Authors: Irvine Welsh
Trainspotting (5 page)
The Bridges is hotchin wi minge.
Ooh, ooh la la, let’s go dancin, ooh, ooh la la, Simon dancin
. . . There is fanny of every race, colour, creed and nationality present. Oh ya cunt, ye! It’s time tae move. Two oriental types consulting a map. Simone express, that’ll do nicely. Fuck Rents, he’s a doss bastard, totally US.
Ooh, ooh la la, let’s go dancin, ooh, ooh la la, Simon dancin
. . . There is fanny of every race, colour, creed and nationality present. Oh ya cunt, ye! It’s time tae move. Two oriental types consulting a map. Simone express, that’ll do nicely. Fuck Rents, he’s a doss bastard, totally US.
— Can I help you? Where are you headed? ah ask.
Good old-fashioned Scoattish hoshpitality, aye, ye cannae beat it, shays the young Sean Connery, the new Bond, cause girls, this is the new bondage
. . .
Good old-fashioned Scoattish hoshpitality, aye, ye cannae beat it, shays the young Sean Connery, the new Bond, cause girls, this is the new bondage
. . .
— We’re looking for the Royal Mile, a posh, English-colonial voice answers back in ma face. What a fucking wee pump-up-the-knickers n aw.
Simple Simon sais, put your hands on your feet
. . .
Simple Simon sais, put your hands on your feet
. . .
Of course, the Rent Boy is looking like a flaccid prick in a barrel-load ay fannies. Sometimes ah really think the gadge still believes that an erection is for pishing over high walls.
— Follow us. Are you going to a show? Yes, you can’t beat the Festival for bringing out the mantovani.
— Yes. One of the (china) dolls hands us a piece ay paper wi
Brecht: The Caucasian Chalk Circle by Nottingham University Theatre Group
on it. Doubtless a collection of zit-encrusted, squeaky-voiced wankers playing oot a miserable pretension tae the arts before graduating to work in the power stations which give the local children leukemia or investment consultancies which shut doon factories, throwing people into poverty and despair. Still, let’s git the board-treading ootay the system first. Fucking toss bags, don’t you agree, Sean, ma auld fellow former milk-delivering mucker?
Yesh Shimon, I shink you may have a shtrong point thair.
Auld Sean and I have so many parallels. Both Edina lads, both ex-co-op milk boys. Ah only did the Leith run, whereas Sean, if ye listen tae any auld fucker, delivered milk tae every household in the city. Child labour laws were more lax then, I suppose. One area in which wi differ is looks. Sean is completely out-Sean in that department by Simone.
Brecht: The Caucasian Chalk Circle by Nottingham University Theatre Group
on it. Doubtless a collection of zit-encrusted, squeaky-voiced wankers playing oot a miserable pretension tae the arts before graduating to work in the power stations which give the local children leukemia or investment consultancies which shut doon factories, throwing people into poverty and despair. Still, let’s git the board-treading ootay the system first. Fucking toss bags, don’t you agree, Sean, ma auld fellow former milk-delivering mucker?
Yesh Shimon, I shink you may have a shtrong point thair.
Auld Sean and I have so many parallels. Both Edina lads, both ex-co-op milk boys. Ah only did the Leith run, whereas Sean, if ye listen tae any auld fucker, delivered milk tae every household in the city. Child labour laws were more lax then, I suppose. One area in which wi differ is looks. Sean is completely out-Sean in that department by Simone.
Now Rents is gibbering oan aboot
Galileo
and
Mother Courage
and
Baal
and aw that shite. The bitches seem quite impressed n aw. Why fuck me insensible! This doss cunt actually does have his uses. It’s an amazing world.
Yesh Shimon, the more I shee, the less I believe.
You an me boash, Sean.
Galileo
and
Mother Courage
and
Baal
and aw that shite. The bitches seem quite impressed n aw. Why fuck me insensible! This doss cunt actually does have his uses. It’s an amazing world.
Yesh Shimon, the more I shee, the less I believe.
You an me boash, Sean.
The oriental mantos depart tae the show, but they’ve agreed tae meet us for a drink in Deacons afterwards. Rents cannae make it. Boo-fucking-hoo. Ah’ll cry masel tae sleep. He’s meeting Ms Mogadon, the lovely Hazel . . . ah’ll just have to amuse both chickies . . . if ah decide to show up. Ah’m a busy man. One musht put duty fursht, eh Sean?
Preshishly Shimon.
Preshishly Shimon.
Ah shake off Rents, he can go and kill himself with drugs. Some fucking friends I have. Spud, Second Prize, Begbie, Matty, Tommy: these punters spell L-I-M-I-T-E-D. An extremely limited company. Well, ah’m fed up to ma back teeth wi losers, no-hopers, draftpaks, schemies, junkies and the likes. I am a dynamic young man, upwardly mobile and thrusting, thrusting, thrusting . . .
. . . the socialists go on about your comrades, your class, your union, and society. Fuck all that shite. The Tories go on about your employer, your country, your family. Fuck that even mair. It’s me, me, fucking ME, Simon David Williamson, NUMERO FUCKING UNO, versus the world, and it’s a one-sided swedge.
It’s really so fucking easy
. . . Fuck them all.
I admire your rampant individualishm, Shimon. I shee parallelsh wish myshelf ash a young man.
Glad you shed that Sean. Others have made shimilar comments.
It’s really so fucking easy
. . . Fuck them all.
I admire your rampant individualishm, Shimon. I shee parallelsh wish myshelf ash a young man.
Glad you shed that Sean. Others have made shimilar comments.
Ugh . . . a spotty fucker in a Hearts scarf . . . yes, the cunts are at home today. Look at him; the ultimate anti-style statement. Ah’d rather see ma sister in a brothel than ma brother in a Hearts scarf n that’s fuckin true . . .
ay oop, another strapping lass ahead . . . backpacker, good tan . . . mmmm . . . suck, fuck, suck, fuck
. . . we all fall down . . .
ay oop, another strapping lass ahead . . . backpacker, good tan . . . mmmm . . . suck, fuck, suck, fuck
. . . we all fall down . . .
. . . where to go . . . work up a sweat in the multigym at the club, they’ve got a sauna and a sunbed now . . . get the muscles toned up . . . the smack heebie-jeebies are now just an unpleasant memory. The Chinky chickies, Marianne, Andrea, Ali . . . which lucky ride will ah stick it intae the night? Who’s the best fuck? Why me, of course. I might even find something at the club. The dynamics are magic. Three groups; women, straight guys and gay guys. The gay guys are cruising the straight guys who are club bouncer types with huge biceps and beer guts. The straight guys are cruising the women, who are into the lithe, fit buftie boys. No bashturd actually getsh what they want. Exshept ush, eh Sean?
Preshishly Shimon.
Preshishly Shimon.
I hope ah don’t see the buftie that cruised us the last time ah wis in. He told me in the cafeteria that he had HIV, but things were cool, it was no death sentence, he’d never felt better. What kind of a cunt tells a stranger that? It’s probably bullshit.
Sleazy fuckin queen . . . that reminds us, ah must buy some flunkies . . . but there’s no way you can get HIV in Edinburgh through shagging a lassie. They say that wee Goagsie got it that way, but I reckon that he’s been daein a bit ay mainlining or shit-stabbing on the Q.T. If ye dinnae get it through shootin up wi the likes ay Renton, Spud, Swanney n Seeker, it’s obviously no got your name on it . . . still . . . why tempt fate . . . but why not . . . at least ah know that ah’m still here, still alive, because as long as there’s an opportunity tae get off wi a woman and her purse, and that’s it, that is it, ah’ve found fuck all else, ZERO, tae fill this big, BLACK HOLE like a clenched fist in the centre ay my fucking chest . . .
Growing Up In Public
Despite the unmistakable resentment she could feel from her mother, Nina could not fathom what she had done wrong. The signals were confusing. First it was: Keep out of the way; then: Don’t just stand there. A group of relatives had formed a human wall around her Auntie Alice. Nina could not actually see Alice from where she was sitting, but the fussing coos coming from across the room told her that her aunt was in there somewhere.
Her mother caught her eye. She was staring over at Nina, looking like one of the heads on a hydra. Over the there-there’s and the he-was-a-good-man’s Nina saw her mother mouth the word: Tea.
She tried to ignore the signal, but her mother hissed insistently, aiming her words across the room at Nina, like a fine jet: — Make more tea.
Nina threw her copy of the
NME
onto the floor. She hauled herself out of the armchair and moved over to a large dining table, picking up a tray, on which sat a teapot and an almost empty jug of milk.
NME
onto the floor. She hauled herself out of the armchair and moved over to a large dining table, picking up a tray, on which sat a teapot and an almost empty jug of milk.
Through in the kitchen, she studied her face in the mirror, focusing on a spot above her top lip. Her black hair, cut in a sloping wedge, looked greasy, although she had just washed it the night before. She rubbed her stomach, feeling bloated with fluid retention. Her period was due. It was a bummer.
Nina could not be a part of this strange festival of grief. The whole thing seemed uncool. The act of casual indifference she displayed at her Uncle Andy’s death was only partly feigned. He had been her favourite relative when she was a wee lassie, and he had made her laugh, or so they all told her. And, in a sense, she could remember it. These events had happened: the joking, the tickling, the playing, the indulgent supply of ice-creams and sweeties. She could find no emotional connection though, between the her of now and the her of then, and therefore no emotional connection to Andy. To hear her relatives recount these days of infancy and childhood made her squirm with embarrassment. It seemed an essential denial of herself as she was now. Worse, it was uncool.
At least she was dressed for grief, as she was constantly reminded by everyone. She thought that her relatives were so boring. They held onto the mundane for grim life; it was a glum adhesive binding them together.
— That lassie never wears anything but black. In ma day, lassies wore nice bright colours, instead ay tryin tae look like vampires. Uncle Boab, fat, stupid Uncle Boab, had said that. The relatives had laughed. Every one of them. Stupid, petty, laughter. The nervous laughter of frightened children trying to keep on the right side of the school hardcase, rather than that of adults conveying that they had heard something funny. Nina consciously realised for the first time that laughter was about more than humour. This was about reducing tension, solidarity in face of the grim reaper. Andy’s death had put that topic further up the list of items on the personal agenda of every one of them.
The kettle clicked off. Nina made another pot of tea and took it through.
— Nivir mind, Alice. Nivir mind, hen. Here’s Nina wi the tea, her Auntie Avril said. Nina thought that perhaps unrealistic expectations were being invested in the PG Tips. Could they be expected to compensate for the loss of a twenty-four-year relationship?
— Terrible thing whin ye git problems wi the ticker, her Uncle Kenny stated. — Still, at least he didnae suffer. Better than the big C, rottin away in agony. Oor father went wi the ticker n aw. The curse ay the Fitzpatricks. That’s your grandfather. He looked at Nina’s cousin Malcolm and smiled. Although Malcolm was Kenny’s nephew, he was only four years younger than his uncle, and looked older.
— Some day, aw this ticker stuff, n cancer n that, will aw be forgotten aboot, Malcolm ventured.
— Aw aye. Medical science. How’s your Elsa by the way? Kenny’s voice dropped.
— She’s gaun in fir another op. Fallopian tube job. Apparently what they dae is . . .
Nina turned and left the room. All Malcolm seemed to want to talk about were the operations his wife had undergone to enable them to produce a child. The details made the tips of her fingers feel raw. Why did people assume that you wanted to hear that stuff? What sort of woman would go through all that just to produce a screaming brat? What sort of man would encourage her to do that? As she went to the hall, the doorbell rang. It was her Auntie Cathy and Uncle Davie. They had made good time from Leith out to Bonnyrigg.
Cathy hugged Nina. — Oh darlin. Whair is she? Whair’s Alice? Nina liked her Auntie Cathy. She was the most outgoing of her aunts, and treated her like a person rather than a child.
Cathy went over and hugged Alice, her sister-in-law, then her sister Irene, Nina’s mother, and her brothers Kenny and Boab, in that order. Nina thought that the order was tasteful. Davie nodded sternly at everybody.
— Christ, ye didnae waste any time getting oot here in that auld van Davie, Boab said.
— Aye. The by-pass makes a difference. Pick it up just ootside Portobellah, git off jist before Bonnyrigg, Davie explained dutifully.
The bell went again. This time it was Doctor Sim, the family GP. Sim was alert and businesslike in stance, but sombre in expression. In his bearing he attempted to convey a measure of compassion, while still maintaining a pragmatic strength in order to give the family confidence. Sim thought he wasn’t doing badly.
Nina also thought so. A horde of breathless aunties fussed over him like groupies around a rock star. After a short time Bob, Kenny, Cathy, Davie and Irene accompanied Dr Sim upstairs.
Nina realised, as they began to leave the room, that her period had started. She followed them up the stairs.
— Stay oot the wey! Irene, looking back, hissed at her daughter.
— Ah’m just going tae the toilet, Nina replied, indignant.
In the lavatory she took off her clothes, starting with her black, lacy gloves. Examining the extent of the damage, she noted that the discharge had gone through her knickers but had not got into her black leggings.
— Shite, she said, as drops of thick, dark blood fell onto the bathroom carpet. She tore off a few strips of toilet paper, and held them to her in order to stem the flow. She then checked the bathroom cabinet but could find no tampons or sanitary towels. Was Alice too old for periods? Probably.
Soaking some more paper with water, she managed to get most of the stains out of the carpet.
Nina stepped tentatively into the shower. After splashing herself, she made another pad from bog-roll, and quickly dressed, leaving off her pants which she washed in the sink, wrung out, and stuffed into her jacket pocket. She squeezed the spot above her top lip, and felt much better.
Nina heard the entourage leaving the room and going downstairs. This place was the fucking dregs, she thought, and she wanted out. All she had been waiting for was an opportune moment to hit her mother for cash. She was supposed to be going into Edinburgh with Shona and Tracy to see this band at the Calton Studios. She didn’t fancy going out when she was on her periods, as Shona had said that laddies can tell when you’re on, they can just smell it, no matter what you do. Shona knew about laddies. She was a year younger than Nina, but had done it twice, once with Graeme Redpath, and once with a French boy she’d met at Aviemore.
Nina had not been with anyone yet, had not done it. Almost everyone she knew said it was crap. Boys were too stupid, too morose and dull, or too excitable. She enjoyed the effect she had on them, liked seeing the frozen, simpleton expressions on their faces as they watched her. When she did it, she would do it with someone who knew what they were about. Someone older, but not like Uncle Kenny, who looked at her as if he was a dog, his eyes bloody and his tongue darting slyly over his lips. She had a strange feeling that Uncle Kenny, despite his years, would be a bit like the inept boys that Shona and the rest had been with.
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