Trainspotting (18 page)

– Dianne's sitting her O Grade History next year, she smiled,

– and French, English, Art, Maths and Arithmetic, she continued proudly. Renton cringed inside for the umpteenth time.

– Mark's not interested in that, Dianne said, trying to sound superior and mature, patronising to her parents, the way kids deprived of power who become the 'subject' of a conversation do. The way, Renton shakily reflected, that he did often enough, when his auld man and auld doll got started. The problem was Dianne just sounded so surly, so like a child, she achieved the opposite effect of the one she was aiming for.

Renton's mind was working overtime. Staat the baw, they call it. Ye kin git put away fir it. Too right ye kin, Wi the key flung away. Branded a sex criminal; git ma face split open in Saughton oan a daily basis. Sex CriminaL Child Rapist. Nonce. Short–eyes. He could hear the psycho lags now, cunts, he reflected, like Beghie: – Ah heard thit the wee lassie wis jist six. – They telt me it wis rape.

– Could've been your bairn or mine. Fuck me, he thought, shuddering. The bacon he was eating disgusted him. He'd been a vegetarian for years. This was nothing to do with politics or morality; he just hated the taste of meat. He said nothing though, so keen was he to keep in the good books of Dianne's parents. He drew the line at touching the sausage, however, as he reckoned that these things were loaded with poison. Thinking of all the junk he had done, he sardonically reflected to himself: You have to watch what you put into your body. He wondered whether Dianne would like it, and started sniggering uncontrollably, through nerves, at his own hideous double entendre.

Feebly, he attempted to cover up by shaking his head and telling a tale, or rather, re–telling it. – God, what an idiot ah am. Ah wis in some state last night. I'm not really used to alcohol. Still, I suppose you're only twenty–two once in a lifetime.

Dianne's parents looked as unconvinced as Renton by the last remark. He was twenty–five going on forty. Nonetheless, they listened politely. – Ah lost ma jacket and keys, like ah wis saying. Thank god for Dianne, and you folks. It's really hospitable of you to let me stay the night and to make such a nice breakfast for me this morning. Ah feel really bad about not finishing this sausage. It's just that ah'm so full. Ah'm no used tae big breakfasts.

Too thin, that's your trouble, the mother said.

– That's what comes ay living in flats. East is east, west is west, but home is best, the father said. There was a nervous silence at this moronic comment. Embarrassed, he added: – That's what they say anyway. He then took the opportunity to change the subject. – How are ye going tae get into the flat?

Such people really scared the fuck out of Renton. They looked to him as if they hadn't done anything illegal in their lives. No wonder Dianne was like the way she was, picking up strange guys

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in bars. This couple looked so obscenely wholesome to him. The father had slightly thinning hair, there were faint crow's feet at the mother's eyes, but he realised that any onlooker would put them in the same age bracket as him, only describing them as healthier.

– Ah'll jist huv tae force the door. It's only oan a Yale. Silly really. Ah've been meaning tae get a mortice for ages. Good thing ah didnae now. There's an entry–phone in the stair, but the people next door will let me in.

– Ah could help you out there. I'm a joiner. Where do you live? the father asked. Renton was a little fazed, but happy that they had bought his bullshit.

– It's no problem. Ah was a chippy masel before ah went tae the Uni. Thanks for the offer though. This again, was true. It felt strange telling the truth, he'd got so comfortable with deception. It made him feel real, and consequently vulnerable.

– Ah wis an apprentice at Gillsland's in Gorgie, he added, prompted by the father's raised eyebrows.

– Ah ken Ralphy Gillsland. Miserable sod. the father snorted, his voice more natural now. They had established a point of contact.

– One ay the reasons ah'm no longer in the trade. Renton went cold as he felt Dianne's leg rubbing against his under the table. He swallowed hard on his tea.

– Well, ah must be making a move. Thanks again.

– Hold on, ah'll just get ready and chum you intae town. Dianne was up and out of the room before he could protest.

Renton made half–hearted attempts to help tidy up, before the father ushered him onto the couch and the mother busied herself in the kitchen. His heart sank, expecting the ah'm–wide–fir–your–game–cunt line when they were alone. Not a bit of it though. They talked aboot Ralphy Gillsland and his brother Colin, who, Renton found himself pleased tae hear, had committed suicide, and other guys they both knew from jobs.

They talked football, and the father turned out to be a Hearts fan. Renton followed Hibs, who hadn't enjoyed their best season against their local rivals; they hadn't enjoyed their best season against anybody, and the father wasted no time in reminding him of it.

– The Hibbies didnae do too well against us, did they?

Renton smiled, glad for the first time, for reasons other than sexual ones, to have shagged this man's daughter. It was amazing, he decided, how things like sex and Hibs, which were nothing to him when he was on smack, suddenly became all–important. He speculated that his drug problems might be related to Hibs poor performances over the eighties. Dianne was ready. With less makeup on than last night, she looked about sixteen, two years older than she was. As they hit the streets, Renton felt relieved to be leaving the house, but a little embarrassed in case anyone he knew saw them. He had a few acquaintances in the area, mainly users and dealers. They would, he thought, think that he'd gone in for pimping if they came across him now

They took the train from South Gyle into Haymarket. Dianne held Renton's hand on the journey, and talked incessantly. She was relieved to be liberated from the inhibiting influence of her parents. She wanted to check Renton out in more detail. He could be a source of blow. Renton thought about last night and wondered chillingly what Dianne had done, and with whom, to gain such sexual experience, such confidence. He felt fifty–five instead of twenty–five, and he was sure that people were looking at them.

Renton looked scruffy, sweaty and bleary in last night's clothes. Dianne was wearing black leggings, the type so thin that they almost looked like tights, with a white mini–skirt over them. Either of the garments, Renton considered, would have sufficed on its own. One guy was looking at her in Haymarket Station as she waited for Renton to buy a Scotsman and a Daily Record. He noticed this and, strangely enraged, he found himself aggressively staring the guy down. Perhaps, he thought, it was self–loathing projected.

They went into a record shop on DaIry Road, and thumbed through some album sleeves. Renton was now pretty jumpy, as his hangover was growing at a rapid rate. Dianne kept handing him record sleeves for examination, announcing that this one was 'brilliant' and that one 'superb'. He thought that most of them were crap, but was too nervy to argue.

– Awright Rents! How's ma man? A hand hit his shoulder. He felt his skeleton and central nervous system briefly rip out of his skin, like wire through plasticine, then jump back in. He turned to see Deek Swan, Johnny Swan's brother.

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– No bad Deek. How ye livin? he responded with an affected casualness which belied his racing heartbeat.

– No sae bad boss, no sae bad. Deek noted that Renton had company, and gave him a knowing leer. – Ah've goat tae nash likes. See ye aroond. Tell Sick Boy tae gie us a bell if ye see um. The bastard owes us twenty fuckin bar.

– You n me both mate.

– His patter's pure abysmal. Anywey, see ye Mark, he said turning to Dianne. – See ye doll. Yir man here's too rude tae introduce us. Must be love. Watch this punter. They smiled uneasily at this first external definition of them, as Deek departed. Renton realised that he had to be alone. His hangover was growing brutal, and he just couldn't handle this.

– Eh, look Dianne . . . ah've goat tae nash. Meetin some mates doon in Leith. The fitba n that.

Dianne raised her eyes in knowing, weary acknowledgement, accompanying this gesture with what Renton thought were some strange clucking noises. She was annoyed that he was going before she could ask him about hash.

– What's your address? She produced a pen and a piece of paper from her bag. – No the Forrester Park one, she added, smiling. Renton wrote down his real address in Montgomery Street, simply because he was too out of it to think up a false one. As she departed, he felt a powerful twinge of self–loathing. He was unsure as to whether it came from having had sex with her, or the knowledge that he couldn't possibly again. However, that evening he heard the bell go. He was skint so he was staying in this Saturday night, watching Braddock: Missing in Action 3 on video. He opened the door and Dianne stood before him. Made–up, she was restored in his eyes to the same state of desirability as the previous evening.

– Moan in, he said, wondering how easily he'd be able to adjust to a prison regime. Dianne thought she could smell hash. She really hoped so.

STROLLING THROUGH THE MEADOWS

The pubs, likesay, dead busy, full ay loco–locals and festival types, having a wee snort before heading off tae the next show. Some ay they shows look okay . . . a bit heavy oan the hirays though, likesay.

Begbie's pished his jeans .

– Pished yir keks, Franco? Rents asks him, pointing at a wet patch oan the faded blue denim.

– Like fuck ah huv! It's jist fuckin water. Washin ma fuckin hands. No thit you'd fuckin ken aboot that, ya rid–heided cunt. This cunt's allergic tae water, especially if ye mix it wi fuckin soap.

Sick Boy's scannin the bar for women . . . chick crazy that kid. It's like he gets bored in the company of punters eftir a while. Mibbe that's why Sick Boy's good wi women; like mibbe cause he has tae be. Yeah, that could be it. Matty's talkin quietly tae hissel, shakin his heid. Thirs likesay somethin wrong wi Matty . . . no jist smack. It's Matty's mind, it's like a bad depression, likes. Renton and Begbie are arguing. Rents hud better watch what he's daein, likesay. That Begbie, man, it's likesay . . . that's a fuckin jungle cat. We're just ordinary funky feline types. Domestic cats, likesay.

– They cunts've goat the fuckin poppy. You're the cunt thits cywis fuckin gaun oan aboot killin the rich n aw that anarchy shite. Now ve want tae fuckin shite oot! Begbie sneers at Rents, and it's, likes, very ugly n aw; they dark eyebrows oan toap ay they darker eyes, that thick black hair, slightly longer than a skinheid.

– S no a question ay shitein oot Franco. Ah'm jist no intae it. Wir huvin a barry crack here. Wuv goat the speed n the E. Let's jist enjoy oorsels, mibbe go tae a rave club, instead ay wanderin aboot the fuckin Meadows aw night. Thuv goat a big fuckin theatre tent thair, n a fuckin fun fair up.

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It'll be crawlin wi polis. It's too much fuckin hassle man.

– Ah'm no gaun tae any fuckin rave clubs. You sais yirsel thit thir fir fuckin bairns.

– Aye, but that wis before ah went tae yin.

– Well ah'm no fuckin gaun tae yin. So let's fuckin pub crawl well, n git some cunt in the fuckin bogs.

Nah. Ah cannae he ersed.

– Fuckin shitein cunt! Yir still fuckin shitein yir keks aboot the other weekend in the Bull and Bush.

– Naw ah'm no. It wis jist unnecessary, that's aw. The whole fuckin thing. Begbie looked at Rents, and likes, really tensed up in his seat. He's straining forward, n ah thoat the dude wis gaunnac gub the Rent Boy, likesay, ken.

– Eh? Eh! Ah'll fuckin unnecessary ye, ya radge cunt!

– C'moan Franco. Take it easy man, Sick Boy says. Begbie seems tae realise that he's ower the top, likesay, even fir him. Keep these claws in catboy. Show the world some soft pads. This is a bad cat, a big, bad panther.

– We fill in some fuckin Sherman Tank. Whaes he tae you? The smart cunt deserved ivraything he goat! Besides, ah didnae see you fucking lookin the other wey whin we wir in the fuckin snug at the Barley divvyin up the fuckin loot.

– The guy ended up unconscious in the hoespital, he loast a loat ay fuckin blood. It wis in the New~

– The cunt's awright now though! It fuckin sais! Nae fuckin herm done tae nae cunt. N

even if thir wis, so fuck? Some fuckin rich American cunt whae shouldnae even fuckin he here in the first place. Whae gies a fuck aboot that cunt? N you ya cunt, you've chibbed some cunt before; Eck Wilson, at the school, so dinnae you fuckin start gaun aw fuckin squeanaish. That sortay shuts Rents up cause he likesay hates talkin aboot that, but it sortay happened, ken? That wis jist lashin oot at some cat that wis scratchin ye like, no likesay plannin tae dae some radge ower. Beggars likesay cannae see the difference but. It wis bad though, really sick likesay . . the Yank, the boy likes, jist wouldnae hand ower the wallet, even when Begbie pulled the chib, likesay . . the last words ah heard the dude say wis: You won't use that. Begbie went fucking crazy, goat that carried away likesay, Wi the bladework, ken, we nearly forgoat the wallet likes. Ah goat intae the guy's poakits and fished it oot while Begbie wis bootin um in the face. Blood wis flowin intae the latrine, mixin Wi the pish. ugly, ugly, ugly man, likesay, ken? Ah still shake thinkin aboot it. Ah lie in bed n likes, shudder. Everytime ah see a punter, likesay, whae looks like our catboy, Richard Hauser of Des Moines, Iowa, USA, ah freeze. Whenever ah hear a Yank voice in the toon, ah jump. Violence is fuckin ugly man. The Beggar, dear old Franco, he raped us likesay, raped us aw that night, sort ay shafted us up oor erses n peyed us oaf, like we wir hoors man, ken likes? Bad cat Beggar. A wild, wild cat.

– Whae's comin? Spud? Begbie's talkin tae us. He's bitin his bottom lip.

– Eh, likesay. . . eh. . . violence n that. . . isnae really ma sortay gig . . . ah'll jist stey n git bombed . . likesay, ken?

– Another shitein cunt, he turns away fae me no disappointed, like he sort ay expects nothin fae us in this kinday gig likesay . . . which is mibbe good n mibbe no sac good, but who really kens the score aboot anything these days, likesay?