The Needle And The Damage Done
Francis Begbie finally meets someone who fights back, and it’s Renton who has to drag him out alive, bloody and broken.
┣▇▇═─ cw: descriptions of blood, violence, alcohol + drug use in later chapters. unfinished!!
Renton had never intended to come along to this nightmare of an event. It was a Friday night and he was wasting precious time that could’ve been spent getting high off that skag he’d bought the day before, which currently sat under his bed, taunting him. He hadn’t gotten high in too long. He’d attempted to ween himself off the drugs and was surviving off of speed and the occasional line of cocaine. Neither did much for him. He needed the junk back, desperately, or bleak Edinburgh would begin to get even bleaker.
The pub was a classic Edinburgh one, slightly rundown and probably centuries old, passed down for generations. It was cramped full of guys Renton’s age; no nice girls around to eye, save for a few who looked ready to bolt. The air seemed thick and difficult to breathe. Outside it was pissing it down with rain, and yet Renton was sweating his balls off, though that might have been the withdrawal. There was a sickly smell, a cocktail of vomit, booze, and cigarette smoke. It was a pub like every other, that he’d spent all his life at, and yet in that moment it was hell on earth.
He’d forced himself to come for Hazel’s sake. It had been a while since they’d hung out together, and he needed to make sure she was alive and well. She was alive, of course, though well not so much. She’d been picking at her purple cardigan and her leg had been bouncing under the table non-stop. Renton wasn’t sure if their current relationship status allowed him to sneak a hand under the table and onto her thigh, just to calm her down a little. He decided against it. His relationship with Hazel had been strictly platonic for a while now, and he didn’t feel any need to change that. She was a nice girl, pretty in a dark, gothic way, but she was just as fucked up as him. It felt wrong to shag her, like it would only ruin her further.
In the seats in front of them sat Begbie and June, cuddled up together, neither of them comfortable.
The cunt that would likely ruin the night for all of them. He had his arm wrapped around poor June’s shoulder in a vice like grip, and was waxing lyrical about his technique playing darts, from what Renton had gathered. Did the cunt care that no one was interested? Probably not. And yet June had that eager, look on her face, nodding along and hanging onto Begbie’s every word. That irritated Renton. What was it about the cunt that made everyone bend over backwards for him? He was a psycho, a nutter, a child of jakeys, and yet he owned the streets of Leith. Sure, he was prepared to kill whoever stepped in his way, but he was a skinny man too. Renton reckoned if he and the rest of the lads put in a fist, they’d finish Begbie in no time. Of course, every mate of Begbie’s fantasised about this every so often, but deep down in their hearts they had a loyalty to the generalissimo that they just couldn’t shake. Renton figured that’s why evil cunts in power seemed to have so many people defending them. Everyone worships the guy on the throne, even if you’re the one he’s sat on.
—Picture the scene. The other fuckin week thaire, doon the fuckin Volley…
Begbie was spinning another one of his tales, more self-centered bullshit that he seemed to have an infinite supply of. Renton was getting bored stiff, so much so he found himself wondering when Begbie would find another poor cunt to wipe the floor with so he and Hazel could escape. Maybe they could go back to his place, put on a record, have that heroin shot he’d been craving all night. Instead, he sat up in his seat and leaned over to the Generalissimo.
—Another pint ay guinness, Franco?
It was a dangerous game, getting Begbie drunk. You had to be extra careful around him, but Renton needed to stretch his legs, and he was rapidly running out of the much-needed patience to listen to any more of the psycho’s exaggerated stories. Begbie looked mildly annoyed at the interruption, but gave a nod.
—Aye, git ays another yin Rents. One for ye tae n aw.
He pressed a twenty pound note in Renton’s hand, eliciting a small smile from the man as he set off to the bar. That was a small plus about Begbie; he liked to take care of his mates. He could beat the ever living shit out of them, but in his own twisted way, it was all out of love. Renton bought two more pints, pocketing the change for later. The night was slowly looking up, and as he looked over at Begbie from the front of the pub, illuminated by the dim lighting, he found himself feeling a strange, dangerous warmth for him.
He shook his head. What was he doing, getting all soft and gooey over the beggar?
Still, when he glanced back again, just to make sure Begbie hadn’t kicked off in his absence, he caught the man’s eye. Only for a second. Long enough for Begbie’s mouth to twitch, the barest hint of a grin, like he’d been waiting for him to look.
Renton looked back down at the beers fast, heat crawling up his neck.
Renton barely noticed when a large pub regular bumped into him and sent the beers falling to the floor. Glass and Guinness came crashing down and spread everywhere, soaking Renton’s worn out trainers. Tiny shards flew up and cut his thin, wiry hands, staining them with a startling scarlet colour. The man, a stocky, menacing cunt in his thirties, gave a soft grunt which stood in place of an apology. Immediately, Renton decided it would be safer not to mind too much; he valued his life over lukewarm beer and a couple of cut hands. If only Begbie had a similar reaction. Rule one in Begbie’s book had just been broken; never let another doss cunt harm a mate. He stood immediately and grabbed Stocky Cunt’s collar while Renton stood frozen, wearing the same expression as June and Hazel; a mix between dread and resignation. Here the bastard went again, ready to kill someone over something so simple as a drink and a wee bit of blood being spilled.
Begbie slammed the man back onto the counter, his hand moving instinctively to the chib in his back pocket. Renton stepped back, retreating as he always did. He hated his own cowardice, but there was nothing to be done. The night would end in blood and anguish and the sound of police sirens, as it always did when you went out with Francis Begbie.
—YE FUCKIN DOSS CUNT! APOLOGISE TAE MA MATE AND BUY AYS ANOTHER COUPLE AY PINTS!
Begbie was practically spitting on Stocky Cunt’s face, worked up at the thought of another pub brawl. He fed off of violence. It was likely the only reason he’d brought Renton and the girls here in the first place; the prospect of a good fight. He leaned in further and pierced the knife into the wooden panel behind the man. Not a flinch from Stocky Cunt. Renton frowned. That was new.
—WELL SPEAK UP THEN YE FUCKIN FANNY.
He pressed the edge of his chib into the flesh of the man’s neck, eyes glittering, practically begging the man to pull a singular wrong move so a good square-go could follow. This was the bit Begbie loved. The waiting. The build-up. Everyone knew how it would go; Begbie would let the guy have a few charity punches, before he’d skewer the poor cunt straight in the side, watching with an unfazed grin as blood spilled. And the worst part was, he’d get away with it. The barman, the patrons, the couple in the back, everyone in Leith knew you never snitch on Francis Begbie. You leave him be or it would be you bleeding out next.
Stocky Cunt, however, was perfectly still. He gave a small, sickening smile, one not unlike Begbie’s before he gave you a beating. Something in Renton’s gut twisted, something he didn’t understand yet. In a swift, almost lazy move, the man grabbed Begbie’s wrist, sending the knife flying, up and up, then down and down and clean into his own steady grip. Renton knew it then, cold and clear; Begbie had met his match. He was no longer in control. He’d picked the wrong cunt to square up to for the first time in his life, and the consequences of his actions had come back to hit him in the form of a large beer-drinking, red-faced nutter.
The chib was now pointed directly at Begbie’s torso. Francis Begbie, ever the arrogant fool, scoffed and reached for it like this was still his fight. The man lunged.
For a moment, it looked like time had stood still. Everyone’s face of horror was frozen, and the only movement was that of Begbie’s blood, spilling fast and seeping through the cotton of his polo. The wood underneath them turned a dark, ugly red. Begbie looked down, confused, then horrified, and then his mouth opened and he let out a scream. It tore out of him, pained and desperate, his face twisting in anguish. His body seemed to contort as he dropped to the floor, hands flailing around his wound in a panic. Renton watched it all like it was happening behind glass, convinced for a split second this had to be some warped dream his junk-starved brain had cooked up.
That was really Begbie, and he was really on the floor, being booted and kicked and clawed at, just as he’d done to so many others. He wasn’t the man with the knife anymore. He was the poor cunt on the floor.
The barman yelled out nervous threats of calling the police from behind the counter, and some other drunken lads with no fear for their lives tried to jump in, drawn to a fight like a moth to a flame. It was chaos, a flurry of yelling and grabbing and too much red for Renton to stomach. He had the instinct to turn and flee, as he normally would, and yet his damned legs were glued firmly to the sticky pub floor. Useless cunt, he thought to himself, you cannae fight and you cannae even run away fae one.
Through the ringing in his ears, Renton could hear June’s high pitched screams, and he felt Hazel tug on his sleeve and insist they left immediately. Renton was too stunned to do anything but gape. He glanced down at Hazel; her eyes were wide, frightened, clearly desperate to leave immediately. Then his eyes swivelled back to Begbie.
He had already been forgotten, left bleeding on the floor while the other guys battled it out with chibs and glasses. He was curled up and gasping, eyes glazed over in excruciating pain. His hand hovered around the wound, afraid to touch it and even more afraid to die, a thought that had likely never crossed his mind in his life. Franco thought himself immortal, as did most psychopaths. He’d never looked so unlike himself. This wasn’t the generalissimo. This was little Francis Jim Begbie, a scared idiot who was about to get himself killed in a pub like so many ignorant macho cunts in Leith. Renton couldn’t let his friend suffer the same fate. That wasn’t the way he went.
He wasn’t sure when it happened, but at some point he pulled away from Hazel and his legs began to move, slowly, as if wading through water. He found himself in the middle of it all, tugging Begbie away and muttering things in his ear like —Breathe, and —It’s okay, Franco. It’s gaunny be okay. Ah’m here.
Begbie, between cries and gasps of pain, barked out, —Ah’m stuck wi this useless fucker. You cannae carry a fuckin feather!
It was good to know the Generalissimo was still there under all that blood.
Renton managed to pull Begbie out through the back doors, to a dark alleyway, rain chucking down at them in heaps. He dragged and dragged, attempting to carry some of the weight by leaning Begbie against him. Begbie was already a heavy man sober, heavy in the useless way of men who’d never had to rely on anyone before, and he was nearly impossible to carry now that he also had the weight of the rain, his wound, and his slightly inebriated state. He was a dead weight, and eventually the two men stumbled and fell flat on the concrete floor, with Begbie’s head falling limply on Renton’s shoulder. Francis let out soft, strained grunts of pain, but Renton had known him since they were both kids. He knew that face, the trembling lip, the rapid blinking. His friend was on the verge of tears. Instead of saying anything and risking a punch, albeit a weak one, Renton looked down at his hands. He didn’t know where his own blood started and where Begbie’s ended. It was all one dark, sticky pool, glinting under the yellow glow of the street lamps, and being washed away by the heavy rain. One life leaking into the other. He hated the man, hated this forced brotherhood, but he couldn't let the bastard die. He was a cunt of the worst order, but he was a mate. That’s all he really had in life.
He leaned in and took Begbie’s chin in his hand, searching those dark eyes. They were hazed over and shimmering with unshed tears. He looked pale and drained, a broken shell of himself. Renton took off his hoodie, immediately shivering. Scotland wasn’t the place to do that kind of thing, but desperate times called for desperate measures. He wrapped the warm cloth around Begbie’s torso, tying a tight knot with the sleeves. It was a haphazard mess, but he hoped it would do the job. Begbie’s head had started falling back limply onto Renton’s shoulder, eyes fluttering. Renton panicked a little.
—Hey. Franco. Eyes open, mate. You’re awright noo. C’moan man. Eyes open!
Renton shook Begbie gently and sat him up further against the wall, his arms around the man, searching his mind desperately for a plan. There was the hospital, but handing Begbie to the nurses would be just as bad as handing Begbie to the hands of the police themselves. He’d have to work something out himself.
—Right, Frank. We’re leavin. Back tae ma place, aye?
Franco gave a soft raspy grunt and a nod, not trusting himself to say anything more for fear of seeming weak. He hadn’t let go of Renton’s shirt the entire time, his grip weak but unyielding.
With a heave and a grunt, they managed to pull themselves up again, and began the walk. Thankfully, Renton’s flat was near. It was in a miserable, derelict neighbourhood, with more cardboard than windows. They dragged themselves up the stairs, soaked by a sickening mixture of rainwater and blood. Renton shoved the door open and gasped, like he’d swam the whole way there.
He couldn’t relax too quickly. He helped Begbie down carefully onto the couch, hovered anxiously, then rushed off to look for some sort of first aid equipment. He returned with a towel and some dirty bandages, and set to work removing Begbie’s wet clothes. The man tensed instantly, the colour in his cheeks returning momentarily. He attempted to shove Renton off but was too dizzy to coordinate his arms.
—Wha..whit the fuck day ye think ye’re daein? Ah’m no some buftie ya sick cunt! He slurred out his words angrily, collapsing back on the couch at the effort of raising his voice.
Renton ignored his protests and tugged his shirt off, shoving it in a plastic bag along with every other red-tinted article of clothing.
—Ah’m no hittin on ye, ya daft cunt. Ah’m tryin tae help!
—Dinnae…need…help… Begbie rasped weakly, but he was already closing his eyes and relenting. His breath was soft and ragged as he lied back, his chest rising and falling too quickly. He hated it. A man was meant to control his own body. That was basic. Anything else was failure.Yet every time Renton’s fingers gently grazed his skin, Begbie’s breath hitched just a little. It was barely perceptible, but to Begbie, it was shameful. He put his focus instead on a loose thread on Renton’s couch, quietly tugging at it.
Renton kneeled on the floor in front of the couch, completely focused, eyebrows furrowed. He managed to do an okay job of bandaging and cleaning up, and he leaned back, admiring his handywork. Begbie shifted under his gaze, uncomfortable, and Renton rolled his eyes.
—Quit movin fir fuck’s sake.
Begbie looked away and snapped,
—Stop…lookin so much. S’weird.
Renton huffed and stood wordlessly, heading for the kitchen. He rummaged around and returned with an ice pack and water. He leaned in and placed the icepack under Begbie’s eye, then offered the water to the man, who snatched it aggressively. He muttered from behind the cup,
—Look, ah dinnae need a fuckin Florence Nightingale. Ah’ve hud worse.
Renton sighed. —Ah dinnae give two shites. Ye’re aw fucked up and if it werenae fir me, you’d still be on the floor bleeding oot!
He leaned in and shifted the ice pack on Begbie’s face before the Generalissimo could protest again.
—You’re a lucky cunt, ye ken tha? Ye could’ve been stabbed straight in the fuckin organs…
Renton trailed off, wincing. The thought made him ill. They were both quiet for a while, save for the sound of low breaths and Begbie’s tiny pained gasps. Eventually, Renton collapsed next to him on the couch, legs outstretched, head falling back. They were both exhausted, and it wasn’t long before they fell into a deep sleep, curled up together on the couch just like they did when they were younger. Begbie didn’t realise when it happened, but in his sleep, his hand ended up back on Renton’s shirt, holding onto him like a child would a teddy bear. It was the best sleep either of them had had in years.
first fic on tumblr!! this is an ao3 repost (account w the same username) but i wanted to test out how to post fics on tumblr..why did no one tell me decorating with banners and little images is SM FUN.
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