by Irvine Welsh
I grab my Apple Mac and tell Klaus that I need a driver, as I know where Carl is. He reluctantly nods tae a big, muscular bouncer-type guy who intros himself as Dieter, and we’re off the site and intae the car park, then in a people carrier and heading tae the address. We cross the river and drive through a warren of backstreets adjacent to a huge expanse of railway tracks and sidings, heading in the direction of the Tierpark.
After about twenty-five minutes Dieter pulls up outside an old, dark, three-floored industrial building, in a desolate quarter ay disused and squatted spaces. A weak sun sneaks timidly behind the back of it, almost synchronised with us stepping out the car. There’s an eerie silence. The vibe isnae right but it gets even worse when ah buzz a battered intercom, then, leaving the driver, go inside and head down a darkened, fusty-smelling and broken-glass-strewn corridor. At the end of it I see what looks like a ghost, and a freeze spreads up my back, but it’s Sick Boy, dressed in sterile hospital gown and mask. I’m now even mair curious as tae what the fuck is going on here. — Quick, he says, gesturing me into a creaky old goods lift.
— What the fuck?
He’s explaining, but it’s in a rant and it’s aw gaun ower my heid. I’m struggling tae keep up with him as he bombs doon the corridor and opens a steel door. I follow him inside. A guy I dinnae ken, wi a Scottish accent, thrusts a gown and mask at ays. — Put these on.
As I comply, I’m looking over his shoodir and cannae quite believe what I’m seeing. An unconscious man is lying oan a bed, in robes, a laptop oan his chest. There’s a wound in his stomach, held open by surgical clamps. He’s hooked up tae a drip in what seems tae be a makeshift operating theatre …
Fuck me, it’s Spud Murphy …
Mikey Forrester is also robed up, as is this outrageously fat gadge, and that Scottish guy I’ve never seen before.
— Rents, Mikey nods.
— Gies that lead … the fucking laptop is aboot tae die, Sick Boy barks.
I hand him the lead and eh plugs it in and scrolls back this online video. I can’t believe it. Sick Boy and Mikey Forrester are operating on Spud Murphy!
— WHAT THE FUCK! I shout. — What is this? What the fuck are youse playing at?
— Have tae dae this, this cunt’s hands were fucking shaking, Sick Boy growls, nodding tae the guy wi the Scottish accent. — A Nicola Sturgeon, my fuckin hole. Stey or go, Mark, but shut the fuck up, because ah need tae concentrate. Right!
— Right. I hear the word creep oot fae some dark corner ay ma soul.
— I’m a podiatrist, the boy sings in a long, piteous bleat, holding the clamp, and Sick Boy’s right, the cunt’s hands are shaking on it.
— You get the clamp fae him, I’ll make the cut, Sick Boy says tae Mikey, who is smoking a fag. Mikey looks at him and hands him the snout. The fat guy is monitoring the mask over Spud’s face. This is like walking intae a nightmare and for about five solid heartbeats ah think I’m still at the fucking gig, spiked on something hallucinogenic, or kipped in ma hotel room dreaming. Sick Boy nods at Mikey, removes the cigarette from his mouth, and takes a drag on it. — Let’s rock the fucking discotheque!
— Watch it, the podiatrist guy says tae him, — you’re dropping cigarette ash into his wound!
— FUCK, Sick Boy snaps. — Mikey, go n fuckin clean that bastard, swab the fucker oot! He drops the tab and crushes it under his heel. — Gently … he says, supervising Forrester, who is poking around inside Spud, — it’s only ash. Marlboro, low tar, he adds. — Right, have you got that clamp on there, Euan? Can you see where it is? Same place in the vid?
— I … I think so … the Euan guy stammers.
— You should fuckin know so! You trained in medicine as a physician! You studied fuckin surgery! Sick Boy’s eyes ignite ower the mask. — Is it on the same bit as the video!
— Yes!
— Right. I’m going to cut it … now … right?
— I dunno, I …
— Ah sais right! Either we sit here aw day or I fuckin cut! Is this the right place? It looks likes it on the video! Is it the fucking right place, Euan?
— Okay! Yes! Euan shrieks.
— Here goes!
I look away, my arsehole clenching, then turn back, and Sick Boy snips it and he’s hudin the clamp on the bastard. And as there’s no blood spurting like a fountain, I have tae assume that it’s fucking working.
— Yes! Ya fuckin beauty! Sick Boy roars. — Now let’s lift that bastard out! Mikey, git that fuckin boax ower …
Forrester wheels a trolley across to the operating bed. There is something that looks like a miniature fridge sittin on it. With these long surgical tongs, Sick Boy lifts this slithery thing out of Spud’s body … fuck me, this is like a scene fae a fucking sci-fi alien intrusion movie, cause this bloody thing wriggles, as he drops it into this high-tech box. I feel boak rise inside me and fight it back down into my acrid guts. Ma legs are weak and shaky, and I grip the back ay a chair for support.
Mikey seals the box up, as he catches ays looking at it. — State-ay-the-art technology, Mark. This is a Lifeport organ-recovery system. Ah thoat it wid jist be an ice boax like ye huv tae keep bevvy cauld, but naw, it’s aw sophisticated. Ye dinnae want tae ken the favours ah hud tae pill tae git this beauty!
— What is this … this fuckin dystopian science-fiction shit?! What did ye take oot ay him? WHAT THE FUCK IS GAUN OAN?!
Sick Boy punches the air as the Euan guy starts tending to Spud. — I’VE SAVED THE FUCKIN DAY AS USUAL, he roars, then points to Euan. — Suture! Stitch the cunt up! Quick!
— I am! Euan hisses. Then he turns tae me, his eyes filled with trauma above the mask. — I only got into this mess through going out for a Christmas drink. He spiked my drink with Ecstasy –
— Ecstasy? What the fu —
— That’s right! Why not blame Simon? Sick Boy snaps, but he’s euphoric, as if he’s scored the winning goal in a Cup final. — Something of a cottage industry in these parts! I’m the only cunt whae hud the fucking baws tae sort oot this fucking mess! And did I no sort it? Surgeon Si! He bursts into song, pointing at himself, — Like a surgeon … cut for the very first time …
My heid is spinning. I’m getting phone calls and texts from Klaus, Conrad … and now Carl, but I dinnae gie a fuck. We’re sitting there, watching Spud unconscious, beyond white, already looking like a corpse, the big gash in his stomach being sewn up by this Euan gadge.
— What’s in that box? What did you take out ay him?
— A kidney, Sick Boy says. — It had a Graham Parker and the Rumour on it.
— Cause that’s what youse cunts specialise in, life-saving surgery, ah mean, what the fuck is wrong wi hoaspitals? Fuck it, ah throw my hands up, — ah dinnae want tae ken!
— It’s for the best, me old chum, Sick Boy says.
— This is what’s best for Spud, is it?
Sick Boy seems tae come doon instantly, and looks sheepishly at me. — Believe it or not, yes. Which shows the extent ay the fucking mess we’ve got into. But, he taps the white box-like device, — we finally have a ticket out of it.
Forrester and the Turkish-looking guy have been rummaging in a stainless-steel fridge, I thought for some medical supplies, but they return with some bottles ay German beer. Mikey opens them and passes them aroond. My hands are shaking as I take one.
— Any ching? Sick Boy asks ays.
— Well, aye …
— Rack them the fuck oot then.
Right now I cannae think ay a reason no tae get ripped and stey ripped forever. — Whae’s in?
Forrester nods in agreement. So does the Turkish boy, introduced finally as Youssef. The Euan gadge looks away, so I rack up four on a stainless-steel table.
— I could have been a surgeon, if I had the training, likes, Sick Boy advances. — But they say surgeons are cold and mercenary. I’m probably too Italian, too warm-bloodied.
They tell ays what’s been happening, and I cannae believe it. How the fuck did Si
ck Boy and this Euan guy, whom he tells me is his sister Carlotta’s doctor husband, get involved wi some gangster called Syme? — And what the fuck are you going to dae with Spud’s kidney? I ask the last one out loud.
— He owes it tae Syme, Mikey says.
— He’s donating a kidney … for money? Tae this Syme boy?
— Sort ay. He wrecked one ay Syme’s. No actually one ay Syme’s, but one Syme peyed for, Mikey explains.
— Jesus fuck, you guys really are off yir fuckin heids!
Sick Boy looks gloomy at me. — Unfortunately we’ve no telt Spud yet …
Then I hear the croaky voice from the rattling bed behind us. — Telt ays what?
22
POST-OP BLUES
The people carrier twists, stalls and tears through the choked streets of rush-hour Berlin. Mark Renton sits up front alongside Dieter the driver, talking softly into his phone. Spud Murphy, whom they’d had to carry to the vehicle, sits in the back, barely sentient. Flanked by his medical team of Youssef and Euan, he feverishly struggles to make sense of the latest twist in the grim saga of those last few days. Extrapolates this shit-show to his life in general. He tries to think of the turning point, the moment when it went bad. He looks at Renton, the ginger-brown fuzz on his scalp greying, thinks of that money his friend gave him, all those years ago. It set him right back on a drug path he’s rarely deviated from since. — Tell ays again … he begs Simon Williamson, Michael Forrester, Euan McCorkindale and the Turkish man he knows only as Youssef.
— Yes, you now only have one kidney, Sick Boy glumly confirms. — It was the only way we could square things with Syme.
— But how …? Spud touches the bandaged wound. It is sore. Despite the painkillers he’s been given, his body burns in agony.
Mikey, who sits in the middle seats with Sick Boy, explains, — Syme had tae have it fresh, and getting ye oot here was the best way tae dae it. The skag deal wis an opportunity. Two birds wi one stane.
— So ye didnae really pit … skag … in ays …
— Aye. Mikey holds up a red-stained plastic bag of white powder. — Two birds wi one stane but, ay, he repeats emphatically. — Thaire wis a drought oan ower here, n Syme kent a boy, so …
Spud can’t speak. He shakes his head slowly and sinks back into the seat. To Euan, he looks like a jumble of rags. The foot doctor feels moved to make a plea of innocence to his patient. — I only got involved because I’d never been with another woman properly …
— You, Spud points at him, — you’re married tae his sister … His eyes burn into Simon Williamson.
— Yes, Carlotta, Euan sadly nods.
Spud’s eyes grow wistful. — She was beautiful … as a young lassie …
— Still is, Euan says, adopting Spud’s baleful tone.
— Ye love her?
— Yes, Euan says, with tears in his eyes.
— What aboot me? Spud starts whimpering. — Ah’ll never be wi a lassie again! Ah’ve no hud ma hole in years! It’s aw ower for me n it never even started!
Sick Boy turns to Spud. — If that’s aw you’re worried about, I’ll sort ye oot for fuck sake, then he scowls at Euan. — I’m used to sorting out retards who cannae get laid!
— Yes, you are, Euan shoots scathingly back at him. — A fucking pimp. What a noble trade!
Simon Williamson heatedly retorts, — Aye, well, you and your dippit wee laddie wirnae exactly complaining when youse were sticking your dicks intae hoors!
The crash inside Williamson on this reflexive disclosure is mirrored in his brother-in-law’s expression. Euan looks like he’s just run into a brick wall. He gasps in stunned silence. Then he hauls in a breath, the veins in his neck bulging. — Ross … WHAT DID YOU DO WITH ROSS? his voice roars out, crackling in his throat.
— I helped him oot! Something you should have done!
— You fucking sleazebag! Did you set your own son up with a prostitute when he was below the age of consent?!
— He never asked ays tae, as he didnae need it, Simon Williamson declares, suddenly, mordantly, thinking of his son sucking another man’s cock. — He was brought up the right way!
— Not by you obviously! Do you know that what you did to my son is illegal? It’s fucking child abuse! Fucking paedophilia!
— Fuck off! The wee radge begged ays tae set him up wi a woman. Now he’s as happy as a fly in shite! Where were you when he craved the cherry-popping advice? Thailand, banging fucking hoors! You’ve no seen him since Christmas, ya fucking hypocritical cunt!
Euan lets his head fall into his hands. — It’s true … we’re lost … the human race is lost … we have no discipline and we just look to loud-mouthed, lying tyrants to punish and reward us for it … we’re gone …
— Nae cunt got snout? Mikey asks.
Youssef pulls out a packet, issues one to Mikey, who sparks up, and Sick Boy.
— There is no smoking in here, Dieter the driver barks.
— What? Mikey snaps in anger.
— If you want to smoke, you can walk.
Mikey and Sick Boy suck it up, the former looking at the GPS on his phone. On Mikey’s instructions they pull up on a slip road, by some shops, just before a busy crossroads. Then Mikey, handing the Lifeport to Sick Boy, who sets it on his lap, gets outside, immediately sparking up, prior to dialling on his phone. Renton is trying to talk but Sick Boy urges silence as he attempts to eavesdrop on Mikey’s conversation with Syme. — All good, Vic. Aye, Vic. Conditions were sanitary, Vic.
Then they hear the approaching rumble of a motorbike, which soon pulls up alongside them.
— He’s here, Vic. Ah need tae go, but it’s mission accomplished.
Sick Boy sits, both relieved and still racked with tension, the Lifeport box on his lap. Spud shouts at him, — Gies ays that boax! It’s mine! It’s ma kidney!
Sick Boy ignores him, passing the box out the window to Mikey and the biker. — It’s Syme’s, Spud, he says, looking back. — He needs tae get it or we’re aw fucked!
— No until ah git Toto back! Spud squeals in horror, as Mikey Forrester and the biker put the box into a storage unit on the back of the motorbike. The driver remounts and speeds off, receding within seconds into Berlin’s traffic and the mottled evening light.
Mikey climbs back in and Renton nods to the nervous-looking steroid bouncer, who starts up the car and heads for the festival site. Spud, sprawled on a seat in the back, is ranting as if still groggy from the anaesthetic, or perhaps it’s a fever, Renton worries. — It’s mine … gies it back … Ma dug … Ah need it tae git ma dug … Mikey … what did Syme say aboot Toto?
— Sais eh wis fine, Spud, bein well looked eftir …
Spud tries to assimilate this, decides that he wants to believe it. Has to believe it.
— I gied you something worth more than a kidney, Danny, Sick Boy says soberly. — I gied ye your life.
Renton glances back at Sick Boy, shakes his head, as the vehicle navigates the Berlin streets. — I do not know what this is, but I know that not one of these guys is DJ N-Sign Ewart, Dieter says to Renton, looking pointedly at him.
Renton feels his hand going to his wallet and extracting more euros from the wad. — Aye, I got a message that he found his own way back. For your trouble, and he hands over the notes. Dieter stares at him doubtfully for a beat, before pocketing the money.
— What aboot … what aboot ma kidney? Spud babbles.
— It’s gaun tae a wee lassie in Bavaria, Mikey rubbernecks. — The kidney, likes. Will save her life, mate. The bairn’s been on dialysis for donks. Must make ye feel barry but, ay!
But now Spud can’t even speak. He sits with his eyes closed, his head back on the seat rest, sucking air through his teeth, in hard, sharp bursts.
They drop him off at Renton’s hotel, with Euan and Youssef. As Renton, Sick Boy and Mikey make to leave, Spud panics, — Where are youse gaun?
— I have a gig, mate, Renton says. He looks to Sick Boy.
&n
bsp; — Worry not, Danny boy, Sick Boy coos, — Euan and Youssef here, he nods at the semi-pro Turk anaesthetist, — will keep an eye on ye. You really are in the best possible hands. Euan’s cleaned oot aw the muck and he’ll gie you something for the pain. You’ll soon be kipping like a bairn. Nae sense in us hingin aboot. Sick Boy looks to Mikey Forrester, who nods in agreement.
— But youse’ll come back …
— Of course we will, mate, Renton says. — But try and get some solid snooze in. You’ve been through a big trauma.
— Yes, Sick Boy trumpets, — rest is the best medicine.
By the time the trio reach the festival site, Renton feels as shattered as Sick Boy and Mikey Forrester both look, but without being anything like as buzzed. He watches them high-five as Sick Boy roars, — The Nicky Sturgeons did the fucking business, mate. Best left tae the low-grade care team now. Our specialist skills are no longer required, and tonight we celebrate!
As Renton tries to find his game face, Sick Boy and Mikey make their way to the guest bar at the back of the main stage. Sick Boy holds out his hand. — The number ay lassies this boy has fingered, and they try and tell me aboot the steady hand and the deftness ay touch required tae be a surgeon! Fucking amateurs!
— Goat tae admit but, ah wis shitein it, likes, Mikey nods, grabbing two bottles of beer.
— But we held our fucking riverboat gamblers’ nerves while the posh trained cunt went tae fuckin pieces! Sick Boy beams in triumph, as they clink the bottles. Three girls, standing close, look him over, clocking the euphoric power he radiates.
A few seconds ago, Renton didn’t care about anything, but now he’s clicked back into managerial mode. He notes with relief that Carl is present, sitting drinking on a sofa underneath a giant Depeche Mode poster. But something is not right. The DJ looks downcast, and Klaus, standing by the bar close to Sick Boy and Mikey, is visibly angry.
Renton flops down next to his DJ. He goes to speak, but Carl gets in first. — I can’t do it, mate.
— What …? Renton says, surprising himself at how much he still cares. — What, the gig? Why? It’s your big shot tae get back in the frame! Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Conrad and Jensen, who have been hovering by the fridge and table, eating the rider pizza, inching towards him.
