Trainspotting (13 page)

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Authors: Irvine Welsh

BOOK: Trainspotting
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I take the bottom sheet up, then remove the duvet cover and wrap them together; the pungent, toxic cocktail in the middle. It’s bundled into a secure ball, with no sign of leakage. I turn the mattress over to conceal the damp patch, and go to the toilet; showering the crap off my chest, thighs and arse. I now know where I am: Gail’s mother’s house.
Fucking hell.
Gail’s mother’s. How did I get here? Who brought me here? Back in the room, I see that my clothes are neatly folded. Oh christ.
Who the fuck undressed me?
Try tracing back. It’s now Sunday. Yesterday was Saturday. The semi-final at Hampden. I had got myself into some fucking state before and after the match. We’ve no chance, I thought, you never do at Hampden against one of the Old Firm, with the crowd and the referees firmly behind the establishment clubs. So instead of getting worked up about it, I just decided to have a good crack and make a day of it. I don’t want to think about the day I made of it. I don’t even remember whether or not I actually went to the game. Got on the Marksman bus at Duke Street with the Leith boys; Tommy, Rents and their mates. Fuckin heid-bangers. I remember fuck all after that pub in Rutherglen before the match; the space-cake and the speed, the acid and the dope, but most of all the drink, the bottle of vodka that I downed before we met in the pub to get onto the bus to get back into the pub . . .
Where Gail came into the picture, I’m no really sure. Fuck. So I get back into the bed, the mattress and duvet seeming cold without the sheets. A few hours later, Gail knocks at the door. Gail and I have been going out together for five weeks but have not yet had sex. Gail had said that she didn’t want our relationship to start off on a physical basis, as that would be how it would principally be defined from them on in. She’d read this in
Cosmopolitan
, and wanted to test the theory. So five weeks on, I’ve got a pair of bollocks like watermelons. There’s probably a fair bit of spunk alongside that pish, shite and puke.
— You were is some state last night David Mitchell, she said accusingly. Was she genuinely upset or playing at being upset? Difficult to tell. Then: — What happened to the covers? Genuinely upset.
— Eh, a wee accident Gail.
— Well, never mind that. Come downstairs. We’re just about to have breakfast.
She left, and I wearily got dressed and tentatively crept down the stairs, wishing I was invisible. I take the bundle down with me, as I want to take it home and get it cleaned.
Gail’s parents are sitting at the kitchen table. The sounds and smells of a traditional Sunday breakfast fry-up being prepared are nauseating. My guts do a quick somersault.
— Well, someone was in a state last night, Gail’s Ma says, but to my relief, teasingly, and without anger.
I still flushed with embarrassment. Mr Houston, sitting at the kitchen table, tried to smooth things over for me.
— Ah well, it does ye good tae cut loose once in a while, he commented supportively.
— It would do this one good tae be tied up once in a while, Gail said, realising a minor
faux pas
as I raised ma eyebrows at her, unnoticed by her parents. A wee bit bondage would do me fine. Chance would be fine fucking thing . . .
— Eh, Mrs Houston, I point to the sheets, in a bundle at my feet on the kitchen floor. — . . . Ah made a bit of a mess of the sheet and the duvet cover. Ah’m going tae take them home and clean them. Ah’ll bring them back tomorrow.
— Aw, don’t you worry about that, son. Ah’ll just stick them in the washing machine. You sit down and get some breakfast.
— Naw, but, eh . . . a really bad mess. Ah feel embarrassed enough. Ah’d like tae take them home.
— Dearie dear, Mr Houston laughed.
— Now no, you sit down, son, ah’ll see tae them, Mrs Houston stole across the floor towards me, and made a grab for the bundle. The kitchen was her territory, and she would not be denied. I pulled it to me, towards my chest; but Mrs Houston was as fast as fuck and deceptively strong. She got a good grip and pulled against me.
The sheets flew open and a pungent shower of skittery shite, thin alcohol sick, and vile pish splashed out across the floor. Mrs Houston stood mortified for a few seconds, then ran, heaving into the sink.
Brown flecks of runny shite stained Mr Houston’s glasses, face and white shirt. It sprayed across the linoleum table and his food, like he had made a mess with watery chip-shop sauce. Gail had some on her yellow blouse.
Jesus fuck.
— God sake . . . god sake . . . Mr Houston repeated as Mrs Houston boaked and I made a pathetic effort to mop some of the mess back into the sheets.
Gail shot me a look of loathing and disgust. I can’t see our relationship developing any further now. I’ll never get Gail into bed. For the first time, that doesnae bother me. I just want out of here.
Junk Dilemmas No. 65
Suddenly it’s cauld; very fuckin cauld. The candle’s nearly melted doon. The only real light’s comin fae the telly. Something black and white’s on . . . but the telly’s a black and white set so it was bound tae be something black and white . . . wi a colour telly, it wid be different . . . perhaps.
It’s freezing, but movement only makes ye caulder; by making ye more aware that there’s fuck all you can do, fuck all you can really do, tae get warm. At least if ah stey still ah can pretend to masel ah have the power tae make masel warm, by just moving aroond or switching the fire oan. The trick is tae be as still as possible. It’s easier than dragging yourself across the flair tae switch that fuckin fire oan.
Somebody else is in the room wi us. It’s Spud, ah think. It’s hard tae tell in the dark.
—
Spud . . . Spud
 . . .
He sais nothing.
—
It’s really fuckin cauld man.
Spud, if indeed it is the cunt, still says nothing. He could be deid, but probably no, because ah think his eyes are open. But that means fuck all.
Grieving and Mourning In Port Sunshine
Lenny looked at his cards, then scrutinised the expressions on his friends’ faces.
— Whae’s haudin? Billy, c’moan then ya cunt. Billy showed Lenny his hand.
— Two fuckin aces!
— Spawny bastard! You spawny fuckin cunt Renton. Lenny slammed his fist into his palm.
— Jist gies that fuckin loot ower here, Billy Renton said, raking up the pile of notes that lay in the centre of the floor.
— Naz. Chuck us a can ower then, Lenny asked. When the can was thrown over he missed his catch and it hit the floor. He opened it, and much of its contents gushed over Peasbo.
— Moantae fuck ya doss cunt!
— Sorry Peasbo. It’s that cunt, Lenny laughed as he pointed at Naz. — Ah sais tae um tae chuck us a can ower, no tae fling it at ma fuckin heid.
Lenny rose and went to the window.
— Still nae sign ay the cunt? Naz asked. — The game’s fucked withoot the big money.
— Naw. The cunt’s patter’s fuckin rotten, Lenny said.
— Gie the cunt a bell. Find oot whit the fuckin story is, Billy suggested.
— Aye. Right.
Lenny went into the lobby and dialled Phil Grant’s number. He was upset at playing for this toy town stake. He would have been well up by now if Granty had shown up with the money.
The phone just rang.
— Nae cunt’s in, or if they are, they arenae answerin the fuckin phone, he told them.
— Ah hope the fucker husnae absconded wi the fuckin loot, Peasbo laughed, but it was an uneasy laugh, the first open acknowledgement of a collective unspoken fear.
— Better no huv. Cannae stick a cunt thit rips oaf his mates, Lenny snarled.
— Whin ye think aboot it though, it’s Granty’s poppy. He kin spend it oan whit he likes, Jackie said.
They looked at him with bemused belligerence. Eventually Lenny spoke.
— Away ye fuckin go.
— In a wey though, the cunt won it fair n square. Ah ken what we agreed. Build up a big kitty wi the club money tae add a bit ay spice tae the caird games. Then divvi up. Ah ken aw that. Aw ah’m sayin is thit in the eyes ay the law . . . Jackie explained his position.
— It’s aw oor poppy! Lenny snapped. — Granty kens the fuckin Hampden roar.
— Ah ken that. Aw ah’m sayin is thit in the eyes ay the law . . .
— Shut yir fuckin mooth ya stirrin cunt, Billy interjected, — wir no talkin aboot the eyes ay the fuckin law here. Wir talkin aboot mates. If it wis up tae the eyes ay the fuckin law you’d huv nae furniture in yir hoose ya gypo cunt.
Lenny nodded approvingly at Billy.
— Wir jumpin tae fuckin conclusions here. Might be a perfectly good reason as tae why the cunt isnae here. Mibbe he’s goat held up, Naz suggested, his pock-marked face taut and tense.
— Mibbe some cunt’s mugged the cunt n taken the poppy, Jackie said.
— Nae cunt wid try tae mug Granty. He’s the kind ay cunt thit mugs cunts, no gits mugged fae thum. If he comes in here pullin a stunt like that, ah’ll tell um whair tae fuckin go. Lenny was in a state of some anxiety. This was the club money they were talking about.
— Jist sayin thit it’s daft tae be cairryin that type ay cash aroond. That’s aw ah’m sayin, Jackie stated. He was a little frightened of Lenny.
Granty had not missed a Thursday night card session in six years, unless he was on holiday. He was the reliable lynchpin of the school. Lenny and Jackie had both missed periods through doing time for assault and housebreaking respectively.
The club money, the holiday money, had been a remnant of the time they had all gone to Loret De Mar on holiday together, as teenagers. Now older, they generally went in smaller groups, or with wives or girlfriends. The strange mixing up of the card money and the club money occurred a couple of years ago when they were drunk. Peasbo, then the treasurer, jokingly threw in a wad of the club money as his stake. They played with it, for a laugh. They liked the feel of playing with all that money, got such a buzz from it, that they divvied it up and played pretend games with it. Whenever they decided that they were into serious saving, they would stop playing cards for ‘real’ money, and play for ‘club’ money. It was just like playing for monopoly money.
There were times, particularly when someone ‘won’ the entire pot, like Granty last week, that the bizarre and dangerous nature of their actions crossed their mind. They were mates though, and it was generally assumed that they would never do the dirty on each other. However, logic as well as loyalty underpinned this assumption. They all had ties in the area, and could never leave it for good, and not for just the £2,000 in the kitty. Leaving the area was what it would mean if one ripped off the rest. They told themselves this over and over again. The real fear was theft. The money was more secure in a bank. It had been a silly indulgence gone mad, a collective insanity.
The next morning there still no sign of Granty, and Lenny was late signing on.
— Mister Lister. You only live around the corner from this office, and you only have to sign on once every fortnight. It’s hardly an excessive demand, Gavin Temperley, the clerk, told him in pompous tones.
— Ah understand the position ay your fuckin oafice, Mister Temperley. But ah’m sure thit yill take intae consideration thit ah’m a fuckin busy man wi several flourishin enterprises tae look eftir.
— Shite, Lenny. Lazy cunt thit ye are. Ah’ll see ye in the Crown. Ah’m oan first lunch. Be thair it the back ay twelve.
— Aye. Ye’ll need tae gie us a bung though Gav. Ah’m fuckin brassic until this rent cheque hits the mat the morn.
— Nae problem.
Lenny went down to the pub and sat at the bar with his
Daily Record
and a pint of lager. He considered lighting a cigarette, then decided against it. It was 11.04 and he’d had twelve fags already. It was always the same when he was forced to rise in the morning. He smoked far too many fags. He could cut down by staying in bed, so he generally didn’t get up until 2 p.m. These Government cunts were determined, he thought, to wreck both his health and finances by forcing him up so early.
The back pages of the
Record
were full of Rangers/Celtic shite as usual. Souness spys on some fucker in the English second division, McNeill says Celts’ confidence is coming back. Nothing about Hearts. No. A wee bit about Jimmy Sandison, with the same quote twice, and the short passage finishing in mid-sentence. There’s also a small space on why Miller of Hibs still thinks he’s the best man for the job, when they’ve only scored three goals in the last thirty games or something like that.
Lenny turned to page three. He preferred the scantily clad women the
Record
featured to the topless ones in the
Sun
. You had to have some imagination.
From the corner of his eye he spotted Colin Dalglish.
— Coke, he said, without looking up from his paper.

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