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the sweat was lashin’ offae sick boy, the daft cunt had written. aye, no shit!
am only thinking this ‘cos i can feel ma shirt sticking tae me back as i burst open the door, heart like a freight train in me chest. me system is almost completely flushed, which means i’m no longer riding out my high or a drunkard – a run-in wit franco will do that to a gadge.
it’sh fitting, shimon. running through a corridor, tie shlapping you in the fashe. a real bond moment.
i can hear him choking, the dumb wee cunt. my lungs are burning. neither of us are breathing.
it feels like a fucking age before i get there, spray paint in hand. spud, for all that he was a stupid bastard, did have his moments; leaving all the aerosols in one dingy corner had apparently been one of them. beggar isn’t expecting us, which means i get him right in the eyes, the nasty piece o’ work. he screams, and i pause, for just a second, to smirk. that’ll fuckin’ show ye.
mark, forever ruining my fucking moments, starts to gurgle behind us.
shelfish, shimon. he’sh lucky tae have you.
aye. yer telling me, sean.
– ay, rent boy, i sais, lifting him up under the knees. i’m still stronger than that lanky cunt ever wis, and it shows, cos i’m the one doing all the work. he’s blue in the face and all, but there’s a beam just above his heid. surely he can reach up, wrap his hands around the fucking thing.
for a second, he doesnae move. i freeze, fingers still digging into his jeans.
( – i’m tryin’, mark, but i’m nae feelin’ anything. )
did you make it, shimon? i alwaysh make it.
i fuckin’ have to have made it, mate.
– mark, i sais, harsher. it’s funny, wit me. i never tried tae be soft, not once, and the rent boy was alwiys surprised tae find out i wasnae as good a person as he expected me tae be. i almost see the doss fucker roll his eyes as he gasps, struggles, obeys. he’s always been like that.
he undoes the cable wit one trembling hand, a leaf in the blizzard of begbie an’ me. – here, c’moan, i manage, just fer somethin’ tae say, as i get him down. for a second, we’re wrapped around each other, just like in the old days. my arms vice around his frail back, and i feel every knot in m.ark renton’s spine. it’s a familiar sensation. i give him a dig, just for scarin’ us. he gasps against my shoulder, for breath, in pain. i dunnae care which.
begbie, from the world we’d left him in, roars. the fuckin’ psychopath has a gun on him, a wee air rifle much like the one i had, back in the day. the sight would make me laugh, were i a simpler man (were i not certain that beggar boy would kill us both, mark fer his betrayal and me fer mine).
( – fer a vegetarian, mark, yer a fuckin’ evil shot. )
we get our hands up to protect our faces, but neither of us make any further moves. i’m not about tae jump in front of the treacherous bastard, perform any valiant acts of heroism, and neither’s mark. we may have slated choosing life, but that’s exactly what we find ourselves doing as we stare down the barrel of a gun into the crazed eyes of franco begbie.
– franco! spud sais, but my eyes are squeezed shut. all i ken in the moment is that, even though i’d sworn it for the last twenty fuckin’ years, mark r.enton was nae dyin’ in my fuckin’ pub.