Trainspotting (21 page)

Read Trainspotting Online

Authors: Irvine Welsh

BOOK: Trainspotting
6.83Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
— The guy ended up unconscious in the hoespital, he loast a loat ay fuckin blood. It wis in the
News
 . . .
— The cunt’s awright now though! It fuckin sais! Nae fuckin herm done tae nae cunt. N even if thir wis, so fuck? Some fuckin rich American cunt whae shouldnae even fuckin be here in the first place. Whae gies a fuck aboot that cunt? N you ya cunt, you’ve chibbed some cunt before; Eck Wilson, at the school, so dinnae you fuckin start gaun aw fuckin squeamish.
That sortay shuts Rents up cause he likesay hates talkin aboot that, but it sortay happened, ken? That wis jist lashin oot at some cat that wis scratchin ye like, no likesay plannin tae dae some radge ower. Beggars likesay cannae see the difference but. It wis bad though, really sick likesay . . . the Yank, the boy likes, jist wouldnae hand ower the wallet, even when Begbie pulled the chib, likesay . . . the last words ah heard the dude say wis: You won’t use that.
Begbie went fucking crazy, goat that carried away likesay, wi the bladework, ken, we nearly forgoat the wallet likes. Ah goat intae the guy’s poakits and fished it oot while Begbie wis bootin um in the face. Blood wis flowin intae the latrine, mixin wi the pish, Ugly, ugly, ugly man, likesay, ken? Ah still shake thinkin aboot it. Ah lie in bed n likes, shudder. Everytime ah see a punter, likesay, whae looks like our catboy, Richard Hauser of Des Moines, Iowa, USA, ah freeze. Whenever ah hear a Yank voice in the toon, ah jump. Violence is fuckin ugly man. The Beggar, dear old Franco, he raped us likesay, raped us aw that night, sort ay shafted us up oor erses n peyed us oaf, like we wir hoors man, ken likes? Bad cat Beggar. A wild, wild cat.
— Whae’s comin? Spud? Begbie’s talkin tae us. He’s bitin his bottom lip.
— Eh, likesay . . . eh . . . violence n that . . . isnae really ma sortay gig . . . ah’ll jist stey n git bombed . . . likesay, ken?
— Another shitein cunt, he turns away fae me . . . no disappointed, like he sort ay expects nothin fae us in this kinday gig likesay . . . which is mibbe good n mibbe no sae good, but who really kens the score aboot anything these days, likesay?
Sick Boy says somethin aboot bein a lover, no a fighter, and Begbie’s aboot tae say somethin, whin Matty goes: — Ah’m game.
This diverts Begbie’s attention fae Sick Boy. The Beggar Boy then starts tae praise Matty, likes, n calls us aw the shitein cunts under the sun; but it’s like tae me thit Matty’s the shitein cunt, likesay, because he’s the groover that goes along wi everything Franco sais . . . ah’ve never really liked Matty . . . one fucked up punter. Mates take the pish oot ay each other likes, bit whin Matty slags ye, it’s likesay, ye kin feel mair thin that, ye kin feel . . . likesay . . . hate, ken? Jist bein happy. That’s the crime whin Matty’s aboot. He cannae bear tae see a gadge happy, likesay.
Ah realise that ah never see Matty oan his ain, likesay. It’s likesay sometimes jist me n Rents . . . or jist me n Tommy . . . or jist me n Rab . . . or jist me n Sick Boy . . . or even jist me and Generalissimo Franco . . . but never jist me n Matty. That sortay sais something, likesay.
These bad cats leave the basket tae stalk their prey, and the atmosphere is like . . . brilliant. Sick Boy brings oot some E. White doves, ah think. It’s mental gear. Most Ecstasy hasnae any MDMA in it, it’s just likesay, ken, part speed, part acid in its effects . . . but the gear ah’ve hud is always jist likesay good speed, ken? This gear is pure freaky though, pure Zappaesque man . . . that’s the word, Zappaesque . . . ah’m thinkin aboot Frank Zappa wi Joe’s Garage n yellow snow n Jewish princesses n Catholic girls n ah think that it wid be really great tae huv a woman . . . tae love likesay . . . no shaggin likes, well no jist shaggin . . . but tae love, cause ah sortay feel like lovin everybody, but no sortay wi sex . . . jist huvin somebody tae love . . . but likesay Rents’ goat that Hazel n Sick Boy . . . well, Sick Boy’s goat tons ay burds . . . but these catpersons don’t seem any happier than moi . . .
— The other man’s grass is always greener, the sun shines brighter on the other side . . . ah’m fuckin singing likesay, ah never sing . . . ah’ve goat some gear n ah’m singing . . . ah’m thinkin aboot Frank Zappa’s daughter, Moon, likesay . . . she’d dae us fine . . . hingin oot wi her auld man . . . in the recording studio . . . jist tae see likesay the creative process, ken, the creative process . . .
— This is fuckin mad . . . goat tae move or ah’ll git gouchy . . . Sick Boy’s goat his hands in his heid.
Renton’s shirt’s unbuttoned n he’s sortay tweakin his nipples, likesay . . .
— Spud . . . look at ma nipples . . . they feel fuckin weird man . . . nae cunt’s goat nipples like mine . . .
Ah’m talkin tae him aboot love, n Rents says that love doesnae exist, it’s like religion, n likesay the state wants ye tae believe in that kinday crap so’s they kin control ye, n fuck yir heid up . . . some cats cannae enjoy thirsels withoot bringing in politics, ken . . . but he doesnae bring us doon . . . because, it’s likesay he doesnae believe it hissel . . . because . . . because wi laugh at everything in sight . . . the mad guy at the bar wi the burst blood-vessels in his coupon . . . the snobby English Festival-type lemon whae looks like somebody’s just farted under her nose . . .
Sick Boy sais: — Let’s hit the Meadows n take the fuckin pish ootay Begbie n Matty . . . straight, boring, draftpak, schemie cunts!
— Ris-kay catboy, ris-kay . . . he’s pure radge, likesay . . . ah sais.
— Let’s do it for the fans, Rents sais. Him n Sick Boy picked this up fae a Hibs programme advertising the Isle Of Man pre-season soccer tournament. It’s got Hibs top cat Alex Miller looking really stoned in the picture, wi the caption that sais, likesay, ‘Let’s Do It For The Fans’. Whenever thir’s drugs aroond . . . that’s what they say.
We float ootay the pub n cross over tae the Meadows. We start tae sing, likesay Sinatra, in exaggerated American Noo Yawk voices:
Yoo en I, were justa like-a kapil aff taahts
strollin acrass the Meadows
pickin up laahts aff farget-me-naahts.
Thir’s likesay two lassies comin doon the path towards us . . . we ken them . . . it’s likesay that wee Roseanna n Jill . . . two pure honey cats, fae that posh school, is it Gillespie’s or Mary Erskine’s? . . . they hing aboot the Southern likesay, for the sounds, the drugs, the experiences . . .
… Sick Boy outstretches his airms and sortay grabs wee Jill in a bear hug, n Rents likesay does the same wi Roseanna . . . ah’m left jist looking at the clouds likesay, Mr Spare Prick at a hoors convention.
Thir neckin away thegither. This is cruel man, cruel. Rents breks away first, but keeps his airm roond Roseanna. It’s a sortay joke wi Rents likesay . . . mind you . . . that wee bird Rents goat off wi at Donovan’s she wisnae that auld. What wis her name, Dianne? Bad cat, Rents. Sick Boy, well Sick Boy’s likesay bundled wee Jill against a tree.
— How ye daein doll? Whit ye up tae? he asks her.
— Goin to the Southern, she sais, a bit stoned . . . a little stoned princess, Jewish? No a blemish oan her face . . . wow, those chicks try tae act cool, but thir a bit nervous ay Rents n Sick Boy. They’ll let those superstar wasted junkies dae anything wi them, likes. Real cool chicks would slap their pusses, likesay, and jist watch the bastards crumble intae a heap. These lassies are playin at it . . . gaun through an upset-yir-posh-Ma-n-Dad phase . . . no thit Rents wid take advantage ay this, mind you, ah suppose he awready has, but Sick Boy’s a different matter. His hands are inside that wee Jill’s jeans . . .
— Ah know about you girls, that’s whair yis hide the drugs . . .
— Simon! I’ve not got anything! Simon! Siiimoon! . . .
Sensin a freak oot, he sortay lets the lassie go. Every cat laughs nervously, tryin tae aw pretend it wis a big game likesay, then they go.
— Mibbe see you dolls the night! Sick Boy shouts after them.
— Yeah . . . down the Southern, Jill shouts, walking backwards.
Sick Boy sortay likes, slaps his thigh. — Should’ve taken they wee rides back tae the gaff n banged thum senseless. Wee slags wir fuckin gantin oan it. It wis like he sais this tae hissel rather than me n Rents.
Rents starts shoutin and pointin.
— Si! There’s a fuckin squirrel at yir feet! Kill the cunt!
Sick Boy’s nearest tae it, n tries tae entice it tae him, but it scampers a bit away, movin really weird, archin its whole boady likesay. Magic wee silvery grey thing . . . ken?
Rents picks up a stane and flings it at the squirrel. Ah feel likes, sick, ma hert misses a beat as it whizzes past the wee gadge. He goes tae pick up another, laughin like a maniac, but ah stoap um.
— Leave it man. Squirrel’s botherin nae cunt likesay! Ah hate it the wey Mark’s intae hurtin animals . . . it’s wrong man. Ye cannae love yirsel if ye want tae hurt things like that . . . ah mean . . . what hope is thir? The squirrel’s likes fuckin lovely. He’s daein his ain thing. He’s free. That’s mibbe what Rents cannae stand. The squirrel’s free, man.
Rents is still laughin as ah haud oantay um. Two posh lookin wifies, gie us the eye as they pass us. They look likesay, disgusted. Rents gits a glint in his eye.
— GIT A HAUD AY THE CUNT! he shouts at Sick Boy, but makin sure that the wifies kin hear um. — WRAP IT IN CELLOPHANE SO’S IT DISNAE SPLIT WHIN YE FUCK IT!
The squirrel’s dancin away fae Sick Boy, but the wifies turn roond and look really repelled by us, like we wir shite, ken? Ah’m laughin now n aw, bit still haudin oantay Rents.
— Whae’s that foostie-minged fucker starin at? Fuckin tearoom hag! Rents says, loud enough fir the wifies tae hear.
They turn and increase thir pace. Sick Boy shouts: — FUCK OFF GOBI DESERT FANNY! Then he turns tae us n sais, — Ah dinnae ken what these auld hounds are cruisin us for. Naebody’s gaunnae fuck them, even doon here at this time. Ah’d rather stick it between a couple ay B&Q sandin blocks.
— Fahk aff! You’d shag the crack ay dawn if it hud hairs oan it, Rents said.
Ah think he felt bad aboot this as soon as he said it, likesay, cause Dawn wis a wee bairn thit died, Lesley’s bairn, it died ay that cot death n that, likesay, n everybody sortay kens it wis likesay Sick Boy thit gied her the bairn . . .
Aw Sick Boy sais though, is: — Fuck off spunk-gullet. You’re the city dog pound man here. Every burd ah’ve fucked, and there has been plen-tee, has been worth fucking.
Ah remember this burd fae Stenhoose, thit Sick Boy once took hame whin he wis pished . . . couldnae really likesay say she wis anything special . . . ah suppose every cat’s got thir sortay achilles heel, ken.
— Eh, remember that Stenhoose chick, eh, what’s-her-name?
— Dinnae
you
start talkin!
You
couldnae git a fuckin ride in a brothel wi yir cock sandwiched between American Express n Access cairds.
We start slaggin each other, then wir walkin fir a bit, bit ah start thinkin ay wee Dawn, the bairn, n that squirrel, like free n botherin naebody . . . n they wid jist kill it, like that ken, n fir what? It makes us feel really sick, n sad, n angry . . .
Ah’m gittin away fae they people. Ah turn n walk away. Rents comes eftir us. — C’moan Spud . . . fuck sakes man, what is it?
— Youse wir gaunnae kill that squirrel.
— S only a fuckin squirrel, Spud. Thir vermin . . . he sais. He pits his airm roond ma shoodirs.
— It’s mibbe nae mair vermin thin you or me, likesay . . . whae’s tae say what’s vermin . . . they posh wifies think people like us ur vermin, likesay, does that make it right thit they should kill us, ah goes.
— Sorry, Danny . . . s only a squirrel. Sorry mate. Ah ken how ye feel aboot animals. Ah jist, like . . . ye ken whit ah mean Danny, it’s like . . . fuck, ah mean, ah’m fucked up, Danny. Ah dinnae ken. Begbie n that . . . the gear. Ah dinnae ken what ah’m daein wi ma life . . . it’s aw jist a mess, Danny. Ah dinnae ken whit the fuckin score is. Sorry man.
Rents husnae called us ‘Danny’ for ages, now he cannae stoap callin us it. He looks really upset, likesay.
— Hey . . . hang loose catboy . . . it’s jist likesay animals n that, likes . . . dinnae worry aboot that shit . . . ah wis jist thinkin ay innocent wee things, like Dawn the bairn, ken . . . ye shouldnae hurt things, likes . . .
He likesay, grabs a haud ay us n hugs us. — Yir one ay the best, man. Remember that.That’s no drink n drugs talkin, that’s me talkin. It’s jist thit ye git called aw the poofs under the sun if ye tell other guys how ye feel aboot them if yir no wrecked . . . Ah slaps his back, n it’s likesay ah want tae tell him the same, but it would sound, likesay, ah wis jist sayin it cause he sais it tae me first. Ah sais it anywey though.
We hear Sick Boy’s voice at oor backs. — You two fuckin buftie-boys. Either go intae they trees n fuck each other, or come n help us find Beggars n Matty.
Wi break oor embrace n laugh. Wi both ken that likesay Sick Boy, for aw the cat’s desire tae rip open every binliner in toon, is one ay the best n aw.
Blowing It

Other books

The Shark Rider by Ellen Prager
Killing Reagan by Bill O'Reilly
Peckerwood by Ayres, Jedidiah
Stripping It Down by Alden, Jami