Trainspotting (32 page)

– And so say all of us, one ay the backpacker women sais, in an Australian accent.

– Fuckin dykes! another guy shouts. That gets right on ma tits, getting called a dyke, just because ah object tae being hassled by revolting, ignorant radges.

– If aw guys wir as repulsive as you, ah'd be fuckin proudtae be a lesbian, son! ah shouts back. Did ah really say that? Too mad!

– You guys have obviously got a problem. Why don't you just go and fuck each other? the other Aussie says.

Quite a crowd's gathered and two auld wifies are listening in.

– That's terrible. Lassies talkin like that tae the laddies, one sais.

– It's no terrible at aw. Thir bloody pests. It's good tae see young lassies stickin up for thirsels. Wish it happened in ma day.

– The language though, Hilda, the language. The first wifie puckers her lips and shudders.

– Aye, well what aboot their language? ah sais tae her. The guys are looking embarrassed, really shit up by the crowd that's developed. It's sortay like, feeding off itself. Crazy! Then this foreman, playin at being fuckin Rambo, comes along.

– Can't you control these animals? one ay the Aussie women sais. – Haven't they got any work to do instead of harassing people?

– Back inside yous! the foreman snaps, gesturing the guys away. We sortay let oot a cheer. It wis brilliant. Crazy!

Me n Ali went back over the road tae the Cafe Rio wi the Aussies and the two wifies came along as well. The 'Aussies' actually turned out tae be New Zealand lassies, who were lesbians, but that's got fuck all tae dae wi anything. They were jist travelling around the world together. That’s too mad! Ah'd love tae gie that a go. Me n Ali; that would be crazy. Imagine coming tae Scotland in November, but. That is too fundamentally mad. We all just blethered for ages about everything in sight, and even Ali didnae seem so screwed up aboot things.

Eftir a bit we decided tae go back tae ma place for a smoke ay hash and some more tea. We tried tae get the wifiestae come, but they had tae go hame and get their men's teas on, despite us telling them to let the bastards get their ain food.

One was really tempted: – Ah wish ah wis your age again hen, ah'd dae it aw different, ah kin tell ye.

Ah'm feelin brilliant, really likes, free. We all are. Magic! Ali, Veronica and Jane (the New Zealanders) and masel got really stoned back at ma place. We slagged off men, agreeing that they are stupid, inadequate and inferior creatures. Ah've never felt so close tae other women before, and I really did wish I was gay. Sometimes I think that all men are good for is the odd shag. Other than that, they can be a real fuckin pain. Mibbe that's crazy, but it's true when you think aboot it. Our problem is, we don't think aboot it that often and jist accept the bullshit these pricks dish oot tae us. The door goes, and it's Mark. Ah cannae help smirkin in his face. He comes in looking completely bewildered as we fall aboot laughing at him, stoned oota oor boxes. Mibbe it’s the dope, but he just looks so strange; men just look so strange, these funny, flat bodies and weird heads. It's

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like Jane said, they're freaky looking things that cairry their reproductive organs on the ootside ay their bodies. Pure radge!

– Awright doll! Ali shouts, in a mock workie's voice,

– Get 'em off! Veronica laughs.

– Ah've fuckin shagged it. No a bad fuckin ride as ah remember. Bit oan the fuckin smaw side likes! ah sais, pointing at him, impersonating Franco's voice. Frank Begbie, every woman's dream, I don't think, has been getting well slagged by me and Ali. He takes it well though, poor Mark, ah'll say that for him. Just shakes his heid n laughs.

– Ah've obviously called at an inconvenient time. Ah'll gie ye a bell the morn, he sais tae me.

– Aw . . . perr Mark . . . wir just havin a woman's crack. ye ken the score . . . Ali sais, guiltily. Ah laugh oot loud at what she said.

– Which woman's crack are we havin? ah sais. We're all fallin about laughing wildly. Ali n me maybe should've been born men, wi see sex in everything. Especially when wir stoned.

– It's awright. See yis, he turns n leaves, giein me a wink.

– I suppose some of them are okay, Jane sais, eftir we've composed oorselves.

– Aye, when they're in the fucking minority thir okay, ah sais, wondering where the edge in ma voice had come fae, then no wantin tae wonder too much.

THE ELUSIVE MR HUNT

Kelly is working behind the bar at a punter's pub in the South Side. She is kept busy, as it is a popular shop. It is particularly mobbed out this Saturday afternoon when Renton, Spud and Gav call in for a drink.

Sick Boy, positioned at the phone in another pub over the road, calls the bar.

– Be wi ye in a minute Mark, Kelly says, as Renton goes up to get the drinks in. She picks up the ringing phone. –Rutherford's Bar, she sings.

– Hi, says Sick Boy, disguising his voice, Malcolm Rifkind merchant–school style. – Is there a Mark Hunt in the bar?

– Thir's a Mark Renton, Kelly tells him. Sick Boy thinks for a second that he's been rumbled. However, he carries on. –

– No, it's Mark Hunt I'm looking for, the plummy voice stresses.

– MARK HUNT! Kelly shouts across the bar. The drinkers, who are almost exclusively male, look around at her; faces breaking into smiles. – ANYBODY SEEN MARK HUNT? Some guys at the bar collapse into loud laughter.

– Naw, but ah'd like tae! one says.

Kelly still doesn't catch on. With a puzzled expression at the reaction she is getting, she says: – This guy on the phone wis after Mark Hunt . . . then her voice tails off, her eyes widen and she puts her hand to her mouth, understanding at last.

– He's no the only one, Renton smiles, as Sick Boy comes into the pub. They practically have to hold each other up, as they are so overwhelmed with laughter. Kelly throws the half–empty contents of a water jug at them, but they scarcely notice. While it's all a laugh to them, she feels humiliated. She feels bad about feeling bad, about not being able to take a joke.

Until she realises that it's not the joke that bothers her, but the men in the bar's reaction to it. Behind the bar, she feels like a caged animal in a zoo who has done something amusing. She watches their faces, distorted into a red, gaping, gloating commonality. The joke is on the woman again, she thinks, the silly wee lassie behind the bar. Renton looks at her and sees her pain and anger. It cuts him up. It confuses him. Kelly has a great sense of humour. What's wrong with her? The knee–jerk thought: Wrong time of the' month is forming in his head when he looks about and picks up the intonations of the laughter around the bar. It's not funny laughter.

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This is lynch mob laughter.

How was ah tae know, he thinks. How the fuck was ah tae know?

HOME

EASY MONEY FOR THE PROFESSIONALS

It wis a piece ay pish, a total piece ay pish, but likesay, Begbie's so fuckin uncool man; ah'm tellin ye, likes.

Say fuckin nowt tae nae cunt, mind. Nowt tae nae fucker, he sais tae US. Eh, likesay, readin ye loud n clear man, likesay, crystal clear. Chill oot Franco man, chill oot. We cracked the gig likesay, ken.

– Aye, but fuckin nowt tae nae cunt. No even fuckin Rents n that. Mind. There's nae reasoning wi some cats. You say 'reason', they mew 'treason'. Ken?

– N nae fuckin drugs. Keep the fuckin dough back fir a bit, he adds. Now the cat is tellin us how tae spend the brass, likesay.

This is a tacky scene, likes. We've goat a couple ay grand apiece, eftir wuv peyed oaf the young guy, likesay, and this cat's fur's still standin oan end. The Beggar–boy is one feline whae wilinae jist curl up in a nice warm basket n purrrrrrr . . . We down another pint, then call a joe Baxi. These sports bags wir cairryin man, they should have SWAG oan the side ay thum, instead ay ADIDAS and HEAD, likesay. Two fuckin grand, likes.

Phoah! Don't you–ho be te–heh–heh–rified, it's just a token of my extreme . . . as the other Franco, one Mister Zappa, would say.

The taxi takes us tae Begbie's. june's in, and she's got the Begbie ankle–biter up, oan her lap.

– Bairn woke, she sais tae Franco, likesay she's explainin. Franco looks at her like he wants tae kill them baith.

– Fuck sakes. C'moan Spud, the fuckin bedroom. Cannae even git a bit ay fuckin peace in yir ain fuckin hoose! He gestures tae the door, like.

– What's aw this? June asks.

– Dinnae fuckin ask. jist you fuckin see tae yir fuckin bairn! Begbie snaps. The wey he sais it, it's likesay, it's no his bairn n aw, ken? Ah suppose in a wey he's right, likesay; Franco's no what ye'd really sortay call the parental type, ken . . . eh, what sortay type is Franco?

It wis beautiful though man. Nae violence, nae hassle, ken. A set ay dummy keys, n we jist likesay, walked in. This wis the false panel in the flair tile behind the counter, under the till, and thair wis that big, canvas bag full ay that lovely, poppy. Peachy! Aw they beautiful notes and coins. Ma passport tae better times man, ma passport tae better times. The doorbell rings. Me n Franco are a bit shit up in case it's the labdicks, but it turns oot tae be the wee gadge, up fir his cut, just as well, likesay, cause Franco n me’s goat coins n notes aw ower the bed; divvyin up likesay, ken?

Yis git it? the wee dude sais, eyes then wide in disbelief at the sight ay the goodies oan the bed.

– Sit fuckin doon! You shut yir fuckin pus aboot this, right? Franco growls. The wee guy's shiters, likesay.

Ah wanted tae tell Franco tae go easy on the kiddo, ken? That's likesay, the kitten that turned us oantay this bread. The wee guy told us the story, even slipped us the keys tae copy, likesay. Even though ah say nowt likes, the Begbie cat can still read ma face.

– This wee cunt'll be straight back doon the fuckin school throwin his fuckin poppy aboot tae impress his fuckin mates, n aw the wee burds.

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– Naw ah'll no, the wee guy says.

– shut the fuck up! Begbie sneers. The guy shites it again. Begbie turns tae us. – Fuckin sure ah'd be, if it wis me.

He stands up n throws three darts intae this board oan the waw, wi real force, real violence, man. The wee guy’s lookin worried.

– Thir's one fuckin thing worse thin a grassin cunt, he sais, takin the darts ootay the board n flingin thum back intae it wi the same evil force. – N that's a fuckin lippy cunt. The cunt thit shoots his fuckin mooth oaf eywis does mair fuckin damage thin the grass. That's the cunts thit fuckin feed the grass. The grass feeds the fuckin polis. Then wir aw fucked. Eh flings a dart straight at the wee guy's face. Ah jump, n the wee boy screams, n starts greetin hysterically, shakin, like he's huvin a fit, likesay. Ah see thit Be'gbie’s jist flung the plastic flight, huvin slyly screwed oaf the metal spike n barrel before flingin it. The wee guy’s still greetin, likesay, wi shock n that.

– The fuckin flight, ya daft weee cunt! A wee bit ay fuckin plastic! Franco laughs scornfully and counts oot a load ay notes, but maistly jist the coins, fir the wee man. – Polis stoa'p Ye, Ye won it fae the shows at Porty, or in a fuckin arcade. Breathe a fuckin word ay this tae any cunt, n ye better fuckin hope thit the polis git a haud ay ye n send ye tae fuckin Polmont before ah fuckin catch up wi ye, ye hear us? . . the wee boy's stil tremblin, likesay.

– Now fuck off, back tae yir fuckin Setirday joab at the DIY.

– Remember, if ah fuckin hear ay you flashin that fuckin poppy aroond, ah'll be right fuckin doon tae your bit before ye ken whit's fuckin hit ye.

The wee guy takes his dough n leaves. Perr wee cunt goat nuthin really, aboot a couple ay hundred quid fae nears enough five grand, likesay. Still, bags ay loot for a cat that age, if ye catch ma drift. Mind you, ah still say thit Franco's been a bit hard oan the nipper.

– Hey man, that kids's made us a couple ay grand each man . .. eh, jist sortay saying Franco, likesay, mibbe ye wir a bit hard oan the gadge, likesay, ken?

– Ah dinnae fuckin want that wee cunt boastin, or flashin a fuckin wad aroond. Daein anythin wi wee cunts like that, it's the riskiest fuckin business gaun. Thuv nae fuckin discretion, ken?

That's how ah like tae go screwin fuckin shoaps n hooses wi you Spud. Yir a true fuckin professional, like masel, n ye nivir say nowt tae nae cunt. Ah respect that fuckin professionalism, Spud. Whin ye goat true professionals oan a joab, it's nae fuckin problem, ya cunt.

– Yeah . . . right man, likesay, ah sais. What else kin ye say, likesay, ken? True professionals. Sounds awright tae me; sounds peachy.

A PRESENT

Ah decided that ah couldnae handle steyin at ma auld girl's., too much ay a heid–nip. So Gav's pittin us up fir the duration ay Matty's funeral. The train journey up wis uneventful; jist the wey ah wanted it. Some Fall tapes oan the Walkman, four cans ay lager n ma H.P. Lovecraft book. Nazi cunt, auld H.P., but he kin spin a good yarn. Ah set ma coupon intae the do–not–disturb–orelse–cunt mode every time a smiling jackass apologetically squeezes into the seat opposite me. It's an enjoyable journey, and therefore a short one.

Gav's new gaff is in McDonald Road; ah decide tae pad the hoof Whin ah git doon tae his place, he isnae in a happy frame ay mind. Ah'm jist aboot tae git a bit para; likes ah've mibbe imposed masel, when he indicates the source ay his misery.

– Telling ye Rents, see that cunt Second Prize, he sais, shakin his heid bitterly n pointing tae an empty front room, – ah gave urn the cash tae dae this place up; a bit ay plasterin and paintin. Ah'rn away doon the B&Q, he sais tae us this mornin. No seen the cunt since. Ma instinct wis tae tell Gav thit he wis crazy tae commission Second Prize tae dae the joab in the first place; n totally fuckin doolally giein the cunt the poppy up front. Ah suspect, however,

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that's no whit he wants tae hear right now, n ah am his guest. instead, ah dump ma bag n the spare room n take um doon tae the pub.

– Ah want tae hear aboot Matty; what happened tae the cunt. Ah wis obviously shocked by the news, though it hus tae be said, far fae surprised.

– Matty nivir knew he wis HIV, Gav said. – He probably hud been fir some time.