Trainspotting (10 page)

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Begbie's gaun oan aboot Julie Mathieson, whae he used tae huv the hoats fir. Julie always hated him. Ah really liked Julie, maybe that's why. She wis a really good punter. She hud a bairn whin she wis HIV, but the bairn wis all–clear, thank fuck. The hoespital sent Julie hame in an ambulance wi the bairn, wi two guys dressed in sortay radioactive–proof suits – helmets, the lot. This wis back in 1985. It had the predictable effect. The neighbours saw this, freaked, and bumt her oot the hoose. Once ye git tagged HIV, that's you fucked. Especially a lassie oan her puff. Harassment followed harassment. Eventually, she hud a nervous breakdoon and, wi her damaged immune system, wis easy prey fir the onset ay AIDS.

It wis last Christmas thit Julie died. Ah nivir made the funeral. Ah wis lyin in ma am puke oan a mattress in Spud's gaff, too fucked tae move. It wis a shame, cause Julie n me wir good mates. Wi nivir shagged or nowt like that. Wi baith thought it wid change things too much, like it does in male/female friendships. Sex generally makes them intae real relationships, or ends them. Ye go backwards or forwards after shagging, but maintaining the status quo is difficult. Julie looked really good when she started oan smack. Maist lassies dae. It seems tae bring oot the best in them. It always seems tae gie, before it takes back, wi interest.

Begbie's epitaph tae Julie is: – Fuckin waste ay a good bit ay fanny. Ah fight back the urge tae tell um what a fuckin waste ay a silver bullet he'd be. Ah try no tae show ma anger; it'll achieve nothing except a burst mooth fir me. Ah go doonstairs tae git another round up.

These draftpak cunts are at the bar, jostling each other, and every other fucker. Getting served is a nightmare. A mosaic shell ay scar tissue and indian ink, ah presume that there's some cunt inside it, is screaming: – DOUBLE VODDY N COKE! DOUBLE FAAHKIN VODDY N COKE

THEN CUNT! at the nervous barstaff Ah focus on the whisky bottles on the gantry, trying everything in ma power tae avoid makin eye contact wi this radge. It's like ma eyes huv a life ay thir am, involuntarily turning tae the side. My face reddens n tingles, as if in anticipation ay a fist or a boatil. These cunts are damaged fucking goods, nutty boys of the highest order. Ah take the drinks back, the nips first fir the women, then the pints. Then it happens.

Aw ah did wis put a pint ay Export in front ay Begbie. He takes one fuckin gulp oot ay it; then he throws the empty gless fae his last pint straight ower the balcony, in a casual, backhand motion. It's one ay they chunky, panelled glesses wi a handle, n ah kin see it spinnin through the air oot ay the corner ay ma eye. Ah look at Begbie, whae smiles, while Hazel n June look disorientated, thir faces reflecting ma ain crippling anxiety. The gless crashes doon oan this draftpak's heid, which splits open as he faws tae his knees. The boy's mates assume battle stances, ,n one ay them charges ower tae this other table n panels this innocent cunt. Another gubs some perr gadge cairryin a tray ay drinks.

Begbie's oan his feet, n racing doon the stair. He's right in the middle ay the flair.

– BOY'S BEEN FUCKIN GLESSED! NAE CUNT LEAVES HERE UNTIL AH FIND

OOT WHAE FLUNG THAT FUCKIN GLESS!

He's barkin orders at innocent couples, shoutin instructions at the bar staff. Thing is, the draftpak cunts ur lappin this up.

– S awright mate. We kin handle this! Double Voddy n Coke sais. Ah cannae hear whit Begbie sais, but it seems tae impress Double Voddy. Then the Beggar goes tae the barman: – YOU! PHONE THE FAAHKIN POLIS!

– NAW! NAW! NAE POLIS! shouts one ay the draftpak psychos. These cunts've obviously goat records the length ay yir airm. The perr cunt behind the bar's shitein hissel, no kennin whit tae dae.

Begbie stands erect, neck muscles tensed. His glare sweeps aroond the bar n up tae the balcony.

– WHAF SAW ANYTHIN? YOU CUNTS SEE ANYTHIN? he shouts at a group ay guys, Merchant school, Murrayfield type cunts, who ur crappin themselves.

– No. . . one guy wobbles out.

Ah gits doon, telling Haze n June no tae move fae the balcony bar. Begbie's like a psychopathic detective oot ay an Agatha Christie whodunit, cross–examinin every cunt. He's blowin it; it is so fuckin obvious. Ah'm doon thair, stickin a fuckin bar–towel oan the draftpak's split heid, tryin tae stem the blood. The cunt just growls at us, n ah dinnae ken whether that's um showin gratitude or ready tae stomp ma baws, but ah cairry oan.

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One fat cunt fae the group ay psychos goes up tae this other group ay guys at the bar n sticks the heid oan one ay them. The place goes up. Lassies scream, guys issue threats, push each other and exchange blows as the sound ay brekin gless fills the air. This boy's white shirt is saturated wi blood as ah push through some bodies tae git back up the stairs tae Hazel n June. Some cunt gubs us oan the side ay the face. Ah hud half–saw it fae the corner ay ma eye n moved away n time, so ah didnae git the fill force ay it. Ah turn roond and this radge's sayin: – Come ahead wide–o. Come ahead.

– Way tae fuck ya radge, ah say, shakin ma heid. This gadge's ready tae come, but his mate grabs his airm, a good thing, because ah'm no ready fir him. The cunt looks a wee bit tidy, like he could punch his weight.

– Fuckin stey ootay it, Malky. It's fuck all tae dae Wi that boy, his mate sais. Ah move oan smartly. Haze n June come doon the stairs Wi us. Malky, ma assailant, is panelling some other cunt now. A gap has cleared in the middle ay the flair n ah steer Haze n June through it towards the door.

– Mind the burds, pal, ah say tae these two guys whae or aboot tae swedge, n one dives for the other one, allowing us tae slip past. Ootside the bar in the Rose Street precinct Begbie n this other cunt, it's Double Voddy, or bootin fuck oot ay this perr bastard oan the deck. – FRAAHNK! June gies oot a bloodcurdling scream. Hazel's edging away fae me, tuggin at ma hand.

– FRANCO! C'MOAN! ah shout, grabbin his airm. He stoaps tae examine his work, but brushes ma grip oaf. He turns tae look at us, and fir a minute, ah think he's gaunnae panel us. It's like he doesnae see us, doesnae recognise us. Then he goes: – Rents. Nae cunt fucks Wi the YLT. Thuv goat tae fuckin learn that Rents. Thuv goat tae fuckin learn that.

– Cheers pal, sais Double Voddy, Franco's accomplice in slaughter. Franco smiles at him, and boots the cunt in the baws. Ah felt it.

– Ah'll gie ye fackin cheers, ya cunt! he sneers, smacking Double Voddy in the face, knocking him ower. A white tooth flies like a bullet oot ay the guy's mooth, and lands a few feet away on the precinct tiles.

– Frank! What ur ye daein! June shrieks. We're pulling the cunt doon the road as polis sirens fill the air.

– That cunt, that cunt n his fuckin mates back thair, that's the cunts thit fuckin stabbed ma brar! he shouts indignantly. June looked beaten down.

That wis bullshit. Beggar's brother, Joe, was stabbed in a fight in a pub at Niddrie years ago. The fight wis ay his am makin, and he wisnae badly hurt. In any case Franco and Joe hated each other. Still, the incident had provided Begbie Wi the spurious moral ammunition he needed tae justify one ay his periodic drink and angst fuelled wars against the local populace. He'd git his one day. Nothing wis surer. Ah jist didnae want tae be aroond whin he did. Hazel and ah fell behind Franco n June. Haze wanted tae go.

– Thirs something wrong wi him. Did ye see that guy's heid? Let's git ootay here.

Ah found masel lyin tae her, tae justify Begbie's behaviour. Fuckin horrible. Ah jist couldnae handle her outrage, n the hassle thit went Wi it. It wis easy tae lie, as we all did Wi Begbie in our circle. A whole Begbie mythology hud been created by oor lies tae each other n oorsels. Like us, Begbie believed that bullshit. We played a big part in making him what he was.

Myth: Begbie has a great sense ay humour.

Reality: Begbie's sense ay humour is solely activated at the misfortunes, setbacks and weaknesses ay others, usually his friends.

Myth: Begbie is a 'hard man'.

Reality: Ah would not personally rate begbie that highly in a square–go, withoot his assortment ay stanley knives, baseebaw bats, knuckledusters, beer glesses, sharpened knitting needles, etc. Masel n maist cunts are too shite–scared tae test this theory, but the impression remains. Tommy once exposed some weaknesses in Begbie, in a square–go. Gave um a good run for his money, did Tam. Mind you, Tommy's a tidy cunt, n Begbie, it has tae be said, came oat the better ay the two.

Myth: Begbie's mates like him.

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Reality: They fear him.

Myth: Begbie would never waste any ay his mates.

Reality: His mates are generally toa cagey tae test oat this proposition. and oan the odd occasion they huv done so, huv succeeded in disproving It.

Myth: Begbie backs up his mates.

Reality: Begbie smashes fuck oot ay innocent wee daft cunts whae accidently spill your pint or bump in tae ye. Psychopaths who terrorise Begbie's mates usually dae so wi impunity. as they tend tae be closer mates ay Begbie's than the punters he hings abaot wi. He kens thum aw through approved schoal, prison n the casuals' networks, the freemasonaries that bams share.

Anywey, these myths gie us the basis tae rescue the night.

– Look Hazel, ah ken Franco's uptight. It's jist thit they guys pit his brar Joe oan a life–support machine. Thir a close faimlay. Begbie is like junk, a habit. Ma first day at primary school, the teacher sais tae us: – You will sit beside Francis Begbie. It wis the same story at secondary. Ah only did well at school tae git intae an O Level class tae git away fae Begbie. Whin Begbie wis expelled n sent tae another school en route tae Polmont, ma performance declined, and ah wis pit back intae the non–certificate stream. Still, nae mair Begbie.

Then, when ah wis apprenticed as a chippy Wi a Gorgie builder, ah goes along tae Telford College tae dae ma national certificate modules in joinery. Ah sat doon tae ma chips in the cafeteria, whin whae comes along but that cunt Begbie, Wi a couple ay other psychos. They wir oan this specialist course in metalwork fir problem teenagers. The course seemed tae teach them tae manufacture thir ain sharp metal weapons ay destruction rather than have tae buy them fae the Army n Navy stores.

Whin ah left ma trade n went tae college fir A Levels, then oantae Aberdeen University, ah half expected tae see Beggars at the freshers ball, beating tae a pulp some four–eyed, middle–class wanker he imagined wis starin at um.

He really is a cunt ay the first order. Nae doubt about that. The big problem is, he's a mate n aw. Whit kin ye dae?

We quicken our step and follay them doon the road; a quartet of fucked–up people thegither.

A DISAPPOINTMENT

Ah minded ay the cunt. Fuckin sure n ah did. Ah used tae think he wis a fuckin hard cunt, back it Craigie, ken? He fuckin hung aroond Wi Kev Stronach and that crowd. Fuckin bams. Dinnae git us wrong like; ah thoat the cunt wis fuckin sound. But ah mind, thir wis one time some boys asks the cunt whair he fuckin came fae. This boy goes: –Jakey (that wis the cunt's name likey, ur you fae fuckin Grantin or Roystin? The cunt goes: – Grantin is Roystin. Roystin is Grantin. The bastard went right fuckin doon in ma estimation eftir that, ken? That wis back it the fuckin school though, ken? Fuckin yonks ago now. Anywey, the other fuckin week thair, ah wis doon the flickin Volley wi Tommy n Secks, ken Rab, the Second Prize, likes? This cunt, this Jakey cunt, the big fuckin radge boy fae Craigie, he comes intae the pub. He nivir fuckin lits oan tae us. Ali mind ay smashin loads ay fuckin crabs tae bits Wi stanes Wi that cunt. Doon the fuckin harbour, ken? He nivir fuckin recognised us. Didnae fuckin ken us fae Adam . . . the cunt. Anywey, the cunt's mate, this fuckin plukey–faced wide–o, goes tae pit his fuckin money doon fir the baws it the table. Fir the pool, ken? Ah sais tae um: – That cunt's fuckin nixt mate, pointin tae this wee specky gadge. This wee cunt's goat his fuckin name up oan the board, but he wid've jist fuckin sat thair n said fuck all if ah hudnae fuckin spoke like. Ah wis fuckin game fir a swedge. If the cunts hud've fuckin come ahead it wis nae problem like. Ah mean, you ken me, ah'm no the type ay cunt thit goes lookin fir fuckin bothir likes; but ah wis the cunt wi the fuckin pool cue in ma hand, n the plukey cunt could huv the fat end ay it in his pus if he wanted, like. Obviously, ah wis cairryin ma fuckin chib n aw. Too fuckin right. Like ah sais, ah dinnae go lookin fir fuckin bother, but if any lippy cunt wants tae start, ah'm fuckin game. So the wee

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specky cunt's pit his fuckin dough in, n he's rackin up n that, ken? The plukey cunt jist sits doon n sais fuck all. Ah kept ma eye oan the hard cunt, or at least he wis a fuckin hard cunt it the school, ken. The cunt nivir sais a fuckin wurd. Kept his fuckin mooth shut awright; the cunt. Tommy sais tae us: – Hi Franco, is that boy gittin lippy? Ye ken Tam, he's no fuckin shy, that cunt. They fuckin heard um like, these cunts; but they nivir fuckin sais nowt again. The plukey cunt n the so–called hard cunt. N it wid've been two against two, cause you ken Second Prize; dinnae git us wrong, ah lap the cunt up, but he's fuckin scoobied whin it comes tae a pagger. He's pished ootay his fuckin held n he kin hardly haud the fuckin pool cue. This is fuckin half–past eleven oan a Wednesday mornin wir talkin aboot here. So it wid've been fuckin square–gos. But they cunts sais fuck all. Ah nivir fuckin rated the plukey cunt, but ah wis fuckin disappointed in the hard cunt, or the so–called hard cunt, like. He wisnae a fuckin hard man. A fuckin shitein cunt if the truth be telt, ken. Big fuckin disappointment tae me, the cunt, ah kin tell ye.

COCK PROBLEMS

It's fuckin grotesque tryin tae find an inlet. Yesterday ah hud tae shoot intae ma cock, where the most prominent vein in ma body is. ah dinnae want tae get intae that habit. As difficult it is tae conceive ay it at the moment, ah may yet find other uses for the organ, besides pishing. Now the doorbell's going. Fuckin hell. That bastard shite–arsed fuck–up of a landlord: Baxter's son. Auld Baxter, god rest the diddy cunt's soul, never really bothered aboot the rent cheque. Senile auld wanker. Whenever he came roond, ah wis charm personified tae the auld cunt. Ah'd take oaf his jaykit, sit um doon, and gie um a can ay Export. We'd talk aboot the hoarses and the Hibs teams ay the fifties wi the 'Famous Five' forward line ay Smith, Johnstone, Reilly, Turnbull and Ormond. Ah knew nowt aboot hoarses and Hibs in the fifties, but as they wir auld Baxter's only talking points, ah became well–versed in both subjects. Then ah'd rifle through the auld gadge's jaykit poakits n help masel tae some cash. He eywis carried a massive wad aroond wi um. Then ah'd either pey um his ain cash, or tell the poor bastard thit ah'd already squared the cunt up. We even used tae phone up the auld gadge if we were a bit short. Like when Spud n Sick Boy crashed here, we'd tell him a tap was leaking or windae wis broken. Sometimes we'd even break the windae oorsels, like when Sick Boy threw the auld black n white telly through it, and git the docile cunt tae come roond so's we could rifle um. Thir wis a fuckin fortune in that cunt's poakits. It goat so's thit ah wis feart no tae rip um off, in case some fucker mugged um. Now auld Baxter has gone tae the great gig in the sky; replaced by his hospice–humoured bastard ay a son. A cunt who expects rent fir this dive.

– RENT. Somebody's shouting through the letterbox.

– Rents!

It's no the landlord. It's Tommy. What the fuck does the cunt want at this time?

– Haud oan Tommy. Jist comin.

Ah shoot intae ma knob for the second consecutive day. As the needle goes in, it looks like a horrible experiment being conducted on an ugly sea–snake. The gig is getting sicker by the minute. The rush wastes nae time in racin tae ma box. Ah git a magic high, then think ah'm gaunnae puke. Ah under–estimated how pure this shite wis, and took a wee bit too much in that shot. Ah take a deep breath and get it thegither. Ah feel as if a thin stream ay air is comin in tae ma boady fae a bullet hole in ma back. This is not an OD situation. Calm doon. Keep that auld respirator going. Easy does it. This is nice.

Ah stagger tae ma feet, n let Tommy in. That wisnae easy.

Tommy looks offensively fit. Majorca tan still intact; hair sun–bleached, cut short and gelled back. Gold stud and hoop in one ear; mellow sky–blue eyes. It has to be said that Tommy's a fairly handsome cunt Wi a tan. It brings oot the best in him. Handsome, easy–going, intelligent, and pretty tidy in a swedge. Tommy should make you jealous, but somehow he doesnae. This is probably because Tommy doesnae have the self–confidence tae recognise n make the maist ay his qualities; nor the vanity tae be a pain in the erse aboot them tae every other cunt.

– Split up Wi Lizzy, he tells us.

It's hard tae work oot whether congratulations or commiserations are in order. Lizzy is a shag extraordinaire, but has a tongue like a sailor and a castrating stare. Ah think Tommy's still tryin

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tae sort oot his feelins. ah kin tell that he's deep in thought because he husnae telt us what a daft cunt ah am tae be usin, husnae even mentioned the state ah'm in.

Ah struggle tae show concern through ma self–centred smack apathy. The outside world means fuck all tae us. – Pished oaf aboot it? ah ask.

– Dinnae ken. If ah'm bein honest, ah'll miss the sex maist. That n like, jist huvin somebody, ken?