Trainspotting (16 page)

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Authors: Irvine Welsh

BOOK: Trainspotting
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One cunt in the seat in front’s lookin roond again.
— You goat a fuckin problem mate? ah shouts ower. The cunt gits a beamer n turns roond. Shitein cunt.
Rents faws asleep. The rid-heided cunt’s pished oot ay his fuckin skull. His draftpak’s half-empty n maist ay the cans’ve been tanned. Ah takes his draftpak tae the bogs wi us, empties a bit oot, n fills it up tae the same level wi ma pish. That’s what the cunt gits fir forgettin the fuckin cairds. Thir’s aboot two parts lager, one part pish in it.
Ah gits back n slips it intae place. The cunt’s fast asleep, so’s one ay the burds. The other’s goat her fuckin heid intae that book. Two rides. Dinnae ken whither ah’d rather shag the big fuckin blonde piece or the dark-heided yin the maist.
Ah wakes up that rid-heided cunt at Peterborough. — C’moan Rents. Yir fuckin strugglin wi that fuckin bevvy. A fuckin sprinter, that’s aw you are. A sprinter’ll nivir fuckin stand the pace wi a distance man.
— Nae problem . . . the cunt sais, takin a big fuckin swig oot ay the draftpak. He screws his face up. It’s hard no tae fuckin pish masel.
— The lager’s loupin. Seems tae huv gone dead flat, ken. Tastes like fuckin pish.
Ah’m daein ma best tae haud it in. — Stoap makin fuckin excuses, ya crappin cunt.
— Ah’ll still drink it like, the cunt goes. Ah try tae look oot the windae, wi that daft cunt finishing the fuckin loat.
Ah’m really fuckin ootay it by the time we hit Kings Cross. They burds’ve fucked oaf; ah thoat we wir oantae a fuckin good thing thair n aw, n ah sortay loast Rents comin oaf the train. Ah’ve even goat that rid-heided cunt’s bag instead ay ma ain. That cunt better huv mines. Ah dinnae even ken the fuckin address . . . but then ah clocks the rid-heided cunt talkin tae this wee cunt wi a plastic cup ootside the entrance tae the tube. Rents’s goat ma fuckin bag. Lucky fir him, the cunt.
— Any change fir the boy Franco? Rents sais, n this daft-lookin wee cunt hauds oot the fuckin cup; lookin it us wi they fuckin sappy eyes.
— Git tae fuck ya gypo cunt! ah sais, knockin the cup oot ay his hand, n fuckin pishin masel it the daft cunt scramblin aroond oan the deck between cunts’ legs, tae git his fuckin coins.
— Whair the fuck’s this flat then? ah sais tae Rents.
— No far, Rents sais, lookin it us like ah wis fuckin . . . the wey that cunt looks it ye sometimes . . . he’s gaunnae git a sair face one ay they fuckin days, mates or nae fuckin mates. Then the cunt jist turns away n ah follay um doon oantae the Victoria Line.
Na Na and Other Nazis
The Fit ay Leith Walk is really likes, mobbed oot man. It’s too hot for a fair-skinned punter, likesay, ken? Some cats thrive in the heat, but the likes ay me, ken, we jist cannae handle it. Too severe a gig man.
Another total downer is being skint, likesay. Pure Joe Strummer, man. Aw ye dae is walk aroond n check people oot, ken. Every cat’s dead palsy-walsy likesay, but once they suss that you’re brassic lint, they sortay just drift away intae the shadows . . .
Ah clock Franco at Queen Sticky-Vicky’s statue, talkin tae this big dude, a mean hombre called Lexo; a casual acquaintance, if ye catch ma drift. Funny scene, likesay, how aw the psychos seem tae ken each other, ken what ah mean, likes? Such alliances are unholy man, just unholy . . .
— Spud! Awright ya cunt! How’s it gaun? The Beggar is one high catboy.
— Eh, no sae bad likesay, Franco . . . yirsel?
— Barry, he sais, turnin tae this square-shaped mountain beside um. — Ye ken Lexo, a statement likesay, no a question. Ah just sortay nods, ken, and the big hombre looks at us for a second, then turns and talks tae Franco again.
Ah can tell that those cats have, likesay, binliners tae slash open, n rubbish tae rummage through. So ah sortay sais, like: — Eh . . . goat tae nash like, catch yis later.
— Haud oan mate. How ye fixed? Franco asks us.
— Eh, basically man, ah’m totally brassic. Ah’ve goat thirty-two pence in ma poakit and a pound in ma account at the Abbey National. No really the kind ay investment portfolio tae cause the Charlotte Square dudes sleepless nights, likesay.
Franco slips us two tenners. Nice one, the Beggar-boy.
— Nae skag now, ya radge cunt! he gently chides us, likesay. — Gie us a bell at the weekend, or come doon fir us well.
Did ah ever say anything derogatory against ma man Franco? Well, likesay . . . he’s no a bad punter. Pure jungle cat, ken, but even jungle cats sit doon n huv a wee purr tae themselves now and again, likesay, usually after they’ve likes, devoured somebody. Ah sortay cannae help wondering who Franco n Lexo’s devoured, likesay. Frankie-baby wis doon in London wi Rents, hidin oot fae the labdicks. What had the boy been up tae? Sometimes it’s better no tae ken. In fact, it’s always better no tae ken, likesay.
Ah cut through Woolies, which is busy, likesay, really busy. The security dude’s engrossed in chatting up this sexy catgirl on the checkout likesay, so ah pocket a set ay blank tapes . . . the pulse races, then slowly dips . . . it’s a good feeling, likesay, the best… well maybe second best behind the smack hit and likesay comin wi a lassie. So good, that the adrenalin kick makes us want tae head up the toon, oan a choryin spree, like.
The heat, man, is . . . hot. That’s the only way ye can really describe it, ken? Ah head for the shore, n sit oan a bench near the dole office. That double ten-spot feels good in ma poakit, likesay opens a few mair doors, ken? So ah sit lookin at the river. Thirs a big swan in the river, ken? Ah think aboot Johnny Swan, n gear. This swan though, is fuckin beautiful, likes. Ah wish ah’d got some bread, likesay, tae feed the punter wi.
Gav works fir the dole. Mibbe ah’ll catch the cat oan his lunch brek, stand the dude a pint or two, likesay. Ah’ve been bought a few by him lately. Ah see Ricky Monaghan comin oot the dole. An okay gadge, ken.
— Ricky . . .
— Awright Spud. What ye up tae?
— Eh, no much gaun doon ma end catboy. Ye see the whole kit n kaboodle, likesay.
— Bad as that?
— Worse catboy, worse.
— Still oaf the collies?
— Four weeks n two days since ma last bit ay Salisbury Crag, ken? Countin every second man, countin every second. It’s tick-tock, tick-tock, likesay, ken.
— Feelin better fir it?
S likesay only then thit ah realise that ah am; bored as fuck ken, but physically, likesay . . . aye. The first fortnight was an extended death trip man . . . but now, likes, ah could handle some hot sex wi a Jewish princess or a Catholic girl, complete wi white soacks, goatay be complete wi the white soacks. Ken?
— . . . Aye . . . ah do feel sortay better, likesay.
— Gaun tae Easter Road oan Setirday?
— Eh, naw . . . It’s been likesay, donks, since ah went tae the fitba, ken. Mibbe ah could go though. Wi Rents . . . but Rents is in London the now . . . or Sick Boy n that. Go wi Gav, n buy um a couple ay pints . . . see the Cabs again. —… well, mibbe. See how it goes likesay, ken. Ye gaun?
— Naw. Ah sais last season thit ah wisnae gaun back until they goat rid ay Miller. We need a new manager.
— Yeah . . . Miller . . . we need a new cat in the manager’s basket . . . Ah didnae even ken whae the manager wis, likesay, couldnae even tell ye the names ay the cats in the team, likes. Mibbe Kano . . . but ah think Kano might’ve moved oan. Durie! Gordon Durie!
— Durie still in the team?
Monny jist looks at us and kinday shakes his heid.
— Naw, Durie wis transferred ages ago, Spud. Eighty-six. Went tae Chelsea.
— Yeah, right man. Durie. Ah remember that cat scorin a cracker against Celtic. Or wis it Rangers? Same thing really though man, when ye think aboot it likesay . . . kinday different sides ay the same coin, ken?
He shrugs. Ah doubt ah’ve convinced the cat.
Ricky chums us, or it’s likesay ah chums him . . . ah mean, eh, whae really kens whae’s chummin whae in this cracked scene these days man? But whaever’s chummin whae, it’s destination Fit ay the Walk again. Life can be borin without skag. Rents is in London; Sick Boy’s sniffin aroond up the toon aw the time, the famous old port just does not seem to be cool enough for that cat these days; Rab, the Second Prize likes, has just vanished and Tommy seems to have gone tae groond since he split fae that Lizzy chick. That likesay leaves me n Franco . . . some life man, ah kin tell ye.
Ricky, Monny, Richard Monaghan, fellow Fenian freedom fighter, to be sure, to be sure, likesay fucks off, tae meet this lemon up the toon. This leaves yours truly on his Jack Jones, likesay. Ah decide tae visit Na Na in the sheltered housing gaffs at the bottom ay Easter Road, likes. Na Na hates it thair, even though she’s likes, goat a barry pad. Wish ah could git one like that, ken. Dead smart, but only for aulder cats, likesay. Ye just pull a cord and an alarm goes, and this warden like, comes n sorts it aw oot fir ye, ken. That would be right up ma street man, wi Frank Zappa’s daughter, that crazy chick, the Valley girl, Moon Unit Zappa as warden, likesay. A dead peachy scene that would be, ah kid you not catboy!
Na Na’s pins are fucked up likes, and the quack sais that it was too radge, her strugglin up tae the toap flight ay stairs in her auld gaff at Lome Strasse. Too right, heap big medicine man. If ye took the varicose veins oot ay Na Na’s legs, likesay, thir wid be nae legs, nothin tae haud her up, ken? Ah’ve goat better veins in ma airms than she’s goat in her scrambled eggs. She still gave the Doc some stick, likes; auld cats have been markin oot their territory, so tae speak, for likesay, donks, and git attached tae it. Sure as fuck, they arenae gaunnae gie it up withoot a scrap. Claws come oot, and fur flies, man. That’s Na Na . . . Ms Mouskouri, as ah call her, ken?
There’s a common-room for her block, likesay, which Na Na never uses, unless she’s tryin tae cruise that Mr Bryce. The auld punter’s family complained tae the Warden aboot her sexually harassing him. This Warden wifie tries tae mediate, likes, between ma Ma n Mr Bryce’s daughter, but Na Na reduces the daughter tae tears by making snide remarks aboot the bad birthmark oan her face. Sortay one ay they wine stains, ken? It’s likesay, thit Na Na picks oan people’s weaknesses, particularly other women, and uses that against them, ken?
A series ay different locks click open, n Na Na smiles at us, n gestures us tae come in. Ah get a barry reception here, but ma Ma n sister git treated like, well, likesay, nothing. They dae everything fir Na Na n aw. But Na Na loves guys and hates lassies. She’s hud, likesay, eight bairns by five different men, ken. An that’s jist the ones we ken aboot.
— Hullo . . . Calum . . . Willie . . . Patrick . . . Kevin . . . Desmond . . . she lists the names ay some ay her grandchildren, still likes, missin oot mine. Doesnae bother me though, likesay, ah git called ‘Spud’ that often, even ma Ma calls us it, ah sometimes forget ma name tae.
— Danny.
— Danny. Danny, Danny, Danny. An ah caw Kevin Danny n aw. How could ah forget that yin, Danny Boy!
Well, likesay, how could she . . .
Danny Boy
and
Roses Ay Picardy
ur likesay the only songs she kens. Ken? She sortay sings at the toap ay her voice; a breathless, tuneless sound, wi her airms sortay raised intae the air fir effect, ken.
— George’s here.
Ah look aroond the bend ay the L-shaped room n clock ma Uncle Dode, slumped in a chair, sippin a can ay Tennent’s Lager.
— Dode, ah sais.
— Spud! Awright boss? How ye livin?
— Peachy catboy, peachy. Eh, yirsel likesay?
— Cannae complain. How’s yir Ma?
— Er, still likesay gittin oan ma case as usual, ken?
— Hi! That’s yir mother yir talkin aboot! The best friend ye’ll ever huv. S’at no right Ma? he asks Na Na.
— Buckin right it is son!
‘Buckin’ is one ay Na Na’s favourite words likesay, along wi ‘pish’. Naebody says ‘pish’ like Na Na. She sortay drags oot the sssshhh, it’s likesay, ye kin
see
the steam rising oaf the yellay jet as it hits the white porcelain, ken?
Uncle Dode gies her a big, indulgent sortay grin. Dode’s likesay half-caste, the son ay a West Indian sailor, ken, the product ay, likes, West Indian semen! Ken? Dode’s auld boy pulled intae Leith long enough tae git Na Na up the kite. Then it was back tae the seven seas. Sounds a good life likes, a sailor’s, likesay a burd in every port n that.
Dode’s Na Na’s youngest bairn.
She married ma Grandad first likes, a chancin auld cowboy fae County Wexford. The auld dude used tae sit ma Ma oan his lap n sing tae hur: Irish rebel songs, likesay. He hud hair growin oot ay his nostrils n she thought thit he wis ancient, the wey ankle-biters do, likes. The gadge could only huv been in his thirties, like. Anywey, this gadge sortay blew it likes, kinday fell fae the top-flair windae ay a tenement. He wis shaggin this other woman at the time, no Na Na likesay. Naebody could really tell whether it wis drunkenness, suicide, or likesay . . . well baith. Anywey, that yin left her wi three bairns, includin ma Ma.
Na Na’s next (married) man wis a gravel-voiced dude whae hud once worked as a scaffolder, ken. The auld boy’s still oan the scene in Leith. The gadge once told us in a pub that scaffoldin wis classed as a trade now, likes. Rents, whae wis a chippy at the time, told the boy that that wis a loaday shite, that it wis semi-skilled, n the boy took the cream puff, likesay. Ah still sometimes see um up the Volley, likes. He’s no a bad auld punter. Lasted a year wi Na Na, but produced a bairn, wi another oan the wey, likesay.

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