Skinny-Specky’s glance is measured and unfazed. It’s like she’s seein us fir the first time. She slowly shakes her heid. — This project is about being drug-free. You’ll come off the methadone maintenance here. You’ll be part of a group, a society, here at St Monans, one that works, rests and plays together, and make no mistake, it will be tough, she says, lookin tae ma parents. — Now, Mr and Mrs Renton, if you don’t mind, we really should get Mark settled in.
Fuck sakes!
My ma gies me a bonecrushing hug. Ma faither, noting my obvious discomfort, settles fir a weary nod. He hus tae pull her away as she’s sobbin her fuckin eyes oot. — But he’s ma bairn, Davie, he’ll eywis be ma bairn …
— C’moan now, Cathy.
— Ah’ll get masel sorted oot here, Ma, you’ll see. Ah try n crack a smile.
Just fuckin go! Now!
Ah want tae lie doon. Ah dinnae want tae be part ay Skinny-Specky’s daft wee group, her fuckin society. But nonetheless, as ma parents shuffle ootside, ah’m awready daydreamin aboot fawin in love wi her; me n Skinny-Specky oan a Caribbean island wi an endless supply ay gear, procured fae her employers in the NHS. She’s like one ay they sexy librarian birds thit wid be shaggable as fuck when the hair comes doon n the bins come oaf.
So Len escorts us tae ma room. For aw his scrubbed, affable demeanour, he’s a big cunt, like a benign bouncer, n ah widnae fancy tryin tae git past him. He flips on the fluorescent light, which blinks like a nightclub strobe, then stabilises, searing the room in a sick glow, with accompanying insect drone. Ah lie oot oan the bed, takin in the gaff. It’s a mundane hybrid ay the residences at Aberdeen and the cabin on The Freedom of Choice. There’s the same wee built-in desk-and-shelves unit with chair as at the uni, and a similarly designed wardrobe and chest ay drawers. But Len-the-Fringe tells me no tae git too comfortable. Thaire’s an induction session in the meeting room, seemingly aw soas little old me can meet the others. Ah’m wonderin if either Spud or Keezbo’ll be in here, or if they got sent somewhere different. — How many’s here?
— We currently have nine clients.
But first he issues me wi a timetable, the same one as ah saw on the waw at the reception area. — Just want to quickly take you through this …
Lothian Health Board/Lothian Region Department of Social Work St Monans Substance-Dependency Group
Daily Timetable
— Wake up at seven in the morning? That’s goat tae be a joke!
— Aye, it’s a tough one at first, Len acknowledges, — but people soon get used tae it. It’s all about getting some order back intae those chaotic lifestyles. We assemble for breakfast, which everyone must attend, even if they’re in detox, after which you’re issued with any relevant medicines you need.
— Seven in the mornin’s ridic, ah moan. The last time ah wis up that early wis Gillsland’s. — N meditation? What’s aw that? Ah’m no sayin prayers or chantin or nowt like that!
Len laughs and shakes his heid. — It’s no about religion, we dinnae follow the NA/AA model. We don’t demand that you submit tae God or a higher power, though if you do feel so inclined it wouldnae be discouraged. It’s proven very effective and popular with substance-dependent clients in the past.
The only higher power ah’d ever submit tae would be Paddy Stanton or Iggy Pop.
— What’s aw this substance-dependence stuff?
— We prefer that tae the term addict.
— Fine, ah shrug.
Len’s thick finger taps at the sheet, redirecting ma attention back tae the timetable. — The process review group gives us the opportunity to look at how we’re functioning as members of this community, and flag up any issues we have relating to that. As you might imagine, they can get lively. After lunch we have our individual sessions, where you’ll be working with Tom or Amelia. Then we do a group session to look at the issues of substance dependency. After dinner, it’s free time, and we have a television, a pool table and also some fitness and musical equipment. It’s not a great deal, basically just some hand weights and a guitar, but we’re hoping to get more stuff soon. There’s an optional light supper, usually just a hot chocolate or Horlicks and biscuit. We put out the lights in all common areas and switch off the telly at eleven o’clock. During the forty-five-day programme, you aren’t allowed any phone calls, unless on compassionate grounds and by prior agreement with a senior member of staff. You are allowed letters, but any incoming mail will be opened and vetted before being issued to you. No drugs, including alcohol, are permitted on the premises. We make a reluctant exception for nicotine and caffeine, he grins. — You aren’t allowed off the facility during the period of your treatment, unless on a project outing and under staff supervision.
— This is like the fuckin jail!
Len shakes his heid dismissively. – The jail they just lock you up, then throw you out. We want you to get better, He stands up. – Right, we have a little induction meeting, all for you, but first let me show ye aroond.
He gives me a tour ay ‘the facility’, as they call it. He explains that we’re by the village of St Monans, in the East Neuk of Fife, close tae Anstruther, a small, picturesque former fishing town, now given ower tae tourism. But as we’ll never get oot tae see the place, it could be fuckin miles away. The village and this project are named after St Monans, a saint that nae cunt kens a thing aboot. The Patron Saint of Fuck All, and thus perfect for this place. The centre is a U-shaped building wi a walled gairden tae the back. It has ten bedrooms, a kitchen, dining room and a recreation room wi a pool table n telly. Off the recky room is a small conservatory, leading tae a patio n the gairden, which is hemmed in by big trees.
— And this is the meeting room, Len says, opening a door, but as ah step inside, the first thing ah hear is: — RENTON, YA CUNT, then aw this laughter follayed by a round ay applause. Ah cannae fuckin believe it. Thir aw fuckin here!
— Fuck sakes! Youse cunts, ah hear masel squeal in delight. It’s like walkin intae a surprise birthday perty!
— Goat the fill set now, boys, Johnny Swan, wearin a fuckin collar n tie, laughs.
There’s Keezbo, half zonked oot, elbaw on the chair airmrest, wi his big heid propped oan a doughy fist, and Spud, whae’s sittin shiverin, airms wrapped roond hissel, in that classic junky pose. — Catboy, he sais.
And Sick Boy’s slumped in a corner seat. Ah nods n sits doon beside um. — Nice place yir auntie’s goat.
He pills a tired smile. — Hud tae be done.
Spud asks Len aboot getting something for his cramps as Sick Boy and Swanney intro us tae a boy fae Niddrie called Greg Castle, whae inevitably gits called Roy. Thare’s a jumpy-lookin wee cunt, Ted fae Bathgate, n a Weedgie boy wi black eyes n a long, broken and bent nose thit gits kent as Skreel. He jist goat in yesterday n he’s rattlin like fuck. Thaire’s jist one lassie, a curly-mopped bird called Molly, who looks at me wi naked hostility through pinched features. The track marks on the underside ay her thin, white wrists are angry enough, but dwarfed by surgically proficient crimson lacerations ay varied depth. Maist scary, though, is this big biker called Seeker, whae ah’ve never met but ken by rep. His glassy eyes briefly stare intae me wi X-ray potency, before he turns away, as if he’s seen everything and is now bored.
Swanney gies me a stealthy wink n discreetly pills oot a wee razor blade. Ah clock him nick the inside ay his mooth, catchin the blood in his hands, looking tae Len, whae’s shitein it. — Ma stitch is burst …
— The nurse isn’t in …
— Ah’ll chum um tae git cleaned up, ah quickly volunteer.
— Right …
Ah catch Sick Boy, Keezbo and Spud lookin daggers at us as Swanney n me nash ootside doon the hall tae the bogs. He’s goat works doon his boot n he quickly cooks up. — Last ay the summer wine, buddy. Enjoy it, cause wir in fir a rough ride …
He pills oaf his tie n tourniquets ma airm. We’re dabbin away at a wrap ay speed n it faws oot ma hand as he slams me up and the heroin goes tae ma brain,
killin aw the world’s pain.
Fuckin barry, ya cunt …
Ah sit blissed oot oan the crapper as Swanney fixes, tellin me that he wis hudin, n this is the last. He retrieves the speed wrap n we finish it, even though it’s the last thing ah want. — Take it, he commands, as he struggles tae fix his tie. — If they kin tell yir wasted it’s game ower. He rolls his eyes. — But it’s awright here, a great network ay contacts.
— Ta, Johnny, ah gasp, — sound ay ye, man.
— Nae bother, he goes.
When we get back Len-the-Fringe and Skinny-Specky have launched intae this spiel, but nae cunt’s listenin, thir aw slumped back intae thair chairs, n we join thum. It’s gaunny be awright in here. These are ma people: the St Monans crew.
The Cusp
TO ALISON, TIME had become a fractured series of base biological impulses.
Bill and Carole, the other co-workers in her team, knew all about the relationship but were discreet, even supportive, in a quietly protective way. But like Alexander, they noticed the state Alison was coming to work in, when she came in at all. This couldn’t go on. Now here she was again, ghosting in at ten thirty. Alexander made a show of getting her straight into his office, eyes blazing, a gallows set to his mouth. — Look, it might not mean anything to you, he began, — but we’re on the cusp of an epidemic in this city. I can’t show you favouritism above the others. C’mon, Ali, he entreated suddenly, the lowered voice of the lover supplanting that of the boss, — you’re taking the piss here!
— Sorry … it’s just … she blinked at the silver light spearing in between the blinds of the big window behind him, — they buses are mental …
— I really think we should consider getting you transferred, maybe back to the RCP. It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have got involved …
An other-worldly glint sparked in Alison’s eye. Her mouth twisted in sulky defiance. — If it’s your fault, how is it me that’s gettin transferred?
Alexander starkly saw her as a young lassie, and for the first time, experienced a fleetingly snobbish sense of her as common: as a schemie. And it shamed him, thinking that way. He could say nothing in response. It wasn’t fair; he knew that. Yes, he could cite his status and crucial role in fighting this plague, but he didn’t think that was what she’d want to hear. It was time to be honest, as callously forthright as she had been with him, when she’d told him she was seeing other people. — Tanya and me … we’ve decided to make another go of it, for the kids’ sake.
Alison felt herself burn at this news. She didn’t know why; she’d neither wanted nor had any sense of her and Alexander ever being a long-term thing. Perhaps it was just the shock of rejection, or maybe being with him had bestowed more than she’d realised. — Good for you, she responded, with as much grace as she could muster. His doleful stare told her she’d not done too badly. — I’m pleased, and I’m no just saying that, Alison declared, even though, on at least one level, it was a lie. — Kids need both parents, she continued, mustering conviction. — I never wanted tae marry ye, Alexander, it was just shagging. Get a grip.
That slightly mocking, somewhat arcane expression of hers, struck at his core. He loved her, and felt so downcast at the irreparable nature of it all. — I really don’t know if it’s appropriate that we continue working together –
— Oh fuck off, yir really starting tae creep me oot now, and that’s pittin it mildly, she scoffed at him, her laugh hollow and bitter. — I’ve had shit going on, you’ve had shit going on, we shouldnae have ended up in bed, but we did. It’s over, and I’ve nae fuckin interest in broadcasting it tae the world.
— Right … he said falteringly, feeling small, wee-boy weak.
His passivity jolted something inside her. Alison thought about her mother, dying, yet unable to rage against it. The lines from that classic Dylan Thomas poem resonated in her. She had gaped at that withering body, so ruined and decayed it was practically a corpse long before her last heartbeat. It was accompanied by the realisation that she herself was moving forward in life, at the same time as her expectations and ideals were being profoundly shaken. What was it, all this council stuff, this nonsense about fucking trees? It was a pile of meaningless shite, for pompous little cretins to get self-absorbed over. — But ken what? Ah’m gaunny make it easy for ye, she said, in a sudden low growl. — Ah resign. Fae the council. Ah’ve had it here!
— Don’t be silly, you can’t lose your job, Alison, I won’t let you do that, Alexander said, sensing his words falling hopelessly into the widening chasm between them.
— Fuck all tae dae wi you, she said, and walked out of his office, through the open plan, not looking at Bill and Carole, slamming the door shut. Heading down the oak-panelled corridors and across the marble-floored hallway, through the heavy revolving doors, she reached the pillared square outside the City Chambers. Tore up the Royal Mile, the opposite direction of home, feeling better than she’d done in ages, all the time knowing it wouldn’t last.
He was weak, she thought with contempt. She’d also been weak, but she’d been that way with an essentially feeble man. Perhaps that was a blessing. You couldn’t know.
Ye couldnae know anything.
The city was beautiful. It was perfect. Yes, the schemes were horrible and there was nothing in them, but in the centre you had everything. Alison walked on, allowing herself to be awestruck at how amazing her home town was. The light, pouring over the castle, turning the streets of the Old Town silver. It was the most beautiful place in the world. Nothing could compare. The trees were beautiful too. You couldn’t let them take away the trees.
Alison passed under some scaffolding as four drunk, arm-in-arm girls waltzed by, singing as if on a hen night, though it was still morning. She turned, enviously, to watch them sashay up the road, desperate to know the story of their mysterious joy. It inspired her to keep her faith in impulse, propelling her into a functional bar in the shadow of the castle. It was early, and still devoid of custom. A heavyset, sulky girl, with judging eyes, dispensed her a glass of white wine. She sat down on a seat under the window, picking up a discarded Scotsman. The thought amused her: I grabbed hold of a tatty old Scotsman in a grotty bar. Again.
She rubbed the long stem of the glass between her thumb and forefinger, regarding the urine-coloured liquid nestled inside it. Then one sip of the sour vinegary substance almost made her puke. The second one was better, and the third seemed to satisfactorily reset her taste buds. She browsed the paper, arrested by an editorial:
The Scottish Office and Edinburgh District Council are to be commended for their timeous action in tackling the most serious epidemic to face Scotland’s capital. The rampant assault on our treescape, and thus our history and heritage, posed by the terrible Dutch elm threat concerns us all. The disease has taken its toll, but the casualties would have been so much higher had not the current strategy of felling and burning infected trees been so swiftly and decisively enacted.
Alison felt her eyes go down the newspaper to the readers’ letters. There was something from a general practitioner in one of Edinburgh’s big schemes. It warned that random testing had uncovered an inordinately high instance of infection by the Aids virus. She studied a sore track mark on her thin wrist.
A notion gnawed at her consciousness; trees rotting away on one side of West Granton Road, and people, inside the varicose-vein flats, so called because of their patched-up cladding, similarly decomposing. All that death. All that plague. Where did it come from? What did it mean?
What’s gaunny happen?
She left the bar, pondering this on the way home. A strong wind had started up, swirling through nooks and crannies, seeming to shake the city like it was a film set. Strange that a place built around a castle rock could seem so rickety, but that rock was now covered in scaffolding, as they tried to treat it and prevent it from crumbling. Cutting down Lothian Road, she walked to the east end through Princes Street Gardens. Heading down Leith Street, then Leith Walk and reac
hing her Pilrig flat, she hung up her jacket. Then she looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. Thought about her mum, how she loved to meet her for a coffee, to show her a top or shoes she’d bought, to gossip about neighbours or relatives, or talk about what they’d watched on the telly. Soaping and rinsing her hands, she recalled that she’d put the towels in the wash basket. She went to the press to get some fresh ones. Then it caught her eye, stuffed forlonly at the back of the cupboard; the shaving bag Alexander had left. She, unzipped it open and regarded the contents of brush, razor and block of shave stick. Picking up the brush, she held it against her chin, to see what she would look like with a goatee. Then she put it back in the bag and pulled out the bone-handled razor. Opened the blade. How light and lethal it felt in her hand. Alison rolled her sleeve up over her biceps and cut across the vein and artery. Warm blood splashed onto the tiled floor.
Mum …
It felt good, like the pain in her was leaking out with the blood, like a terrible pressure was being removed. It was soothing. She slid down the wall.
Mum …
But as she sat there, things quickly changed; there was too much blood. First she was gripped by a creeping nausea, then a desperate fear rose up inside her. Her thoughts faded, and she felt she was going to black out.
Dad Mhairi Calum …
Tearing the towel from the rail, she wrapped it tightly around the wound, applying as much pressure as she could manage. She pushed herself up, staggered into the front room, lurching towards the phone. Her pulse battered in her skull as she dialled 999, and grunted for an ambulance. — I made a mistake, she heard herself gasp over and over again. — Please get here soon.
And that’s putting it mildly …
The towel was already saturated in the blood. Crawling on her knees, she forced herself to the front door and opened it. Sat waiting by the door, feeling her eyes grow heavy.
… mildly …