As ah hear muh ma say something aboot a fresh start, ma faither goes, — Well, it’s oot ay your hands now, pal, n he grabs ma airm, n starts yankin us oot the motor.
Ah grip the back ay the seat. — What gies youse the right tae force us tae go here?
My ma looks at me, twistin roond wi her big doolally eyes, n she wrenches ma hand fae the seat. — We care, son, that’s what gies us the right … Lit go! N muh dad gies us another tug n ah fly oot the motor, stumblin, wi him helpin tae keep me oan ma feet, hudin us up by the jaykit like a rag doll. — C’mon, son, shape up, he says wi gentle, encouragin firmness.
As ah stand upright oan ma shaky legs, ah realise ma itchy eyes are gushin oot tears n ah wipe thum oan ma sleeve wi aw these snotters. Ma gets oot the car, shakes her head, musing, — Ah dinnae ken why this has happened tae us …
— Mibbe it’s God, ah venture, as ah feel ma dad’s grip loosen on me, — giein ye another test, likes.
She looks at me and springs ower, shouting at ma dad, — Did ye hear um, Davie? He’s evil! She points at me. — Listen tae yirsel, ya ungrateful wee –
— It’s the drug talkin, Cathy, the withdrawal, Dad sais wi grim authority, starin at me wi squinty eyes. Now that the auld girl is kickin oaf, he kin play good cop. The auld boy has a temper but is loath tae lose it. The auld girl is generally easy-going, so ma tactic hus been tae get her tae play the bad fucker, which often strangely disarms the auld boy’s anger. But now ah’m puppy-seek n runnin oot ay time. Ma throat tickles and ma eyeballs feel like they need tae be scratched oot. Ah sneeze twice, seismic convulsions that shake ma body, n ma auld man looks at us in concern.
Ah glances aroond, but thaire’s naewhaire aboot here tae dae a runner tae. — C’mon, Dad commands, an impatient edge in his voice. We walk doon the gravel path tae the front door ay the white buildin, n step inside. The place hus that omnipresent vibe ay state controclass="underline" magnolia waws, broon cairpit tiles, harsh overhead strip lighting.
We’re met by the centre director, a skinny woman wi dark curly hair which is tied back, rid-framed glesses n fine, delicate features. She ignores me, electin instead tae shake hands wi ma parents. A big, wholesome cunt wi a blond fringe smiles at me. — I’m Len. He picks up ma holdall, — I’ll take this tae yir room.
The auld man swivels his heid roond, takes it aw in. — Seems a no bad billet though, son. He gies ma hand a squeeze. There’s mist in his eyes. — Fight through it, pal, he whispers. — We believe in ye.
The skinny-specky bird is blabbering oan tae ma mother, whae’s looking warily back at her. — The essence of St Monans is a collaborative venture between two health boards and three social work departments. It comprises detox followed by the client-centred individual therapy and group-counselling sessions.
— Aye … that’s nice …
— The group is crucial to our philosophy. It’s seen as the way to combat the peer structures on the outside that support the substance-dependent client’s behaviour.
— Aye … cosy, Ma sais, lookin at the curtains, rubbin the material between her thumb n forefinger.
— Well, ye’ll get nae bother fae him, my dad goes, turnin tae me. — You’ll take yir chance here. Right?
— Right, ah say, lookin at this timetable thing displayed on the waw behind him. It says WAKE UP 7.00 A.M. Fuck that.
I’ll take ma first chance tae git the fuck oot.
— Anything tae get ye oaf they streets, away fae they losers n bams like that Spud laddie. N thon Matty. Nae ambition, that crowd. He shakes his heid.
— Removal from the environment which supports the drug-taking behaviour is one of the key elements of our programme. We provide a disciplined and structured framework, and give the substance-dependent client the chance to take stock, so sayeth Skinny-Specky.
— They’ll drag ye doon tae thair level, son. Ah’ve seen it, my ma warns, glaring hauntingly at me.
— That’s ma mates. Ah’ve goat the right tae hing aboot wi whae ah want, ah say, hearin a door slam somewhere in the distance, follayed by a raised voice makin a threat.
— Thir junkies, she scowls.
— So? Thir no hermin anybody, ah goes, catchin Skinny-Specky’s pained look; her recognition that she’s walked intae a family feud, but still wi the sense ay prerogative that it’s takin place in her centre. Naebody else seems tae hear the consternation comin fae a far-off room, the stormin footsteps doon a corridor.
Could be big fun n games in here, right enough.
— No hermin anybody? ma faither groans miserably. — Ye wir caught red-handed, son, leavin that shop wi that tin! An auld woman, son. A pensioner, tryin tae make a livin and dae her bit for sick animals. Ye must see how messed up that is, surely, son, and he looks tae an intense but neutral Skinny-Specky fir support, then turns back tae me. — Ye must see how that makes ye look?
Some auld minger that’s gaunny be fuckin deid soon anywey … grassin auld cunt …
— Ye were better oaf hingin aboot wi Tommy n Francis n Robert, son, Ma urges. — The fitba n aw that. Ye eywis liked the fitba!
A sudden bolt ay panic, n ah want tae jist hunker doon cause ay the dizzy chill that assails us. Instead, ah turns tae ma new hostess. — If ah feel really bad, will ah still git ma methadone here?
Skinny-Specky’s glance is measured and unfazed. It’s like she’s seein us fir the first time. She slowly shakes her heid. — This project is about being drug-free. You’ll come off the methadone maintenance here. You’ll be part of a group, a society, here at St Monans, one that works, rests and plays together, and make no mistake, it will be tough, she says, lookin tae ma parents. — Now, Mr and Mrs Renton, if you don’t mind, we really should get Mark settled in.
Fuck sakes!
My ma gies me a bonecrushing hug. Ma faither, noting my obvious discomfort, settles fir a weary nod. He hus tae pull her away as she’s sobbin her fuckin eyes oot. — But he’s ma bairn, Davie, he’ll eywis be ma bairn …
— C’moan now, Cathy.
— Ah’ll get masel sorted oot here, Ma, you’ll see. Ah try n crack a smile.
Just fuckin go! Now!
Ah want tae lie doon. Ah dinnae want tae be part ay Skinny-Specky’s daft wee group, her fuckin society. But nonetheless, as ma parents shuffle ootside, ah’m awready daydreamin aboot fawin in love wi her; me n Skinny-Specky oan a Caribbean island wi an endless supply ay gear, procured fae her employers in the NHS. She’s like one ay they sexy librarian birds thit wid be shaggable as fuck when the hair comes doon n the bins come oaf.
So Len escorts us tae ma room. For aw his scrubbed, affable demeanour, he’s a big cunt, like a benign bouncer, n ah widnae fancy tryin tae git past him. He flips on the fluorescent light, which blinks like a nightclub strobe, then stabilises, searing the room in a sick glow, with accompanying insect drone. Ah lie oot oan the bed, takin in the gaff. It’s a mundane hybrid ay the residences at Aberdeen and the cabin on The Freedom of Choice. There’s the same wee built-in desk-and-shelves unit with chair as at the uni, and a similarly designed wardrobe and chest ay drawers. But Len-the-Fringe tells me no tae git too comfortable. Thaire’s an induction session in the meeting room, seemingly aw soas little old me can meet the others. Ah’m wonderin if either Spud or Keezbo’ll be in here, or if they got sent somewhere different. — How many’s here?