Work Text:
Bastard.
It's my first thought as I look at the ginger cunt, propped up in the chair in the corner like some oldtimey invalid. His ma's no held off, swaddling his scrawny body in first flannel pyjamas, then jumper, dressing gown and two blankets. Despite her most intensive coddling efforts, he's shivering. There's a bit of bone-white clavicle exposed where the collar of his jumper— crew-necked, and clearly far too big— has slipped down.
The lovely madre di Rent Boy has propped a shoogly wooden tray-table in front of him, with a cup of ostentatiously milky tea for him tae ignore. No such luxury for Simone; the other wee foldy table broke years back, and the tightwads clearly dinnae care tae replace it. Mark's hands are skin and fucking bone around the neglected cup, each knuckle straining against sallow, dehydrated skin.
Fucking prick.
I make good on the hospitality of ma people, not in the death throes of dependence itsel but in the tenuous, exhausting after. Mama cannae stand to see her wee bambino suffer, so any complaint of 'flu or fever gets us bundled back into the spare room and waited on hand an foot. So long as the bastard papa isnae there, it's a good deal. But there's downsides, namely that her pillowy post-breeding physique oozes itsel into every dish she serves. Ah feel, beneath my skin, the bloat of a week's bombardment with buttery pastina.
"Alright, Rents?"
The tea in my ain mug is black, unsweetened. It's rank. Mark had told us once that sweet tea was 'sickly', cos of course he would, the smug twat. He'd blagged at not liking sweeties when we were kids. Fucker.
"Do ah fuckin look alright?"
You look like half ae Paris fashion week, ah dinnae say.
"Yir starting tae look better," I choke out instead, for the benefit of mama Renton. "Getting yir colour back."
The colour in question is "A4 paper", but my simpering wheedles a smile out ae Cathy all the same. She looks run near enough as ragged as her son is, though by far less starved by it.
"Will ye huv some biscuits, Simon?" She rattles the tin at me, then prises the lid off and deposits two crumbly-edged custard creams beside Mark's cup.
Ah just shrug; it would be impolite to refuse. She gives me a bit ae kitchen roll with no less than four, a proper little selection, and ah balance them on one knee for now. Fuck, ah think, shite, because the scent of chocolate and shortbread and sugar-crusted jam holds, despite ma best efforts, a genuine appeal. Rents is looking at his custard creams with a level ae hatred usually reserved for minging auld jakeies or me when I've fucked him off.
"Ta," I say, trying tae redirect ma focus to the Rent Boy's increasing agitation. His Ma keeps giving him these mournful pleading glances as she bustles about, popping a dvd in the player, fussing with his blankets. He looks like there's nothing on earth he wants less than a nice cuppa, and it cheers me a wee bit to ken he'll huv tae get through it anyways.
Ah ken exactly whit it feels like, the gut-twisting, bone-grinding agony and the exhausted depression that follows. He's just about tipped from the former to the latter, ah'd wager. Given that he's managed tae stop puking up spunk-tinged bile long enough tae entertain guests.
"D'ye want to swap me?" I ask, gesturing. I wish I hudnae; the way his adams apple bobs as he gags calls attention back to his delicate neck. Ah fuckin hate being around him when we're clean. It's harder tae notice, with the twin missions of scorin skag and scorin shags occupuyin all ma time; now, in the treacle-slow absence of either, I can simply observe.
It's nae fair, the way it shows on him. He's aw boney prominences— a jut of clavicle, of sternum, the bobbly bits of bone in his wrists. Ah study, obsessively, the concave shape between his cheekbone and jawline, visible every time he turns his heid.
I'm keenly aware of the inverse curve of my ain, huving had ma advances shrugged off just last night by a fine-figured ride who alleged to have knickers aulder than ye, darlin'. Always mair fish in the sea, but it doesnae half sting when it's something that easy.
The jumper, ah realise, is the striped one he'd wear out when we were fifteen.
I look at his throat again and want to put my fucking hand clear around it and squeeze. Probbaly could, the weedy cunt. I think if ah wanted tae, I could get my thumb and forefinger round both his wrists at once.
When Cathy's back is turned, ah cram one of the biscuits— also a custard cream— between the cushion of the settee and the armrest. She'll think her errant son has done it. The Renton household still acts as if they're serving, despite ma best efforts to the contrary, the rotund wee twat of ten years past. Cathy sees that fat prick in ma coupon; when she's tipsy, she'll try and pinch at chubby cheeks that arenae there anymore.
The telly starts rattling out the intro tae Goldfinger, and Cathy Renton looks us over one last time, assessing. Mark raises his mug to his chapped lips, and takes one agonised sip. She seems satisfied wi that.
"If ye need anythin, ah'm just doon the hall," she says, panic in her eyes like she's gaein off tae war rather than the washing. "Just shout me, awright?"
"Ta Mrs.Renton," I chime, like the simpering wee tit she still thinks ah am. Mark manages to hum in affirmation, just about.
"Twat," ah call him, as soon as she's out of earshot.
"Fuck off," he mutters, but there's nae venom in it. In moment ae childish fury, ah stick ma tongue out at him. He rolls his eyes, and forces down another sip of tea.
Ah ken whit he's gonnae ask me, it's just a matter of waiting. He's got needs like aw the rest of us, and ah can see desire simmering in those dark-ringed eyes. Cunt shouldae been more careful, then.
"Huv you got—" he begins, voice all raspy, and ah cut him off.
"No, nowt, and ye shame me even askin'." He goes all sulky at that, claggy-looking corners of his mouth turning down. "Ah'm clean as a whistle, unlike some."
"Yir still wi' the clinic," the Rent Boy protests, "Ma's made them take us aff the list."
There's tension at his wasted temples, a big blue vein throbbing into view as he's working himself up. He's so pathetic about it, the junkie cunt, begging like a fucking dog. Ah wish for one brief moment that he wis a lassie, so I could at least get a good gam out ae all that despiration.
"Eat yir biscuits," Ah tell him, instead.
He's looking at me like he wants tae see me burn in Dante's hell, but those spidery fingers pick up a biscuit anyways. Ah swear tae fuck ah smell it as he crunches down, the rich, buttery, processed-sugar sweetness of it. When he moves tae the second one, ah'm struck by the perverse urge to snatch it from his mouth.
Another reason ah fuckin hate being clean. All yir appetites come creeping back at once— fanny's fucking brilliant, but the rest does ma heid in.
I grit ma teeth and try to ignore the jut ae his jaw as he chews. Ma leg bounces in place, his restless energy rubbing off on me. The Rent Boy's got his eyes scrunched shut in disgust, or a played-up mockery ae it- as soon as yir mouth is over the shock of having food in it, things taste euphoric. Every man dreams ae sex, but now I dream ae food; cheese-drenched oily eyetie shite just like Mama makes. Wake, sweat-soaked and shaking, from nightmares ae binging on crusty bread with proper Italian olive oil and good balsamic…
While Mark's eyes are locked on the telly, the digestive biscuit Cathy had foisted upon me drops to the floor. Ah kick it under the sittee. Hope the chocolate melts intae the fucking carpet. Ma breakfast was a coffee and a cig; both wearing off, and nowt to fill the gap they've left. Coming out ae being sick, hunger always shocks me. Ye dinnae feel it, when yir using. One hit and it's gone for days.
More tea. A gnawing, cramping, cold in ma gut, unpleasant enough tae wrench ma attention away from Sean Connery. Ah break the shortbread finger intae tiny peices, pocketing the crumbs. Besides me, Mark's nearly away tae sleep, slumped back in the chair wi his eyes drifting shut. Nae energy left tae waste.
I debate just turning the volume down on the telly and just waiting for him to nod out. Ah could get away, hit the toon and find some choice hole to soothe masel.
Then my stomach gives a painful, out-loud growl, and ah cave.
The singular remaining biccie is a burst of guilty glory on ma tongue; ginger and crystal sugar flooding ma mouth as it rests there like the eucharist before ah bite down. Fuck. Unlike the Rent Boy, Ah can't keep the pleasure off ma face; that shit's fucking mint. The awkward, prepubertal version of me would regularly inhale a whole pack of them, and the lingering stain ae him seems tae possess me in that moment.
At least it wis only the one.
Mark's got crumbs in one corner ae his mouth. Ah wipe at ma own face subconsciously. Feel itchy all over, slightly sick. Shite. He's not got tae that point, a child's clathes hanging off ae him, on excusing only the one. His heid is dipping now, lolling to one side and pulling tight some long line of muscle or tendon in his milk-white neck. Ah want tae smack him awake, tae shake him, get him up and drag him wi me for drink and lassies and forgetting this stupid house.
Ah don't have tae, in the end.
Rents snorts, gasping back awake, then doubles over, retching. The movement knocks the wee wooden table over and it clatters tae the floor, tea going all ower the place. Cathy comes sprinting back at the commotion, yellow washing-up gloves dripping soap. I've jumped tae ma feet without realising it, nearly runing intae her as I back towards the door.
All I can look at is Mark.
Tears shining in his eyes fae the force of it, spilling doon his hollow cheeks. The stringy, bile-yellow muck he's coughing into his lap, a paste ae reluctantly-consumed calories soaking intae the blankets instead of his body. Ah want tae fucking clart him, drive ma fist into that fine-boned face. There's nae protection there; I could crack the socket of an eye.
"Oh, Mark…" Cathy Renton says, quiet and heartbroken, and ah go tae fetch a towel.
When ah return she's holding him, rubbing his back, and it seems about time to take ma leave of the place.
Ah know that if you asked him, he'd swear it wasnea on purpose. For this particular incident, I'd buy that. But there'll be a reason it comes tae him so easy.
Practice.
That's sissy shite, in my opinion; the realm of poofters and pudgy girls with nae real self-control. Too ashamed tae do anything but sneak off and self-correct.
Bang tae rights on him, then.
It's sunny when ah get back out, having apologised for being maybe a bit much for the dear, ailing, Rent Boy. His mama had smiled and thanked me for trying anyways, the both of them looking fucking miserable. I'm just pleased it means ah'll no have tae stay for lunch.
Turning on ma heel, I take my wee black book out of its pocket and reel through the numbers. What do I want? One of the model-lites tae take my frustration out on, or some lardy-arsed barmaid tae remind me how far ah've already come? There's still some catching up ahead ae me, clearly.
But this is one thing ah do that the Rent Boy can't.