Trainspotting Read online

  Wee Lisa Connell felt sad that her Daddy was in that box, but he would have wings like an angel and go up to heaven. Her Nana had cried when Lisa had suggested that might happen. It was like he was sleeping in that box. Her Nana said that the box went away, to heaven. Lisa thought that angels grew wings and flew to heaven. It mildly concerned her that he would not be able to fly, unless they let him out of the box. Still, they probably knew what they were doing. Heaven sounded good. She would go there some day, and see her dad. When he had come to see her in Wester Hailes he usually wasn’t well so she wasn’t allowed to talk to him. It would be good to go to heaven, to play with him, like they used to when she was really wee. He’d be well again in heaven. Heaven would be different from Wester Hailes.

  Shirley held her daughter’s hand tightly, and tousled her curls. Lisa seemed to be the only evidence that Matty’s life was not a futile one. Yet, looking at the child, few could argue that it was not substantial evidence. Matty, though, had been a father in name only. The minister had irritated Shirley by describing him as such. She was the father, as well as the mother. Matty had provided the sperm, came around and played with Lisa a few times, before the junk had really got to him. That was his sole contribution.

  There had always been a weakness about him, an inability to face his responsibilities, and also to face the force of his emotions. Most junkies she had met were closet romantics. Matty was. Shirely had loved that in him, loved it when he was open, tender, loving and full of life. It never lasted. Even before smack, a harshness and bitterness would descend upon him. He used to write her love poems. They were beautiful, not in a literary sense perhaps, but in the marvellous purity of the wonderful emotions they conveyed to her. Once, he read and then set fire to a particularly lovely verse he’d written to her. Through her tears, she asked him why he’d done that, as the flames seemed so symbolic. It was the most hurtful thing Shirley had experienced in her life.

  He turned around and surveyed the squalor of the flat. — Look at this. Ye shouldnae huv dreams livin like this. Yir jist connin yirsel, torturin yirsel.

  His eyes were black and inpenetrable. His infectious cynicism and despair took away Shirley’s hope for a better life. It had once threatened to crush that very life out of her, before she bravely said: No more.

  2

  — Keep it down, please gentlemen, the harassed-looking barman pleaded with the hard core of heavy drinkers the group of mourners had whittled down to. Hours of stoical drinking and wistful nostalgia had finally given way to song. They felt great singing. The tension flowed from them. The barman was ignored.

  Shame on ye, Seamus O’Brien,

  All the young girls in Dublin are cryin,

  They’re tired o’your cheatin and lyin,

  So shame on ye, Seamus O’Brien!

  — PLEASE! Will you be quiet! he shouted. The small hotel on the posh side of Leith Links was not used to this sort of behaviour, especially on a weekday.

  — What the fuck’s that cunt fuckin sayin? Entitled tae gie the fuckin mate a fuckin send oaf! Begbie cast a predatory eye over the barman.

  — Hi Franco. Renton grabbed Begbie’s shoulder, realising the danger, and trying to move him quickly into a less aggressive frame of mind. — Mind yon time when you, me n Matty went doon tae Aintree fir the National?

  — Aye! Ah fuckin minday that! Ah fuckin telt that cunt thit’s oan the fuckin telly tae goan fuck hissel. Whit wis the cunt’s name?

  — Keith Chegwin. Cheggers.

  — That’s the cunt. Cheggers.

  — The guy oan the telly likes? Cheggers Plays Pop? Mind that? Gav asked.

  — The very same cunt, Renton said, as Franco smirked indulgently at him, encouraging him to continue the story. — Wi wir at the National, right? This cunt Cheggers is daein interviews fir City Radio Liverpool, jist blethering shite tae punters in the crowd, ken? Well, he comes ower tae us, n we didnae wantae talk tae the cunt, but ye ken Matty, he’s thinkin, this is fuckin stardom, n he’s gaun oan aboot how great it is tae be here in Liverpool, Keith, n wir having a whale ay a time, n aw that shite. Then this doss cunt, this Cheggers fucker, or whativir ye call the cunt, thrusts the microphone in front ay Franco. Renton gestured towards Begbie. — This cunt goes: Away n fuck yirsel ya radge cunt! Cheggers wis fuckin crimson. They’ve goat that three-second delay oan the so-called live radio, tae edit that sortay thing oot.

  As they laughed, Begbie justified his actions.

  — Wir fuckin doon thair fir the fuckin racin, no tae talk tae some fuckin doss cunt oan the fuckin radio. His expression was that of a man-of-affairs, bored with being hassled by the media for interviews.

  Franco could always find something to be enraged about, however.

  — Fuckin Sick Boy should’ve been here. Matty wis his fuckin mate, he announced.

  — Eh, he’s in France but . . . wi that burd, likesay. Probably couldnae cut it man, ken . . . ah mean . . . France, likesay, Spud drunkenly observed.

  — Makes nae fuckin difference. Rents n Stevie came up fae London for this. If Rents n Stevie kin come up fae fuckin London, Sick Boy kin come up fae fuckin France.

  Spud’s senses were dangerously dulled with the alcohol. Stupidly, he kept the argument going. — Yeah, but, eh . . . France is further away . . . wir talkin aboot the south ay France here, likesay. Ken?

  Begbie looked incredulously at Spud. Obviously the message had not got across. He spoke slower, higher and with a snarl twisting his cruel mouth into a strange shape below his blazing eyes.

  — IF RENTS N STEVIE KIN COME UP FI FUCKIN LONDON, SICK BOY KIN COME UP FAE FUCKIN FRANCE!

  — Yeah . . . right enough. Should’ve made the effort. Mate’s funeral likesay, ken. Spud thought that the Conservative Party in Scotland could do with a few Begbies. It’s not what the message is, the problem is just communication. Begbie is good at getting the message across.

  Stevie was badly feeling the session. He was out of practice for this type of thing. Franco whipped an arm around him and another one around Renton.

  — It’s fuckin great tae see yous cunts again. The fuckin baith ay yis. Stevie, ah want ye tae fuckin look eftir this cunt doon in London, he turned to Renton. — If you go the same fuckin wey as Matty, ah’ll fuckin sort you right oot ya cunt. Listen tae fuckin Franco talkin here.

  — If ah go the same wey as Matty, th’ill be nowt left ay us tae sort oot.

  — Dinnae you fuckin believe it. Ah’ll dig yir fuckin boady up n boot it up n doon Leith fuckin Walk. Git us?

  — Nice tae ken thit ye care Frank.

  — Course ah fuckin care. Ye back up yir mates. S’at fuckin right Nelly?

  — Eh? Nelly turned around slowly, drunk.

  — Ah’m jist fuckin tellin this cunt here, ye back up yir fuckin mates.

  — Too fuckin right ye do.

  Spud and Alison were talking. Renton slipped away from Franco to join them. Franco was holding Stevie up, displaying him like a trophy to Nelly telling him what a great cunt he was.

  Spud turned to Renton: — Jist sayin tae Ali, this is heavy shite, aw this, likesay, man. Ah’ve been tae too many funerals fir a gadge ma age, likesay. Wonder whae’s next?

  Renton shrugged. — At least we’ll be prepared, whaeivir the fuck it is. If they gave oot qualifications in bereavement, ah’d be a fuckin Ph.D. by now.

  They filed out into the cold night at closing time, heading for Begbie’s place with a carry-out. They’d already spent twelve hours drinking and pontificating about Matty’s life and his motivations. In truth, the more reflective of them realised, all their insights pooled and processed, did little to illuminate the cruel puzzle of it all.

  They were no wiser now than at the start.

  Straight Dilemmas No. 1

  — C’mon, have a bit of this, it’s alright, she sais, holding the joint towards me. How the fuck did ah get here? Ah should’ve gaun hame n got changed, then watched telly or went down The Princess Diana. It’s Mick’s fault, him and his qui
ck-one-after-work.

  Now ah’m oot ay place here, still in ma suit n tie, sitting in this comfortable flat amidst denim and t-shirt punters who think they’re bigger wasters than they are. Weekend zanies are such a drag.

  — Leave ’im alone Paula, sais the woman ah met in the pub. She’s really trying tae get intae ma keks, with that frantically obvious desperation ye tend tae find in such London scenes. She’ll probably succeed, despite the fact that whenever ah go to the bathroom and try tae think of what she looks like, ah can’t conjure up even an approximate image. These types are irritating twats; plastic bastards. All you can do is fuck them, take from them, and then go. They even give you the impression that they’d be disappointed if you did anything else. Ah’m soundin like Sick Boy now, but his attitude does have its place, which is here and now.

  — Nah, come on Mister Suit en Tie. I’ll bet you ain’t had nuffink like this in your life.

  Ah sip at ma vodka and study this lassie. She has a good tan, and well-groomed hair, but this only seems to highlight rather than obscure a slightly wizened, unhealthy look. I spy with my little eye: another doss fucker in search of street cred. The cemeteries are full ay them.

  Ah take the joint, sniff it, and hand it back. — Grass, with some opium in it, right? ah ask. It actually smells like good gear.

  — Yeah . . . she sais, a wee bit fazed out.

  Ah look again at the joint burning away in her hand. Ah try tae feel something. Anything. What ah’m really looking for is the demon, the bad bastard, the radge inside ay me who shuts down ma brain, who propels hand to joint and joint to lips and sucks and sucks like a vacuum cleaner. He’s no coming oot tae play. Maybe he doesnae live here any mair. All that’s left is the nine-to-five arsehole.

  — Ah think ah’ll pass on your kind offer. Call me a wanker if ye will, but ah’ve always been a wee bit nervous around drugs. Ah know a few people who’ve been intae them, and run intae difficulties.

  She looks intently at me, seeming to suss that it’s what I’m not saying that’s important. She obviously feels a bit of a tit, and gets up and leaves us.

  — You’re mad, you are, the woman ah met in the pub, what the fuck did she say her name was again, laughs too loudly. Ah miss Kelly, who’s now back in Scotland. Kelly had a nice laugh.

  The truth ay the matter is, the drugs thing just seems such a bore now; even though ah’m actually much more boring now than ah was when ah wis oan the skag. The thing is, this sort ay boredom’s new tae us, and therefore no quite as tedious as it appears tae be. Ah’ll just run wi it for a wee bit. For a wee bit.

  Eating Out

  Oh god, you can tell; it’s just going tae be one ay these nights. Ah prefer it when it’s busy, but when it’s deid like this, time drags. No chance ay tips either. Shite!

  There’s hardly anybody in the bar. Andy’s sitting looking bored, reading the Evening News. Graham’s in the kitchen, preparing food that he hopes will be eaten. Ah’m leaning against the bar, feeling really tired. I’ve got an essay tae hand in the mom, for the philosophy class. It’s on morality: whether it’s relative or absolute, and in which circumstances, etcetera, etcetera. It depresses me tae think aboot it. Once ah finish this shift ah’ll be up all night writing it up. It’s too mad.

  Ah don’t miss London, but ah do miss Mark . . . a wee bit. Well, maybe a bit more than jist a wee bit, but no as much as ah thought. He said if ah wanted tae go tae University, ah could dae it in London jist as easy as back hame. When ah told him it wisnae easy living on a grant anywhere, but in London, it was impossible, jist arithmetically impossible, he said that he was making good money, and that we’d manage awright. When ah told him that ah didnae want tae be kept, like he’s the big pimp and ah’m the cerebal whore, he said it wouldnae be like that. Anyway, ah came back, he steyed, and ah don’t think either ay us really regrets it. Mark can be affectionate, but he doesnae seem tae really need people. Ah lived with him for six months, and ah still don’t think ah really know him. Sometimes ah feel that ah was looking for too much, and that there’s a lot less tae him than meets the eye.

  Four guys come intae the resturant, obviously drunk. Crazy. One looks vaguely familiar. Ah think ah might have seen him at the University.

  — What can I get you? Andy asks them.

  — A couple of bottles of your best piss . . . and a table for four . . . he slurs. Ah can tell by their accents, dress and bearing that they are middle to upper-middle-class English. The city’s full of such white-settler types, says she, who’s just back from London! You used to get Geordies and Scousers and Brummies and Cockneys at the Uni, now it’s a playground for failed Oxbridge home-counties types, with a few Edinburgh merchant-school punters representing Scotland.

  Ah smile at them. Ah must stop having these preconceived notions, and learn to treat people as people. It’s Mark’s influence, his prejudices are infectious, the crazy prick. They sit down.

  One sais: — What do you call a good-looking girl in Scotland?

  Another snaps: — A tourist! They speak very loudly. Cheeky cunts.

  One then sais, gesturing in ma direction: — I don’t know though. I wouldn’t kick that out of bed.

  You prick. You fucking doss prick.

  Ah’m seething inwardly, trying tae pretend ah didnae hear that remark. Ah cannae afford tae lose this job. Ah need the money. No cash; no Uni, no degree. Ah want that degree. Ah really fuckin want it more than anything.

  As they study the menu, one ay the guys, a dark-haired skinny wanker wi a long fringe, smiles lecherously at us. — Orlroit dahlin? he sais, in a put-on Cockney accent. It’s a vogue thing for the rich tae dae on occasion, I understand. God, ah want tae tell this creep tae fuck off. Ah dinnae need this shite . . . aye ah do.

  — Give us a smile then, girlie! a fatter guys sais, in a booming, officious voice. The voice ay arrogant, ignorant wealth unchallenged, untainted by sensitivity or intellect. Ah try tae smile in a condescending wey, but ma face muscles are frozen. Thank fuck as well.

  Taking the order is a nightmare. They are engrossed in conversations aboot careers; commodity broking, public relations and company law seeming tae be the most popular, in between casually patronising and trying tae humiliate me. The skinny creep actually asks me what time ah finish, and ah ignore him, as the rest make whooping noises and dae a drum roll on the table. Ah complete the order, feeling shattered and debased, and depart tae the kitchen.

  Ah’m really shaking wi rage, wondering how long ah can control this, wishing that Louise or Marisa were on tonight, another woman tae talk tae.

  — Can’t ye get these fuckin arseholes oot ay here? ah snap at Graham.

  — It’s business. The customer’s always right, even if he’s a fuckin knob-end.

  Ah remember Mark telling me aboot the time he worked at the Horse Of The Year Show at Wembley, doing catering wi Sick Boy, one summer years ago. He always said that waiters have power; never mess wi a waiter. He’s right, of course. It’s now time tae use that power.

  Ah’m smack-bang in the middle ay a heavy period, and ah’m feeling that scraped out, drained way. Ah go tae the toilet and change tampons, wrapping the used one, which is saturated wi discharge, intae some toilet paper.

  A couple ay these rich, imperialist bastards have ordered soup; our trendy tomato and orange. As Graham’s busy preparing the main courses, ah take the bloodied tampon and lower it, like a tea-bag, intae the first bowl ay soup. Ah then squeeze its manky contents oot wi a fork. A couple ay strands ay black, uterallining float in the soup, before being dissolved wi a healthy stir.

  Ah deliver the two paté starters and two soups tae the table, making sure that the skinny, gelled fuck-up has got the spiked one. One ay the party, a guy wi a brown beard and phenomenally ugly, protruding teeth, is telling the table, again very loudly, aboot how terrible Hawaii is.

  — Too bloody hot. Not that I mind the heat, it’s just that it’s not like the rich, baking heat of Southern California. This place is so bloody humi
d, you just sweat like a pig all the time. One is also continually harassed by peasant scum trying to sell you all their ridiculous trinkets.

  — More wine! the fat, fair-heided prick petulantly booms at us.

  Ah go back tae the lavvy and fill a saucepan with ma urine. Cystitis is a problem for me, particularly during ma periods. Ma pish has that stagnant, cloudy look, which suggests a urinary-tract infection.

  Ah dilute the carafe ay wine with ma pish; it looks a bit cloudy, but they’re so smashed they winnae notice. Ah pour a quarter ay the wine intae the sink, topping up the carafe with ma pish de resistance.

  Ah pour some more ay ma pish ontae the fish. It’s the same colour and consistency as the sauces which marinate it. Crazy!

  These pricks eat and drink everything withoot even noticing.

  It’s hard tae shite ontae a piece of newspaper in the toilet; the bog is small, and it’s difficult tae squat. Graham’s also shouting aboot something. Ah manage a small runny turd, which ah take through and mix up wi some cream intae the liquidiser, and merge the resultant mess wi the chocolate sauce, heating away in a pan. Ah pour it ower the profiteroles. It looks good enough tae eat. Too radge!

  Ah feel charged wi a great power, actually enjoying their insults. It’s a lot easier tae keep smiling now. The fat bastard has drawn the short straw though; his ice-cream is laced wi ground up traces of rat poison. Ah hope Graham doesnae get intae trouble. I hope they dinnae close the restaurant doon.

  In my essay, ah now think that ah’d be forced tae put that, in some circumstances, morality is relative. That’s if ah was being honest with masel. This is not Dr Lamont’s view though, so ah may stick wi absolutes in order tae curry favour and get high marks.