— What the fuck d’ye think? What wis ah fuckin well sayin aw this week, ya daft cunt? Heid too fill ay aw this fanny nonsense, that’s your fuckin trouble! Ebirdeen! The day. Easter Road. The YLT: show they wee casual cunts how it’s done. You, me, Saybo, Nelly, Dexy, Sully, Lenny, Ricky Monaghan, Dode Sutherland, Jim Sutherland, Chancy McLean n loads ay other cunts. Larry’s oot ay hoaspital! Some fuckin mob! The auld school ur back oan the rampage! Cannae git a fuckin hud ay Spud but he’s jist like Renton n Sick Boy doon in London: nae fuckin loss. Fuckin liabilities whin it comes tae the fuckin swedge, they cunts.
Tommy stands agog, listening in disbelief to Franco’s spiel.
— Aye, wir aw doon the Cenny right now. Even Second Prize! No drinkin n aw. Meant tae be oaf the peeve; like that’s gaunny fuckin last! Hates a bevvy, that cunt. That’ll be a laugh, him n that fuckin Ebirdeen cunt that looks like Bobby Charlton, rollin around in the fuckin gutter thegither! Mind ay him, the cunt thit’s baldy as fuck at twinty-two?
— Scargill, Tommy says, remembering this plump guy with a frizzy comb-over, leading an Aberdeen ambush in King Street from the Pittodrie Bar. — Ah’ll see yis doon thaire later, he says with as much enthusiasm as he can muster.
— Be sure ye fuckin well dae. Franco looks on in accusation. — Thuv brought doon a big fuckin mob, n it’s aw hands oan the fuckin deck. Thir no fuckin swaggerin aroond Leith, fuckin well surein thair no. A bunch ay fuckin sheepshaggers wi thair diddy European Cup Winners’ Cup, comin doon here, drinkin in oor pubs, chattin up oor … Franco hesitates, looks at Tommy.
Tommy can’t resist it. — Sheep?
Franco just shuts down for a few seconds. He goes still and silent and the oxygen seems to leave the stair. Then a thin smile dances on his lips. He laughs loudly, allowing Tommy to expel the air he hasn’t realised he’s been holding on to. — Good yin, ya cunt! Right, mind, jist be thaire, Begbie says, turning abruptly and bouncing down the stairs. He looks back up at Tommy from the stairbend and says in a low, even growl, — Mind, dinnae keep us waitin.
Tommy shuts the door and tries to gather himself. Lizzie’s quick appearance with her hands on her hips, and that expression on her face that says, well? It shunts him from despondency to desperation. — Franco … ah forgot ah’d arranged tae go tae the game with the boys.
— Ah dinnae like fuckin psychopaths comin tae ma door in the morning, Tommy.
— Franco’s awright … he says half-heartedly. — His cousin steys doonstairs. Avril.
— Aye. I know who she is. Three kids and aw wi different faithers … she begins in disapproval but his wretched, cartoonish expression of repentance under that chestnut wedge of hair softens her. — We’ve nae milk.
— I’ll go doon for some, he volunteers.
Tommy sticks on his jumper before venturing outside. There is a skip in his step as he emerges from Lizzie’s stair. But one thought ignites inside him: me and Lizzie. Even Franco can’t dampen that. It is a result.
The street is slowly coming to life, as bleary party heads who’ve stayed up all night merge with those making a fresh assault on the weekend. As he passes a phone box, Tommy feels a surge of inspiration, as Franco’s words, sly and crass but also thoroughly vindicating, ricochet inside his lit-up skull. Fill hoose fuckin last night then, Tommy, eh? Oafay wee teeny drawers n aw! That’ll seeken Sick Boy’s fuckin pus, ya cunt!
He double-backs to make a call to London. A faraway voice answers, as he drops in the coins. — Hello, hello, it’s good to be back …
It’s Renton. He sounds wasted. — Mark.
— Tommy … yir nivir gaunny believe it, ah wis jist gaunny phone ye … what did ah jist say tae you, Nicksy?
A cockney voice, which Tommy recognises; the wee guy we met at Blackpool, the boy that was up at New Year. Nicksy. — Olroight, Tommy mate? Come dahn ere n take these cunts back up ta Jockoland … we gotta bitta farking graft lined up tamorra and them fuckahs ain’t able …
— Naw, mate, you’re stuck wi them now. We dinnae want these bams back up here!
— Another flaming cross ta bear … Alright, geezer, see ya …
— Cheers, gadge …
And then Rents is back on. — How goes bonnie Scotland, Tam?
— The usual. Begbie’s oan the fuckin warpath again.
— Aye … the boy just needs a wee bit ay love …
— Wantin tae go battlin at the fitba wi Aberdeen. It’s bad enough wi Lochend n that, now he’s wantin us tae fight wi cunts ah dinnae even ken! What’s it tae me if these Aberdeen boys batter some gadgie fae Granton or somewhere? Begbie’s aw fired up by aw this casuals shite. He’s six or seven years aulder than these wee cunts. It’s pathetic.
— Ye ken the Generalissimo. Any excuse for aggro. It’s his thing … Renton collapses into a strange laughter Tommy hasn’t heard from him before. — Heuh … heuh …
— What was that?
— Sick Boy’s sayin that he needs tae git rode.
— Makes nae difference. That Samantha Frenchard tramp fae Pilton’s hud his bairn and now he’s goat that June Chisholm up the stick.
— Aye, but they’d need tae a bit fuckin doolally lettin Franco ride them in the first place. So what aboot youse then? Any serious girl action? Or is it aw still drugs?
A pause. Then Renton says: — Ah ha! Guess whae’s shaggin and phonin up jist tae rub it in oor faces!
— Well, aye, ah met somebody the weekend before last. And it’s aw goin pri-tay fuckin sweet if ah say so masel.
— Aboot time you got yir Nat King. Anybody we ken?
— Lizzie, Lizzie McIntosh.
— No way!
— Aye way. We’re proper gaun oot.
— Jammy cunt! Snobby ultra-shag Lizzie fae ower the Links –
— Whaat … he hears Sick Boy saying, — Tommy’s riding Lizzie Mac?
— Aye, it’s mental, Rents goes, then says into the phone, — Ah used tae wank aboot her … Did ah tell ye aboot the time ah once caught Begbie wanking ower her at the school sports — no wanking ower her physically, or like ower her in porn, wanking aboot her –
— Ah sais we’re gaun oot, Mark! Tommy protests, remembering how Rents and Sick Boy together are often a devastatingly cruel combination. While professing to get on each other’s nerves, they constantly egg each other on like malevolent twins fixated on the woe of others.
There follows another uncomfortable hiatus on the line, which Renton eventually ends. — Aye … eh, sorry, Tam, we should be mair, eh, mature … nice yin. Result. Nae riding gaun oan wi me, but Sick Boy … well, Sick Boy’s Sick Boy, eh?
— Ingloid fanny-fest! Sick Boy shouts defiantly into the phone.
— We’ve goat a dug but, Renton continues. — Nicksy wanted tae call it Clyde, eftir Clyde Best, cause he’s a black Lab, but me n Sick Boy started callin him Giro n that’s what he answers tae –
The pips start to rattle. — Right. See ye later, Mark.
— Right … Tell Swanney … Rents starts to ramble and Tommy enjoys the sensation of the line going dead before he lowers the phone to its cradle.
In the shop Tommy buys some milk and a newspaper. His inclination is the Record, but he thinks the Scotsman might impress Lizzie more. He picks it up and is about to hand it over to the shop assistant, then decides to swap it for the Herald on last-minute considerations of sexism. He doesn’t know whether Lizzie is a feminist of some sort, but this early in the gig, it pays to tick every box.