Trainspotting (30 page)
Authors: Irvine Welsh
In the public bar, ah scan for a familiar face. The layout and decor of the place has radically changed, for the worse. What was once a good, grotty local where you could fling beer over your mates and get sucked off in the women’s or men’s toilets is now a frighteningly sanitised hole. A few locals wi hard, bemused faces and cheap clathes, cling tae a corner ay the bar like shipwrecked survivors tae driftwood as yuppies guffaw loudly. Still at work, always in the office, but wi alcohol instead ay phones. This place is now geared up tae supplying all-day meals to workers ay the offices that continue to encroach into the Borough. Davo and Suzy widnae drink in a soulless toilet like this.
One ay the barmen, though, looks vaguely familiar.
— Does Paul Davis still drink in here? ah ask him.
— You wot Jock, the coloured geezer that plays for the Arsenal? he laughs.
— Naw, this is a big scouser. Dark, spiked hair, nose like a fuckin ski slope. Ye couldnae miss this guy.
— Roight . . . yeah, oi know the geezer. Davo. Angs around wiff that bird, little gel, short, black hair. Nah, ain’t seen that crowd in ere for ages. Don’t even know if they’re still on the manor.
Ah drink a pint ay fizzy pish, and crack wi the guy aboot his new customers.
— Fing is Jock, most orf them geezers ain’t even genuine yuppies, he disdainfully gestures over to a crowd of suits in the corner. — Mostly fucking shiny-arsed clerks or commission-based insurance salesmen that get a handful orf fucking roice each week in wages. It’s orl fucking image, innit. These cahnts are all up to their fucking eyes in debt. Strutting around the fucking city in expensive suits pretendin that they’re on fifty K a year. Most orf them aint even got a five-figure salary, ave they.
Thir wis a lot in what the guy said, bitter as the cunt wis. Thir wis certainly mair dosh kickin aboot down here thin up the road, but one thing the cunts doon here hud swallayed, wis the idea thit aw ye hud tae dae wis tae look the part, n it wid aw come your way, which wis fuckin shite. Ah’ve known scheme junkies in Edinburgh wi a healthier asset-tae-debt ratio thin some two-waged, heavily-mortgaged couples doon here. It’ll hit the fan one day. Thir are sackloads ay repossession orders in the post.
Ah go back up tae the flat. Still nae sign ay the cunts.
The woman across the wey comes back oot. — You won’t find em in. Her voice is smug and gloating. What a cunt ay the first order this old slag is. A black cat meanders past her, out ontae the landing.
— Choatah! Choatah! C’mere you bleedin little . . . She picks the cat up and holds it protectively to her bosom like a baby, staring at us bitterly as if ah somehow intended tae herm the bag ay shite.
Ah fuckin hate cats, nearly as much as ah hate dugs. Ah advocate the banning ay the use ay animals as pets and the extermination ay aw dugs, except a few, which could be exhibited in a zoo. That’s one ay the few things that me n Sick Boy consistently agree aboot.
Cunts. Whair the fuck ur they?
Ah go back doon tae the pub n huv another couple ay pints. It’s fuckin soul destroying, what the bastards have done tae this place. The nights we used tae huv in here. It’s like the past hus been eradicated along wi the auld fittings.
Withoot thinking consciously, ah’ve left the pub, n ah’m walking back the wey ah came, towards Victoria. Ah stoap oaf at a pay-phone, pull oot some loose change n ma battered address book. Time tae look fir alternative digs. Could be dodgy. Ah’ve fucked up wi Stevie or Stella, no way I’d be welcome back there. Andreas is back in Greece, Caroline is oan hoaliday in Spain, Tony, stupid fuckin doss cunt Tony, is wi Sick Boy, whae’s ower fae France, back up in fuckin Edinburgh. Ah forgot tae git the cunt’s keys, n the bastard forgot tae remind us.
Charlene Hill. She’s Brixton. First choice. Might even git a ride, if ah play ma cairds right. Could certainly dae wi one . . . that’s whit being straight, well straightish, does tae ye . . . torture.
— Hello? Another woman’s voice.
— Hi. Can I speak to Charlene?
— Charlene . . . she don’t live ere anymore. Don’t know where she is now, Stockwell, I fink . . . ain’t got an address . . . old on . . . MICK! MICK! YOU GOT CHARLENE’S ADDRESS?. . . . CHARLEEENE Na. Sorry. Ain’t got it.
No ma fuckin day. Hus tae be Nicksy.
— No. No. No Brian Nixon. Gone. Gone; an Asian voice.
— Goat an address firummate?
— No. Gone. Gone. No Brian Nixon.
— Whair’s he steyin likesay but?
— What? What? I cannot understand you . . .
— Where-is-my-friend-Bri-an-Nicks-on-stay-ing?
— No Brian Nixon. No drugs. Go. Go. The cunt slams the phone doon oan us.
It’s gettin late, and this city has shut me oot. An alko wi a Glasgow accent taps twenty pence fi us.
— Yir a fuckin good boey, ah’ll tell ye that son . . . he groans.
— You’re orlroight Jock, ah tell um, in ma best Cockney. Other Scots in London ur a pain in the erse. Particularly Weedjies, whae irritate us at the best ay times wi thir nosey cunt patter, which they pretend is friendliness. The last thing ah want right now is tae be stuck wi a fuckin soapdodger in tow.
Ah think aboot gittin the 38 or 55 up tae Hackney, and callin oan Mel at Dalston. If Mel’s no in, and the cunt’s no oan the phone, then ma boats ur well n truly burned.
Instead ah find masel peyin tae git intae the all-night cinema in Victoria. It shows porno movies throughout the night, until five a.m. It’s a crash pad for every low-life under the sun. Winos, junkies, vagrants, sex-fiends, psychos, they all converge here at night. Ah pledged tae masel thit ah’d nivir spend a night here again, eftir the last time.
A few years back ah wis in here wi Nicksy n some boy goat stabbed. The polis came n jist lifted every cunt they could git thir hands oan includin us. We hud a quart ay hash oan us n hud tae eat the lot. We couldnae even fuckin speak by the time they goat roond tae interviewin us doon the station. They kept us in the cells overnight. Next day they took us roond tae Bow Street magistrates court, it’s right next tae the nick, and fined every cunt whae wis too incoherent tae give evidence wi a breach ay the peace. Nicksy n me goat stung fir thirty bar each; whin it wis thirty bar.
Here ah am again though. If anything, the place has gone downhill since ma last visit. Aw the films are pornographic, except fir one excruciatingly violent documentary, where various animals tear each other apart in exotic locations. Its graphic nature takes it a million miles fae David Attenborough’s jobs.
— Ya black bastards! Fuckin black bastards! roars a Scots voice as a group ay natives hurl spears intae the side ay a big bison-like creature.
A racist Scottish animal lover. Odds-on he’s a Hun.
— Dirty fucking jungle-bunnies, a sycophantic Cockney voice adds.
Whit a fuckin place tae be. Ah try tae git intae the films tae take ma mind oaf the screaming and heavy breathing gaun oan around us.
The best film is a German one overdubbed wi American English. The plot is no great shakes. It concerns this young lassie in a Bavarian costume who gets fucked in a variety of ways and locations by almost every male and a few ay the females oan the farm. The set pieces are quite imaginative though, and ah’m gettin intae it. These images are obviously the nearest most cunts in this dive ever come tae sex, although having said that, ye can tell by the sounds that some men and women and men and men are fucking. Ah find ah’ve goat a hard-on, and ah’m even tempted tae have a wank, but the next film crushes ma erection.
It’s a British one, inevitably. It’s set in a London office during the party season and is imaginatively entitled:
The Office Party.
It stars Mike Baldwin, or the actor Johnny Briggs, whae plays the cunt in
Coronation Street.
It’s like a Carry-On film wi less humour and mair sex. Mike eventually gets fucked, but he disnae deserve tae, lookin like an irritating wee sleazebag fir maist ay the film.
The Office Party.
It stars Mike Baldwin, or the actor Johnny Briggs, whae plays the cunt in
Coronation Street.
It’s like a Carry-On film wi less humour and mair sex. Mike eventually gets fucked, but he disnae deserve tae, lookin like an irritating wee sleazebag fir maist ay the film.
Ah keep driftin oaf intae a delirious sleep, and waking with a start, ma head jerking back like it’s gaunnae snap oaf ma shoodirs.
Out ay the corner ay ma eye, ah see a guy movin seats tae sit next tae us. He puts his hand oan ma thigh. Ah pull his hand oaf.
— Git tae fuck. You wantin yir heid n hands tae play wi, ya cunt?
— Sorry. Sorry, he sais in a European accent. He’s an auld cunt n aw. He sounds really pathetic, n he’s goat a wizened wee face. Ah actually start feelin sorry fir um.
— Ah’m no a buftie pal, ah tell um. He looks confused. — No homosexual, ah point at masel, feeling vaguely ridiculous. What a fuckin daft thing tae say.
— Sorry. Sorry.
This sortay gits us thinkin. How the fuck dae ah ken ah’m no a homosexual if ah’ve nivir been wi another guy? Ah mean, really fir sure? Ah’ve always hud a notion tae go aw the wey wi another guy, tae see what it wis like. Ah mean, yuv goat tae try everything once. Huvin said that, ah’d huvtae be in the drivin seat. Ah couldnae handle some cunt’s knob up
ma
erse. One time ah picked up this gorgeous young queen in the London Apprentice. Ah tookumback tae the auld gaff in Poplar. Tony n Caroline came in n caught us giein the boy a gam. It wis a total embarrassment. Giein a guy whae wis wearin a condom a blow-job. It wis like sucking a plastic dildo. Ah wis bored tae fuck, bit the boy hud sucked me oaf first so ah felt ah hud tae reciprocate. It wis a good blow-job he gave, technically speaking. However, ah hud kept gaun soft n collapsing wi laughter at the expression oan his face. He looked like this lassie ah used tae fancy ages ago, so wi a bit ay imagination and concentration ah managed, tae ma surprise, tae shoot ma load intae the rubber.
ma
erse. One time ah picked up this gorgeous young queen in the London Apprentice. Ah tookumback tae the auld gaff in Poplar. Tony n Caroline came in n caught us giein the boy a gam. It wis a total embarrassment. Giein a guy whae wis wearin a condom a blow-job. It wis like sucking a plastic dildo. Ah wis bored tae fuck, bit the boy hud sucked me oaf first so ah felt ah hud tae reciprocate. It wis a good blow-job he gave, technically speaking. However, ah hud kept gaun soft n collapsing wi laughter at the expression oan his face. He looked like this lassie ah used tae fancy ages ago, so wi a bit ay imagination and concentration ah managed, tae ma surprise, tae shoot ma load intae the rubber.
Ah took a real slaggin fae Tony fir this episode, but Caroline thought that it wis cool, n confessed tae us this she wis as jealous as fuck. She thought the guy wis a honey.
Anywey, ah widnae mind gaun aw the wey wi a gadge, if it felt right. Jist fir the experience. Problem is, ah only really fancy birds. Guys jist dinnae look sexy. It’s aw aboot aesthetics, fuck all tae dae wi morality.
The auld cunt disnae exactly look like he’d be high oan the list ay candidates tae lose yir homosexual virginity tae. He tells us though, thit he’s goat a place up in Stoke Newington n asks us if ah’d like tae crash the night. Well, Stokie’s no far fae Mel’s bit at Dalston, so ah thoat: Fuck it.
The auld cunt’s Italian, n he’s called Gi, short fir Giovanni, ah’d imagine. He tells us that he’s workin in a restaurant and that he’s goat a wife n bairns back in Italy. Ah git a feelin thit this disnae quite ring true. One ay the great things aboot bein intae junk is thit ye come across loads ay liars. Ye develop a certain expertise in that area yirsel, and a keen nose for the bullshit.
Wi git a night bus up tae Stokie fi Victoria. Thirs loads ay young punters oan the bus; stoned, pished, gaun tae perties, comin fae perties. Ah wished tae fuck that ah wis in one ay they squads instead ay wi this auld cunt. Still.
Gi’s basement flat is somewhair oafay Church Street. Ah’m loast eftir that, but ah ken thit wir no as far in as Newington Green. It’s extremely fuckin dingy inside. Thir’s an auld sideboard, a chest ay drawers and a big, brass bed in the middle ay this musty smelling room, which has a kitchen and toilet off it.
Given ma previous vibe aboot this cunt, ah’m surprised tae see pictures ay a woman n bairns aw ower the place.
— Yir family mate?
— Yes, this is my family. Soon they will be joining me.
This still didnae sound plausible tae me. Perhaps ah’ve become that used tae lies, thit the truth sounds indecently false. But still.
— Must miss thum.
— Yes. Oh yes, he goes, then he sais — Lie down on the bed my friend. You can sleep. I like you. You can stay for a while.
Ah gie the wee cunt a hard stare. He’s nae physical threat, so ah thought, fuck it, ah’m knackered, n ah climbed oantae the bed. Ah hud a flicker ay doubt as ah remembered Dennis Nilsen. Ah bet thir wis some cunts whae thought thit he wis nae physical threat; before he throttled thum, decapitated thum n biled thir heids in a big pan. Nilsen used tae work in the same Jobcentre in Cricklewood as this guy fae Greenock ah knew. The Greenock guy told me that one Christmas Nilsen brought in a curry he’d made fir the staff ay the centre. Mibbe bullshit, but ye nivir know. Anywey, ah’m so fucked that ah shut ma eyes, succumbing tae ma tiredness. Ah tensed slightly when ah felt him gittin oantae the bed beside us, but ah soon relaxed because he made nae move tae touch us n we wir both fully clathed. Ah felt masel driftin oaf intae a sick, disorientated sleep.
Ah woke up, wi nae idea ay how long ah’d been asleep; ma mooth dried oot and a strange wet sensation oan ma face. Ah touched the side ay ma cheek. Egg-white strands of thick, sticky fluid trailed from ma hand. Ah turned n saw the auld cunt lyin beside us, now naked, spunk drippin fae ehs small, fat cock.
— Ya dirty auld cunt! . . . wankin ower us in ma fuckin sleep . . . ya fuckin mingin auld bastard! Ah felt like a dirty hanky, just used, just nothing. A rage gripped us n ah smacked the wee cunt in the mooth n pulled um oaf the bed. He looked like a repulsive, fat gnome wi his bloated stomach n roond heid. Ah booteduma few times as he cowered oan the deck, then ah stoaped as ah realised he wis sobbin.
Other books
The Falcon's Feathers by Ron Roy
Goblin Hero by HINES, JIM C.
Madhouse by Thurman, Rob
The Full Ridiculous by Mark Lamprell
Martin Hyde by John Masefield
The Two of Us by Andy Jones
Assault and Batter by Jessica Beck
Haunted Hearts by John Lawrence Reynolds
Something Worth Saving by Chelsea Landon
Third-Degree Burn [Southern Heat 3] by Alexa Aaby