Authors: Irvine Welsh
— As bad as it possibly could have. A fuckin nightmare. As soon as I walked in and saw the coupon oan that judge, I thought: this isnae gaunny play oot well. Me, big Chris Moncur and another guy called Alan Royce aw said roughly the same thing. But it was Dickson’s word against a deid man’s as tae what actually happened. They bought aw his bullshit; an argument, an exchange ay blows, Coke fell, smashed his heid and died. An ordinary assault conviction wi a poxy five hundred quid fine. Nae jail, no even gaunny lose his fuckin licence.
— You are fuckin jokin …
— Wish I was. Janey’s in shock, and wee Maria was greeting and started shouting at them in the court, she had tae be taken oot by her auntie. All the time the judge sat thaire wi that stony, arrogant coupon. Then he went oan aboot drink being the root cause ay this tragic accident, about how landlords continually have hassle fae drunks, and how Coke was a known pissheid … The family are devastated, Mark. I’m telling ye, it was the most fucked-up day of my life …
Sick Boy goes on and on, and although ah never kent Coke well, ah mind that he was always a happy, singing drunk; an occasional string vest, but never violent or aggressive. — The game’s rigged, ah tell him, lookin doon at the Greek bird, who gies us the evil eye ower the top ay her book.
By the time ah put the phone doon ah’m despondent, n head ootside and walk for a bit. The hammering rain has given way tae a pearly mist
that
wreathes over the city. Ah prowl for ages, the cold slowly biting intae ma face, then get back up tae Fiona, who’s awake n dressed, n ah tell her aboot Coke. She’s talking about how we should get a campaign going, a campaign for justice, on behalf ay an unemployed alkie, against an ex-cop, Freemason and publican, and a High Court judge.
Ah’m listenin tae her gaun oan, indulgin her, aw the time thinkin:
That’s no how it works
. Then it’s time for her to go. Ah’m meant tae be going ower tae hers later oan the night. Pulling oan her long, brown coat, Fiona places her loving fingertips oan the back ay my neck. Her eyes so serene ye could get lost in them forever. — What time do yer wanna come owah?
As ah consider this simple question, it seems tae widen until it splits ma thoughts open. What time?
Notes on an Epidemic 3
IN 1827, THOMAS SMITH
, a graduate of Edinburgh University’s renowned medical school, took over his brother William’s pharmacy. They started manufacturing fine chemicals and medicines prepared from plant sources. Ten years later, they would turn to alkaloids, particularly morphine, which they began to extract from opium.
John Fletcher Macfarlan, an Edinburgh surgeon, had taken over an apothecary’s shop in 1815, establishing a substantial trade in laudanum. Later he made morphine, for which demand rose due to the development of the hypodermic needle. This increased the drug’s effectiveness by allowing its direct injection into the bloodstream. Macfarlan’s trade subsequently flourished and he also made anaesthetics (ether and chloroform) as well as surgical dressings. In 1840 he opened a factory and by the 1900s J.F. Macfarlan & Co. had become one of the largest suppliers of alkaloids in the country.
Both businesses continued to develop through takeovers and acquisitions, and in 1960, they merged to form Macfarlan Smith Ltd. The company was taken over by the Glaxo group in 1963. It still employs over two hundred workers at its plant in Wheatfield Road, in the city’s Gorgie district.
The heroin that flooded the streets of Edinburgh in the early 1980s was widely believed to have been sourced from opiate-based products manufactured at the plant, through breaches of security. When these security issues were resolved, the huge local demand for heroin was satiated by cheap Pakistani product, which by this time had flooded into the rest of the UK. Conspiracy theorists point out that this glut of heroin importation occurred shortly after the widespread rioting of 1981, in many poorer areas of Britain, which was given most notable media attention in Brixton and Toxteth.
It Never Rains …
JANEY CAN’T SAY
she wisnae warned; you’d need tae have been on Mars no tae have noticed that the Tories were cracking down on benefit fraud. So the courts make an example ay her. After issuing the six-month sentence, the judge describes himself as ‘only being moved to leniency’ by her tragic circumstances. He isnae the same yin who’d let her husband’s murderer off with the fine.
That panicked bovine-to-slaughterhouse expression as they cart her away! She’s begging them, imploring those stone faces to exhibit some kind ay mercy. The do-gooding, legal-aid vegetarian they appointed tae defend her looks almost as traumatised as Janey, and is probably already thinking aboot a career in company law. Maria, by my side, is once again in disbelieving tears. — They cannae … they cannae … she dumbfoundedly repeats. Elaine, her auntie and Janey’s sister-in-law, a thin, bloodless woman who looks like a kitchen knife, dabs at her eyes with a snot-rag. Thankfully Grant, as with Dickson’s trial, is kept oot ay the court, ensconced doon in Nottingham with Janey’s brother, Murray.
I never thought it would work out like this. I’m quivering myself, as ah escort a lifeless Maria and Elaine intae Deacon Brodie’s Tavern on the Royal Mile. The pub is like an annexe ay the court a couple ay doors along, full ay criminals and the odd barrister, and mair than a few tourists wondering how they’ve stumbled intae this weirdness.
Ah’ve set up a wee
too risky
for myself and Elaine, wi a Coke for Maria, who, tae our surprise, quickly throws one ay the nips back.
— What are ye daein? You shouldae even be in here, ah tell her, looking aroond, scanning the joint, as Elaine says something insipid in her East Midlands accent.
Maria sits in the high-backed seat, smouldering wi rage. — Ah’m no gaun back tae Nottingham! Ah’m steyin here!
— Maria … loove … Poor Not-ink-goom, Elaine begs.
— Ah telt ye ah’m fuckin steyin! And she seizes the empty glass, her knuckles gaun white as she tries tae crush it in her hand.
— Let her stay here for a few days, at my mother’s, I urge the bemused
Auntie
Elaine, and then murmur, — then I’ll talk her intae goin back down on the train. Once she’s a wee bitty calmer.
You can see a spark ignite in the sister-in-law’s lifeless, beady eyes. — If it’s no trooble …
It isnae exactly like cold-calling tae flog double glazing on a Barratt estate. Ah don’t think Maria has been a particularly endearing house guest. Any roads, it’s time tae get the fuck ootay here. As we head down the Mound to Princes Street, Maria’s a wreckage; spewing vitriol about Dickson through her tears, causing passers-by tae steal furtive glances at us. We accompany the insubstantial, anaemic Elaine back tae the bus station, and watch her gratefully climb on the National Express coach. Maria’s standing there on the concourse as the bus pulls away, arms again folded across her breasts, looking at me as if tae say, ‘What now?’
I’m no taking her tae my mother’s place. Too much disruption wi their recent move. We jump in a taxi and head back tae her now parentless parental home. Of course, ah ken the best way tae get her tae dae something is tae simply suggest the opposite. — Ye huv tae go back tae Nottingham, Maria. It’ll only be for a few months, till yir ma gets oot.
— Ah’m no gaun back! Ah need tae see muh ma! Ah’m gaun naewhaire till ah git that fuckin Dickson!
— Well, ah suggest we pick up some stuff fae your place, then head up tae my mother’s.
— Ah’m steyin in ma ain hoose! Ah kin look eftir masel!
— You’ll dae something stupid. Wi Dickson.
— Ah’m gaunny kill um! It’s him that’s done aw this tae us. Him!
The cabbie checks us out in the mirror, but ah keep my gaze riveted on him and the nosy-beaked cunt soon switches his miserable, budgerigar eyes back onto the poxy road, where they fucking well belong.
The cab trundles down to Cables Wynd House, and ah reluctantly pay the fare. Maria exits swiftly n ah have tae run tae catch up with her. For a few anxious seconds I fear she’s bolted and ah’ll be locked oot, but she’s waiting in the stair for us wi a challenging pout. We climb up tae oor landing and she opens the door. — Leave Dickson tae me, ah gently urge, as we enter the cold flat.
She crumples onto the couch wi her heid in her hands, her bottom lip hanging doon. Her body trembles lightly and there’s mair waterworks. Ah switch on the lecky fire n gingerly sit doon next tae her. — It’s only natural that ye want revenge, ah totally understand that, ah say in an even, soft voice, — but Coke was ma mate, and Janey’s ma friend, so
ah’m
gaunny see that Dickson peys, and ah dinnae want you involved!
She birls roond tae me, blinded by snotters, rendered as repulsive as that bird in
The Exorcist
, and rasps, — But ah
am
fuckin involved! Muh dad’s deid! Muh ma’s in the fuckin jail! And he’s doon thaire, she points ootside the big window, — walkin the streets a free man, pullin fuckin pints ay beer like nowt’s happened!
Suddenly she springs up and she’s charging oot the door. Ah’m right eftir her. But she’s absolutely demented as ah hastily pursue her doon the stairs. — Where ye gaun, Maria?!
— AH’M GAUNNY FUCKIN WELL TELL UM!
At the bottom ay the stair, she tears across the concourse, doon the side street and tae the boozer, wi me a step behind. — Fuck sake, Maria! Ah grab her thin shoodir.
But she shimmies oot ay ma grip, throws open the door and runs intae the middle ay the pub, me follayin behind. Every head turns tae stare at us. Dickson, tae my great surprise, has actually resumed his duties behind the bar. He’s idly talking tae a crony and daein the crossword. He raises his heid in response tae the deafening silence that fills the room. But no for long. — MURDERER! Maria screams, pointing at him. — YOU MURDERED MA DAD, YA BASTARD! YOU MUR … She starts choking as the fit ay frustration drains her, and ah grab her in a lock under her airms, and ah’m pulling her oot the door, as ah hear Dickson’s smug but weak reply: — It’s no what the coorts said …
Ah’ve got her ootside but the air seems to revive her. — LIT US GO, she roars, face mangled wi fury and grief. Ah’m struggling like fuck as her slender frame’s fortified by hysteria and rage, and ah really feel like slapping her like they do in the films, but then it subsides, and she’s greeting and whimpering in my airms and ah’m leading her doon the street and across the car park and back up the stairs, thinking that
this
was how it was meant tae pan out.
And as ah get her back indoors, and oan the couch, it’s almost like her sherriking ay Dickson wis a bad dream, because she’s in my airms and ah’m stroking her hair, telling her it’s gaunny be alright. Telling her that ah’ll stey here with her as long as she wants and we’re gaunny get this Dickson cunt thegither, her and me …
— Will we? she asks in demented hunger, hyperventilating. — Me n you?
— Count on it, princess. Count. On. It. That fucking bum put Coke in his grave and, for aw we ken, Janey in the jail, and ah focus my spiteful, vengeful face oan hers. — He. Is. Fucking. Well. Getting. It.
— We’ll fuckin well kill that murderin bastard!
—
You
and me. Believe it!
— Ye mean it? she begs.
Ah look right intae her desolate eyes. — I swear oan ma mother and sisters’ lives.
She nods slowly at me. I can feel her tense body unwind a notch.
—
But
… we have tae box clever. If we’re careless, we end up like Janey. Do you understand?
A blank, sluggish bow of her head.
— Think aboot it, I stress. — If we just steam in thaire and slaughter him, we spend the rest ay our lives in jail. We huv tae be free tae savour it, tae enjoy the fact that we’re daein oor thing while that bastard is drooling in a wheelchair or fucking well buried in some shallow ditch!
Her breathing slows down. Ah’m hudin her hands in mine.
— We have tae think aboot this. And when we strike our hearts have tae be as cauld as ice. As cauld as that cunt’s doon thaire, ah point outside, — or he wins. He’s goat the polis and courts on his side. That means we wait, play it cool, and suss out his weak spots before we strike. Because if we git sloppy or emotional, he wins again. We
cannot
let him win again. Ye ken what I’m sayin here?
— Ma heid … it’s a nightmare … ah dinnae ken what tae dae …
— Listen tae me. We’ll get him, I stress, and she’s nodding and settling down, her hand on her forehead.
Ah feel sufficiently mollified tae get oot ma works and start cooking up.
The spark ay the lighter causes Maria’s neck tae whip round. — What are ye daein …? Her eyes widen.
— Ah’m sorry, it’s your house, ah should have asked. Ah’m fixing masel up a wee shot ay skag.
— What? What’s that? Is that … is that heroin?
— Aye. Listen, this is between you and me. Ah’m no proud ay it, but ah’ve been daein it a wee bit. Ah’m gaunny kick it intae touch, but, well, ah just sort ay need it at the moment. Since your dad … ah feel my head shaking, as ah look at her red, torn face, — … ah just feel so down, so powerless …
Maria’s face is as immobile as porcelain. Her eyes are locked onto the bubbling liquid dissolving in the spoon. — This is the only thing that takes away the pain … ah tell her. — Ah’m gaunny take a wee yin, just tae keep the heebie-jeebies at bay. After aw, ye dinnae want tae get a serious habit, but it
has
been a fucking stressful day.
So ah’m sucking up the solution through the cotton ball, then piercing
my
flesh with the point ay the needle. As ah draw some blood back, filling the chamber, Maria’s eyes are darkening, as if some inky fluid is thickening behind them too. My blood goes back in slowly, but ah feel no pressure ay my hand on the plunger, it’s like ma veins are sucking it in fae the syringe …
YA FUCKAH … YA FUCKIN BEAUTY … AH AM IMMORTAL, INVINCIBLE …
— Ah want some … ah hear Maria utter, in a choking gasp ay need.
— No way … it’s not good stuff, ah tell her, sweating back oantae the sofa, gurgling like a rapturous infant as the gear unravels through me like a nursery rhyme. Then there’s that almost honey-like nausea at my core … Ah take tight inhalations, letting ma breathing slowly regulate.