Trainspotting (8 page)

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Authors: Irvine Welsh

BOOK: Trainspotting
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It Goes Without Saying
Ah hears the searin racket comin fae ootside the room. Sick Boy, crashed oot in the windae bay next tae us, shoots tae alertness like a dug thit’s heard a whistle. Ah shudder. That noise cut right through us.
Lesley comes intae the room screaming. It’s horrible. Ah wanted her tae stoap. Now. Ah couldnae handle this. Nane ay us could. No now. Ah never wanted anything mair in ma life than fir her tae stoap screamin.
— The bairn’s away . . . the bairn’s away . . . Dawn . . . oh my god . . . oh fuckin god, wis aboot aw ah could pick ootay the horrible sound. She collapses oantae the threadbare couch. Ma eyes stick oan a brown stain oan the wall above her. Whit the fuck was it? How did it get there?
Sick Boy wis on his feet. His eyes bulged oot like a frog’s. That’s what he reminded us ay, a frog. It was the wey he sort ay hops up, becomes suddenly so mobile fae a stationary position. He looks at Lesley for a few seconds, then nashes through tae the bedroom. Matty and Spud look around uncomprehendingly, but even through thir junk haze, they ken thit somethin really bad’s happened. Ah kent. Christ, ah fuckin knew awright. Ah said whit ah always sais when somethin bad happens.
— Ah’m cookin up in a bit, ah tell them. Matty’s eyes bore intae us. He gies us the nod. Spud stands up and moves oantae the couch, sittin a few feet fae Lesley. Her heid’s in her hands. For a minute ah thought thit Spud wid touch her. Ah hoped he would. Ah’m willing um tae dae it, but he jist stares at her. Ah knew, even fae here, thit he’d be focusing oan the big mole oan her neck.
— It’s ma fault . . . it’s ma fault, she cries through her hands.
— Eh, Les . . . likesay, Mark’s cookin up, eh . . . ye ken, likesay eh . . . Spud sais tae her. It’s the first words ah kin remember hearing um say for a few days. Obviously, the cunt’s spoken ower this period. He must huv, surely tae fuck.
Sick Boy comes back through. His boady’s strainin, seemingly fae the neck, as if against the limits ay an invisible leash. He sounds terrible. His voice reminded us ay the demon’s in the film
The Exorcist.
It shit us up.
— Fuck . . . some fuckin life, eh? Somethin like this happens, what the fuck dae ye dae? Eh?
Ah’ve never seen um like this before, and ah’ve kent the bastard practically aw my life. — What’s wrong Si? What’s the fuckin score?
He moves towards us. Ah thought he wis gaunnae kick us. We’re best mates but we’ve hit each other before, in drink or rage when one ay us has wound the other up. Nowt serious, jist sort ay lashing out in anger. Mates kin dae that. No now though, no wi me startin tae feel sick. Ma bones wid huv splintered intae a million fragments had the cunt done that. He jist stood ower us. Thank fuck. Oh, thank you Sick Boy, Simon.
— The gig’s fucked. It’s aw fuckin fucked! he moans, in a high, desperate whine. It was like a dug that had been run ower and wis waiting fir some cunt tae pit it oot ay its misery.
Matty and Spud haul themselves up, and go through tae the bedroom. Ah follow, pushing past Sick Boy. Ah can feel death in the room before ah even see the bairn. It wis lying face doon in its cot. It, naw, she, wis cauld and deid, blue aroond the eyes. Ah didnae huv tae touch her tae ken. Just lyin thair like a discarded wee doll at the bottom ay some kid’s wardrobe. That wee. So fuckin small. Wee Dawn. Fuckin shame.
— Wee Dawn . . . ah cannae believe it. Fuckin sin man . . . Matty sais, shakin his heid.
— Fuckin heavy this . . . eh, likesay em, fuck . . . Spud pits his chin oan his chest and exhales slowly.
Matty’s heid’s still shakin. He looks like he’s gaun tae implode.
— Ah’m fuckin right ootay here, man. Ah cannae fuckin handle this.
— Fuck it Matty! Nae cunt’s leavin here the now! Sick Boy shouts.
— Stay cool man. Stay cool, sais Spud, whae sounds anything but.
— We’ve goat fuckin gear stashed here. This street’s been crawlin wi the fuckin DS for weeks now. We fuckin charge oaf now, we aw fuckin go doon. Thir’s polis bastards every fuckin where ootside, sais Sick Boy, strugglin tae compose hissel. Thoughts ay polis involvement eywis concentrated the mind. On the issue of drugs, we wir classical liberals, vehemently opposed tae state intervention in any form.
— Aye, but mibbe we should git the fuck ootay here. Lesley can git the ambulance or polis once wuv tidied up and fucked off. Ah still agreed wi Matty.
— Hey . . . mibbe wuv goat tae stick wi Les, likesay. Like, mates n that. Ken? Spud ventures. That sort ay solidarity seems a bit ay a fanciful notion in the circumstances. Matty shakes his heid again. He’d just done six months in Saughton. If he wis done again, that wid be him well fucked. Ootside though, there were pigs cruising aboot. At least that’s how it felt. Sick Boy’s imagery had got tae me mair thin Spud’s pleas tae stick thegither. Flushing aw our gear down the lavvy was just not on. Ah’d rather get sent doon.
— The way ah see it, sais Matty, is thit it’s Lesley’s bairn, ken? Mibbe if she’d looked eftir it right, it might not be deid. How should we git involved?
Sick Boy starts hyperventilatin.
— Hate tae say it, bit Matty’s goat a point, ah sais. Ah’m startin tae hurt really badly. Ah jist want tae take a shot and fuck off.
Sick Boy’s noncommittal. This is weird. Normally the bastard’s barking orders at every cunt in sight, whither they take any notice or no.
Spud sais: — We cannae, likesay, leave Les here on her puff, that’s eh, ah mean like, fuck. Ken what ah mean?
Ah’m looking at Sick Boy. — Whae gied her the bairn? ah ask. Sick Boy sais nothing.
— Jimmy McGilvary, Matty sais.
— Shite it fuckin wis, Sick Boy dismissively sneers.
— Dinnae you play Mister-fuckin-innocent, Matty turns oan me.
— Eh? ‘Moan tae fuck! Whit you oan aboot? ah respond, genuinely fuckin perplexed at the bastard’s outburst.
— You wir thair Rents. Boab Sullivan’s perty, he sais.
— Naw man, ah’ve never been wi Lesley. Ah’m tellin the truth, which ah realise is a mistake. In some company people will always believe the opposite ay what ye tell thum; particularly whair sex is concerned.
— How come ye wir crashed oot wi her in the mornin at Sully’s perty?
— Ah wis fucked man. Ootay ma box. Ah couldnae huv goat a stiff neck wi a doorstep as a pillay. Ah cannae remember the last time ah hud a ride. Ma explanation convinces them. They ken how long ah’ve been using heavily and what that kin mean in the shaggin stakes.
— Like, eh . . . somebody sais it wis . . . eh, Seeker’s . . . Spud suggests.
— Wisnae Seeker, Sick Boy shakes his heid. He puts a hand oan the deid bairn’s cauld cheek. Tears are fillin in his eyes. Ah’m gaun tae greet n aw. There’s a constricting tightness in ma chest. One mystery has been solved. Wee Dawn’s dead face looks so obviously like ma mate Simon Williamson’s.
Then Sick Boy pulls up his jaykit sleeve, showing the weeping sores oan his airm. — Ah’m never touchin that shite again. Ah’m fuckin clean fae now oan. He pits oan that wounded stag expression which he always uses when he wants people tae fuck or finance him. Ah almost believe him.
Matty looks at him. — C’moan Si. Dinnae jump tae the wrong fuckin conclusions. Whit happened tae the bairn’s nowt tae dae wi the skag. It’s no Lesley’s fault either. Ah wis oot ay order saying that. She wis a good mother. She loved that bairn. It’s naebody’s fault. Cot death n that. Happens aw the time.
— Yeah, likesay, cot death man . . . ken what ah mean? Spud agreed.
Ah feel thit ah love thum aw. Matty, Spud, Sick Boy and Lesley. Ah want tae tell thum. All try, but it comes oot as: — Ah’m cookin. They look at us, fuckin scoobied. — That’s me, ah shrug ma shooders, in self-justification. Ah go ben the livin-room.
This is murder. Lesley. Ah’m fuckin useless at these things. Less than useless in this condition. Of negative utility. Lesley’s nivir moved. Ah feel thit ah should mibbe go and comfort her, pit my airm aroond her. But ma bones feel twisted and scraped. Ah couldnae touch anybody right now. Instead ah babble.
— Really sorry Les . . . naebody’s fault though . . . cot death n that . . . wee Dawn . . . barry wee bairn . . . fuckin shame . . . fuckin sin man, ah’m tellin ye.
Lesley lifts her heid up an looks at us. Her thin, white face is like a skull wrapped in milky clingfilm; her eyes are rid raw, circled wi black rings.
— Ye cookin? Ah need a shot Mark. Ah really need a fuckin shot. C’moan Marky, cook us up a shot . . .
At last ah could be ay some practical help. There were syringes and needles lying aw ower the place. Ah tried tae remember which works wir mine. Sick Boy says that he’d never, ever share wi any cunt. That’s shite. Whin yir feelin like ah am, the truth is thit ye dinnae care too much. Ah take the nearest, which at least isnae Spud’s, as he’s been sittin ower the other side ay the room. If Spud isnae HIV positive by now, then the Government should send a deputation ay statisticians doon tae Leith, because the laws ay probability urnae operatin properly here.
Ah produce ma spoon, lighter, and cotton balls as well as some ay this fuckin Vim or Ajax thit Seeker has the audacity to call smack. Wir joined in the room by the punters.
— Back oot ma fuckin light boys, ah snap, gesturing the cunts away wi backward sweeps ay ma hand. Ah know ah’m playing at being The Man, n part ay us hates masel, because it’s horrible when some cunt does it tae you. Naebody though, could ivir be in this position and then deny the proposition thit absolute power corrupts. The gadges move a few steps back and watch in silence as ah cook. The fuckers will huv tae wait. Lesley comes first, eftir me. That goes without saying.
Junk Dilemmas No. 64
—
Mark! Mark! Answer the door! Ah ken yir in thair son! Ah ken yir in thair!
Its ma Ma. It’s been quite a while since ah’ve seen Ma. Ah’m lyin here jist a few feet fae the door, which leads tae a narrow hallway which leads tae another door. Behind that door is ma mother.
—
Mark! Please son, please! Answer the door! It’s yir mother, Mark! Answer the door!
It sounds like Ma’s greetin. It sounded like ‘doe-ho-hore’. Ah love Ma, love her too much, but in a way which is hard for us tae define, a way which makes it difficult, almost impossible, tae ever actually tell her. But ah love her nonetheless. So much that ah don’t want her tae have a son like me. Ah wish ah could find her a replacement. Ah wish that because ah don’t think change is an option fir us.
Ah cannae go tae the door. Nae chance. Instead, ah decide tae cook up another shot. Ma pain centres say that it’s yon time already.
Already.
Christ, life doesnae get any easier.
This smack has too much shite in it. You can tell by the wey it’s no dissolving properly. Fuck that cunt Seeker!
Ah’ll have tae look in oan the auld lady and the auld man sometime; see how thir daein. Ah’ll make that visit a priority; eftir ah see that cunt Seeker, of course.
Her Man
For fuck sake.
Wi just came oot fir a quick drink. This is pure fuckin mental.
— Did ye see that? Fuckin out of order, Tommy sais.
— Naw, fuckin leave it man. Dinnae git involved. Ye dinnae ken the score, ah sais tae um.
Ah saw it though. Clear as day. He hit her. No a fuckin slap or nowt like that, but a punch. It wis horrible.
Ah’m gled thit Tommy’s sittin beside thum, n no me.
— Cause ah fuckin sais! That’s fuckin how! The boy’s shoutin at her again. Naebody bothers. A big punter at the bar wi long blond corkscrew hair n a rid coupon looks ower n smiles, then turns back tae watch the darts match. No one ay the boys playin darts turns roond.
— Is that eighty? Ah point tae Tommy’s nearly empty gless.
— Aye.
Whin ah git tae the bar, thuv started again. Ah kin hear thum. So kin the barman n the corkscrew-heided cunt.
— Gaun then. Dae it again. Gaun then! She’s tauntin um. Her voice is like a fuckin ghost’s, shriekin n that, bit her lips dinnae seem tae be movin. Ye only ken it’s her because the sound’s comin fae ower thair. The fuckin pub’s nearly empty tae. We could’ve sat anywhere. Of aw the places tae sit.
He punches her in the face. Blood spurts fae her mooth.
— Hit us again, fucking big man. Gaun then!
He does. She lets oot a scream, then starts greetin, and hauds her face in her hands. He sits, a few inches away fae her, starin at her, eyes blazing, mooth hingin open.
— Lovers’ tiff, the corkscrew-heided cunt smiles, catchin ma eye. Ah smile back. Ah don’t know why. Ah just seem tae feel like ah need friends. Ah’d nivir say this tae any cunt, bit ah know thit ah’ve goat problems withe bevvy. Whin yir like that, yir mates tend tae keep oot yir road, unless they’ve goat problems wi the bevvy n aw.
Ah look ower tae the barman, an auld guy wi grey hair n a moustache. He shakes his heid n says something under his breath.

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