Trainspotting (19 page)
Authors: Irvine Welsh
— We’ll really have to be quiet, she said. He nodded.
He quickly pulled off his jumper and t-shirt, then his trainers, socks and jeans. Self-conscious of his ginger pubes, he got into the bed before sliding his underpants off.
Renton was relieved to get hard as he watched Dianne undress. Unlike him, she took her time, and seemed completely unselfconscious. He thought that her body looked great. He couldn’t help a football mantra of ‘here we go’ playing repeatedly in his head.
— Ah want to go on top of you, Dianne said, throwing back the covers, exposing Renton’s ginger pubes. Fortunately, she didn’t seem to notice. Renton was pleased with his cock. It seemed so much bigger than usual. This was probably because, he realised, he’d become accustomed to not seeing it erect. Dianne was less impressed. She’d seen worse, that was about it.
They began touching each other. Dianne was enjoying the foreplay. Renton’s enthusiasm for this was a pleasant change from most of the guys she’d been with, but she felt his fingers go to her vagina and she stiffened and pushed his hand away.
— I’m well lubricated enough, she told him. This made Renton feel a bit numb, it seemed so cold and mechanistic. He even thought at one stage that his erection had started to subside, but no, she was lowering herself onto it, and it was, miracle of miracles, holding firm.
He groaned softly as she enclosed him. They started moving slowly together, penetrating deeper. He felt her tongue in his mouth and his hands were lightly feeling her arse. It seemed, it had been, so long; he thought that he was going to come straight away. Dianne sensed his extreme excitement. Not another useless prick, please no, she thought to herself.
Renton stopped feeling her and tried to imagine that he was shagging Margaret Thatcher, Paul Daniels, Wallace Mercer, Jimmy Savile and other turn-offs, in order to bring himself off the boil.
Dianne took the opportunity, and rode herself into a climax, Renton lying there like a dildo on a large skateboard. It was only the image of Dianne biting into her forefinger, in an attempt to stifle the strange squeaks she made as she came, her other hand on his chest, that caused Renton to get there himself. Even the thought of rimming Wallace Mercer’s arse couldn’t have stopped him by that time. When he started to come, he thought that he’d never stop. His cock spurted like a water pistol in the hands of a persistently mischievous child. Abstinence had made the sperm-count go through the roof.
It had been close enough to a simultaneous climax for him to have described it in such a way, had he been one to kiss-and-tell. He realised the reason he’d never do this was because you always get more stud credibility from the enigmatic shrug and smile, than from divulging graphic details for the entertainment of radges. That was something he’d learned from Sick Boy. Even his anti-sexism was therefore overlayed with sexist self-interest. Men are pathetic cunts, he thought to himself.
As Dianne dismounted him, Renton was drifting off into a blissful sleep, resolving to wake in the night and have more sex. He would be more relaxed, but also more active, and would show her what he could do, now that he had broken this bad run. He compared himself to a striker who had just come through a lean spell in front of goal, and now couldn’t wait for the next match.
He was therefore cut to the bone when Dianne said: — You have to go.
Before he could argue, she was out of the bed. She pulled on her pants to catch his thick spunk as it started to leave her and trickle down the insides of her thighs. For the first time he began to think about unprotected penetrative sex and the HIV risk. He’d taken the test, after he’d last shared, so he was clear. He worried about her, however; thinking that anyone who would sleep with him would sleep with anybody. Her intention to banish him had already shattered his fragile sexual ego, turning him from cool stud back into trembling inadequate in a depressingly short time. He thought that it would just be his luck to get HIV from one shag after sharing needles, although never the large communal syringes favoured in the galleries, over a period of years.
— But kin ah no stey here? He heard his voice sound puny and biscuit-ersed, in tones that Sick Boy would mock mercilessly, had he been present. Dianne looked straight at him and shook her head. — No. You can stay on the couch. If you’re quiet. If you see anybody, this never happened. Put something on.
Once again, self-conscious of his incongruously ginger pubic hair, he was happy to oblige.
Dianne led Renton through to the couch in the front room. She left him shivering in his underpants before she returned with a sleeping-bag and his clothes.
— Sorry about this, she whispered, kissing him. They necked for a bit and he started to get hard again. When he tried to put his hand inside her dressing gown she stopped him.
— Ah have to go, she said firmly.
Dianne departed, leaving Renton feeling empty and confused. He got onto the couch, pulled the sleeping-bag around him and zipped up. He lay awake in the dark, trying to define the contents of the room.
Renton imagined Dianne’s flatmates to be dour bastards who disapproved of her bringing someone back. Perhaps, he decided, she didn’t want them to think that she would pick up a strange guy, bring him back and just fuck him like that. He bolstered his ego by telling himself that it was his sparkling wit and his unique, if flawed, beauty, which had swept her resistance away. He almost believed himself.
Eventually he fell into a fitful sleep, characterised by some strange dreams. While he was prone to such weird dreams, these disturbed him as they were particularly vivid and surprisingly easy to recall. He was chained to a wall in a white room lit by blue neon, watching Yoko Ono and Gordon Hunter, the Hibs defender, munching on the flesh and bones of human bodies which lay dismembered on a series of large formica-topped tables. They were both hurling horrendous insults at him, their mouths dripping with blood as they tore at strips of flesh and chewed heartily between curses. Renton knew that he was next on the tables. He tried to do a bit of crawling to ‘Geebsie’ Hunter, telling him that he was a big fan of his, but the Easter Road defender lived up to his uncompromising tag and just laughed in his face. It was a great relief when the dream changed and Renton found himself naked, covered in runny shite and eating a plate of egg, tomato and fried bread with a fully clothed Sick Boy by the Water of Leith. Then he dreamt that he was being seduced by a beautiful woman who was wearing only a two-piece swimsuit made out of Alcan foil. The woman was in fact a man, and they were fucking each other slowly through different holes in their bodies which oozed a substance resembling shaving foam.
He woke to the sound of cutlery clinking and the smell of bacon frying. He caught a glance of the back of a woman, not Dianne, disappearing into a small kitchen which was just off the living room. Then he felt a spasm of fear as he heard a man’s voice. The last thing Renton wanted to hear, hungover, in a strange place, wearing only his keks, was a male voice. He played at being asleep.
Surreptitiously, under his eyelids, he noted a guy about his height, maybe smaller, edging into the kitchen. Although they spoke in low voices, he could still hear them.
— So Dianne’s brought another friend back, the man said. Renton didn’t like the slightly mocking intonation on the term ‘friend’.
— Mmm. But shush. Don’t you start being unpleasant, and jumping to the wrong conclusions again.
He heard them coming back into the front room, then leaving it. Quickly, he pulled on his t-shirt and jumper. Then he unzipped the bag and threw his legs off the couch and jumped into his jeans, almost in one movement. Folding the sleeping-bag neatly, he stuck the settee’s displaced cushions back where they belonged. His socks and trainers were smelly as he put them on. He hoped, but in a futility that was obvious to him, that nobody else had noticed.
Renton was too nervy to feel badly wasted. He was aware of the hangover though; it lurked in the shadows of his psyche like an infinitely patient mugger, just biding its time before coming out to stomp him.
— Hello. The woman who wasn’t Dianne came back in.
She was pretty with nice big eyes and a fine, pointed jawline. He thought he recognised her face from somewhere.
— Hiya. Ah’m Mark, by the way, he said. She declined to introduce herself. Instead, she sought more information about him.
— So you’re a friend of Dianne’s? Her tone was slightly aggressive. Renton decided to play safe and tell a lie which wouldn’t sound too blatant, and therefore could be delivered with some conviction. The problem was that he had developed the junky’s skill of lying with conviction and could now lie more convincingly than he told the truth. He faltered, thinking that you can always take the junk out of the punter before you can the junky.
— Well, she’s more a friend of a friend. You know Lisa?
She nodded. Renton continued, warming to his lies, finding the comforting rhythm of deceit.
— Well, this is actually a wee bit embarrassing. It wis ma birthday yesterday, and ah must confess ah got pretty drunk. Ah managed tae lose ma flat keys and ma flatmate’s in Greece oan holiday. That wis me snookered. I could have just went home and forced the door, but the state ah wis in, ah just couldnae think straight. Ah would probably have got arrested for breaking intae ma own flat! Fortunately, ah met Dianne, who was kind enough to let me sleep on the couch. You’re her flatmate, right?
— Oh . . . well, in a way, she laughed strangely, as he struggled to find out the score. Something was not right.
The man came and joined them. He nodded curtly at Renton, who smiled weakly back.
— This is Mark, the woman told him.
— Awright, the guy said, noncommittally.
Renton thought that they looked about his age, perhaps a bit older, but he was hopeless with ages. Dianne was obviously a bit younger that the lot of them. Perhaps, he allowed himself to speculate, they had some perverse parental feelings for her. He had noted that with older people. They often try to control younger, more popular and vivacious people; usually due to the fact that they are jealous of the qualities the younger people have and they lack. These inadequacies are disguised with a benign, protective attitude. He could sense this in them, and felt a growing hostility towards them.
Then Renton was hit by a wave of shock which threatened to knock him incoherent. A girl came into the room. As he watched her, a coldness came over him. She was the double of Dianne, but this girl looked barely secondary school age.
It took him a few seconds to realise that it was Dianne. Renton instantly knew why women, when referring to the removal of their makeup, often say that they are ‘taking their faces off’. Dianne seemed about ten years old. She saw the shock on his face.
He looked at the other couple. Their attitude to Dianne was parental, precisely because they
were
her parents. Even through his anxiety, Renton still felt such a fool for not seeing it sooner. Dianne was so much like her mother.
were
her parents. Even through his anxiety, Renton still felt such a fool for not seeing it sooner. Dianne was so much like her mother.
They sat down to breakfast with a bemused Renton being gently cross-examined by Dianne’s parents.
— So what is it you do, Mark? the mother asked him.
What he did, at least work-wise, was nothing. He was in a syndicate which operated a giro fraud system, and he claimed benefit at five different addresses, one each in Edinburgh, Livingston and Glasgow, and two in London, at Shepherd’s Bush and Hackney. Defrauding the Government in such a way always made Renton feel virtuous, and it was difficult to remain discreet about his achievements. He knew he had to though, as sanctimonious, self-righteous, nosey bastards were everywhere, just waiting to tip off the authorities. Renton felt that he deserved this money, as the management skills employed to maintain such a state of affairs were fairly extensive, especially for someone struggling to control a heroin habit. He had to sign on in different parts of the country, liaise with others in the syndicate at the giro-drop addresses, hitch down at short notice to interviews in London on a phone tip-off from Tony, Caroline or Nicksy. His Shepherd’s Bush giro was in doubt now, because he had declined the exciting career opportunity to work in the Burger King in Notting Hill Gate.
— Ah’m a curator at the museums section of the District Council’s Recreation Department. Ah work wi the social history collection, based mainly at the People’s Story in the High Street, Renton lied, delving into his portfolio of bogus employment identities.
They looked impressed, if slightly baffled, which was just the reaction he’d hoped for. Encouraged, he attempted to score further Brownie points by projecting himself as the modest type who didn’t take himself seriously, and self-deprecatingly added: — Ah rake around in people’s rubbish for things that’ve been discarded, and present them as authentic historical artefacts ay working people’s everyday lives. The ah make sure that they dinnae fall apart when they’re oan exhibition.
— Ye need brains fir that, the father said, addressing Renton, but looking at Dianne. Renton couldn’t make eye-contact with the daughter. He was aware that such avoidance was more likely to arouse suspicion than anything else, but he just couldn’t look at her.
— Ah wouldnae say that, Renton shrugged.
— No, but qualifications though.
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