Authors: Irvine Welsh
Trainspotting (7 page)
Another party. It was almost like work to Stevie. New Year will go on and on. It’ll start to fade about the 4th, when the gaps between the parties start to appear. These gaps get bigger until they become the normal week, with the parties happening at the weekend.
More first foots arrived. The small flat was heaving. Stevie had never seen Franco, the Beggar, so at ease with himself. Rab McLaughlin, or Second Prize, as they called him, hadn’t even been assaulted when he’d pished up the back of Begbie’s curtains. Second Prize had been incoherently drunk for weeks now. New Year was a convenient camouflage for people like him. His girlfriend, Carol, had stormed off in protest at his behaviour. Second Prize hadn’t even realised that she was there in the first place.
Stevie moved into the kitchen, where it was quieter, and he had at least a chance of hearing the phone. Like a yuppie businessman, he’d left a list of the numbers where he was likely to be at with his mother. She could pass these onto Stella, if she phoned.
Stevie had told her how he felt about her, in that ugly barn of a pub in Kentish Town, the one they never usually drank in. He laid his heart bare. Stella had said that she would have to think about what he said, that it had really freaked her out, and was too much to handle right now. She said she would phone him when he got back up to Scotland. And that was that.
They left the pub, going in separate directions. Stevie went towards the tube station to get the underground to Kings Cross, sports bag over his shoulder. He stopped, turned and watched her cross the bridge.
Her long brown curls swished wildly in the wind, as she walked away clad in her donkey jacket, short skirt, thick, black woollen tights and nine-inch Doctor Martens. He waited for her to glance back at him. She never turned around. Stevie bought a bottle of Bell’s whisky at the station and had arsed the lot by the time the train rolled into Waverley.
His mood hadn’t improved since then. He sat on the formica worktop, contemplating the kitchen tiles. June, Franco’s girlfriend, came in and smiled at him, nervously fetching some drinks. June never spoke, and often seemed overwhelmed by such occasions. Franco spoke enough for both of them.
As June left, Nicola came in, being pursued by Spud, who trailed behind her like a faithful salivating dog.
— Hey . . . Stevie . . . Happy New Year, eh, likesay . . . Spud drawled.
— Ah’ve seen ye Spud. We wir up the Tron thegither, last night. Remember?
— Aw . . . right. Hang loose catboy, Spud focused, grabbing a full bottle of cider.
— Awright Stevie? How’s London? Nicola asked.
God, no, thought Stevie. Nicola is so easy to talk to. I’m going to pour my heart out . . . no I’m not . . . yes I am.
Stevie started talking. Nicola listened indulgently. Spud nodded sympathetically, occasionally indicating that the whole scene was ‘too fuckin heavy . . .’
He felt that he was making an arse of himself, but he couldn’t stop talking. What a bore he must be to Nicola, to Spud even. But he couldn’t stop. Spud eventually left, to be replaced by Kelly. Linda joined them. The football songs must be starting up in the front room.
Nicola dispensed some practical advice: — Phone her, wait fir her tae phone, or go doon n see her.
— STEVIE! ’MOAN THROUGH YA CUNT! Begbie roared.
Stevie tamely allowed himself to be literally dragged back into front room. — Fuckin chatting up the mantovani in the fuckin kitchen. Yir fuckin worse thin that smarmy cunt thair, the fuckin jazz purist. He gestured over at Sick Boy, who was necking with the woman he’d been chatting up. They had previously overheard Sick Boy describe himself to her as ‘basically a jazz purist’.
So wir aw off tae Dublin in the green — fuck the queen!
Whair the hel-mits glisten in the sun — fuck the huns!
And the bayonets slash, the aw-ringe sash
To the echo of the Thomson gun.
Stevie sat gloomily. The phone would never be heard above this noise.
— Shut up the now! shouted Tommy, — This is ma favourite song. The Wolfetones sang
Banna Strand.
Tommy crooned along with some of the others.
Banna Strand.
Tommy crooned along with some of the others.
oan the lo-ho-honley Ba-nna strand.
There were a few moist eyes when the ’Tones sang
James Connolly.
— A fuckin great rebel, a fuckin great socialist and a fuckin great Hibby. James Fuckin Connolly, ya cunt, Gav said to Renton who nodded sombrely.
James Connolly.
— A fuckin great rebel, a fuckin great socialist and a fuckin great Hibby. James Fuckin Connolly, ya cunt, Gav said to Renton who nodded sombrely.
Some sang along, others tried to maintain conversations above the music. However, when
The Boys of the Old Brigade
came on everybody joined in. Even Sick Boy took time off his necking session.
The Boys of the Old Brigade
came on everybody joined in. Even Sick Boy took time off his necking session.
Oh fa-thir why are you-hoo so-ho sad
oan this fine Ea-heas-ti-her morn
— Sing ya cunt! said Tommy, elbowing Stevie’s ribs. Begbie stuck another can of beer in his hand and threw his arm around his neck.
Whe-hen I-rish men are prow-howd ah-hand glad
off the land where they-hey we-her born
Stevie worried about the singing. It had a desperate edge to it. It was as if by singing loudly enough, they would weld themselves into a powerful brotherhood. It was, as the song said, ‘call to arms’ music, and seemed to have little to do with Scotland and New Year. It was fighting music. Stevie didn’t want to fight anyone. But it was also beautiful music.
Hangovers, while being pushed into the background by the drink, were also being fuelled. They were now so potentially big as to be genuinely feared. They would not stop drinking until they had to face the music, and that was when every bit of adrenalin had been burned away.
Aw-haun be-ing just a la-had li-hike you
I joined the l-hi-Ah-har-A — provishnil wing!
The phone rang in the passage. June got it. Then Begbie snatched it out of her hand, ushering her away. She floated back into the living-room like a ghost.
— Whae? WHAE? WHAES THAT? STEVIE? RIGHT, HAUD OAN THE NOW. HAPPY NEW YEAR DOLL, BY THE WAY . . . Franco put the receiver down, — . . . whae ivir the fuck ye are . . . He went through to the front room. — Stevie. Some fuckin lemon oan the blower fir ye. Fuckin bools in the mooth likesay. London.
— Phoa! Ya cuntchy! Tommy laughed as Stevie sprang out off the couch. He had needed a pee for the last half-hour, but hadn’t trusted his legs. Now they worked perfectly.
— Steve? She had always called him ‘Steve’ rather than ‘Stevie’. They all did down there. — Where have you been?
— Stella . . . where have ah been . . . ah tried tae phone ye yesterday. Where are ye? What are ye daein? He almost said who are you with, but he restrained himself.
— I was at Lynne’s, she told him. Of course. Her sister’s. Chingford, or some equally dull and hideous place. Stevie felt a euphoric surge.
— Happy New Year! he said, relieved and brimming over.
The pips went, then more change was put into the machine. Stella was not at home. Where was she? In a pub with Millard?
— Happy New Year, Steve. I’m at Kings Cross. I’m getting on the Edinburgh train in ten minutes. Can you meet me at the station at ten forty-five?
— Fuckin hell! Yir jokin . . . fuck! There’s nowhere else in the world ah’ll be at ten forty-five. You’ve made my New Year. Stella . . . the things ah sais the other night . . . ah mean them more than ever, ye know . . .
— That’s good, because I think I’m in love with you . . . all I’ve done is think about you.
Stevie swallowed hard. He felt tears well up in his eyes. One left its berth and rolled down his cheek.
— Steve . . . are you okay? she asked.
— Much better than that, Stella. Ah love you. No doubts, no bullshit.
— Fuck . . . the money’s running out. Don’t ever mess me about, Steve, this is no fucking game . . . I’ll see you at quarter to eleven . . . I love you . . .
— I love you! I LOVE YOU! The pips went and the line died.
Stevie held the receiver tenderly, like it was something else, some part of her. Then he put it down and went and had that pee. He had never felt so alive. As he watched his fetid pish splash into the pan, his brain allowed itself to be overwhelmed with delicious thoughts. A powerful love for the world gripped him. It was New Year. Auld Lang Syne. He loved everyone, especially Stella, and his friends at the party. His comrades. Warm-hearted rebels; the salt of the earth. Despite this, he even loved the Jambos. They were good people; just supporting their team. He’d first-foot a lot of them this year, irrespective of the result. Stevie would enjoy taking Stella around the city to various parties. It would be brilliant. Football divisions were a stupid and irrelevant nonsense, acting against the interests of working-class unity, ensuring that the bourgeoisie’s hegemony went unchallenged. Stevie had it all worked out.
He went straight into the room and put The Proclaimers’
Sunshine On Leith
on the turntable. He wanted to celebrate the fact that wherever he went, this was his home, these were his people. After a few grumbles, it struck a chord. The catcalls at the previous record’s removal were muted at the sight of Stevie’s exuberance. He slapped Tommy, Rents and Beggar around vigorously, sang loudly, and waltzed with Kelly, caring nothing about people’s impressions of the obviousness of his transformation.
Sunshine On Leith
on the turntable. He wanted to celebrate the fact that wherever he went, this was his home, these were his people. After a few grumbles, it struck a chord. The catcalls at the previous record’s removal were muted at the sight of Stevie’s exuberance. He slapped Tommy, Rents and Beggar around vigorously, sang loudly, and waltzed with Kelly, caring nothing about people’s impressions of the obviousness of his transformation.
— Nice ay ye tae join us, Gav said to him.
He was still high throughout the match, whereas for the others it went drastically wrong. Again he became distanced from his friends. First he couldn’t share their happiness, now he couldn’t relate to their despair. Hibs were losing to Hearts. Both teams were carving out ridiculous numbers of chances; it was schoolboy stuff, but Hearts were putting at least some of theirs away. Sick Boy’s head was in his hands. Franco glared malevolently over towards the dancing Hearts supporters at the other end of the ground. Rents shouted for the manager’s resignation. Tommy and Shaun were arguing about defensive shortcomings, trying to apportion blame for the goal. Gav cursed the referee’s masonic leanings, while Dawsy was still lamenting Hibs’ earlier misses. Spud (drugs) and Second Prize (alcohol) were bombed out of their boxes, still at the flat, their match tickets good for nothing except future roach material. None of this mattered for the moment, as far as Stevie was concerned. He was in love.
After the match, he left the rest of them to head to the station and meet Stella. The bulk of the Hearts support were also headed up that way. Stevie was oblivious to the heavy vibes. One guy shouted in his face. The cunts won four-one, he thought. What the fuck did they want? Blood? Obviously.
Stevie survived some unimaginative taunting on the way up to the station. Surely, he thought, they could do better than ‘Hibby bastard’ or ‘fenian cunt’. One hero tried to trip him from behind, egged on by baying friends. He should have taken his scarf off. Who the fuck was to know? He was a London boy now, what did all this shite have to do with his life at the moment? He didn’t even want to try and answer his own questions.
On the station concourse, a group marched over to him. — Hibby bastard! a youth shouted.
— You’ve goat it wrong boys. Ah’m a Borussia Munchengladbach man.
He felt a blow on the side of his mouth and tasted blood. Some kicks were aimed at him, as the group walked away from him.
— Happy New Year boys! Love and peace, Jambo brothers! he laughed at them, and sucked his sour, split lip.
— Cunt’s a fuckin heidcase, one guy said. He thought they were going to come back for him, but they turned their attention to abusing an Asian woman and her two small children.
— Fuckin Paki slag!
— Fuck off back tae yir ain country.
They made a chorus of ape noises and gestures as they left the station.
— What charming, sensitive young men, Stevie said to the woman, who looked at him like a rabbit looks at a weasel. She saw another white youth with slurred speech, bleeding and smelling of alcohol. Above all, she saw another football scarf, like the one worn by the youths who abused her. There was no colour difference as far as she was concerned, and she was right, Stevie realised with a grim sadness. It was probably just as likely to be guys in green who hassled her. Every support had its arseholes.
The train was nearly twenty minutes late, an excellent performance by British Rail standards. Stevie wondered whether she’d be on it. Paranoia hit him. Waves of fear shuddered through his body. The stakes were high, the highest ever. He couldn’t see her, couldn’t even picture her in his mind’s eye. Then she was almost upon him, different to how he thought of her, more real, even more beautiful. It was the smile, the look of emotion reciprocated. He ran the short distance to her and held her in his arms. They kissed for a long time. When they stopped, the platform was deserted and the train was well on its way to Dundee.
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