It takes a lot tae faze Tom though. ‘You know the alternative … Simon. Everybody here is either on an actual or de facto suspended sentence.’
That always concentrates our minds. As fucked as this gig is, it’s a total doss compared tae even the pansiest nick. One thing ah ken, even fae the odd drunken night in the cells, I just isnae cut oot for the chokey. I vowed then and I vow now: I WILL NEVER BE INCARCERATED FOR JUNK. Any bullshit rehab I’m offered by the system, I’ll sign right on the dotted line before I spend one fucking minute behind bars.
Tom turns to Skreel. ‘Martin —’
‘Cry me Skreel.’
‘Sorry, Skreel. What would you like to get out of this group?’
‘Ah jist wahnt tae stoap usin, tae git well again,’ he lies.
Tom nods slowly, maintaining the gaze for a second, before turning to Johnny.
Swanney’s just a total cunt, God bless him. He really kens how to wind everybody up. ‘Of course it’s difficult,’ he shrugs, ‘because we aw ken how barry, how fuckin brilliant, a fix ay skag kin be, especially when yir sick,’ and his tongue darts across his lips, a grin moulding his face, making him look like a lizard who’s plucked a juicy fly oot ay the air. Skreel starts twitching and Molly’s pallid coupon sets more firmly. Audrey gies her nails a brek and starts chewing oan the ends ay her hair, while Spud’s sittin wi his heid in his hands, emitting soft groans, as Johnny carries on, ‘… just that beautiful, rapturous release as it flows through yir veins intae yir brain, and the incredible euphoria as the world’s problems, aw the crap, just dissolve intae dust aw aroond ye. Pain aw gone. For just one wee hit, one wee hit …’ he muses pornographically as Molly, Audrey, Spud, Ted and Skreel squirm in their chairs.
‘That’s enough, please, Johnny,’ says Tom.
‘Jist sayin, like,’ he flashes a manufactured smile, ‘it’s no aw bad, cause if it wis, naebody wid dae it.’
‘Or make money oot ay it,’ Molly spits, wanting tae fight an auld battle.
Tom waves her down, ‘I’m hearing you, Molly, but I want to focus for now on the losses. I’d like you to think about what you’ve lost through being on heroin.’ He rises, and goes over to the flip chart, picking up a pen.
‘Poppy,’ Sick Boy shouts.
Tom turns with a puzzled look. ‘Is that your girlfriend?’
‘Best one I’ve ever had,’ Sick Boy grins, as everybody laughs. Poor Tom stands as stiff and still as a vibrator withoot the Duracell.
‘Eh, dosh,’ Spud says helpfully.
His attempt to spare the blushes is welcome, though Tom’s neck takes on a mair florid hue than usual, as he writes ‘MONEY’ in even block capitals.
‘Mates,’ says Ted.
Tom’s black marker pen spells out ‘FRIENDS’.
‘Ah dinnae ken aboot anybody else,’ Keezbo says, looking sadly at Sick Boy, ‘but what you said aboot girlfriends, Mr Simon —’ he looks tae Audrey and Molly, ‘or boyfriends, no bein sexist aboot it — but the shaggin desire goes.’
Cue a few nervous giggles around the room.
‘No necessarily,’ Swanney cuts in. ‘Best sex ah ever had was oan skag, at the start, like.’
‘Aye, at the start,’ Sick Boy sneers. ‘Probably the only time you hud a ride that ye didnae pey for.’
Swanney flicks him the V-sign. ‘Wisnae that when ye were seek n bangin at ma door, eh?’
Sick Boy squirms in the chair and falls silent. It all goes quiet. It’s like everybody feels something stirring inside their pants, those cocks that ain’t been used in a while, screaming for action. Or, in Molly’s and Audrey’s cases, fannies that huvnae been used much, or mair likely, hav been used tons, but huvnae felt that much.
So we talk away for a bit, the usual shite. We tire easily however, and our gathering yawns signal a stop for a coffee break: the most oily, tarry elixir imaginable, so caffeine-laden it hits you like base speed. This is accompanied by some sugary shortbread and, most of all, the fags. Practically every cunt in here is a serious nicotine addict, even Tom. I’m treated with suspicion, as I hate tabs.
Break times are the best, though. Everybody ends up telling everyone else at least the potted version of his or her personal stories. Except Audrey, and I admire her circumspection in this company. Sick Boy and Maria Anderson had been in a naughty wee scene and when her ma got out of jail, she took Maria right back tae her brother’s in Nottingham. Sick Boy plays at being outraged. ‘They accused me ay being her pimp,’ he snorts tae Seeker. ‘Anti-drug hysteria gives some people very, very lurid imaginations.’
‘It’s the best wey tae keep a wee bitch under control, but,’ Seeker says, and this really is one disturbing cunt, ‘get them oan the gear. Then it’s yir ain wee personal harem. Ye jist reel them in oan the invisible line,’ he simulates fishing, ‘then when yir finished, fling them back.’
Sick Boy acts disdainful, though you can tell he enjoys Seeker’s misogynist spiels. Molly’s freaked by it and Tom chivalrously attempts tae distract her by pulling her intae conversation. She’s having nane ay it, but, and she turns tae Seeker and says: ‘You’re the lowest ay the low!’
‘Aye? High n mighty talk fir a hoor,’ he smiles, then goads, ‘That wid be how it wis wi you n yir felly, but.’
‘You ken nowt aboot us!’
Seeker looks impassively at her. ‘Ah ken thit you wir the yin oan yir back gittin yir wee pussy pummelled by aw sizes n colours ay tadger n he wis the yin oan first dibs whin the Salisbury Crag came oot.’
‘Brandon wis sick! What else could we dae!’
‘He’s done a good joab on you but, that boy,’ Seeker observes appreciatively. ‘Still goat ye whaire he wants ye.’
Molly pushes both her fists into her chest, as if trying to pull out a goring spear. She erupts in tears, turns on her heels and exits, heading for her room. ‘This isn’t helpful,’ Tom says to Seeker, and makes tae go after her, before being stopped by Sick Boy, who’s seen his chance. ‘It’s okay,’ he coos at Tom, ‘I’ll talk tae her.’
The rest ay us finish our coffees and get back tae the group work. After a few minutes, Sick Boy and Molly rejoin us. I’m disappointed in him, I really thought he’d have been right intae her keks. We have a discussion on how heroin made us feel and the term ‘anaesthetic’ comes up. Tom immediately seizes oan this. ‘If heroin is an anaesthetic, what are we anaesthetising ourselves from?’
When did you and us become we, Mistah Big White Motahvay-tah Man?
So the cunt splits us intae two groups and issues us marker pens and flip-chart paper, telling us tae brainstorm or free-associate oor responses. Group One consists ay Spud, Audrey, Molly, Ted and Keezbo. Group Two are the more troublesome little princes: me, Seeker, Sick Boy, Swanney and Skreel.
The groups come back wi their offerings, which are Blu-tacked up onto the wall.
