Then it was back to ‘C’, but this time Matty Connell. Matty seems to be back in with Shirley, but Sick Boy gets the same forlorn tale. — No go, mate. The boy let us doon, eh, Matty says, — cunt, somebody got busted, a contact ay Swanney’s.
To Sick Boy’s pained ears his voice drips with wily bullshit. — I see, he replies, — catch ye later, and puts the phone down without waiting for a response.
So there had been some kind of a bust, and there was a shortage. But Swanney would have a personal stash to ride out the rough times. With a habit like his, he had to. Sick Boy calls him again.
— Sorry, mate, Swanney says, and Sick Boy can see his grin down the line, as if he’s sitting in the chair opposite, — when ah said ah cannae help ye, ah meant ah cannae help ye. Ah hate repeatin masel. Squawk. Ah hate repeatin masel. Squawk … and he hears Raymie’s hyena-like laughter, high-pitched and derisive, resonate in the background.
— Listen, Sick Boy’s voice drops, — ah’ve goat a wee bird back here in Leith, tidy as fuck n gantin oan it, but ah’m too skaggy-bawed tae ride her. She’s horned up tae fuck: wants tae perty big time.
He hears Maria slamming the bathroom door shut, heading into her bedroom.
— Aw aye? Johnny’s voice is cynical, and he responds in the parodied Crown Court tones now ubiquitous within their company: — I put it to you that this is nothing more than a tissue of lies, carefully constructed in order for you to get sorted out with free skag!
But Sick Boy can feel the hook’s tug, though he knows he’ll have to play the game. — Objection, Your Honour! I would humbly request that this hearing be adjourned for one hour, then reconvened at Tollcross, where Exhibit One can be presented to the court.
A silence. Then, — I would sincerely hope that for your sake, Mr Williamson, the said exhibit is up to scratch. This court takes a very dim view indeed of its time being wasted.
— Gen up, Johnny. She’s a very naughty wee raver. Sick Boy’s voice drops as he hears Maria going through the cupboards, rummaging, cursing. — You’re welcome tae a poke at that hot wee pussy. Fir a wee fix, likes.
The line goes quiet once again, for two horrible beats within which Sick Boy dies a thousand deaths. — Aye? Fit, is she?
— Johnny, this is a ballissimo wee angel. Pure as the driven snaw, till ah broke the seal myself, like, he lies. — Been teachin her some moves n aw, he expands, now enjoying his spiel, countering his own crushing need by trying to set up a greater one in his opponent. He reverts back to Crown Court-speak, this time casting himself in aggressive prosecution tones: — I put it you that you will be every bit as bewitched by this young vixen as I myself was, then adds, — She just wants tae perty.
— Well, we aw want that. So come on down, Johnny says expansively, before snapping like a sprung trap, — Just youse two, mind!
— Nae worries, telt her aw aboot ye, she’s keen tae meet up. Sick Boy fights back a gasp, watching Maria appear, ghostlike, in the doorway. He speaks to her, but into the phone: — We’ll see ye awright, eh, Maria?
The only response, though, is from Johnny. — Right then, see yis.
— See ye in an hour tops. Sick Boy rests the phone on its cradle. — Game on!
Maria greets this news with an ulcerated smile. Sick Boy heads into the bedroom to see that she’s taken everything from her drawers and wardrobe and dumped them on the floor. She follows in behind him. — Ah’ve goat nowt tae wear!
He manages to find an orange-and-white top in the laundry basket that isn’t too soiled, and coaxes her to change into it.
Soon they’re outside again, shivering at a bus shelter in Junction Street. They board the bus which wheels up Lothian Road. An amber-coloured sky hangs behind blue-grey ropes of smoky cloud. — No long now, Sick Boy says into the window, feet tapping on the floor of the bus, watching girls through the muck-streaked glass, imagining them naked, relieved to feel a twinge in his trousers. Resolves he’ll never let junk master his libido.
The bus wheels up Lothian Road and by the time it reaches Tollcross, Sick Boy is shattered. Maria is worse, shaking so much he’s moved to reach down and place his hands on her knees. Stepping off the vehicle, he affects nonchalance. — Mind, Maria, be cool. Flirty. Sexy. Dinnae think aboot gear n say nowt till Johnny mentions it. Did you, ehm … take the pill this morning?
— Course ah did!
— Ah’ll only be in the next room, so dinnae worry. Johnny’s nice, he says faithlessly, as they mount the stairs of the tenement dwelling.
Maria starts chattering, biting on her nails, but as they approach the black door, Sick Boy raises his palm to silence her. He tries to look into the letter box before he knocks, but it won’t yield to the push of his fingers. He bangs on the door and whoever opens it shouts, — Come in, and heads right back into the flat, and they follow. Sick Boy looks back, seeing that a piece of plywood has been nailed over the letter box.
In the living room, along with a couch and chair, a coffee table with a broken vase, an empty birdcage on an old sideboard, an advent calender with each day already opened and all the chocolates removed, and what appears to be a bloodstain on the battered floorboards, Maria registers two men and looks anxiously at Sick Boy, before he introduces them. — Maria, my good friend Mr Raymond Airlie, and our host, Mr Johnny Swan. This is Maria, and he steers her forward, both hands on her shoulders.
— Any gear? Maria begs.
Fuck, thinks Sick Boy.
From the armchair by the empty fireplace, Johnny laughs loudly. — Aw in good time, honeychile. The rules ay the house are: you be nice tae the White Swan, n the White Swan is nice tae you. Ah’m sure Simon here’s telt ye the drill.
Maria moves over and immediately disconcerts him by sitting on his knee. Her hand reaches up and strokes his rough chin. — Let’s go tae the bedroom.
— That’s much, much better, Swanney says in a low growl, then motions her to rise, winking at Sick Boy who cringes as they step out together.
— The flowers of romance, Raymie says disdainfully, but Sick Boy notes, glory, glory, that he’s cooking up.
— You’re a prince, Raymie.
— Prince Buster Hymen, he laughs, nodding to the door, then singing, — This may not be downtown Lee-heeth, but we promised you a fix …
Twenty minutes later, Sick Boy emerges from his daze to hear shouting. It’s Maria. — Jist cook up! she shrieks, following Johnny into the front room. Her top is on inside out, thick braided orange seams running down her arms.
— The impatience ay youth. Let the White Swan have his wee post-coital moment, Johnny protests, clad in a red silk kimono, with golden dragons emblazoned on it. He turns to Sick Boy. — These moves ye taught her … that the best ye kin dae?
— Just gie the lassie her shot, Sick Boy responds with a mimimal shrug.
— Awright, Johnny says, briefly shamed, then starts preparing the shot in cold deliberation.
He insists on fixing for her, seemingly enjoying this penetration even more. As Maria gasps in gratitude, falling into his arms, he covetously strokes the girl’s tousled hair with a tenderness that disturbs Sick Boy.
So he’s over to them, thanking Johnny; begging, hustling and pleading for a ‘wee something’ to take away with him. Johnny stonewalling in response, delivering a smug lecture on the basic laws of supply and demand, but eventually succumbing and dangling a bag in front of a grasping, grateful Sick Boy.