Trainspotting (28 page)
Authors: Irvine Welsh
Ah keep thinking ay that auld Walker Brothers number, the one Midge Ure covered:
There’s no regrets, no tears goodbye, I don’t want you back
etcetera, etcetera.
There’s no regrets, no tears goodbye, I don’t want you back
etcetera, etcetera.
Ah cannae feel remorse, only anger and contempt. Ah seethed when ah saw that fuckin Union Jack oan his coffin, n watched that smarmy, wimpy cunt ay an officer, obviously oot ay his depth here, tryin tae talk tae ma Ma. Worse still, these Glasgow cunts, the auld boy’s side, are through here en masse. They’re fill ay shite aboot how he died in the service ay his country n aw that servile Hun crap. Billy was a silly cunt, pure and simple. No a hero, no a martyr, jist a daft cunt.
A fit ay giggles hits us, threatening tae completely overwhelm us. Ah nearly cowped ower laughing hysterically, when ma faither’s brar, Charlie, grabbed us by the airm. He looked hostile, but that cunt always does. Effie, his wife, pulls the fucker away sayin, — The boey’s upset. It’s jist his wey Chick. The boey’s upset.
Get a fuckin wash ya soapdodgin Weedjie cunts.
Billy Boy. That’s what these cunts called him as a laddie. It wis: Awright Billy Boey? Wi me, skulking behind the couch, it wis a grudging: Aye son.
Billy Boy, Billy Boy. Ah remember you sitting oan toap ay us. Me helplessly pinned tae the flair. Windpipe constricted tae the width ay a straw. Praying, as the oxygen drained fae ma lungs and brain, that Ma would return fae Presto’s before you crushed the life oot ay ma skinny body. The smell ay pish fae your genitals, a damp patch on your short troosers. Was it really that exciting, Billy Boy? Ah hope so. Ah cannae really grudge ye it now. You always had a problem that way; those inappropriate discharges of faeces and urine that used tae drive Ma tae distraction. Who’s the best team, you’d ask us, crushing, digging or twisting harder. No respite for me until ah sais: Hearts. Even after we’d fucked yous seven-nil on New Year’s Day at Tynecastle, you still made me say Hearts. Ah suppose ah should have been flattered that an utterance from me carried more weight than the actual result.
Ma beloved brother was on Her Majesty’s Service, on patrol near their base at Crossmaglen in Ireland, the part under British rule. They had left their vehicle to examine this road block, when POW! ZAP! BANG! ZOWIE!, and they were no more. Just three weeks before the end ay this tour of duty.
He died a hero they sais. Ah remember that song: ‘Billy Don’t Be A Hero’. In fact, he died a spare prick in a uniform, walking along a country road wi a rifle in his hand. He died an ignorant victim ay imperialism, understanding fuck all about the myriad circumstances which led tae his death. That wis the biggest crime, he understood fuck all about it. Aw he hud tae guide um through this great adventure in Ireland, which led tae his death, wis a few vaguely formed sectarian sentiments. The cunt died as he lived: completely fuckin scoobied.
His death wis good fir me. He made the
News at Ten.
In Warholian terms, the cunt had a posthumous fifteen minutes ay fame. People offered us sympathy, n although it wis misguided, it wis nice tae accept anywey. Ye dinnae want tae disappoint folk.
News at Ten.
In Warholian terms, the cunt had a posthumous fifteen minutes ay fame. People offered us sympathy, n although it wis misguided, it wis nice tae accept anywey. Ye dinnae want tae disappoint folk.
Some ruling class cunt, a junior minister or something, says in his Oxbridge voice how Billy wis a brave young man. He wis exactly the kind ay cunt they’d huv branded as a cowardly thug if he wis in civvy street rather than on Her Majesty’s Service. This fucking walking abortion says that his killers will be ruthlessly hunted down. So they fuckin should. Aw the wey tae the fuckin Houses ay Parliament.
Savour small victories against this white-trash tool of the rich that’s no no no
Billy being tormented by the Sutherland Brothers and entourage, who certainly made him quiver ha fuckin ha as they danced around him singing: YOUR BROTHER’S A SPASTIC, one of the great Leith street hits of the seventies, generally performed when the legs got too tired to sustain the twenty-two-a-side game ay fitba. Were they talking about Davie, or perhaps even me? Didnae matter. They didnae see me looking doon fae the bridge. Billy, your head stayed bowed. Impotence. How does it feel Billy Boy? Not good. I know because
It’s weird by the graveside. Spud’s here somewhere, clean, jist oot ay Saughton. Tommy n aw. It’s crazy, Spud lookin healthy, n Tommy lookin like death warmed up. Complete role reversal. Davie Mitchell, a good mate ay Tommy’s, a guy whae ah once worked wi oan site as an apprentice chippy way back, hus shown up. Davie caught HIV fae this lassie. Brave ay the cunt tae come. That’s fuckin real bravery. Begbie, just when ah could make use ay the cunt’s evil presence and capacity tae cause chaos, is oan hoaliday in Benidorm. Ah could do with his immoral support vis-à-vis my Weedjie relations. Sick Boy’s still in France, livin oot his fantasies.
Billy Boy. Ah remember sharing that room. How the fuck ah did it for aw they years beats
The sun has a power. You can understand why people worship it. It’s there, we know the sun, we can see it, and we need it.
You had first call on the room Billy. Fifteen months ma senior. Might is right. You’d bring gaunt-faced, vicious-eyed, gumchewing lassies back to fuck, or at least heavy pet. They’d look at me with android contempt as you banished me, whoever was with me, and my Subbuteo into the lobby. Ah particularly recall the needless crunching of one Liverpool and two Sheffield Wednesday players under your heel. Unnecessary, but then total domination requires its symbolism, eh no Billy Boy?
Ma cousin Nina looks intensely shaftable. She’s goat long, dark hair, and is wearing an ankle-length, black coat. Seems tae be a bit ay a Goth. Noting some ay Willie’s squaddy pals and ma Weedjie uncles gettin oan well, ah find masel whistling ‘The Foggy Dew’. One squaddy wi big, protruding front teeth, cottons oan and looks at us in surprise n then anger, so ah blaws the cunt a kiss. He stares at me for a bit, then looks away, shit up. Good. Wabbit season.
Billy Boy, ah wis your other spastic brother, the one who’d never had a ride, as you’d tell your mate Lenny. Lenny’d laugh and laugh until he’d almost have an asthma attack. It wisnae particularly Billy no you stupid, fuckin cunt
Ah give Nina a broad wink and she smiles, embarrassed. Ma faither’s been clocking this and he steams ower tae me.
— Wahn fuckin bit ay crap oot ay you n that’s us finished. Right?
His eyes were tired, sunk deep intae thir sockets. Thir wis a sad and unsettling vulnerability aboot him ah’d nivir seen before. Ah wanted tae say so much tae the man, but ah resented him fir allowing this circus tae take place.
— See ye up the hoose, faither. Ah’m gaun tae see Ma.
An overhead conversation in the kitchen, fuck-knows when. Faither goes: — Thir’s something wrong wi that laddie Cathy. Sittin in aw the time. It’s no natural. Ah mean, look at Billy.
Ma sais back: — The laddie’s jist different Davie, that’s aw.
Different fae Billy. Not a Billy Boy. You won’t know him by his noise, but by his silence. When he comes for you, he won’t come screaming, announcing his intentions, but he’ll come. Hello, hello. Goodbye.
Ah git a lift fae Tommy, Spud n Mitch. They urnae fir comin in. They depart quickly. Ah see ma auld lady, delirious, bein helped oot ay the taxi by her sister Irene, and sister-in-law Alice. The Weedjie aunties are clucking around in the background, ah can hear these horrible accents; bad enough oan a man, fuckin revolting oan a woman. These hatchet-faced auld boots dinnae look comfortable. Obviously, thir mair in their niche at the funeral ay an elderly relative whin thir’s goodies up fir grabs.
Ma grabs the airm ay Sharon, Billy’s burd, whae’s goat a big bun in her oven. Why the fuck dae people ey grab each other’s airms at funerals?
— He wid’uv made an honest wimmin ay ye hen. You wir eywis the one fir him. The wey she sais it, it was like she was trying tae convince herself as much as Sharon. Perr Ma. Two years ago, she hud three sons, now she’s only got one, whae’s a junky. The game’s no straight.
— Dae ye think the army’ll huv anything fir me? ah heard Sharon asking ma Auntie Effie, as we got intae the hoose. — Ah’m cairryin his bairn . . . it’s Billy’s bairn . . . she pleads.
— Dae ye think the moon’s made oot ay green fuckin knob cheese? ah remark.
Fortunately, everyone seems too loast in thumsels tae pick it up.
Like Billy. He started to ignore me when I became invisible.
Billy, ma contempt for you jist grew over the years. It displaced the fear, jist sortay squeezed it oot, like pus fae a pluke. Of course, there’s the blade. A great leveller, very good at negating physical assets; as Eck Wilson found oot tae his cost in second year. You loved us for that, once you got ower yir shock. Respected and loved me as a brother fir the first time. Ah despised you mair than ever.
You knew that your strength became superfluous once ah’d discovered the blade. You knew that, ya crappin bastard. The blade and the bomb. Just like the Naw. No the fuckin bomb. No
Ma embarrassment and discomfort grows. People fill their glasses and say what a great cunt Billy wis. Ah cannae really think ay anything good tae say aboot him, so ah shut up. Unfortunately, one ay his squaddy mates, the rabbit-toothed punter ah blew a kiss at, sidles up tae me. — You wir his brother, he sais, choppers hingin oot tae dry.
Ah might’ve guessed. Another Weedjie Orange bigot. Nae wonder he’s hit it oaf wi faither’s side. It put us oan the spot. Every cunt’s eyes focus oan us. Dwat that pesky wabbit.
— Indeed I was, as you say, his brother, ah jocularly agree. Ah can feel the resentment mounting up against us. Ah huv tae play tae the crowd.
The best way ah knew tae strike a chord without compromising too much tae the sickening hypocrisy, perversely peddled as decency, which fills the room, is tae stick tae the clichés. People love them at this time, because they become real, and actually mean something.
— Billy n me nivir agreed oan that much . . .
— Ah well, vive le difference . . . said Kenny, an uncle oan ma Ma’s side, tryin tae be helpful.
— . . . but one thing we hud in common wis thit we both liked a good bevvy and a good crack. If he can see us now, he’ll be laughin his heid oaf at us sittin here aw moosey faced. He’d be sayin, enjoy yirsels, fir god sake! Ah’ve goat friends n family here. We’ve no seen each other fir ages.
An exchange of cards:
To BillyMerry Christmas and a Happy New Year(except between 3.00 and 4.40 on New Year’s Day)From Mark.
MarkMerry Christmas and a Happy New YearBillyHMFC OK
To Billy,Happy BirthdayFrom Mark
Then Billy and Sharon are
MarkHappy BirthdayFrom Billy and Sharon
In Sharon’s handwriting, which is like
The Weedjie white trash that were ma faither’s family, came through for the Orange walk every July, and occasionally when Rangers were at Easter Road or Tynecastle. Ah wished the cunts would stay in Drumchapel. They receive my touching little tribute tae Billy well enough though, and all nod solemnly. All except Charlie, whae saw through ma mood.
— It’s all a fuckin gemme tae you, int it son?
— If you must know, yes.
— Ah feel sorry for you. He shook his heid.
— Naw ye dinnae, ah tell him. He walks away, still shakin his heid.
More McEwan’s Export and whisky follows. Auntie Effie starts tae sing, a nasal, country-style whine. Ah move ower tae Nina.
— You’ve really blossomed intae a wee honey, ken that? ah drunkenly slaver. She looks at me as if she’s heard it aw before. Ah wis gaunnae suggest that we sneak away ower tae Fox’s, or back tae ma flat at Montgomery Street. Is it against the law tae shag yir cousin? Probably. Thuv goat laws for stoapin ye daein everything else.
— Shame aboot Billy, she sais. Ah kin tell she thinks ah’m a total wanker. Of course, she’s completely right. Ah thought that every cunt over twenty was a toss an no worth speakin tae, until ah hit twenty. The mair ah see, the mair ah think ah wis right. After that it’s aw ugly compromise, aw timid surrender, progressively until death.
Unfortunately, Charlie, or Chick-chicy-chic-chicky-chicky, has clocked the solicitous nature ay my conversation, and moves in to protect Nina’s virtue. No that she needs the assistance ay a fat soapdodger.
The bastard gestures me aside. When ah ignore him, he takes ma airm. He’s pretty bevvied. His whisper is hard, an ah can smell the whisky oan his breath.
— Listen son, if you don’t get oan yir fuckin bike, ah’m gaunnae tan your jaw. If it wisnae fir yir faither thair, ah’ve done it a long time ago. Ah don’t like you son. Ah never huv. Yir brother wis ten times the man you’ll ever be, ya fuckin junky. If you knew the misery yuv caused yir Ma n Da . . .
— You can speak frankly, ah cut in, anger throbbing in my chest but nonetheless contained by a delicious glee that comes fae knowing that ah’ve upset the cunt. Stay cool. It’s the only way tae fuck a self-righteous bastard over.
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