Trainspotting

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Irvine Welsh is the author of nine other works of fiction, most recently Crime, published by Jonathan Cape in 2008. He lives in Dublin.

  ALSO BY IRVINE WELSH

  Fiction

  The Acid House

  Marabou Stork Nightmares

  Ecstasy

  Filth

  Glue

  Porno

  The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs

  If You Liked School, You’ll Love Work . . .

  Crime

  Drama

  You’ll Have Had Your Hole

  Screenplay

  The Acid House

  This ebook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form (including any digital form) other than this in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Epub ISBN: 9781407019994

  Version 1.0

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Published by Vintage 2004

  8 10 9

  Copyright © Irvine Welsh 1993

  Irvine Welsh has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

  First published in Great Britain in 1993 by Secker & Warburg

  First published by Vintage in 1999

  Vintage

  Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,

  London SW1V 2SA

  www.vintage-books.co.uk

  Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm

  The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 9780099465898

  to Anne

  Thanks to the following: Lesley Bryce, David Crystal, Margaret Fulton-Cook, Janice Galloway, Dave Harrold, Duncan McLean, Kenny McMillan, Sandy Macnair, David Millar, Robin Robertson, Julie Smith, Angela Sullivan, Dave Todd, Hamish Whyte, Kevin Williamson.

  Versions of the following stories have appeared in other publications: ‘The First Day Of The Edinburgh Festival’ in Scream If You Want To Go Faster: New Writing Scotland 9 (ASLS), ‘Traditional Sunday Breakfast’ in DOG (Dec. 1991), ‘It Goes Without Saying’ in West Coast Magazine No. 11, ‘Trainspotting at Leith Central Station’ in A Parcel of Rogues (Clocktower Press), ‘Grieving and Mourning In Port Sunshine’ in Rebel Inc No. 1 and ‘Her Man, The Elusive Mr Hunt’ and ‘Winter In West Granton’ in Past Tense (Clocktower Press). The second part of ‘Memories of Matty’ also appeared in the aforementioned Clocktower Press publication as ‘After The Burning’.

  Contents

  Kicking

  The Skag Boys, Jean-Claude Van Damme and Mother Superior; Junk Dilemmas No. 63; The First Day of the Edinburgh Festival; In Overdrive; Growing Up In Public; Victory On New Year’s Day; It Goes Without Saying; Junk Dilemmas No. 64; Her Man; Speedy Recruitment

  Relapsing

  Scotland Takes Drugs In Psychic Defence; The Glass; A Disappointment; Cock Problems; Traditional Sunday Breakfast; Junk Dilemmas No. 65; Grieving and Mourning In Port Sunshine

  Kicking Again

  Inter Shitty; Na Na and Other Nazis; The First Shag In Ages; Strolling Through The Meadows

  Blowing It

  Courting Disaster; Junk Dilemmas No. 66; Deid Dugs; Searching for the Inner Man; House Arrest; Bang To Rites; Junk Dilemmas No. 67

  Exile

  London Crawling; Bad Blood; There Is A Light That Never Goes Out; Feeling Free; The Elusive Mr Hunt

  Home

  Easy Money for the Professionals; A Present; Memories of Matty; Straight Dilemmas No. 1; Eating Out; Trainspotting at Leith Central Station; A Leg-Over Situation; Winter In West Granton; A Scottish Soldier

  Exit

  Station to Station

  Kicking

  The Skag Boys, Jean-Claude Van Damme and Mother Superior

  The sweat wis lashing oafay Sick Boy; he wis trembling. Ah wis jist sitting thair, focusing oan the telly, tryin no tae notice the cunt. He wis bringing me doon. Ah tried tae keep ma attention oan the Jean-Claude Van Damme video.

  As happens in such movies, they started oaf wi an obligatory dramatic opening. Then the next phase ay the picture involved building up the tension through introducing the dastardly villain and sticking the weak plot thegither. Any minute now though, auld Jean-Claude’s ready tae git doon tae some serious swedgin.

  — Rents. Ah’ve goat tae see Mother Superior, Sick Boy gasped, shaking his heid.

  — Aw, ah sais. Ah wanted the radge tae jist fuck off ootay ma visage, tae go oan his ain, n jist leave us wi Jean-Claude. Oan the other hand, ah’d be gitting sick tae before long, and if that cunt went n scored, he’d haud oot oan us. They call um Sick Boy, no because he’s eywis sick wi junk withdrawal, but because he’s just one sick cunt.

  — Let’s fuckin go, he snapped desperately.

  — Haud oan a second. Ah wanted tae see Jean-Claude smash up this arrogant fucker. If we went now, ah wouldnae git tae watch it. Ah’d be too fucked by the time we goat back, and in any case it wid probably be a few days later. That meant ah’d git hit fir fuckin back charges fi the shoap oan a video ah hudnae even goat a deek at.

  — Ah’ve goat tae fuckin move man! he shouts, standing up. He moves ower tae the windae and rests against it, breathing heavily, looking like a hunted animal. There’s nothing in his eyes but need.

  Ah switched the box oaf at the handset. — Fuckin waste. That’s aw it is, a fuckin waste, ah snarled at the cunt, the fuckin irritating bastard.

  He flings back his heid n raises his eyes tae the ceiling. — Ah’ll gie ye the money tae git it back oot. Is that aw yir sae fuckin moosey-faced aboot? Fifty measley fuckin pence ootay Ritz!

  This cunt has a wey ay makin ye feel a real petty, trivial bastard.

  — That’s no the fuckin point, ah sais, but withoot conviction.

  — Aye. The point is ah’m really fuckin sufferin here, n ma so-called mate’s draggin his feet deliberately, lovin every fuckin minute ay it! His eyes seem the size ay fitba’s n look hostile, yet pleadin at the same time; poignant testimonies tae ma supposed betrayal. If ah ever live long enough tae huv a bairn, ah hope it never looks at us like Sick Boy does. The cunt is irresistible oan this form.

  — Ah wisnae . . . ah protested.

  — Fling yir fuckin jaykit oan well!

  At the Fit ay the Walk thir wir nae taxis. They only congregated here when ye didnae need them. Supposed tae be August, but ah’m fuckin freezing ma baws oaf here. Ah’m no sick yet, but it’s in the fuckin post, that’s fir sure.

  — Supposed tae be a rank. Supposed tae be a fuckin taxi rank. Nivir fuckin git one in the summer. Up cruising fat, rich festival cunts too fuckin lazy tae walk a hundred fuckin yards fae one poxy church hall tae another fir thir fuckin show. Taxi drivers. Money-grabbin bastards . . . Sick Boy muttered deliriously and breathlessly tae hissel, eyes bulging and sinews in his neck straining as his heid craned up Leith Walk.

  At last one came. There were a group ay young guys in shell-suits n bomber jaykits whae’d been standin thair longer than us. Ah doubt if Sick Boy even saw them. He charged straight oot intae the middle ay the Walk screaming: — TAXI!

  — Hi! Whit’s the fuckin score? One guy in a black, purple and aqua shell-suit wi a flat-top asks.

  — Git tae fuck. We wir here first, Sick Boy sais, opening the taxi door. — Thir’s another yin comin. He gestured up the Walk at an advancing black cab.

  — Lucky fir youse. Smart cunts.

  — Fuck off, ya plukey-faced wee hing oot. Git a fuckin ride!
Sick Boy snarled as we piled intae the taxi.

  — Tollcross mate, ah sais tae the driver as gob splattered against the side windae.

  — Square go then smart cunt! C’moan ya crappin bastards! the shell-suit shouted. The taxi driver wisnae amused. He looked a right cunt. Maist ay them do. The stamp-peyin self-employed ur truly the lowest form ay vermin oan god’s earth.

  The taxi did a u-turn and sped up the Walk.

  — See whit yuv done now, ya big-moothed cunt. Next time one ay us ur walkin hame oan oor Jack Jones, wi git hassle fi these wee radges. Ah wisnae chuffed at Sick Boy.

  — Yir no feart ay they wee fuckin saps ur ye?

  This cunt’s really gittin ma fuckin goat. — Aye! Aye ah fuckin am, if ah’m oan ma tod n ah git set oan by a fuckin squad ay shell-suits! Ye think ah’m Jean-Claude Van Fuckin Damme? Fuckin doss cunt, so ye are Simon. Ah called him ‘Simon’ rather than ‘Si’ or ‘Sick Boy’ tae emphasise the seriousness ay what ah wis sayin.

  — Ah want tae see Mother Superior n ah dinnae gie a fuck aboot any cunt or anything else. Goat that? He pokes his lips wi his forefinger, his eyes bulging oot at us. — Simone wants tae see Mother Superior. Watch ma fuckin lips. He then turns and stares intae the back ay the taxi driver, willing the cunt tae go faster while nervously beating oot a rhythm oan his thighs.

  — One ay they cunts wis a McLean. Dandy n Chancey’s wee brar, ah sais.

  — Wis it fuck, he sais, but he couldnae keep the anxiety oot ay his voice. — Ah ken the McLeans. Chancey’s awright.

  — No if ye take the pish oot ay his brar, ah sais.

  He wis takin nae mair notice though. Ah stoaped harassing him, knowing thit ah wis jist wastin ma energy. His silent suffering through withdrawal now seemed so intense that thir wis nae wey that ah could add, even incrementally, tae his misery.

  ‘Mother Superior’ wis Johnny Swan; also kent as the White Swan, a dealer whae wis based in Tollcross and covered the Sighthill and Wester Hailes schemes. Ah preferred tae score fi Swanney, or his sidekick Raymie, rather than Seeker n the Muirhoose-Leith mob, if ah could. Better gear, usually. Johnny Swan hud once been a really good mate ay mines, back in the auld days. We played fitba thegither fir Porty Thistle. Now he wis a dealer. Ah remember um saying tae us once: Nae friends in this game. Jist associates.

  Ah thought he wis being harsh, flippant and show-oafy, until ah got sae far in. Now ah ken precisely what the cunt meant.

  Johnny wis a junky as well as a dealer. Ye hud tae go a wee bit further up the ladder before ye found a dealer whae didnae use. We called Johnny ‘Mother Superior’ because ay the length ay time he’d hud his habit.

  Ah soon started tae feel fucking shan n aw. Bad cramps wir beginning tae hit us as we mounted the stairs tae Johnny’s gaff. Ah wis dripping like a saturated sponge, every step bringing another gush fae ma pores. Sick Boy wis probably even worse, but the cunt was beginning no tae exist fir us. Ah wis only aware ay him slouching tae a halt oan the banister in front ay us, because he wis blocking ma route tae Johnny’s arid the skag. He wis struggling fir breath, haudin grimly oantay the railing, looking as if he wis gaunnae spew intae the stairwell.

  — Awright Si? ah sais irritably, pissed off at the cunt fir haudin us up.

  He waved us away, shaking his heid and screwing his eyes up. Ah sais nae mair. Whin ye feel like he did, ye dinnae want tae talk or be talked at. Ye dinnae want any fuckin fuss at aw. Ah didnae either. Sometimes ah think that people become junkies just because they subconsciously crave a wee bit ay silence.

  Johnny wis bombed ootay his box whin we finally made it up the stairs. A shootin gallery wis set up.

  — Ah’ve goat one Sick Boy, and a Rent Boy that’s sick n aw! he laughed, as high as a fuckin kite. Johnny often snorted some coke wi his fix or mixed up a speedball concoction ay smack and cocaine. He reckoned that it kept um high, stoaped um fae sittin aroond starin at waws aw day. High cunts are a big fuckin drag when yir feeling like this, because thir too busy enjoying their high tae notice or gie a fuck aboot your suffering. Whereas the piss-heid in the pub wants every cunt tae git as ootay it as he is, the real junky (as opposed tae the casual user who wants a partner-in-crime) doesnae gie a fuck aboot anybody else.

  Raymie and Alison wir thair. Ali wis cookin. It wis lookin promising.

  Johnny waltzed over tae Alison and serenaded her. — Hey-ey good lookin, whaaat-cha got cookin . . . He turned tae Raymie, whae wis steadfastly keepin shoatie at the windae. Raymie could detect a labdick in a crowded street the wey that sharks can sense a few drops of blood in an ocean. — Pit some sounds oan Raymie. Ah’m seek ay that new Elvis Costello, bit ah cannae stoap playin the cunt. Fuckin magic man, ah’m telling ye.

  — A double-ended jack plug tae the south ay Waterloo, Raymie sais. The cunt ey came oot wi irrelevant, nonsensical shite, which fucked up your brains whin ye wir sick and trying tae score fae him. It always surprised us that Raymie wis intae smack in such a big wey. Raymie wis a bit like ma mate Spud; ah’d eywis regarded them as classic acid-heids by temperament. Sick Boy hud a theory that Spud and Raymie wir the same person, although they looked fuck all like each other, purely because they never seemed tae be seen together, despite moving in the same circles.

  The bad-taste bastard breaks the junky’s golden rule by pitten oan ‘Heroin’, the version oan Lou Reed’s Rock ’n’ Roll Animal, which if anything, is even mair painful tae listen tae whin yir sick than the original version oan The Velvet Underground and Nico. Mind you, at least this version doesnae huv John Cale’s screeching viola passage oan it. Ah couldnae huv handled that.

  — Aw fuck off Raymie! Ali shouts.

  — Stick in the boot, go wi the flow, shake it down baby, shake it down honey . . . cook street, spook street, we’re all dead white meat . . . eat the beat . . . Raymie burst intae an impromptu rap, shakin his erse and rollin his eyes.

  He then bent doon in front ay Sick Boy, whae had strategically placed hissel beside Ali, never taking his eyes oaf the contents ay the spoon she heated over a candle. Raymie pulled Sick Boy’s face tae him, and kissed him hard oan the lips. Sick Boy pushed him away, trembling.

  — Fuck off! Doss cunt!

  Johnny n Ali laughed loudly. Ah wid huv n aw had ah no felt that each bone in ma body wis simultaneously being crushed in a vice n set aboot wi a blunt hacksaw.

  Sick Boy tourniqued Ali above her elbow, obviously staking his place in the queue, and tapped up a vein oan her thin ash-white airm.

  — Want me tae dae it? he asked.

  She nodded.

  He droaps a cotton ball intae the spoon n blaws oan it, before sucking up aboot 5 mls through the needle, intae the barrel ay the syringe. He’s goat a fuckin huge blue vein tapped up, which seems tae be almost comin through Ali’s airm. He pierces her flesh and injects a wee bit slowly, before sucking blood back intae the chamber. Her lips are quivering as she gazes pleadingly at him for a second or two. Sick Boy’s face looks ugly, leering and reptilian, before he slams the cocktail towards her brain.

  She pulls back her heid, shuts her eyes and opens her mooth, givin oot an orgasmic groan. Sick Boy’s eyes are now innocent and full ay wonder, his expression like a bairn thit’s come through oan Christmas morning tae a pile ay gift-wrapped presents stacked under the tree. They baith look strangely beautiful and pure in the flickering candlelight.

  — That beats any meat injection . . . that beats any fuckin cock in the world . . . Ali gasps, completely serious. It unnerves us tae the extent that ah feel ma ain genitals through ma troosers tae see if they’re still thair. Touchin masel like that makes us feel queasy though.

  Johnny hands Sick Boy his works.

  — Ye git a shot, but only if ye use this gear. Wir playin trust games the day, he smiled, but he wisnae jokin.

  Sick Boy shakes his heid. — Ah dinnae share needles or syringes. Ah’ve goat ma ain works here.

  — Now that’s no very social. Rents? Raymie? Ali? Whit d’ye think ay that? Ur you tryin tae insinuate that t
he White Swan, the Mother Superior, has blood infected by the human immunodeficiency virus? Ma finer feelins ur hurt. Aw ah kin say is, nae sharin, nae shootin. He gies an exaggerated smile, exposing a row ay bad teeth.

  Tae me that wisnae Johnny Swan talkin. No Swanney. No fuckin way. Some malicious demon had invaded his body and poisoned his mind. This character was a million miles away fae the gentle joker ah once knew as Johnny Swan. A nice laddie, everybody sais; including ma ain Ma. Johnny Swan, so intae fitba, so easy going, that he eywis goat lumbered washin the strips eftir the fives at Meadowbank, and nivir, ivir complained.

  Ah wis shitein it that ah widnae git a shot here. — Fuck sakes Johnny, listen tae yirsel. Git a fuckin grip. Wuv goat the fuckin hirays here. Ah pulled some notes ootay ma poakit.

  Whether it wis through guilt, or the prospect ay cash, the auld Johnny Swan briefly reappeared.

  — Dinnae git aw serious oan us. Ah’m only fuckin jokin boys. Ye think thit the White Swan wid hud oot oan his muckers? Oan yis go ma men. Yir wise men. Hygiene’s important, he stated wistfully. — Ken wee Goagsie? He’s goat AIDS now.

  — Gen up? ah asked. Thir wis eywis rumours aboot whae wis HIV and whae wisnae. Ah usually jist ignored thum. Thing is, a few people hud been saying that aboot wee Goagsie.

  — Too right. He’s no goat the full AIDS likes, bit he’s tested positive. Still, as ah sais tae um, it isnae the end ay the world Goagsie. Ye kin learn tae live wi the virus. Tons ay cunts dae it withoot any hassle at aw. Could be fuckin years before ye git sick, ah telt um. Any cunt withoot the virus could git run ower the morn. That’s the wey ye huv tae look at it. Cannae jist cancel the gig. The show must go oan.

  It’s easy tae be philosophical when some other cunt’s goat shite fir blood.