Trainspotting (23 page)

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Authors: Irvine Welsh

BOOK: Trainspotting
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We taxied doon tae Leith. Begbie hud began grumbling aboot ‘toon prices’ and hud started tae pursue a totally irrational advocacy ay Leith as an entertainment centre. Billy agreed, wantin tae get closer tae hame, reasoning that his pregnant burd wid be mair easily appeased if the placatory phone call came fi a local pub.
Sick Boy would huv heartily denounced Leith, hud ah no done so first. The cunt therefore took great delight in phoning the taxi. We goat intae a pub at the Fit ay the Walk, one thit ah’ve nivir liked, but one thit we always seemed tae git stuck in. Fat Malcolm, behind the bar, goat us a double voddy oan the house.
— Heard ye goat a result. Well done that man.
Ah shrugged. A couple ay auldish guys wir treatin Begbie like he wis a Hollywood star; listening indulgently tae one ay his stories that wisnae particularly funny, and this they’d probably heard many times before anyway.
Sick Boy bought a roond ay drinks, makin a total meal ay it, ostentatiously waving his money aboot.
— BILLY! LAGER? MRS RENTON . . . EH CATHY! WHAT’S THAT? GIN N BITTER LEMON? he shouted back at the corner table fae the bar.
Ah realised thit Begbie, now involved in a conspiratorial tale wi an ugly, box-heided wanker, the type who ye avoid like the plague, hud slipped Sick Boy the dough tae git the bevvy up.
Billy wis arguing wi Sharon oan the phone.
— Ma fuckin brar gits oaf fi gittin sent doon! Nickin books, assaultin a member ay the shoap’s staff, possession ay drugs. The spawny cunt gits a result. Even ma Ma’s here! Ah’m entitled tae celebrate, fuck sake . . .
He must have been desperate if he wis reduced tae playin the brotherly love caird.
— Thair’s Planet Ay The Apes, Sick Boy whispered tae us, noddin ower at a guy whae drank in the pub. He looked like an extra fi that film. As always, he wis pished n tryin tae find company. Unfortunately, his eye caught mine, n he came ower tae us.
— Interested in hoarses? he asks.
— Naw.
— Interested in fitba? he slurs.
— Naw.
— Rugby? he’s soundin desperate now.
— Naw, ah sais. Whether he wis oan the make or jist wanted company wis difficult tae determine. Ah don’t think the cunt knew hissel. He hud lost interest in me anywey, n turned tae Sick Boy.
— Interested in hoarses?
— Naw. Ah hate fitba n rugby n aw. Films ah like though. Especially yon
Planet Ay The Apes
? Ivir seen that yin? Ah lap that up.
— Aye! Ah remember that yin!
Planet Ay The Apes.
Charlton Fuckin Heston. Roddy Mc . . . what’s the boy’s name? Wee cunt. Ye ken whae ah’m talkin aboot. He kens whae ah’m talkin aboot! Planet Ay The Apes turns tae us.
— McDowall.
— That’s the cunt! He says triumphantly. He turns tae Sick Boy again. — Whair’s yir wee burd the day?
— Eh? Whae’s that? Sick Boy asks, totally scoobied.
— That wee blonde piece, the one ye wir in here wi the other night.
— Aw, aye, her.
— Tidy wee bit ay fanny . . . if ye dinnae mind us sayin, likesay. Nae offence likes, pal.
— Naw, nae problem mate. Yours fir fifty bar, n that’s nae joke. Sick Boy’s voice droaps.
— You serious?
— Aye. Nae kinky stuff, jist a straight hump. Cost ye fifty bar.
Ah couldnae believe ma ears. Sick Boy wisnae jokin. He wis gaun tae try tae set up Planet Ay The Apes wi wee Maria Anderson, this junky he’d been fucking on and oaf for a few months. The cunt wanted tae pimp her oot. Ah felt sickened at what he’d come tae, what we’d aw come tae, and started tae envy Spud again.
Ah pull um aside. — Whit’s the fuckin score?
— The score is ah’m looking eftir numero uno. Whit’s your fuckin problem? When did you go intae social work?
— This is fuckin different. Ah dinnae ken whit the fuck’s gaun oan wi you mate, ah really dinnae.
— So you’re Mister fuckin Squeaky Clean now, eh?
— Naw, bit ah dinnae fuck ower any cunt else.
— Git ootay ma face. Tell us it wisnae you thit turned Tommy oantae Seeker n that crowd. His eyes wir crystal clear and treacherous, untainted by conscience or compassion. He turned away n moved back ower tae Planet Ay The Apes.
Ah wis gaunny say thit Tommy hud a choice; wee Maria disnae. Aw that would huv done wis precipitate an argument aboot whair choice began and ended. How many shots does it take before the concept ay choice becomes obsolete? Wish tae fuck ah knew. Wish tae fuck ah knew anything.
As if oan cue, Tommy came intae the pub; follayed by Second Prize, whae wis guttered. Tommy’s started using. He nivir used before. It’s probably our fault; probably ma fault. Speed wis eywis Tommy’s drug. Lizzy’s kicked um intae touch. He’s awfay quiet, awfay subdued. Second Prize isnae.
— The Rent Boy knocks it oaf! Hey! Ya fuckin cunt thit ye are! he shouts, crushin ma hand.
A chorus ay ‘there’s only one Mark Renton’ echoes throughout the pub. Auld, toothless Willie Shane is giein it laldy. So’s Beggars’s grandfaither, a nice auld cunt wi one leg. Beggars and two ay his psychotic friends whae ah dinnae even ken ur singing, so’s Sick Boy n Billy, even ma Ma.
Tommy slaps us oan the back. — Nice one ma man, he sais. Then: — Goat any smack?
Ah tell um tae forget it, leave it alane while he still can. He tells us, aw the cocky cunt like, thit he can handle it. Seems tae me ah’ve heard that line before. Ah’ve spun it masel, n probably ah’ll dae so again.
Ah’m surrounded by the cunts thit ur closest tae us; but ah’ve nivir felt so alone. Nivir in ma puff.
Planet Ay The Apes hus insinuated hissel intae the company. The thought ay that cunt shaggin wee Maria Anderson is not aesthetically appealing. The thought ay that cunt shaggin anybody isnae aesthetically appealing. If he tries tae talk tae ma Ma, ah’ll gless the fucker’s primate pus.
Andy Logan comes intae the pub. He’s an exuberant cunt who reeks ay petty crime and prison. Ah met Loags a couple ay years ago when we were baith workin as park attendants at a council golf course, and pocklin loads ay cash. It wis the ticket checker in the park patrol van whae pit us oantae the scam. Lucrative times; ah nivir used tae touch ma wages. Ah like Loags, bit oor friendship nivir developed. Aw he could talk aboot wir these times.
Everybody wis at it, the reminiscing game. Each conversation began wi ‘mind the time whin . . .’ and we were talkin aboot perr auld Spud now.
Flocksy came intae the boozer and gestured us ower tae the bar. He asked us fir skag. Ah’m oan the programme. It’s mad. It wis ironic thit ah git nicked fir stealin books whin ah’m tryin tae git sorted oot. Its this methadone though, it’s a fuckin killer. Gies us the heebie-jeebies. Ah hud it bad in the bookshoap whin that baw-faced cunt hud tae try tae play the hero.
Ah tell Flocksy ah’m oan the maintenance, n he jist fucks off without sayin another word.
Billy clocked us talkin tae um n follays the cunt ootside, but ah bombs ower n pulls his airm.
— Ah’m gaunnae brek that fuckin trash up . . . he hisses through his teeth.
— Leave um, he’s awright. Flocksy’s headin doon the road, oblivious tae aw this, oblivious tae everything except the procurement ay smack.
— Fuckin trash. Ye deserve eveything ye fuckin git hingin aboot wi that scum.
He goes back in n sits doon, bit only because he sees Sharon n June comin doon the road.
When Begbie clocks June in the pub, he glowers accusingly at her.
— Whair’s the bairn?
— He’s at ma sisters, June sais timidly.
Begbie’s belligerent eyes, open mouth and frozen face turn away from her, trying to absorb this information and decide whether he feels good, bad or indifferent about it. Eventually he turns tae Tommy and affectionately tells him that he’s some cunt.
What huv ah goat here? Billy’s fuckin nosey, reactionary bastard’s outrage. Sharon lookin at us like ah’ve goat two heids. Ma, drunk and sluttish, Sick Boy . . . the cunt. Spud in the jail. Matty in the hospital, and nae cunt’s been tae see um, nae cunt even talks aboot um, it’s like he never existed. Begbie . . . fuck sakes, glowing, while June looks like a pile ay crumpled bones in that hideous shell-suit, an unflattering garment at the best ay times, but highlighting her jagged shapelessness.
Ah go tae the bog and when ah finish ma pish ah ken ah cannae go back in thair tae face that shite. Ah sneak out through the side door. It’s still fourteen hours n fifteen minutes until ah kin git ma new fix. The state-sponsored addiction: substitute methadone for smack, the sickly jellies, three a day, for the hit. Ah’ve no known many junkies oan that programme whae didnae take aw three jellies at once and go oot scorin. The morn’s mornin, that’s how long ah’ve goat tae wait till. Ah decide ah cannae wait that long. Ah’m off tae Johnny Swan’s for ONE hit, just ONE FUCKIN HIT tae get us ower this long, hard, day.
Junk Dilemmas No. 66
It’s a challenge tae move: but it shouldnae be. Ah can move. It has been done before. By definition, we, humans, likes, are matter in motion. Why move anyway, when you have everything you need right here. Ah’ll soon huv tae move though. Ah’ll move when ah’m sick enough; ah know that through experience as well. Ah jist cannae conceive ay ever being that sick that ah’ll want tae move. This frightens me, because ah’ll need tae move soon.
Surely ah’ll be able tae dae it; surely tae fuck.
Deid Dugs
Ah . . . the enemy ish in shite, as the old Bond would have said, and what a fuckin sight the cunt looks as well. Skinheid haircut, green bomber-jaykit, nine-inch DMs. A stereotypical twat; and there’s the woof-woof trailing loyally behind. Pit Bull, shit bull, bullshit terrier . . . a fuckin set ay jaws on four legs. Aw, it’s pishing by a tree.
Here boy, here boy.
The sport ay living over a park. Ah fix the beast in ma telescopic sights; it could just be my imagination, but they seem tae be a wee bitty out these days, veering tae the right. Still, Simone is a good enough marksman tae compensate for this malfunction in his trusted technology, this old .22 air rifle. Ah swing ower tae the skinheid, targeting his face. Ah then travel up and doon his body, up and doon, up and doon . . .
take it easy baby . . . take it one more time . . .
nobody has ever given the bastard this much attention, this much care, this much . . . yes, love, in his puff. It’s a great feeling, knowing that you have the power to inflict such pain, fae yir ain front room.
Call me the unsheen ashashin Mish Moneypenny.
It’s the Pit Bull ah’m eftir though; ah want tae get him tae turn on his master, tae sever the touching man-beast relationship along with his owner’s testicles. I hope the shit-bull’s got mair bollocks than that stupid Rottweiler ah shot the other day. Ah blasted the big cunt in the side ay the face, and did the pathetic bastard turn on his glakit master in the shell-suit? Did he heckers laik, as Vera and Ivy oot ay
Coronation Street
would say. The cunt just started whimpering.
They call me the Sick Boy, the scourge of the schemie, the blooterer of the brain-dead. This one’s for you Fido, or Rocky, or Rambo, or Tyson or whatever the fuck your shite-brained, fuck-wit of an owner has dubbed you. This is fir aw the bairns you’ve slaughtered, faces you’ve disfigured and shite you’ve deposited in our streets. Above all though, it’s for the shite you’ve done in the parks, shite which always finds its way onto Simone’s body whenever he puts in a sliding tackle in his midfield role for Abbeyhill Athletic in the Lothian Sunday Amateurs’ League.
They’re now alongside each other, man and beast. Ah squeeze the trigger and take a step back.
Brilliant! The dug yelps and leaps at the skinhead, attaching its jaws ontae the cunt’s airm.
Good shooting Shimon.
Why shank you Sean.
— SHANE! SHANE! YA CUNT! AH’LL FUCKIN KILL YE! SHAAYYNNE! the boy’s screamin, and bootin at the dug, but his Docs are nae use against this monster. It has just clamped him, and these things do not let go; the only attraction ay huvin them for doss cunts is their ferocity. The boy is really gaun mental, first strugglin, then tryin tae stey still, because it’s too sair tae struggle; alternatively threatening then pleading with this fucking compassionless killing machine. An auld cunt comes ower tae try tae help, but backs oaf as the dug swivels his eyes roond and growls through its nose, as if to say: You’re next cunt.
Ah’m doon the stair at high speed, aluminium baseball bat in ma hand. This is what ah’ve been waitin for, this is what it’s all about. Man the hunter. Ma mooth’s dry wi anticipation; the Sick Boy is on safari.
A little problem for you to short out, Shimon.
I think I can handle that, Sean.
— HELP US! HELP US! the skinhead squeals. He’s younger than ah thought.
— S awright mate. Stay cool, ah tell um. Have no fear, Simone’s here.
Ah stealthily creep up behind the dug; ah don’t want the fucker tae break its grip and go for me, even though there is very little chance ay that. Blood is oozing fae the guy’s airm and the dug’s mooth, saturating the side ay the boy’s jaykit. The guy thinks ah’m gaunnae batter the dug’s nut wi the bat, but that would be like sending Renton or Spud tae sexually satisfy Laura McEwan.

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