Trainspotting (9 page)

– Pardon? The what?

– The poppy, likesay, eh. . . the bread, the dosh n that. Ken?

– I see. But what specifically attracts you to the leisure industry'?

– Well, everybody likes tae huv a good time, a bit ay enjiymint, ken? That's leisure tae me man, likesay. Ah like tae see punters enjoy themselves, ken?

– Right. Thank you, the doll Wi the makeup mask sais. Ah could sortay like, love that babe. . . – What would you see as being your main strengths? she asks us.

– Eh. . . sense ay humour, likesay. Ye need that man, goatay huv it, jist goatay huv it, ken? Ah'll huv tae stoap sayin 'ken' sae much. These dudes might think ah'm a sortay pleb. What about weaknesses? the squeaky–voiced kitten in the suit asks. This is one spotted catboy; Rents wisnae jokin aboot the plukes. We have a real leopard cub here.

– Ah suppose man, ah'm too much ay a perfectionist, ken? It's likesay, if things go a bit dodgy, ah jist cannae be bothered, y'know? Ah git good vibes aboot this interview the day though man, ken?

– Thank you very much Mr Murphy. We'll let you know.

– Naw man, the pleasure wis mine. Best interview ah've been at, ken? ah bounds across n shakes each cat by the paw.

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4 – REVIEW

Spud met Renton back in the pub.

– How did it go Spud?

– Good catboy, good. Possibly too good, likesay. Ah think the dudes might be gaun tae offer us the job. Bad vibes. One thing though, man, ye wir right ahoot this speed. Ah never seem tae like, sell masel properly in interviews. Cool times compadre, cool times.

– Let's huv a drink tae celebrate yir success. Fancy another dab at that speed?

– Wouldnae say naw man, would not say no, likes.

***

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RELAPSING

SCOTLAND TAKES DRUGS IN PSYCHIC DEFENCE

Ah couldnae mention the Barrowland gig tae Lizzy. No fuckin chance ay that man, ah kin tell ye. Ah had bought ma ticket when ah got ma Giro. That wis me pure skint. It was also her birthday. It was the ticket or a present for her. Nae contest. This was Iggy Pop. Ah thought she'd understand.

– Ye can buy fuckin tickets fir Iggy fuckin Pop but ye cannae buy me a fuckin birthday present! That wis her response. See the cross ah've goat tae fuckin bear here man? Pure madness, ma man. Dinnae git us wrong. Ye can see her point. It's ma ain fault though, like ah sais, ma am fault. Pure naive, that's Tommy here. Auld fuck the wind. Ah lead wi ma chin aw the time. If ah wis a wee bit more, what's the word? duplicitous, ah would have said nothing aboot the tickets. Ah get too excited, and pure open ma big mooth far too wide. That's fearless Tommy Gun for ye. Pure sucker. So ah havenae mentioned the gig since. The night before the event Lizzy tells us that she pure fancies going to the pictures to see that The Accused. She tells me that her that was in Taxi Driver is in it. Ah don't really fancy the film; too much hype and publicity. That's really besides the point though, if ye ken what ah mean,

cause ah'm sitting here wi the Ig gig tickets in ma tail. So ah'm forced tae mention Barrowland and the man.

– Eh, cannae the morn. Ah've got the Iggy Pop gig at Barrowland. Me and Mitch are gaun through. – So ye'd rather go tae a concert wi Davie fuckin Mitchell than the pictures wi me. That's pure Lizzy. The rhetorical question, the stock–in–trade weapon ay burds and psychos. The issue's become, like, a pure referendum on our relationship. Ma instinct is tae be upfront and say 'yes', but that would probably mean bombing out Lizzy and ah'm addicted tae having sex wi her. God, ah love it. Daein it fae behind as she groans softly, her pretty head resting on the yellow silk pillow–cases in ma gaff; the ones Spud knocked for us oot ay the British Home Stores in Princes Street as a flat–warming present. Ah know ah shouldnae be disclosing aboot our life, man, but the image of her in bed is so strong that even her social coarseness and permanent sense ay outrage fail to weaken it. Ah jist pure wish that Lizzy could always be like she is in bed. Ah try tae murmur seductive apologies, but she's so harsh and unforgiving: sweet and beautiful only in bed. The permanent viciousness of that expression will force out her beauty long before it should disappear. She calls me all the fuck–ups under the sun, then a few more for good measure. Poor old Tommy Gun. No longer the greatest fighting soldier; now the greatest shiteing soldier.

It's no Iggy's fault. Cannae really blame the boy, ken? How wis he tae know when he stuck the Barrowland doon oan his itinerary, that he'd cause punters, whae he doesnae even ken exist, aw this hassle? Pure freaky whin ye think aboot it. Still, he's just another straw on the back of the camel. Lizzy's the pure steel woman. Ah'm happy though. Even Sick Boy's jealous ay me. Being Lizzy's boyfriend does confer status, but fame costs, as they say. By the time ah leave the pub, ah am in no doubt of my lack of worth as a human being.

At home ah take a line of speed and guzzle half a bottle of Merrydown. Ah pure cannae sleep, so ah phone Rents and ask him if he fancies coming round tae watch a Chuck Norris video. Rents is off tae London the morn. He spends more time doon there than he does back here. Something tae dae Wi giro–drops. The cunt's in some kind ay a syndicate Wi these punters he met when he worked on the Harwich–Hook of Holland cross–channel ferry, years ago. He's gaunnae see the Ig at the Town and Country while he's in the Smoke. We toke some grass and laugh our heads off as Chuck kicks fuck out of commie antichrists by the dozen, that constipated and stoical expression never leaving his face. Straight, this is unwatchable. Stoned, it’s pure unmissable. The next day ah've got terrible mouth ulcers. Temps, Gav Temperley, whae's moved intae the flat, says that it serves me right. Ah'm killing myself with speed, he tells me. Temps says that I

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should have a job, with my qualifications. Ah tell Temps that he sounds a lot more like ma mother than any friend is entitled tae. You can see Gav's point though. He's the only one working, for the fuckin dole, and he's always getting tapped up by the rest ay us. Poor Temps. Ah think me n Rents kept him awake last night as well. Temps resents dole–moles having a good time, like all workies do. He pure resents being hit for info by Rents every day, about claim procedures. It's tae my mother's ah go, tae tap some cash for the gig. Ah need dosh for the train fare as well as drink and drugs. Speed's my drug, it goes well with drink, and ah've always liked a drink. Tommy the pure speed freak.

My Ma gives me a lecture on the dangers of drugs, telling me what a disappointment ah've been to her, and tae my dad, who, although he doesnae say much, really worries about me. Later when he comes in from work, he says while my Ma is upstairs that she mightnae say much, but really worries about me. Frankly, he tells me, he's really disappointed in my attitude. He hopes ah'm not taking drugs, scrutinising my face as if he can tell. Funny, I know junkies, dope–heads and speed freaks, but the most fucked–up punters on drugs I know are pish–heids, like Secks. That's Rab McLaughlin, the Second Prize. He's blown the fucking lot, man. Ah tap the cash and meet Mitch in the Hebs. Mitch is still seein that lassie Gail. It's obvious though, that he's no gittin his leg ower. Listenin tae um fir ten minutes, ye kin pure read between the lines. He's in a pure bevvying mood, so ah tap some cash off ay um. We tan four pints ay heavy then get on the train. Ah dae four cans of Export and two lines ay speed during the journey to Glasgow. We down a couple in Sammy Dow's, then get a taxi to Lynch's. After another two pints, might've been three; and another line of speed each in the bog, we sing a medley of Iggy songs and go ower tae the Saracen Head in the Gallowgate, opposite the Barrowland. We drink some cider and wine chasers, dabbing frantically at salty speed in silver foil. All ah can see is a blurred neon sign when ah leave the pub. It is pure fucking freezing here, I kid you not my man, and we move towards the light and into the ballroom. We head straight for the bar. We have more drinks at the bar, although we can hear that Iggy's started his set. Ah rip off my torn t–shirt. Mitch lines up some Morningside speed, cocaine, on the formica–top table. Then something changes. He says something tae us about money which ah don't catch, but ah can feel the resentment. We have a heated, slurred argument, exchanging punches, ah don't recall who strikes the first blow. We cannae really hurt each other or feel force on our fists or bodies. Too wasted. Mind you, ah step up a gear when ah sees the blood flowing fae ma nose onto my bare chest, and ower the table. Ah get Mitch's hair in a grip and ah'm trying tae smash his heid against the wall, but ma hands are so numb and heavy. Someone pulls me off, and throws us out the bar, down a passage. Ah get up, singing, following the music into the packed hall of sweating bodies, pushing and shoving ma way tae the front.

One guy headbutts me, but ah ride it, no even stopping tae acknowledge my assailant, still pure jostling to the front. Ah'm pure jumping aroond at the front of the stage, a few feet away from The Man. They are playing 'Neon Forest'. Somebody slaps me on the back saying, – You are mental, by the way, my man. Ah sing out, a twisting, pogo–ing mass of rubber. Iggy Pop looks right at me as he sings the line: 'America takes drugs in psychic defence'; only he changes 'America' for 'Scatlin', and defines us mair accurately in a single sentence than all the others have ever done .

Ah cease my St Vitus dance and stand looking him in stunned awe. His eyes are on someone else.

THE GLASS

The problem Wi Begbie wis . . . well, thirs that many problems wi Begbie. One ay the things thit concerned us maist wis the fact thit ye couldnae really relax in his company, especially if he'd hud a bevvy. ah always felt thit a slight shift in the cunt's perception ay ye wid be sufficient tae

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change yir status fae great mate intae persecuted victim. The trick wis tae indulge the radge withoot being seen tae be too much ay an obviously crawling sap.

Even so, any overt irreverence took place within strictly defined limits. These boundaries were invisible tae outsiders, but you gained an intuitive feel for them. Even then, the rules constantly changed Wi the cunt's moods. Friendship Wi Begbie was an ideal preparation for embarking on a relationship Wi a woman. It taught ye sensitivity, an awareness ay the other person's changing needs. When ah wis Wi a lassie, ah usually behaved in the same discreetly indulgent wey. For a while, anywey.

Begbie and masel hud been invited tae Gibbo's 21st. It wis an RSVP job, Wi partners. Ah took Hazel, n Begbie took his burd, June. June wis up the stick, but wisnae showin. We met in a pub in Rose Street, which was Begbie's idea. Only arseholes, wankers and tourists set fit in Rose Street. Hazel n me hud a strange relationship. We'd been seeing each other on and off now for about four years. We have a kind ay understanding, that when ah'm using, she just vanishes. The reason Hazel sticks around Wi me is because she's as fucked up as me, but rather than get it sorted oot, she denies it. Wi her it's sex thit's at the root ay it rather than drugs. Hazel and I seldom have sex. This is because ah'm usually too junked tae be bothered, and in any case she's frigid. People say that there is no such thing as frigid women, only incompetent men. That's true to an extent, and ah'd be last cunt under the sun tae make any great claims fir masel in that department – ma abysmal junky track record speaks fir itself.

The thing is that Hazel wis fucked as a wee lassie by her faither. She once telt us this when she wis really oot ay it. Ah couldnae be much use, cause ah wis oot ay it as well. When ah tried tae git her tae talk aboot it later, she wisnae havin it. Every time since has been a disaster. Our sex life always has been. After k.b.ing me for ages, she'd eventually let me shag her. She'd be tensed up, gripping the mattress and gritting her teeth, while I did what I had to do. Eventually, we just stopped. It was like sleeping Wi a surfboard. All the foreplay in the world couldn't make Hazel unwind. It just made her more tense, almost physically sick. Some day ah hope she finds somebody who can dae it for her. Anywey, Hazel and I had a strange pact. We used each other in a social sense, that's the only way to describe it really, tae project this veneer of normality. It's a great cover–up for her frigidity and ma junk–induced impotence. My Ma and faither lapped Hazel up, seeing her as a potential daughter–in–law. If only they knew. Anywey, ah had called up Hazel, in order tae get her tae accompany us oan this night oot; two fuck–ups thegither.

The Beggar had been bevvyin before we met up. He looked seedy and menacing done up in a suit, the wey draftpaks do, indian ink spilling oot from under cuffs and collar onto neck and hands. Ah'm sure Beggar's tattoos move intae the light, resentful at being covered up.

– How's the fuckin Rent Boy! he rasps loudly. Appropriateness hus nivir been the cunt's strong point. –Awright doll? he sais tae Haze. – Lookin fuckin smert. See this cunt here? He points at me. – Style, he sais, enigmaatically. Then he elaborates. – This is a useless bastard; but he's goat style. A man ay wit. A man ay class. A man not unlike my good self. Begbie always constructed imaginary qualities in his friends, then shamelessly claimed them for himself.

Hazel and June, who didn't really know each other well, wisely struck up a conversation, lumbering me wi the Beggar, the General Franco. Ah realised that it hud been a long time since ah'd drank wi Begbie oan ma ain, withoot other mates tae offer occasional respite. Alone was stressful. Tae get ma attention, Begbie smashes an elbow into ma ribs with such ferocity that it would be construed as an assault, were it not between two companions. He then starts telling us about some gratuitously violent video he's been watching. Beggar insists on acting the whole fuckin thing oot, demonstrating karate blows, throttlings, stabbings, etc., on me. His explanation ay the film lasts twice as long as the picture itself. Ah'm gaunnae huv a few bruises the morn, n ah'm no even pished yet. We're drinking on a balcony bar, and our attention is caught by a squad of nutters entering the crowded pub below. They swagger in, noisy and intimidating. Ah hate cunts like that. Cunts like Begbie. Cunts that are intae baseball–batting every fucker that's different; pakis, poofs, n what huv ye. Fuckin failures in a country ay failures. It's nae good blamin it oan the English fir colonising us. ah don't hate the English. They're just wankers.We are colonised by wankers. We can't even pick a decent, vibrant, healthy culture to be colonised by. No. We're ruled by effete arseholes. What does that make us? The lowest of the fuckin low, the scum of the earth. The most wretched, servile, miserable, pathetic trash that was ever shat intae creation. Ah don't hate the English. They just git oan wi the shite thuv goat. Ah hate the Scots.