Trainspotting Page 30

  — Bullshit! Cunt! You fuckin shared! Tommy leans forward. He’s startin tae greet. Ah remember thinking that if he did, ah might n aw. Aw ah feel though, is an ugly, choking anger.

  — Ah nivir shared, ah shake ma heid.

  He sits back and smiles tae himself; no even looking at us as he talks reflectively, now without any bitterness.

  — Funny how it aw works oot, eh? It wis you n Spud n Sick Boy n Swanney n that, thit goat us intae the H. Ah used tae sit n huv a bevvy wi Second Prize n Franco an laugh at yis, call yis aw the daft cunts under the sun. Then ah split fae Lizzy, mind? Went tae your bit. Ah asked ye fir a hit. Ah thoat, fuck it, ah’ll try anythin once. Been tryin it once ivir since.

  Ah remember that. Christ, it wis only a few months ago. Some poor bastards are just so much more predisposed tae addiction wi certain drugs than others. Like Second Prize wi pish. Tommy took tae the skag wi a vengeance. Nae cunt kin really control it, but ah’ve known some fuckers, like myself, tae accommodate it. Ah’ve kicked a few times now. Kicking and using again is like gaun tae prison. Everytime ye go to jail, the probability ay ye ever becoming free fae that kind ay life decreases. It’s the same every time ye go back tae smack. Ye decrease yir chances ay ever bein able tae dae withoot it. Wis it me thit encouraged Tommy tae take that first shot, jist by having the gear thair? Possibly. Probably. How guilty did that make us? Guilty enough.

  — Ah’m really sorry, Tommy.

  — Ah dinnae ken whit tae fuckin dae, Mark. Whit ah’m ah gaunnae dae?

  Ah just sit there, heid slightly bowed. Ah wanted tae tell Tommy: Git oan wi yir life. It’s aw ye can dae. Look eftir yirsel. Ye might no git bad. Look at Davie Mitchell. Davie’s one ay Tommy’s best mates. He’s HIV and he’s nivir used skag in his puff. Davie’s okay though. He leads a normal life, well as normal a life as any cunt ah ken leads.

  But ah know that Tommy cannae afford tae heat this gaff. He isnae Davie Mitchell, never mind Derek Jarman. Tommy cannae put hissel in a bubble, live in the warm, eat good fresh food, keep his mind stimulated wi new challenges. He willnae live five, or ten, or fifteen years before he’s crushed by pneumonia or cancer.

  Tommy will not survive winter in West Granton.

  — Ah’m sorry mate. Ah’m really sorry, ah just repeat.

  — Goat any gear? he asks, raising his heid and looking straight at me.

  — Ah’m clean now Tommy. Whin ah tell him, he doesnae even sneer.

  — Sub us then mate. Ah’m expectin a rent cheque.

  Ah dig intae ma poakits and produce two crumpled fivers. Ah’m thinkin aboot Matty’s funeral. It’s odds on Tommy’s next and there’s fuck all anybody kin dae aboot it. Especially me.

  He takes the money. Oor eyes meet, and something flashes between us. It’s something ah cannae define, but it’s something really good. It’s thair jist fir a second; then it’s gone.

  A Scottish Soldier

  Johnny Swan examines his close-shaven head in the bathroom mirror. His long, filthy hair had been shorn off a few weeks back. Now he had to get rid of this growth on his chin. Shaving was a drag when you only had one leg, and Johnny still hadn’t quite got his balance sorted out. However, after a few scares, he managed what is a passable attempt. He was determined that he’d never go back into that wheelchair again, that was for sure.

  — Back oan the mooch, he says to himself, as he studies his face in the mirror. Johnny looked clean. It was not a nice feeling and the process had caused him a great deal of discomfort; but people expect standards from an old soldier. He starts whistling the tune A Scottish Soldier; indulging himself further he gives his reflection a stiff, regimental salute.

  The bandage on his stump gives Johnny some cause for concern. It looks filthy. Mrs Harvey, the community nurse, is coming today to change it, doubtless with a few accompanying choice words on personal hygiene.

  He examines his remaining leg. It was never the best of the two. That knee was dodgy; the remnant of a footballing incident many moons ago. It’ll get dodgier still as the sole bearer of his weight. Johnny thinks that he should’ve injected into the artery in this leg; let this one have been the cunt that went gangrenous and got hacked off by the surgeon. The curse of being right-sided, he reflects.

  Outside in the cold streets, he swings and lurches towards the Waverley Station. Each step is a cruel one. The pain doesn’t come from the extremity of his stump, but seems to be all over his body; however, the two methadone jellies and the barbiturates he has swallowed take the edge off it. Johnny sets up his pitch at the Market Street exit. His large piece of cardboard reads, in black letters:

  FALKLANDS VETERAN — I LOST MY LEG FOR MY COUNTRY. PLEASE HELP.

  A junky called Silver, Johnny doesn’t know his real name, approaches him in freeze-frame movements.

  — Any skag Swanney? he asks.

  — Nothin happenin mate. Raymie’s oan fir Setirday, or so ah hear.

  — Setirday’s nae good, Silver wheezes. — Thir’s a fuckin ape oan ma back wants feedin.

  — The White Swan here’s a businessman Silver, Johnny points at himself. — If he hud merchandise tae punt, he’d dae jist that.

  Silver looks downcast. A filthy, black overcoat hangs loosely on his grey, emaciated flesh. — Blootered oaf aw ma methy script, he states, neither looking for sympathy nor expecting it. Then a slight glint comes into his dead eyes. — Hey Swannenae, dae ye make any poppy oot ay that?

  — As one door shuts, another opens, Johnny smiles, his teeth a rotting mass in his mouth. — Ah make mair hireys daein this thin ah do oan the punt. Now if yill excuse us Silver, ah’ve goat a —fuckin livin tae earn here. An upright soldier like mase! cannae be seen talkin tae junkies. See ye aroond.

  Silver barely registers his comments, let alone takes offence. — Ah’ll jist head doon tae the clinic then. Some cunt might sell us a jelly.

  — Au revoir, Johnny shouts at his back.

  He does steady business. Some people furtively drop coins into his hat. Others, resentful at the intrusion of misery into their lives, turn away or resolutely look ahead. Women give more than men; young people more than their elders; people who appear to be of the most modest means seem more generous than the affluent looking.

  A fiver lands in the hat. — God bless ye sir, Johnny acknowledges.

  — Not at all, a middle-aged man says, — we owe you lads. It must be terrible to suffer that loss so young.

  — Ah’ve nae regrets. Ye cannae allow yersel tae be bitter, pal. That’s ma philosophy anywey. Ah love ma country; ah’d dae it aw again. Besides, ah regard masel is one ay the lucky yins; ah came back. Ah loast some good mates in that swedge at Goose Green, ah kin tell ye. Johnny let his eyes take on a glazed, faraway look; he almost believed himself. He turned back to the man. — Still, meetin people like yirsel, whae remember, whae care; that makes it aw worthwhile.

  — Good luck, the man says softly, before turning and mounting the steps up to Market Street.

  — Fackin radge cunt, Johnny mutters to himself, shaking his bowed head, as spasms of light laughter ripple up his sides.

  He makes £26.78 after a couple of hours. It’s not bad going and it’s easy work. Johnny’s good at waiting; even British Rail on a bad day couldn’t fuck up his junky karma. However, withdrawal gives advance notice of its cruel intentions with an icy burn which causes his pulse to kick up a gear and his pores to excrete a rich, toxic sweat. He is about to pack up and leave when a thin, frail woman approaches him.

  — Wir ye a Royal Scot son? Ma Brian wis a Royal Scot, Brian Laidlaw.

  — Eh, Marines, missis. Johnny shrugs.

  — Brian nivir came back, god love um. Twinty-one he wis. Ma laddie. A fine laddie n aw. The woman’s eyes are welling up with tears. Her voice lowers to a concentrated hiss, which is all the more pitiful for its impotence. — Ye know son, ah’ll hate that Thatcher till ma dyin day. Thir isnae a day goes by whin ah dinnae curse her.

  She takes out her purse and, producing a twenty-poun
d note, crushes it into Johnny’s hand. — Here son, here. It’s aw ah’ve goat, bit ah want you tae huv it. She breaks into a sob and almost staggers away from him; it was like she’d been stabbed.

  — God bless ye, Johnny Swan shouts after her. — God bless the Royal Jocks. Then he thrashes his hands together at the prospect of adding some cyclozine to the methadone he already has. Psycho-methy cocktail: his ticket to better times, that wee private heaven the uninitiated pour scorn on, but they could never conceive of its bliss. Albo has a stack of cyclozine, prescribed for his cancer. Johnny will visit his sick friend this afternoon. Albo needs Johnny’s jellies as much as Johnny needs his psychos. A mutual coincidence of wants. Yes, god bless the Royal Jocks, and god bless the NHS.

  Station to Station

  It is a foul and dreich night. Filthy clouds hang overhead; waiting to spew their dark load on the shuffling citizens below, for the umpteenth time since the break of dawn. The bus station concourse is like a Social Security office turned inside out and doused with oil. A lot of young people living on big dreams and small budgets stand sombrely in line at the London rank. The only cheaper way down is by thumb.

  The bus has come from Aberdeen with a stop at Dundee. Begbie stoically checks the seat reservation tickets, then fixes a malevolent glare at the people already on the bus. Turning away, he looks back at the Adidas holdall at his feet.

  Renton, out of Begbie’s earshot, turns to Spud and nods towards their uptight friend. — The cunt’s jist hopin some fucker’s grabbed oor seats; gie um an excuse tae cause hassle.

  Spud smiles, and raises his eyebrows. Looking at him, Renton reflects, you’d never guess how high the stakes are. This is the big one, no doubt about it. He’d needed that shot, to keep his nerves straight. It had been his first one in months.

  Begbie turns around, his nerves jangling, and shoots them an angry grimace, almost as if he can sense their irreverence. — Whair the fuck’s Sick Boy?

  — Eh, ah’m scoobied, likesay, Spud shrugs.

  — He’ll be here, Renton says, nodding at the Adidas bag. — That’s twinty percent ay his gear yir haudin.

  This shot off an attack of paranoia — Keep yir fuckin voice doon ya fuckin radge! Begbie hisses at Renton. He looks around, staring at the other passengers, feeling a desperate need for one, just one, to make eye-contact, to give him a target to unleash the fury within him which threatens to overwhelm him, and fuck the consequences.

  No. He had to stay in control. There was too much at stake. There was everything at stake.

  There is nobody looking at Begbie though. Those who are not oblivious to him, can feel the vibes he is giving out. They employ that special talent people have: pretending nutters are invisible. Even his companions won’t meet his gaze. Renton has pulled his green baseball cap down over his eyes. Spud, wearing a Republic of Ireland football strip, is eyeing a backpacker who has blonde hair, and has just removed her pack to give him a view of her tight-arsed jeans. Second Prize, who stands a bit apart from the others, is just drinking steadily; protective of the sizeable carry-out which sits at his feet in two white plastic bags.

  Over the concourse, behind the pillbox which calls itself a pub, Sick Boy is talking to a girl named Molly. She is a prostitute and is HIV positive. She sometimes hangs around the station at night, looking for punters. Molly had been in love with Sick Boy since he necked with her in a seedy disco-bar in Leith a few weeks ago. Sick Boy had made a drunken point about HIV transmission and to illustrate it had spent most of the night french-kissing her. Later, he had a bad attack of nerves and brushed his teeth half-a-dozen times before turning in for a sleepless, anxiety-filled night.

  Sick Boy has been peeking out at his friends from behind the pub. He’d keep the bastards waiting. He wants to make sure that no labdicks pounce before they get on the bus. If that happens, these cunts can go down alone.

  — Sub us a ten-spot doll, he asks Molly, not forgetting that he has a three-and-a-half grand stake in the contents of the Adidas bag. These are assets, however. This is cash-flow, which is always a problem.

  — Here ye are. The unquestioning way Molly goes for her purse almost touches Sick Boy. Then, with some bitterness, he notes the health of her wad, and curses inwardly for not making it twenty.

  — Cheers babes . . . well, ah’d better leave ye tae yir punters. The Smoke beckons. He tousles her curly hair and kisses her; this time though, a derisory brush on the cheek.

  — Phone us whin ye git back Simon, she shouts after him, watching his lean but sturdy body bounce away from her. He turns around.

  — You jist try stoapin us babes, you jist try stoapin us. Look eftir yirsel how. He winks at her and flashes an open, heart-warming smile before turning away.

  — Fucked-up wee hoor, he mutters under his breath, his face freezing in a contemptuous scowl. Molly was an amateur, nowhere near cynical enough for the game she was in. A total victim, he thinks, with an odd mixture of compassion and scorn. He turns the corner and bounds over to the others, head swishing from side to side, trying to detect the presence of the police.

  He is not amused at what he sees as they prepare to board the bus. Begbie curses him for his lateness. You always had to watch that radge, but with the stakes as high as they were, that meant he’d be even more uptight than usual. He remembered the bizarre contingency plans of violence that Begbie had hatched at the impromptu party they’d had last night. His temper could send them all to prison for life. Second Prize was in an advanced state of inebriation; to be expected. On the other hand, what loose-mouthed drunkard’s talk had the cunt been coming out with, prior to being here? If he can’t remember where he is, how the fuck can he be expected to remember what he says? This is such a fuckin dodgy scam, he reflects, allowing a shiver of anxiety to convulse through him.

  What chews Sick Boy up the most, however, is the state of Spud and Renton. They were obviously smacked out of their eyeballs. It was just like these bastards to fuck up. Renton, who has now been clean for ages, since long before he packed in his London job and came back up, could not resist that uncut Colombian brown Seeker had supplied them with. It was the real thing, he had argued, a once-in-a-lifetime hit for an Edinburgh junky used to cheap Pakistani heroin. Spud, as always, had gone along for the ride.

  That was Spud. His effortless ability to transform the most innocent of pastimes into criminality always amazed Sick Boy. Even in his Ma’s womb, you would have had to define Spud less as a foetus, more as a set of dormant drug and personality problems. He’d probably draw the polis onto them through knocking a salt-cellar out of the Little Chef. Forget Begbie, he bitterly reflects, if one cunt is going to mess up the gig, it’ll be Spud.

  Sick Boy looks harshly at Second Prize; this nickname resulting from his drink-fuelled fantasy that he could fight, and the attendant disastrous results. Second Prize’s sport had not been boxing, but football. He was a Scotland schoolboy international star of remarkable ability, who went south to Manchester United at the age of sixteen. By then, he already had an embryonic drink problem. One of soccer’s unsung miracles was how Second Prize had managed to wring two years from the club before being kicked back to Scotland. The conventional wisdom was that Second Prize had wasted a great talent. Sick Boy understood the harsher truth, however. Second Prize was a mass of despair; in terms of his life as a whole, footballing ability was a frivolous deviation rather than alcoholism a cruel curse.

  They file onto the bus, Renton and Spud moving in the smack-head’s freeze-frame manner. They are as disorientated by the sequence of events as they are by the junk. There they were, pulling off the big one, and heading for a break in Paris. All they had to do was to convert the smack into hard cash, which had all been set up by Andreas in London. Sick Boy, though, had greeted them like a sinkful of dirty dishes. He was obviously in a bad mood and Sick Boy believed that the nasty things in life should be shared.

  As he climbs onto the bus, Sick Boy hears a voice call his name.

  — Sim
on.

  — No that hoor again, he curses under his breath, before noting a younger girl. He shouts: — Git ma seat Franco, ah’ll just be a minute.

  Taking his seat, Bebgie feels hatred, fused with more than a twinge of jealousy, as he watches a young girl in a blue cagoul hold hands with Sick Boy.

  — That cunt n his fuckin aboot wi fanny’ll fuck us aw up! he snarls at Renton, who looks bemused.

  Begbie tries to define the girl’s shape through the cagoul. He’d admired her before. He fantasises what he’d like to do with her. He notes her face is even prettier when understated without make-up. It is hard to focus on Sick Boy, but Begbie sees his mouth turned down and his eyes opened wide in contrived sincerity. Begbie gets more and more anxious until he is ready to just get up and drag Sick Boy onto the bus. As he goes to haul himself out off the seat, he sees Sick Boy is coming back onto the vehicle, staring balefully out of the windows.

  They are sitting at the back of the bus, beside the chemical toilet which already smells of spilled pish. Second Prize has cornered the back seat for himself and his carry-out. Spud and Renton sit in front of him, with Begbie and Sick Boy ahead of them.

  — That wis Tam McGregor’s wee lassie, Sick Boy, eh? Renton’s face grins idiotically at him through the gap between the seat’s headrests.

  — Aye.

  — He still fuckin hasslin ye? Begbie asks.

  — The cunt’s goat a lam oan because ah’ve been pokin his wee slut ay a daughter. Meanwhile, he’s playing stoat-the-baw wi every wee hairy that drinks in his shitey club. Fuckin hypocrite.

  — Pulled ye up ootside the fuckin Fiddlers, ah heard. They fuckin telt us ye shat yir fuckin load, Begbie mocks.

  — Like fuck ah did! Whae telt ye that? The cunt says tae us: if you lay a finger oan her . . . Ah jist goes: Lay a finger oan her? Ah’ve been pimpin it oot fir fuckin months, ya cunt!