Trainspotting (6 page)

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Authors: Irvine Welsh

BOOK: Trainspotting
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Despite her reservations about going to the gig, the alternative was staying in and watching television. Specifically, this meant
Bruce Forsyth’s Generation Game
with her mother and her silly wee fart of a brother, who always got excited when the stuff came down the conveyor belt and recited the items quickly in his squeaky, quirky voice. Her mum wouldn’t even let her smoke in the living-room. She let Dougie, her moronic man-friend smoke in the living-room. That was alright, considered to be the subject-matter of light humour rather than the cause of cancer and heart disease. Nina however, had to go upstairs for a fag and that was the pits. Her room was cold, and by the time she’d switched on the heating and it warmed up, she could have smoked a packet of twenty Marlborough. Fuck all that for a laugh. Tonight, she’d take her chances at the gig.
Leaving the bathroom, Nina looked in on Uncle Andy. The corpse lay in the bed, the covers still over it. They might have closed his mouth, she thought. It looked as if he’d expired drunkenly, belligerently, frozen by death as he was arguing about football or politics. The body was skinny and wizened, but then again, Andy always was. She remembered being tickled in the ribs by these persistent, ubiquitous, bony fingers. Perhaps Andy was always dying.
Nina decided to rake through the drawers to see if Alice had any knickers worth borrowing. Andy’s socks and y-fronts were in the top section of a chest of drawers. Alice’s undies were in the next one down. Nina was startled by the range of underwear Alice had. They ranged from outsized garments which Nina held against her, and which almost came down to her knees, to skimpy, lacy briefs she could never imagine her auntie wearing. One pair were made of the same material as the black lace gloves Nina had. She removed the gloves to feel the pants. Although she liked these ones, she picked a pink flowery pair, then went back into the bathroom to put them on.
When she got downstairs, she noted that alcohol had displaced tea as the gathering’s principal social lubricant. Dr Sim stood, whisky in hand, talking to Uncle Kenny, Uncle Boab and Malcolm. She wondered if Malcolm would be asking him about fallopian tubes. The men were all drinking with a stoic determination, as if it was a serious duty. Despite the grief, there was no disguising the sense of relief in the air. This was Andy’s third heart attack, and now that he had finally checked out, they could get on with their lives without jumping nervously whenever they heard Alice’s voice on the phone.
Another cousin, Geoff, Malky’s brother, had arrived. He looked at Nina with something she felt was akin to hate. It was unnerving and strange. He was a wanker though. All Nina’s cousins were, the ones she knew at any rate. Her Auntie Cathy and Uncle Davie (he was from Glasgow and a Protestant), had two sons: Billy, who had just come out of the army, and Mark, who was supposed to be into drugs. They were not here, as they hardly knew Andy or any of the Bonnyrigg crowd. They would probably be at the funeral. Or perhaps not. Cathy and Davie once had a third son, also called Davie, who had died almost a year ago. He was badly mentally and physically handicapped and had lived most of his life in a hospital. Nina had only seen him once, sitting twisted in a wheelchair, mouth open and eyes vacant. She wondered how Cathy and Davie must have felt about his death. Again sad, but perhaps also relieved.
Shite. Geoff was coming over to talk to her. She had once pointed him out to Shona, who said that he looked like Marti from Wet Wet Wet. Nina hated both Marti and the Wets and, anyway, thought that Geoff was nothing like him.
— Awright, Nina?
— Aye. It’s a shame aboot Uncle Andy.
— Aye, Whit kin ye say? Geoff shrugged his shoulders. He was twenty-one and Nina thought that was ancient.
— So when dae ye finish the school? he asked her.
— Next year. Ah wanted tae go now but ma Ma hassled us tae stey.
— Takin O Grades?
— Aye.
— Which yins?
— English, Maths, Arithmetic, Art, Accounts, Physics, Modern Studies.
— Gaunnae pass them?
— Aye. It’s no that hard. Cept Maths.
— Then whit?
— Git a job. Or git oan a scheme.
— No gaunnae stey oan n take Highers?
— Naw.
— Ye should. You could go tae University.
— Whit fir?
Geoff had to think for a while. He had recently graduated with a degree in English Literature and was on the dole. So were most of his fellow graduates. — It’s a good social life, he said.
Nina recognised that the look Geoff had been giving her was not one of hate, but of lust. He’d obviously been drinking before he had arrived and his inhibitions were lowered.
— You’ve really grown, Nina, he said.
— Aye, she blushed, knowing she was doing it, and hating herself for it.
— Fancy gittin oot ay here? Ah mean, can ye get intae pubs? We could go ower the road fir a drink.
Nina weighed up the offer. Even if Geoff talked student shite, it had to be better than staying here. They would be seen in the pub by somebody, this was Bonnyrigg, and somebody would talk. Shona and Tracy would find out, and would want to know who this dark, older guy was. It was too good an opportunity to miss.
Then Nina remembered the gloves. Absentmindedly, she had left them on the top of the chest of drawers in Andy’s room. She excused herself from Geoff. — Aye, awright then. Ah’m jist gaun up tae the toilet.
The gloves were still on top of the chest. She picked them up and put them in a jacket pocket, but her wet pants were there so she quickly removed the gloves, and put them in the other one. She looked around at Andy. There was something different about him. He was sweating. She saw him twitch. God, she was sure she saw him twitch. She touched his hand. It was warm.
Nina ran downstairs. — It’s Uncle Andy! Ah think . . . ah think . . . ye should come . . . it’s like he’s still thair . . .
They looked at her with incredulous expressions. Kenny was first to react, springing up the stairs three at a time, followed by Davie and Doctor Sim. Alice twitched nervously, open mouthed, but not really taking it in. — He wis a good man . . . nivir lifted his hands tae me . . . she moaned deliriously. Something inside her drove her to follow the herd upstairs.
Kenny felt his brother’s sweaty brow, and his hand.
— He’s burnin up! Andy’s no deid! ANDY’S NO DEID!
Sim was about to examine the figure when he was pushed aside by Alice, who, having broken free of her constraints, fell upon the warm, pyjama-clad body.
— ANDY! ANDY, KIN YE HEAR ME?
Andy’s head bobbed to the side, his stupid, frozen expression never changing, his body remaining limp.
Nina giggled nervously. Alice was seized and held like a dangerous psychotic. Men and women cooed and made soothing noises at her as Dr Sim examined Andy.
— No. I’m sorry. Mr Fitzpatrick is dead. His heart has stopped, Sim said gravely. He stood back, and put his hand under the bedclothes. He then bent down and pulled a plug out of the wall. He picked up a white flex and pulled a hand switch which was attached to it, out from under the bed.
— Someone left the electric blanket on. That explains the warmth of the body and the sweating, he announced.
— Dearie me. Christ almighty, Kenny laughed. He saw Geoff’s eyes blazing at him. In self-justification he said: — Andy would be pishing hissel. Ye ken whit a sense ay humour Andy had. He turned his palms outwards.
— You’re a fuckin arse . . . thirs Alice here . . . Geoff stammered, enraged, before turning and bolting from the room.
— Geoff. Geoff. Wait the now, mate . . . Kenny pleaded. They heard the slamming of the front door.
Nina thought that she would piss herself. Her sides ached, as she struggled to repress the spasms of laughter which shook through her. Cathy put her arm around her.
— It’s awright darlin. There ye go hen. Dinnae worry yirsel, she said, as Nina realised that she was crying like a baby. Crying with a raw power and unselfconscious abandon as the tensions ebbed from her body and she became limp in Cathy’s arms. Memories, sweet childhood memories, flooded her consciousness. Memories of Andy and Alice, and the happiness and love that once lived here, in the home of her auntie and uncle.
Victory On New Year’s Day
— Happy New Year, ya wee cunt! Franco wrapped his arm around Stevie’s head. Stevie felt several neck muscles tear, as stiff, sober and self-conscious, he struggled to go with the flow.
He returned the greeting as heartily as he could. There followed a round of Happy-New-Years; his tentative hands crushed, his stiff back slapped, his tight and unresponsive lips kissed. All he could think of was the phone, London and Stella.
She hadn’t phoned: Worse, she hadn’t been in when he phoned. Not even at her mother’s. Stevie had gone back to Edinburgh and left the field clear for Keith Millard. The bastard would take full advantage. They’d be together right now, just like they probably were last night. Millard was a slag. So was Stevie. So was Stella. It was a bad combination. Stella was also the most wonderful person in the world in Stevie’s eyes. That fact made her less of a slag; in fact, not a slag at all.
— Loosen up fir fuck sakes! It’s New fuckin Year! Franco not so much suggested, as commanded. That was his way. People would be forced to enjoy themselves if necessary.
It generally wasn’t necessary. They were all frighteningly high. It was difficult for Stevie to reconcile this world with the one he’d just left. Now he was aware of them looking at him. Who were they these people? What did they want? The answer was that they were his friends, and they wanted him.
A song on the turntable drilled into his consciousness, adding to his misery.
I loved a lassie, a bonnie, bonnie lassie,
She’s as sweet as the heather in the glen,
She’s as sweet as the heather,
The bonnie purple heather,
Mary, ma Scots bluebell.
They all joined in with gusto. — Cannae beat Harry Lauder. It New Year, likesay, Dawsie remarked.
In the joy of the faces around him, Stevie gained a measurement of his own misery. The pit of melancholy was a bottomless one, and he was descending fast, falling further away from the good times. Such times often seemed tantalisingly within reach; he could see them, going on all around him. His mind was like a cruel prison, giving his captive soul a sight of freedom, but no more.
Stevie sipped his can of Export and hoped that he could get through the night without bringing too many people down. Frank Begbie was the main problem. It was his flat, and he was determined that everyone was going to have a good time.
— Ah goat yir ticket fir the match the night, Stevie. Intae they Jambo cunts, Renton said to him.
— Naebody watchin it in the pub? Ah thoat it wis oan satellite, likesay.
Sick Boy, who’d been chatting up a small, dark-haired girl Stevie didn’t know, turned to him.
— Git tae fuck Stevie. You’re pickin up some bad habits doon in London, ah’m tellin ye man. I fucking detest televised football. It’s like shagging wi a durex oan. Safe fuckin sex, safe fuckin fitba, safe fuckin everything. Let’s all build a nice safe wee world around ourselves, he mocked, his face contorting. Stevie had forgotten the extent of Sick Boy’s natural outrage.
Rents agreed with Sick Boy. That was unusual, thought Stevie. They were always slagging each other off. Generally, if one said sugar, the other said shite. — They should ban aw fitba oan the telly, and get the lazy, fat fucks oaf their erses and along tae the games.
— Yis talked us intae it, Stevie said in resigned tones.
The unity between Rents and Sick Boy didn’t last.
— You kin talk aboot gittin oaf yir erse. Mister fuckin couch tattie hissel. Keep oaf the H for mair thin ten minutes and ye might make mair games this season thin ye did the last one, Sick Boy sneered.
— You’ve goat a fuckin nerve ya cunt . . . Rents turned tae Stevie, then flicked his thumb derisively in Sick Boy’s direction. — They wir callin this cunt Boots because ay the drugs he wis cairryin.
They bickered on. Stevie would once have enjoyed this. Now it was draining him.
— Remember Stevie, ah’ll be steyin wi ye fir a bit in February, Rents said to him. Stevie nodded grimly. He’d been hoping Rents had forgotten all about this, or would drop it. Rents was a mate, but he had a problem with drugs. In London, he’d be straight back on the gear again, teaming up with Tony and Nicksy. They were always sorting out addresses where they could pick up giros from. Rents never seemed to work, but always seemed to have money. The same with Sick Boy, but he treated everybody else’s cash as his own, and his own in exactly the same way.
— Perty at Matty’s eftir the game. His new place in Lorne Street. Be thair sharp, Frank Begbie shouted over at them.

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