by Irvine Welsh
death
sick sick sick
death death death
AIDS AIDS fuck yis aw FUCKIN CUNTS FUCK YIS AW
SELF-INFLICTED PEOPLE WI CANCER — NAE CHOICE
FIR THAIM DESERVING
AIN FAULT AUTOMATIC DEATH SENTENCE
THROWIN AWAY YIR LIFE DOESNAE NEED TAE BE
AN AUTOMATIC DEATH SENTENCE DESTROY
REHABILITATE
FASCISM
NICE WIFE
NICE BAIRNS
NICE HOOSE
NICE JOAB
NICE
NICE TA SEE YA, TA SEE YA. . . .
NICE NICE NICE BRAIN DISORDER DEMENTIA
HERPES THRUSH PNUEMONIA
WHOLE LIFE AHEAD AY YE MEET A NICE LASSIE N SETTLE DOON . . .
She’s still ma first lurve
BROAT IT OAN YIRSEL.
Sleep.
More terrors. Am ah asleep or awake? Who fuckin knows or cares? No me. The pain’s still here. Ah know one thing. If ah move, ah’ll swallow ma tongue. Nice bit ay tongue. That’s what ah cannae wait for ma Ma giein us, just like in the old days. Tongue salad. Poison your children.
Ye’ll eat that tongue. That’s a nice, tasty bit ay tongue thair son.
YE’LL EAT THAT TONGUE.
If ah don’t move, ma tongue will slide down ma gullet anyway. Ah can feel it moving. Ah sit up, consumed by a blind panic, and retch, but thir’s nowt comin up. Ma heart’s thrashing in my chest, and sweat’s lashing from my emaciated frame.
Is this sllllleeeeeeeeepppppppp.
Oh fuck. Thir’s somethin in this room wi me it is comin oot the fuckin ceiling above the bed.
It’s a baby. Wee Dawn, crawlin along the ceilin. Greetin. But it’s lookin doon it us now.
— You let me fuckin diieeeeee, it sais. It’s no Dawn. No the wee bairn.
Naw, ah mean, this is fuckin crazy.
The bairn has sharp, vampire teeth wi blood drippin fae them. It’s covered in a sick yellow-green slime. It’s eyes are the eyes ay every psychopath ah’ve ever met.
— Yefuckinkilledme litmefuckindie junkedupootyirfuckin heids watchinthefuckinwaws ya fuckindopeyjunkycunt ah’llfuckinripyefuckinopen n feedoanyirfuckinmiserablesickgreyjunky-flesh startinwiyirjunkycockcauseahdiedafuckinvirginahllnivirgitafuckinridenivirgittaewearfuckinmakeupncoolclathesnivirgittaebeanythin causeyoufuckinjunkycuntsnivircheckedus yisletusfuck-indiefuckinsuffocatetaefuckindeath yiskenwhitthatfeelslikeyacunts causeahvegoatafuckinsoulnahkinstillknowfuckinpainnyousecunts youseselfishfuckinjunkycuntswiyirfuckinskagtookitawawayfius soahmgaunnychewyourfuckindiseasedprickoafWANTAFUCKINBLOWJOBWANTAFUCKINBLOWJOBWANTAFAAAAAAAAACKIN
It springs fae the ceilin doon oan top ay us. Ma fingers rip and tear at the soft, plasticine flesh and messy gunge but the ugly shrill voice is still screamin n mockin n ah jerk n jolt n feel like the bed’s sprung vertical n ah’m fawin through the fuckin flair . . .
Is this sssllllleeeeeeeeepppppp.
There goes ma first lurve.
Then ah’m back in the bed, still haudin the bairn, softly cradlin it. Wee Dawn. Fuckin shame.
It’s jist ma pillay. There’s blood oan ma pillay. Mibbe it wis fae ma tongue; mibbe wee Dawn hus been here.
Thir must be less tae life than this.
More pain, then more sleep/pain.
When ah re-assemble intae consciousness ah’m aware that a period ay time has passed. How much ah don’t know. The clock sais: 2:21.
Sick Boy is sitting in the chair looking at us. He has an expression ay mild concern overlaid wi a benign and patronising contempt. As he sips his cup ay tea and munches oan a chocolate digestive, ah realise that ma Ma and faither are also in the room.
What’s the fuckin score?
The fuckin score is
— Simon’s here, Ma announces, confirming that ah’m no hallucinating unless the mirage has audio as well as visual content. Like Dawn. Each dawn I die.
Ah smile at him. Dawn’s dad. — Awright Si.
The bastard is charm itself. Jocular and matey banter about fitba wi ma Hun auld man, coming ower like the concerned GP family friend wi ma auld girl.
— It’s a mug’s game, Mrs Renton. Ah’m no tryin tae say thit ah’m blameless masel, far from it, but there comes a point whin ye jist huv tae turn yir back on that nonsense and say no.
Just say no. It’s easy. Choose Life. Skin Kay-uh boi Eroin.
My parents find it impossible to believe that ‘Young Simon’ (who’s four months aulder than me, and ah never git called ‘Young Mark’) could possibly have anything to do wi drugs, beyond the odd youthful experimental flirtation. Young Simon is identified with conspicuous success in their eyes. There’s Young Simon’s girlfriends, Young Simon’s smart clathes, Young Simon’s suntan, Young Simon’s flat up the toon. Even Young Simon’s jaunts to London are seen as more colourful chapters in the trendy, swashbuckling adventures of Leith Bannanay Flats’s lovable cavalier, while my trips south invariably have a seedy and unsavoury association in their eyes. Young Simon can do no wrong though. They see the cunt as some sort ay Oor Wullie for the video generation.
Does Dawn intrude intae Sick Boy’s dreams? No.
Although they have never came out and said it, ma Ma n faither suspect that ma drug problems ur due tae ma association wi ‘the laddie Murphy’. This is because Spud is a lazy, scruffy bastard, who’s naturally spaced out and seems as if he’s oan drugs, even when he’s clean. Spud is incapable ay upsettin a spurned lover wi a bad hangover. On the other hand Begbie, total fuckin crazy psycho Beggars, is held up as an archetypal model of manhood Ecosse. Yes, there may be poor bastards picking bits ay beer glass oot ay thir faces when Franco goes oan the rampage, but the laddie works hard and plays hard etcetera, etcetera.
After being treated like a simple cunt for an hour or so by all present, ma parents leave the room, convinced that Sick Boy is truly drug-free and not intending to slip their off-spring any H, more’s the fuckin pity.
— Like auld times up here, eh? he sais, looking around at ma posters.
— Hing oan, ah’ll bring oot the Subbuteo and the dirty books. We used to wank off tae porno mags as wee laddies. Stud thit he is these days, Sick Boy hates tae be reminded ay his fledging sexual development. Typically, he changes the subject.
— You’ve goat a right lam oan, he sais. What the fuck does the cunt expect in the circumstances?
— Too fuckin right ah huv. Ah’m fuckin sick here, Si. Yiv goat tae score us some smack.
— Nae chance. Ah’m steyin clean Mark. If ah start hingin roond losers like Spud, Swanney n that, ah’m back tae usin again in nae time at aw. No way José, he blaws through pursed lips n shakes his heid.
— Thanks mate. Yir aw fuckin heart.
— Stoap fah-kin whingein. Ah ken how bad it is. Ah went through this a few times n aw remember. Yiv been oaf it a couple ay days now. Yir nearly through the fuckin worst. Ah ken it’s sair, bit if ye start shootin now, that’s the gig fucked. Keep takin the vallies. Ah’ll score ye some hash fir the weekend.
— Hash? Hash! You’re a fuckin comedian. Might as well try tae combat third world famine wi a packet ay frozen peas.
— Naw, but listen tae us man. Once the pain goes away, that’s whin the real fuckin battle starts. Depression. Boredom. Ah’m tellin ye man, ye’ll feel so fuckin low ye’ll want tae fuckin top yirsell. Ye need something tae keep ye gaun. Ah started bevvyin like fuck eftir ah came oaf the gear. Ah wis creamin a boatil ay tequila a day at one stage. Second Prize wis embarrassed in ma company! Ah’m oaf the bevvy now, n seein a few birds.
Eh handed us a picture. It showed Sick Boy wi this gorgeous looking lassie.
— Fabienne. French likes. Ower oan hoaliday. That wis taken up the Scott Monument. Ah’m gaun ower tae her bit in Paris next month. Then it’s oaf tae Corsica. Hur folks’ve goat a wee place thair. Fuckin subliminal scene man. Hearin a woman speak in French when yir shaggin her is such a big turn oan.
— Aye, but whit’s she saying? Ah bet it
’s somethin like: Your deek eez so how you say, tynee, ‘ave you starteed yet . . . Ah bet that’s whit she speaks in French fir.
He gave us that patient, patronising have-you-quite-finished smile.
— Oan that particular subject, ah wis talkin tae Laura McEwan last week. She indicated tae me that you had problems in that self-same area. Told us ye couldnae raise a smile the last time she ended up wi ye.
Ah raise a smile, and shrug. Ah thought ah’d got away with that disaster.
— Says thit ye couldnae satisfy yersel, nivir mind any cunt else, wi that fuckin thimble yuv goat the nerve tae call a penis.
Thir isnae much ah kin say tae Sick Boy on the subject ay cock size. His is bigger, no doubt about it. Whin we wir younger we used tae git pictures taken ay oor knobs in the passport photo booth at Waverley Station. Then we’d stick the photaes doon behind the glass panels in the auld grey bus shelters fir people tae look at. Wi used tae call thum oor public art exhibitions. Conscious ay the fact thit Sick Boy wis bigger, ah’d put ma dick as far up tae the camera lens as ah could. Unfortunately, the cunt soon tippled us n started daein the same.
Oan the particular subject ay ma disaster wi Laura McEwan thir wis even less tae say. Laura’s a nutter. Intimidating at the best ay times. Ah’ve goat mair scar tissue oan ma boady fi one night wi her, than ah ever goat fi needles. Ah’d made aw the excuses ah could aboot that event. It’s so depressing that people willnae let they things go. Sick Boy’s determined tae let every fucker ken what a crap shag ah am.
— Awright, ah admit, that wis a pish-poor performance. But ah wis bevvied n stoned, n it wis her thit dragged me intae the bedroom, no the other wey roond. What the fuck did she expect?
He sniggered at me. The bastard always gave ye the impression he hud even mair choice slaggin material that he wis haudin back for another occasion.
— Well mate, jist think whit yir missin. Ah wis sniffin aroond in the gairdins the other day. Schoolies everywhere. Ye light up a joint and thir like flies aroond a crap. The manto’s hoachin. Thir’s foreign fanny aw ower the place, some ay them gaggin oan it. Ah’ve even seen a few wee honeys in Leith, fir fuck sakes. And speakin ay wee honeys, Mickey Weir wis fuckin brilliant at Easter Road oan Saturday. Aw the boys wir askin whair yiv been. Mind, thir’s Iggy Pop and The Pogues gigs comin up shortly. It’s aboot fuckin time that you goat yirsel thegither n started livin yir fuckin life. Ye cannae hide away in darkened rooms fir the rest ay yir puff.
Ah wisnae really interested in the cunt’s shite.
— Ah really need jist one wee fix Si, tae ease us oaf the gear. Even a swallay ay methadone . . .
— If yir a good boy, ye might git a bit ay watered doon Tartan Special. Yir Ma wis sayin thit she might take ye tae the Dockers’ Club oan Friday night; if yir oan yir best behaviour.
When the patronising cunt left, ah missed him. He nearly took us oot ay masel. It wis like auld times, but in a sense, that only served tae remind us ay how much things hud changed. Something hud happened. Junk hud happened. Whether ah lived wi it, died wi it, or lived withoot it, ah knew that things could never be the same again. Ah huv tae git oot ay Leith, oot ay Scotland. For good. Right away, no jist doon tae London fir six months. The limitations and ugliness ay this place hud been exposed tae us and ah could never see it in the same light again.
Ower the next few days, the pain abated slightly. Ah even started tae dae some cooking. Every cunt under the sun thinks thit thir Ma’s the best cook in the world. Ah thought so tae, until ah went tae live oan ma ain. Ah realised then thit ma Ma’s a shite cook. So ah’ve started tae make the tea. The auld man sneers at ‘rabbit food’ but ah think he secretly enjoys ma chillis, curries and casseroles. The auld girl seems vaguely resentful at ma encroachment intae whit she sees us her territory, the kitchen, and bleats aboot the need fir meat in a diet; but ah think she enjoys the scran n aw.
However, the pain is being replaced by an ugly, stark, black depression. Ah’ve never known such a sense ay complete and utter hopelessness, punctuated only by bouts ay raw anxiety. It immobilises me to the extent that ah’m sittin in the chair hating a tv programme, yet ah feel something terrible will happen if ah try tae switch ower. Ah sit burstin fir a pish, but too feart tae go up tae the bog in case thir’s something lurking on the stairs. Sick Boy hud warned us aboot this, and ah’d experienced it in the past masel; but nae amount ay pre-warning or previous experience can fully prepare ye fir it. It makes the worse alcohol hangover seem like an idyllic wet dream.
My heart is breaking woo-hoo. The flick of a switch. Thank god for the remote control handset. You can move into different worlds at the press of a button. When I see her holding The replacement of worn-out sports equipment the guy sais something about a glaring lack of comprehensive detailed input and output measures which can be aggregated to enable the benefits to be evaluated and validated, at an area level, in terms of their effectiveness and efficiency, and this is something which the taxpayer, who after all will have to foot the bill will
— Coffee Mark? Ye wantin a coffee? Ma asks.
Ah can’t respond. Yes please. No thanks. Ah do n ah dinnae. Say nothing. Let Ma decide whether or not I should have a coffee. Devolve or delegate that level of power, or decision making, to her. Power devolved is power retained.
— Ah goat a nice wee dress fir Angela’s wee yin, Ma sais, holding up what could indeed only be described as a nice wee dress. Ma doesn’t seem to realise that ah don’t know who Angela is, let alone the child who will be the intended recipient of this nice wee dress. Ah just nod and smile. Ma’s life and mines shot off on different tangents years ago. The point of contact is strong but obscure. Ah could say: Ah bought a nice wee bit ay skag oafay Seeker’s mate, the buck-tooth cunt whaes name escapes me. That’s it: Ma buys dresses fir people ah don’t know, ah buy skag fae people she disnae know.
Faither’s growing a moustache. With his close-cropped hair he will look like a liberated homosexual, a clone. Freddie Mercury. He disnae understand the culture. Ah explain it tae him and he’s dismissive.
The next day, however, the moustache is gone. Faither now ‘cannae be bothered’ growing it. Claire Grogan’s singing ‘Don’t Talk To Me About Love’ on Radio Forth and Ma’s making lentil soup in the kitchen. I’ve been singing Joy Division’s ‘She’s Lost Control’ in my head all day. Ian Curtis. Matty. I think of them intertwined in some way; but the only thing they have in common is a death wish.
That’s aw that’s worth mentioning aboot that day.
By the weekend, it isnae quite sae bad. Si hud goat us some blaw, but it wis standard Edinburgh hash, which is generally shite. Ah make some space-cake oot ay it, and that improves it. Ah even git a bit trippy in ma room in the eftirnoon. Ah still didnae feel up tae gaun oot though, especially tae the fuckin Dockers’ Club n wi ma Ma n faither, bit ah resolved tae make the effort fir thair sakes, as they needed a brek. Ma n faither seldom missed a Saturday night at the club.
Ah stroll self-consciously doon Great Junction Street, the auld man nivir takin his eyes oaf us in case ah try tae dae a runner. Ah run intae Mally at the Fit ay the Walk, n we crack away fir a bit. The auld man intervenes, ushering us along, n lookin at Mally as if he wanted tae brek this evil pusher’s legs. Poor Mally, whae widnae even touch a joint. Lloyd Beattie, whae used tae be a good mate ay oors years ago, before every cunt found oot he’d been shaggin his ain sister, gied us a meek nod.
In the club, people huv big smiles for the auld man n auld lady and strained ones fir me. Ah wis conscious ay some whispers n nods, followed by silences as we took a table. Faither slaps us oan the back n winks n Ma gies us a heart-wrenchingly tender and smotheringly indulgent smile. Nae doubt aboot it, thir no bad auld cunts. Ah love the fuck oot ay the bastards, if the truth be telt.
Ah think aboot how they must feel aboot me huvin turned oot the wey ah huv. Fuckin shame. Still, ah’m here. Perr Lesley’s nivir gaunnae see wee Dawn grow up. Les and Sick fuck n Lesley, they say she’s in the Southern
General in Glesgie now, oan life-support. Paracetamol joab. She went through tae Glesgie tae git away fae the smack scene in Muirhoose n ended up movin intae Possil wi Skreel n Garbo. There’s nae escape fir some fuckers. Hara-kiri wis Les’s best option.
Swanney wis his customary sensitive self: — Fuckin Weedjies git aw the best gear these days. Thair oan that pure pharmaceutical shite while we’re reduced tae crushin up any fuckin jack n jills wi kin git oor hands oan, Good gear’s wasted oan these cunts, maist ay thum dinnae even inject. Smokin and snortin skag, a fuckin waste, he hissed contemptuously. — N that fuckin Lesley: she should be turnin the White Swan oantae that gear. Does she punt any ay it ma wey? Naw. She just sits feelin sorry fir hersel aboot her bairn. Shame n that, ken, dinnae git us wrong. Thing is, thir’s opportunities n aw. Freedom fae the responsibility ay bein a single parent n that. Ye’d think she’d lap up the chance tae spread her wings.
Freedom fae responsibility. That sounds good. Ah’d like freedom fae the responsibility ay sittin in this fuckin club.
Jocky Linton comes ower tae join us. Jocky’s pus is shaped like an egg oan its side. He’s goat thick black hair flecked wi silver. He wears a blue shirt which is short-sleeved and exposes his tattoos. Oan one airm he’s goat ‘Jocky & Elaine — True Love Will Never Die’ and ‘Scotland’ wi a Lion Rampant oan the other. Unfortunately, true love did bite the dust and Elaine shot the craw a long time ago. Jocky’s now livin wi Margaret whae obviously hates the tattoo, but every time he goes tae git another one pit ower it, he bottles oot, makin excuses aboot the fear ay HIV wi the needles. It’s obviously shite, a feeble cop-oot because he still huds a candle fir Elaine. The thing ah remember maist aboot Jocky is his singing at pairties. He used tae sing George Harrison’s My Sweet Lord, that wis his perty-piece. Jocky niver quite mastered the lyrics tae it though. He only kent the title and ‘ah really want tae see you Lord’ and the rest wis da-da-da-da-da-da-da.
