Trainspotting

by Irvine Welsh

  Ah cut through Woolies, which is busy, likesay, really busy. The security dude’s engrossed in chatting up this sexy catgirl on the checkout likesay, so ah pocket a set ay blank tapes . . . the pulse races, then slowly dips . . . it’s a good feeling, likesay, the best… well maybe second best behind the smack hit and likesay comin wi a lassie. So good, that the adrenalin kick makes us want tae head up the toon, oan a choryin spree, like.

  The heat, man, is . . . hot. That’s the only way ye can really describe it, ken? Ah head for the shore, n sit oan a bench near the dole office. That double ten-spot feels good in ma poakit, likesay opens a few mair doors, ken? So ah sit lookin at the river. Thirs a big swan in the river, ken? Ah think aboot Johnny Swan, n gear. This swan though, is fuckin beautiful, likes. Ah wish ah’d got some bread, likesay, tae feed the punter wi.

  Gav works fir the dole. Mibbe ah’ll catch the cat oan his lunch brek, stand the dude a pint or two, likesay. Ah’ve been bought a few by him lately. Ah see Ricky Monaghan comin oot the dole. An okay gadge, ken.

  — Ricky . . .

  — Awright Spud. What ye up tae?

  — Eh, no much gaun doon ma end catboy. Ye see the whole kit n kaboodle, likesay.

  — Bad as that?

  — Worse catboy, worse.

  — Still oaf the collies?

  — Four weeks n two days since ma last bit ay Salisbury Crag, ken? Countin every second man, countin every second. It’s tick-tock, tick-tock, likesay, ken.

  — Feelin better fir it?

  S likesay only then thit ah realise that ah am; bored as fuck ken, but physically, likesay . . . aye. The first fortnight was an extended death trip man . . . but now, likes, ah could handle some hot sex wi a Jewish princess or a Catholic girl, complete wi white soacks, goatay be complete wi the white soacks. Ken?

  — . . . Aye . . . ah do feel sortay better, likesay.

  — Gaun tae Easter Road oan Setirday?

  — Eh, naw . . . It’s been likesay, donks, since ah went tae the fitba, ken. Mibbe ah could go though. Wi Rents . . . but Rents is in London the now . . . or Sick Boy n that. Go wi Gav, n buy um a couple ay pints . . . see the Cabs again. —… well, mibbe. See how it goes likesay, ken. Ye gaun?

  — Naw. Ah sais last season thit ah wisnae gaun back until they goat rid ay Miller. We need a new manager.

  — Yeah . . . Miller . . . we need a new cat in the manager’s basket . . . Ah didnae even ken whae the manager wis, likesay, couldnae even tell ye the names ay the cats in the team, likes. Mibbe Kano . . . but ah think Kano might’ve moved oan. Durie! Gordon Durie!

  — Durie still in the team?

  Monny jist looks at us and kinday shakes his heid.

  — Naw, Durie wis transferred ages ago, Spud. Eighty-six. Went tae Chelsea.

  — Yeah, right man. Durie. Ah remember that cat scorin a cracker against Celtic. Or wis it Rangers? Same thing really though man, when ye think aboot it likesay . . . kinday different sides ay the same coin, ken?

  He shrugs. Ah doubt ah’ve convinced the cat.

  Ricky chums us, or it’s likesay ah chums him . . . ah mean, eh, whae really kens whae’s chummin whae in this cracked scene these days man? But whaever’s chummin whae, it’s destination Fit ay the Walk again. Life can be borin without skag. Rents is in London; Sick Boy’s sniffin aroond up the toon aw the time, the famous old port just does not seem to be cool enough for that cat these days; Rab, the Second Prize likes, has just vanished and Tommy seems to have gone tae groond since he split fae that Lizzy chick. That likesay leaves me n Franco . . . some life man, ah kin tell ye.

  Ricky, Monny, Richard Monaghan, fellow Fenian freedom fighter, to be sure, to be sure, likesay fucks off, tae meet this lemon up the toon. This leaves yours truly on his Jack Jones, likesay. Ah decide tae visit Na Na in the sheltered housing gaffs at the bottom ay Easter Road, likes. Na Na hates it thair, even though she’s likes, goat a barry pad. Wish ah could git one like that, ken. Dead smart, but only for aulder cats, likesay. Ye just pull a cord and an alarm goes, and this warden like, comes n sorts it aw oot fir ye, ken. That would be right up ma street man, wi Frank Zappa’s daughter, that crazy chick, the Valley girl, Moon Unit Zappa as warden, likesay. A dead peachy scene that would be, ah kid you not catboy!

  Na Na’s pins are fucked up likes, and the quack sais that it was too radge, her strugglin up tae the toap flight ay stairs in her auld gaff at Lome Strasse. Too right, heap big medicine man. If ye took the varicose veins oot ay Na Na’s legs, likesay, thir wid be nae legs, nothin tae haud her up, ken? Ah’ve goat better veins in ma airms than she’s goat in her scrambled eggs. She still gave the Doc some stick, likes; auld cats have been markin oot their territory, so tae speak, for likesay, donks, and git attached tae it. Sure as fuck, they arenae gaunnae gie it up withoot a scrap. Claws come oot, and fur flies, man. That’s Na Na . . . Ms Mouskouri, as ah call her, ken?

  There’s a common-room for her block, likesay, which Na Na never uses, unless she’s tryin tae cruise that Mr Bryce. The auld punter’s family complained tae the Warden aboot her sexually harassing him. This Warden wifie tries tae mediate, likes, between ma Ma n Mr Bryce’s daughter, but Na Na reduces the daughter tae tears by making snide remarks aboot the bad birthmark oan her face. Sortay one ay they wine stains, ken? It’s likesay, thit Na Na picks oan people’s weaknesses, particularly other women, and uses that against them, ken?

  A series ay different locks click open, n Na Na smiles at us, n gestures us tae come in. Ah get a barry reception here, but ma Ma n sister git treated like, well, likesay, nothing. They dae everything fir Na Na n aw. But Na Na loves guys and hates lassies. She’s hud, likesay, eight bairns by five different men, ken. An that’s jist the ones we ken aboot.

  — Hullo . . . Calum . . . Willie . . . Patrick . . . Kevin . . . Desmond . . . she lists the names ay some ay her grandchildren, still likes, missin oot mine. Doesnae bother me though, likesay, ah git called ‘Spud’ that often, even ma Ma calls us it, ah sometimes forget ma name tae.

  — Danny.

  — Danny. Danny, Danny, Danny. An ah caw Kevin Danny n aw. How could ah forget that yin, Danny Boy!

  Well, likesay, how could she . . . Danny Boy and Roses Ay Picardy ur likesay the only songs she kens. Ken? She sortay sings at the toap ay her voice; a breathless, tuneless sound, wi her airms sortay raised intae the air fir effect, ken.

  — George’s here.

  Ah look aroond the bend ay the L-shaped room n clock ma Uncle Dode, slumped in a chair, sippin a can ay Tennent’s Lager.

  — Dode, ah sais.

  — Spud! Awright boss? How ye livin?

  — Peachy catboy, peachy. Eh, yirsel likesay?

  — Cannae complain. How’s yir Ma?

  — Er, still likesay gittin oan ma case as usual, ken?

  — Hi! That’s yir mother yir talkin aboot! The best friend ye’ll ever huv. S’at no right Ma? he asks Na Na.

  — Buckin right it is son!

  ‘Buckin’ is one ay Na Na’s favourite words likesay, along wi ‘pish’. Naebody says ‘pish’ like Na Na. She sortay drags oot the sssshhh, it’s likesay, ye kin see the steam rising oaf the yellay jet as it hits the white porcelain, ken?

  Uncle Dode gies her a big, indulgent sortay grin. Dode’s likesay half-caste, the son ay a West Indian sailor, ken, the product ay, likes, West Indian semen! Ken? Dode’s auld boy pulled intae Leith long enough tae git Na Na up the kite. Then it was back tae the seven seas. Sounds a good life likes, a sailor’s, likesay a burd in every port n that.

  Dode’s Na Na’s youngest bairn.

  She married ma Grandad first likes, a chancin auld cowboy fae County Wexford. The auld dude used tae sit ma Ma oan his lap n sing tae hur: Irish rebel songs, likesay. He hud hair growin oot ay his nostrils n she thought thit he wis ancient, the wey ankle-biters do, likes. The gadge could only huv been in his thirties, like. Anywey, this gadge sortay blew it likes, kinday fell fae the top-flair windae ay a tenement. He wis shaggin this other woman at the time, no Na Na likesay. Na
ebody could really tell whether it wis drunkenness, suicide, or likesay . . . well baith. Anywey, that yin left her wi three bairns, includin ma Ma.

  Na Na’s next (married) man wis a gravel-voiced dude whae hud once worked as a scaffolder, ken. The auld boy’s still oan the scene in Leith. The gadge once told us in a pub that scaffoldin wis classed as a trade now, likes. Rents, whae wis a chippy at the time, told the boy that that wis a loaday shite, that it wis semi-skilled, n the boy took the cream puff, likesay. Ah still sometimes see um up the Volley, likes. He’s no a bad auld punter. Lasted a year wi Na Na, but produced a bairn, wi another oan the wey, likesay.

  Wee Alec, the co-op insurance man, whae’d jist been widowed, wis Na Na’s next eh, victim, likesay. They said that Alec thought, ken, that the bairn Na Na wis cairyin wis his. He lasted three years, likesay, giein her another bairn, before the perr dude stormed oot, eftir likesay, catchin her shaggin another guy in the hoose.

  He sortay likes, waited fir the boy in the stair, or so the story goes, likesay, wi this boatil. The guy pleaded fir mercy. Alec pit the boatil doon, sayin thit eh didnae, likes, need a weapon tae sort the likes ay that boy oot. The gadge’s expression sortay changed, and he booted perr Alec aw ower the stair, draggin the perr cat intae the Walk, dazed and likesay, covered in blood, before flinging him oantae a pile ay rubbish stacked oan the kerb ootside a grocer’s shoap.

  Ma mother sais that Alec wis likesay, a decent wee man. He wis, ken, the only cat in Leith whae didnae ken that Na Na wis oan the game, likesay.

  The last but one bairn Na Na hud wis a real mystery, likesay. That’s ma Auntie Rita, whae’s much nearer ma age than ma Ma’s. Ah suppose ah’ve eywis hud the hots fir Rita, a cool chick, dead sortay sixties, ken? Naebody found oot whae Rita’s faither wis, but then came Dode, whae Na Na hud whin she wis well intae her forties, ken?

  When ah wis a sprog Dode eywis seemed a real spooky dude. You’d go up tae Na Na’s oan a Setirday, likesay, fir yir tea, and there would be this nasty young black cat, starin at everybody, before creepin oaf, likesay roond the skirtin boards. They aw said that Dode hud this chip oan his shoodir, n ah thought so n aw, until ah began tae suss the kinday abuse the gadge wis takin, at school n in the streets n aw that. It wis naebody’s business, ah kin tell ye man. Ah sortay jist laugh whin some cats say that racism’s an English thing and we’re aw Jock Tamson’s bairns up here . . . it’s likesay pure shite man, gadges talkin through their erses.

  There’s a strong tea-leaf tradition in ma family, likesay, ken? Aw ma uncles are oan the chorie. It wis eywis likesay, Dode, thit got the heaviest sentences for the pettiest crimes, ken. A fundamentally unsound gig man. Rents once sais, thirs nothin like a darker skin tone tae increase the vigilance ay the police n the magistrates: too right.

  Anyway, me n Dode decide tae hop on doon tae the Percy for a pint. The pub’s a wee bit crazy; normally the Percy’s a quiet family type pub, but it’s mobbed oot the day wi these Orange cats fi the wild west, who’re through here for their annual march and rally at the Links. These cats, it has tae be said, have never really bothered us, but ah cannae take tae them. It’s aw hate, likesay, ken. Celebratin auld battles seems, likesay, well, pretty doss. Ken?

  Ah see Rents’s auld man wi his brars and nephews. Rents’s brar Billy, he’s thair n aw. Rents’s auld boy’s a soapdodger and a Paris Bun, but he’s no really intae this sortay gig any mair. His family fi Glesgie sure are though, and his family seems tae matter tae Rents’s papa. Rents doesnae hit it oaf wi these cats; really sortay hates them, likesay. Doesnae like talkin aboot them. Different story wi Billy though. He’s intae aw this Orange stuff, this sortay Jambo/Hun gig. He gies us a nod fae the bar, but ah don’t think the cat really digs us, but.

  — Awright Danny! Mr R. sais.

  — Eh . . . sound Davie, sound likes. Heard fi Mark?

  — Naw. He must be daein awright. Only time ye hear fi that wan is whin he’s eftir somethin. He’s only half jokin, and these young nephew kittens are lookin us ower in a baaad way, so we git a seat in a corner by the door.

  Bad move . . .

  Wir in the vicinity ay some unsound lookin cats. Some ur skinheids, some urnae. Some huv Scottish, others English, or Belfast accents. One guy’s goat a Skrewdriver T-shirt oan, another’s likesay wearin an Ulster is British toap. They start singin a song aboot Bobby Sands, slaggin him off, likesay. Ah dunno much aboot politics, but Sands tae me, seemed a brave dude, likes, whae never killed anybody. Likesay, it must take courage tae die like that, ken?

  Then one guy, the Skrewdriver dude, seems frantically tryin tae gie us the stare, as desperately as we’re tryin tae avoid eye contact, likesay. It’s no that easy whin they start singing: ‘Aint no black in the union jack’. We stay cool, but this cat won’t be denied. His claws are oot. He shouts ower at Dode.

  — Oi! Wot you fucking looking at nigger!

  — Fuck you, Dode sneers. It’s a route the cat’s travelled down before. No me though. This is fuckin, likesay, heavy.

  Ah hear some Glasgow boy sayin that these guys, likesay, urnae real Orangemen, thir Nazis n that, but maist ay the Orange bastards present are lappin these cunts up, encouragin them, likesay.

  They aw start singing: — You black bastard! You black bastard!

  Dode gets up n goes ower tae thir table. Ah jist sees Skrewdriver’s mockin, distorted face change whin he realises, at the same time as ah do, that Dode’s goat a heavy gless ashtray in his hand . . . this is violence . . . this is bad news . . .

  … he thrashes the Skrewdriver dude’s heid wi it, and the boy’s dome sortay splits open as he faws oaf his stool ontae the flair. Ah’m sortay shakin wi fear, raw fear man, and one guy jumps at Dode, n they’ve goat um doon, so ah huv tae steam in. Ah pick up a gless and chin Rid Hand Ay Ulster, whae hauds his heid, even though the gless, likesay, doesnae even brek, but some cunt punches us in the guts wi such a sharp force it feels like ah’ve been stabbed man . . .

  — Kill that Fenyin bastard! some cunt sais, and they’ve goat us pinned against the waw, likes . . . ah jist starts lashin oot wi fist and boot, no feelin anything . . . n ah’m sortay likes, enjoyin masel man, because this is likesay, no like the real violence when ye see somebody like Begbie gaun radge or that, it’s likesay, comic stuff . . . cause ah cannae really fight likes, but ah don’t really think these dudes are great shakes either . . .it’s like they aw seem tae be gettin in each other’s road . . .

  Ah don’t really know what happened. Davie Renton, Rents’s dad, n Billy, his brar, must’ve pulled them oafay us, cause next thing ah’m sortay standin, pullin Dode, whae looks well fucked, ootside. Ah hears Billy sayin: — Git um oot Spud. Jist git um doon the fuckin road. Now ah feel really sair, aw ower, n ah’m sortay greetin like tears ay anger n fear but maistly frustration . . .

  — This is . . . likesay . . . fuck . . . this is, this is . . .

  Dode’s been chibbed. Ah gits um ower the road. Ah kin hear people shoutin behind us. Ah jist focus oan Na Na’s door, no darin tae look back. Wir in. Ah gits Dode up the stair. He’s bleedin fae his side and his airm.

  Ah phones an ambulance as Na Na’s cradlin his heid sayin: — Thir still buckin daein it tae ye son . . . when will they leave ye alain, ma laddie . . . since he wis it school, since he wis it the buckin school . . .

  Ah’m dead fuckin angry man, but at Na Na, ken? Wi a bairn likes ay Dode, ye’d think thit Na Na wid ken how anybody thit’s different, thit sortay stands oot, likesay, feels, ken? Likesay the woman wi the wine stain n that . . . but it’s aw hate, hate, hate wi some punters, and whair does it git us likesay, man? Whair the fuck does it git us?

  Ah chums Dode tae the hoespital. His wounds wir likesay no as bad as they looked. Ah goes intae see um lyin oan a trolley eftir thuv, likes, patched um up.

  — S awright Danny. Ah’ve hud a loat worse n the past, and ah’ll huv a hellay a loat worse in the future.

  — Dinnae say that man. Dinnae say that, ken?

  He looks at us like ah’ll nev
er really understand, n ah ken that he’s probably right.

  The First Shag In Ages

  They had spent most of the day getting stoned out of their boxes. Now they are getting pished in a tacky chrome-and-neon meat market. The bar is fussy in its range of overpriced drinks, but it misses by miles the cocktail-bar sophistication it is aiming at.

  People come to this place for one reason, and one reason only. However, the night is still relatively young, and the camouflage of drinking, talking and listening to music does not, at this point, seem too obvious.

  The dope and drink has fuelled Spud and Renton’s post-junk libidos to a rampant extent. To them, every woman in the place seems to look outstandingly sexy. Even some of the men do. They find it impossible to focus on one person who might be a potential target, as their gaze is constantly arrested by someone else. Just being here reminds the both of them how long it has been since they’ve had a shag.

  — If ye cannae git a Joe McBride in this place, ye might as well call it a day, Sick Boy reflects, his head bobbing gently to the sounds. Sick Boy can afford detached speculation, speaking, as he generally does in such circumstances, from a position of strength. Dark circles under his eyes attest to the fact that he has just spent most of the day shagging these two American women, who are staying at the Minto Hotel. There is no chance of either Spud, Renton or Begbie making up a foursome. They are both going back with Sick Boy, and Sick Boy alone. He is merely gracing them with his presence.

  — They’ve got excellent coke man. Ah’ve never had anything like it, he smiles.

  — Morningside speed man, Spud remarks.

  — Cocaine . . . fuckin garbage. Yuppie shite. Although he has been clean for a few weeks, Renton has the smack-head’s contempt for all other drugs.