House Arrest
This bed is familiar, or rather, the wall opposite it is. Paddy Stanton looks down at us wi his seventies sideboards. Iggy Pop sits smashing a pile ay records wi a claw hammer. Ma auld bedroom, in the parental home. Ma heid struggles tae piece taegither how ah've goat here. As can remember Johnny Swan's place, then feeling like ah wis gaunnae die. Then it comes back, Swanney n Alison takin us doon the stairs, gittin us intae a taxi n bombin up tae the Infirmary.
Funny thing wis, jist before this, ah remembered boastin thit ah'd niver OD'd in ma puff. Thir's a first time fir everything. It wis Swanney's fault. His gear's normally cut tae fuck, so ye always bung that wee mair intae the cooking spoon tae compensate. Then whit does the cunt dae? He hits ye wi some pure shit. Literally takes yir breath away. Daft cunt that he is, Swanney must've gave thum ma Ma's address. So eftir a few days in the hoespital gittin ma breathin stabilised, here ah am.
Here ah am in the junky's limbo; too sick tae sleep, too tired tae stay awake. A twilight zone ay the senses where nothing's real except the crushing, omnipresent misery n pain in your mind n body. Ah notice with a start that ma Ma's actually sitting on my bed, looking silently at me.
As soon as ah'm aware ay this, she could be sitting oan ma chest for the level ay crushing discomfort ah feel.
She puts her hand oantae ma sweaty brow. Her touch feels horrible, creepy, violating.
—Yir oan fire, laddie, she sais softly, shaking her heid, concern etched oantay her face.
Ah raise a hand above the covers tae brush hers aside. Misinterpreting ma gesture, she grabs ma hand in both ay hers and squeezes tightly, cripplingly. Ah want tae scream.
—Ah'll help ye son. Ah'll help ye fight this disease. Ye'll stay here wi me n yir faither until yir better. Wir gaunnae beat this son, wir gaunnae beat it!
Her eyes have an intense, glazed look about them and her voice has a crusading zeal.
—Shoo'nuff momma, shoo'nuff.
—Ye'll git through it though, son. Doctor Mathews sais that it's jist really like a bad flu, this withdrawal, she tells us.
When wis the last time auld Mathews hud cauld turkey? Ah'd like tae lock that dangerous auld radge in a padded cell fir a fortnight, and gie um a couple ay injections ay diamorphine a day, then leave the cunt for a few days. He'd be beggin us fir it eftir that. Ah'd just shake ma heid and say: Take it easy mate. What's the fuckin problem? It's jist like a bad flu.
—Did he gie us temazepan? ah ask.
—Naw! Ah telt um, nane ay that rubbish. Ye wir worse comin oaf that thin ye wir wi heroin. Cramps, sickness, diarrhoea… ye wir in a hell ay a state. Nae mair drugs.
—Mibbe ah could go back tae the clinic, Ma, ah hopefully suggest.
—Naw! Nae clinics. Nae methadone. That made ye worse, son, ye said so yirsel. Ye lied tae us, son. Tae yir mother n faither! Ye took that methadone n still went oot scorin. Fae now oan son it's a clean brek. Yir stayin here whair ah kin keep an eye oan ye. Ah've loast one laddie already, ah'm no losin another yin! Tears welled up in her eyes.
Poor Ma, still blaming hersel fir that fucked—up gene that caused ma brother Davie tae be born a cabbage. Her guilt, eftir struggling wi him fir years, at pittin him in the hoespital. Her devastation at his death last year. Ma kens whit everybody thinks ay her, the neighbours n that. They see her as flighty and brazen, because ay her blonde hair—dye, clathes too young fir her, and her liberal consumption ay Carlsberg Specials. They think thit her n ma faither used Davie's profound handicap tae git oot ay the Fort n git this nice Housing Association flat by the river, then cynically dumped the poor cunt in the residential care.
Fuck the facts, these trivial things, they petty jealousies become part ay the mythology in a place like Leith, a place fill ay nosey cunts who willnae mind their ain business. A place ay dispossessed white trash in a trash country fill ay dispossessed white trash. Some say that the Irish are the trash ay Europe. That's shite. It's the Scots. The Irish hud the bottle tae win thir country back, or at least maist ay it. Ah remember gettin wound up when Nicksy's brar, down in London, described the Scots as `porridge wogs´. Now ah realise that the only thing offensive about that statement was its racism against black people. Otherwise it's spot-on. Anybody will tell you; the Scots make good soldiers. Like ma brar, Billy.
They suspect the auld man here as well. His Glasgow accent, the fact thit since being made redundant fi Parson's he's punted gear in the markets at Ingliston n East Fortune instead ay sittin in Strathie's Bar moanin his fuckin box oaf aboot everything.
They mean well, and they mean well tae me, but there's nae way under the sun that they can appreciate what ah feel, what ah need.
Protect me from those who wish tae help us.