It is a foul and dreich night. Filthy clouds hang overhead; waiting to spew their dark load on the shuffling citizens below, for the umpteenth time since the break of dawn. The bus station concourse is like a Social Security office turned inside out and doused with oil. A lot of young people living on big dreams and small budgets stand somberly in line at the London rank. The only cheaper way down is by thumb.
The bus has come from Aberdeen with a stop at Dundee. Begbie stoically checks the seat reservation tickets, then fixes a malevolent glare at the people already on the bus. Turning away, he looks back at the Adidas holdall at the feet.
Renton, out of Begbies earshot, turns to Spud and
nods towards their uptight friend. ¾ The cunts jist hopin some fuckers grabbed oor
seats; gie um an excuse tae cause hassle.
Spud smiles, and raises his eyebrows. Looking at him,
Renton reflects, youd never guess how high the stakes are. This is the big
one, no doubt about it. hed needed that shot, to keep his nerves straight. It
had been his first one in months.
Begbie turns around, his nerves jangling, and shoots
them an angry grimace, almost as if he can sense their irreverence. ¾
Whair the fucks Sick Boy?
¾
Eh, ahm scoobied, likesay, Spud shrugs.
¾
Hell be here, Renton says, nodding at the Adidas bag. ¾ Thats twinty percent ay his gear yir haudin.
This shot off an attack of paranoia ¾
Keep yir fuckin voice doon ya fuckin radge! Begbie hisses at Renton. He looks
around, staring at the other passengers, feeling a desperate need for one, just
one, to make eye-contact, to give him a target to unleash the fury within him
which threatens to overwhelm him, and fuck the consequences.
No. He had to stay in control. There was too much at
stake. There was everything at stake.
There is nobody looking at Begbie though. Those who
are not oblivious to him, can feel the vibes he is giving out. They employ that
special talent people have: pretending nutters are invisible. Even his
companions wont meet his gaze. Renton has pulled his green baseball cap down
on his eyes. Spud, wearing a Republic of Ireland football strip, is eyeing a
backpacker who has blonde hair, and has just removed her pack to give him a
view of her tight-arsed jeans. Second Prize, who stands a bit apart from the
others, is just drinking steadily; protective of the sizeable carry-out which
sits at his feet in two white plastic bags.
Over the concourse, behind the pillbox which calls
itself a pub, Sick Boy is talking to a girl named Molly. She is a prostitute
and is HIV positive. She sometimes hangs around the station at night, looking
for punters. Molly had been in love with Sick Boy since he necked with her in a
seedy disco-bar in Leith a few weeks ago. Sick Boy made a drunken point about
HIV transmission and to illustrate it had spent most of the night
french-kissing her. Later, he had a bad attack of nerves and brushed his teeth
half-a-dozen times before turning in for a sleepless, anxiety-filled nights.
Sick Boy has been peeking out at his friends from
behind the pub. Hed keep the bastards waiting. He wants to make sure that no
labdicks pounds before they get on the bus. If that happens, these cunts can go
down alone.
¾
Sub us a ten-spot doll, he asks Molly, not forgetting that he has a three-and-a-half
stake in the contents of the Adidas bag. These are assets, however. This is
cash-flow, which is always a problem.
¾
Here ye are. The unquestioning way Molly goes for her purse almost touches Sick
Boy. Then, with some bitterness, he notes the health of her wad, and curses
inwardly for not making it twenty.
¾
Cheers babes ... well, ahd better leave ye tae yir punters. The Smoke beckons.
He tousles her curly hair and kisses her; this time though, a derisory brush on
the cheek.
¾
Phone us whin ye git back Simon, she shouts after him, watching his lean but
sturdy body bounce away from her. He turns around.
¾
You jist try stoapin us babes, you jist try stoapin us. Look eftir yirsel how.
He winks at her and flashes an open, heart-warming smile before turning away.
¾
Fucked-up wee hoor, he mutters under his breath, his face freezing in a
contemptuous scowl. Molly was an amateur, nowhere near cynical enough for the
game she was in. A total victim, he thinks, with an odd mixture of compassion
and scorn. He turns the corner and bounds over to the others, head swishing
from side to side, trying to detect the presence of the police.
He is not amused at what he sees as they prepare to
board the bus. Begbie curses him for his lateness. You always had to watch that
radge, but with the stakes as high as they were, that meant hed be even more
uptight than usual. He remembered the bizarre contingency plans of violence
that Begbie had hatched at the impromptu party theyd had last night. He temper
could send them all to prison for life. Second Prize was in an advanced state
of inebriation; to be expected. On the other hand, what loose-mouthed
drunkards talk had the cunt been coming out with, prior to being here? If he
cant remember where he is, how the fuck can he be expected to remember what he
says? This is such a fuckin dodgy scam, he reflects, allowing a shiver of
anxiety to convulse through him.
What chews Sick Boy up the most, however, is the state
of Spud and Renton. They were obviously smacked out of their eyeballs. It was
just like these bastards to fuck up. Renton, who has now been clean for ages,
since long before he packed in his London job and came back up, could not
resist that uncut Colombian brown Seeker had supplied them with. It was the
real thing, he had argued, a once-in-a-lifetime hit for an Edinburgh junky used
to cheap Pakistani heroin. Spud, as always, had gone along for the ride.
That was Spud. His effortless ability to transform the
most innocent of pastimes into criminality always amazed Sick Boy. Even in his
Mas womb, you would have had to define Spud less as a foetus, more as a set of
dormant drug and personality problems. Hed probably draw the polis onto them
through knocking a saltcellar out of the Little Chef. Forget Begbie, he bitterly
reflects, if one cunt is going to mess up the gig, itll be Spud.
Sick Boy looks harshly at Second Prize; this nickname
resulting from his drink-fuelled fantasy that he could fight, and the attendant
disastrous results. Second Prizes sport had not been boxing, but football. He
was a Scotland schoolboy international star of remarkable ability, who went
south to Manchester United at the age of sixteen. By then, he already had an
embryonic drink problem. One of soccers unsung miracles was how Second Prize
had managed to wring two years from the club before being kicked back to
Scotland. The conventional wisdom was that Second Prize had wasted a great
talent. Sick Boy understood the harsher truth, however. Second Prize was a mass
of despair; in terms of his life as a whole, footballing ability was a
frivolous deviation rather than alcoholism a cruel curse.
They file onto the bus, Renton and Spud moving in the
smack-heads freeze-frame manner. They are as disorientated by the sequence of
events as they are by the junk. There they were, pulling off the big one, and
heading for a break in Paris. All they had to do was to convert the smack into
hard cash, which had all been set up by Andreas in London. Sick Boy, though,
had greeted them like a sinkful of dirty dishes. He was obviously in a bad mood
and Sick Boy believed that the nasty things in life should be shared.
As he climbs onto the bus, Sick Boy hears a voice call
his name.
¾
Simon.
¾
No that hoor again, he curses under his breath, before noting a younger girl.
He shouts: ¾ Git ma seat Franco, ahll just be a minute.
Taking his seat, Begbie feels hatred, fused with more
than a twinge of jealousy, as he watches a young girl in a blue cagoul hold
hands with Sick Boy.
¾
That cunt n his fuckin aboot wi fannyll fuck us aw up! he snarls at Renton,
who looks bemused.
Begbie tries to define the girls shape through the
cagoul. Hed admired her before. He fantasies what hed like to do with her. He
notes her face is even prettier when understated without make-up. It is hard to
focus on Sick Boy, but Begbie sees his mouth turned down and his eyes opened
wide in contrived sincerity. Begbie gets more and more anxious until he is
ready to just get up and drag Sick Boy onto the bus. As he goes to haul himself
out off the seat, he sees Sick Boy is coming back onto the vehicle, staring
balefully out of the windows.
They are sitting at the back of the bus, beside the
chemical toilet which already smells of spilled pish. Second Prize has cornered
the back seat for himself and his carry-out. Spud and Renton sit in front of
him, with Begbie and Sick Boy ahead of them.
¾
That was Tam McGregors wee lassie, Sick Boy, eh? Rentons face grins
idiotically at him through the gap between the seats headrests.
¾
Aye.
¾
He still fuckin hasslin ye? Begbie asks.
¾
The cunts goat a lam oan because ahve been pokin his wee slut ay a daughter.
Meanwhile, hes playing stoat-the-baw wi every wee hairy that drinks in the
shitey club. Fuckin hypocrite.
¾
Pulled ye up ootside the fuckin Fiddlers, ah heard. They fuckin telt us ye shat
yir fuckin load, Begbie mocks.
¾
Like fuck ah did! Whae telt ye that? The cunt says tae us: if you lay a finger
oan her ... Ah jist goes: Lay a finger oan her? Ahve been pimpin it oot fir
fuckin months, ya cunt!
Renton smirks softly at this, and Second Prize, who
didnt really hear it, laughs loudly. He is not, as yet, pickled enough to feel
completely comfortable forgoing the bare bones of social contact. Spud says
nothing, but grimaces as the vice-like grip of junk withdrawal squeezes harder
on his brittle bones.
Begbie is unconvinced that Sick Boy would have the
bottle to stand up to McGregor.
¾
Shite. You wouldnae fuckin mess wi that cunt.
¾
Fuck off. Jimmy Busby wis wi us. That cunt McGregor shites it fae the Buzz-Bomb.
Hes shit-scared ay aw the Cashies. The last thing he wants is a squad ay the
Family swedgin in his club.
¾
Jimmy Busby ... hes no a fuckin hard cunt. A fuckin shitein cunt. Ah stoated
that radge in the Dean. You minday that time, Rents, eh? Rents! Mind the time
ah panelled that Busby cunt? Begbie glances over the seat for support but
Renton is starting to feel like Spud. A shudder twists through his body and a
grim nausea hits him. He can only nod unconvincingly, rather than provide the
elaboration Begbie is looking for.
¾
That was years ago. Ye widnae dae it now, Sick Boy contended.
¾
Whae fuckin widnae! Eh? Think ah fuckin widnae? Ya fuckin radge! Begbie
challenges aggressively.
¾
Its aw a loaday shite anywey, Sick Boy meekly counters, using one of his
classic tactics. If you cant win the fine detail of the argument, then rubbish
its context.
¾
That cunt kens no tae fuckin mess, Begbie says, in a low growl. Sick Boy does
not respond, knowing that this was a warning by proxy, directed at him, through
the absent Busby. He realises that hes been pushing his luck.
Spud Murphys face is smeared against the glass
window. He sits in silent misery, lashing sweat and feeling like his bones are
grinding against each other. Sick Boy turns to Begbie, seizing the opportunity
to make a common cause.
¾
These cunts, Franco, he nods backwards, ¾ sais they wid stey clean. Lyin bastards. Fuck us aw
up. His tone is a mixture of disgust and self-pity, as if he is resigned to the
fact that his lot in life to have all his moves sabotaged by the weak fools he
was unfortunate enough to have to call his friends.
Nonetheless, Sick Boy fails to strike an empathetic
chord with Begbie, who dislikes his attitude even more than he disapproves of
Renton and Spuds behaviour.
¾
Stoap fuckin moanin. Youve fuckin been thair often enough.
¾
No fir ages. These nondy cunts never grow up.
¾
So yell no be wantin any fuckin speed then? Begbie teased, dabbing at some
salty granules in silver foil.
Sick Boy really wants Billy Whizz, to cut down the
hideous traveling time. He is fucked if he going to plead with Begbie however.
He sits staring ahead, gently shaking his head and muttered under his breath, a
wrenching anxiety in his guts forcing his mind to flip through unresolved
grievance after unresolved grievance. He then springs up and goes to grab a can
of McEwans Export from Second Prizes pile.
¾
Ah telt ye thit ye shouldve goat yir ain cairry-oot! Second Prizes face
resembled that of an ugly bird whose eggs are under threat from a stalking
predator.
¾
One can then, ya tight cunt! Fuck sakes! Sick Boy slaps his forehead with his
palm in exasperation. Second Prize reluctantly hands a can over, which, in the
event, Sick Boy cannot drink. He has not eaten for a while and the fluid feels
heavy and sickly in his raw guts.
Behind him, Rentons slide into the misery of
withdrawal continues apace. He knows he has to act. This means holding out on
Spud. However, there was no sympathy in business, and much less in this
particular one than in any other. Turning to his partner he says: ¾
Man, ahve goat a fuckin bad rock in ma erse. Ahve goat tae spend a bit ay
time in the bog.
Spud shoots to life for a second. ¾
Yir no haudin, ur ye?
¾
Away tae fuck, Renton convincingly snaps. Spud turns and melts miserably back
into the window.
Renton goes into the toilet and secures the door. He
wipes the pish off the rim of the aluminium pan. It is not hygiene that
concerns him, merely the avoidance of a wet sensation on his creeping skin.
On the tiny sink he places his cooking spoon, syringe,
needle and cotton balls. Producing a small packet of browny-white powder from
his pocket, he tips the contents diligently into his prized piece of cutlery.
Sucking 5 mls of water into the syringe and squirting it slowly into the spoon,
Renton takes care to avoid flushing away the grains. His trembling hand firms
up with the concentration only junk preparation can facilitate. Passing the
flame from the Benidorm plastic lighter under the spoon, he stirs at the
stubborn dregs with the needle tip until he has produced an injectable
solution.
The bus lurches violently, but he moves with it; his
junkys vestibular sense tuned in, like radar, to every bump and bend on the
A1. Not a precious drop is spilled as he lowers the cotton ball onto the
cooking spoon.
Sticking the needle into the ball, he sucks the rusty
liquid into the chamber. He pulls off his belt, cursing as the studs catch in
the tabs of his jeans. He violently jerks it free, feeling as if his insides
are folding in on themselves. Tightening the belt around his arm just below a
puny bicep, he clamps yellowing teeth onto the leather to hold it fast. The
sinew in his neck strains as he maintain the position; teasing up through
patient, probing taps, a reluctant healthy vein.
A brief flicker of hesitancy glows in the corner of his mind, only to be snuffed cruelly by a twisting spasm which convulses his sick body. He zeros in, watching the tender flesh give way to the penetrating steel. He pushes the plunger part of the way home, for a split-second, before sucking back to fill the chamber with blood. He then realises the tension in the belt and flushes everything into his vein. He raises his head, and savours the hit. He sits for a period which could be minutes or hours, before standing up and looking at himself in the mirror.
¾
Youre fuckin gorgeous, he observes, kissing the reflection; feeling the cold
glass against his hot lips. He turns and puts his cheek on the glass, then
licks at it with his tongue. Then he stands back and adjust his features into a
forced mask of misery. Spuds eyes would be on him as soon as he opened the
door. He must contrive to act sick, which is not going to be easy.
Second Prize has drunk off a crippling hangover and is
having what would have been described a second wind, had his constant state of
inebriation and withdrawal not rendered such a term superfluous. Begbie,
realising that they are well on their way and have not been intercepted by the
Lothian and Borders Constabulary, the labdicks, is more relaxed. Victory was in
sight. Spud takes a troubled junky sleep. Renton feels a little more animated.
Even Sick Boy senses that things are going well, and unwinds.
The fragile unity is shattered when Sick Boy and
Renton have an argument about the merits of the pre and post Velvet Underground
achievements of Lou Reed. Sick Boy is uncharacteristically tongue-tied under an
onslaught from Renton.
¾
Naw, naw ... he weakly shakes his head and turns away, devoid of inspiration to
counter Rentons arguments. Renton had stolen the cloak of indignation that
Sick Boy likes to wear on such occasions.
Savouring his adversarys capitulation, Renton pulls
his head back sharply and smugly; folding his arms in a gesture of triumphant
belligerence, the way hed once seen Mussolini do in an old newsreel.
Sick Boy contents himself with checking out the other
passengers. There are two auld wifies in front of him, who have been
intermittently looking around with disapproving expressions and making clucking
references to the the language. They have, he notes, the auld wifie smell of
pish and sweat, partially obscured by layers of stale talcum.
Opposite him sits an overweight couple in shell-suits.
Shell-suited bastards are another breed apart, he caustically thinks. They
should be fuckin exterminated. It surprised Sick Boy that the Beggar did nit
have a shell-suit in his wardrobe. Once they coined in the dough, he thinks
hell treat the bastard to one, just for the crack. Additionally, he resolves
to present Begbie with an American Pit-Bull pup. Even if Begbie neglected it,
it wouldnt go hungry with the bairn in the house.
There was one rose amongst thorns on the bus, however.
Sick Boys eyes cease their critical scrutiny of his fellow passengers when
they focus on the streaked-blonde backpacker. She sits all by herself, in front
of the shell-suited couple.
Renton feels full of mischief and pulls out the
Benidorm lighter and starts burning Sick Boys ponytail. Hair crackles, and yet
another unpleasant smell mingles with the rest at the back of the bus. Sick
Boy, realising what is happening, springs round in his seat. ¾
Fuck off! he snarls, thrashing at Rentons now raised wrists. ¾
Immature cunt! he hisses as the laughter of Begbie, Second Prize and Renton
mocks him, ricocheting around the bus.
Rentons intervention though, gives Sick Boy the
excuse he scarcely needs to leave them and join the backpacker. He pulls off
his Italians Do Better t-shirt, exposing a wiry, tanned torso. Sick
Boys mother is Italian, but he wears the t-shirt less to show pride in his
origins, as to wind up the others at his pretension. He pulls down his bag and
rummages through its contents. There is a Mandela Day shirt, which was
politically sound and rock enough, but too mainstream, too sloganistic. Worse, it
was dated. He felt that Mandela would prove to be just another tedious old cunt
once everyone got used to him being out of the jail. He only gave Hibernian
F.C. ¾ European Campaigners a cursory glance before
rejecting it out of hand. The Sandinistas were also passé now. He
settled for a Fall t-shirt which at least had the virtue of being white and
would show off his Corsican tan to its best effect. Pulling it on, he moved
over and slid into the seat beside the woman.
¾
Excuse me. Sorry, Im going to have to join you. My travelling companions
behaviour is a touch immature for my taste.
Renton observes, with a mixture of admiration and
distaste, the metamorphosis of Sick Boy from waster into this womans ideal
man. Voice modulation and accent subtly change. An interested, earnest
expression comes over his face as he fires seductively interrogative question
at his new companion. Renton winces as he hears Sick Boy say: ¾
Yeah, Im more of a jazz purist myself.
¾
Sick Boys cracked it, he observes, turning to Begbie.
¾
Ahm fuckin pleased fir the cunt, Begbie says bitterly. ¾
At least it fuckin keeps the moosey-faced cunt away fae us. Fuckin nondy cunts
done fuck all but fuckin moan since we saw um ... the cunt.
¾
Every cunts a wee bit tense, Franco. Thirs a loat at stake. We did aw that
speed the other night thair. Everybodys bound tae be a wee bit para.
¾
Dinnae keep fuckin stickin up fir that cunt. Needs a fuckin lesson in manners
that fuckin wide-o. Might soon be fuckin well gittin yin n aw. Disnae fuckin
cost nowt tae huv manners.
Renton, realising that the discussion cannot be
fruitfully advanced, settles down into his seat, letting the gear massage him;
unravel the knots, and smooth out the creases. It was quality stuff alright.
Begbies bitterness towards Sick Boy is not much
fuelled by jealousy but resentment at his departure; he is missing sitting
beside someone. He now has a big speed kick on. His mind flashes with insight
after insight, which Begbie thinks are just too good not to share. He needs someone
to talk at. Renton notes the danger signs. Behind him, Second Prize is snoring
loudly. Begbie would get little from him.
Renton pulls the baseball cap down over his eyes,
while simultaneously nudging Spud awake.
¾
Ye sleepin Rents? Begbie asks.
¾ Mmmmm
... Renton murmurs.
¾
Spud?
¾
What? says Spud irritably.
It was a mistake. Begbie turns in the seat; resting on
his knees, he overhangs Spud and starts to report an oft-told story.
¾
... so ahm oan toap ay it, ken, cowpin it likes, gaun fuckin radge n its
fuckin screamin likes n ah thinks fuck me, this dirty cows right fuckin intae
it, likes but it pushes us oaf, ken n shes bleedin ootay her funny ken, like
its fuckin rag week, n ahm aboot tae say, that disnae bother me, specially no
wi a fuckin root oan like ah hud, ahm fuckin telling ye. Anywey, it turns oot
thit the cunts huvin a fuckin miscarriage thair n then.
¾
Yeah.
¾
Aye, n ahll fuckin tell ye something else n aw; did ah tell ye aboot the time
whin me n Shaun picked up they two fuckin hounds in the Oblomov?
¾
Yeah ... Spud moans weakly, his face feeling like a cathode-ray tube which is
imploding in slow motion.
The coach swings into the service station. While it
provides Spud with some much-needed respite, Second Prize is not happy. Sleep
had only just taken him, but the harsh lights of the bus are switched on,
cruelly ripping him from his comforting oblivion. He wakes disorientated, in an
alcoholic stupor; bemused eyes unable to focus, ringing ears assaulted by a
cacophony of indistinguishable voices, flapping dried-up mouth unable to shut.
He instinctively voices, flapping dried-up mouth unable to shut. He
instinctively reaches for a purple can of Tennents Super Lager, letting the
sickly drink act as surrogate saliva.
They slouch across the motorways fly-over bridge,
persecuted by the cold, as well as tiredness and drugs in their bodies. The
exception is Sick Boy, who waltzes confidently ahead of them with the
backpacker.
In the garish Trust House Forte cafeteria, Begbie
grabs Sick Boy by an arm and extracts him from the queue.
¾
Dinnae you fuckin rip oaf that burd. Wir no wantin the fuckin polis swarmin aw
ower us for a few hundred quid ay some fuckin students holiday poppy. No whin
wuv goat eighteen fuckin grands worth ay skag oan us.
¾
Ye think ahm fuckin daft? Sick Boy snaps, outraged, but at the same time
confessing to himself that Begbie has provided him with a timely reminder. He
had been necking with the woman, but his bulging chameleon eyes were always
frantically scanning; trying to work out where her money was stashed. The visit
to the cafe had been his opportunity. Begbie was right however, this was no
time for a move like that. you couldnt always trust your instincts, Sick Boy
reflected.
He tears himself away from Begbie with an injured
pout, and rejoins his new girlfriend in the queue.
Sick Boy starts to lose interest in the woman after
this. He is finding it hard to maintain an acceptable level of concentration on
her excited tales of going to Spain for eight months, before taking up a place
an a law degree course at Southampton University. He gets the address of the
hotel in London she is staying at, noting with some distaste that it seems to
be a cheap King Cross job, rather than a more salubrious place in the West End,
which hed enjoy hanging out in for a day or two. He was supremely confident
that hed get a shag out of this woman once they got the business with Andreas
settled.
The bus eventually starts to roll through north
Londons brickwork suburbs. Sick Boy looks out nostalgically as they pass the
Swiss Cottage, wondering whether a woman he knew still worked behind the bar.
Doubtlessly not, he reasons. Six months is a quite a while behind the bar of a
London pub. Even so early in the morning, the bus is reduced to a crawl as it
reaches central London, and it takes a depressingly long time to wind down to
Victoria Bus station.
They disembark like pieces of broken crockery being
poured out of a packing case. A debate develops about whether they should go
down to the railway station and get a Victoria Line tube up to Finsbury Park,
or jump a taxi. They decide that a taxi is a better bet than messing about
through London with a load of smack.
They squeeze into the Hackney cab, telling the
talkative driver that they are down for the Pogues gig, which will take place
in a tent in Finsbury Park. It provided ideal cover, as they all planned to go
to the concert, combining pleasure with business, before heading to Paris for a
break. The cab almost backtracks the way the bus had come in, prior to stopping
at Andreass hotel, which overlooks the park.
Andreas, who came from a London-Greek family, had
inherited the hotel on the death of his father. Under the old man, the hotel
had predominantly housed emergency homeless families. Local councils had the
responsibility to find short-stay accommodation for people in such
circumstances, and as the Finsbury Park district was sliced up between three
London Boroughs, Hackney, Harringey and Islington, business had been good. On
taking over the hotel, however, Andreas saw that it could be even more
lucrative as knocking-shop for London businessmen. While he never really hit
the top of the market he aimed at, he provided a safe haven for a small number
of prostitutes. Mid-ranking city punters admired his discretion and the
cleanliness and safety of his establishment.
Sick Boy and Andreas had got to know each other
through going out with the same woman, who had been mesmerised by the both of
them. They hit it off instantly, and worked a few scams together, mainly petty
insurance fiddles and bank-card frauds. On taking over the hotel, Andreas had
started to distance himself from Sick Boy, deciding that he was now in a bigger
league. However, Sick Boy had approached him about a batch of quality heroin he
had got a hold of. Andreas was cursed with a dangerous fantasy, and a timeless
one: namely that he could hang around with villains to boost his ego, without
paying an attendant price. The price Andreas paid was getting Pete Gilbert
together with the Edinburgh consortium.
Gilbert was a professional who had worked in
drug-dealing for a long time. Hed buy and sell anything. For him, it was
strictly business, and he refused to differentiate it from any other
entrepreneurial activity. State intervention in the form of police and courts
merely constituted another business risk. It was however, a risk worth taking,
considering the supernormal profits. A classic middle-man, Gilbert was, by
nature of his contacts and his venture capital, able to procure drugs, hold
them, cut them and sell them to smaller distributors.
Straight away, Gilbert clocks the Scottish guys as
small-time wasters who have stumbled on a big deal. He is impressed however, by
the quality of their gear. He offers them ₤15,000, prepared to go as high
as ₤17,000. They want ₤20,000, prepared to go as low as
₤18,000. The deal is clinched at ₤16,000. Gilbert will make
₤60,000 minimum once the gear is cut and distributed.
He finds it tiresome negotiating with a bunch of
fucked-up losers from the wrong side of the border. Hed rather be dealing with
the person who sold it to them. If their supplier was desperate enough to punt
such good gear to this squad of fuck-ups, then he didnt really understand the
business. Gilbert could have turned him onto some real money.
More than tiresome, it was dangerous. Despite their
assurances to the contrary, it would be impossible, he decided, for this bunch
of wasted Jocks to ever be discreet. It was more than possible that the
D.S. had stuck a tail on them. For that reason, he has two experienced punters
outside in the car with their eyes peeled. Despite his reservations, he
cultivated his new business associates. Anyone desperate enough to punt them
this gear once, could be daft enough to do it again.
The deal concluded, Spud and Second Prize hit Soho to
celebrate. They are typical new boys in town, attracted to that famous square
mile like kids to a toy shop. Sick Boy and Begbie go to shoot what proves to be
a competitive game of pool in the Sir George Robey with two Irish guys they
team up with. London old stagers, they are contemptuous of their friends
fascination for Soho.
¾
Aw thill git thair is plastic polismans hats, union jacks, Carnaby Street
signs and overpriced pints ay pish, Sick Boy scoffed.
¾
Theyd git a cheaper fuckin ride back it yir mates hotel, what the fuck dye
call um, the Greek cunt?
¾
Andreas. But thats the last thing these cunts want, says Sick Boy, racking up
the balls, ¾ and that fucker Rents. Thats the umpteenth time hes
tired tae kick. Doss cunt chucked in a good joab n barry flat doon here n aw.
Ah think me n himll go oor separate weys eftir this.
¾
Its a good joab hes fuckin back thair though. Some cunts goat tae watch the
fuckin loot. Ah widnae trust Second Prize tae look eftir it.
¾
Aye, Sick Boy says, wondering how he can ditch Begbie and get off in search of
womens company. He wonders who he will call up, or whether hell check out the
backpacker. Whatever he decided, hed move soon.
Back at Andreass place, Renton is sick, but not quite
as sick as hed led them to believe. He looks out onto the back garden and sees
Andreas cavorting with Sarah, his girlfriend.
He looks back at Adidas bag, stuffed full of cash, the
first time Begbie has let it out of his sight. He turfs its contents out onto
the bed. Renton has never seen so much money. Almost without thinking, he
empties the contents of Begbies Head bag; putting them into the empty Adidas
bag. Then stuffs the cash into the Head bag, and puts his own clothes in, on
the top of the money.
Briefly, he glimpses out of the window. Andreas has
his hand inside Sarahs purple bikini pants and she is laughing and shrieking: ¾
Dahnt Endreas ... dahnt ... Gripping the Head bag firmly, Renton turns and
stealthily scuttles out of the room, down the stairs and along the hallway. He
looks back briefly before striding out the door. If he bumped into Begbie now,
he was finished. As soon as he lets that though form consciously in his head,
he almost collapses with fear. There is nobody in the street, however. He
crosses the road.
He hears chanting noises and freezes. A group of young
guys in Celtic football tops, obviously down for the Pogues gig in the
afternoon, the staggering towards him, out of their heads on alcohol. He walks
tensely past them, although they ignore him; and to his relief, he sees a 253
bus coming. He jumps on, and away from Finsbury Park.
Renton is on automatic pilot as he alights in Hackney
to get a bus to Liverpool Street. Nonetheless, he feels paranoid and
self-conscious with the bag full of money. Every person looks like a potential
mugger or big-snatcher to him. Whenever he sees a black leather jacket similar
to Begbies, his blood turns to ice. He even considers going back when he is on
the bus to Liverpool Street, but he sticks his hand in the bag and feels the
bundles of notes. At his destination, he walks into an Abbey National branch
and adds ₤9,000 in cash to the ₤27.32 already in his account. The
cashier does not even blink. This is the City, after all.
Feeling better with only ₤7,000 on him, Renton
goes down to Liverpool Street station and buys a return ticket to Amsterdam,
only intending to go one way. He watches the county of Essex transmute from
concrete and brick into lush green as they rumble out towards Harwich. He has
an hours wait at Parkston Quay, before the boat sails to the Hook of Holland.
This is no problem. Junkies are good at waiting. A few years back, he worked on
this ferry, as a steward. He hopes that nobody recognised him from those days.
Rentons paranoia subsides on the boat, but it is
replaced by his first real feelings of guilt. He thinks about Sick Boy, and all
the things they went through together. They had shared some good times, some
awful times, but they had shared them. Sick Boy would recoup the cash; he was a
born exploiter. It was the betrayal. He could see Sick Boys
more-hurt-than-angry expressions already. However, they had been drifting apart
for years now. Their mutual antagonism, once a joke, a performance for the
benefit of others, had slowly become, through being ritualised in that way, a
mundane reality. It was better this way, Renton thought. In a way, Sick Boy
would understand, even have a grudging admiration for his actions. His main
anger would be directed at himself for not having had the bottle to do it
first.
It didnt take much effort to rationalize that he had
done Second Prize a favour. He felt pity when he thought of Second Prize using
his criminal injuries compensation board cash to front his stake. However,
Second Prize was so busy destroying himself, hed scarcely notice anyone giving
him a hand. You would be as well giving him a bottle of paraquat to drink, as
three grand to spend. It would be a quicker and ultimately more painless way of
killing him. Some, he considered, would argue that it was Second Prizes
choice, but did not the nature of his disease destroy his capacity to make a
meaningful choice? He smirks at the irony of him, a junky who has just ripped
off his best mates, pontificating in such a manner. But was he a junky? True,
he had just used again, but the gaps between his using were growing. However,
he couldnt really answer this question now. Only time could do that.
Rentons real guilt was centred around Spud. He loved
Spud. Spud had never hurt anybody, with the exception perhaps of a bit of
mental distress caused by his tendency to liberate the contents of peoples
pockets, purses and homes. People got too het up about things though. They
invested too much emotions in objects. Spud could not be held responsible for
societys materialism and commodity fetishism. Nothing had gone right for Spud.
The world had shat on him, and now his mate had joined it. If there was one
person whom Renton would try to compensate, it was Spud.
That left Begbie. He could find no sympathy for that
fucker. A psycho was used sharpened knitting needles when he went to sort some
poor cunt out. Less chance of hitting the rib cage than with a knife, hed
boast. Renton recalled the time when Begbie had glassed Roy Sneddon, in The
Vine, for fuck all. Nothing other than the guy had an irritating voice and
Begbie was hungover. It was ugly, sickening and pointless. Even uglier than the
act itself, was the way that they all, including Renton, had colluded with it,
even to the extent of creating fictitious scenarios to justify it. it was just
another way of building Begbies status as somebody not to mess with, and their
own indirectly, through their association with him. He saw it for the extreme
moral cowardice it was. Alongside this, his crime in ripping off Begbie was
almost virtuous.
Ironically, it was Begbie who was the key. Ripping off
your mates was the highest offence in his book, and he would demand the
severest penalty. Renton had used Begbie, used him to burn his boats completely
and utterly. It was Begbie who ensured he could never return. He had done what
he wanted to do. He could now never go back to Leith, to Edinburgh, even to
Scotland, ever again. There, he could not be anything other than he was. Now,
free from them all, for good, he could be what he wanted to be. Hed stand or
fall alone. This thought both terrified and excited him as he contemplated life
in Amsterdam.