Trainspotting (41 page)
Authors: Irvine Welsh
— Aye, too right, Johnny Swan says, quieter now.
It’s time ah wisnae here.
Winter In West Granton
Tommy looks well. It’s terrifying. He’s gaunny die. Sometime between the next few weeks and next fifteen years, Tommy will be no more. The chances are that ah’ll be exactly the same. The difference is, we ken this wi Tommy.
— Awright Tommy, ah sais. He looks so well.
— Aye, he sais. Tommy’s sitting in a battered armchair. The air smells ay damp, and rubbish that should have been pit oot ages ago.
— How ye feelin?
— No bad.
— Want tae talk aboot it? Ah huv tae ask.
— No really, he sais, like he does.
Ah sit down awkwardly, in an identical chair. It feels hard, and has springs coming through. Many years ago, this wis some rich cunt’s chair. It’s hud at least a couple ay decades in poor homes though. Now it’s winded up wi Tommy.
Now ah see that Tommy doesnae look so well. Thir’s something missin, some part ay him; as if he’s an incomplete jigsaw puzzle. It’s mair thin shock or depression. It’s like a bit ay Tommy’s awready died, n ah’m mourin fir it. Ah realise now thit death is usually a process, rather than an event. People generally die by degrees, incrementally. They rot away slowly in homes and hoespitals, or places like this.
Tommy cannae get oot ay West Granton. He’s blown things wi his Ma. This is one ay the varicose-vein flats, called so because of the plastered cracks all over its facing. Tommy got it through the council’s hotline. Fifteen thousand people on the waiting list and naebody wanted this one. It’s a prison. It’s no really the council’s fault; the Government made them sell off all the good hooses, leaving the dross for the likes ay Tommy. It makes perfect sense politically. There’s nae votes for the Government doon here, so why bother daein anything fir people whae urnae gaunnae support ye? Morally, it’s another thing. What’s morality goat tae dae wi politics, but? It’s aw aboot poppy.
— How’s London? he asks.
— No bad Tommy. Really jist the same as up here, ken.
— Aye, ah bet, he sais, sarcastically.
PLAGUER wis painted on the heavy plywood-enforced door in big, black letters. Also HIVER and JUNKY. Draftpak kids will harass anybody. Naebody’s said anything tae Tommy’s face yet. Tommy’s a tidy bastard, he believes in what Begbie caws the discipline ay the baseball bat. He’s also goat hard mates, like Beggars, and no-sae-hard mates, like me. In spite ay this, Tommy will become mair vulnerable tae persecution. His friends will decline in their numbers as his needs increase. The inverse, or perverse, mathematics ay life.
— You took the test, he sais.
— Aye.
— Clear?
— Aye.
Tommy looks at us. It’s like he’s angry and pleading, baith at the same time.
— You used mair thin me. And ye shared works. Sick Boy’s, Keezbo’s, Raymie’s, Spud’s, Swanney’s . . . ye used Matty’s fir fuck sake. Tell us ye nivir used Matty’s works!
— Ah nivir shared, Tommy. Every cunt sais that, but ah nivir shared, no in the galleries, anyway, ah telt um. Funny, ah’d forgotten aw aboot Keezbo. He’d been inside now fir a couple ay year. Been meanin tae go and visit the cunt fir donks. Ah ken thit ah’ll nivir git roond tae it though.
— Bullshit! Cunt! You fuckin shared! Tommy leans forward. He’s startin tae greet. Ah remember thinking that if he did, ah might n aw. Aw ah feel though, is an ugly, choking anger.
— Ah nivir shared, ah shake ma heid.
He sits back and smiles tae himself; no even looking at us as he talks reflectively, now without any bitterness.
— Funny how it aw works oot, eh? It wis you n Spud n Sick Boy n Swanney n that, thit goat us intae the H. Ah used tae sit n huv a bevvy wi Second Prize n Franco an laugh at yis, call yis aw the daft cunts under the sun. Then ah split fae Lizzy, mind? Went tae your bit. Ah asked ye fir a hit. Ah thoat, fuck it, ah’ll try anythin once. Been tryin it once ivir since.
Ah remember that. Christ, it wis only a few months ago. Some poor bastards are just so much more predisposed tae addiction wi certain drugs than others. Like Second Prize wi pish. Tommy took tae the skag wi a vengeance. Nae cunt kin really control it, but ah’ve known some fuckers, like myself, tae accommodate it. Ah’ve kicked a few times now. Kicking and using again is like gaun tae prison. Everytime ye go to jail, the probability ay ye ever becoming free fae that kind ay life decreases. It’s the same every time ye go back tae smack. Ye decrease yir chances ay ever bein able tae dae withoot it. Wis it me thit encouraged Tommy tae take that first shot, jist by having the gear thair? Possibly. Probably. How guilty did that make us? Guilty enough.
— Ah’m really sorry, Tommy.
— Ah dinnae ken whit tae fuckin dae, Mark. Whit ah’m ah gaunnae dae?
Ah just sit there, heid slightly bowed. Ah wanted tae tell Tommy: Git oan wi yir life. It’s aw ye can dae. Look eftir yirsel. Ye might no git bad. Look at Davie Mitchell. Davie’s one ay Tommy’s best mates. He’s HIV and he’s nivir used skag in his puff. Davie’s okay though. He leads a normal life, well as normal a life as any cunt ah ken leads.
But ah know that Tommy cannae afford tae heat this gaff. He isnae Davie Mitchell, never mind Derek Jarman. Tommy cannae put hissel in a bubble, live in the warm, eat good fresh food, keep his mind stimulated wi new challenges. He willnae live five, or ten, or fifteen years before he’s crushed by pneumonia or cancer.
Tommy will not survive winter in West Granton.
— Ah’m sorry mate. Ah’m really sorry, ah just repeat.
— Goat any gear? he asks, raising his heid and looking straight at me.
— Ah’m clean now Tommy. Whin ah tell him, he doesnae even sneer.
— Sub us then mate. Ah’m expectin a rent cheque.
Ah dig intae ma poakits and produce two crumpled fivers. Ah’m thinkin aboot Matty’s funeral. It’s odds on Tommy’s next and there’s fuck all anybody kin dae aboot it. Especially me.
He takes the money. Oor eyes meet, and something flashes between us. It’s something ah cannae define, but it’s something really good. It’s thair jist fir a second; then it’s gone.
A Scottish Soldier
Johnny Swan examines his close-shaven head in the bathroom mirror. His long, filthy hair had been shorn off a few weeks back. Now he had to get rid of this growth on his chin. Shaving was a drag when you only had one leg, and Johnny still hadn’t quite got his balance sorted out. However, after a few scares, he managed what is a passable attempt. He was determined that he’d never go back into that wheelchair again, that was for sure.
— Back oan the mooch, he says to himself, as he studies his face in the mirror. Johnny looked clean. It was not a nice feeling and the process had caused him a great deal of discomfort; but people expect standards from an old soldier. He starts whistling the tune
A Scottish Soldier
; indulging himself further he gives his reflection a stiff, regimental salute.
A Scottish Soldier
; indulging himself further he gives his reflection a stiff, regimental salute.
The bandage on his stump gives Johnny some cause for concern. It looks filthy. Mrs Harvey, the community nurse, is coming today to change it, doubtless with a few accompanying choice words on personal hygiene.
He examines his remaining leg. It was never the best of the two. That knee was dodgy; the remnant of a footballing incident many moons ago. It’ll get dodgier still as the sole bearer of his weight. Johnny thinks that he should’ve injected into the artery in this leg; let this one have been the cunt that went gangrenous and got hacked off by the surgeon. The curse of being right-sided, he reflects.
Outside in the cold streets, he swings and lurches towards the Waverley Station. Each step is a cruel one. The pain doesn’t come from the extremity of his stump, but seems to be all over his body; however, the two methadone jellies and the barbiturates he has swallowed take the edge off it. Johnny sets up his pitch at the Market Street exit. His large piece of cardboard reads, in black letters:
FALKLANDS VETERAN — I LOST MY LEG FOR MY COUNTRY. PLEASE HELP.
A junky called Silver, Johnny doesn’t know his real name, approaches him in freeze-frame movements.
— Any skag Swanney? he asks.
— Nothin happenin mate. Raymie’s oan fir Setirday, or so ah hear.
— Setirday’s nae good, Silver wheezes. — Thir’s a fuckin ape oan ma back wants feedin.
— The White Swan here’s a businessman Silver, Johnny points at himself. — If he hud merchandise tae punt, he’d dae jist that.
Silver looks downcast. A filthy, black overcoat hangs loosely on his grey, emaciated flesh. — Blootered oaf aw ma methy script, he states, neither looking for sympathy nor expecting it. Then a slight glint comes into his dead eyes. — Hey Swannenae, dae ye make any poppy oot ay that?
— As one door shuts, another opens, Johnny smiles, his teeth a rotting mass in his mouth. — Ah make mair hireys daein this thin ah do oan the punt. Now if yill excuse us Silver, ah’ve goat a —fuckin livin tae earn here. An upright soldier like mase! cannae be seen talkin tae junkies. See ye aroond.
Silver barely registers his comments, let alone takes offence. — Ah’ll jist head doon tae the clinic then. Some cunt might sell us a jelly.
— Au revoir, Johnny shouts at his back.
He does steady business. Some people furtively drop coins into his hat. Others, resentful at the intrusion of misery into their lives, turn away or resolutely look ahead. Women give more than men; young people more than their elders; people who appear to be of the most modest means seem more generous than the affluent looking.
A fiver lands in the hat. — God bless ye sir, Johnny acknowledges.
— Not at all, a middle-aged man says, — we owe you lads. It must be terrible to suffer that loss so young.
— Ah’ve nae regrets. Ye cannae allow yersel tae be bitter, pal. That’s ma philosophy anywey. Ah love ma country; ah’d dae it aw again. Besides, ah regard masel is one ay the lucky yins; ah came back. Ah loast some good mates in that swedge at Goose Green, ah kin tell ye. Johnny let his eyes take on a glazed, faraway look; he almost believed himself. He turned back to the man. — Still, meetin people like yirsel, whae remember, whae care; that makes it aw worthwhile.
— Good luck, the man says softly, before turning and mounting the steps up to Market Street.
— Fackin radge cunt, Johnny mutters to himself, shaking his bowed head, as spasms of light laughter ripple up his sides.
He makes £26.78 after a couple of hours. It’s not bad going and it’s easy work. Johnny’s good at waiting; even British Rail on a bad day couldn’t fuck up his junky karma. However, withdrawal gives advance notice of its cruel intentions with an icy burn which causes his pulse to kick up a gear and his pores to excrete a rich, toxic sweat. He is about to pack up and leave when a thin, frail woman approaches him.
— Wir ye a Royal Scot son? Ma Brian wis a Royal Scot, Brian Laidlaw.
— Eh, Marines, missis. Johnny shrugs.
— Brian nivir came back, god love um. Twinty-one he wis. Ma laddie. A fine laddie n aw. The woman’s eyes are welling up with tears. Her voice lowers to a concentrated hiss, which is all the more pitiful for its impotence. — Ye know son, ah’ll hate that Thatcher till ma dyin day. Thir isnae a day goes by whin ah dinnae curse her.
She takes out her purse and, producing a twenty-pound note, crushes it into Johnny’s hand. — Here son, here. It’s aw ah’ve goat, bit ah want you tae huv it. She breaks into a sob and almost staggers away from him; it was like she’d been stabbed.
— God bless ye, Johnny Swan shouts after her. — God bless the Royal Jocks. Then he thrashes his hands together at the prospect of adding some cyclozine to the methadone he already has. Psycho-methy cocktail: his ticket to better times, that wee private heaven the uninitiated pour scorn on, but they could never conceive of its bliss. Albo has a stack of cyclozine, prescribed for his cancer. Johnny will visit his sick friend this afternoon. Albo needs Johnny’s jellies as much as Johnny needs his psychos. A mutual coincidence of wants. Yes, god bless the Royal Jocks, and god bless the NHS.
Station to Station
It is a foul and dreich night. Filthy clouds hang overhead; waiting to spew their dark load on the shuffling citizens below, for the umpteenth time since the break of dawn. The bus station concourse is like a Social Security office turned inside out and doused with oil. A lot of young people living on big dreams and small budgets stand sombrely in line at the London rank. The only cheaper way down is by thumb.
The bus has come from Aberdeen with a stop at Dundee. Begbie stoically checks the seat reservation tickets, then fixes a malevolent glare at the people already on the bus. Turning away, he looks back at the Adidas holdall at his feet.
Renton, out of Begbie’s earshot, turns to Spud and nods towards their uptight friend. — The cunt’s jist hopin some fucker’s grabbed oor seats; gie um an excuse tae cause hassle.
Spud smiles, and raises his eyebrows. Looking at him, Renton reflects, you’d never guess how high the stakes are. This is the big one, no doubt about it. He’d needed that shot, to keep his nerves straight. It had been his first one in months.
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