Trainspotting (3 page)

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Authors: Irvine Welsh

BOOK: Trainspotting
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The wallpaper is horrific in this shite-pit ay a room. It terrorises me. Some coffin-dodger must have put it up years ago . . . appropriate, because that’s what ah am, a coffin-dodger, and ma reflexes are not getting any better . . . but it’s all here, all within ma sweaty grasp. Syringe, needle, spoon, candle, lighter, packet ay powder. It’s all okay, it’s all beautiful; but ah fear that this internal sea is gaunnae subside soon, leaving this poisonous shite washed up, stranded up in ma body.
Ah start tae cook up another shot. As ah shakily haud the spoon ower the candle, waitin for the junk tae dissolve, ah think; more short-term sea, more long-term poison. This thought though, is naewhere near sufficient tae stop us fae daein what ah huv tae dae.
The First Day of the Edinburgh Festival
Third time lucky. It wis like Sick Boy telt us: you’ve got tae know what it’s like tae try tae come off it before ye can actually dae it. You can only learn through failure, and what ye learn is the importance ay preparation. He could be right. Anywey, this time ah’ve prepared. A month’s rent in advance oan this big, bare room overlooking the Links. Too many bastards ken ma Montgomery Street address. Cash oan the nail! Partin wi that poppy wis the hardest bit. The easiest wis ma last shot, taken in ma left airm this morning. Ah needed something tae keep us gaun during this period ay intense preparation. Then ah wis off like a rocket roond the Kirkgate, whizzing through ma shopping list.
Ten tins ay Heinz tomato soup, eight tins ay mushroom soup (all to be consumed cold), one large tub ay vanilla ice-cream (which will melt and be drunk), two boatils ay Milk of Magnesia, one boatil ay paracetamol, one packet ay Rinstead mouth pastilles, one boatil ay multivits, five litres ay mineral water, twelve Lucozade isotonic drinks and some magazines: soft porn,
Viz, Scottish Football Today, The Punter
, etc. The most important item hus already been procured from a visit tae the parental home; ma Ma’s bottle ay valium, removed from her bathroom cabinet. Ah don’t feel bad about this. She never uses them now, and if she needs them her age and gender dictate that her radge GP will prescribe them like jelly tots. I lovingly tick off all the items oan ma list. It’s going tae be a hard week.
Ma room is bare and uncarpeted. There’s a mattress in the middle ay the flair with a sleeping-bag oan it, an electric-bar fire, and a black and white telly oan a small wooden chair. Ah’ve goat three brown plastic buckets, half-filled wi a mixture ay disinfectant and water for ma shite, puke and pish. Ah line up ma tins ay soup, juice and ma medicines within easy reach ay ma makeshift bed.
Ay took ma last shot in order tae git us through the horrors ay the shopping trip. Ma final score will be used tae help us sleep, and ease us oaf the skag. Ah’ll try tae take it in small, measured doses. Ah need some quickly. The great decline is setting in. It starts as it generally does, with a slight nausea in the pit ay ma stomach and an irrational panic attack. As soon as ah become aware ay the sickness gripping me, it effortlessly moves from the uncomfortable tae the unbearable. A toothache starts tae spread fae ma teeth intae ma jaws and ma eye sockets, and aw through ma bones in a miserable, implacable, debilitating throb. The auld sweats arrive oan cue, and lets no forget the shivers, covering ma back like a thin layer ay autumn frost oan a car roof. It’s time for action. No way can ah crash oot and face the music yet. Ah need the old ‘slowburn’, a soft, come-down input. The only thing ah kin move for is smack. One wee dig tae unravel those twisted limbs and send us oaf tae sleep. Then ah say goodbye tae it. Swanney’s vanished, Seeker’s in the nick. That leaves Raymie. Ah go tae bell the cunt fae the payphone in the hall.
Ah’m aware that as ah dial, someone has brushed past us. Ah wince fae the fleeting contact, but have no desire tae look and see whae it is. Hopefully ah’ll no be here long enough tae need tae check out any ay ma new ‘flatmates’. The fuckers dinnae exist fir us. Nae cunt does. Only Raymie. The money goes doon. A lassie’s voice. — Hello? she sniffs. Has she goat a summer cauld or is it the skag?
— Is Raymie thair? It’s Mark here. Raymie has evidently mentioned us because although ah dinnae ken her, she sure as fuck kens me. Her voice chills over. — Raymie’s away, she says. — London.
— London? Fuck . . . when’s he due back?
— Dinnae ken.
— He didnae leave anything fir us, did he? Chance wid be a fine thing, the cunt.
— Eh, naw . . .
Ah shakily pit the phone doon. Two choices; one: tough it oot, back in the room, two: phone that cunt Forrester and go tae Muirhoose, get fucked aboot and ripped oaf wi some crap gear. Nae contest. In twenty minutes it wis: — Muirhoose pal? tae the driver oan the 32 bus and quiveringly stickin ma forty-five pence intae the the box. Any port in a storm, and it’s raging in here behind ma face.
An auld boot gies us the evil eye as ah pass her oan the wey doon the bus. No doubt ah’m fuckin boggin n look a real mess. It doesnae bother us. Nothing exists in ma life except masel and Michael Forrester and the sickening distance between us: a distance being steadily reduced by this bus.
Ah sit oan the back seat, doonstairs. The bus is nearly empty. A lassie sits across fae us, listening tae her Sony Walkman. Is she good looking? Whae fuckin cares. Even though it’s supposed tae be a ‘personal’ stereo, ah kin hear it quite clearly. It’s playing a Bowie number . . . ‘Golden Years’.
Don’t let me you hear you say life’s takin’ you nowhere —
Angel
 . . .
Look at those skies, life’s begun, nights are warm and
the days are yu-hu-hung
 . . .
Ah’ve goat every album Bowie ever made. The fuckin lot. Tons ay fuckin bootlegs n aw. Ah dinnae gie a fuck aboot him or his music. Ah only care aboot Mike Forrester, an ugly talentless cunt whae has made no albums. Zero singles. But Mikey baby is the man of the moment. As Sick Boy once said, doubtlessly paraphrasing some other fucker: nothing exists outside the moment. (Ah think some radge oan a chocolate advert said it first.) But ah cannae even endorse these sentiments as they are at best peripheral tae the moment. The moment is me, sick, and Mikey, healer.
Some auld cunt, they’re always oan the buses at this time, is fartin and shitein at the driver; firing a volley ay irrelevant questions about bus numbers, routes and times. Get the fuck oan or fuck off and die ya foostie auld cunt. Ah almost choked in silent rage at her selfish pettiness and the bus driver’s pathetic indulgence of the cunt. People talk aboot youngsters and vandalism, what aboot the psychic vandalism caused by these auld bastards? When she finally gits oan the auld fucker still has the cheek tae have a gob oan her like a cat’s erse.
She sits directly in front ay us. Ma eyes burrow intae the back ay her heid. Ah’m willing her tae have a brain haemorrhage or a massive cardiac arrest . . . no. Ah stoap tae think. If that happened, it would only haud us back even mair. Hers must be a slow, suffering death, tae pey her back for ma fuckin suffering. If she dies quickly, it’ll gie people the chance tae fuss. They’ll always take that opportunity. Cancer cells will dae nicely. Ah will a core ay bad cells tae develop and multiply in her body. Ah can feel it happening . . . but it’s ma body it’s happening to. Ah’m too tired tae continue. Ah’ve lost all hate fir the auld doll. Ah only feel total apathy. She’s now ootside the moment.
Ma heid’s gaun doon. It jerks up so suddenly and violently, ah feel it’s gaunnae fly oaf ma shoulders ontae the lap of the testy auld boot in front ay us. Ah haud it firmly in baith hands, elbays oan ma knees. Now ah’m gaunnae miss ma stoap. No. A surge ay energy and ah get oaf at Pennywell Road, opposite the shopping centre. Ah cross over the dual carriageway and walk through the centre. Ah pass the steel-shuttered units which have never been let and cross over the car park where cars have never parked. Never since it was built. Over twenty years ago.
Forrester’s maisonette flat is in a block bigger than most in Muirhouse. Maist are two stories high, but his is five, and therefore has a lift, which doesnae work. Tae conserve energy ah slide along the wall oan ma journey up the stairs.
In addition tae cramps, aches, sweats and an almost complete disintegration ay ma central nervous system, ma guts are now starting tae go. Ah feel a queasy shifting taking place, an ominous thaw in ma long period of constipation. Ah try tae pull masel together at Forrester’s door. But he’ll know that ah’m suffering. An ex-skag merchant always knows when someone is sick. Ah just don’t want the bastard knowing how desperate ah feel. While ah would put up wi any crap, any abuse fae Forrester tae get what ah need, ah don’t see the sense in advertising it tae him any mair than ah can help.
Forrester can obviously see the reflection ay ma ginger hair through the wired and dimpled glass door. He takes an age to answer. The cunt has started fuckin us aboot before ah even set foot in his hoose. He disnae greet us wi any warmth in his voice. — Awright Rents, he sais.
— No bad Mike. He calls us ‘Rents’ instead ay ‘Mark’, ah call him ‘Mike’ instead ay ‘Forry’. He’s calling the shots awright. Is trying tae ingratiate masel tae this cunt the best policy? It’s probably the only one at the moment.
— Moan in, he tersely shrugs and ah dutifully follow him.
Ah sit oan the couch, beside but a bit away fae a gross bitch with a broken leg. Her plastered limb is propped up on the coffee table and there is a repulsive swell of white flesh between the dirty plaster and her peach coloured shorts. Her tits sit on top of an oversized Guinness pot, and her brown vesty top struggles tae constrain her white flab. Her greasy, peroxide locks have an inch of insipid grey-brown at their roots. She makes no attempt tae acknowledge ma presence but lets oot a horrendous and embarrassing donkey-like laugh at some inane remark Forrester makes, which I don’t catch, probably concerning my appearance. Forrester sits opposite me in a worn-out armchair, beefy-faced but thin bodied, almost bald at twenty-five. His hair loss over the last two years has been phenomenal, and ah wonder if he’s goat the virus. Doubt it somehow. They say only the good die young. Normally ah would make a bitchy comment, but at this moment in time ah would rather slag ma granny aboot her colostomy bag. Mikey is, after all, my man.
In the other chair next tae Mikey is an evil-looking bastard, whose eyes are on the bloated sow, or rather the unprofessionally rolled joint she is smoking. She takes an extravagantly theatrical toke, before passing it onto the evil-looking gadge. Ah’ve goat fuck all against dudes with dead insect eyes set deep in keen rodent faces. They are not all bad. It’s this boy’s clathes that gie him away, marking him oot as wide-o extraordinaire. He’s obviously been residing in one ay the Windsor group hotels; Saughton, Bar L, Perth, Peterhead, etc., and has apparently been there for some time. Dark blue flared troosers, black shoes, a mustard polo-neck wi blue bands at the collar and cuffs, and a green parka (in this fuckin weather!) draped ower the back ay the chair.
No intros are made, but that’s the prerogative of my baw-faced icon, Mike Forrester. He’s the man in the chair, and he certainly knows it. The bastard launches intae this spiel, talking incessantly, like a bairn trying tae stay up as late as possible. Mr Fashion, Johnny Saughton ah’ll call the cunt, sais nothing, but smiles enigmatically and occasionally rolls his eyes in mock ecstasy. If ye ever saw a predator’s face it wis Saughton’s. The Fat Sow, god she is grotesque, hee-haws and ah force oot the odd sycophantic chuckle at times ah gauge tae be roughly appropriate.
After listening tae this shite for a while, ma pain and nausea force me tae intervene. My non-verbal signals are contemptuously ignored, so ah steam in.
— Sorry tae interrupt ye thair mate, but ah need tae be pittin ma skates oan. Ye goat the gear thair?
The reaction is over the top, even by the standards ay the crappy game Forrester is playing.
— You shut yir fuckin mouth! Fuckin radge. Ah’ll fuckin tell you whin tae speak. Just shut yir fuckin erse. You dinnae like the company, you kin git tae fuck. End ay fuckin story.
— Nae offence mate . . . It’s aw tame capitulation oan ma part. After all, this man is a god tae me. Ah’d walk oan ma hands and knees through broken gless fir a thousand miles tae use the cunt’s shite as toothpaste and we baith know it. Ah am but a pawn in a game called ‘The Marketing Of Michael Forrester As A Hard Man’. To all those who know him, it’s a game based on ridiculously flawed concepts. Furthermore, it obviously aw being played fir Johnny Saughton’s benefit, but what the fuck, it’s Mike’s gig, and ah asked tae be dealt a shite hand when ah dialled his number.
Ah take some more crass humiliation for what seems like an eternity. Ah get through it nae bother though. Ah love nothing (except junk), ah hate nothing (except forces that prevent me getting any) and ah fear nothing (except not scoring). Ah also know that a shitein cunt like Forrester would never pit us through aw this bullshit if he intended holding out on me.
It gies us some satisfaction remembering why he hates us. Mike was once infatuated wi a woman who despised him. A woman ah subsequently shagged. It hadn’t meant a great deal tae either masel or the woman concerned, but it certainly bugged the fuck oot ay Mike. Now most people would put this doon tae experience, ye always want what ye cannae have and the things that ye dinnae really gie a toss aboot get handed tae ye oan a plate. That’s life, so why should sex be different fae any other part ay it? Ah’ve hud, and brushed oaf, such reverses in the past. Every cunt has. The problem is that this shite’s intent oan hoarding trivial grievances, like the fat-chopped malignant squirrel that he is. But ah still love him. Ah huv tae. He’s the boy holdin.

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