Trainspotting (27 page)
Authors: Irvine Welsh
My heart is breaking woo-hoo.
The flick of a switch. Thank god for the remote control handset. You can move into different worlds at the press of a button. When I see her holding The replacement of worn-out sports equipment the guy sais something about a glaring lack of comprehensive detailed input and output measures which can be aggregated to enable the benefits to be evaluated and validated, at an area level, in terms of their effectiveness and efficiency, and this is something which the taxpayer, who after all will have to foot the bill will
The flick of a switch. Thank god for the remote control handset. You can move into different worlds at the press of a button. When I see her holding The replacement of worn-out sports equipment the guy sais something about a glaring lack of comprehensive detailed input and output measures which can be aggregated to enable the benefits to be evaluated and validated, at an area level, in terms of their effectiveness and efficiency, and this is something which the taxpayer, who after all will have to foot the bill will
— Coffee Mark? Ye wantin a coffee? Ma asks.
Ah can’t respond. Yes please. No thanks. Ah do n ah dinnae. Say nothing. Let Ma decide whether or not I should have a coffee. Devolve or delegate that level of power, or decision making, to her. Power devolved is power retained.
— Ah goat a nice wee dress fir Angela’s wee yin, Ma sais, holding up what could indeed only be described as a nice wee dress. Ma doesn’t seem to realise that ah don’t know who Angela is, let alone the child who will be the intended recipient of this nice wee dress. Ah just nod and smile. Ma’s life and mines shot off on different tangents years ago. The point of contact is strong but obscure. Ah could say: Ah bought a nice wee bit ay skag oafay Seeker’s mate, the buck-tooth cunt whaes name escapes me. That’s it: Ma buys dresses fir people ah don’t know, ah buy skag fae people she disnae know.
Faither’s growing a moustache. With his close-cropped hair he will look like a liberated homosexual, a clone. Freddie Mercury. He disnae understand the culture. Ah explain it tae him and he’s dismissive.
The next day, however, the moustache is gone. Faither now ‘cannae be bothered’ growing it. Claire Grogan’s singing ‘Don’t Talk To Me About Love’ on Radio Forth and Ma’s making lentil soup in the kitchen. I’ve been singing Joy Division’s ‘She’s Lost Control’ in my head all day. Ian Curtis. Matty. I think of them intertwined in some way; but the only thing they have in common is a death wish.
That’s aw that’s worth mentioning aboot that day.
By the weekend, it isnae quite sae bad. Si hud goat us some blaw, but it wis standard Edinburgh hash, which is generally shite. Ah make some space-cake oot ay it, and that improves it. Ah even git a bit trippy in ma room in the eftirnoon. Ah still didnae feel up tae gaun oot though, especially tae the fuckin Dockers’ Club n wi ma Ma n faither, bit ah resolved tae make the effort fir thair sakes, as they needed a brek. Ma n faither seldom missed a Saturday night at the club.
Ah stroll self-consciously doon Great Junction Street, the auld man nivir takin his eyes oaf us in case ah try tae dae a runner. Ah run intae Mally at the Fit ay the Walk, n we crack away fir a bit. The auld man intervenes, ushering us along, n lookin at Mally as if he wanted tae brek this evil pusher’s legs. Poor Mally, whae widnae even touch a joint. Lloyd Beattie, whae used tae be a good mate ay oors years ago, before every cunt found oot he’d been shaggin his ain sister, gied us a meek nod.
In the club, people huv big smiles for the auld man n auld lady and strained ones fir me. Ah wis conscious ay some whispers n nods, followed by silences as we took a table. Faither slaps us oan the back n winks n Ma gies us a heart-wrenchingly tender and smotheringly indulgent smile. Nae doubt aboot it, thir no bad auld cunts. Ah love the fuck oot ay the bastards, if the truth be telt.
Ah think aboot how they must feel aboot me huvin turned oot the wey ah huv. Fuckin shame. Still, ah’m here. Perr Lesley’s nivir gaunnae see wee Dawn grow up. Les and Sick fuck n Lesley, they say she’s in the Southern General in Glesgie now, oan life-support. Paracetamol joab. She went through tae Glesgie tae git away fae the smack scene in Muirhoose n ended up movin intae Possil wi Skreel n Garbo. There’s nae escape fir some fuckers. Hara-kiri wis Les’s best option.
Swanney wis his customary sensitive self: — Fuckin Weedjies git aw the best gear these days. Thair oan that pure pharmaceutical shite while we’re reduced tae crushin up any fuckin jack n jills wi kin git oor hands oan, Good gear’s wasted oan these cunts, maist ay thum dinnae even inject. Smokin and snortin skag, a fuckin waste, he hissed contemptuously. — N that fuckin Lesley: she should be turnin the White Swan oantae that gear. Does she punt any ay it ma wey? Naw. She just sits feelin sorry fir hersel aboot her bairn. Shame n that, ken, dinnae git us wrong. Thing is, thir’s opportunities n aw. Freedom fae the responsibility ay bein a single parent n that. Ye’d think she’d lap up the chance tae spread her wings.
Freedom fae responsibility. That sounds good. Ah’d like freedom fae the responsibility ay sittin in this fuckin club.
Jocky Linton comes ower tae join us. Jocky’s pus is shaped like an egg oan its side. He’s goat thick black hair flecked wi silver. He wears a blue shirt which is short-sleeved and exposes his tattoos. Oan one airm he’s goat ‘Jocky & Elaine — True Love Will Never Die’ and ‘Scotland’ wi a Lion Rampant oan the other. Unfortunately, true love did bite the dust and Elaine shot the craw a long time ago. Jocky’s now livin wi Margaret whae obviously hates the tattoo, but every time he goes tae git another one pit ower it, he bottles oot, makin excuses aboot the fear ay HIV wi the needles. It’s obviously shite, a feeble cop-oot because he still huds a candle fir Elaine. The thing ah remember maist aboot Jocky is his singing at pairties. He used tae sing George Harrison’s
My Sweet Lord
, that wis his perty-piece. Jocky niver quite mastered the lyrics tae it though. He only kent the title and ‘ah really want tae see you Lord’ and the rest wis da-da-da-da-da-da-da.
My Sweet Lord
, that wis his perty-piece. Jocky niver quite mastered the lyrics tae it though. He only kent the title and ‘ah really want tae see you Lord’ and the rest wis da-da-da-da-da-da-da.
— Day-vie. Cah-thy. Loo-kin-gor-jis-the-night-doll. Din-nae-you-be-tur-nin-yer-back-Ren-tin-or-ah’ll-be-ruh-nin-ah-way-wi-her! Gles-kay-kee-lay-thit-ye-ur. Jocky spat out his syllables Kalashnikov style.
The auld girl tries tae look coy, her expression makin us feel a bit queasy inside. Ah jist hide behind a pint ay lager and fir once in ma puff am gled tae observe the total silence that the club bingo game imposes. Ma customary irritation at huvin ma every word policed by morons is now a replaced by a feeling ay sheer bliss.
Ah should have hud a house, bit ah didnae want tae speak, tae draw any attention tae masel whatsoever. It seemed though that fate — n Jocky — wir determined no tae respect ma desire fir anonymity. The cunt notices ma caird.
— HOUSE! That’s-you-Mark. He’s-goat-hoose. OWER-HERE! Wis-nae-eve-in-gaunn-ae-shout-oot. Cu-moan-son. Git-a-fu-kin-grip-ay-yir-sel.
Ah smile benignly at Jocky, all the time wishing a prompt and violent death oan the nosey cunt.
The lager is like the contents ay a bunged-up latrine, shot through wi C02. Eftir one gulp, a violent, wretching, spasm seizes us. Faither slaps ma back. Ah cannae touch ma pint eftir this, but Jocky n the auld man are flinging them back steadily. Margaret comes in, and before very long, she and the auld girl are makin good progress oan the vodka n tonics n the Carlsberg Specials. The band strikes up, which ah at first welcome as a respite fae talkin.
Ma Ma n faither git up tae dance tae ‘Sultans Of Swing’.
— Ah like that Dire Straits, Margaret observes. — They appeal tae young ones, but aw ages like them.
Ah’m almost tempted tae vigorously refute this cretinous statement. However, ah content masel wi talking fitba wi Jocky.
— Rox-burgh wants shoot-in. That’s-the-worst-Scot-lind-squad-ah’ve-ivir-seen, Jocky states, jaw jutting forward.
— S no really his fault. Ye kin only pish wi the cock yiv goat. Whae else is thir?
— Aye, right-e-nuff . . . but-ah’d-like-tae-see-John-Raw-birt-sin-git-un-ext-ten-did-run. Des-erves-it. Scot-lind’s-maist-kin-sist-tint-strik-ir.
We continue our ritualistic argument, me trying tae find even a semblance ay passion which would breathe life intae it, and failing miserably.
Ah note that Jocky n Margaret hud been briefed tae ensure thit ah didnae try tae slip away. They aw took shifts tae mind us, the four ay them nivir up dancin at the same time. Jocky n ma Ma tae ‘The Wanderer’, Margaret n ma faither tae ‘Jolene’, Ma n faither again tae ‘Rollin Down The River’, Margaret n Jocky tae ‘Save The Last Dance For Me’.
As the fat singer launches intae ‘Song Sung Blue’, the auld lady pulls us oantae the danceflair like ah wis a rag doll. Sweat spills oot ay us under the lights as Ma struts her stuff n ah self-consciously twitch. The humiliation intensifies as ah realise that the cunts ur daein a Neil Diamond medley. Ah huv tae go through ‘Forever In Blue Jeans’, ‘Love On The Rocks’ and ‘Beautiful Noise’. By the time ‘Sweet Caroline’ comes oan, ah’m ready tae collapse. The auld lady forces us tae ape the rest ay the radges in the place by waving ma hands in the air as they sing:
— HAAANDS . . . TOUCHING HAANDS . . . REACHING OUUUT . . . TOUCHING YOOOU . . . TOUCH-ING MEEE . . .
Ah glance back at the table, n Jocky is in his element, a Leith Al Jolson.
Eftir this ordeal, thirs another tae follow. The auld man slips us a tenner and tells us tae git a round in. Social-skills development and confidence-building training are obviously on the agenda tonight. Ah take the tray up tae the bar n join the queue. Ah look over tae the door, feeling the crisp note in my hand. A few grains worth. Ah could be at Seeker’s or Johnny Swan’s, the Mother Superior’s, in half an hour; shootin ma wey oot ay this nightmare. Then ah clock the auld man standing by the doorway, looking us ower like he wis a bouncer n ah wis a potential troublemaker. Only his role was tae stoap us fae leavin, rather than tae fling us oot.
This is a perverse gig.
Ah turn back intae the queue n ah see this lassie Tricia McKinlay whae ah’d been at school wi. Ah’d rather no talk tae anybody, but ah cannae ignore her now, as her smile is expanding in recognition.
— Awright Tricia?
— Aw, hiya Mark. Long time no see. How ye daein?
— No sae bad. Yirsel?
— Ye see it aw. This is Gerry. Gerry, this is Mark, he wis in ma class at school. Seems a long time ago now, eh?
She introduces me to a surly, sweaty gorilla who grunts in ma direction. Ah nod.
— Aye. Certainly does.
— Still see Simon? Aw the manto ask eftir Sick Boy. It makes us ill.
— Aye. He wis up at the hoose the day. He’s away tae Paris soon. Then Corsica.
Tricia smiles and the gorilla looks on in disapproval. The guy has a face that just disapproves ay the world in general and looks ready for a square go wi it. Ah’m sure he’s one ay the Sutherlands. Tricia could definitely huv done better for herself. Loads ay punters at school used tae fancy her. Ah used tae hing aroond her in the hope that people would think ah wis gaun oot wi her, in the hope that ah
would
be, by a sortay osmosis. Ah once started tae believe ma ain propaganda, and goat a healthy slap in the pus when ah tried tae put my hand up her jersey when we were up the disused railway line. Sick Boy fucked her though, the cunt.
would
be, by a sortay osmosis. Ah once started tae believe ma ain propaganda, and goat a healthy slap in the pus when ah tried tae put my hand up her jersey when we were up the disused railway line. Sick Boy fucked her though, the cunt.
— He eywis goat aroond did oor Simon, she sais wi a wistful smile.
Daddy Simone.
— Sure did. Stoat the baw, pimpin, drug-dealin, extortin money fae people. That’s oor Simon. The bitterness in ma voice surprised us. Sick Boy wis ma best mate, well, Sick Boy n Spud . . . n maybe Tommy. Why am ah giein the cunt such a bad press? Is it solely because ay his neglect ay parental duties, or indeed his lack of acknowledgement ay parental status? It’s more likely because I envy the cunt. He doesnae care. Because he doesnae care, he cannae be hurt. Never.
Whatever the reason, it freaks Tricia.
— Eh . . . well, right, eh, see ye Mark.
They leave quicky, Tricia cairryin the tray ay drinks and the Sutherland gorilla (or ah think he wis a Sutherland) lookin back at us, his knuckles nearly scrapin the varnish oan the dance flair.
It wis oot ay order bad-mouthin Sick Boy like that. Ah jist hate it whin the cunt gits oaf scot-free and ah’m painted as the big villain ay the piece. Ah suppose that’s jist ma perception ay things. Sick Boy hus his anxieties, his personal pain. He also probably hus mair enemies thin me. He undoubtedly does. Still, what the fuck.
Ah take the drinks tae the table.
— Awright son? Ma asks us.
— Brand new Ma, brand new, ah sais, tryin tae sound like Jimmy Cagney n failin pathetically; like ah dae wi maist things. Still, failure, success, what is it? Whae gies a fuck. We aw live, then we die, in quite a short space ay time n aw. That’s it; end ay fuckin story.
Bang to Rites
It’s a beautiful day. That seems to mean
Concentrate. On the job at hand. Ma first burial. Somebody sais: — C’moan Mark, a gentle voice. Ah step forward and grab a length of the cord.
Ah help ma faither n ma uncles, Charlie n Dougie, tae lower the remains ay ma brother intae the groond. The army’s pit up the hireys fir this do. Leave it to us, the softly-spoken Army Welfare Officer told Ma. Leave it to us.
Yes, this is the first burial ah’ve been at. Usually it’s cremations these days. Ah wonder what’s in the boax. No much ay Billy, that’s fir sure. Ah look ower at ma Ma n Sharon, Billy’s burd, who are being comforted by an assortment ay aunties. Lenny, Peasbo n Naz, Billy’s mates, ur here, along wi some ay his squaddie pals.
Billy Boy, Billy Boy. Hello, hello, we are the. It’s nothing tae dae wi
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