Trainspotting (24 page)

Ah stroll self–consciously doon Great Junction Street, the auld man nivir takin his eyes oaf us in case ah try tae dae a runner. run intae Mally at the Fit ay the Walk, n we crack away fir a bit. The auld man intervenes, ushering us along, n lookin at Mally as if he wanted tae brek this evil pusher's legs. Poor Mally, whae widnae even touch a joint. Lloyd Beattie, whae used tae be a good mate ay oors years ago, before every cunt found oot he'd been shaggin his ain sister, gied us a meek nod.

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In the club, people huv big smiles for the auld man n auld lady and strained ones fir me. Ah wis conscious ay some whispers n nods, followed by silences as we took a table. Faither slaps us oan the back n winks n Ma gies us a heart–wrenchingly tender and smotheringly indulgent smile. Nae doubt aboot it, thir no bad auld cunts. Ah love the fuck oot ay the bastards, if the truth be telt. Ah think aboot how they must feel aboot me huvin turned oot the wey ah huv. Fuckin shame. Still, ah'm here. Perr Lesley's nivir gaunnae see wee Dawn grow up. Les and Sick fuck n Lesley, they say she's in the Southern General in Glesgie life–support. Paracetamol joab. She went through tae Glesgie tae git away fae the smack scene in Muirhoose n ended up movin intae Possil wi Skreel n Garbo. There's nae escape fir some fuckers. Hara–kiri wis Les's best option. Swanney wis his customary sensitive self: – Fuckin Weedjies git aw the best gear these days. Thair oan that pure pharmaceuti–cal shite while we're reduced tae crushin up any fuckin jack n jills wi kin git oor hands oan. Good gear's wasted oan these cunts, maist ay thum dinnae even inject. Smokin and snortin skag, a fuckin waste, he hissed contemptuously. – N that fuckin Lesley: she should be turnin the White Swan oantae that gear. Does she punt any ay it ma wey? Naw. She just sits feelin sorry fir hersel aboot her bairn. Shame n that, ken, dinnae git us wrong. Thing is, thir's opportunities n aw. Freedom fae the responsibility ay bein a single parent n that. Ye'd think she'd lap up the chance tae spread her wings.

Freedom fae responsibility. That sounds good. Ah'd like freedom fae the responsibility ay sittin in this fuckin club.

Jocky Linton comes ower tae join us. Jocky's pus is shaped like an egg oan its side. He's goat thick black hair flecked wi silver. He wears a blue shirt which is short–sleeved and exposes his tattoos. Oan one airm he's goat 'Jocky & Elaine – True Love Will Never Die' and 'Scotland' wi a Lion Rampant oan the other. Unfortunately, true love did bite the dust and Elaine shot the craw a long time ago. Jocky's now livin wi Margaret whae obviously hates the tattoo, but everytime he goes tae git another one pit ower it, he bottles oot, makin excuses aboot the fear ay HIV wi the needles. It’s obviously shite, a feeble cop–oot because he still huds a candle fir Elaine. The thing ah remember maist ahoot Jocky is his singing at pairties. He used tae sing George Harrison’s My Sweet Lord, that wis his perty–piece. Jocky niver quite mastered the lyrics tae it though. He only kent the title and 'ah really want tae see vou Lord' and the rest wis da–da–da–da da–da–da.

– Day–vie. Cah–thy. Loo–kin–gor–jis–the–night–doll. Dinnay–you–be–tur–nin–yer–back–ren–tin–or–ah'll–be–ruh–nin–ah–way–wi–her! Gles–kay–kee–lay–thit–ye–ur. Jocky spat out his syllables Kalashnikov style.

The auld girl tries tae look coy, her expression makin us feel a bit queasy inside. Ah jist hide behind a pint ay lager and fir once in ma puff am gled tae observe the total silence that the club bingo game imposes. Ma customary irritation at huvin ma every word policed by morons is now a replaced by a feeling ay sheer bliss.

Ah should have hud a house, bit ah didnae want tae speak, tae draw any attention tae masel whatsoever. It seemed though that fate – n Jocky – wir determined no tae respect ma desire fir anonymity. The cunt notices ma caird.

HOUSE! That's–you–Mark. He's–goat–hoose. OWER–HERE! Wis–nae–eve–in–gaunn–ae–shout–oot. Cu–moan–son. Git–a–fu–kin–grip–ay–yir–sel. Ah smile benignly at Jocky, all the time wishing a prompt and violent death oan the nosey cunt.

The lager is like the contents ay a bunged–up latrine, shot through wi C02. Eftir one gulp, a violent, wretching, spasm seizes us. Faither slaps ma back. Ah cannae touch ma pint eftir this, but Jocky n the auld man are flinging them back steadily. Margaret comes in, and before very long, she and the auld girl are makin good progress oan the vodka n tonics n the Carlsberg Specials. The band strikes up, which ah at first welcome as a respite fae talkin. Ma Ma n faither git up tae dance tae 'Sultans Of Swing'.

– Ah like that Dire Straits, Margaret observes. – They appeal tae young ones, but aw ages like them.

Ah'm almost tempted tae vigorously refute this cretinous statement. However, ah content masel wi talking fitba wi Jocky.

– Rox–burgh wants shoot–in. That's–the–worst–Scot–lind–squad–ah'vc–ivir–seen, Jocky states, jaw jutting forward.

– S no really his fault. Ye kin only pish wi the cock yiv goat. Whae else is thir?

– Aye, right–e–nuff . . . but–ah'd–like–tae–see–John–Raw–birt–sin–git–un–ext–ten–did–

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run. Des–erves–it. Scot–lind's–maist–kin–sist–tint–strik–ir. We continue our ritualistic argument, me trying tae find even a semblance ay passion which would breathe life intae it, and failing miserably.

Ah note that Jocky n Margaret hud been briefed tae ensure thit ah didnae try tae slip away. They aw took shifts tae mind us, the four ay them nivir up dancin at the same time. Jocky n ma Ma tae 'The Wanderer', Margaret n ma faither tae 'Jolene', Ma n faither again tae 'Rollin Down The River', Margaret n Jocky tae 'Save The Last Dance For Me'.

As the fat singer launches intae 'Song Sung Blue', the auld lady pulls us oantae the danceflair like ah wis a rag doll. Sweat spills oot ay us under the lights as Ma struts her stuff n ah self–consciously twitch. The humiliation intensifies as ah realise that the cunts ur daein a Neil Diamond medley. Ah huv tae go through 'Forever In Blue Jeans', 'Love On The Rocks' and

'Beautiful Noise'. By the time 'Sweet Caroline' comes oan, ah'm ready tae collapse. The auld lady forces us tae ape the rest ay the radges in the place by waving ma hands in the air as they sing:

–HAAANDS... TOUCHING HAANDS... REACHING OUUUT ... TOUCHING

YOOOU ... TOUCH–ING .......

Ah glance back at the table, n Jocky is in his element, a Leith Al Jolson. Eftir this ordeal, thirs another tae follow. The auld man slips us a tenner and tells us tae git a round in. Social–skills development and confidence–building training are obviously on the agenda tonight. Ah take the tray up tae the bar n join the queue. Ah look over tae the door, feeling the crisp note in my hand. A few grains worth. Ah could be at Seeker's or Johnny Swan's, the Mother Superior's, in half an hour; shootin ma wey oot ay this nightmare. Then ah clock the auld man standing by the doorway, looking us ower like he wis a bouncer n ah wis a potential troublemaker. Only his role was tae stoap us fae leavin, rather than tae fling us oot. This is a perverse gig.

Ah turn back intae the queue n ah see this lassie Tricia McKinlay whae ah'd been at school wi. Ah'd rather no talk tae anybody, but ah cannae ignore her now, as her smile is expanding in recognition.

– Awright Tricia?

– Aw, hiya Mark. Long time no see. How ye daein?

– No sae bad. Yirsel?

– Ye see it aw. This is Gerry. Gerry, this is Mark, he wis in ma class at school. Seems a long time ago now, eh?

She introduces me to a surly, sweaty gorilla who grunts in ma direction. Ah nod.

– Aye. Certainly does.

– Still see Simon? Aw the manto ask eftir Sick Boy. It makes us ill. Aye. He wis up at the hoosc the day. He's away tae Paris soon. Then Corsica. Tricia smiles and the gorilla looks on in disapproval. The guy has a face that just disapproves ay the world in general and looks ready for a square go wi it. Ah'm sure he's one ay the Sutherlands. Tricia could definitely huv done better for herself. loads ay punters at school used tae fancy her. Ah used tae hing aroond her in the hope that people would think ah wis gaun oot wi her, in the hope that ah would be, by a sortav osmosis. Ah once started tae believe ma ain propaganda, and goat a healthy slap in the pus when ah tried tae put my hand up her jersey when we were up the disused railway line. Sick Boy fucked her though, the Cunt.

– He eywis goat aroond did oor Simon, she sais wi a wistful smile. Daddy Simone.

– Sure did. Stoat the baw, pimpin, drug–dealin, extortin money fae people. That's oor Simon. The bitterness in ma voice surprised us. Sick Boy wis ma best mate, well, Sick Boy n Spud n maybe Tommy. Why am ah giem the cunt such a bad press? Is it solely because ay his neglect ay parental duties, or indeed his lack of acknowledgement ay parental status? It's more likely because I envy the cunt. He doesnae care. Because he doesnae care, he cannae be hurt. Never. Whatever the reason, it freaks Tricia.

Eh . . . well, right, eh, see ye Mark.

They leave quicky, Tricia cairryin the tray ay drinks and the Sutherland gorilla (or ah think he wis a Sutherland) lookin back at us, his knuckles nearly scrapin the varnish oan the dance flair. It wis oot ay order bad –mouthin Sick Boy like that. Ah jist hate it whin the cunt gits oaf scot–free and ah'm painted as the big villain ay the piece. Ah suppose that's jist ma perception ay things. Sick Boy hus his anxieties, his personal pain. He also probably hus mair enemies thin me. He

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undoubtedly does. Still, what the fuck.

Ah take the drinks tae the table.

Awright son? Ma asks us.

– Brand new Ma, brand new, ah sais, tryin tae sound like Jimmy Cagney n failin pathetically; like ah dae Wi maist things. Still, failure, success, what is it? Whae gies a fuck. We aw live, then we die, in quite a short space ay time n aw. That's it; end ay fuckin story.

BANG TO RITES

It's a beautiful day. That seems to mean

Concentrate. On the job at hand. Ma first burial. Somebody sais: – C'moan Mark, a gentle voice. Ah step forward and grab a length of the cord. Ah help ma faither n ma uncles, Charlie n Dougie, tae lower the remains ay ma brother intae the groond. The army's pit up the hireys fir this do. Leave it to us, the softly–spoken Army Welfare Officer told Ma. Leave it to us. Yes, this is the first burial ah've been at. Usually it's cremations these days. Ah wonder what's in the boax. No much ay Billy, that's fir sure. Ah look ower at ma Ma n Sharon, Billy's burd, who are being comforted by an assortment ay aunties. Lenny, Peasbo n Naz, Billy's mates, ur here, along wi some ay his squaddie pals.

Billy Boy, Billy Boy. Hello, hello, we are the. It’s nothing tae dae wi Ah keep thinking ay that auld Walker Brothers number, the one Midge Ure covered: There's no regrets. no tears goodbye, I don't want you back etcetera, etcetera. Ah cannae feel remorse, only anger and contempt. Ah seethed when ah saw that fuckin Union Jack oan his coffin, n watched that smarmy, wimpy cunt ay an officer, obviously oot ay his depth here, tryin tae talk tae ma Ma. Worse still, these Glasgow cunts, the auld boy's side, are through here en masse. They're fill ay shite aboot how he died in the service ay his country n aw that servile Hun crap. Billy was a silly cunt, pure and simple. No a hero, no a martyr, jist a daft cunt. A fit ay giggles hits us, threatening tae completely overwhelm us. Ah nearly cowped ower laughing hysterically, when ma faither's brar, Charlie, grabbed us by the airm. He looked hostile, but that cunt always does. Effie, his wife, pulls the fucker away sayin, – The hoey's upset. It's jist his wey Chick. The boey's upset.

Get a fuckin wash ya soapdodgin Weedjie cunts.

Billy Boy. That's what these cunts called him as a laddie. It wis: Awright Billy Boey?

Wi me, skulking behind the couch, it wis a grudging: Aye son. Billy Boy, Billy Boy. Ah remember you sitting oan toap ay us. Me helplessly pinned tae the flair. Windpipe constricted tae the width ay a straw. Praying, as the oxygen drained fae ma lungs and brain, that Ma would return fae Presto’s before you crushed the life oot ay ma skinny body. The smell ay pish fae your genitals, a damp patch on your short troosers. Was it really that exciting, Billy Boy? Ah hope so. Ah cannae really grudge ye it now. You always had a problem that way; those inappropriate discharges of faeces and urine that used tae drive Ma tae distraction. Who's the best team, you'd ask us, crushing, digging or twisting harder. No respite for me until ah sais: Hearts. Even after we'd fucked yous seven–nil on New Year's Day at Tynecastle, you still made me say Hearts. Ah suppose ah should have been flattered that an utterance from me carried more weight than the actual result.

Ma beloved brother was on Her Majesty's Service, on patrol near their base at Crossmaglen in Ireland, the part under British rule. They had left their vehicle to examine this road block, when POW! ZAP! BANG! ZOWIE!, and they were no more. Just three weeks before the end ay this tour of duty.

He died a hero they sais. Ah remember that song: 'Billy Don't Be A Hero'. In fact, he died a spare prick in a uniform, walking along a country road Wi a rifle in his hand. He died an ignorant victim ay imperialism, understanding fuck all about the myriad circumstances which led tae his death. That wis the biggest crime, he understood fuck all about it. Aw he hud tae guide um through this great adventure in Ireland, which led tae his death, wis a few vaguely formed sectarian sentiments.

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The cunt died as he lived: completely fuckin scoobied.

His death wis good fir me. He made the News at Ten. In Warholian terms, the cunt had a posthumous fifteen minutes ay fame. People offered us sympathy, n although it wis misguided, it wis nice tae accept anywey. Ye dinnae want tae disappoint folk. Some ruling class cunt, a junior minister or something, says in his Oxbridge voice how Billy wis a brave young man. He wis exactly the kind ay cunt they'd huv branded as a cowardly thug if he wis in civvy street rather than on Her Majesty's Service. This fucking walking abortion says that his killers will be ruthlessly hunted down. So they fuckin should. Aw the wey tae the fuckin Houses ay Parliament.

Savour small victories against this white–trash tool of the rich that's no no no Billy being tormented by the Sutherland Brothers and entourage, who certainly made him quiver ha fuckin ha as they danced around him singing: YOUR BROTHER'S A SPASTIC, one of the great Leith street hits of the seventies, generally performed when the legs got too tired to sustain the twenty–two–a–side game ay fitba. Were they talking about Davie, or perhaps even me? Didnae matter. They didnae see me looking doon fae the bridge. Billy, your head stayed bowed. Impotence. How does it feel Billy Boy? Not good. I know because