Trainspotting

by Irvine Welsh

  — 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 th
e 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.

  Ah take the pints back. Nivir, ivir hit a lassie, ma faither often telt us. It’s the lowest scum thit dae that, son, he sais. This cunt thit’s been hittin the lassie, he fits that description. He’s goat greasy black hair, a thin white face n a black moustache. A wee ferret-faced fucker.

  Ah dinnae want tae be here. Ah jist came oot fir a quiet drink. Only a couple, ah promised Tommy, tae git um tae come. Ah’ve goat the bevvyin under control. Jist pints like, nae nips. Bit this kind ay thing makes us want a wee whisky. Carol’s away tae her Ma’s. No comin back, she sais. Ah came fir a pint, bit ah might jist git pished yit.

  Tommy’s breathin heavily n lookin tense as ah sit doon.

  — Fuckin tellin ye Secks . . . he sais through grinding teeth.

  The lassie’s eye is badly swollen and shuttin. Her jaw’s swollen n aw, and her mooth is still bleedin. She’s a skinny lassie n she looks like she’d snap intae pieces if he hit her again.

  Still, she cairries oan.

  — That’s yir answer. That’s eywis yir answer, she spits oot between sobs, angry n feelin sorry fir hersel at the same time.

  — Shut it! Ah’m tellin ye! Shut the fuck up! He’s nearly chokin wi anger.

  — Whit ye gaunnae dae?

  — Ya fackin . . . He seems ready tae punch her again.

  — That’s enough mate. Leave it. Yir oot ay order, Tommy sais tae the guy.

  — It’s nane ay your fuckin business! You keep oot ay this! The boy points at Tommy.

  — That’s enough thair. Come on now! The barman shouts. The corkscrew-heided cunt smiles and a couple ay the darts boys look ower.

  — Ah’m makin it ma fuckin business. Whit you gaunnae fuckin dae aboot it? Eh? Tommy leans forward.

  — Fuck sake Tommy. Cool it man. Ah half-heartedly grab his airm, thinkin ay the barman. He frees it wi a quick shake.

  — You want yir mooth punched? the boy sais.

  — Think ah’m gaunny jist sit here n lit ye dae it? Fuckin wide-o! Ootside then cunt. Cu-mauugghhnn! Tommy sort ay sings tauntingly.

  The boy’s shitein hissel. He’s right tae. Tommy’s quite a tidy cunt.

  — Nane ay your business, he sais, no soundin sae smart.

  Then the woman screams at Tommy.

  — That’s ma man! That’s ma fackin man yir talkin tae! Tommy’s too shocked tae stoap her as she leans ower an digs her nails intae his face.

  Everythin happened eftir that. Tommy stood up an punched the boy in the mooth, the guy fell back oaf his seat ontae the flair. Ah wis up n straight ower tae the corkscrew-heided cunt at the bar. Ah tanned um in the jaw n grabbed a haud ay his fuckin curls, haulin his heid doon, n bootin him a couple ay times in the face.

  Ah think he blocked one wi his hands, n ah doubt if the other hurt the cunt, cause ah’m wearin trainers. He swings wi his airms, brekin ma grip. Then he backs away, face beamin rid n confused. Ah thought the cunt would huv me then, he could’ve easily, but he jist stands thair n opens oot his hands.

  — What’s the fuckin score?

  — It’s a big joke tae you, eh? ah sais.

  — Whit ye talkin aboot? The cunt seems genuinely scoobied.

  — Ah’ll phone the polis! Git ootay here or ah’ll phone the polis! the barman sais, pickin up the receiver fir effect.

  — Nae hassle in here now boys, a big, fat cunt fae the darts team sais, threateningly. He’s still goat his arrays in his hand.

  — It’s nowt tae dae wi me mate, the corkscrew-heided cunt sais tae us.

  — Mibbe ah goat it wrong likesay, ah tell um.

  The woman and her man, thame thit caused the whole fuckin problem, we wir jist oot fir a quiet drink, ur skulkin oot ay the door.

  — Fuckin bastards. That’s ma man, she shouts tae us as they leave.

  Ah feel Tommy’s hand oan ma shoodir.

  — C’moan Seeks. Lits git ootay here, he sais.

  The fat cunt fae the darts team, he’s goat a rid shirt wi the pub name, a dartboard crest, and ‘Stu’ underneath it, he’s still goat plenty tae say fir hissel.

  — Dinnae come in here n cause bother, pal. This isnae your local. Ah ken your faces. Yous ur mates wi that rid-heided cunt n that Williamson laddie, the one wi the ponytail. These cunts ur fuckin drug-dealin scum. We di
nnae want that fuckin trash in here.

  — We dinnae deal fuckin drugs, pal, Tommy sais.

  — Aye. No in this fuckin pub ye dinnae, the fat cunt goes.

  — C’moan Stu. S no they boys’ fault. It’s that cunt Alan Venters n his burd. They’re mair intae drugs thin any cunt aroond here. You ken that, this other guy wi thin fair hair sais.

  — They should be daein that kind ay arguin in the hoose, no in a pub, another guy sais.

  — Domestic dispute. That’s whit it is. Shouldnae be botherin people thit ur jist oot fir a drink wi aw that, Fair-hair agrees.

  The worse bit is gitting ootside. Ah’m shitein masel in case wi git follayed. Ah’m walkin fast, while Tommy’s haudin back.

  — Stall the now, he sais.

  — Fuck off. Let’s git ootay here.

  We move doon the road. Ah look back, but nae cunt’s left the pub. We see that mental couple up ahead ay us.

  — Ah want a wee wurd wi that cunt, Tommy sais, ready tae start eftir thum. Ah clocks a bus comin. A 22. That’ll dae us.

  — Fuck it Tommy. Here’s a bus. C’moan. We run tae the stoap n git oan the bus. We go upstairs tae the back, even though wir only gaun a few stoaps.

  — How’s ma face? Tommy asks us whin we sit doon.

  — Same as usual. A fuckin mess. That burd improved it, ah tell um.

  He looks at his reflection in the bus windae.

  — The fuckin slag, he curses.

  — The pair ay fuckin slags, ah sais.

  That wis fuckin ace ay Tommy hittin the boy, likes, n no the bird, even if it wis the burd thit hit him. Ah’ve done loads ay things in ma time thit ah’m no proud ay, but ah’ve nivir hit a burd. Whit Carol sais is shite. She says thit ah used violence oan her, but ah nivir hit her. Ah jist held oantae her so thit we could talk. She sais restrainin is like hittin, it’s still violence against her. Ah cannae see that. Aw ah wanted tae dae wis tae keep her thair, tae talk.