Trainspotting (20 page)

Clear as a bell, you fuckin docile cunt. I love you, shite–for–brains.

– Thank you, your honour. I'm only too well aware of the disappointment I've been to my family and friends and that I am now wasting valuable court time. However, one of the key elements in rehabilitation is the ability to recognise that the problem exists. I have been attending the clinic regularly, and am undergoing maintenance therapy having been prescribed methadone and temazepan. I'm no longer indulging in self–deception. With god's help, I'll beat this disease. Thank you again.

The magistrate looks closely at us tae see if thirs any sign ay mockery oan ma face. No chance it'll show. Ah'm used tae keepin deadpan whin windin up Begbie. Deadpan's better than dead. Convinced it's no bullshit, the doss cunt dismisses the session. Ah walk tae freedom; perr auld Spud gits taken doon.

A polisman gestures tae him tae move.

– Sorry mate, ah sais, feelin cuntish.

– Nae hassle man . . . I'll git oaf the skag, and Saughton's barry fir hash. It'll be a piece ay pish likesay . . . he sais, as he's escorted away by a po–faced labdick. In the hall ootside the courtroom, ma Ma comes up tae us n hugs us. She looks worn oot, Wi black circles under her eyes.

– Aw laddie, laddie, whit ah'm ah gaunnae dae Wi ye? she sais.

– Silly bastard. That shite'll kill ye. Ma brother Billy shakes his heid. Ah wis gaunnae say something tae the cunt. Nae fucker asked him tae come here, and his crass observations are equally unwelcome. However, Frank Begbie came ower as ah wis aboot tae speak.

– Rents! Nice one ma man! Some fuckin result, eh? Shame aboot Spud, but it's better thin we fuckin expected. He'll no dae ten months. Be oot in fuckin six, Wi good behaviour. Less, even. Sick Boy, looking like an advertising executive, pits his airm aroond ma Ma, and gies us a reptilian smile.

– This calls fir a fuckin celebration. Deacon's? Franco suggests. Like junkies, we file out after him. Nobody hus the motivation tae dae anything else, and pish wins by default.

– If you knew what you've done tae me n yir faither. . . ma Ma looked at us, deadly serious.

– Stupid fucker, Billy sneered, – nickin books oot ay shoaps. This cunt wis gettin ma fuckin goat.

– Ah've been nickin books oot ay fuckin shoaps fir the last six years. Ah've goat four grand's worth ay books at Ma’s n in ma flat. Ye think ah boat any ay thaim? That’s a four–grand profit oan nickin books, doss cunt.

– Aw Mark, ye didnae, no aw they books . . . Ma looked heartbroken.

– But that's me finished now, Ma. Ah eywis sais thit the first time ah goat caught; that wis it over. Yir snookered eftir that. Time tae hang up yir boots. Finito. Endy story. Ah was serious aboot this. Ma must've thought so tae, cause she changes tack.

– And watch your language. You as well, she turned tae Billy.

– Ah dunno whair yis got that fae, cause yis nivir heard it in ma hoose. Billy raises his eyebrows dubiously at me, and ah'm gieing him the same gesture back, a rare display ay sibling unity between us.

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Everybody gits a bit pished quickly. Ma embarrasses Billy n me, by talkin aboot her periods. Jist because she wis forty–seven n still goat periods, she hud tae make sure everybody kent aboot it.

– Ah wis flooded. Tampons ur useless Wi me. Like tryin tae stoap a burst water main Wi an Evening News, she laughed loudly, throwing her heid back in that sickening, sluttish too–many–Carlsberg–Specials–at–the–Leith–Dockers–Club gesture ah knew so well. Ah real ise that Ma's been drinkin this morning. Probably mixin it Wi the vallies.

– Awright Ma, ah sais.

– Dinnac tell us yir auld mother's embarrassing ye? She grabs ma thin cheek in between her thumb n forefinger. – Ah'm jist gled thit thuv no taken ma wee bairn away. He hates bein called that. Ye'll always be ma wee bairns, the two ay yis. Remember whin ah used tae sing ye yir favourite song, whin ye wir a wee thing in yir pushchair?

Ah clamped ma teeth tightly thegither, as ah felt ma throat go dry and the blood drain fae ma face. Surely tae fuck, naw.

– Momma's little baby loves shortnin shortnin, momma’s little baby loves shortnin bread. .

. she sang tunelessly. Sick Boy gleefully joined in. Ah wished that ah hud gone doon instead ay that lucky cunt Spud.

– Wid momma's little baby like another pint? Begbie asked.

– Aye, yis might bloody sing as well. Ye might bloody sing, ya fuckin bastards! Spud's Ma had come intae the pub. – Really sorry ahoot Danny, Mrs Murphy. . . ah began.

– Sorry! Ah'll gie yis sorry! If it wisnae for you n this crowd ay bloody rubbish, ma Danny widnae be in the fuckin jail right now!

– Come oan now Colleen hen. Ah ken yir upset, but that's no fair. Ma stood up.

– Ah'll tell ye bloody fair! It wis this yin! She pointed venomously at me. – This yin goat ma Danny oantae that stuff. Bloody standin up thair, fill ay his fancy talk in the court. This yin thair, and that bloody pair. Sick Boy and Beggars were included, tae ma relief, in her anger Sick Boy said nothing, but raised himself slowly in the chair with an I've–never–been–so–insulted–in–all–my–life expression, followed by a sad, patronising shake of his head

– That's fuckin oot ay order! Begbie snapped ferociously. There were no sacred cows for that cunt, not even auld ones fae Leith whose laddies had jist been sent tae jail. – Ah nivir touch that shite, and ah've telt Rents n Spu. . . Mark n Danny thit thir radges daein it! Sick . . . Simon's been clean fir fuckin months. Begbie stood up, fuelled by his own indignation. He thrashed at hisown chest with his fist, as if to stop himself from striking Mrs Murphy, and screamed in her face: – AH

WIS THE FACKIN CUNT TRYIN TAE GIT UM OAF IT!

Mrs Murphy turned away and ran oot ay the pub. The expression oan her face got tae us; it wis one ay total defeat. No only hud she loast her son tae prison, she'd hud her image ay him compromised. Ah felt fir the woman, and resented Franco.

– Aye, she's the billy ay the washhoose, that yin, Ma commented, but adding wistfully, – ah kin feel fir her though. Her laddie gaun tae jail. She looked at me, shaking her head. – For aw the hassle, ye wouldnae be withoot them. How's your wee yin, Frank? She turned to Begbie. I cringed to think about how easily people like ma Ma were taken in by punters like Franco.

– Barry, Mrs Renton. Gittin some some fuckin size.

– Call us Cathy. Ah'll Mrs Renton yis! Yis make us feel ancient!

– Ye are, ah commented. She ignored us completely, and naebody else laughed, no even Billy. Indeed, Begbie and Sick Boy looked at us like disapproving uncles do tae a cheeky brat whae it isnae their place tae chastise. Ah'm now relegated tae the same status as Begbie's bairn.

– Wee laddie, is it Frank? Ma asks her fellow parent.

–Aye, too right. Ah sais tae Ju, ah sais, if it's a lassie it's gaun right back. Ah could just see 'Ju' now, Wi that grey, porridge–coloured skin, greasy hair and thin body with the sagging flesh still hanging off it, her face frozen neutral, deatbly; unable tae smile or frown. The valium taking the edge off her nerves as the bairn lets rip with another volley of shudder–inducing screams. She'll love that child, as much as Franco'll be indifferent tae the perr wee cunt. It'll be a smothering, indulgent, unquestioning, forgiving love, which will ensure that the kid turns oot tae be jist like its daddy. That kid's name wis doon fir H.M. Prison Saughton when it was still in June's womb, as sure as the foetus of a rich bastard is Eton–bound. While this process is going on, daddy Franco will be whair he is now: the boozer.

– Ah'll be an auld grandma masel soon! God, ye widnae believe it. Ma Ma looked at Billy

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with awe and pride. He simpered proudly. Since he'd got his lemon, Sharon, up the stick, he was my Ma and faither's golden boy. Forgotten is the fact thit that cunt's brought the labdicks tae the hoose mair times thin ah hud ivir done; at least ah hud the decency no tae shite oan ma ain doorstep. This now means fuck all. Just because he's signed up fir the fuckin army again, six bastard years this time, and bairned some slag. Ma Ma n faither ought tae be askin the cunt what the fuck he’s daein WI his life. But naw. It's aw proud smiles.

– If it's a lassie Billy, git her tae take it back, Begbie repeated, slurring this time. The bevvy wis getting to him. Another cunt whae's been oan the pish since fuck knows when.

– That's the spirit Franco, Sick Boy slapped Begbie on the back, tryin tae encourage the radge, tae gie him mair rope so that he'll come oot with another crass Begbie classic or two. We collect aw his stupidest, most sexist and violent quotes tae use whin impersonating him whin he's no aroond. We kin make oorsels almost ill Wi convulsive laughter. The game hus an edge: thinking aboot how he'd respond if he found oot. Sick Boy hus even started makin faces behind his back. One day, either one ay us or the baith ay us 'Il go too far, and be marked by fist, bottle or subjected tae

'the discipline ay the basebaw bat'. (One ay Begbie's choice quotes.) We taxied doon tae Leith. Begbie hud began grumbling aboot 'toon prices' and hud started tae pursue a totally irrational advocacy ay Leith as an entertainment centre. Billy agreed, wantin tae get closer tae hame, reasoning that his pregnant burd wid be mair easily appeased if the placatory phone call came fi a local pub.

Sick Boy would huv heartily denounced Leith, hud ah no done so first. The cunt therefore took great delight in phoning the taxi. We goat intae a pub at the Fit ay the Walk, one thit ah've nivir liked, but one thit we always seemed tae git stuck in. Fat Malcolm, behind the bar, goat us a double voddy oan the house. – Heard ye goat a result. Well done that man. Ah shrugged. A couple ay auldish guys wir treatin Begbie like he wis a Hollywood star; listening indulgently tae one ay his stories that wisnae particularly funny, and this they'd probably heard many times before anyway.

Sick Boy bought a roond ay drinks, makin a total meal ay it, ostentatiously waving his money aboot.

– BILLY! LAGER? MRS RENTON ... EH CATHY! WHAT'S THAT? GIN N

BITTER LEMON? he shouted back at the corner table fae the bar. Ah realised thit Begbie, now involved in a conspiratorial tale Wi an ugly, box–heided wanker, the type who ye avoid like the plague, hud slipped Sick Boy the dough tae git the bevvy up. Billy wis arguing Wi Sharon oan the phone.

– Ma fuckin brar gits oaf fi gittin sent doon! Nickin books, assaul tin a member ay the shoap's staff, possession ay drugs. The spawny cunt gits a result. Even ma Ma's here! Ah'm entitled tae celebrate, fuck sake .. .

He must have been desperate if he wis reduced tae playin the brotherly love caird.

–Thair's Planet Ay The Apes, Sick Boy whispered tae us, noddin ower at a guy whae drank in the pub. He looked like an extra fi that film. As always, he wis pished n tryin tae find company. Unfortunately, his eye caught mine, n he came ower tae us.

Interested in hoarses? he asks.

– Naw.

– Interested in fitba? he slurs.

– Naw.

– Rugby? he's soundin desperate now.

– Naw, ah sais. Whether he wis oan the make or jist wanted company wis difficult tae determine. Ah don't think the cunt knew hissel. He hud lost interest in me anywey, n turned tae Sick Boy.

– Interested in hoarses?

– Naw. Ah hate fitba n rugby n aw. Films ah like though. Especially yon Planet Ay The Apes? Ivir seen that yin? Ah lap that up.

– Aye! Ah remember that yin! Planet Ay The Apes. Charlton Fuckin Heston. Roddy Mc.

. . what's the boy's name? Wee cunt. Ye ken whae ah'm talkin aboot. He kens whae ah'm talkin aboot! Planet Ay The Apes turns tae us.

– McDowall. – That's the cunt! He says triumphantly. He turns tae Sick Boy again. –

Whair's yir wee burd the day? – Eh? Whac's that? Sick Boy asks, totally scoobied. –That wee blonde piece, the one ye wir in here Wi the other night.

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– Aw, aye, her.

– Tidy wee bit ay fanny . . . if ye dinnae mind us sayin, likesay. Nae offence likes, pal.

– Naw, nae problem mate. Yours fir fifty bar, n that's nae joke. Sick Boy's voice droaps

– You serious?

– Aye. Nae kinky stuff, jist a straight hump. Cost ye fifty bar. Ah couldnae believe ma ears. Sick Boy wisnae jokin. He wis gaun tae try tae set up Planet Ay The Apes Wi wee Maria Anderson, this junky he'd been fucking on and oaf for a few months. The cunt wanted tae pimp her oot. Ah felt sickened at what he'd come tae, what we'd aw come tae and started tae envy Spud again. Ah pull um aside. – Whit's the fuckin score?

– The score is ah'm looking eftir numero uno. Whit's your fuckin problem? When did you go intae social work?

– This is fuckin different Ah dinnae ken whit the fuck's gaun oan Wi you mate, ah really dinnae.

– So you're Mister fuckin Squeaky Clean now, eh?

– Naw, bit ah dinnae fuck ower any cunt else.

– Git ootay ma face. Tell us it wisnae you thit turned Tommy oantae Seeker n that crowd. His eyes wir crystal clear and treacherous, untainted by conscience or compassion. He turned away n moved back ower tae Planet Ay The Apes.

Ah wis gaunny say thit Tommy hud a choice; wee Maria disnae. Aw that would huv done wis precipitate an argument aboot whair choice began and ended. How many shots does it take before the concept ay choice becomes obsolete? Wish tae fuck ah knew. Wish tae fuck ah knew anything.

As if oan cue, Tommy came intae the pub; follayed by Second Prize, whae wis guttered. Tommy's started using. He nivir used before. It's probably our fault; probably ma fault. Speed wis cywis Tommy's drag. Lizzy's kicked um intae touch. He's awfay quiet, awfay subdued. Second Prize isnae

– The Rent Boy knocks it oaf! Hey'. Ya fuckin cunt thit ye are! he shouts, crushin ma hand.

A chorus ay 'there's only one Mark Renton' echoes through–out the pub. Auld, toothless Willie Shane is giein it laldy. So's Beggars's grandfaither, a nice auld cunt Wi one leg. Beggars and twoly his psychotic friends whae ah dinnae even ken ur singing, so's Sick Boy n Billy, even ma Ma. Tommy slaps us oan the back. – Nice one ma man, he sais. Then: – Goat any smack?

Ah tell um tae forget it, leave it alane while he still can. He tells us, aw the cocky cunt like, thit he can handle it. Seems tae me ah've heard that line before. Ah've spun it masel, n probably ah'll dae so again.

Ah'm surrounded by the cunts thit ur closest tae us; but ah've nivir felt so alone. Nivir in ma puff.

Planet Ay The Apes hus insinuated hissel intae the company. The thought ay that cunt shaggin wee Maria Anderson is not aesthetically appealing. The thought ay that cunt shaggin anybody isnae aesthetically appealing. If he tries tae talk tae ma Ma, ah'll gless the fucker's primate pus. Andy logan comes intae the pub. He's an exuberant cunt who reeks ay petty crime and prison. Ah met Loags a couple ay years ago when we were baith workin as park attendants at a council golf course, and pocklin loads ay cash. It wis the ticket checker in the park patrol van whae pit us oantae the scam. Lucrative times; ah nivir used tae touch ma wages. Ah like Loags, bit oor friendship nivir developed. Aw he could talk aboot wir these times.

Everybody wis at it, the reminiscing game. Each conversation began Wi 'mind the time whin .' and we were talkin aboot perr auld Spud now.

Flocksy came intae the boozer and gestured us ower tae the bar He asked us fur skag. Ah'm oan the programme. It's mad. It wis ironic thit ah git nicked fir stealin hooks whin ah'm tryin tae git sorted oot. Its this methadone though, it’s a fuckin killer. Gies us the heebiejeehies. Ah hud it bad in the bookshoap whin that baw–faced cunt hud tae try tae play the hero. Ah tell Flocksy ah'm oan the maintenance, n he jist fucks off without sayin another word. Billy clocked us talkin tae um n follays the cunt ootside, but ah bombs ower n pulls his airm.

– Ah'm gaunnae brek that fuckin trash up . . . he hisses through his teeth.

– Leave um, he's awright. Flocksy's headin doon the road, oblivious tae aw this, oblivious tae everything except the procurement ay smack.

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– Fuckin trash. Ye deserve everything ye fuckin git hingin aboot Wi that scum. He goes back in n sits doon, bit only because he sees Sharon n June comin doon the road. When Begbie clocks June in the pub, he glowers accusingly at her.

– Whair's the bairn?

– He's at ma sisters, June sais timidly. Begbie's belligerent eyes, open mouth and frozen face turn away from her, trying to absorb this information and decide whether he feels good, bad or indifferent about it. Eventually he turns tae Tommy and affectionately tells him that he's some cunt. What huv ah goat here? Billy's fuckin nosey, reactionary bastard's outrage. Sharon lookin at us like ah've goat two heids. Ma, drunk and sluttish, Sick Boy . . . the cunt. Spud in the jail Matty in the hospital, and nae cunt’s been tae see um, nae cunt even talks aboot um, it's like he never existed. Begbie . . . fuck sakes, glowing, while June looks like a pile ay crumpled bones in that hideous shell–suit, an unflattering garment at the best ay times, but highlighting her jagged shapelessness.

Ah go tae the bog and when ah finish ma pish ah ken ah cannae go back in thair tae face that shite. Ah sneak out through the side door. It's still fourteen hours n fifteen minutes until ah kin git ma new fix. The state–sponsored addiction: substitute methadone for smack, the sickly jellies, three a day, for the hit. Ah've no known many junkies oan that programme whae didnae take aw three jellies at once and go oot scorin. The morn's morn, that's how long ah've goat tae wait till. Ah decide ah cannae wait that long. Ah'm off tae Johnny Swan's for ONE hit, just ONE FUCKIN HIT

tae get us ower this long, hard, day.

JUNK DILEMMAS NO.66

It's a challenge tae move: but it shouldnoe be. Ah can move. It has been done before. By definition. we, humans, likes, are matter in motion. Why move anyway. when you have everything you need right here. Ah'll soon huv tae move though. Ah'll move when ah'm sick enough; ah know that through experience as well. Ah jist cannae conceive ay ever being that sick that ah'll want tae move. This frightens me, because ah'll need tae move soon. Surely ah'll be able tae dae it; surely tae fuck.

DEID DUGS

Ah ... . the enemy ish in shite, as the old Bond would have said, and what a fuckin sight the cunt looks as well. Skinheid haircut, green bomber–jaykit, nine–inch DMs. A stereotypical twat; and there's the woof–woof trailing loyally behind. Pit Bull, shit bull, bullshit terrier . . . a fuckin set ay jaws on four legs. Aw, it's pishing by a tree. Here boy. here boy. The sport ay living over a park. Ah fix the beast in ma telescopic sights; it could just be my imagination, but they seem tae be a wee bitty out these days, veering tae the right. Still, Simone is a good enough marksman tae compensate for this malfunction in his trusted technology, this old .22 air rifle. Ah swing ower tae the skinheid, targeting his face. An then travel up and doon his body, up and doon, up and doon. . . take it easy baby . take it one more time . . . nobody has ever given the bastard this much attention, this much care, this much. . . yes, love, in his puff It's a great feeling, knowing that you have the power to inflict such pain, fae yir am front room. Call me the unsheen ashashin Mish Moneypenny.

It's the Pit Bull ah'm eftir though; ah want tae get him tae turn on his master, tae sever the touching man–beast relationship along with his owner's testicles. I hope the shit–bull's got mair bollocks than that stupid Rottweiler ah shot the other day. An blasted the big cunt in the side ay the face, and did the pathetic bastard turn on his glakit master in the shell–suit? Did he heckers laik, as Vera and Ivy oot ay Coronation Street would say. The cunt just started whimpering. They call me the Sick Boy, the scourge of the schemie, the blooterer of the brain–dead. This one's for you Fido, or Rocky, or Rambo, or Tyson or whatever the fuck your shite–brained,