Trainspotting (25 page)

It's weird by the graveside. Spud's here somewhere, clean, jist oot ay Saughton. Tommy n aw. It's crazy, Spud lookin healthy, n Tommy lookin like death warmed up. Complete role reversal. Davie Mitchell, a good mate ay Tommy's, a guy whae ah once worked wi oan site as an apprentice chippy way back, hus shown up. Davie caught HIV fae this lassie. Brave ay the cunt tae come. That's fuckin real bravery. Begbie, just when ah could make use ay the cunt's evil presence and capacity tae cause chaos, is oan hoaliday in Benidorm. Ah could do with his immoral support vis–a–vis my Weedjie relations. Sick Boy's still in France, livin oot his fantasies. Billy Boy. Ah remember sharing that room. How the fuck ah did it for aw they years beats The sun has a power. You can understand why people worship it. It's there, we know the sun, we can see it, and we need it.

You had first call on the room Billy. Fifteen months ma senior. Might is right. You'd bring gaunt–faced, vicious–eyed, gum–chewing lassies back to fuck, or at least heavy pet. They'd look at me with android contempt as you banished me, whoever was with me, and my Subbuteo into the lobby. Ah particularly recall the needless crunching of one Liverpool and two Sheffield Wednesday players under your heel. Unnecessary, but then total domination requires its symbolism, eh no Billy Boy?

Ma cousin Nina looks intensely shaftable. She's goat long, dark hair, and is wearing an ankle–length, black coat. Seems tae be a bit ay a Goth. Noting some ay Willie's squaddy pals and ma Weedjie uncles gettin oan well, ah find masel whistling 'The Foggy Dew'. One squaddy Wi big, protruding front teeth, cottons oan and looks at us in surprise n then anger, so ah blaws the cunt a kiss. He stares at me for a bit, then looks away, shit up. Good. Wabbit season. Billy Boy, ah wis your other spastic brother, the one who'd never had a ride, as you'd tell your mate Lenny. Lenny'd laugh and laugh until he'd almost have an asthma attack. It wisnae particularly Billy no you stupid, fuckin cunt

Ah give Nina a broad wink and she smiles, embarrassed. Ma faither's been clocking this and he steams ower tae me.

– Wahn fuckin bit ay crap oot ay you n that's us finished. Right?

His eyes were tired, sunk deep intae thir sockets. Thir wis a sad and unsettling vulnerability aboot him ah'd nivir seen before. Ah wanted tae say so much tae the man, but ah resented him fir allowing this circus tae take place.

– See ye up the hoose, faither. Ah'm gaun tae see Ma.

An overhead conversation in the kitchen, fuck–knows when. Faither goes: – Thir's something wrong wi that laddie Cathy. Sittin in aw the time. It's no natural. Ah mean, look at Billy. Ma sais back: – The laddie's jist different Davie, that's aw.

Different fae Billy. Not a Billy Boy. You won't know him by his noise, but by his silence. When he comes for you, he won't come screaming, announcing his intentions, but he'll come. Hello, hello. Goodbye.

Ah git a lift fae Tommy, Spud n Mitch. They urnae fir comin in. They depart quickly. Ah see ma auld lady, delirious, bein helped oot ay the taxi by her sister Irene, and sister–in–law Alice.

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The Weedjie aunties are clucking around in the background, ah can hear these horrible accents; bad enough oan a man, fuckin revolting oan a woman. These hatchet–faced auld boots dinnae look comfortable. Obviously, thir mair in their niche at the funeral ay an elderly relative whin thir's goodies up fir grabs.

Ma grabs the airm ay Sharon, Billy's burd, whae's goat a big bun in her oven. Why the fuck dae people ey grab each other's airms at funerals?

– He wid'uv made an honest wimmin ay ye hen. You wir eywis the one fir him. The wey she sais it, it was like she was trying tae convince herself as much as Sharon. Perr Ma. Two years ago, she hud three sons, now she's only got one, whae's a junky. The game's no straight.

– Dae ye think the army'll huv anything fir me? ah heard Sharon asking ma Auntie Effie, as we got intae the hoose. – Ah'm cairryin his bairn . . it's Billy's bairn . . . she pleads.

– Dae ye think the moon's made oot ay green fuckin knob cheese? ah remark. Fortunately, everyone seems too loast in thumsels tae pick it up. Like Billy. He started to ignore me when I became invisible.

Billy, ma contempt for you jist grew over the years. It displaced the fear, jist sortay squeezed it oot, like pus fae a pluke. Of course, there's the blade. A great leveller, very good at negating physical assets; as Eck Wilson found oot tae his cost in second year. You loved us for that, once you got ower yir shock. Respected and loved me as a brother fir the first time. Ah despised you mair than ever.

You knew that your strength became superfluous once ah'd discovered the blade. You knew that, ya crappin bastard. The blade and the bomb. Just like the Naw. No the fuckin bomb. No Ma embarrassment and discomfort grows. People fill their glasses and say what a great cunt Billy wis. Ah cannae really think ay anything good tae say aboot him, soah shut up. Unfortunately, one ay his squaddy mates, the rabbit–toothed punter ah blew a kiss at, sidles up tae me. – You wir his brother, he sais, choppers hingin oot tae dry. Ah might've guessed. Another Weedjie Orange bigot. Nae wonder he's hit it oaf wi faither's side. It put us oan the spot. Every cunt's eyes focus oan us. Dwat that pesky wabbit.

– Indeed I was, as you say, his brother, ah jocularly agree. Ah can feel the resentment mounting up against us. Ah huv tae play tae the crowd.

The best way ah knew tae strike a chord without compromising too much tae the sickening hypocrisy, perversely peddled as decency, which fills the room, is tae stick tae the cliche's. People love them at this time, because they become real, and actually mean something.

– Billy n me nivir agreed oan that much .. .

– Ah well, vive le difference. . . said Kenny, an uncle oan ma Ma's side, tryin tae be helpful.

– . . . but one thing we hud in common wis thit we both liked a good bevvy and a good crack. If he can see us now, he'll be laughin his heid oaf at us sittin here aw moosey faced. He'd be sayin, enjoy yirsels, fir god sake! Ah've goat friends n family here. We've no seen each other fir ages.

An exchange of cards:

To Billy

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year

(except between 3.00 and 4.40 on New Year's Day)

From Mark.

––––––––––––––––––––

Mark

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year

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Billy

HMFC OK

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To Billy,

Happy Birthday

From Mark

–––––––––––––––––––––

Then Billy and Sharon are

Mark

Happy Birthday

From Billy and Sharon

In Sharon's handwriting, which is like

The Weedjie white trash that were ma faither's family, came through for the Orange walk every July, and occasionally when Rangers were at Easter Road or Tynecastle. Ah wished the cunts would stay in Drumchapel. They receive my touching little tribute tae Billy well enough though, and all nod solemnly. All except Charlie, whae saw through ma mood.

– It's all a fuckin gemme tae you, int it son?

– If you must know, yes.

– Ah feel sorry for you. He shook his heid.

– Naw ye dinnae, ah tell him. He walks away, still shakin his heid. More McEwan's Export and whisky follows. Auntie Effie starts tae sing, a nasal, country–style whine. Ah move ower tae Nina.

– You've really blossomed intae a wee honey, ken that? 'ah drunkenly slaver. She looks at me as if she's heard it aw before. Ah wis gaunnae suggest that we sneak away ower tae Fox's, or back tae ma flat at Montgomery Street. Is it against the law tae shag yir cousin? Probably. Thuv goat laws for stoapin ye daein everything else.

– Shame aboot Billy, she sais. Ah kin tell she thinks ah'm a total wanker. Of course, she's completely right. Ah thought that every cunt over twenty was a toss an no worth speakin tae, until ah hit twenty. The mair ah see, the mair ah think ah wis right. After that it's aw ugly compromise, aw timid surrender, progressively until death.

Unfortunately, Charlie, or Chick–chicy–chic–chicky–chicky, has clocked the solicitous nature ay my conversation, and moves in to protect Nina's virtue. No that she needs the assistance ay a fat soapdodger.

The bastard gestures me aside. When ah ignore him, he takes ma airm. He's pretty bevvied. His whisper is hard, an ah can smell the whisky oan his breath.

– Listen son, if you don't get oan yir fuckin bike, ah'm gaunnae tan your jaw. If it wisnae fir yir faither thair, ah've done it a long time ago. Ah don't like you son. Ah never huv. Yir brother wis ten times the man you'll ever be, ya fuckin junky. If you knew the misery yuv caused yir Ma n Da . . .

– You can speak frankly, ah cut in, anger throbbing in my chest but nonetheless contained by a delicious glee that comes fae knowing that ah've upset the cunt. Stay cool. It’s the only way tae fuck a self–righteous bastard over.

– Oh ah'll speak frankly aw right, Mr University smart cunt. Ah'll knock ye through that

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fuckin waw. His chunky, indian–inked fist was just a few inches fae ma face. Ma grip tensed oan the whisky gless ah wis haudin. Ah wisnae gaunnae let the cunt touch us wi they fuckin hands. If he moved he wis gittin this gless.

Ah pushed his raised hand aside.

–If ye did gie us a kickin, ye'd be daein me a favour. Ah'd jist huv a wank aboot it later on. We University drop–oot smart cunt junkies are kinky that wey. Cause that’s aw you're worth, ya fuckin trash. Yir also takin a wee bit for granted. Ye want tae go ootside, just say the fuckin word.

Ah gestured at the door. The room seemed tae shrink tae the size ay Billy's coffin, and be populated only by masel n Chick. But thir wir others. People wir looking roond at us now. The cunt pushed us gently in the chest.

– Wuv hud wahn funeral in the family the day, wir no wahntin another. Ma Uncle Kenny came ower and pulled us away.

– Ignore these orange bastards. C'moan Mark, look at yir Ma. It wid fuckin kill hur if ye got involved here, it Billy's funeral. Remember whair ye are, fir fuck sakes. Kenny wis aw right, well a bit ay a fuckin erse if the truth be telt, but fir aw thir faults, ah'd rather huv an ayesur thin a soapdodger. Ah come fae some stock, right enough. Ayesur papish bastards oan ma Ma's side, soapdodging orange cunts oan ma faither's. Ah gulped at the whisky, enjoying the burning sour taste ay it in ma throat n chest, wincing as it hit ma queasy stomach. Ah went through tae the toilet. Sharon, Billy's burd, wis comin oot. Ah barred her wey. Sharon n me huv mibbe spoken about half–a–dozen sentences tae each other. She wis drunk n dazed, her face flushed and bloated Wi alcohol n pregnancy.

Hud oan the now Sharon. You n me need tae huv a wee blether, likes. It's pretty confidential in here. Ah usher her intae the toilet n loak the door behind us. Ah start tae feel her up, while rabbitin a load ay shite ahoot how we huv tae stick thegither at a time like this. Ah'm feelin her lump, n gaun oan aboot how much responsibility ah felt taewards ma unborn niece or nephew. We start kissin, and ah move ma hand doon, feelin the visible panty lines through the cotton material ay her maternity dress. Ah wis soon fingerin her fanny, and she hud goat ma prick oot ay ma troosers. Ah wis still bullshittin, tellin her that ah'd always admired her as a person and a woman, which she disnae really need tae hear because she's gaun doon oan us, bit it's somehow comfortin tae say. She takes ma semi intae her mooth n ah firm up quickly. There's no doubt aboot it, she gies a good blow–job. Ah think ahoot her daein thisWi ma brar, n wondered what hud happened tae his prick in the' explosion.

If only Billy could see us now, ah'm thinkin, but in a surprisingly reverential way. Ah wondered if he could, n hoped so. It wis the first good thoughts aboot him ah'd hud. Ah withdraw jist before comin, and guide Sharon intae the doggy position. Ah hike up hur dress and pulled her panties down. Her heavy belly sags towards the flair. Ah try tae put it intae her arsehole first hut it's too tight and it hurts ma knob end tae force it.

– No that wey, no that wey, she's saying, so ah stopped ma rummage for some cream, and scoop ma fingers intae hur fanny. She has a powerful ivy smell. Then again, ma cock also smells pretty foul and flecks of knob cheese are visible oan the helmet. Ah've never really been too much intae personal hygiene; probably the soapdodger in us, or the junky. Ah concur wi Sharon's wishes n fuck her in the fanny. It's a wee bit like throwin the proverbial sausage up a close, but ah find ma stroke n she tightens up. Ah think aboot how close she is tae' poppin and how far up ah am, an ah can see masel stickin it in the foetus's mooth. Some concept, a shag and a blow–job simultaneously. It torments us. They say that a shag is good for an unborn child, they get the circulation of blood, or some shite. The least ah kin dae is take an interest in the bairn's welfare'.

A knock oan the door, follayed by Effie's nasal voice.

– Whit yis daein in thair?

– S awright, Sharon's bein sick. Too much bevvy in her condition, ah groaned.

– Ur you seein tae her son?

– Aye . . . ah'm seein tae her . . . ah panted as Sharon's groans grew louder.

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– Awright well.

Ah blurt oot ma muck n pull oot. Ah gently push hur prostrate, helping her turn ower, and scoop hur huge milky tits oot ay her dress. Ah snuggle intae them like a bairn. She starts strokin ma heid. Ah feel wonderful, so at peace.

– That wis fuckin barry, ah gasp contentedly.

– Will we keep seein each other now? she sais. – Eh? Thir's a desperate, pleading edge tae her voice. What a fuckin radge.

Ah sat up n kissed her face, which wis like a swollen, overipe piece of fruit. Ah didnae want tae git heavy here. The truth wis, Sharon repulsed me now. This radge thinks that wi one fuck she can substitute one brar fir the other. Thing is, she's probably no far wrong.

– We huv tae git up Sharon, git cleaned likes, ken. They widnae understand if they caught us. They don’t know anything. Ah know that yir a good lassie, Sharon, but they dinnae understand fuck all.

– Ah ken you're a nice laddie, she said supportively, but without a great deal of conviction. She was certainly far too good for Billy, then again Myra Hindley or Margaret Thatcher were far too good for Billy. She was caught in this git–a–man, git–a–bairn, git–a–hoose shite that lassies git drummed intae them, and hud nae real chance ay defining hersel ootside ay they mashed–tattie–fir–brains terms ay reference. Thir wis another knock at the door.

– If yis dinnae open that door, ah'm gaunny knock it doon. It wis Charlie's son, Cammy. A fucking young polisman who looked like the Scottish Cup; big jug ears, nae chin, slender neck. The cunt obviously thought thit ah wis shootin up. Well, ah wis, but no in the sense he imagined.

– Ah'm awright . . we'll be oot in a minute. Sharon wipes herself n tugs up her pants and re–arranges things. Ah'm fascinated at the speed Wi which she moves for a heavily pregnant lassie. Ah couldnae believe ah'd jist shagged her. Ah'd feel bad aboot it the morn, but, as Sick Boy's prone tae sayin, the morn * takes care ay itsel. Thir isnae an embarrassment in the world that cannae be erased by a bit ay blether and a few bevvie's.

Ah open the door.

– Take it easy, Dixon ay Dock Green. No seen a lady up the kite before? His glaikit, open–moothed expression inspired ma instant contempt.

Ah didnae like the vibes, so ah took Sharon back tae ma flat. We jist talked. She telt us a loat ay things thit ah wanted tae hear, things ma Ma n faither never knew, and would hate tae ken. How Billy wis a cunt tae her. How he battered her oan occasions, humiliated her, n generally treated her like an exceptionally foul piece ay shite.

– Whit did ye stey wi um fir?

– He wis ma felly. Ye eywis think it'll be different, thit ye kin change. thum, thit ye kin make a difference.

Ah understood that. But it's wrong. The only fuckers thit ever made' a difference tae Billy wir the Provos, and they were cunts as well. Ah've no illusions about them as freedom fighters. The bastards made ma brother intae a pile ay catfood. But they only pulkd the switch. His death wis conceived by these orange cunts, comin through every July wi thir sashes and flutes, fillin Billy's stupid heid wi nonsense about crown and country n aw that shite'. They'll go hame chuffed fae the day. They can tell aw thir mate's aboot how one ay the family died, murdered by the IRA, while'

defending Ulster. It'll fuel thir pointless anger, git thum bought drinks in pubs, and establish thir doss–bastard credibility wi other sectarian arseholes.

Ah dinnae want any cunt fuckin aboot wi ma brar. Those were the words Billy Boy spoke to Pops Graham and Dougie Hood as they came into the pub hassling me, determined that ah had tae py for ma drugs. Billy's statement. Oh yes. Delivered Wi such clarity and assurance, that it went beyond a threat. Ma irritants ust looked at each other and skulked off oot ay the pub. Ah sniggered. So did Spud. We were high, and cared aboot fuck all. Billy Boy sneered at us, something like: You're a fuckin erse, and joied a couple ay his mates, whae looked disappointed that Pops and Dougie had fucked off, depriving them of an excuse fir a swedge. Ah still giggled. Thanks guys, it's been Billy Boy told me that ah wis ruining ma life' Wi that shite. He told me this on numerous occasions. It's been real

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What's it aw ahoot. Aw Billy. Aw fuck sakes. Ah didnae'

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Sharon was right. It's hard tae change people'.

Every cause' needs its martyrs though. So now ah'm wishing thit she wid fuck off so ah kin git tae ma stash, cook up a shot and git a hit, in the cause' ay oblivion.

JUNK DILEMMAS NO.67

Deprivation's relative. There are bairns starvin tae death, dying every second like flies. The fact that this is happening in another place, doesnae negate that fundamental truth. In the time it takes us toe crush up these pills, cook them and inject them, thousands ay beirns in other countries, and mibbe a few in this yin. will be deid. In the time it takes us tae doe this, thousands ay rich bastards will be thousands ay pounds richer, as investments ripen.

Crushin pills up: what a fuckin doss–heid. Ah should really leave the jack n jills tae the stomach. Brain and vein are too fragile tae carry that stuff direct.

like Dennis Ross.

Dennis hud a great hit fae that whisky he injected intae hisseL Then his eyes started rollin, blood flooded fae his nostrils, n that wis Denny. Once ye see the blood fae yir nose hit the flair at that rate . . . the gig's over. Junky machismo . . . now. Junky need. Ah'm feart awright, shitein ma keks, but the me that’s shitein it is a different me tae the one that's crushin up the pills. The me that's crushin up the pills sais that death cannae be worse than daein nowt tae arrest this consistent decline. That me eywis wins the arguments. Thir's nivir any real dilemmas wi junk. They only come when ye run.

EXILE

LONDON CRAWLING

No go. Whair the fuck are the cunts? Ma ain bastard fault. Should've phoned tae tell them ah wis comin doon. Well, the surprise is mine. Nae fucker's in. The black door has a coldness, a stern, deathly front which seems tae say tae us thit they've been gone a long time, and willnae be back fir a longer yin, if ever. Ah deek though the letter boax, bit ah cannae see if thir's any envelopes at the bottom ay the door.

Ah boot the door in frustration. The woman across the landing, a mumpy hoor as ah remember, opens her door and pokes hur heid oot. She stares at us as if tae ask us a question. Ah ignore her.

– They ain't in. Ain't been in for a couple of days, she tells us, looking suspiciously at ma sports bag as if thir wis explosives contained in it.

– Nice one, ah gruffly mumble, turnin ma heid ceilingwards in exasperation, hoping that this show ay desperation will encourage the woman tae say something like: I know you. You used to stay there. You must be exhausted travelling all the way down from Scotland. Come in, have a nice cup ay tea, and wait for your friends.

Whit she does say is: – Naah . . . ain't seem em for at least two days. Cunt. Fuck. Bastard. Shite.

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They could be anywhere. They could be naewhaire. They could be back at anytime. They might never be back.

Ah walk doon Hammersmith Broadway, London seeming strange and alien, after only a three–month absence, as familiar places do when you've been away. It's as if everything is a copy of what you knew before, similar, yet somehow lacking in its usual qualities, a bit like the wey things are in a dream. They say you have to live in a place to know it, but you have to come fresh tae it tae really see it. Ah remember walkin along Princes Street wi Spud, we both hate walkin along that hideous street, deadened by tourists and shoppers, the twin curses ay modern capitalism. Ah looked up at the castle and thought, it's just another building tae us. It registers in oor heids just like the British Home Stores or Virgin Records. We were heading tae these places oan a shoplifting spree. But when ye come back oot ay Waverley Station eftir bein away fir a bit, ye think: Hi, this isnae bad. Everything in the street today seems soft focus. It's probably lack of sleep and lack of drugs.