Trainspotting (35 page)
Authors: Irvine Welsh
— Guinness fir me Franco, Renton requests. He has just returned from London. He feels as good to be back as he did to get away in the first place.
— The Guinness is shite in here, Gav Temperley tells him.
— Still though.
Dawsy is raising his eyebrows and singing at the barmaid.
—
Yeah, yeah, yeah, you’re a beautiful lover.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, you’re a beautiful lover.
They’d had a crappest song competition, and Dawsy hadn’t stopped singing his winning entry.
— Shut the fuck up, Dawsy. Alison nudges him in the ribs. — Ye want tae git us flung oot?
The barmaid is ignoring him anyway. He turns to sing at Renton instead. Renton just smiles wearily. He considers that the trouble with Dawsy is, that if you encourage him, he’ll tear the arse out of a situation. It was mildly amusing a couple of days ago, and in any case, he feels, it had not been as funny as his own version of Rupert Holmes’s ‘Escape (The Pina Colada Song)’.
—
Ah kin remember the night that we met down in Rio
. . . that Guinness is fuckin loupin. Yir mad gittin Guinness in here, Mark.
Ah kin remember the night that we met down in Rio
. . . that Guinness is fuckin loupin. Yir mad gittin Guinness in here, Mark.
— Telt um, Gav says, triumphantly.
— Aw the same but, Renton replies, a lazy grin still on his face. He feels drunk. He feels Kelly’s hand inside his shirt, tweaking his nipple. She’d been doing that to him all night, telling him that she really liked flat, hairless chests. It feels good having his nipples touched. By Kelly, it feels better than good.
— Vodka n tonic, she says to Begbie, who gestures to her from the bar. — Gin n lemonade for Ali. She’s jist away tae the bog.
Spud and Gav continue talking at the bar while the rest grab some seats in the corner.
— How’s June? Kelly asks Franco Begbie, referring to his girlfriend, suspected to be pregnant again after having just recently given birth to a child.
— Who? Franco shrugs aggressively. End of conversation.
Renton looks up at the early morning programme on the television.
— That Anne Diamond.
— Eh? Kelly looks at him.
— Ah’d fuckin shag it, Begbie says.
Alison and Kelly raise their eyebrows and look to the ceiling.
— Naw but, her bairn hud that cot death. Same as Lesley’s bairn. Wee Dawn.
— That wis a real shame, Kelly says.
— Good thing really bit. Wee lassie would’ve died ay fuckin AIDS if it hudnae died ay cot death. Easier fuckin death fir a bairn, Begbie states.
— Lesley did not have HIV! Dawn was a perfectly healthy baby! Alison hisses at him, enraged. Despite being upset himself, Renton cannot not help noting that Alison always speaks posh when she is angry. He feels a vague surge of guilt at being so trivial. Begbie is grinning.
— Whae’s tae say though? Dawsy says sycophantically. Renton looks at him with a hard, challenging stare, which he’d never dare do with Begbie. Aggression displaced to where it will not be reciprocated.
—
— Aw ah’m sayin is, nae cunt really kens, Dawsy shrugs tamely.
At the bar, Spud and Gav are slurring a conversation together.
— Reckon Rents’ll shag Kelly? Gav asks.
— Dunno. She’s finished wi that Des dude, likesay, n Rents isnae seein Hazel now. Free agents n that likesay, ken.
— That cunt Des. Ah hate that wanker.
— . . . dunno the cat, likesay . . . ken.
— Ye fuckin do! He’s your fuckin cousin, Spud. Des! Des Feeney!
— . . . right man . . .
that
Des. Still dinnae really ken the boy. Only likesay run intae the gadge a couple ay times since we wir ankle-biters, ken? It’s heavy though, Hazel bein at the perty wi that other guy, likes, n Rents wi Kelly, ken . . . heavy.
that
Des. Still dinnae really ken the boy. Only likesay run intae the gadge a couple ay times since we wir ankle-biters, ken? It’s heavy though, Hazel bein at the perty wi that other guy, likes, n Rents wi Kelly, ken . . . heavy.
— That Hazel’s a torn-faced cow anywey. Ah’ve nivir seen that lassie wi a smile oan her face. Nae wonder, mind you, gaun oot wi Rents. Cannie be much fun hingin aroond wi some cunt thit’s eywis bombed ootay his box.
— Yeah, likesay . . . it’s too heavy . . . Spud briefly wonders whether or not Gav is having an indirect dig at him, by going on about people who are always bombed, before deciding that it’s an innocent remark. Gav was alright.
Spud’s muddled brain turns to sex. Everyone seemed to bag off at the party, everyone except him. He really fancies a ride. His problem is that he is too shy when straight or sober, and too incoherent when stoned or drunk, to make an impression on women. He currently has a thing about Nicola Hanlon, whom he thinks looks a bit like Kylie Minogue.
A few months ago, Nicola had been talking to him as they walked from a party at Sighthill to one at Wester Hailes. They had been having a good crack, becoming detached from the rest of the group. She had been very responsive, and Spud had chatted freely, high on speed. In fact, she seemed to be hanging on his every word. Spud wanted to never get to that party, wishing that they could just go on walking and talking. They went down into the underpass and Spud thought that he should try to put his arm around Nicola. Then a passage from a Smiths’ song, one he’d always liked called: ‘There Is A Light That Never Goes Out’, came into his head:
and in the darkened underpassI thought Oh God my chance has come at lastbut then a strange fear gripped meand I just couldn’t ask
Morrissey’s sad voice summed up his feelings. He didn’t put his arm around Nicola, and his attempts to chat her up were half-arsed after that. Instead, he jacked up in a bedroom with Rents and Matty, enjoying blissful freedom from the anxiety of wondering whether or not he’d get off with her.
When sex did happen for Spud, it was generally when he was possessed by a more forceful will. Even then, disaster never seemed to be too far away. One evening, Laura McEwan, a girl with an awesome sexual reputation, grabbed a hold of him in a Grassmarket pub, and took him home.
— Ah want you to take my arse virginity, she had told him.
— Eh? Spud could not believe it.
— Fuck me in the arse. Ah’ve never done it that way before.
— Eh yeah, that sounds . . . barry, eh likesay, eh right . . .
Spud felt like the chosen one. He knew that Sick Boy, Renton, and Matty had all been with Laura, who tended to attach herself to a company, fuck every guy in it, and then move on. The thing was, they had never done what he was about to do.
However, Laura wanted to do some things with Spud first. She bound his wrists, then his ankles together with sellotape.
— I’m daein this because ah don’t want you to hurt me. Dae ye understand? We do it from the side. The minute ah start tae feel pain it’s fuckin over. Right? Because nobody hurts me. No fuckin guy ever hurts me. Ye understand me? She spoke harshly and bitterly.
— Yeah . . . sound likesay, sound . . . Spud said. He didn’t want to hurt anyone. He was shocked at the imputation.
Laura stood back and admired her handiwork.
— Fuck me, that’s beautiful, she said, rubbing her crotch as a naked Spud lay trussed up on the bed. Spud felt vulnerable, and strangely coy. He’d never been tied up before, and never been told that he was beautiful. Laura then took Spud’s long, thin cock into her mouth and started to suck him off.
She stopped, with an expertise part intuitive, part learned, just before an ecstatic Spud was about to come. Then she left the room. Spud started to get paranoid about the bondage. Everyone said Laura was a nutter. She’d been shagging everyone in sight since she’d got her long-term partner, a guy called Roy, committed to a psychiatric hospital, fed up with his impotence, incontinence and depression. But mostly the former.
— He never fucked me properly for ages, Laura had told Spud, as if that was justification for getting him banged up in the nuthouse. However, Spud reasoned, her cruelty and ruthlessness was part of her attraction. Sick Boy referred to her as the ‘Sex Goddess’.
She came back into the bedroom, and looked at him, bound and at her mercy.
— Ah want you to dae us in the arse now. First though, ah’m gaunnae Vaseline your dick heavily, so that it doesnae hurt me when you put it in. My muscles’ll be tight, cause this is new tae me, but I’ll try tae relax. She toked hard on a joint.
Laura was not being strictly accurate. She couldn’t find any Vaseline in the bathroom cabinet. She did, however, find some other stuff she could use as a lubricant. It was sticky and gooey. She applied it liberally to Spud’s dick. It was Vick.
It burned into him, and Spud screamed in excruciating agony. He writhed fitfully against his bonds, feeling like the tip of his penis had been guillotined off.
— Fuck. Sorry Spud, Laura said, open-mouthed.
She helped him off the bed, and assisted him into the toilet. He hopped along, tears of pain blinding him. She filled the sink with water, and then left the room to search for knife to cut the binding on his ankles and wrists.
Balancing precariously, Spud put his cock into the water. It stung even more violently, the shock making him recoil. As he fell back, his head crashed against the toilet bowl and split open above his eye. When Laura came back, Spud was unconscious, and thick, dark blood was oozing onto the lino.
Laura called the ambulance, and Spud woke up in hospital with six stitches above his eye, heavily concussed.
He never did get to fuck her in the arsehole. The rumour was that a frustrated Laura phoned up Sick Boy shortly after this, who came and stood in for his friend.
Soon after this disaster, Spud turned his attention to Nicola Hanlon.
— Eh, surprised wee Nicky wisnae it the perty, likesay . . . wee Nicky, ken, likesay? he told Gav.
— Aye. She’s a dirty wee hoor. Takes it aw weys, Gav said casually.
— Aye?
Noting, and savouring, the ill-disguised trepidation and concern on Spud’s face, Gav continues, gleeful inside, but talking in a stiff, brisk, businesslike manner. — Aw aye. Ah’ve poked it a few times. No a bad wee ride, likes. Sick Boy’s been thair. Rents n aw. Ah think Tommy tae. He wis certainly sniffin roond it fir a bit.
— Aye? . . . eh, right . . . Spud feels deflated, and optimistic at the same time. He’ll have to try to stay straighter, he resolves, thinking that he seems to miss everything that is going on under his nose.
Over at the table, Begbie indicates that he is in need of more solid nourishment: — Ah’m fuckin Lee Marvin. Lit’s git some scran, then hit a decent fuckin boozer. He looks bitterly around the cavernous, nicotine-stained bar, like an arrogant aristocrat finding himself in reduced circumstances. In fact, he has just seen the old drunkard at the bar.
It is still dark when they leave the pub, and go to a cafe in Portland Street.
— Fill breakfasts aw roond, Begbie enthusiastically looks at the others.
They all nod approvingly, except Renton.
— Naw. Ah’m no wantin meat, he says.
— Ah’ll huv your fuckin bacon n sausage n fuckin black puddin then, Begbie suggests.
— Aye, sure, Renton says sarcastically.
— Ah’ll fuckin swap ye ma fuckin egg n beans n tomatay then ya cunt!
— Awright, begins Renton, then he turns to the waitress. — Dae ye use vegetable oil whin ye fry, or fat?
— Naw, fat, the waitress says, looking at him as if he is an imbecile.
— Moantae fuck, Rents. Makes nae difference, Gav says.
— S up tae Mark what he eats, Kelly says supportively. Alison nods. Renton feels like a smug pimp.
— Fuckin well spoilin it fir ivray cunt, Rents, Begbie growls.
— How am ah spoilin it? Cheese salad roll, he turns to the waitress.
— We aw fuckin agreed. Fill fuckin breakfasts aw roond, Begbie states.
Renton cannot believe this. He wants to tell Begbie to fuck off. Instead he fights the instinct and slowly shakes his head. — Ah dinnae eat meat, Franco.
— Fuckin vegetarianism. Fuckin loaday shite. Ye need meat. A fuckin junky fuckin worryin aboot what he pits in his boady! That’s a fuckin laugh!
— Jist dinnae like meat, Renton says, feelin silly as they all snigger.
— Dinnae fuckin tell us ye hate killin fuckin animals. Remember they fuckin dugs n cats we used tae fuckin shoot wi the air rifles! N the fuckin pigeons we used tae set oan fire. Used tae fuckin tape bangers — fireworks likes — tae white mice, this cunt.
— No bothered aboot killin animals. Jist dinnae like eatin thurn, Renton shrugs, embarrassed that his adolescent cruelties have been exposed to Kelly.
— Fuckin cruel bastards. Dinnae ken how anybody could shoot a dug, Alison sneers, shaking her head.
— Well, ah dinnae ken now anybody could kill and eat a pig, Renton points to the bacon and sausage on her plate.
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