Trainspotting (17 page)
Authors: Irvine Welsh
Wee Alec, the co-op insurance man, whae’d jist been widowed, wis Na Na’s next eh, victim, likesay. They said that Alec thought, ken, that the bairn Na Na wis cairyin wis his. He lasted three years, likesay, giein her another bairn, before the perr dude stormed oot, eftir likesay, catchin her shaggin another guy in the hoose.
He sortay likes, waited fir the boy in the stair, or so the story goes, likesay, wi this boatil. The guy pleaded fir mercy. Alec pit the boatil doon, sayin thit eh didnae, likes, need a weapon tae sort the likes ay that boy oot. The gadge’s expression sortay changed, and he booted perr Alec aw ower the stair, draggin the perr cat intae the Walk, dazed and likesay, covered in blood, before flinging him oantae a pile ay rubbish stacked oan the kerb ootside a grocer’s shoap.
Ma mother sais that Alec wis likesay, a decent wee man. He wis, ken, the only cat in Leith whae didnae ken that Na Na wis oan the game, likesay.
The last but one bairn Na Na hud wis a real mystery, likesay. That’s ma Auntie Rita, whae’s much nearer ma age than ma Ma’s. Ah suppose ah’ve eywis hud the hots fir Rita, a cool chick, dead sortay sixties, ken? Naebody found oot whae Rita’s faither wis, but then came Dode, whae Na Na hud whin she wis well intae her forties, ken?
When ah wis a sprog Dode eywis seemed a real spooky dude. You’d go up tae Na Na’s oan a Setirday, likesay, fir yir tea, and there would be this nasty young black cat, starin at everybody, before creepin oaf, likesay roond the skirtin boards. They aw said that Dode hud this chip oan his shoodir, n ah thought so n aw, until ah began tae suss the kinday abuse the gadge wis takin, at school n in the streets n aw that. It wis naebody’s business, ah kin tell ye man. Ah sortay jist laugh whin some cats say that racism’s an English thing and we’re aw Jock Tamson’s bairns up here . . . it’s likesay pure shite man, gadges talkin through their erses.
There’s a strong tea-leaf tradition in ma family, likesay, ken? Aw ma uncles are oan the chorie. It wis eywis likesay, Dode, thit got the heaviest sentences for the pettiest crimes, ken. A fundamentally unsound gig man. Rents once sais, thirs nothin like a darker skin tone tae increase the vigilance ay the police n the magistrates: too right.
Anyway, me n Dode decide tae hop on doon tae the Percy for a pint. The pub’s a wee bit crazy; normally the Percy’s a quiet family type pub, but it’s mobbed oot the day wi these Orange cats fi the wild west, who’re through here for their annual march and rally at the Links. These cats, it has tae be said, have never really bothered us, but ah cannae take tae them. It’s aw hate, likesay, ken. Celebratin auld battles seems, likesay, well, pretty doss. Ken?
Ah see Rents’s auld man wi his brars and nephews. Rents’s brar Billy, he’s thair n aw. Rents’s auld boy’s a soapdodger and a Paris Bun, but he’s no really intae this sortay gig any mair. His family fi Glesgie sure are though, and his family seems tae matter tae Rents’s papa. Rents doesnae hit it oaf wi these cats; really sortay hates them, likesay. Doesnae like talkin aboot them. Different story wi Billy though. He’s intae aw this Orange stuff, this sortay Jambo/Hun gig. He gies us a nod fae the bar, but ah don’t think the cat really digs us, but.
— Awright Danny! Mr R. sais.
— Eh . . . sound Davie, sound likes. Heard fi Mark?
— Naw. He must be daein awright. Only time ye hear fi that wan is whin he’s eftir somethin. He’s only half jokin, and these young nephew kittens are lookin us ower in a baaad way, so we git a seat in a corner by the door.
Bad move . . .
Wir in the vicinity ay some unsound lookin cats. Some ur skinheids, some urnae. Some huv Scottish, others English, or Belfast accents. One guy’s goat a Skrewdriver T-shirt oan, another’s likesay wearin an
Ulster is British
toap. They start singin a song aboot Bobby Sands, slaggin him off, likesay. Ah dunno much aboot politics, but Sands tae me, seemed a brave dude, likes, whae never killed anybody. Likesay, it must take courage tae die like that, ken?
Ulster is British
toap. They start singin a song aboot Bobby Sands, slaggin him off, likesay. Ah dunno much aboot politics, but Sands tae me, seemed a brave dude, likes, whae never killed anybody. Likesay, it must take courage tae die like that, ken?
Then one guy, the Skrewdriver dude, seems frantically tryin tae gie us the stare, as desperately as we’re tryin tae avoid eye contact, likesay. It’s no that easy whin they start singing: ‘Aint no black in the union jack’. We stay cool, but this cat won’t be denied. His claws are oot. He shouts ower at Dode.
— Oi! Wot you fucking looking at nigger!
— Fuck you, Dode sneers. It’s a route the cat’s travelled down before. No me though. This is fuckin, likesay, heavy.
Ah hear some Glasgow boy sayin that these guys, likesay, urnae real Orangemen, thir Nazis n that, but maist ay the Orange bastards present are lappin these cunts up, encouragin them, likesay.
They aw start singing: — You black bastard! You black bastard!
Dode gets up n goes ower tae thir table. Ah jist sees Skrewdriver’s mockin, distorted face change whin he realises, at the same time as ah do, that Dode’s goat a heavy gless ashtray in his hand . . . this is violence . . . this is bad news . . .
… he thrashes the Skrewdriver dude’s heid wi it, and the boy’s dome sortay splits open as he faws oaf his stool ontae the flair. Ah’m sortay shakin wi fear, raw fear man, and one guy jumps at Dode, n they’ve goat um doon, so ah huv tae steam in. Ah pick up a gless and chin Rid Hand Ay Ulster, whae hauds his heid, even though the gless, likesay, doesnae even brek, but some cunt punches us in the guts wi such a sharp force it feels like ah’ve been stabbed man . . .
— Kill that Fenyin bastard! some cunt sais, and they’ve goat us pinned against the waw, likes . . . ah jist starts lashin oot wi fist and boot, no feelin anything . . . n ah’m sortay likes, enjoyin masel man, because this is likesay, no like the real violence when ye see somebody like Begbie gaun radge or that, it’s likesay, comic stuff . . . cause ah cannae really fight likes, but ah don’t really think these dudes are great shakes either . . .it’s like they aw seem tae be gettin in each other’s road . . .
Ah don’t really know what happened. Davie Renton, Rents’s dad, n Billy, his brar, must’ve pulled them oafay us, cause next thing ah’m sortay standin, pullin Dode, whae looks well fucked, ootside. Ah hears Billy sayin: — Git um oot Spud. Jist git um doon the fuckin road. Now ah feel really sair, aw ower, n ah’m sortay greetin like tears ay anger n fear but maistly frustration . . .
— This is . . . likesay . . . fuck . . . this is, this is . . .
Dode’s been chibbed. Ah gits um ower the road. Ah kin hear people shoutin behind us. Ah jist focus oan Na Na’s door, no darin tae look back. Wir in. Ah gits Dode up the stair. He’s bleedin fae his side and his airm.
Ah phones an ambulance as Na Na’s cradlin his heid sayin: — Thir still buckin daein it tae ye son . . . when will they leave ye alain, ma laddie . . . since he wis it school, since he wis it the buckin school . . .
Ah’m dead fuckin angry man, but at Na Na, ken? Wi a bairn likes ay Dode, ye’d think thit Na Na wid ken how anybody thit’s different, thit sortay stands oot, likesay, feels, ken? Likesay the woman wi the wine stain n that . . . but it’s aw hate, hate, hate wi some punters, and whair does it git us likesay, man? Whair the fuck does it git us?
Ah chums Dode tae the hoespital. His wounds wir likesay no as bad as they looked. Ah goes intae see um lyin oan a trolley eftir thuv, likes, patched um up.
— S awright Danny. Ah’ve hud a loat worse n the past, and ah’ll huv a hellay a loat worse in the future.
— Dinnae say that man. Dinnae say that, ken?
He looks at us like ah’ll never really understand, n ah ken that he’s probably right.
The First Shag In Ages
They had spent most of the day getting stoned out of their boxes. Now they are getting pished in a tacky chrome-and-neon meat market. The bar is fussy in its range of overpriced drinks, but it misses by miles the cocktail-bar sophistication it is aiming at.
People come to this place for one reason, and one reason only. However, the night is still relatively young, and the camouflage of drinking, talking and listening to music does not, at this point, seem too obvious.
The dope and drink has fuelled Spud and Renton’s post-junk libidos to a rampant extent. To them, every woman in the place seems to look outstandingly sexy. Even some of the men do. They find it impossible to focus on one person who might be a potential target, as their gaze is constantly arrested by someone else. Just being here reminds the both of them how long it has been since they’ve had a shag.
— If ye cannae git a Joe McBride in this place, ye might as well call it a day, Sick Boy reflects, his head bobbing gently to the sounds. Sick Boy can afford detached speculation, speaking, as he generally does in such circumstances, from a position of strength. Dark circles under his eyes attest to the fact that he has just spent most of the day shagging these two American women, who are staying at the Minto Hotel. There is no chance of either Spud, Renton or Begbie making up a foursome. They are both going back with Sick Boy, and Sick Boy alone. He is merely gracing them with his presence.
— They’ve got excellent coke man. Ah’ve never had anything like it, he smiles.
— Morningside speed man, Spud remarks.
— Cocaine . . . fuckin garbage. Yuppie shite. Although he has been clean for a few weeks, Renton has the smack-head’s contempt for all other drugs.
— My ladies are returning. Ah’ll have to leave you gentlemen to your sordid little activities. Sick Boy shakes his head disdainfully, then scans the bar with a haughty, superior expression on his face. — The working classes at play, he derisively snorts. Spud and Renton wince.
Sexual jealousy is an in-built component in a friendship with Sick Boy.
They try to imagine all the cocaine-crazed sex games he’ll be playing with the ‘manto at the Minto’, as he refers to the women. That is all they can do, imagine. Sick Boy never goes into any details about his sexual adventures. His discretion, however, is only observed in order to torment his less sexually prolific friends rather than as a mark of respect for the women he gets involved with. Spud and Renton realise that three-in-a-bed scenes with rich tourists and cocaine are the preserve of sexual aristocrats like Sick Boy. This shabby bar is their level.
Renton cringes as he observes Sick Boy from a distance, thinking about the bullshit that is inevitably coming out of his mouth.
At least with Sick Boy, it is to be expected. Renton and Spud are horrified to note that Begbie has bagged off. He is chatting to a woman who has quite a nice face, Spud thinks; but a fat arse, Renton bitchily observes. Some women, Renton considers with a malicious envy, are attracted to the psychopathic type. They generally pay a high price for this flaw, leading horrible lives. As an example, he smugly cites June, Begbie’s girlfriend, who is currently in hospital having their child. Proud that he didn’t have to go far to make his point, he takes a swig of his Becks, thinking: I rest my case.
However, Renton is going through one of his frequent self-analytical phases and this smug complacency soon evaporates. Actually, this woman’s arse isn’t that fat, he reasons. He notes that he is operating his self-deception mechanism again. Part of him believes that he is by far the most attractive person in the bar. The reason for this being that he can always find something hideous in the most gorgeous individual. By focusing on that isolated ugly part, he can then mentally nullify their beauty. On the other hand, his own ugly bits don’t bother him, because he is used to them, and in any case, can’t see them.
Anyway, he is now jealous of Frank Begbie. Surely, he considers, I can’t fall any further from grace. Begbie and his new-found love are talking to Sick Boy and the American women. These women look pretty smart, or at least their tan-and-expensive-clothes packaging does. It nauseates Renton to see Begbie and Sick Boy playing the great mates, as all they generally do is to get on each other’s tits. He notes the depressing haste with which the successful, in the sexual sphere as in all others, segment themselves from the failures.
— That’s you n me left, Spud, he observes.
— Likesay, eh, yeah . . . it looks that way, catboy.
Renton likes it when Spud calls other people ‘catboy’ but he hates being referred to in that way himself. Cats make him sick.
— Ye ken, Spud, sometimes ah wish ah wis back oan the skag, Renton says, mainly, he thought, to shock Spud, to get a reaction from his hash-stoned, wasted face. As soon as it comes out, though, he realises that he actually means it.
— Hey, likesay, fuckin heavy man . . . ken? Spud forces some air out from between tightened lips.
It dawns on Renton that the speed they’d done in the toilet, which he’d denounced as shite, is now taking effect. The problem with being off smack, Renton decides, is that they are stupid, irresponsible fuckers, taking anything that they can get their hands on. At least with smack, there is no room for all the other crap.
He has an urge to talk. The speed is a good lap ahead of the dope and alcohol in his system.
— Thing is though, Spud, whin yir intae skag, that’s it. That’s aw yuv goat tae worry aboot. Ken Billy, ma brar, likes? He’s jist signed up tae go back intae the fuckin army. He’s gaun tae fuckin Belfast, the stupid cunt. Ah always knew that the fucker wis tapped. Fuckin imperialist lackey. Ken whit the daft cunt turned roond n sais tae us? He goes: Ah cannae fuckin stick civvy street. Bein in the army, it’s like bein a junky. The only difference is thit ye dinnae git shot at sae often bein a junky. Besides, it’s usually you that does the shootin.
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