Trainspotting Free Online

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! Si
ck 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 the
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.

— The Hibbies didnae do too well against us, did they?
Renton smiled, glad for the first time, for reasons other than sexual ones, to have shagged this man’s daughter. It was amazing, he decided, how things like sex and Hibs, which were nothing to him when he was on smack, suddenly became all-important. He speculated that his drug problems might be related to Hibs poor performances over the eighties.
Dianne was ready. With less makeup on than last night, she looked about sixteen, two years older than she was. As they hit the streets, Renton felt relieved to be leaving the house, but a little embarrassed in case anyone he knew saw them. He had a few acquaintances in the area, mainly users and dealers. They would, he thought, think that he’d gone in for pimping if they came across him now.
They took the train from South Gyle into Haymarket. Dianne held Renton’s hand on the journey, and talked incessantly. She was relieved to be liberated from the inhibiting influence of her parents. She wanted to check Renton out in more detail. He could be a source of blow.
Renton thought about last night and wondered chillingly what Dianne had done, and with whom, to gain such sexual experience, such confidence. He felt fifty-five instead of twenty-five, and he was sure that people were looking at them.
Renton looked scruffy, sweaty and bleary in last night’s clothes. Dianne was wearing black leggings, the type so thin that they almost looked like tights, with a white mini-skirt over them. Either of the garments, Renton considered, would have sufficed on its own. One guy was looking at her in Haymarket Station as she waited for Renton to buy a Scotsman and a Daily Record. He noticed this and, strangely enraged, he found himself aggressively staring the guy down. Perhaps, he thought, it was self-loathing projected.
They went into a record shop on Dairy Road, and thumbed through some album sleeves. Renton was now pretty jumpy, as his hangover was growing at a rapid rate. Dianne kept handing him record sleeves for examination, announcing that this one was ‘brilliant’ and that one ‘superb’. He thought that most of them were crap, but was too nervy to argue.
— Awright Rents! How’s ma man? A hand hit his shoulder. He felt his skeleton and central nervous system briefly rip out of his skin, like wire through plasticine, then jump back in. He turned to see Deek Swan, Johnny Swan’s brother.
— No bad Deek. How ye livin? he responded with an affected casualness which belied his racing heartbeat.
— No sae bad boss, no sae bad. Deek noted that Renton had company, and gave him a knowing leer. — Ah’ve goat tae nash likes. See ye aroond. Tell Sick Boy tae gie us a bell if ye see um. The bastard owes us twenty fuckin bar.
— You n me both mate.
— His patter’s pure abysmal. Anywey, see ye Mark, he said turning to Dianne. — See ye doll. Yir man here’s too rude tae introduce us. Must be love. Watch this punter. They smiled uneasily at this first external definition of them, as Deek departed.
Renton realised that he had to be alone. His hangover was growing brutal, and he just couldn’t handle this.
— Eh, look Dianne . . . ah’ve goat tae nash. Meetin some mates doon in Leith. The fitba n that.
Dianne raised her eyes in knowing, weary acknowledgement, accompanying this gesture with what Renton thought were some strange clucking noises. She was annoyed that he was going before she could ask him about hash.
— What’s your address? She produced a pen and a piece of paper from her bag. — No the Forrester Park one, she added, smiling. Renton wrote down his real address in Montgomery Street, simply because he was too out of it to think up a false one.
As she departed, he felt a powerful twinge of self-loathing. He was unsure as to whether it came from having had sex with her, or the knowledge that he couldn’t possibly again.
However, that evening he heard the bell go. He was skint so he was staying in this Saturday night, watching Braddock: Missing in Action 3 on video. He opened the door and Dianne stood before him. Made-up, she was restored in his eyes to the same state of desirability as the previous evening.
— Moan in, he said, wondering how easily he’d be able to adjust to a prison regime.
Dianne thought she could smell hash. She really hoped so.
Strolling Through The Meadows
The pubs, likesay, dead busy, full ay loco-locals and festival types, having a wee snort before heading off tae the next show. Some ay they shows look okay . . . a bit heavy oan the hirays though, likesay.
Begbie’s pished his jeans . . .
— Pished yir keks, Franco? Rents asks him, pointing at a wet patch oan the faded blue denim.
— Like fuck ah huv! It’s jist fuckin water. Washin ma fuckin hands. No thit you’d fuckin ken aboot that, ya rid-heided cunt. This cunt’s allergic tae water, especially if ye mix it wi fuckin soap.
Sick Boy’s scannin the bar for women . . . chick crazy that kid. It’s like he gets bored in the company of punters eftir a while. Mibbe that’s why Sick Boy’s good wi women; like mibbe cause he has tae be. Yeah, that could be it. Matty’s talkin quietly tae hissel, shakin his heid. Thirs likesay somethin wrong wi Matty . . . no jist smack. It’s Matty’s mind, it’s like a bad depression, likes.
Renton and Begbie are arguing. Rents hud better watch what he’s daein, likesay. That Begbie, man, it’s likesay . . . that’s a fuckin jungle cat. We’re just ordinary funky feline types. Domestic cats, likesay.
— They cunts’ve goat the fuckin poppy. You’re the cunt thits eywis fuckin gaun oan aboot killin the rich n aw that anarchy shite. Now ye want tae fuckin shite oot! Begbie sneers at Rents, and it’s, likes, very ugly n aw; they dark eyebrows oan toap ay they darker eyes, that thick black hair, slightly longer than a skinheid.
— S no a question ay shitein oot Franco. Ah’m jist no intae it. Wir huvin a barry crack here. Wuv goat the speed n the E. Let’s jist enjoy oorsels, mibbe go tae a rave club, instead ay wanderin aboot the fuckin Meadows aw night. Thuv goat a big fuckin theatre tent thair, n a fuckin fun fair up. It’ll be crawlin wi polis. It’s too much fuckin hassle man.
— Ah’m no gaun tae any fuckin rave clubs. You sais yirsel thit thir fir fuckin bairns.
— Aye, but that wis before ah went tae yin.
— Well ah’m no fuckin gaun tae yin. So let’s fuckin pub crawl well, n git some cunt in the fuckin bogs.
— Nah. Ah cannae be ersed.
— Fuckin shitein cunt! Yir still fuckin shitein yir keks aboot the other weekend in the Bull and Bush.
— Naw ah’m no. It wis jist unnecessary, that’s aw. The whole fuckin thing.
Begbie looked at Rents, and likes, really tensed up in his seat. He’s straining forward, n ah thoat the dude wis gaunnae gub the Rent Boy, likesay, ken.
— Eh? Eh! Ah’ll fuckin unnecessary ye, ya radge cunt!
— C’moan Franco. Take it easy man, Sick Boy says.
Begbie seems tae realise that he’s ower the top, likesay, even fir him. Keep these claws in catboy. Show the world some soft pads. This is a bad cat, a big, bad panther.
— We fill in some fuckin Sherman Tank. Whaes he tae you? The smart cunt deserved ivraything he goat! Besides, ah didnae see you fucking lookin the other wey whin we wir in the fuckin snug at the Barley divvyin up the fuckin loot.
— The guy ended up unconscious in the hoespital, he loast a loat ay fuckin blood. It wis in the News . . .
— The cunt’s awright now though! It fuckin sais! Nae fuckin herm done tae nae cunt. N even if thir wis, so fuck? Some fuckin rich American cunt whae shouldnae even fuckin be here in the first place. Whae gies a fuck aboot that cunt? N you ya cunt, you’ve chibbed some cunt before; Eck Wilson, at the school, so dinnae you fuckin start gaun aw fuckin squeamish.
That sortay shuts Rents up cause he likesay hates talkin aboot that, but it sortay happened, ken? That wis jist lashin oot at some cat that wis scratchin ye like, no likesay plannin tae dae some radge ower. Beggars likesay cannae see the difference but. It wis bad though, really sick likesay . . . the Yank, the boy likes, jist wou
ldnae hand ower the wallet, even when Begbie pulled the chib, likesay . . . the last words ah heard the dude say wis: You won’t use that.
Begbie went fucking crazy, goat that carried away likesay, wi the bladework, ken, we nearly forgoat the wallet likes. Ah goat intae the guy’s poakits and fished it oot while Begbie wis bootin um in the face. Blood wis flowin intae the latrine, mixin wi the pish, Ugly, ugly, ugly man, likesay, ken? Ah still shake thinkin aboot it. Ah lie in bed n likes, shudder. Everytime ah see a punter, likesay, whae looks like our catboy, Richard Hauser of Des Moines, Iowa, USA, ah freeze. Whenever ah hear a Yank voice in the toon, ah jump. Violence is fuckin ugly man. The Beggar, dear old Franco, he raped us likesay, raped us aw that night, sort ay shafted us up oor erses n peyed us oaf, like we wir hoors man, ken likes? Bad cat Beggar. A wild, wild cat.
— Whae’s comin? Spud? Begbie’s talkin tae us. He’s bitin his bottom lip.
— Eh, likesay . . . eh . . . violence n that . . . isnae really ma sortay gig . . . ah’ll jist stey n git bombed . . . likesay, ken?
— Another shitein cunt, he turns away fae me . . . no disappointed, like he sort ay expects nothin fae us in this kinday gig likesay . . . which is mibbe good n mibbe no sae good, but who really kens the score aboot anything these days, likesay?
Sick Boy says somethin aboot bein a lover, no a fighter, and Begbie’s aboot tae say somethin, whin Matty goes: — Ah’m game.
This diverts Begbie’s attention fae Sick Boy. The Beggar Boy then starts tae praise Matty, likes, n calls us aw the shitein cunts under the sun; but it’s like tae me thit Matty’s the shitein cunt, likesay, because he’s the groover that goes along wi everything Franco sais . . . ah’ve never really liked Matty . . . one fucked up punter. Mates take the pish oot ay each other likes, bit whin Matty slags ye, it’s likesay, ye kin feel mair thin that, ye kin feel . . . likesay . . . hate, ken? Jist bein happy. That’s the crime whin Matty’s aboot. He cannae bear tae see a gadge happy, likesay.
Ah realise that ah never see Matty oan his ain, likesay. It’s likesay sometimes jist me n Rents . . . or jist me n Tommy . . . or jist me n Rab . . . or jist me n Sick Boy . . . or even jist me and Generalissimo Franco . . . but never jist me n Matty. That sortay sais something, likesay.
These bad cats leave the basket tae stalk their prey, and the atmosphere is like . . . brilliant. Sick Boy brings oot some E. White doves, ah think. It’s mental gear. Most Ecstasy hasnae any MDMA in it, it’s just likesay, ken, part speed, part acid in its effects . . . but the gear ah’ve hud is always jist likesay good speed, ken? This gear is pure freaky though, pure Zappaesque man . . . that’s the word, Zappaesque . . . ah’m thinkin aboot Frank Zappa wi Joe’s Garage n yellow snow n Jewish princesses n Catholic girls n ah think that it wid be really great tae huv a woman . . . tae love likesay . . . no shaggin likes, well no jist shaggin . . . but tae love, cause ah sortay feel like lovin everybody, but no sortay wi sex . . . jist huvin somebody tae love . . . but likesay Rents’ goat that Hazel n Sick Boy . . . well, Sick Boy’s goat tons ay burds . . . but these catpersons don’t seem any happier than moi . . .
— The other man’s grass is always greener, the sun shines brighter on the other side . . . ah’m fuckin singing likesay, ah never sing . . . ah’ve goat some gear n ah’m singing . . . ah’m thinkin aboot Frank Zappa’s daughter, Moon, likesay . . . she’d dae us fine . . . hingin oot wi her auld man . . . in the recording studio . . . jist tae see likesay the creative process, ken, the creative process . . .
— This is fuckin mad . . . goat tae move or ah’ll git gouchy . . . Sick Boy’s goat his hands in his heid.
Renton’s shirt’s unbuttoned n he’s sortay tweakin his nipples, likesay . . .
— Spud . . . look at ma nipples . . . they feel fuckin weird man . . . nae cunt’s goat nipples like mine . . .
Ah’m talkin tae him aboot love, n Rents says that love doesnae exist, it’s like religion, n likesay the state wants ye tae believe in that kinday crap so’s they kin control ye, n fuck yir heid up . . . some cats cannae enjoy thirsels withoot bringing in politics, ken . . . but he doesnae bring us doon . . . because, it’s likesay he doesnae believe it hissel . . . because . . . because wi laugh at everything in sight . . . the mad guy at the bar wi the burst blood-vessels in his coupon . . . the snobby English Festival-type lemon whae looks like somebody’s just farted under her nose . . .
Sick Boy sais: — Let’s hit the Meadows n take the fuckin pish ootay Begbie n Matty . . . straight, boring, draftpak, schemie cunts!
— Ris-kay catboy, ris-kay . . . he’s pure radge, likesay . . . ah sais.
— Let’s do it for the fans, Rents sais. Him n Sick Boy picked this up fae a Hibs programme advertising the Isle Of Man pre-season soccer tournament. It’s got Hibs top cat Alex Miller looking really stoned in the picture, wi the caption that sais, likesay, ‘Let’s Do It For The Fans’. Whenever thir’s drugs aroond . . . that’s what they say.
We float ootay the pub n cross over tae the Meadows. We start tae sing, likesay Sinatra, in exaggerated American Noo Yawk voices:
Yoo en I, were justa like-a kapil aff taahts
strollin acrass the Meadows
pickin up laahts aff farget-me-naahts.
Thir’s likesay two lassies comin doon the path towards us . . . we ken them . . . it’s likesay that wee Roseanna n Jill . . . two pure honey cats, fae that posh school, is it Gillespie’s or Mary Erskine’s? . . . they hing aboot the Southern likesay, for the sounds, the drugs, the experiences . . .
… Sick Boy outstretches his airms and sortay grabs wee Jill in a bear hug, n Rents likesay does the same wi Roseanna . . . ah’m left jist looking at the clouds likesay, Mr Spare Prick at a hoors convention.
Thir neckin away thegither. This is cruel man, cruel. Rents breks away first, but keeps his airm roond Roseanna. It’s a sortay joke wi Rents likesay . . . mind you . . . that wee bird Rents goat off wi at Donovan’s she wisnae that auld. What wis her name, Dianne? Bad cat, Rents. Sick Boy, well Sick Boy’s likesay bundled wee Jill against a tree.
— How ye daein doll? Whit ye up tae? he asks her.
— Goin to the Southern, she sais, a bit stoned . . . a little stoned princess, Jewish? No a blemish oan her face . . . wow, those chicks try tae act cool, but thir a bit nervous ay Rents n Sick Boy. They’ll let those superstar wasted junkies dae anything wi them, likes. Real cool chicks would slap their pusses, likesay, and jist watch the bastards crumble intae a heap. These lassies are playin at it . . . gaun through an upset-yir-posh-Ma-n-Dad phase . . . no thit Rents wid take advantage ay this, mind you, ah suppose he awready has, but Sick Boy’s a different matter. His hands are inside that wee Jill’s jeans . . .
— Ah know about you girls, that’s whair yis hide the drugs . . .
— Simon! I’ve not got anything! Simon! Siiimoon! . . .
Sensin a freak oot, he sortay lets the lassie go. Every cat laughs nervously, tryin tae aw pretend it wis a big game likesay, then they go.
— Mibbe see you dolls the night! Sick Boy shouts after them.
— Yeah . . . down the Southern, Jill shouts, walking backwards.
Sick Boy sortay likes, slaps his thigh. — Should’ve taken they wee rides back tae the gaff n banged thum senseless. Wee slags wir fuckin gantin oan it. It wis like he sais this tae hissel rather than me n Rents.
Rents starts shoutin and pointin.
— Si! There’s a fuckin squirrel at yir feet! Kill the cunt!
Sick Boy’s nearest tae it, n tries tae entice it tae him, but it scampers a bit away, movin really weird, archin its whole boady likesay. Magic wee silvery grey thing . . . ken?
Rents picks up a stane and flings it at the squirrel. Ah feel likes, sick, ma hert misses a beat as it whizzes past the wee gadge. He goes tae pick up another, laughin like a maniac, but ah stoap um.
— Leave it man. Squirrel’s botherin nae cunt likesay! Ah hate it the wey Mark’s intae hurtin animals . . . it’s wrong man. Ye cannae love yirsel if ye want tae hurt things like tha
t . . . ah mean . . . what hope is thir? The squirrel’s likes fuckin lovely. He’s daein his ain thing. He’s free. That’s mibbe what Rents cannae stand. The squirrel’s free, man.
Rents is still laughin as ah haud oantay um. Two posh lookin wifies, gie us the eye as they pass us. They look likesay, disgusted. Rents gits a glint in his eye.
— GIT A HAUD AY THE CUNT! he shouts at Sick Boy, but makin sure that the wifies kin hear um. — WRAP IT IN CELLOPHANE SO’S IT DISNAE SPLIT WHIN YE FUCK IT!
The squirrel’s dancin away fae Sick Boy, but the wifies turn roond and look really repelled by us, like we wir shite, ken? Ah’m laughin now n aw, bit still haudin oantay Rents.
— Whae’s that foostie-minged fucker starin at? Fuckin tearoom hag! Rents says, loud enough fir the wifies tae hear.
They turn and increase thir pace. Sick Boy shouts: — FUCK OFF GOBI DESERT FANNY! Then he turns tae us n sais, — Ah dinnae ken what these auld hounds are cruisin us for. Naebody’s gaunnae fuck them, even doon here at this time. Ah’d rather stick it between a couple ay B&Q sandin blocks.
— Fahk aff! You’d shag the crack ay dawn if it hud hairs oan it, Rents said.
Ah think he felt bad aboot this as soon as he said it, likesay, cause Dawn wis a wee bairn thit died, Lesley’s bairn, it died ay that cot death n that, likesay, n everybody sortay kens it wis likesay Sick Boy thit gied her the bairn . . .
Aw Sick Boy sais though, is: — Fuck off spunk-gullet. You’re the city dog pound man here. Every burd ah’ve fucked, and there has been plen-tee, has been worth fucking.
Ah remember this burd fae Stenhoose, thit Sick Boy once took hame whin he wis pished . . . couldnae really likesay say she wis anything special . . . ah suppose every cat’s got thir sortay achilles heel, ken.
— Eh, remember that Stenhoose chick, eh, what’s-her-name?

Trainspotting by Irvine Welsh / History & Fiction have rating