Trainspotting (8 page)

Ah look ower tae the barman, an auld guy Wi grey hair n a moustache. He shakes his heid n says something under his breath.

Ah take the pints back. Nivir, ivir hit a lassie, ma faither often telt us. It's the lowest scum thit dae that, son, he sais. This cunt thit's been hittin the lassie, he fits that description. He's goat greasy black hair, a thin white face n a black moustache. A wee ferret–faced fucker. Ah dinnae want tae be here. Ah jist came oot fir a quiet drink. Only a couple, ah promised Tommy, tae git um tae come. Ah've goat the bevvyin under control. Jist pints like, nae nips. Bit this kind ay thing makes us want a wee whisky. Carol's away tae her Ma's. No comin back, she sais. Ah came fir a pint, bit ah might jist git pished yit.

Tommy's breathin heavily n lookin tense as ah sit doon.

– Fuckin tellin ye Secks . . . he sais through grinding teeth. The lassie's eye is badly swollen and shuttin. Her jaw's swollen n aw, and her mooth is still bleedin She’s a skinny lassie n she looks like she'd snap intae pieces if he hit her again. Still, she cairries oan.

– That's yir answer. That's eywis yir answer, she spits oot between sobs, angry n feelin sorry fir hersel at the same time.

– Shut it! Ah'm tellin ye! Shut the fuck up! He's nearly chokin Wi anger.

– Whit ye gaunnae dae?

– Ya fackin . . . He seems ready tae punch her again.

– That's enough mate. Leave it. Yir oot ay order, Tommy sais tae the guy.

– It's nane ay your fuckin business! You keep oot ay this! The boy points at Tommy. –

That's enough thair. Come on now! The barman shouts.

The corkscrew–heided cunt smiles and a couple ay the darts boys look ower.

– Ah'm makin it ma fuckin business. Whit you gaunnae fuckin dae aboot it? Eh? Tommy leans forward.

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– Fuck sake Tommy. Cool it man. Ah half–heartedly grab his airm, thinkin ay the barman. He frees it Wi a quick shake.

– You want yir mooth punched? the boy sais.

– Think ah'm gaunny jist sit here n lit ye dae it? Fuckin wide–=o! Ootside then cunt. Cu–mauugghhnn! Tommy sort ay sings tauntingly. The boy's shitein hissel. He's right tae. Tommy's quite a tidy cunt.

– Nane ay your business, he sais, no soundin sae smart.

Then the woman screams at Tommy.

– That's ma man! That's ma fackin man yir talkin tae!

Tommy's too shocked tae stoap her as she leans ower an digs her nails intae his face. Everythin happened eftir that. Tommy stood up an punched the boy in the mooth, the guy fell back oaf his seat ontae the flair.

Ah wis up n straight ower tae the corkscrew–heided cunt at the bar. Ah tanned um in the jaw n grabbed a haud ay his fuckin curls, haulin his heid doon, n bootin him a couple ay times in the face.

Ah think he blocked one Wi his hands, n ah doubt if the other hurt the cunt, cause ah'm wearin trainers. He swings Wi his airms, brekin ma grip. Then he backs away, face beamin rid n confused. Ah thought the cunt would huv me then, he could've easily, but he jist stands thair n opens oot his hands.

– What's the fuckin score?

– It's a big joke tae you, eh? ah sais.

– Whit ye talkin aboot? The cunt seems genuinely scoobied.

– Ah'll phone the polis! Git ootay here or ah'll phone the polis! The barman sais, pickin up the receiver fir effect.

– Nae hassle in here now boys, a big, fat cunt fae the darts team sais, threateningly. He's still goat his arrays in his hand.

– It's nowt tae dae Wi me mate, the corkscrew–heided cunt sais tae us.

– Mibbe ah goat it wrong likesay, ah tell um.

The woman and her man, thame thit caused the whole fuckin problem, we wir jist oot fir a quiet drink, ur skulkin oot ay the door.

– Fuckin bastards. That's ma man, she shouts tae us as they leave. Ah feel Tommy's hand oan ma shoodir.

– C'moan Secks. Lits git Gotay here, he sais.

The fat cunt fae the darts team, he's goat a rid shirt Wi the pub name, a dartboard crest, and

'Stu' underneath it, he's still goat plenty tae say fir hissel.

– Dinnae come in here n cause bother, pal. This isnae your local. Ah ken your faces. Yous ur mates Wi that rid–heided cunt n that Williamson laddie, the one Wi the ponytail. These cunts ur fuckin drug–dealin scum. We dinnae want that fuckin trash in here.

– We dinnae deal fuckin drugs, pal, Tommy sais.

– Aye. No in this fuckin pub ye dinnae, the fat cunt goes.

– C'moan Stu. =S no they boys' fault. It's that cunt Alan Venters n his burd. They're mair intae drugs thin any cunt aroond here. You ken that, this other guy Wi thin fair hair sais.

– They should be daein that kind ay arguin in the hoose, no in a pub, another guy sais.

– Domestic dispute. That's whit it is. Shouldnae be botherin people thit ur jist oot fir a drink Wi aw that, Fair–hair agrees.

The worse bit is gitting ootside. Ah'm shitein masel in case wi git follayed. Ah'm walkin fast, while Tommy's haudin back.

– Stall the now, he sais. – Fuck off. Let's git ootay here. We move doon the road. Ah look back, but nae cunt's left the pub. We see that mental couple up ahead ay us.

– Ah want a wee wurd Wi that cunt, Tommy sais, ready tae start eftir thum. Ah clocks a bus comin. A 22. That'll dae us.

– Fuck it Tommy. Here's a bus. C'moan. We run tae the stoap n git oan the bus. We go upstairs tae the back, even though wir only gaun a few stoaps.

– How's ma face? Tommy asks us whin we sit doon.

– Same as usual. A fuckin mess. That burd improved it, ah tell um. He looks at his reflection in the bus windae.

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– The fuckin slag, he curses.

– The pair ay fuckin slags, ah sais.

That wis fuckin ace ay Tommy hittin the boy, likes, n no the bird, even if it wis the burd thit hit him. Ah've done loads ay things in ma time thit ah'm no proud ay, but ah've nivir hit a burd. Whit Carol sais is shite. She says thit ah used violence oan her, but ah nivir hit her. Ah jist held oantae her so thit we could talk. She sais restrainin is like hittin, it's still violence against her. Ah cannae see that. Aw ah wanted tae dae wis tae keep her thair, tae talk. Whin ah telt this tae Rents, he sais thit Carol wis right. Eb sais she's entitled tae come n go as she wants. That's shite though. Aw ah wanted tae dae wis talk. Franco agreed wi us. It's different whin yir in a relationship, we telt Rents.

Ah felt sick n nervous oan the bus. Tommy might've felt the same, cause we nivir spoke any mair. The morn though, we'll be in some boozer wi Rents, Beggar, Spud, Sick Boy n aw thame, boasting like fuck.

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SPEEDY RECRUITMENT

1 – PREPARATION

Spud and Renton were sitting in a pub in the Royal Mile. The pub aimed at an American theme–bar effect, but not too accurately; it was a madhouse of assorted bric–a'–brac.

– Fuckin weird man though, likesay, you n me gittin sent fir the same joab, ken? Spud said, slurping at his Guinness.

Joab. It'd be a fuckin nightmare. Renton shook his head.

– Yeah, ah'm likesay happy steyin oan the rock =n roll the now man, ken?

– Trouble is though Spud, if ye dinnae try, if ye blow the interview oan purpose; the cunts tell the dole n these bastards stoap yir giro. Happened tae us in London. Ah'm oan ma last warnin doon thair.

– Yeah . . . me n aw man. What ye gaunnae dae, likesay?

– Well, what ye huv tae dae is tae act enthusiastic, but still fuck up the interview. As long as ye come across as keen, they cannae say fuck all. If we jist be oorselves, n be honest, thill nivir gie either ay us the fuckin joab. Problem is, if ye just sit thair n say nowt tae the cunts, thir straight oantae the dole. Thill say: That cunt jist cannae be bothered.

– It's hard for me man . . . ken? It's difficult tae git it thegither like that, likesay. . . ken?

Ah git sortay likes, pure shy, ken?

– Tommy gied us some speed. What time's yir interview again?

– No till half–two, likesay.

– Well, ah'm at one. Ah'll see ye back here at two. Ah'll gie ye ma tie tae pit oan, n some speed. Buck ye up a bit, let ye sell yirsel, ken? So let's get tae work oan they appos. They placed the application forms on the table in front of them. Renton's was already half–completed. A few entries caught Spud's eye.

– Hey. . . what's this man, likesay? George Heriots . . you went tae Leithy man .

– It's a well–known fact thit ye nivir stand a fuckin chance ay gittin anything decent in this city if ye didnae go tae a posh school. Nae wey though, will they offer a George Heriots =FP a porterin joab in a hotel. That's only fir us plebs; so pit doon something like that. If they see Augies or Craigy oan your form, the cunts 'Il offer ye the joab. . . fuck, ah'd better go. Whatever ye dae, dinnae be late. See ye back here in a bit.

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2 – PROCESS: MR RENTON (1.00 P.M.)

The trainee manager whae welcomed us wis a mucho spotty punter in a sharp suit, Wi dandruff oan the shoodirs like piles ay fuckin cocaine. Ah felt like takin a rolled up fiver tae the cunt's tin flute. His biscuit–ersed face and his plukes completely ruin the image the smarmy wee shite's tryin tae achieve. Even in ma worse junk periods ah've nivir had a complexion like that, the poor wee bastard. This cunt is obviously along for the ride. The main man is the fat, stroppy–lookin gadge in the middle; tae his right thirs a coldly smiling dyke in a woman's business suit Wi a thick foundation mask, who looks catalogue hideous.

This is a heavy–duty line–up for a fuckin porter's joab.

The opening gambit wis predictable. The fat cunt gies us a warm look and says: – I see from your application form that you attended George Heriots. Right . . . ah, those halcyon school days. It seems like a long time ago now. Ah might huv lied on the appo, but ah huvnae at the interview. Ab did once attend George Heriots: whin ah wis an apprentice joiner at Gillsland's we did some contract work there.

– Old Fotheringham still doing his rounds?

Fuck. Select from one of two possibilities; one: he is, two: he's retired. Naw. Too risky. Keep it nebulous.

– God, you're taking me back now . . . ah laugh. The fat gadge seems tae be happy Wi that. It's worrying. Ah feel that the interview is over, and that these cunts are actually going tae offer us the joab. The subsequent questions are all pleasantly asked and unchallenging. Ma hypothesis is fucked. They'd rather gie a merchant school old boy with severe brain damage a job in nuclear engineering than gie a schemie Wi a Ph.D. a post as a cleaner in an abattoir. Ah've goat tae dae something here. This is terrifying. Fatso sees us as a George Heriots old boy fallen on hard times, and he wants tae help us oot. A gross miscalculation Renton, you radge. Thank fuck for spotted dick. A fair assumption tae make, considering every other part of him seems tae be covered in zits. He gets tae nervously ask a question: – Ehm . . . ehm. . Mr Renton . . . ehm an you, ehm, explain . . . eb, your employment gaps, ehm . Can you explain the gaps between your words, you doss wee cunt.

– Yes. I've had a long–standing problem with heroin addiction. I've been trying to combat this, but it has curtailed my employment activities. I feel it's important to be honest and mention this to you, as a potential future employer.

A stunning coup de maitre. They shift nervously in their seats.

– Well, eh, thank you for being so frank with us Mr Renton eh, we do have some other people to see. . so thanks again, and we'll be in touch.

Magic. The gross git pulls down a wall of coldness and distance between us. They cannae say ah didnae try .

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3 – PROCESS: MR MURPHY (2.30 P.M.)

This speed is el magnifico, likesay. Ah feel sortay dynamic, ken, likesay, ah'm really lookin forward tae this interview. Rents sais: Sell yirsell Spud, =n tell the truth. Let's go for it cats, let’s get it on . . . .

– I see from your application form that you attended George Heriots. The old Heriots =FPs seem to be rather thick on the ground this afternoon.

Yeah, fat–cat.

– Actually man, ah've goat tae come clean here. Ah went tae Augie's, St. Augustine's likesay, then Craigy, eh Craigroyston, ken. Ah jist pit doon Heriots because ah thoat it wid likes, help us git the joab. Too much discrimination in this town, man, ken, likesay? As soon as suit n tie dudes see Heriots or Daniel Stewarts or Edinburgh Academy, they kinday get the hots, ken. Ah mean, would you have said, likesay, ah see you attended Craigroyston?

– Well, I was just making conversation, as I did happen to attend Heriots. The idea was to

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make you feel at ease. But I can certainly put your mind at rest with regards to discrimination. That’s all covered in our new equal opportunities statement.

– It's cool man. Ah'm relaxed. It's jist that ah really want this job, likesay. Couldnae sleep last night though. Worried ah'd sortay blow it likesay, ken? It's jist when cats see 'Craigroyston' oan the form, they likesay think, well everybody thit went tae Craigie's a waster, right? But eh, ye ken Scott Nisbet, the fitba player likesay? He's in the Huns . . . eh Rangers first team, haudin his ain against aw they expensive international signins ay Souness's, ken? That cat wis the year below us at Craigie, man.

– Well, I can assure you Mr Murphy, we're far more interested in the qualifications you gained rather than the school you, or any other candidate, went to. It says here that you got five =O

Grades .

– Whoah. Likesay, gaunnae huv tae stoap ye thair, catboy. The =o Grades wis bullshit, ken? Thought ah'd use that tae git ma fit in the door. Showin initiative, likesay. Ken? Ah really want this job, man.

– Look Mr Murphy, you were referred to us by the Department of Employment's Jobcentre. There's no need for you to lie to get your foot in the door, as you put it.

– Hey . . . whatever you say man. You're the man, the governor, the dude in the chair, so tae speak, likesay.

– Yes, well, we're not making much progress here. Why don't you just tell us why you want this job so desperately that you're prepared to lie.

– Ah need the hireys man.