Authors: Irvine Welsh
Trainspotting
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Irvine Welsh is the author of nine other works of fiction, most recently
Crime
, published by Jonathan Cape in 2008. He lives in Dublin.
Crime
, published by Jonathan Cape in 2008. He lives in Dublin.
ALSO BY IRVINE WELSH
Fiction
The Acid House
Marabou Stork Nightmares
Ecstasy
Filth
Glue
Porno
The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs
If You Liked School, You’ll Love Work
. . .
. . .
Crime
Drama
You’ll Have Had Your Hole
Screenplay
The Acid House
This ebook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form (including any digital form) other than this in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Epub ISBN: 9781407019994
Version 1.0
Published by Vintage 2004
8 10 9
Copyright © Irvine Welsh 1993
Irvine Welsh has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
First published in Great Britain in 1993 by Secker & Warburg
First published by Vintage in 1999
Vintage
Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,
London SW1V 2SA
Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at:
www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm
www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm
The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9780099465898
to Anne
Thanks to the following: Lesley Bryce, David Crystal, Margaret Fulton-Cook, Janice Galloway, Dave Harrold, Duncan McLean, Kenny McMillan, Sandy Macnair, David Millar, Robin Robertson, Julie Smith, Angela Sullivan, Dave Todd, Hamish Whyte, Kevin Williamson.
Versions of the following stories have appeared in other publications: ‘The First Day Of The Edinburgh Festival’ in
Scream If You Want To Go Faster: New Writing Scotland 9
(ASLS), ‘Traditional Sunday Breakfast’ in
DOG
(Dec. 1991), ‘It Goes Without Saying’ in
West Coast Magazine
No. 11, ‘Trainspotting at Leith Central Station’ in
A Parcel of Rogues
(Clocktower Press), ‘Grieving and Mourning In Port Sunshine’ in
Rebel Inc
No. 1 and ‘Her Man, The Elusive Mr Hunt’ and ‘Winter In West Granton’ in
Past Tense
(Clocktower Press). The second part of ‘Memories of Matty’ also appeared in the aforementioned Clocktower Press publication as ‘After The Burning’.
Scream If You Want To Go Faster: New Writing Scotland 9
(ASLS), ‘Traditional Sunday Breakfast’ in
DOG
(Dec. 1991), ‘It Goes Without Saying’ in
West Coast Magazine
No. 11, ‘Trainspotting at Leith Central Station’ in
A Parcel of Rogues
(Clocktower Press), ‘Grieving and Mourning In Port Sunshine’ in
Rebel Inc
No. 1 and ‘Her Man, The Elusive Mr Hunt’ and ‘Winter In West Granton’ in
Past Tense
(Clocktower Press). The second part of ‘Memories of Matty’ also appeared in the aforementioned Clocktower Press publication as ‘After The Burning’.
Contents
The Skag Boys, Jean-Claude Van Damme and Mother Superior
;
Junk Dilemmas No. 63
;
The First Day of the Edinburgh Festival
;
In Overdrive
;
Growing Up In Public
;
Victory On New Year’s Day
;
It Goes Without Saying
;
Junk Dilemmas No. 64
;
Her Man
;
Speedy RecruitmentScotland Takes Drugs In Psychic Defence
;
The Glass
;
A Disappointment
;
Cock Problems
;
Traditional Sunday Breakfast
;
Junk Dilemmas No. 65
;
Grieving and Mourning In Port SunshineInter Shitty
;
Na Na and Other Nazis
;
The First Shag In Ages
;
Strolling Through The MeadowsCourting Disaster
;
Junk Dilemmas No. 66
;
Deid Dugs
;
Searching for the Inner Man
;
House Arrest
;
Bang To Rites
;
Junk Dilemmas No. 67London Crawling
;
Bad Blood
;
There Is A Light That Never Goes Out
;
Feeling Free
;
The Elusive Mr HuntEasy Money for the Professionals
;
A Present
;
Memories of Matty
;
Straight Dilemmas No. 1
;
Eating Out
;
Trainspotting at Leith Central Station
;
A Leg-Over Situation
;
Winter In West Granton
;
A Scottish SoldierStation to Station
Kicking
The Skag Boys, Jean-Claude Van Damme and Mother Superior
The sweat wis lashing oafay Sick Boy; he wis trembling. Ah wis jist sitting thair, focusing oan the telly, tryin no tae notice the cunt. He wis bringing me doon. Ah tried tae keep ma attention oan the Jean-Claude Van Damme video.
As happens in such movies, they started oaf wi an obligatory dramatic opening. Then the next phase ay the picture involved building up the tension through introducing the dastardly villain and sticking the weak plot thegither. Any minute now though, auld Jean-Claude’s ready tae git doon tae some serious swedgin.
— Rents. Ah’ve goat tae see Mother Superior, Sick Boy gasped, shaking his heid.
— Aw, ah sais. Ah wanted the radge tae jist fuck off ootay ma visage, tae go oan his ain, n jist leave us wi Jean-Claude. Oan the other hand, ah’d be gitting sick tae before long, and if that cunt went n scored, he’d haud oot oan us. They call um Sick Boy, no because he’s eywis sick wi junk withdrawal, but because he’s just one sick cunt.
— Let’s fuckin go, he snapped desperately.
— Haud oan a second. Ah wanted tae see Jean-Claude smash up this arrogant fucker. If we went now, ah wouldnae git tae watch it. Ah’d be too fucked by the time we goat back, and in any case it wid probably be a few days later. That meant ah’d git hit fir fuckin back charges fi the shoap oan a video ah hudnae even goat a deek at.
— Ah’ve goat tae fuckin move man! he shouts, standing up. He moves ower tae the windae and rests against it, breathing heavily, looking like a hunted animal. There’s nothing in his eyes but need.
Ah switched the box oaf at the handset. — Fuckin waste. That’s aw it is, a fuckin waste, ah snarled at the cunt, the fuckin irritating bastard.
He flings back his heid n raises his eyes tae the ceiling. — Ah’ll gie ye the money tae git it back oot. Is that aw yir sae fuckin moosey-faced aboot? Fifty measley fuckin pence ootay Ritz!
This cunt has a wey ay makin ye feel a real petty, trivial bastard.
— That’s no the fuckin point, ah sais, but withoot conviction.
— Aye. The point is ah’m really fuckin sufferin here, n ma so-called mate’s draggin his feet deliberately, lovin every fuckin minute ay it! His eyes seem the size ay fitba’s n look hostile, yet pleadin at the same time; poignant testimonies tae ma supposed betrayal. If ah ever live long enough tae huv a bairn, ah hope it never looks at us like Sick Boy does. The cunt is irresistible oan this form.
— Ah wisnae . . . ah protested.
— Fling yir fuckin jaykit oan well!
At the Fit ay the Walk thir wir nae taxis. They only congregated here when ye didnae need them. Supposed tae be August, but ah’m fuckin freezing ma baws oaf here. Ah’m no sick yet, but it’s in the fuckin post, that’s fir sure.
— Supposed tae be a rank. Supposed tae be a fuckin taxi rank. Nivir fuckin git one in the summer. Up cruising fat, rich festival cunts too fuckin lazy tae walk a hundred fuckin yards fae one poxy church hall tae another fir thir fuckin show. Taxi drivers. Money-grabbin bastards . . . Sick Boy muttered deliriously and breathlessly tae hissel, eyes bulging and sinews in his neck straining as his heid craned up Leith Walk.
At last one came. There were a group ay young guys in shell-suits n bomber jaykits whae’d been standin thair longer than us. Ah doubt if Sick Boy even saw them. He charged straight oot intae the middle ay the Walk screaming: — TAXI!
— Hi! Whit’s the fuckin score? One guy in a black, purple and aqua shell-suit wi a flat-top asks.
— Git tae fuck. We wir here first, Sick Boy sais, opening the taxi door. — Thir’s another yin comin. He gestured up the Walk at an advancing black cab.
— Lucky fir youse. Smart cunts.
— Fuck off, ya plukey-faced wee hing oot. Git a fuckin ride! Sick Boy snarled as we piled intae the taxi.
— Tollcross mate, ah sais tae the driver as gob splattered against the side windae.
— Square go then smart cunt! C’moan ya crappin bastards! the shell-suit shouted. The taxi driver wisnae amused. He looked a right cunt. Maist ay them do. The stamp-peyin self-employed ur truly the lowest form ay vermin oan god’s earth.
The taxi did a u-turn and sped up the Walk.
— See whit yuv done now, ya big-moothed cunt. Next time one ay us ur walkin hame oan oor Jack Jones, wi git hassle fi these wee radges. Ah wisnae chuffed at Sick Boy.
— Yir no feart ay they wee fuckin saps ur ye?
This cunt’s really gittin ma fuckin goat. — Aye! Aye ah fuckin am, if ah’m oan ma tod n ah git set oan by a fuckin squad ay shell-suits! Ye think ah’m Jean-Claude Van Fuckin Damme? Fuckin doss cunt, so ye are Simon. Ah called him ‘Simon’ rather than ‘Si’ or ‘Sick Boy’ tae emphasise the seriousness ay what ah wis sayin.
— Ah want tae see Mother Superior n ah dinnae gie a fuck aboot any cunt or anything else. Goat that? He pokes his lips wi his forefinger, his eyes bulging oot at us. — Simone wants tae see Mother Superior. Watch ma fuckin lips. He then turns and stares intae the back ay the taxi driver, willing the cunt tae go faster while nervously beating oot a rhythm oan his thighs.
— One ay they cunts wis a McLean. Dandy n Chancey’s wee brar, ah sais.
— Wis it fuck, he sais, but he couldnae keep the anxiety oot ay his voice. — Ah ken the McLeans. Chancey’s awright.
— No if ye take the pish oot ay his brar, ah sais.
He wis takin nae mair notice though. Ah stoaped harassing him, knowing thit ah wis jist wastin ma energy. His silent suffering through withdrawal now seemed so intense that thir wis nae wey that ah could add, even incrementally, tae his misery.
‘Mother Superior’ wis Johnny Swan; also kent as the White Swan, a dealer whae wis based in Tollcross and covered the Sighthill and Wester Hailes schemes. Ah preferred tae score fi Swanney, or his sidekick Raymie, rather than Seeker n the Muirhoose-Leith mob, if ah could. Better gear, usually. Johnny Swan hud once been a really good mate ay mines, back in the auld days. We played fitba thegither fir Porty Thistle. Now he wis a dealer. Ah remember um saying tae us once: Nae friends in this game. Jist associates.
Ah thought he wis being harsh, flippant and show-oafy, until ah got sae far in. Now ah ken precisely what the cunt meant.
Johnny wis a junky as well as a dealer. Ye hud tae go a wee bit further up the ladder before ye found a dealer whae didnae use. We called Johnny ‘Mother Superior’ because ay the length ay time he’d hud his habit.
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