Skagboys (80 page)

— Aye … but … we cannae fuckin brek in!

The next thing that catches Renton’s eye is a loading bay, with large plastic box containers piled on top of each other. — Storage. Wonder what the fuck’s in they boaxes?

They gape in awe at those receptacles, stacked up behind the barbed-wire fences and security cameras. Just the contents of one of them would last them for such a long, long time. — But ye cannae jist … Sick Boy begins in feeble protest.

As they prowl past the adjacent wasteland, which a billboard informs them is designated for a new supermarket, they try to think things through. — Where they make it, n where they store it, Sick Boy ruminates, realising that he’s converted. They are sick and there’s simply no option.

— First, there’s how to get in, Renton nods, — second, how tae get access tae the morphine.

— This plant probably manufactures aw sorts ay pharmaceuticals, no just skag. It could be like looking for a fucking three-figure IQ in Tynecastle, Sick Boy spits. — If only we had inside info!

— Well, we’re no gaun tae Swanney or Seeker tae get it, Renton says.

— No way.

Still slowly circumnavigating the edge of the plant, they move round to the busy, submerged Western Approach Road, watching the cars shoot into the city. It was once yet another old railway line, which led to the now defunct Caledonian Station at the West End of Princes Street.
I’m a
fucking
trainspotter
, Renton thinks, as he looks up and watches a goods train pass overhead. The two lines that go through the plant must be part of the old Edinburgh suburban system, now just used for freight rather than passengers. This part of the line, though, hadn’t been made into a public cycle path, nor did it house a new development of flats like most of the old Edinburgh rail network. And the embankments were fortified. Why did the circular south suburban line remain intact while the rest of the local Edinburgh urban railway had been ruthlessly ripped up under the infamous Beeching cuts of the sixties? It had to be the skag plant. They wanted people kept away from it.

— That’s the way, Renton says, — we get in through the railway line.

— Aye, it’s well barricaded roond here, but they cannae protect the whole fuckin line. We’ll find a way. Sick Boy’s chin juts out in defiance.

But Sick Boy’s confidence instantly releases Renton’s inner doubts. — This is too much. We bottled it gaun through customs in Essex wi a couple ay poxy wee packets, now we’re gaunny brek intae a fortified plant?

— Aye, we are. Sick Boy looks up into the clear blue sky, and back at the overhead railway lines. — Cause we have tae!

They see no plant entrance or egress from the Western Approach Road, as the sun-glinted cars rush by. Crossing over towards Murrayfield Stadium, which stands imposingly opposite the manufacturing complex, they scramble up a pathway that curls up by the railway embankment. From this elevated vantage the dominant building in the plant is a red-bricked, corrugated-roofed Victorian structure which backs onto the road, with a huge barbed-wire fence on top of a stone perimeter wall; the railway line access is prohibited by a similar barrier. A group of tin-hatted railway workers, standing outside a Portakabin, regard them with suspicion. — Fuck this, we’d better nash, says Sick Boy.

— Stay cool. Leave the talking tae me, Renton says as a man advances towards them.

— What are you wantin?

— Sorry, mate, is this private property?

— Aye, it’s the railway’s property, the man explains.

— Too bad, Renton says wistfully, looking over at the old part of the plant that backs onto the Western Approach Road. — I’m an artist. There’s some fascinating Victorian architecture there, great buildings.

— Aye, the man concedes, seeming to warm to him.

— Would’ve been great tae dae some sketches. Well, sorry to intrude.

— Nae bother. If ye want tae apply tae the railway’s PR at Waverley Station, they’ll mibbe sort ye oot wi a pass.

— Great! I’ll probably go and do just that. Thanks for your help.

Sick Boy is feeling way too poorly to enjoy Renton’s performance. A groan rises from his crushed bowels, his deadened flesh crying for heroin, his brain swollen as he gets a whiff of a rank-rotten stench coming from his own body and clothes. He picks some dried, crusted slime from the corner of his eyes.

He’s relieved beyond words when the small talk ends and they move back down the path, onto the road, crossing over to the wasteland, heading back round the perimeter of the plant. Renton stops again, just to look down at the railed space between the Victorian office buildings and the embankment and overhead bridge. That’s when he sees it; points it out to Sick Boy.

It’s a mundane red-bricked outbuilding, topped with what looks to be a felt roof. It has a small rectangle of a door, painted green. It sits by the detritus of an older building, now a pile of algae, silt-and-weed-covered bricks and rotting boards. They stall to peer through the fence at it, then quickly move on as two suits emerge from the offices, heading to the car park over the road, lost in business-speak. But they know what they’re going to do. Getting back down to Gorgie Road, they walk into the city, stopping at Bauermeister’s on George IV Bridge to shoplift the Ordinance Survey map covering this segment of inner-city west Edinburgh that now obsesses them.

When they get back to the flat in Montgomery Street, Hazel has gone. Renton says nothing. They’ve barely settled when there’s a timorous knock on the door. They open it to be confronted by Spud and Keezbo, a tearful Laurel and Hardy, ailing and shaky through lack of skag. In the front room, Renton and Sick Boy start to outline their proposition, when there’s another sudden, disquieting knock on the door. It’s Matty, looking completely destroyed. Renton notes that he hasn’t even bothered to try and disguise the receding bits at the side of his hairline by blowing the front central section into a bouffant spread. He smells like an exhumed corpse might, and one side of his face twitches in semi-permanent spasm. He looks sicker than any of them. They glance at each other and decide that they can’t leave him out. So Renton continues with the rundown.

— It’s mental man, never work, we will dae
big time
, telling ye, and we will dae it
big time
. Tellin ye, no way, man, no way … Spud gasps.

— Wey we see it, we’ve nae choice, Renton shrugs. — Ah’ve been oantae people in Glesgay, London and Manchester. The polis n customs made a lot ay big seizures lately and thaire’s jist nae fuckin broon. It’s a proper drought. So it’s either take a punt oan this pawkle or dae cauld turkey. It’s as simple as that.

— I’ve been daein too much gear tae try that, Sick Boy shakes his head. Sweat seeps from his pores, his body revolting at the very notion. — It’ll kill us. And I don’t fucking well think that Amelia n Tom in St Monans are gaunny be too keen tae welcome us back intae rehab. And how long is it gaunny take till some cunt has the confidence tae bring another shipment in, or till the polis start puntin it back oot oantae the streets? Too long for me, that’s a fucking cert!

— What dae youse think but, boys? Renton looks around the taut faces, into jittery eyes.

— If it looks a sound plan, ah’m in, Matty says doubtfully.

— Me n aw, Mr Mark, Mr Simon, Keezbo confirms.

Everyone looks at Spud. — Awright, he says in a defeated, barely audible rasp.

Renton shows them two diagrams, which he spreads out on the floor. One is the OS map, supplemented with his felt-tipped pen lines. The other is a drawing they can’t make head nor tail of. — Obviously, dinnae mention this tae any cunt, no even mates. He looks round them all. — Thank fuck Franco’s inside. He’d caw us aw the cunts under the sun then insist oan takin ower. N he’d tell us that we need tae kick the fuck oot ay the security guards instead ay avoidin thum!

They all force a feeble chortle, except Matty, who Renton notes is already acting the cunt. His face is sour, and contemptuous sighs keep erupting from him. Nonetheless, Renton points to the rail lines on the map. — We get oantae the railway line at the old Gorgie Station, just off Gorgie Road. We park the motor and haul the planks up the embankment and walk wi them doon the line towards Murrayfield –

— Planks? Cunt, what fuckin planks? Matty says.

— Sorry, forgot tae mention that we go tae the timber yard in a bit, n git two fifteen-fit planks ay wid cut.

— Cunt, ah think you’re the fuckin plank, Renton.

Renton recalls how they used to be best friends. That summer of 1979 when they went to London as teenage punks. It now seemed a long way away. He fights down his anger. — Bear wi us, mate. The line branches off before Murrayfield. The right-hand fork splits the factory fae the distillery. We take the left, cause it goes right through the chemical plant; there’s a point where the fence gets really close tae the railway embankment. He points to the drawing. — Across the fence, a few feet away, there’s this outbuilding. We take the plank and lay it fae the railway line back oantae the top ay the fence …

— Fuck sake, Matty mumbles.

— … then we walk up the plank, tae the top ay the fence. One ay us stalls there, the rest pass the other plank along. Then we push it doon fae the toap ay the fence oantae the roof ay the outbuilding, then walk doon oantae the roof.

— Cunt, like fuckin Spider-Man, Matty sneers.

— It’s no too high, is it, likesay? Spud asks, eyes full of fear.

— Naw, it’ll be easy. Besides, you’re the best climber oot ay aw ay us, Renton says.

Spud holds a trembling hand out in front of him. — But no like this but, man …

— Lit’s no kid ourselves, it isnae gaunny be a piece ay pish; if it wis some other cunt would’ve done it by now. But it’s far fae impossible, Renton insists, turning back to the map. — There’s a drainpipe on the outbuilding that we can scramble doon tae get intae the plant. Then we find the skag, which’ll probably be in the containers stored in this loading bay, he points out the area on the map, — or in this building here, which is maist likely where they make it.

Matty looks at Renton, then at the others. Shakes his head. — Cunt, some fuckin plan this!

— Let’s hear yours then, Matty, Renton challenges.

— Dinnae be actin the smart cunt cause yuv been tae some daft fuckin sheepshagger college, Mark. Matty dismissively swipes the map with the back of his hand. — This isnae the Great Train Robbery and yir no Bruce Reynolds. Cunt, yir mair like Bruce Forsyth, fruitcakin aboot wi fuckin daft maps n drawins!

Spud and Sick Boy chuckle a little, while Keezbo remains deadpan. Renton sucks in some air, and says, — Look, ah’m no bein Mister Big Time. Ah need gear, he points to the plant on the map, – and it’s in there.

— Cunt, it’s like a fuckin school project tae you! Well, it’ll be like tryin tae find a needle in a haystack. Cunt, ye dinnae even ken whaire the fuckin skag is! They’ve goat guards, probably dugs … Matty looks to the others in appeal.

— First sign ay any bother, we fuckin bolt, Sick Boy says. — Nae dugs or spazzy cunts in uniforms are coming up a plank eftir us.

— Ah still say it’s fuckin mad! Ah mean, cunt, what huv we goat fuckin gaun for us?

Renton sucks in some of the room’s fetid air. Matty is driving him crazy. Withdrawal is gnawing at his brain and bones and it’s crucial when you feel like this to invest your strength in the correct grains of conversation. — Fine. Dae cauld turkey then, he snaps.

Then Sick Boy turns on Matty. — Ever heard ay the element ay surprise? The Charge ay the Light Brigade? Three hundred Spartans? Bannockburn? History’s fuckin littered wi gadges who’ve upset the odds, just by huvin the fucking bottle tae huv a dash. Did they change the motto ay Leith fae ‘persevere’ tae ‘shite it’ when ah wisnae looking?

Matty falls into a silence that’s contagious for a few seconds till the shrill ringing of the phone shatters it, searing their nerve endings. Renton and Sick Boy both pounce and Renton gets there first, instantly deflated to hear the voice of his father on the line. — Mark?

The synapses in his brain stumble over one another. — Dad … what is it?

— We need skag, he hears Sick Boy say to Matty. — They’ve goat it and nae cunt else does. Endy story.

— What are you up tae? Are you keeping oaf that dirty stuff? his father asks.

— Nae option. Thaire’s nane, he coldly announces as he hears an argument rage behind him.

— Well, dinnae seem sae disappointed aboot it!

— What dae ye want, Dad? Has Ma been on your case?

— This is nowt tae dae wi yir ma! Ah’ve got Hazel doon here! She’s heartbroken, she’s telling us that you’ve been oan that bloody crap again!

Grassin fuckin fucked-up frigid wee hoor
…

— Look, this is nonsense. Tell us what ye want, or ah pit the phone doon.

— You willnae pit the phone doon on
me
, son!

A surge of welcome adrenalin shoots through Renton, briefly short-circuiting the pain. — In ten seconds, unless you can convince me otherwise.

— You’re ruinin everybody’s life, Mark … your mother n me … eftir Wee Davie, it’s no been –

— Nine …

— … what have we ever asked offay ye?

— Eight …

— Ye dinnae care, dae ye? Ah used tae think it wis aw a game wi you –

— Seven …

— … but now ah know, ye jist dinnae –

— Six …

— … CARE! YE DINNAE CARE!

— Five, what dae ye want?

— Ah want you tae stoap! Tae stoap daein this! Wee Hazel, she –

— Four …

— COME HAME, SON! PLEASE COME HAME!

— Three …

— WE LOVE YE! Please, Mark –

— Two …

— Dinnae pit the phone doon, Mark –

— One … so if there’s nowt else –

— MAAARK!

Renton rests the phone down gently onto the cradle. He turns to face the boys who stand staring at him, open-mouthed like fat goldfish in a botanical pond at feeding time. — The old man’s gone vigilante oan us, so it might be a good idea tae git the fuck oot ay here in case he comes roond. Wuv no goat time for aw that shite right now.

Sundown, and the bellies of the clouds flush pink. Renton reflecting that no matter how early you rise or how late you turn in, you never see that point where light begins or the first bruise of darkness bleeds in under its fragile skin; the beauty, and the scary, unfathomable wisdom of transition. They head out from the lock-up in Matty’s van, stopping at the Canasta Cafe in Bonnington Road, ostensibly for some food, but really to dispense the Valium that Renton liberated from his mother’s medicine cabinet. They wash the pills down with milky coffees.