Authors: Irvine Welsh
Trainspotting (11 page)
The Beggar had been bevvyin before we met up. He looked seedy and menacing done up in a suit, the wey draftpaks do, indian ink spilling oot from under cuffs and collar onto neck and hands. Ah’m sure Beggar’s tattoos move intae the light, resentful at being covered up.
— How’s the fuckin Rent Boy! he rasps loudly. Appropriateness hus nivir been the cunt’s strong point. — Awright doll? he sais tae Haze. — Lookin fuckin smert. See this cunt here? He points at me. — Style, he sais, enigmatically. Then he elaborates. — This is a useless bastard; but he’s goat style. A man ay wit. A man ay class. A man not unlike my good self.
Begbie always constructed imaginary qualities in his friends, then shamelessly claimed them for himself.
Hazel and June, who didn’t really know each other well, wisely struck up a conversation, lumbering me wi the Beggar, the General Franco. Ah realised that it hud been a long time since ah’d drank wi Begbie oan ma ain, withoot other mates tae offer occasional respite. Alone was stressful.
Tae get ma attention, Begbie smashes an elbow into ma ribs with such ferocity that it would be construed as an assault, were it not between two companions. He then starts telling us about some gratuitously violent video he’s been watching. Beggar insists on acting the whole fuckin thing oot, demonstrating karate blows, throttlings, stabbings, etc., on me. His explanation ay the film lasts twice as long as the picture itself. Ah’m gaunnae huv a few bruises the morn, n ah’m no even pished yet.
We’re drinking on a balcony bar, and our attention is caught by a squad of nutters entering the crowded pub below. They swagger in, noisy and intimidating.
Ah hate cunts like that. Cunts like Bebgie. Cunts that are intae baseball-batting every fucker that’s different; pakis, poofs, n what huv ye. Fuckin failures in a country ay failures. It’s nae good blamin it oan the English fir colonising us. Ah don’t hate the English. They’re just wankers. We are colonised by wankers. We can’t even pick a decent, vibrant, healthy culture to be colonised by. No. We’re ruled by effete arseholes. What does that make us? The lowest of the fuckin low, the scum of the earth. The most wretched, servile, miserable, pathetic trash that was ever shat intae creation. Ah don’t hate the English. They just git oan wi the shite thuv goat. Ah hate the Scots.
Begbie’s gaun oan aboot Julie Mathieson, whae he used tae huv the hoats fir. Julie always hated him. Ah really liked Julie, maybe that’s why. She wis a really good punter. She hud a bairn whin she wis HIV, but the bairn wis all-clear, thank fuck. The hoespital sent Julie hame in an ambulance wi the bairn, wi two guys dressed in sortay radioactive-proof suits — helmets, the lot. This wis back in 1985. It had the predictable effect. The neighbours saw this, freaked, and burnt her oot the hoose. Once ye git tagged HIV, that’s you fucked. Especially a lassie oan her puff. Harassment followed harassment. Eventually, she hud a nervous breakdoon and, wi her damaged immune system, wis easy prey fir the onset ay AIDS.
It wis last Christmas thit Julie died. Ah nivir made the funeral. Ah wis lyin in ma ain puke oan a mattress in Spud’s gaff, too fucked tae move. It wis a shame, cause Julie n me wir good mates. Wi nivir shagged or nowt like that. Wi baith thought it wid change things too much, like it does in male/female friendships. Sex generally makes them intae real relationships, or ends them. Ye go backwards or forwards after shagging, but maintaining the status quo is difficult. Julie looked really good when she started oan smack. Maist lassies dae. It seems tae bring oot the best in them. It always seems tae gie, before it takes back, wi interest.
Begbie’s epitaph tae Julie is: — Fuckin waste ay a good bit ay fanny.
Ah fight back the urge tae tell um what a fuckin waste ay a silver bullet he’d be. Ah try no tae show ma anger; it’ll achieve nothing except a burst mooth fir me. Ah go doonstairs tae git another round up.
These draftpak cunts are at the bar, jostling each other, and every other fucker. Getting served is a nightmare. A mosaic shell ay scar tissue and indian ink, ah presume that there’s some cunt inside it, is screaming: — DOUBLE VODDY N COKE! DOUBLE FAAHKIN VODDY N COKE THEN CUNT! at the nervous barstaff. Ah focus on the whisky bottles on the gantry, trying everything in ma power tae avoid makin eye contact wi this radge. It’s like ma eyes huv a life ay thir ain, involuntarily turning tae the side. My face reddens n tingles, as if in anticipation ay a fist or a boatil. These cunts are damaged fucking goods, nutty boys of the highest order.
Ah take the drinks back, the nips first fir the women, then the pints.
Then it happens.
Aw ah did wis put a pint ay Export in front ay Begbie. He takes one fuckin gulp oot ay it; then he throws the empty gless fae his last pint straight ower the balcony, in a casual, backhand motion. It’s one ay they chunky, panelled glesses wi a handle, n ah kin see it spinnin through the air oot ay the corner ay ma eye. Ah look at Begbie, whae smiles, while Hazel n June look disorientated, thir faces reflecting ma ain crippling anxiety.
The gless crashes doon oan this draftpak’s heid, which splits open as he faws tae his knees. The boy’s mates assume battle stances, n one ay them charges ower tae this other table n panels this innocent cunt. Another gubs some perr gadge cairryin a tray ay drinks.
Begbie’s oan his feet, n racing doon the stair. He’s right in the middle ay the flair.
— BOY’S BEEN FUCKIN GLESSED! NAE CUNT LEAVES HERE UNTIL AH FIND OOT WHAE FLUNG THAT FUCKIN GLESS!
He’s barkin orders at innocent couples, shoutin instructions at the bar staff. Thing is, the draftpak cunts ur lappin this up.
— S awright mate. We kin handle this! Double Voddy n Coke sais.
Ah cannae hear whit Begbie sais, but it seems tae impress Double Voddy. Then the Beggar goes tae the barman: — YOU! PHONE THE FAAHKIN POLIS!
— NAW! NAW! NAE POLIS! shouts one ay the draftpak psychos. These cunts’ve obviously goat records the length ay yir airm. The perr cunt behind the bar’s shitein hissel, no kennin whit tae dae.
Begbie stands erect, neck muscles tensed. His glare sweeps aroond the bar n up tae the balcony.
— WHAE SAW ANYTHIN? YOU CUNTS SEE ANYTHIN? he shouts at a group ay guys, Merchant school, Murrayfield type cunts, who ur crappin themselves.
— No . . . one guy wobbles out.
Ah gits doon, telling Haze n June no tae move fae the balcony bar. Begbie’s like a psychopathic detective oot ay an Agatha Christie whodunit, cross-examinin every cunt. He’s blowin it; it is so fuckin obvious. Ah’m doon thair, stickin a fuckin bar-towel oan the draftpak’s split heid, tryin tae stem the blood. The cunt just growls at us, n ah dinnae ken whether that’s um showin gratitude or ready tae stomp ma baws, but ah cairry oan.
One fat cunt fae the group ay psychos goes up tae this other group ay guys at the bar n sticks the heid oan one ay them. The place goes up. Lassies scream, guys issue threats, push each other and exchange blows as the sound ay brekin gless fills the air.
This boy’s white shirt is saturated wi blood as ah push through some bodies tae git back up the stairs tae Hazel n June. Some cunt gubs us oan the side ay the face. Ah hud half-saw it fae the corner ay ma eye n moved away n time, so ah didnae git the fill force ay it. Ah turn roond and this radge’s sayin: — Come ahead wide-o. Come ahead.
— Way tae fuck ya radge, ah say, shakin ma heid. This gadge’s ready tae come, but his mate grabs his airm, a good thing, because ah’m no ready fir him. The cunt looks a wee bit tidy, like he could punch his weight.
— Fuckin stey ootay it, Malky. It’s fuck all tae dae wi that boy, his mate sais. Ah move oan smartly. Haze n June come doon the stairs wi us. Malky, ma assailant, is panelling some other cunt now. A gap has cleared in the middle ay the flair n ah steer Haze n June through it towards the door.
— Mind the burds, pal, ah say tae these two guys whae ur aboot tae swedge, n one dives for the other one, allowing us tae slip past. Ootside the bar in the Rose Street precinct Begbie n this other cunt, it’s Double Voddy, ur bootin fuck oot ay this perr bastard oan the deck. — FRAAHNK! June gies oot a blood-curdling scream. Hazel’s edging away fae me, tuggin at ma hand.
— FRANCO! C’MOAN! ah shout, grabbin his airm. He stoaps tae examine his work, but brushes ma grip oaf. He turns tae look at us, and fir a minute, ah think he’s gaunnae panel us. It’s like he doesnae see us, doesnae recognise us. Then he goes: — Rents. Nae cunt fucks wi the YLT. Thuv goat tae fuckin learn that Rents. Thuv goat tae fuckin learn that.
— Cheers pal, sais Double Voddy, Franco’s accomplice in slaughter.
Franco smiles at him, and boots the cunt in the baws. Ah felt it.
— Ah’ll gie ye fackin cheers, ya cunt! he sneers, smacking Double Voddy in the face, knocking him ower. A white tooth flies like a bullet oot ay the guy’s mooth, and lands a few feet away on the precinct tiles.
— Frank! What ur ye daein! June shrieks. We’re pulling the cunt doon the road as polis sirens fill the air.
— That cunt, that cunt n his fuckin mates back thair, that’s the cunts thit fuckin stabbed ma brar! he shouts indignantly. June looked beaten down.
That wis bullshit. Beggar’s brother, Joe, was stabbed in a fight in a pub at Niddrie years ago. The fight wis ay his ain makin, and he wisnae badly hurt. In any case Franco and Joe hated each other. Still, the incident had provided Begbie wi the spurious moral ammunition he needed tae justify one ay his periodic drink and angst fuelled wars against the local populace. He’d git his one day. Nothing wis surer. Ah jist didnae want tae be aroond whin he did.
Hazel and ah fell behind Franco n June. Haze wanted tae go. — Thirs something wrong wi him. Did ye see that guy’s heid? Let’s git ootay here.
Ah found masel lyin tae her, tae justify Begbie’s behaviour. Fuckin horrible. Ah jist couldnae handle her outrage, n the hassle thit went wi it. It wis easy tae lie, as we all did wi Begbie in our circle. A whole Begbie mythology hud been created by oor lies tae each other n oorsels. Like us, Begbie believed that bullshit. We played a big part in making him what he was.
Myth: Begbie has a great sense ay humour.
Reality: Begbie’s sense ay humour is solely activated at the misfortunes, setbacks and weaknesses ay others, usually his friends.
Myth: Begbie is a ‘hard man’.
Reality: Ah would not personally rate Begbie that highly in a square-go, withoot his assortment ay stanley knives, basebaw bats, knuckledusters, beer glesses, sharpened knitting needles, etc. Masel n maist cunts are too shite-scared tae test this theory, but the impression remains. Tommy once exposed some weaknesses in Begbie, in a square-go. Gave um a good run for his money, did Tam. Mind you, Tommy’s a tidy cunt, n Begbie, it has tae be said, came oot the better ay the two.
Myth: Begbie’s mates like him.
Reality: They fear him.
Myth: Begbie would never waste any ay his mates.
Reality: His mates are generally too cagey tae test oot this proposition, and oan the odd occasion they huv done so, huv succeeded in disproving it.
Myth: Begbie backs up his mates.
Reality: Begbie smashes fuck oot ay innocent wee daft cunts whae accidently spill your pint or bump intae ye. Psychopaths who terrorise Begbie’s mates usually dae so wi impunity, as they tend tae be closer mates ay Begbie’s than the punters he hings aboot wi. He kens thum aw through approved school, prison n the casuals’ network, the freemasonaries that bams share.
Anywey, these myths gie us the basis tae rescue the night.
— Look Hazel, ah ken Franco’s uptight. It’s jist thit they guys pit his brar Joe oan a life-support machine. Thir a close faimlay.
Begbie is like junk, a habit. Ma first day at primary school, the teacher sais tae us: — You will sit beside Francis Begbie. It wis the same story at secondary. Ah only did well at school tae git intae an O Level class tae git away fae Begbie. Whin Begbie wis expelled n sent tae another school en route tae Polmont, ma performance declined, and ah wis pit back intae the non-certificate stream. Still, nae mair Begbie.
Then, when ah wis apprenticed as a chippy wi a Gorgie builder, ah goes along tae Telford College tae dae ma national certificate modules in joinery. Ah sat doon tae ma chips in the cafeteria, whin whae comes along but that cunt Begbie, wi a couple ay other psychos. They wir oan this specialist course in metalwork fir problem teenagers. The course seemed tae teach them tae manufacture thir ain sharp metal weapons ay destruction rather than have tae buy them fae the Army n Navy stores.
Whin ah left ma trade n went tae college fir A Levels, then oantae Aberdeen University, ah half expected tae see Beggars at the freshers ball, beating tae a pulp some four-eyed, middle-class wanker he imagined wis starin at um.
He really is a cunt ay the first order. Nae doubt about that. The big problem is, he’s a mate n aw. Whit kin ye dae?
We quicken our step and follay them doon the road; a quartet of fucked-up people thegither.
A Disappointment
Ah minded ay the cunt. Fuckin sure n ah did. Ah used tae think he wis a fuckin hard cunt, back it Craigie, ken? He fuckin hung aroond wi Kev Stronach and that crowd. Fuckin bams. Dinnae git us wrong like; ah thoat the cunt wis fuckin sound. But ah mind, thir wis one time some boys asks the cunt whair he fuckin came fae. This boy goes: — Jakey! (that wis the cunt’s name like), ur you fae fuckin Grantin or Roystin? The cunt goes: — Grantin is Roystin. Roystin is Grantin. The bastard went right fuckin doon in ma estimation eftir that, ken? That wis back it the fuckin school though, ken? Fuckin yonks ago now.
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