Trainspotting

by Irvine Welsh

  They began touching each other. Dianne was enjoying the foreplay. Renton’s enthusiasm for this was a pleasant change from most of the guys she’d been with, but she felt his fingers go to her vagina and she stiffened and pushed his hand away.

  — I’m well lubricated enough, she told him. This made Renton feel a bit numb, it seemed so cold and mechanistic. He even thought at one stage that his erection had started to subside, but no, she was lowering herself onto it, and it was, miracle of miracles, holding firm.

  He groaned softly as she enclosed him. They started moving slowly together, penetrating deeper. He felt her tongue in his mouth and his hands were lightly feeling her arse. It seemed, it had been, so long; he thought that he was going to come straight away. Dianne sensed his extreme excitement. Not another useless prick, please no, she thought to herself.

  Renton stopped feeling her and tried to imagine that he was shagging Margaret Thatcher, Paul Daniels, Wallace Mercer, Jimmy Savile and other turn-offs, in order to bring himself off the boil.

  Dianne took the opportunity, and rode herself into a climax, Renton lying there like a dildo on a large skateboard. It was only the image of Dianne biting into her forefinger, in an attempt to stifle the strange squeaks she made as she came, her other hand on his chest, that caused Renton to get there himself. Even the thought of rimming Wallace Mercer’s arse couldn’t have stopped him by that time. When he started to come, he thought that he’d never stop. His cock spurted like a water pistol in the hands of a persistently mischievous child. Abstinence had made the sperm-count go through the roof.

  It had been close enough to a simultaneous climax for him to have described it in such a way, had he been one to kiss-and-tell. He realised the reason he’d never do this was because you always get more stud credibility from the enigmatic shrug and smile, than from divulging graphic details for the entertainment of radges. That was something he’d learned from Sick Boy. Even his anti-sexism was therefore overlayed with sexist self-interest. Men are pathetic cunts, he thought to himself.

  As Dianne dismounted him, Renton was drifting off into a blissful sleep, resolving to wake in the night and have more sex. He would be more relaxed, but also more active, and would show her what he could do, now that he had broken this bad run. He compared himself to a striker who had just come through a lean spell in front of goal, and now couldn’t wait for the next match.

  He was therefore cut to the bone when Dianne said: — You have to go.

  Before he could argue, she was out of the bed. She pulled on her pants to catch his thick spunk as it started to leave her and trickle down the insides of her thighs. For the first time he began to think about unprotected penetrative sex and the HIV risk. He’d taken the test, after he’d last shared, so he was clear. He worried about her, however; thinking that anyone who would sleep with him would sleep with anybody. Her intention to banish him had already shattered his fragile sexual ego, turning him from cool stud back into trembling inadequate in a depressingly short time. He thought that it would just be his luck to get HIV from one shag after sharing needles, although never the large communal syringes favoured in the galleries, over a period of years.

  — But kin ah no stey here? He heard his voice sound puny and biscuit-ersed, in tones that Sick Boy would mock mercilessly, had he been present. Dianne looked straight at him and shook her head. — No. You can stay on the couch. If you’re quiet. If you see anybody, this never happened. Put something on.

  Once again, self-conscious of his incongruously ginger pubic hair, he was happy to oblige.

  Dianne led Renton through to the couch in the front room. She left him shivering in his underpants before she returned with a sleeping-bag and his clothes.

  — Sorry about this, she whispered, kissing him. They necked for a bit and he started to get hard again. When he tried to put his hand inside her dressing gown she stopped him.

  — Ah have to go, she said firmly.

  Dianne departed, leaving Renton feeling empty and confused. He got onto the couch, pulled the sleeping-bag around him and zipped up. He lay awake in the dark, trying to define the contents of the room.

  Renton imagined Dianne’s flatmates to be dour bastards who disapproved of her bringing someone back. Perhaps, he decided, she didn’t want them to think that she would pick up a strange guy, bring him back and just fuck him like that. He bolstered his ego by telling himself that it was his sparkling wit and his unique, if flawed, beauty, which had swept her resistance away. He almost believed himself.

  Eventually he fell into a fitful sleep, characterised by some strange dreams. While he was prone to such weird dreams, these disturbed him as they were particularly vivid and surprisingly easy to recall. He was chained to a wall in a white room lit by blue neon, watching Yoko Ono and Gordon Hunter, the Hibs defender, munching on the flesh and bones of human bodies which lay dismembered on a series of large formica-topped tables. They were both hurling horrendous insults at him, their mouths dripping with blood as they tore at strips of flesh and chewed heartily between curses. Renton knew that he was next on the tables. He tried to do a bit of crawling to ‘Geebsie’ Hunter, telling him that he was a big fan of his, but the Easter Road defender lived up to his uncompromising tag and just laughed in his face. It was a great relief when the dream changed and Renton found himself naked, covered in runny shite and eating a plate of egg, tomato and fried bread with a fully clothed Sick Boy by the Water of Leith. Then he dreamt that he was being seduced by a beautiful woman who was wearing only a two-piece swimsuit made out of Alcan foil. The woman was in fact a man, and they were fucking each other slowly through different holes in their bodies which oozed a substance resembling shaving foam.

  He woke to the sound of cutlery clinking and the smell of bacon frying. He caught a glance of the back of a woman, not Dianne, disappearing into a small kitchen which was just off the living room. Then he felt a spasm of fear as he heard a man’s voice. The last thing Renton wanted to hear, hungover, in a strange place, wearing only his keks, was a male voice. He played at being asleep.

  Surreptitiously, under his eyelids, he noted a guy about his height, maybe smaller, edging into the kitchen. Although they spoke in low voices, he could still hear them.

  — So Dianne’s brought another friend back, the man said. Renton didn’t like the slightly mocking intonation on the term ‘friend’.

  — Mmm. But shush. Don’t you start being unpleasant, and jumping to the wrong conclusions again.

  He heard them coming back into the front room, then leaving it. Quickly, he pulled on his t-shirt and jumper. Then he unzipped the bag and threw his legs off the couch and jumped into his jeans, almost in one movement. Folding the sleeping-bag neatly, he stuck the settee’s displaced cushions back where they belonged. His socks and trainers were smelly as he put them on. He hoped, but in a futility that was obvious to him, that nobody else had noticed.

  Renton was too nervy to feel badly wasted. He was aware of the hangover though; it lurked in the shadows of his psyche like an infinitely patient mugger, just biding its time before coming out to stomp him.

  — Hello. The woman who wasn’t Dianne came back in.

  She was pretty with nice big eyes and a fine, pointed jawline. He thought he recognised her face from somewhere.

  — Hiya. Ah’m Mark, by the way, he said. She declined to introduce herself. Instead, she sought more information about him.

  — So you’re a friend of Dianne’s? Her tone was slightly aggressive. Renton decided to play safe and tell a lie which wouldn’t sound too blatant, and therefore could be delivered with some conviction. The problem was that he had developed the junky’s skill of lying with conviction and could now lie more convincingly than he told the truth. He faltered, thinking that you can always take the junk out of the punter before you can the junky.

  — Well, she’s more a friend of a friend. You know Lisa?

  She nodded. Renton continued, warming to his lies, finding the comforting rhythm of dec
eit.

  — Well, this is actually a wee bit embarrassing. It wis ma birthday yesterday, and ah must confess ah got pretty drunk. Ah managed tae lose ma flat keys and ma flatmate’s in Greece oan holiday. That wis me snookered. I could have just went home and forced the door, but the state ah wis in, ah just couldnae think straight. Ah would probably have got arrested for breaking intae ma own flat! Fortunately, ah met Dianne, who was kind enough to let me sleep on the couch. You’re her flatmate, right?

  — Oh . . . well, in a way, she laughed strangely, as he struggled to find out the score. Something was not right.

  The man came and joined them. He nodded curtly at Renton, who smiled weakly back.

  — This is Mark, the woman told him.

  — Awright, the guy said, noncommittally.

  Renton thought that they looked about his age, perhaps a bit older, but he was hopeless with ages. Dianne was obviously a bit younger that the lot of them. Perhaps, he allowed himself to speculate, they had some perverse parental feelings for her. He had noted that with older people. They often try to control younger, more popular and vivacious people; usually due to the fact that they are jealous of the qualities the younger people have and they lack. These inadequacies are disguised with a benign, protective attitude. He could sense this in them, and felt a growing hostility towards them.

  Then Renton was hit by a wave of shock which threatened to knock him incoherent. A girl came into the room. As he watched her, a coldness came over him. She was the double of Dianne, but this girl looked barely secondary school age.

  It took him a few seconds to realise that it was Dianne. Renton instantly knew why women, when referring to the removal of their makeup, often say that they are ‘taking their faces off’. Dianne seemed about ten years old. She saw the shock on his face.

  He looked at the other couple. Their attitude to Dianne was parental, precisely because they were her parents. Even through his anxiety, Renton still felt such a fool for not seeing it sooner. Dianne was so much like her mother.

  They sat down to breakfast with a bemused Renton being gently cross-examined by Dianne’s parents.

  — So what is it you do, Mark? the mother asked him.

  What he did, at least work-wise, was nothing. He was in a syndicate which operated a giro fraud system, and he claimed benefit at five different addresses, one each in Edinburgh, Livingston and Glasgow, and two in London, at Shepherd’s Bush and Hackney. Defrauding the Government in such a way always made Renton feel virtuous, and it was difficult to remain discreet about his achievements. He knew he had to though, as sanctimonious, self-righteous, nosey bastards were everywhere, just waiting to tip off the authorities. Renton felt that he deserved this money, as the management skills employed to maintain such a state of affairs were fairly extensive, especially for someone struggling to control a heroin habit. He had to sign on in different parts of the country, liaise with others in the syndicate at the giro-drop addresses, hitch down at short notice to interviews in London on a phone tip-off from Tony, Caroline or Nicksy. His Shepherd’s Bush giro was in doubt now, because he had declined the exciting career opportunity to work in the Burger King in Notting Hill Gate.

  — Ah’m a curator at the museums section of the District Council’s Recreation Department. Ah work wi the social history collection, based mainly at the People’s Story in the High Street, Renton lied, delving into his portfolio of bogus employment identities.

  They looked impressed, if slightly baffled, which was just the reaction he’d hoped for. Encouraged, he attempted to score further Brownie points by projecting himself as the modest type who didn’t take himself seriously, and self-deprecatingly added: — Ah rake around in people’s rubbish for things that’ve been discarded, and present them as authentic historical artefacts ay working people’s everyday lives. The ah make sure that they dinnae fall apart when they’re oan exhibition.

  — Ye need brains fir that, the father said, addressing Renton, but looking at Dianne. Renton couldn’t make eye-contact with the daughter. He was aware that such avoidance was more likely to arouse suspicion than anything else, but he just couldn’t look at her.

  — Ah wouldnae say that, Renton shrugged.

  — No, but qualifications though.

  — Aye, well, ah’ve goat a degree in history fae Aberdeen University. This in fact, was almost true. He’d got into Aberdeen University, and found the course easy, but was forced to leave mid-way through the first year after blowing his grant money on drugs and prostitutes. It seemed to him that he thus became the first ever student in the history of Aberdeen University to fuck a non-student. He reflected that you were better making history than studying it.

  — Education’s important. That’s what we’re always telling this one here, said the father, again taking the opportunity to make a point to Dianne. Renton didn’t like his attitude, and liked himself even less for this tacit collusion with it. He felt like a pervert uncle of Dianne’s.

  It was just as he was consciously thinking: Please let her be sitting her Highers, that Dianne’s mother smashed that prospect of damage limitation.

  — 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. Stoat 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 Begbie: — 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 off 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 in bars. This couple looked so obscenely wholesome to him. The fat
her 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 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.