— Dinnae you start talkin! You couldnae git a fuckin ride in a brothel wi yir cock sandwiched between American Express n Access cairds.
We start slaggin each other, then wir walkin fir a bit, bit ah start thinkin ay wee Dawn, the bairn, n that squirrel, like free n botherin naebody . . . n they wid jist kill it, like that ken, n fir what? It makes us feel really sick, n sad, n angry . . .
Ah’m gittin away fae they people. Ah turn n walk away. Rents comes eftir us. — C’moan Spud . . . fuck sakes man, what is it?
— Youse wir gaunnae kill that squirrel.
— S only a fuckin squirrel, Spud. Thir vermin . . . he sais. He pits his airm roond ma shoodirs.
— It’s mibbe nae mair vermin thin you or me, likesay . . . whae’s tae say what’s vermin . . . they posh wifies think people like us ur vermin, likesay, does that make it right thit they should kill us, ah goes.
— Sorry, Danny . . . s only a squirrel. Sorry mate. Ah ken how ye feel aboot animals. Ah jist, like . . . ye ken whit ah mean Danny, it’s like . . . fuck, ah mean, ah’m fucked up, Danny. Ah dinnae ken. Begbie n that . . . the gear. Ah dinnae ken what ah’m daein wi ma life . . . it’s aw jist a mess, Danny. Ah dinnae ken whit the fuckin score is. Sorry man.
Rents husnae called us ‘Danny’ for ages, now he cannae stoap callin us it. He looks really upset, likesay.
— Hey . . . hang loose catboy . . . it’s jist likesay animals n that, likes . . . dinnae worry aboot that shit . . . ah wis jist thinkin ay innocent wee things, like Dawn the bairn, ken . . . ye shouldnae hurt things, likes . . .
He likesay, grabs a haud ay us n hugs us. — Yir one ay the best, man. Remember that.That’s no drink n drugs talkin, that’s me talkin. It’s jist thit ye git called aw the poofs under the sun if ye tell other guys how ye feel aboot them if yir no wrecked . . . Ah slaps his back, n it’s likesay ah want tae tell him the same, but it would sound, likesay, ah wis jist sayin it cause he sais it tae me first. Ah sais it anywey though.
We hear Sick Boy’s voice at oor backs. — You two fuckin buftie-boys. Either go intae they trees n fuck each other, or come n help us find Beggars n Matty.
Wi break oor embrace n laugh. Wi both ken that likesay Sick Boy, for aw the cat’s desire tae rip open every binliner in toon, is one ay the best n aw.
Blowing It
Courting Disaster
The magistrate’s expression seems tae oscillate between pity n loathing, as he looks doon at me n Spud in the dock.
— You stole the books from Waterstone’s bookshop, with the intention of selling them, he states. Sell fuckin books. Ma fuckin erse.
— No, ah sais.
— Aye, Spud sais, at the same time. We turn aroond n look at each other. Aw the time we spent gittin oor story straight n it takes the doss cunt two minutes tae blow it.
The magistrate lets oot a sharp exhalation. It isnae a brilliant job the cunt’s goat, whin ye think aboot it. It must git pretty tiresome dealin wi radges aw day. Still, ah bet the poppy’s fuckin good, n naebody’s asking the cunt tae dae it. He should try tae be a wee bit mair professional, a bit mair pragmatic, rather than showin his annoyance so much.
— Mr Renton, you did not intend to sell the books?
— Naw. Eh, no, your honour. They were for reading.
— So you read Kierkegaard. Tell us about him, Mr Renton, the patronising cunt sais.
— I’m interested in his concepts of subjectivity and truth, and particularly his ideas concerning choice; the notion that genuine choice is made out of doubt and uncertainty, and without recourse to the experience or advice of others. It could be argued, with some justification, that it’s primarily a bourgeois, existential philosophy and would therefore seek to undermine collective societal wisdom. However, it’s also a liberating philosophy, because when such societal wisdom is negated, the basis for social control over the individual becomes weakened and . . . but I’m rabbiting a bit here. Ah cut myself short. They hate a smart cunt. It’s easy to talk yourself into a bigger fine, or fuck sake, a higher sentence. Think deference Renton, think deference.
The magistrate snorts derisively. As an educated man ah’m sure he kens far mair aboot the great philosophers than a pleb like me. Yiv goat tae huv fuckin brains tae be a fuckin judge. S no iviry cunt thit kin dae that fuckin joab. Ah can almost hear Begbie sayin that tae Sick Boy in the public gallery.
— And you, Mr Murphy, you intended to sell the books, like you sell everything else that you steal, in order to finance your heroin habit?
— That’s spot on man . . . eh . . . ye goat it, likesay, Spud nodded, his thoughtful expression sliding into confusion.
— You, Mister Murphy, are an habitual thief. Spud shakes his shoodirs as if tae say, its no ma fault. — The reports state that you are still addicted to heroin. You are also addicted to the act of theft, Mr Murphy. People have to work hard to produce the goods you repeatedly steal. Others have to work hard to earn the money to purchase them. Repeated attempts to get you to cease these petty, but persistent crimes, have so far proved fruitless. I am therefore going to give you a custodial sentence of ten months.
— Thanks . . . eh, ah mean . . . nae hassle, likesay . . .
The cunt turns tae me. Fuck sakes.
— You, Mr Renton, are a different matter. The reports say that you are also a heroin addict; but have been trying to control your drug problem. You claim that your behaviour is related to depression experienced due to withdrawal from the drug. I am prepared to accept this. I am also prepared to accept your claim that you intended to push Mr Rhodes away, in order to stop him from assaulting you, rather than to cause him to fall over. I am therefore going to suspend a sentence of six months on the condition that you continue to seek appropriate treatment for this addiction. Social services will monitor your progress. While I can accept that you had the cannabis in your possession for your own use, I cannot condone the use of an illegal drug; even though you claim you take it in order to combat the depression you suffer from as the result of heroin withdrawal. For the possession of this controlled drug, you will be fined one hundred pounds. I suggest that you find other ways to fight depression in the future. Should you, like your friend Daniel Murphy, fail to take the opportunity presented to you and appear before this court again, I shall have no hesitation in recommending a custodial sentence. Do I make myself clear?
Clear as a bell, you fuckin docile cunt. I love you, shite-for-brains.
— Thank you, your honour. I’m only too well aware of the disappointment I’ve been to my family and friends and that I am now wasting valuable court time. However, one of the key elements in rehabilitation is the ability to recognise that the problem exists. I have been attending the clinic regularly, and am undergoing maintenance therapy having been prescribed methadone and temazepan. I’m no longer indulging in self-deception. With god’s help, I’ll beat this disease. Thank you again.
The magistrate looks closely at us tae see if thirs any sign ay mockery oan ma face. No chance it’ll show. Ah’m used tae keepin deadpan whin windin up Begbie. Deadpan’s better than dead. Convinced it’s no bullshit, the doss cunt dismisses the session. Ah walk tae freedom; perr auld Spud gits taken doon.
A polisman gestures tae him tae move.
— Sorry mate, ah sais, feelin cuntish.
— Nae hassle man . . . I’ll git oaf the skag, and Saughton’s barry fir hash. It’ll be a piece ay pish likesay . . . he sais, as he’s escorted away by a po-faced labdick.
In the hall ootside the courtroom, ma Ma comes up tae us n hugs us. She looks worn oot, wi black circles under her eyes.
— Aw laddie, laddie, whit ah’m ah gaunnae dae wi ye? she sais.
— Silly bastard. That shite’ll kill ye. Ma brother Billy shakes his heid.
Ah wis gaunnae say something tae the cunt. Nae fucker asked him tae come here, and his crass observations are equally unwelcome. However, Frank Begbie came ower as ah wis aboot tae speak.
— Rents! Nice one ma man! Some fuckin re
sult, eh? Shame aboot Spud, but it’s better thin we fuckin expected. He’ll no dae ten months. Be oot in fuckin six, wi good behaviour. Less, even.
Sick Boy, looking like an advertising executive, pits his airm aroond ma Ma, and gies us a reptilian smile.
— This calls fir a fuckin celebration. Deacon’s? Franco suggests. Like junkies, we file out after him. Nobody hus the motivation tae dae anything else, and pish wins by default.
— If you knew what you’ve done tae me n yir faither . . . ma Ma looked at us, deadly serious.
— Stupid fucker, Billy sneered, — nickin books oot ay shoaps. This cunt wis gettin ma fuckin goat.
— Ah’ve been nickin books oot ay fuckin shoaps fir the last six years. Ah’ve goat four grand’s worth ay books at Ma’s n in ma flat. Ye think ah boat any ay thaim? That’s a four-grand profit oan nickin books, doss cunt.
— Aw Mark, ye didnae, no aw they books . . . Ma looked heartbroken.
— But that’s me finished now, Ma. Ah eywis sais thit the first time ah goat caught; that wis it over. Yir snookered eftir that. Time tae hang up yir boots. Finito. Endy story. Ah was serious aboot this. Ma must’ve thought so tae, cause she changes tack.
— And watch your language. You as well, she turned tae Billy. — Ah dunno whair yis got that fae, cause yis nivir heard it in ma hoose.
Billy raises his eyebrows dubiously at me, and ah’m gieing him the same gesture back, a rare display ay sibling unity between us.
Everybody gits a bit pished quickly. Ma embarrasses Billy n me, by talkin aboot her periods. Jist because she wis forty-seven n still goat periods, she hud tae make sure everybody kent aboot it.
— Ah wis flooded. Tampons ur useless wi me. Like tryin tae stoap a burst water main wi an Evening News, she laughed loudly, throwing her heid back in that sickening, sluttish too-many-Carlsberg-Specials-at-the-Leith-Dockers-Club gesture ah knew so well. Ah realise that Ma’s been drinkin this morning. Probably mixin it wi the vallies.
— Awright Ma, ah sais.
— Dinnae tell us yir auld mother’s embarrassing ye? She grabs ma thin cheek in between her thumb n forefinger. — Ah’m jist gled thit thuv no taken ma wee bairn away. He hates bein called that. Ye’ll always be ma wee bairns, the two ay yis. Remember whin ah used tae sing ye yir favourite song, whin ye wir a wee thing in yir pushchair?
Ah clamped ma teeth tightly thegither, as ah felt ma throat go dry and the blood drain fae ma face. Surely tae fuck, naw.
— Momma’s little baby loves shortnin shortnin, momma’s little baby loves shortnin bread . . . she sang tunelessly. Sick Boy gleefully joined in. Ah wished that ah hud gone doon instead ay that lucky cunt Spud.
— Wid momma’s little baby like another pint? Begbie asked.
— Aye, yis might bloody sing as well. Ye might bloody sing, ya fuckin bastards! Spud’s Ma had come intae the pub.
— Really sorry aboot Danny, Mrs Murphy . . . ah began.
— Sorry! Ah’ll gie yis sorry! If it wisnae for you n this crowd ay bloody rubbish, ma Danny widnae be in the fuckin jail right now!
— Come oan now Colleen hen. Ah ken yir upset, but that’s no fair. Ma stood up.
— Ah’ll tell ye bloody fair! It wis this yin! She pointed venomously at me. — This yin goat ma Danny oantae that stuff. Bloody standin up thair, fill ay his fancy talk in the court. This yin thair, and that bloody pair. Sick Boy and Beggars were included, tae ma relief, in her anger.
Sick Boy said nothing, but raised himself slowly in the chair with an I’ve-never-been-so-insulted-in-all-my-life expression, followed by a sad, patronising shake of his head.
— That’s fuckin oot ay order! Begbie snapped ferociously. There were no sacred cows for that cunt, not even auld ones fae Leith whose laddies had jist been sent tae jail. — Ah nivir touch that shite, and ah’ve telt Rents n Spu . . . Mark n Danny thit thir radges daein it! Sick . . . Simon’s been clean fir fuckin months. Begbie stood up, fuelled by his own indignation. He thrashed at his own chest with his fist, as if to stop himself from striking Mrs Murphy, and screamed in her face: — AH WIS THE FACKIN CUNT TRYIN TAE GIT UM OAF IT!
Mrs Murphy turned away and ran oot ay the pub. The expression oan her face got tae us; it wis one ay total defeat. No only hud she loast her son tae prison, she’d hud her image ay him compromised. Ah felt fir the woman, and resented Franco.
— Aye, she’s the billy ay the washhoose, that yin, Ma commented, but adding wistfully, — ah kin feel fir her though. Her laddie gaun tae jail. She looked at me, shaking her head. — For aw the hassle, ye wouldnae be withoot them. How’s your wee yin, Frank? She turned to Begbie.
I cringed to think about how easily people like ma Ma were taken in by punters like Franco.
— Barry, Mrs Renton. Gittin some some fuckin size.
— Call us Cathy. Ah’ll Mrs Renton yis! Yis make us feel ancient!
— Ye are, ah commented. She ignored us completely, and naebody else laughed, no even Billy. Indeed, Begbie and Sick Boy looked at us like disapproving uncles do tae a cheeky brat whae it isnae their place tae chastise. Ah’m now relegated tae the same status as Begbie’s bairn.
— Wee laddie, is it Frank? Ma asks her fellow parent.
— Aye, too right. Ah sais tae Ju, ah sais, if it’s a lassie it’s gaun right back.
Ah could just see ‘Ju’ now, wi that grey, porridge-coloured skin, greasy hair and thin body with the sagging flesh still hanging off it, her face frozen neutral, deathly; unable tae smile or frown. The valium taking the edge off her nerves as the bairn lets rip with another volley of shudder-inducing screams. She’ll love that child, as much as Franco’ll be indifferent tae the perr wee cunt. It’ll be a smothering, indulgent, unquestioning, forgiving love, which will ensure that the kid turns oot tae be jist like its daddy. That kid’s name wis doon fir H.M. Prison Saughton when it was still in June’s womb, as sure as the foetus of a rich bastard is Eton-bound. While this process is going on, daddy Franco will be whair he is now: the boozer.
— Ah’ll be an auld grandma masel soon! God, ye widnae believe it. Ma Ma looked at Billy with awe and pride. He simpered proudly. Since he’d got his lemon, Sharon, up the stick, he was my Ma and faither’s golden boy. Forgotten is the fact thit that cunt’s brought the labdicks tae the hoose mair times thin ah hud ivir done; at least ah hud the decency no tae shite oan ma ain doorstep. This now means fuck all. Just because he’s signed up fir the fuckin army again, six bastard years this time, and bairned some slag. Ma Ma n faither ought tae be askin the cunt what the fuck he’s daein wi his life. But naw. It’s aw proud smiles.
— If it’s a lassie Billy, git her tae take it back, Begbie repeated, slurring this time. The bevvy wis getting to him. Another cunt whae’s been oan the pish since fuck knows when.
— That’s the spirit Franco, Sick Boy slapped Begbie on the back, tryin tae encourage the radge, tae gie him mair rope so that he’ll come oot with another crass Begbie classic or two. We collect aw his stupidest, most sexist and violent quotes tae use whin impersonating him whin he’s no aroond. We kin make oorsels almost ill wi convulsive laughter. The game hus an edge: thinking aboot how he’d respond if he found oot. Sick Boy hus even started makin faces behind his back. One day, either one ay us or the baith ay us’ll go too far, and be marked by fist, bottle or subjected tae ‘the discipline ay the basebaw bat’. (One ay Begbie’s choice quotes.)
We taxied doon tae Leith. Begbie hud began grumbling aboot ‘toon prices’ and hud started tae pursue a totally irrational advocacy ay Leith as an entertainment centre. Billy agreed, wantin tae get closer tae hame, reasoning that his pregnant burd wid be mair easily appeased if the placatory phone call came fi a local pub.
Sick Boy would huv heartily denounced Leith, hud ah no done so first. The cunt therefore took great delight in phoning the taxi. We goat intae a pub at the Fit ay the Walk, one thit ah’ve nivir liked, but one thit we always seemed tae git stuck in. Fat Malcolm, behind the bar, goat us a double voddy oan the house.
— Heard ye goat a result. Well done that man.
Ah shrugged. A couple ay auldish guys wir treatin Begbie like he wis a Hollywood star; listening indulgently tae one ay his stories that wisnae particularly funny, and this they’d probably heard many times before anyway.
Sick Boy bought a roond ay drinks, makin a total meal ay it, ostentatiously waving his money aboot.
— BILLY! LAGER? MRS RENTON . . . EH CATHY! WHAT’S THAT? GIN N BITTER LEMON? he shouted back at the corner table fae the bar.
Ah realised thit Begbie, now involved in a conspiratorial tale wi an ugly, box-heided wanker, the type who ye avoid like the plague, hud slipped Sick Boy the dough tae git the bevvy up.
Billy wis arguing wi Sharon oan the phone.
— Ma fuckin brar gits oaf fi gittin sent doon! Nickin books, assaultin a member ay the shoap’s staff, possession ay drugs. The spawny cunt gits a result. Even ma Ma’s here! Ah’m entitled tae celebrate, fuck sake . . .
He must have been desperate if he wis reduced tae playin the brotherly love caird.
— Thair’s Planet Ay The Apes, Sick Boy whispered tae us, noddin ower at a guy whae drank in the pub. He looked like an extra fi that film. As always, he wis pished n tryin tae find company. Unfortunately, his eye caught mine, n he came ower tae us.
— Interested in hoarses? he asks.
— Naw.
— Interested in fitba? he slurs.
— Naw.
— Rugby? he’s soundin desperate now.
— Naw, ah sais. Whether he wis oan the make or jist wanted company wis difficult tae determine. Ah don’t think the cunt knew hissel. He hud lost interest in me anywey, n turned tae Sick Boy.
— Interested in hoarses?
— Naw. Ah hate fitba n rugby n aw. Films ah like though. Especially yon Planet Ay The Apes? Ivir seen that yin? Ah lap that up.
— Aye! Ah remember that yin! Planet Ay The Apes. Charlton Fuckin Heston. Roddy Mc . . . what’s the boy’s name? Wee cunt. Ye ken whae ah’m talkin aboot. He kens whae ah’m talkin aboot! Planet Ay The Apes turns tae us.