Trainspotting

by Irvine Welsh

  — Fuck sakes. C’moan Spud, the fuckin bedroom. Cannae even git a bit ay fuckin peace in yir ain fuckin hoose! He gestures tae the door, like.

  — What’s aw this? June asks.

  — Dinnae fuckin ask. Jist you fuckin see tae yir fuckin bairn! Begbie snaps. The wey he sais it, it’s likesay, it’s no his bairn n aw, ken? Ah suppose in a wey he’s right, likesay; Franco’s no what ye’d really sortay call the parental type, ken . . . eh, what sortay type is Franco?

  It wis beautiful though man. Nae violence, nae hassle, ken. A set ay dummy keys, n we jist likesay, walked in. This wis the false panel in the flair tile behind the counter, under the till, and thair wis that big, canvas bag full ay that lovely poppy. Peachy! Aw they beautiful notes and coins. Ma passport tae better times man, ma passport tae better times.

  The doorbell rings. Me n Franco are a bit shit up in case it’s the labdicks, but it turns oot tae be the wee gadge, up fir his cut. Just as well, likesay, cause Franco n me’s goat coins n notes aw ower the bed; divvyin up likesay, ken?

  — Yis git it? the wee dude sais, eyes then wide in disbelief at the sight ay the goodies oan the bed.

  — Sit fuckin doon! You shut yir fuckin pus aboot this, right? Franco growls. The wee guy’s shiters, likesay.

  Ah wanted tae tell Franco tae go easy on the kiddo, ken? That’s likesay, the kitten that turned us oantay this bread. The wee guy told us the story, even slipped us the keys tae copy, likesay. Even though ah say nowt likes, the Begbie cat can still read ma face.

  — This wee cunt’ll be straight back doon the fuckin school throwin his fuckin poppy aboot tae impress his fuckin mates, n aw the wee burds.

  — Naw ah’ll no, the wee guy says.

  — Shut the fuck up! Begbie sneers. The guy shites it again. Begbie turns tae us. — Fuckin sure ah’d be, if it wis me.

  He stands up n throws three darts intae this board oan the waw, wi real force, real violence, man. The wee guy’s lookin worried.

  — Thir’s one fuckin thing worse thin a grassin cunt, he sais, takin the darts ootay the board n flingin thum back intae it wi the same evil force. — N that’s a fuckin lippy cunt. The cunt thit shoots his fuckin mooth oaf eywis does mair fuckin damage thin the grass. That’s the cunts thit fuckin feed the grass. The grass feeds the fuckin polis. Then wir aw fucked.

  Eh flings a dart straight at the wee guy’s face. Ah jump, n the wee boy screams, n starts greetin hysterically, shakin, like he’s huvin a fit, likesay.

  Ah see thit Begbie’s jist flung the plastic flight, huvin slyly screwed oaf the metal spike n barrel before flingin it. The wee guy’s still greetin, likesay, wi shock n that.

  — The fuckin flight, ya daft wee cunt! A wee bit ay fuckin plastic! Franco laughs scornfully and counts oot a load ay notes, but maistly jist the coins, fir the wee man. — Polis stoap ye, ye won it fae the shows at Porty, or in a fuckin arcade. Breathe a fuckin word ay this tae any cunt, n ye better fuckin hope thit the polis git a haud ay ye n send ye tae fuckin Polmont before ah fuckin catch up wi ye, ye hear us?

  — Aye . . the wee boy’s still tremblin, likesay.

  — Now fuck off, back tae yir fuckin Setirday joab at the DIY. Remember, if ah fuckin hear ay you flashin that fuckin poppy aroond, ah’ll be right fuckin doon tae your bit before ye ken whit’s fuckin hit ye.

  The wee guy takes his dough n leaves. Perr wee cunt goat nuthin really, aboot a couple ay hundred quid fae nears enough five grand, likesay. Still, bags ay loot for a cat that age, if ye catch ma drift. Mind you, ah still say thit Franco’s been a bit hard oan the nipper.

  — Hey man, that kids’s made us a couple ay grand each man . . . eh, jist sortay saying Franco, likesay, mibbe ye wir a bit hard oan the gadge, likesay, ken?

  — Ah dinnae fuckin want that wee cunt boastin, or flashin a fuckin wad aroond. Daein anythin wi wee cunts like that, it’s the riskiest fuckin business gaun. Thuv nae fuckin discretion, ken? That’s how ah like tae go screwin fuckin shoaps n hooses wi you Spud. Yir a true fuckin professional, like masel, n ye nivir say nowt tae nae cunt. Ah respect that fuckin professionalism, Spud. Whin ye goat true professionals oan a joab, it’s nae fuckin problem, ya cunt.

  — Yeah . . . right man, likesay, ah sais. What else kin ye say, likesay, ken? True professionals. Sounds awright tae me; sounds peachy.

  A Present

  Ah decided that ah couldnae handle steyin at ma auld girl’s; too much ay a heid-nip. So Gav’s pittin us up fir the duration ay Matty’s funeral. The train journey up wis uneventful; jist the wey ah wanted it. Some Fall tapes oan the Walkman, four cans ay lager n ma H.P. Lovecraft book. Nazi cunt, auld H.P., but he kin spin a good yarn. Ah set ma coupon intae the do-not-disturb-or-else-cunt mode every time a smiling jackass apologetically squeezes into the seat opposite me. It’s an enjoyable journey, and therefore a short one.

  Gav’s new gaff is in McDonald Road; ah decide tae pad the hoof. Whin ah git doon tae his place, he isnae in a happy frame ay mind. Ah’m jist aboot tae git a bit para; likes ah’ve mibbe imposed masel, when he indicates the source ay his misery.

  — Telling ye Rents, see that cunt Second Prize, he sais, shakin his heid bitterly n pointing tae an empty front room, — ah gave um the cash tae dae this place up; a bit ay plasterin and paintin. Ah’m away doon the B&Q, he sais tae us this mornin. No seen the cunt since.

  Ma instinct wis tae tell Gav thit he wis crazy tae commission Second Prize tae dae the joab in the first place; n totally fuckin doolally giein the cunt the poppy up front. Ah suspect, however, that’s no whit he wants tae hear right now, n ah am his guest. Instead, ah dump ma bag n the spare room n take um doon tae the pub.

  Ah want tae hear aboot Matty; what happened tae the cunt. Ah wis obviously shocked by the news, though it hus tae be said, far fae surprised.

  — Matty nivir knew he wis HIV, Gav said. — He probably hud been fir some time.

  — Wis it pneumonia or cancer, likes? ah ask.

  — Naw, eh toxoplasmosis. A stroke, ken.

  — Eh? Ah’m scoobied here.

  — Fuckin sad. Could only uv happened tae Matty, Gav shook his heid. — He wanted tae see his wee lassie, that wee Lisa, Shirley’s bairn, ken? Shirley widnae let um near the hoose. Nae wonder, the state ay um at the time. Anywey, ken wee Nicola Hanlon?

  — Aye, wee Nicky, aye.

  — Her cat hud kittens, so Matty gits one oafay her. The idea is thit the cunt’s gaunnae take it tae Shirley’s tae gie it tae the bairn ken? So he takes it oot tae Wester Hailes, tae gie it tae wee Lisa; a present fir her, ken?

  Ah cannae really see the connection between the kitten n Matty huvin a stroke, but this sounds a typical Matty tale. Ah shake me heid. — That sums Matty up. Git a wee cat as a gesture, then leave it fir some other fucker tae look eftir. Ah bet ye Shirley gave um the short shrift.

  — Exactly, the clueless cunt, Gav smiles, nodding grimly. — She says: Ah’m no wantin a cat tae look eftir, take it away, git tae fuck. So thair’s Matty stuck wi this kitten. Ye kin imagine whit happened. The thing wis neglected; the litter tray swimmin in pish; shite aw ower the hoose. Matty’s jist lyin aroond, fucked ootay his eyeballs oan smack or downers; or jist depressed, ye ken the wey he goat. As ah sais, he didnae ken he wis HIV. He didnae ken thit ye could git that toxoplasmosis fae cat shit.

  — Ah didnae ken either, ah sais. — Whit the fuck is it?

  — Aw, it’s fuckin horrible, man. It’s likesay brain abscesses, ken?

  Ah shivered, n felt a crushin weight oan ma chist, thinkin ay perr Matty. Ah hud an abscess oan ma knob once. Imagine huvin one oan yir fuckin brain, inside, yir fuckin heid bein full ay pus. Fuck sakes. Matty. Fuckin hell. — So whit happened?

  — He starts gittin heidaches, so he jist uses mair; tae blot oot the pain, ken? Then he hus, like a stroke. A boy ay twinty-five; a fuckin stroke, it’s no real. Ah didnae recognise the cunt eftir it. Nearly walked past um in the street; this is doon the Walk, ken? He looked fuckin ancient. He wis aw bent tae one side, hobblin like a cri
pple, wi his face aw twisted. He wis only like that fir aboot three weeks; then he hud a second stroke n died. He died in the hoose. The perr bastard hud been thair fir ages before the neighbours complained aboot the kitten’s miaows n the stench thit wis comin fae the place. The polis broke the door doon. Matty wis lyin deid, face doon in a pool ay dried vomit. The kitten wis fine.

  Ah thoat aboot the squat Matty n me shared in Shepherd’s Bush; that wis him at his happiest. He loved the whole punk thing. They loved him doon thair. He shagged every burd in that squat, includin that lassie fae Manchester thit ah’d been tryin tae git oaf wi fir donks, the spawny wee cunt. It aw started tae go wrong fir the perr bastard whin we came back up here. It nivir stoaped gaun wrong eftir that. Perr Matty.

  — Fuck sake, Gav muttered, — that cunt Perfume James. That’s aw we fuckin need.

  Ah looked up n saw the open, smilin face ay Perfume James comin taewards us. He hud his case n aw.

  — Awright James?

  — No bad boys, no bad. Whair ye been hidin yersel Mark?

  — London, ah goes. Perfume James wis a pain in the erse; he wis eywis tryin tae punt perfume tae ye.

  — Romantically involved these days, Mark?

  — Naw, ah took great pleasure in informin him.

  Perfume James frowned and puckered his lips: — Gav, how’s your good lady?

  — Awright, Gav mumbles.

  — If ah’m no mistaken, the last time ah saw ye doon here wi yir good lady, she wis wearin Nina Ricci, yeah?

  — Ah’m no wantin any perfume, Gav states with a cold finality.

  Perfume James twists his heid tae the side n extends his palms. — Your loss. Ah kin tell ye though, thir’s nae better way tae impress a lassie thin perfume. Flooirs are too temporary n ye kin firget chocolates in these figure-conscious times. Still, nae skin oafey ma nose, Perfume James smiles, opening his case anywey, as if the very sight ay these boatils ay pish’ll make us change oor minds. — Ah’ve done well the day though, ah cannae complain. Your mate, Second Prize, as a matter ay fact. Ah ran intae um in the Shrub an hour or so ago. He wis quite bevvied. He sais: Geez some ay that perfume, ah’m away doon tae Carol’s. Ah’ve treated her like shite, it’s time tae spoil ur a bit. Boat a fuckin stack, so he did.

  Gav’s chin visibly droaps. He clenches his fists n shakes his heid in angry resignation. Perfume James bounds over tae the lounge in search ay another victim.

  Ah flings back ma pint. — Let’s see if wi kin find Second Prize; before the cunt drinks every bit ay yir money away. Much did ye gie um?

  — Two hundred sobs, Gav sais.

  — Doss cunt, ah sais, sniggerin. Ah couldnae help it, it wis jist nerves.

  — Ah want ma fuckin heid looked at, Gav concedes, but he cannae force a smile. Ah suppose, whin all’s said n done, thir isnae a fuckin loat tae smile aboot.

  Memories of Matty

  1

  — Awright Nelly? Long fuckin time no see, ya cunt thit ye are, Franco smiled at Nelly, who looked incongruous in a suit, with a tattooed snake coiling up his neck and a palm-treed desert island with the sea lapping up drilled onto his forehead.

  — Pity it hus tae be under they circumstances likes, Nelly replied soberly. Renton, who was talking to Spud, Alison and Stevie, allowed himself a smile, upon hearing the first funeral cliché of the day.

  Taking up the cue, Spud said: — Perr Matty. Fuckin bad news, likesay, ken.

  — That’s it for me. Ah’m steyin clean, Alison said, shuddering, despite having her arms wrapped around herself.

  — Wir aw gaunnae be wiped oot if we dinnae git it thegither. That’s as sure as fuck, Renton acknowledged. — You taken the test yit Spud? he asked.

  — Hey . . . come oan man, this isnae the time tae be talkin aboot that . . . Matty’s funeral, likesay.

  — When is the time? Renton asked.

  — Ye really should, Danny, ye really should, Alison implored.

  — Mibbe yir better no tae ken. Ah mean, likesay, whit sortay life did Matty huv whin he kent he wis HIV?

  — That wis Matty. Whit sortay life did he huv before he kent he wis HIV? Alison said. Spud and Renton nodded acquiescence at this point.

  Inside the small chapel attached to the crematorium, the minister gave a short spiel about Matty. He had a lot of burnings to fit in that morning and couldn’t afford to fuck about. A few quick comments, a couple of hymns, one or two prayers and a click of a switch to send the corpse down into the incinerator. Just a few more of these, and that was his shift finished.

  — To those of us gathered here today, Matthew Connell filled a number of different roles in our lives. Matthew was a son, a brother, a father and a friend. Matthew’s last days in his young life were bleak, suffering ones. Yet, we must remember the real Matthew, the loving young man who had a great lust for life. A keen musician, Matthew loved to entertain friends with his guitar-playing . . .

  Renton could not make eye contact with Spud, standing next to him in the pew, as nervous laughter gripped him. Matty was the shitest guitarest he’d known, and could only play the Doors’ ‘Roadhouse Blues’ and a few Clash and Status Quo numbers with any sort of proficiency. He tried hard to do the riff from ‘Clash City Rockers’, but could never quite master it. Nonetheless, Matty loved that Fender Strat. It was the last thing he sold, holding onto it after the amplifier had been flogged off in order to fill his veins with shite. Perr Matty, Renton thought. How well did any of us really know him? How well can anybody really know anybody else?

  Stevie was wishing he was four hundred miles away, in his Holloway flat with Stella. It was the first time they’d been apart since they moved in together. He was ill at ease. Try as he might, he could not sustain the image of Matty in his head. Matty kept turning into Stella.

  Spud thought that it must be really crap to live in Australia. The heat, the insects, and all these dull suburban places that you see on Neighbours and Home and Away. It seemed like there were no real pubs in Australia, and that the place was like a warm version of Baberton Mains, Buckstone or East Craigs. It just seemed so boring, so shite. He wondered what it was like in the older parts of Melbourne and Sydney and whether they had tenements there, like in Edinburgh, or Glasgow or even New York, and if so, why they never showed them on the telly. He also wondered why he thought of Australia in connection with Matty. Probably because whenever they called round, he was lying junked on his mattress, watching an Aussie soap opera.

  Alison remembered the time when she had sex with Matty. That was ages ago now, before she was using. She would have been eighteen. She tried to remember Matty’s cock, the dimensions of it, but couldn’t visualise it. Matty’s body came to mind though. It was lean and firm, though not particularly muscular. He had skinny good looks and busy, penetrating eyes, which gave away the restlessness of his character. What she remembered most however was what Matty said to her as they got into bed that time. He told her: — I’m gaunnae fuck you like you’ve never been fucked in your life. He was right. She’d never been fucked that badly, either before or since. Matty came in seconds, depositing his load into her and rolling off her, gasping breathlessly.

  She made no attempt to hide her displeasure. — That was fuckin rubbish, she told him, getting out of the bed, all anxious and tense, charged up but unsatisfied, wanting to scream in frustration. She pulled her clothes on. He said nothing and never moved, but she was sure that she saw tears spill from his eyes as she left. This image stuck with her as she looked at the wooden box, and she wished she’d been a bit kinder.

  Franco Begbie felt angry and confused. Any injury to a friend he took as a personal insult. He prided himself on looking after his mates. The death of one of them confronted him with his own impotence. Franco resolved this problem by turning his anger on Matty. He remembered the time that Matty shat it off Gypo and Mikey Forrester in Lothian Road, and he had to have both the cunts on his puff. Not that it presented him with any difficulty. It was the principle of the thing though. You had to back
up your mates. He’d made Matty pay for his cowardice: physically, with beatings, and socially, with heaps of humiliating slaggings. Now he realised, he’d not made the cunt pay enough.

  Mrs Connell was thinking about Matty as a wee laddie. All boys were dirty, but Matty had been particularly bad. Hard on shoes, reducing clothes to threadbare status in no time at all. She was therefore not concerned when he grew into punk as he grew into adolescence. It seemed merely to be making a virtue out of necessity. Matty had always been a punk. One particular incident came to her mind. As a child, he had accompanied her to get her false teeth fitted. She felt self-conscious on the bus home. Matty insisted upon telling everyone on the bus that his Ma had false teeth put in. He was a particularly loving child. You lose them, she thought. After they get to seven, they’re no longer yours. Then, just when you adjust, it happens again at fourteen. Something happens. Then when you put heroin into it, they’re no longer their own. Less Matty, more heroin.

  She sobbed softly and rhythmically, the valium measuring out her grief in sickening little breezes, attempting to dissipate the raging hurricane of raw angst and misery within her, which it simultaneously struggled to keep under wraps.

  Anthony, Matty’s younger brother, was thinking about revenge. Revenge on all the scumbags who’d brought his brother down. He knew them, some of them had the fucking gall to be here today. Murphy, Renton and Williamson. These pathetic arseholes, who breezed around like they shat ice-cream cones, like they knew something nobody else did, when all they were was junky trash. Them, and the more sinister figures behind them. His brother, his fucking weak, stupid brother, had got in tow with that scum.

  Anthony’s mind cast back to the occasion that Derek Sutherland had beaten him up badly at the disused railway yard. Matty found out, and went to have Deek Sutherland, who was the same age as Anthony, and two years younger than himself. Anthony remembered his eager anticipation of Deek Sutherland’s complete humiliation at the hands of his brother. In the event, it was Anthony who was again humiliated, this time by proxy. It was almost as intense as the one he’d received from Deek Sutherland himself, as he watched his old adversary almost casually overwhelm and kick the shite out of his brother. Matty had let him down there. He had let everybody down since.