A smile on his face masks the violence of his yank, as he pulls Maria to her feet. Despite Johnny’s mild, skagged protests, the wasted duo depart, heading off on the bus back down to Leith, Sick Boy with his arm around his girl. — Ah’m really, really sorry you hud tae dae that, babe.
— It doesnae bother us, cause it’s for you, she says, then corrects herself, — for us, you n me. It feels barry now. You’re right good tae me, Simon, she says, although he knows she knows that he isn’t, but is hoping to somehow shame him into becoming the version of himself she wants him to be, — dinnae ever leave us …
— No danger, babe, you’re stuck wi me. We’ll get back doon tae yours. I ken a couple ay boys who want tae perty, it’ll be a laugh.
In the bus window, Sick Boy surveys Maria’s reflection, surprised at how young she looks; pallid, wonderstruck. He turns away, anxiously surveying the other passengers. Back in Leith they eagerly head up the stairs of Cables Wynd House, where Maria immediately retreats to the bedroom to lie down.
Sick Boy heads out again, returning an hour later with Chris Moncur from the Grapes of Wrath pub. Chris is six foot two and solid muscle, the first in his family for at least three generations not to work in the now practically defunct docks. Sick Boy wonders if he’s built in proportion. — Go easy oan her, he says in sudden anxiety.
Chris nods in acquiescence, but is offended. If she cannae take a good panelling, what the fuck was she daein in this game?
He emerges twenty minutes later and squares Sick Boy up. Neither man can bear to meet the other’s eyes as the notes change hands. Then Chris says, quite sadly, thumbing back towards the bedroom, — Ah think she’s pished the bed. Ah’d git her showered oaf n change the sheets if ah wis you. No gaunny dae much business thaire.
Shortly after this, Maria comes out. — Ah feel sair, Simon.
He’d been fixing up; it was as if she could smell the cooking skag, and they both take another shot. Maria lies back on the couch and whispers in broken contentment, — Ah feel better, Simon … sorry aboot the sheets … ah feel barry now, but …
— No worries. He slowly but cheerfully rises, getting the old bedclothes, bundling them up and dragging them into the washing machine. He looks outside as a round moon blazes magnesium in the mauve sky, above tenement windows frosted with stark yellow light. Heading back to the bedroom, he curses as his wasted limbs struggle to turn the mattress over. He finds some fresh sheets and makes the bed up as best he can.
When Maria sees his handiwork, she’s right back under the covers. She wants to doze, and him to join her. He slides in and feels a jolt of fear. — Was he big?
She nods.
— Bigger than me?
— That fix … it was barry …
— Aye, but how would you compare us, like, size-wise?
— You’re bigger, Maria says, as Sick Boy senses with both gratitude and regret that she’s learning the game, — but he isnae as gentle as you. He didnae make us come like you do.
Is the correct answer, he concludes, in bleak admiration.
He’s quickly up and dressed in anticipation, slotting a cassette of Pink Floyd’s Meddle into his Walkman. It’s a little slower than usual, as the batteries are starting to go. The next guest is punctual, and Sick Boy lets him in with a blank look, securing payment up front, watching him go into the room where Maria dozes in the bed. The client pulls back the duvet and admires her nakedness. Then he looks pointedly at Sick Boy who steps back from the door, but keeps it ajar so he can look through the crack, where the man undresses in a few swift movements. Thank fuck his dick is small. Sick Boy feels a relief, as, in a sudden violent leap and series of thrusts, he’s on her and inside her.
Maria becomes aware that the mass is heavier than the cloak of sleep and drugs. Sick Boy can’t see her face but she almost says his name, — Si … before realising that the weight, the dimensions, the scent, the feel are all wrong. Her body freezes and she opens her eyes into a nightmare.
— Ah’m sorry about yir daddy, darlin, he says with a slack grin, as he thrusts inside her.
— Naw … leave us … LEAVE US! Maria screams, trying to push him away with her thin, wasted arms, as Sick Boy cringes outside, looking away, turning up Floyd’s epic track ‘Echoes’ on his dodgy Walkman.
— Nivir mind though, ah’m your daddy now, sweetheart, Dickson says, as the batteries die and the guitar riff fades. Sick Boy visualises him putting his hand over Maria’s mouth, simultaneously twisting her head round so she has to look into his eyes.
It’s Sick Boy’s chance, and he runs through to the coat cupboard, and drags the claw hammer from Coke’s toolbox. He watches the white flabby arse of the beast going up and down, these black flannels round his ankles. The ex-cop’s skull is waiting to be smashed to pulp by his heroic intervention, as his beautiful princess twists her head away to scream loud enough to shake the Bannanay flats, then is smothered by the landlord’s hand again.
I could do the cunt now … it would be rape …
But his grip weakens and he lets the hammer fall to the floor as he stands rocking himself slowly, watching the grim proceedings through the door crack.
Dickson seems to take an age, before finally spazzing up and bucking then flopping to a grateful rest on top of the trapped girl. He removes his hand and Maria’s disbelieving whimper rises to a blood-curdling bellow: — No … no … no … Simon … SI-MIN! SI-MI-HI-HIN …
Watching Dickson roll off the girl, Sick Boy notes him hesitate for a second, then pulling on his clothes and springing out the room. — You’re some fuck-up, he says admiringly at the door, and slapping his host’s shoulder, sees himself out.
Maria’s crying softly into the pillow, and Sick Boy’s on her, hammer in his hand, smothering her like a blanket, as if she were on fire, and holding her as she’s bucking and twisting under his grip, all snotters, tears, screams and deep, deep burns. — YOU LET HIM RAPE US … FUCK OFF … KEEP AWAY FAE ME … AH WANT MUH MA … AH WANT MUH DA-HAH-HAD …
— AH HUD THE HAMMER! AH WIS GAUNNY DAE HIM! BUT NO HERE, AH MADE A MISTAKE!
— YE LET HIM RAPE ME –
— SOAS WE COULD GIT HIM! THEN AH REALISED THAT WE CANNAE DAE HIM HERE! WE’D GO DOON!
— AH WANT MY MA … HUH-HA … Maria convulses, and Sick Boy knows he just has to hold her till her rage is spent and sickness creeps into her junk-deprived cells and they scream for another shot.
And he does. The banshee howls fade into the background as his mind wanders off to scams and schemes and Maria feels warm and soft again, like somebody else is making the noise.
Then she sleeps. It’s only when the phone goes off that Sick Boy feels moved to leave her. It won’t stop.
He picks it up, and it’s Uncle Murray, from a motorway Little Chef. He’s spoken to Janey and he’s on his way to get Maria, and Sick Boy had better fucking well be gone by the time he gets there. Despite repeating to the increasingly irate uncle ‘You’ve got the wrong end of the stick here, Murray’ and ‘That’s not my style, Murray’ and ‘We all need to sit down and talk this through, Murray’, when the phone is slammed down Sick Boy suddenly thinks it may not be such a bad idea to vacate the premises. He leaves the dozy girl and heads out and up to Junction Street, then onto the Walk. He thinks he’ll go straight up the thoroughfare to Montgomery Street, where Spud and Renton will be waiting, or even press on to the Hoochie Coochie Club at Tollcross, where there will be girls who are much less high-maintenance.