Trainspotting Page 29

  It’s all too mad.

  Trainspotting at Leith Central Station

  The toon seems sinister and alien as ah pad it doon fae the Waverley. Two guys are screaming at each other under the archway in Calton Road, by the Post Office depot. Either that, or the cunts are screaming at me. What a place and time for a kicking. Is there ever a good one, though? Ah quicken ma pace — which isnae easy wi this heavy holdall — and get oantae Leith Street. What the fuck’s it aw aboot? Wide cunts. Ah’ll fuckin . . .

  Ah’ll fuckin keep moving. Sharpish. By the time ah get tae the Playhouse, the noise fae the two arseholes has been replaced by the appreciative chattering ay groups ay middle-class cunts as they troop oot ay the opera: Carmen. Some of them are making for the restaurants at the top ay the Walk, where reservations have been made. Ah stroll on. It’s downhill all the way.

  Ah pass ma auld Montgomery Street gaff, then the former junk zone of Albert Street, now sandblasted and tarted up. A polis car frantically lets rip on the siren as it hurtles doon the Walk. Three guys stagger oot ay a pub and intae a Chinky. One ay the cunts is willing us tae make eye-contact. Any flimsy pretext tae fill some fucker in, some wide-os will grasp it wi baith hands. It’s the auld discreet increase of pace again.

  In terms ay probability, the further ye go doon the Walk at this time ay night, the mair likely ye are tae git a burst mooth. Perversely, ah feel safer the further doon ah git. It’s Leith. Ah suppose that means hame.

  Ah hear gagging sounds and look doon this alley which leads tae a builder’s yard. Ah witness Second Prize boakin up a load ay bile. Ah discreetly wait fir um tae pull umsel thegither, before talkin tae um.

  — Rab. Ye awright man?

  He turns roond and wobbles oan the spot, tryin tae focus oan us, when aw his heavy eyelids want tae dae is crash doon, like the steel shutters ay a late-night Asian shoap ower the road.

  Second Prize sais something which sounds a bit like: — Hey Rents, sound as a fuckin pound . . . ya cunt . . . Then his face sortay changes and he sais: — . . . fuckin cunt . . . ah’ll fuckin have you ya cunt . . . He lurches forward and swings at us. Even wi ma holdall, a kin still step back fast enough and the nondy cunt crashes intae the wall, then staggers backwards, fawin oan his erse.

  Ah help um up and he’s talkin a loaday shite which ah cannae make oot, but he’s at least mair passive now.

  As soon as ah put ma airm aroond um tae help um along the road, the radge collapses like a pack ay cairds, wi that learned helplessness that chronic drunks have, as he completely surrenders hissel tae us. Ah huv tae droap ma travel bag tae support the fucker, tae stop him fawin and taking another second prize fae the pavement. This is useless.

  A taxi cruises up the Walk and ah flag it doon and stick Second Prize in the back ay it. The cabbie doesnae look too pleased, but ah gie him a fiver and say: — Let um oot doon the Bowtow, pal. Hawthornvale. He’ll find his wey hame fae thair. It’s the festive period, eftir aw. Cunts like Second Prize jist blend in at this time ay the year.

  Ah wis tempted tae git intae the taxi wi Seeks, and jump oaf at ma Ma’s, but Tommy Younger’s looked too tempting. Begbie’s in, haudin court wi a few wide-os, one ay whom looks familiar.

  — Rents! How ye fuckin daein, ya cunt! This you jist up fi London?

  — Aye, ah shook his hand and he pilled us tae him, slappin us hard oan the back. — Jist dumped Second Prize in a Joe Baxi, ah said.

  — That cunt. Ah telt um tae fuck oaf. Second fuckin bookable offence ay the night. Cunt’s a fuckin liability. That’s worse thin a fuckin junky, yon. If it hudnae been Christmas n that, ah’d huv fuckin tanned the cunt masel. That’s me n him fuckin finished. Endy fuckin story.

  Begbie introduces us tae the cunts in his company. What Second Prize did tae git flung oot ay that crowd, ah didnae even want tae ken. One ay the cunts wis that guy Donnelly, the Saughton Kid, a radge whae Mikey Forrester used tae erselick. Seems the cunt tired ay Forrester one day and gave um a sound stomping. Hoespitalisation joab. Couldnae huv happened tae a nicer guy.

  Begbie pulls us aside n droaps his voice.

  — Ye ken thit Tommy’s fuckin sick?

  — Aye. Ah’d heard.

  — Go n fuckin see the cunt whin yir up.

  — Aye. Ah plan tae dae that.

  — Too fuckin right. You ay aw fuckin people should. Ah’m no fuckin blamin you Rents, ah sais that tae fuckin Second Prize; ah’m no fuckin blamin Rents fir Tommy. It’s every cunt’s ain fuckin life. Ah fuckin telt that tae Second Prize.

  Begbie then goes oan tae tell us what a great cunt ah am, looking fir us tae reciprocate, which ah dutifully do.

  Ah act as a prop fir Begbie’s customary ego-boosting fir a while, playing the straight man and telling the company some classic Begbie stories, which portray the cunt as hardman and stud extraordinaire. It always seems more authentic coming fae somebody else. The pair ay us then leave the pub thegither and head doon the Walk. Ah jist want tae git ma heid doon at ma Ma’s, but The Beggar insists that ah come back tae his bit fir a bevvy.

  Strutting doon the Walk wi Begbie makes us feel like a predator, rather than a victim, and ah start looking fir cunts tae gie the eye tae, until ah realise what a pathetic arsehole ah’m being.

  We go fir a pish in the auld Central Station at the Fit ay the Walk, now a barren, desolate hangar, which is soon tae be demolished and replaced by a supermarket and swimming centre. Somehow, that makes us sad, even though ah wis eywis too young tae mind ay trains ever being there.

  — Some size ay a station this wis. Git a train tae anywhair fae here, at one time, or so they sais, ah sais, watchin ma steaming pish splash oantae the cauld stane.

  — If it still hud fuckin trains, ah’d be oan one oot ay this fuckin dive, Begbie said. It wis uncharacteristic for him tae talk aboot Leith in that way. He tended tae romanticise the place.

  An auld drunkard, whom Begbie had been looking at, lurched up tae us, wine boatil in his hand. Loads ay them used this place tae bevvy and crash in.

  — What yis up tae lads? Trainspottin, eh? He sais, laughing uncontrollably at his ain fuckin wit.

  — Aye. That’s right, Begbie sais. Then under his breath: — Fuckin auld cunt.

  — Ah well, ah’ll leave yis tae it. Keep up the trainspottin mind! He staggered oaf, his rasping, drunkard’s cackles filling the desolate barn. Ah noticed that Begbie seemed strangely subdued and uncomfortable. He wis turned away fae us.

  It wis only then ah realised thit the auld wino wis Begbie’s faither.

  We were silent on our journey towards Begbie’s until we came upon a guy in Duke Street. Begbie hit him in the face, and he fell. The gadge briefly looked up before trying to pull himself intae a foetal position. Aw Begbie said wis ‘wide cunt’ as he put the boot intae the prostrate body a couple ay times. The expression the guy had when he looked up at Begbie was mair one ay resignation than fear. The boy understood everything.

  Ah didnae even feel like tryin tae intervene, even in a token wey. Eventually Begbie turned tae me and nodded in the direction we were headed. We left the guy slumped on the pavement as we continued our walk in silence, neither ay us looking back once.

  A Leg-Over Situation

  It wis the first time ah’d seen Johnny since his amputation. Ah didnae ken what state ah’d find the cunt in. The last time ah’d seen um he’d been covered in abscesses n still talkin shite aboot gaun tae Bangkok.

  Tae me surprise, the cunt wis exuberant for somebody thit hud recently loast a leg. — Rents! Ma man! How ye diddlin?

  — No bad Johnny. Look, ah’m really sorry aboot the leg, man.

  He laughed at ma concern. — Promising fitba career up the creek. Still, it nivir stoaped Gary Mackay, did it?

  Ah jist smiled.

  — The White Swan winnae be in dock fir long. Once ah git the hing ay that fuckin crutch, ah’ll be back oan the streets. This is one bird’s wings that cannae be clipped. Thill take ma legs bit nivir they wings. He wrapped an airm roond his sh
oodir tae pat tae whair his wings would huv been if the cunt hud any. Ah think he believes thit he does. — En this bord you kenot chay-ay-ay-ay-aynge . . . , he sang. Ah wondered whit the cunt wis oan.

  As if readin ma mind he sais: — Ye goatay try that cyclozine. Shite oan its ain, but see whin ye mix it wi the methadone; phoah ya cunt! Best fuckin high ah’ve hud in ma puff. That includes that Colombian shit we hud back in eighty-four. Ah ken yir clean they days, but see if ye try nowt else, try that cocktail.

  — Reckon it, aye?

  — It’s the fuckin best. You ken the Mother Superior, Rents. Ah believe in the free market whin it comes tae drugs. Ah’ve goat tae gie the NHS its due though. Since ah hud this pin oaf n went oan the maintenance therapy ah’ve started tae believe thit the state kin compete wi private enterprise in oor industry, n produce a satisfyin product at low cost tae the consumer. The methadone n cyclozine combined; ah’m tellin ya man, fuck me. Ah jist go doon, git ma jellies fi the clinic, then look up some ay the boys thit git the cyclozine oan script. They gie it tae the perr cunts wi cancer, fi AIDS, likes. A wee swap, n every cunt’s chuffed tae fuckin bits.

  Johnny ran oot ay veins and started shooting intae his arteries. It only took a few ay they shots tae gie um gangrine. Then the leg hud tae go. He catches us looking at the bandaged stump; ah cannae stoap masel.

  — Ah ken whit yir thinkin, ya cunt. Well, they nivir took the White Swan’s middle leg!

  — Ah wisnae, ah protest, but he’s pullin his dick oot ay the toap ay his boxer shorts.

  — No thit it’s much fuckin use tae us, he laughs.

  Ah note that his knob’s covered in dry scabs, which indicates that it’s healin up. — Seems tae be dryin oot though Johnny, they abscesses likes.

  — Aye. Ah’ve been tryin tae stick tae the methadone n cyclozine n stoap the injectin. Ah thoat whin ah saw the stump thit it wis an opportunity, another access point, but the hoespital cunt sais: Forget it. Stick a needle in thair n that’s you well fucked. The maintenance therapy’s no too bad though. The White Swan’s strategy is tae git mobile, git clean n then start dealin properly, jist fir profit rather thin use. He pulls oot the waistband oan his shorts n scoops his scabby gear back in.

  — Ye want tae gie it a fuckin bye, man, ah suggest. The cunt doesnae hear a word ah’m sayin.

  — Naah, the aim’s tae git a fuckin bankroll thegither, then it’s oaf tae Bangkok.

  His leg might have gone, but his Thailand escape fantasy’s still intact.

  — Mind you, he sais, — ah dinnae want tae wait until ah git tae Thailand before ah git a fuckin ride. That’s whit this reduced dosage shite does fir ye. Ah hud some root oan us the other day thair whin the nurse came roond tae dae the dressin. An auld boot n aw, n thair’s me sittin wi a bairn’s airm wi an aypil oan the end ay it.

  — Once ye git yirsel mobile Johnny, ah venture encouragingly.

  — Like fuck. Whae wants tae shag a one-legged cunt? Ah’ll huv tae pey fir it; a big come-doon fir the White Swan. Still, yir better peyin fir it wi burds. Keep the fuckin relationship oan a strictly business footin. He sounded bitter. — Ye still knobbin Kelly?

  — Naw, she’s back up here. Ah didnae like the wey he said that, n ah didnae like the wey ah responded.

  — That cunt Alison came roond the other day, he sais, revealing the source ay his spite. Ali n Kelly ur best mates.

  — Aw aye?

  — Tae see the fuckin freak show, he nods at his bandaged stump.

  — C’moan Johnny, Ali widnae huv that attitude.

  He laughs again, reaching for a decaffeinated Diet Coke, ripping the ring back and taking a sip. — Thir’s yin in the fridge, he offers, pointing tae the kitchen. Ah nod in the negative.

  — Aye, she wis roond the other day. Well, a few weeks ago now, ah suppose. Ah goes, whit aboot a gam, doll? Fir auld time’s sake, likes. Ah mean, it wis the least she could dae fir the Mother Superior, the White Swan, whae fuckin saw her awright plenty times. The cauld-hearted bitch k.b.d us, he shook his heid in disgust. — Ah nivir legged that wee hoor, ye ken? Nivir in ma puff. Even whin she wis gantin oan it. She’d uv let us fuck her aw weys fir a fix it one time.

  — Right enough, ah conceded. It wis true, or wis it? Thir wis always a wee bit ay silent antagonism between masel n Ali. Dinnae really ken why. Whatever the reason, it makes it easier fir us tae believe the worst aboot her.

  — The White Swan wid nivir take advantage ay a damsel in distress though, he smiles.

  — Aye, sure, ah sais, totally unconvinced.

  — Too right ah widnae, he stridently contends. — Ah didnae, did ah? The proof ay the puddin’s in the fuckin eatin.

  — Aye, only because ye hud skag in yir baws.

  — Uh, uh, uh, he goes, touchin his chist wi the can ay coke. — The White Swan disnae fuck ower his mates. Golden rule number one. No fir smack, no fir nowt. Nivir question the integrity ay the White Swan oan that issue, Rents. Ah wisnae skaggy-bawed aw the dme. Ah could’ve hud her cunt oan toast if ah hud’ve wanted it. Even whin ah wis skaggy-bawed; ah could’ve pimped her oot. Easy fuckin meat. Ah could’ve hud the bitch doon Easter Road in a short skirt n nae keks; gave her a jab tae keep her quiet, n stuck her oan the flair ay the pish-hoose behind the shed. Could’ve hud the whole fuckin home support oan a line-up, wi the White Swan standin ootside chargin a fiver a skull. Even wi a flunky thrown in, the margins wid be astro-fuckin-nomical. Then doon tae Tyney the next week, let aw they infected Jambo bastards go in eftir the boys hud hud thir fill.

  Incredibly, Johnny’s still HIV negative, in spite ay bein involved in settin up mair shootin galleries than Mr Cadona. He has a bizarre theory that only Jambos get HIV and Hibbies are immune. — Ah’d uv been set up. Retirement joab. A few weeks ay that n ah could’ve been in Thailand, a posse ay oriental buttocks parked oan ma coupon. Didnae dae it though; cause ye cannae fuck ower yir mates.

  — It’s tough bein a man ay principles, Johnny, ah smile. Ah’m wantin tae leave. Ah couldnae handle a round ay Johnny’s fantasised oriental adventures.

  — Fuckin right it is. Ma problem wis ah forgot the wrong yins. Nae sympathy in business, n wir aw acquaintances whin it comes tae the law ay the dragon. Bit naw, soft-herted bastard that the White Swan is, he lets friendship come intae it. N how does that selfish wee hing-oot repay us? Ah asks her fir a wee blow-job, that’s aw. She wis gaunny gie us it n aw, oot ay sympathy fir the leg, ken. Ah hud even goat her tae git mair ay the make-up n lipstick oan, heavy duty likes, ken? So ah whips it oot. She takes one look it the weepin sores n boatils oot. Ah sais, dinnae worry, saliva’s a natural antiseptic.

  — That’s whit they say right enough, ah acknowledge. It’s gettin oan.

  — Aye. N ah’ll tell ye somethin else Rents, we hud the right idea back in sivinty-sivin. Aw that gobbin wi did. Drown the whole fuckin world in saliva.

  — Pity we aw dried up, ah sais, risin tae make a move.

  — Aye, too right, Johnny Swan says, quieter now.

  It’s time ah wisnae here.

  Winter In West Granton

  Tommy looks well. It’s terrifying. He’s gaunny die. Sometime between the next few weeks and next fifteen years, Tommy will be no more. The chances are that ah’ll be exactly the same. The difference is, we ken this wi Tommy.

  — Awright Tommy, ah sais. He looks so well.

  — Aye, he sais. Tommy’s sitting in a battered armchair. The air smells ay damp, and rubbish that should have been pit oot ages ago.

  — How ye feelin?

  — No bad.

  — Want tae talk aboot it? Ah huv tae ask.

  — No really, he sais, like he does.

  Ah sit down awkwardly, in an identical chair. It feels hard, and has springs coming through. Many years ago, this wis some rich cunt’s chair. It’s hud at least a couple ay decades in poor homes though. Now it’s winded up wi Tommy.

  Now ah see that Tommy doesnae look so well. Thir’s something missin, some part ay him; as if he’s an incomplete ji
gsaw puzzle. It’s mair thin shock or depression. It’s like a bit ay Tommy’s awready died, n ah’m mourin fir it. Ah realise now thit death is usually a process, rather than an event. People generally die by degrees, incrementally. They rot away slowly in homes and hoespitals, or places like this.

  Tommy cannae get oot ay West Granton. He’s blown things wi his Ma. This is one ay the varicose-vein flats, called so because of the plastered cracks all over its facing. Tommy got it through the council’s hotline. Fifteen thousand people on the waiting list and naebody wanted this one. It’s a prison. It’s no really the council’s fault; the Government made them sell off all the good hooses, leaving the dross for the likes ay Tommy. It makes perfect sense politically. There’s nae votes for the Government doon here, so why bother daein anything fir people whae urnae gaunnae support ye? Morally, it’s another thing. What’s morality goat tae dae wi politics, but? It’s aw aboot poppy.

  — How’s London? he asks.

  — No bad Tommy. Really jist the same as up here, ken.

  — Aye, ah bet, he sais, sarcastically.

  PLAGUER wis painted on the heavy plywood-enforced door in big, black letters. Also HIVER and JUNKY. Draftpak kids will harass anybody. Naebody’s said anything tae Tommy’s face yet. Tommy’s a tidy bastard, he believes in what Begbie caws the discipline ay the baseball bat. He’s also goat hard mates, like Beggars, and no-sae-hard mates, like me. In spite ay this, Tommy will become mair vulnerable tae persecution. His friends will decline in their numbers as his needs increase. The inverse, or perverse, mathematics ay life.

  — You took the test, he sais.

  — Aye.

  — Clear?

  — Aye.

  Tommy looks at us. It’s like he’s angry and pleading, baith at the same time.

  — You used mair thin me. And ye shared works. Sick Boy’s, Keezbo’s, Raymie’s, Spud’s, Swanney’s . . . ye used Matty’s fir fuck sake. Tell us ye nivir used Matty’s works!

  — Ah nivir shared, Tommy. Every cunt sais that, but ah nivir shared, no in the galleries, anyway, ah telt um. Funny, ah’d forgotten aw aboot Keezbo. He’d been inside now fir a couple ay year. Been meanin tae go and visit the cunt fir donks. Ah ken thit ah’ll nivir git roond tae it though.