Trainspotting (4 page)
Authors: Irvine Welsh
Mikey grows bored wi his humiliation game. For a sadist, it must huv aw the interest ay sticking pins intae a plastic doll. Ah’d loved tae have given him some better sport, but ah’m too fucked tae react tae his dull-witted jibes. So he finally sais: — Goat the poppy?
Ah pull oot some crumpled notes fae ma poakits, and wi touching servility, flatten them oot oan the coffee table. Wi an air ay reverence and all due deference tae Mikey’s status as The Man, ah hand them ower. Ah note for the first time that the Fat Sow has a huge arrow drawn oan her plaster in thick black marker pen, oan the inside ay her thigh, pointing tae her crotch. The letters alongside it spell out in bold capitals: INSERT COCK HERE. Ma guts dae another quick birl, and the urge tae take the gear fae Mikey wi maximum force and get tae fuck oot ay thair is almost overwhelming. Mikey snaffles the notes and tae ma surprise, produces two white capsules, fae his poakit. Ah’d never seen the likes ay them before. They were wee hard bomb-shaped things wi a waxy coat oan them. A powerful rage gripped us, seemingly coming fae nowhere. No, not fae nowhere. Strong emotions ay this type can only be generated by junk or the possibility of its absence. — What the fuck’s this shite?
— Opium. Opium suppositories, Mikey’s tone has changed. It’s cagey, almost apologetic. Ma outburst has shattered our sick symbiosis.
— What the fuck dae ah dae wi these? ah sais, withoot thinking, and then brek oot in a smile as it dawns oan us. It lets Mikey off the hook.
— Dae ye really want me tae tell ye? he sneers, reclaiming some ay the power he’d previously relinquished, as Saughton sniggers and Fat Sow brays. He sees that ah’m no amused, however, so he continues: — Yir no bothered aboot a hit, right? Ye want something slow, tae take away the pain, tae help ye git oaf the junk, right? Well these are perfect. Custom-fuckin-designed fir your needs. They melt through yir system, the charge builds up, then it slowly fades. That’s the cunts they use in hoespitals, fir fuck sakes.
— Ye reckon these then, man?
— Listen tae the voice ay experience, he smiles, but mair at Saughton than at me. Fat Sow throws her greasy head back, exposing large, yellowing teeth.
So ah dae jist as recommended. Ah listen tae the voice ay experience. Ah excuse masel, retire tae the toilet and insert them, wi great diligence, up ma arse. It was the first time ah’d ever stuck ma finger up ma ain arsehole, and a vaguely nauseous feeling hits us. Ah look at masel in the bathroom mirror. Red hair, matted but sweaty, and a white face with loads ay disgusting spots. Two particular beauties; these ones really have tae be classified as boils. One oan the cheek, and one oan the chin. Fat Sow and I would make an excellent couple, and ah entertain a perverse vision ay us in a gondola oan the canals ay Venice. Ah return doonstairs, still sick but high fae scoring.
— It’ll take time, Forrester gruffly observes, as ah swan back intae the living-room.
— You’re tellin me. For aw the good they’ve done ah might as well huv stuck thum up ma erse. Ah get ma first smile fae Johnny Saughton for ma troubles. Ah can almost see the blood aroond his twisted mooth. Fat Sow looks at us as if ah had just ritually slaughtered her first born. That pained, incomprehensible expression ay hers makes us want tae pish ma keks wi laughter. Mike wears a very hurt I-crack-the-jokes-here look, but it’s tinged wi resignation through the realisation that his power over me has gone. It ended wi the completion ay the transaction. He was now nae mair tae me than a lump ay dug shite in the shopping centre. In fact, considerably less. End ay story.
— Anywey, catch yis later folks, ah nod ower tae Saughton and Fat Sow. A smiling Saughton gies us a matey wink which seems tae sweep in the whole room. Even Fat Sow tries tae force a smile. Ah take their gestures as further evidence that the balance ay power between me and Mike has fundamentally shifted. As if tae confirm this, he follays us oot ay the flat. — Eh, ah’ll see ye aroond man. Eh . . . sorry aboot aw the shite ah wis hittin ye wi back thair. That cunt Donnelly . . . he makes us dead jumpy. A fuckin heidbanger ay the first order. Ah’ll tell ye the fill story later. Nae hard feelins though, eh Mark?
— Ah’ll see ye later Forry, ah reply, ma voice hopefully cairryin enough promise ay threat tae cause the cunt a wee bit unease, if no real concern. Part ay me doesnae want tae burn the fucker doon though. It’s a sobering thought, but ah might need him again. But that’s no the way tae think. If ah keep thinkin like that, the whole fuckin exercise is pointless.
By the time ah hit the bottom ay the stair ah’ve forgotten aw aboot ma sickness; well almost. Ah can feel it, the ache through ma body, it’s just that it doesnae really bother us any mair. Ah know it’s ridiculous tae con masel that the gear is making an impact already, but there’s definitely some placebo effect taking place. One thing that ah’m aware ay is a great fluidity in ma guts. It feels like ah’m melting inside. Ah huvnae shat for about five or six days; now it seems tae be coming. Ah fart, and instantly follow through, feeling the wet sludge in ma pants with a quickening of ma pulse. Ah slam oan the brakes; tightening ma sphincter muscles as much as ah can. The damage has been done, however, and it’s gaunnae git much worse if ah dinnae take immediate action. Ah consider going back tae Forrester’s, but ah want nothing mair tae dae wi that twat for the time being. Ah remember that the bookies in the shopping centre has a toilet at the back.
Ah enter the smoke-filled shop and head straight tae the bog. What a fuckin scene; two guys stand in the doorway ay the toilet, just pishing intae the place, which has a good inch ay stagnant, spunky urine covering the flair. It’s oddly reminiscent ay the foot pool at the swimming baths ah used tae go tae. The two punters shake oot their cocks in the passage and stuff them intae their flies wi as much care as ye’d take putting a dirty hanky intae yir poakit. One ay them looks at us suspiciously and bars ma path tae the toilet.
— Bog’s fuckin blocked, mate. Ye’ll no be able tae shite in that. He gestures tae the seatless bowl fill ay broon water, toilet paper and lumps ay floating shite.
Ah look sternly at him. — Ah’ve goat tae fuckin go mate.
— Yir no fuckin shootin up in thair, ur ye?
Just what ah fuckin needed. Muirhoose’s Charles Bronson. Only this cunt makes Charles Bronson look like Michael J. Fox. He actually looks a bit like Elvis, like Elvis does now; a chunky, decomposing ex-Ted.
— Away tae fuck. Ma indignation must have been convincing, because this radge actually apologises.
— Nae offence meant, pal. Jist some ay they young cunts in the scheme huv been trying tae make this thir fucking shootin gallery. We’re no intae that.
— Fuckin wide-o cunts, his mate added.
— Ah’ve been oan the peeve fir a couple ay days, mate. Ah’m gaun fuckin radge wi the runs here. Ah need tae shite. It looks fuckin awfay in thair, but it’s either that or ma fuckin keks. Ah’ve nae shit oan us. Ah’m fuckin bad enough wi the bevvy, nivir mind anything else.
The cunt gies us an empathetic nod and unblocks ma way. Ah feel the pish soak intae ma trainers as ah step ower the door ridge. Ah reflect oan the ridiculousness ay saying that ah hud nae shit oan ays when ma keks are fill ay it. One piece ay good luck though, is that the lock oan the door is intact. Fuckin astounding, considering the atrocious state ay the bogs.
Ah whip oaf ma keks and sit oan the cold wet porcelain shunky. Ah empty ma guts, feeling as if everything; bowel, stomach, intestines, spleen, liver, kidneys, heart, lungs and fucking brains are aw falling through ma arsehole intae the bowl. As ah shit, flies batter oaf ma face, sending shivers through ma body. Ah grab at one, and tae ma surprise and elation, feel it buzzing in ma hand. Ah squeeze tightly enough tae immobilise it. Ah open ma mitt tae see a huge, filthy bluebottle, a big, furry currant ay a bastard.
Ah smear it against the wall opposite; tracing out an ‘H’ then an ‘I’ then a ‘B’ wi ma index finger, using its guts, tissue and blood as ink. Ah start oan the ‘S’ but ma supply grows thin. Nae problem. Ah borrow fae the ‘H’, which has a thick surplus, and complete the ‘S’. Ah sit as far back as ah can, withoot sliding intae the shit-pit below ays, and admire ma handiwork. The vile bluebottle, which caused me a great deal of distress, has been transformed intae a work of art which gives me much pleasure tae look at. Ah am speculatively thinking about this as a positive metaphor for other things in my life, when the realisation ay what ah’ve done sends a paralysing jolt ay raw fear through ma body. Ah sit frozen for a moment. But only a moment.
Ah fall off the pan, ma knees splashing oantae the pishy flair. My jeans crumple tae the deck and greedily absorb the urine, but ah hardly notice. Ah roll up ma shirt sleeve and hesitate only briefly, glancing at ma scabby and occasionally weeping track marks, before plunging ma hands and forearms intae the brown water. Ah rummage fastidiously and get one ay ma bombs back straight away. Ah rub off some shite that’s attached tae it. A wee bit melted, but still largely intact. Ah stick it oan toap ay the cistern. Locating the other takes several long dredges through the mess and the panhandling of the shite ay many good Muirhoose and Pilton punters. Ah gag once, but get ma white nugget ay gold, surprisingly even better preserved than the first. The feel ay water disgusts us even mair than the shite. Ma brown-stained airm reminds us ay the classic t-shirt tan. The line goes right up past ma elbow as ah hud tae go right aroond the bend.
Despite ma discomfort at the feel ay water oan ma skin, it seems appropriate tae run ma airm under the cauld tap at the sink. It’s hardly the maist extensive or thorough wash ah’ve had, but it’s aw ah can stand. Ah then wipe ma arse wi the clean part ay ma pants and chuck the shite-saturated keks intae the bowl beside the rest ay the waste.
Ah hear a knocking at the door as ah pull oan ma soaking Levis. It’s the sense ay wetness oan ma legs, again, rather than the stench, which makes us feel a bit giddy. The knocking becomes a loud bang.
— C’moan ya cunt, wir fuckin burstin oot here!
— Haud yir fuckin hoarses.
Ah wis tempted tae swallay the suppositories, but ah rejected this notion almost as soon as it crossed ma mind. They were designed for anal intake, and there wis still enough ay that waxy stuff oan them tae suggest that ah’d no doubt huv a hard time keeping them doon. As ah’d shot everything oot ay ma bowels, ma boys were probably safer back thair. Home they went.
Ah goat some funny looks as ah left the bookies, no sae much fae the pish-queue gang whae piled past us wi a few derisory ‘aboot-fuckin-time-n-aws’ but fae one or two punters whae clocked ma wasted appearance. One radge even made some vaguely threatening remarks, but maist were too engrossed in the form cairds, or the racing oan the screen. Ah noted Elvis/Bronson was gesticulating wildly at the telly as ah left.
At the bus stop, ah realised what a sweltering hot day it had become. Ah remembered somebody sais that it wis the first day ay the Festival. Well, they certainly got the weather fir it. Ah sat oan the wall by the bus stop, letting the sun soak intae ma wet jeans. Ah saw a 32 coming, but didnae move, through apathy. The next one that came, ah got it thegither tae board the fucker and headed back tae Sunny Leith. It really is time tae clean up, ah thought, as ah mounted the stairs ay ma new flat.
In Overdrive
I do wish that ma semen-rectumed chum, the Rent Boy, would stop slavering in ma fucking ear. There’s a set of VPLs (visible panty lines) on the chicky in front ay us, and all my concentration is required to ensure a thorough examination can be undertaken. Yes! That will do me fine! I am in overdrive, over-fuckin-drive. It’s one ay these days when ma hormones are shooting aroond ma body like a steelie in a pinball machine, and all these mental lights and sounds are flashing in ma heid.
And what is Rents proposing, on this beautiful afternoon of vintage cruisin weather? The cunt has the fuckin audacity tae suggest that we go back to his gaff, which reeks of alcohol, stale spunk and garbage which should have been pit oot weeks ago, tae watch videos. Draw the curtains, block out the sunlight, block out your own fucking brainwaves, and deek him sniggering like a moron wi a joint in his hand at everything that comes on the pox-box. Well, non, non, non, Monsieur Renton, Simone is not cut out to sit in darkened rooms with Leith plebs and junkies rabbiting shite aw affie.
Cause ah wis made for lovin you bay-bee, you wir made for lovin me
. . .
Cause ah wis made for lovin you bay-bee, you wir made for lovin me
. . .
. . . a fat hound has waddled out in front ay the lemon wi the VPLs, blocking my view of that subliminal rear with her obese arse. She has the fuckin cheek tae wear tight leggings — totally and completely oblivious to the delicate nature of Simone’s stomach!!
— There’s a slim chicky! ah sarcastically observe.
— Fuck off ya sexist cunt, the Rent Boy sais.
Ah’m tempted tae ignore the bastard. Mates are a waste of fucking time. They are always ready to drag you down tae their level of social, sexual and intellectual mediocrity. I’d better dismiss the radge though, in case he thinks he’s got one up on us.
— The fact that you use the term ‘cunt’ in the same breath as ‘sexist’, shows that ye display the same muddled, fucked-up thinking oan this issue as you do oan everything else.
That scoobies the cunt. Eh sais something biscuit-ersed in reply, in a pathetic attempt tae salvage the situation. Rent Boy 0, Simone 1. We both know it.
Renton, Renton, what’s the score
. . .
Renton, Renton, what’s the score
. . .
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