick, n Ali, whae’s seein this straightpeg aulder dude, never answered her phone.
But the biggest mystery wis Matty; nae cunt had heard anything aboot him. He’d taken the prison option and hud been oan remand, but the rumour wis thit he’d got oaf wi a suspended sentence, which wis fuckin lenient, cause they were meant tae have searched his hoose. If so, they’d have found aw the snidey goods. Ah wondered what he’d telt the polis, sweatin away under they lights, junk sick. As fir everybody else, aw the staples ay Leith — mates, burds, Hibs — jist seemed tae huv nae real appeal. Aw ah cared aboot wis skag.
Eftir we went for oor swallay doon the clinic at the auld Leith Hoaspital, they gied Keezbo a letter n he wis oaf the next day intae rehab. Ah must’ve looked left oot, cause the nurse, a barry lassie called Rachael, whae wis a mate ay Ali’s, informed us, — You’ll be next, Mark. Just try tae hang in there.
So ah mainly sat in the flat, readin, n thinkin aboot Matty. How he isnae a grass. You’re either made that wey or yir no. You’re either a scab or a grass or you urnae. N he isnae. So it wis a bit ay a surprise when he crept roond the flat one night, a somewhat chastened look oan the cunt’s normally sleekit pus. He asked us whaire Keezbo wis n ah telt him. — Fuck that, he goes, — ah’m no detoxin. Ah’m no daein cauld turkey.
— But they gie ye stuff tae help.
— Baws! They take ye oaf the methadone! Fuck thair sleepin pills or paracetamol or whatever shite they gie ye! However they fuckin try n dress it up, it’s still cauld turkey! Cunt, nae fuckin wey, Matty contends. — Cunt, ye should’ve taken the sentence. Ah jist goat four days in thaire, oan the methadone, then ah wis oot oan a six-month suspended. Cunt, ye could’ve done four days’ remand — better than a week ay cauld turkey n five weeks gittin yir heid fuckin nipped in thair shitey rehab centre!
Ah hate tae admit it, but the cunt hus us crappin ma keks. The methadone’s far fae perfect, but bein withoot it, n wi nae access tae the Salisbury Crag, wis a fuckin grim prospect. But while ah shat it offay rehab, ah still wisnae prepared tae take a punt oan any jail time, even jist a few days’ remand.
Matty didnae stick aroond. Ah telt um ah hud nae gear, but ah wis totally hudin oot oan the wee cunt. He fucked off eftir a bit, wi the usual ‘phone us’ shite.
A couple ay days eftir they took Keezbo, muh ma n dad showed up at the flat. They’d found oot ah wis here oan ma ain, so they telt us they were takin me hame till ah got ma place oan the rehab project. Ah wisnae chuffed, but they insisted that ah might OD or something if ah wis left alaine. By this time the methadone wis kickin in, and wi it a weary, heavy-limbed passivity, so ah allowed masel tae be led. Nowt much happened at my folks’ hoose, ah mainly kipped, read and watched the box. Ah mind Nicksy phoned, sayin that Giro the dug had settled at his ma’s, but he wis bored n thinkin ay movin intae a place wi Tony. Ah kent how he felt. As it was, ah wis only hame fir a few days, reading James Joyce in ma room, when muh dad came in, tellin us tae pack ma stuff up. When he telt me that ah’d ‘got a place’ in rehab, it wis like him boastin tae other people that ah’d ‘got a place’ at the uni a couple ay years back. He couldnae keep the excitement ootay his voice.
The downside wis that when ah went roond tae the clinic, they’d been informed aboot what wis happenin, n ma methadone wis cut back in prep fir the detox. So ah packed some clathes and books. Ah found some council-headed notepaper Norrie Moyes had gied us yonks ago that ah’d forgotten aboot; we wir plannin a revenge scam on the Currans but it came tae nowt. Ah slipped them in a folder and stuck it in the bag.
It pishes doon oan the drive tae the middle ay fuckin naewhaire in Fife. Ah sit in the back as ma faither drives in silence, Ma gabbin nervously in between chain-smokes. When we git thaire, gaun through some poxy village wi a few hooses, a church and a pub, and park in front ay this one-storey white buildin, ah’m hurtin bad, cramped and stiff, feelin the reduction in the methadone awready. Ah cannae even climb oot the back seat ay the car when the old boy exits, openin ma door. As cauld air flies in, a sweat-inducing pulse ay terror rises in me. — Ah dinnae want tae dae this!