Authors: Irvine Welsh
Trainspotting (42 page)
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.
— Simon.
— 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!
Renton smirks softly at this, and Second Prize, who didn’t really hear it, laughs loudly. He is not, as yet, pickled enough to feel completely comfortable forgoing the bare bones of social contact. Spud says nothing, but grimaces as the vice-like grip of junk withdrawal squeezes harder on his brittle bones.
Begbie is unconvinced that Sick Boy would have the bottle to stand up to McGregor.
— Shite. You wouldnae fuckin mess wi that cunt.
— Fuck off. Jimmy Busby wis wi us. That cunt McGregor shites it fae the Buzz-Bomb. He’s shit-scared ay aw the Cashies. The last thing he wants is a squad ay the Family swedgin in his club.
— Jimmy Busby . . . he’s no a fuckin hard cunt. A fuckin shitein cunt. Ah stoated that radge in the Dean. You minday that time, Rents, eh? Rents! Mind the time ah panelled that Busby cunt? Begbie glances over the seat for support but Renton is starting to feel like Spud. A shudder twists through his body and a grim nausea hits him. He can only nod unconvincingly, rather than provide the elaboration Begbie is looking for.
— That wis years ago. Ye widnae dae it now, Sick Boy contended.
— Whae fuckin widnae! Eh? Think ah fuckin widnae? Ya fuckin radge! Begbie challenges aggressively.
— It’s aw a loaday shite anywey, Sick Boy meekly counters, using one of his classic tactics. If you can’t win the fine detail of the argument, then rubbish its context.
— That cunt kens no tae fuckin mess, Begbie says, in a low growl. Sick Boy does not respond, knowing that this was a warning by proxy, directed at him, through the absent Busby. He realises that he’s been pushing his luck.
Spud Murphy’s face is smeared against the glass window. He sits in silent misery, lashing sweat and feeling like his bones are grinding against each other. Sick Boy turns to Begbie, seizing the opportunity to make a common cause.
— These cunts, Franco, he nods backwards, — sais they wid stey clean. Lyin bastards. Fuck us aw up. His tone is a mixture of disgust and self-pity, as if he is resigned to the fact that his lot in life is to have all his moves sabotaged by the weak fools he was unfortunate enough to have to call his friends.
Nonetheless, Sick Boy fails to strike an empathetic chord with Begbie, who dislikes his attitude even more than he disapproves of Renton and Spud’s behaviour.
— Stoap fuckin moanin. You’ve fuckin been thair often enough.
— No fir ages. These nondy cunts never grow up.
— So ye’ll no be wantin any fuckin speed then? Begbie teased, dabbing at some salty granules in silver foil.
Sick Boy really wants some Billy Whizz, to cut down the hideous travelling time. He is fucked if he going to plead with Begbie however. He sits staring ahead, gently shaking his head and muttering under his breath, a wrenching anxiety in his guts forcing his mind to flip through unresolved grievance after unresolved grievance. He then springs up and goes to grab a can of McEwan’s Export from Second Prize’s pile.
— Ah telt ye thit ye should’ve goat yir ain cairry-oot! Second Prize’s face resembled that of an ugly bird whose eggs are under threat from a stalking predator.
— One can then, ya tight cunt! Fuck sakes! Sick Boy slaps his forehead with his palm in exasperation. Second Prize reluctantly hands a can over, which, in the event, Sick Boy cannot drink. He has not eaten for a while and the fluid feels heavy and sickly in his raw guts.
Behind him, Renton’s slide into the misery of withdrawal continues apace. He knows he has to act. This means holding out on Spud. However, there was no sympathy in business, and much less in this particular one than in any other. Turning to his partner he says: — Man, ah’ve goat a fuckin bad rock in ma erse. Ah’ve goat tae spend a bit ay time in the bog.
Spud shoots to life for a second. — Yir no haudin, ur ye?
— Away tae fuck, Renton convincingly snaps. Spud turns and melts miserably back into the window.
Renton goes into the toilet and secures the door. He wipes the pish off the rim of the aluminium pan. It is not hygiene that concerns him, merely the avoidance of a wet sensation on his creeping skin.
On the tiny sink he places his cooking spoon, syringe, needle and cotton balls. Producing a small packet of browny-white powder from his pocket, he tips the contents diligently into his prized piece of cutlery. Sucking 5 mls of water into the syringe and squirting it slowly into the spoon, Renton takes care to avoid flushing away the grains. His trembling hand firms up with the concentration only junk preparation can facilitate. Passing the flame from the Benidorm plastic lighter under the spoon, he stirs at the stubborn dregs with the needle tip until he has produced an injectable solution.
The bus lurches violently, but he moves with it; his junky’s vestibular sense tuned in, like radar, to every bump and bend on the A1. Not a precious drop is spilled as he lowers the cotton ball onto the cooking spoon.
Sticking the needle into the ball, he sucks the rusty liquid into the chamber. He pulls off his belt, cursing as the studs catch in the tabs of his jeans. He violently jerks it free, feeling as if his insides are folding in on themselves. Tightening the belt around his arm just below a puny bicep, he clamps yellowing teeth onto the leather to hold it fast. The sinew in his neck strains as he maintains the position; teasing up through patient, probing taps, a reluctant healthy vein.
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