Trainspotting (14 page)

Wi stoap it Darlington n these cunts git oan, checkin thir tickets against oor seat numbers. The train's still fuckin stowed, so they cunts ur fucked fir a seat.

– Excuse me, these are our seats. We booked them, this cunt sais, flashin a ticket in front ay us.

– I'm afraid there must be some mistake, Rents sais. The rid–heided cunt kin be quite fuckin stylish, ah huv tae gie um that; he s goat style. – There were no cards to indicate a seat reservation when we boarded the train at Edinburgh.

– But we've got the reserved tickets here, this cunt wi the John Lennon specs sais.

– Well, I can only suggest that you pursue your complaint with a member of the British Rail staff My friend and I took these seats in good faith. I'm afraid we can't be held responsible for any errors made by British Rail. Thank you, and goodnight, he sais, startin tae laugh, the rid–heided cunt thit he is. Ah wis like too busy enjoym the cunt's performance tae tell they cunts tae git tae fuck. ah fuckin hate hassle, but this John Lennon cunt'll no be telt.

– We have tickets here. That's proof that these are our seats, the cunt sais. That's it.

– Hi you! ah sais. – Aye, you, lippy cunt! He turns roond. Ah stands up. – Ye heard whit the gadge sais. Oan yir fuckin bike, ya specky radge! C'moan. . . move it! ah points doon the fuckin train.

– Come on Clive, his mate sais. The cunts fuck off. Jist is fuckin well fir thaim. So ah thought that wis endy fuckin story, bit naw, these cunts come back wi this ticket gadge. The ticket boy, ye kin see the cunt doesnae really gie a fuck, the perr cunt's jist daein his joab, starts gaun oan aboot it bein they cunts' seats, bit ah jist tells the boy straight.

– Ah'm no fuckin carin what they cunts've goat oan thir fuckin tickets, mate. Thir wis nae fuckin reservation notices oan they fuckin seats whin we fuckin sat doon in thum. Wir no fuckin movin now. That's aw thir is tae it. Ye charge enough fir yir fuckin tickets, make sure thirs a fuckin sign up the next time.

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– Somebody must have taken it down, he sais. This cunt'll dae nowt.

– Mibbe they did, mibbe they didnae. That's no ma fuckin business. Like ah sais, the seats wir free, n ah wis right fuckin in thair. End ay fuckin story. The ticket boy jist gits intae an argument Wi they cunts, eftir tellin thum thit thirs nowt he kin fuckin dae. Ah jist leave thum tae it. Thir threatenin tae complain aboot the guy, n he's gitting stroppy back.

One cunt in the seat in front's lookin roond again.

You goat a fuckin problem mate? ah shouts ower. The cunt gits a beamer n turns roond. Shitein cunt.

Rents faws asleep. The rid–heided cunt's pished oot ay his fuckin skull. His draftpak's half–empty n maist ay the cans've been tanned. Ah takes his draftpak tae the hogs Wi us, empties a bit oot, n fills it up tae the same level Wi ma pish. That's what the cunt gits fir forgettin the fuckin cairds. Thir's aboot two parts lager, one part pish in it.

Ah gits back n slips it intae place. The cunt's fast asleep, so's one ay the burds. The other's goat her fuckin heid intae that book. Two rides. Dinnae ken whither ah'd rather shag the big fuckin blonde piece or the dark–heided yin the maist.

Ah wakes up that rid–heided cunt at Peterborough. –

C'moan Rents. Yir fuckin strugglin Wi that fuckin hevvy. A fuckin sprinter, that's aw you are. A sprinter'll nivir fuckin stand the pace Wi a distance man.

– Nae problem. . . the cunt sais, takin a big fuckin swig oot ay the draftpak. He screws his face up. It's hard no tae fuckin pish masel.

– The lager's loupin. Seems tae huv gone dead flat, ken. Tastes like fuckin pish. Ah'm daein ma best tae haud it in. – Stoap makin fuckin excuses, ya crappin cunt.

– Ah'll still drink it like, the cunt goes. Ah try tae look oot the windae, Wi that daft cunt finishing the fuckin loat.

Ah'm really fuckin ootay it by the time We hit Kings Cross. They burds've fucked oaf; ah thoat we wir oantae a fuckin good thing thair n aw, n ah sortay loast Rents comin oaf the train Ah've even goat that rid–heided cunt's bag instead ay ma ain. That cunt better huv mines. Ah dinnae even ken the fuckin address. . . but then ah clocks the rid–heided cunt talkin tae this wee cunt Wi a plastic cup ootside the entrance tae the tube. Rents's goat ma fuckin bag. Lucky fir him, the cunt.

– Any change fir the boy Franco? Rents sais, n this daft–lookin wee cunt ha'ids oot the fuckin cup; lookin it us Wi they fuckin sappy eyes.

– Git tae fuck ya gypo cunt! ah sais, knockin the cup oot ay his hand, n fuckin pishin masel it the daft cunt scramblin aroond oan the deck between cunts' legs, tae git his fuckin coins.

– Whair the fuck's this flat then? ah sais tae Rents.

– No far, Rents sais, lookin it us like ah wis fuckin. . . the wey that cunt looks it ye sometimes . . . he's gaunnae git a sair face one ay they fuckin days, mates or nae fuckin mates. Then the cunt jist turns away n ah follay um doon oantae the Victoria Line.

NA NA AND OTHER NAZIS

The Fit ay Leith Walk is really likes, mobbed oot man. It's too hot for a fair–skinned punter, likesay, ken? Some cats thrive in the beat, but the likes ay me, ken, we jist cannae handle it. Too severe a gig man.

Another total downer is being skint, likesay. Pure Joe Strummer, man. Aw ye dae is walk aroond n check people oot, ken. Every cat's dead palsy–walsy likesay, but once they suss that you're brassic lint, they sortay just drift away intae the shadows . Ah clock Franco at Queen Sticky–Vicky's statue, talkin tae this big dude, a mean hombre called Lexo; a casual acquaintance, if ye catch ma drift. Funny scene, likesay, how aw the psychos seem tae ken each other, ken what ah mean, likes? Such alliances are unholy man, just unholy .

– Spud! Awright ya cunt! How's it gaun? The Beggar is one high catboy.

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– Eh, no sae bad likesay, Franco . . . yirsel?

– Barry, he sais, turnin tae this square–shaped mountain beside um. – Ye ken Lexo, a statement likesay, no a question. Ah just sortay nods, ken, and the big hombre looks at us for a second, then turns and talks tae Franco again.

Ah can tell that those cats have, likesay, binliners tae slash open, n rubbish tae rummage through. So ah sortay sais, like: – Eh . . . goat tae nash like, catch yis later.

– Haud oan mate. How ye fixed? Franco asks us.

– Eh, basically man, ah'm totally brassic. Ah've goat thirty–two pence in ma poakit and a pound in ma account at the Abbey National. No really the kind ay investment portfolio tae cause the Charlotte Square dudes sleepless nights, likesay.

Franco slips us two tenners. Nice one, the Beggar–boy. – Nae skag now, ya radge cunt!

he gently chides us, likesay.

– Gie us a bell at the weekend, or come doon fir us well. Did ah ever say anything derogatory against ma man Franco? Well, likesay. . . he's no a bad punter. Pure jungle cat, ken, but even jungle cats sit doon n huv a wee purr tae themselves now and again, likesay, usually after they've likes, devoured some–body. Ah sortay cannae help wondering who Franco n Lexo's devoured, likesay. Frankie–baby wis doon in London Wi Rents, hidin oot fae the labdicks. What had the boy been up tae? Sometimes it's better no tae ken. In fact, it's always better no tae ken, likesay. Ah cut through Woolies, which is busy, likesay, really busy. The security dude's engrossed in chatting up this sexy catgirl on the checkout likesay, so ah pocket a set ay blank tapes . . . the pulse races, then slowly dips . . . it's a good feeling, likesay, the best. . . well maybe second best behind the smack hit and likesay comin Wi a lassie. So good, that the adrenalin kick makes us want tae head up the toon, oan a choryin spree, like.

The heat, man, is . . . hot. That's the only way ye can really describe it, ken? Ah head for the shore, n sit oan a bench near the dole office. That double ten–spot feels good in ma poakit, likesay opens a few mair doors, ken? So ah sit lookin at the river. Thirs a big swan in the river, ken? Ah think aboot Johnny Swan, n gear. This swan though, is fuckin beautiful, likes. Ah wish ah'd got some bread, likesay, tae feed the punter Wi.

Gav works fir the dole. Mibbe ah'll catch the cat oan his lunch brek, stand the dude a pint or two, likesay. Ah've been bought a few by him lately. Ah see Ricky Monaghan comin oot the dole. An okay gadge, ken.

Ricky...

– Awright Spud. What ye up tae?

– Eh, no much gaun doon ma end catboy. Ye see the whole kit n kaboodle, likesay.

– Bad as that?

– Worse catboy, worse.

– Still oaf the collies?

– Four weeks n two days since ma last bit ay Salisbury Crag, ken? Countin every second man, countin every second. It's tick tock, tick–tock, likesay, ken.

– Feelin better fir it?

S likesay only then thit ah realise that ah am; bored as fuck ken, but physically, likesay . . . aye. The first fortnight was an extended death trip man . . but now, likes, ah could handle some hot sex Wi a Jewish princess or a Catholic girl, complete wi white soacks, goatay be complete Wi the white soacks. Ken?

– . . . Aye ah do feel sortay better, likesay.

– Gaun tae Easter Road oan Setirday?

– Eh, naw. . . It's been likesay, donks, since ah went tae the fitba, ken. Mibbe ah could go though. Wi Rents. . . but Rents is in London the now. . . or Sick Boy n that. Go Wi Gav, n buy um a couple ay pints. . . see the Cabs again.–. . . well, mibbe. See how it goes likesay, ken. Ye gaun?

– Naw. Ah sais last season thit ah wisnae gaun back until they goat rid ay Miller. We need a new manager.

– Yeah . . . Miller. . . we need a new cat in the manager's basket . . . Ah didnae even ken whae the manager wis, likesay, couldnae even tell ye the names ay the cats in the team, likes. Mibbe Kano. . . but ah think Kano might've moved oan. Durie! Gordon Durie!

– Durie still in the team? Monny jist looks at us and kinday shakes his heid.

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– Naw, Durie wis transferred ages ago, Spud. Eighty–six. Went tae Chelsea.

– Yeah, right man. Durie. Ah remember that cat scorin a cracker against Celtic. Or wis it Rangers? Saane thing really though man, when ye think aboot it likesay. . . kinday different sides ay the same coin, ken?

He shrugs. Ah doubt ah've convinced the cat.

Ricky chums us, or it's likesay ah chums him. . . ah mean, eh, whae really kens whae's chummin whae in this cracked scene these days man? But whaever's chummin whae, it's destination Fit ay the Walk again. Life can be borin without skag. Rents is in London; Sick Boy's sniffin aroond up the toon aw the time, the famous old port just does not seem to be cool enough for that cat these days; Rab, the Second Prize likes, has just vanished and Tommy seems to have gone tae groond since he split fae that Lizzy chick. That likesay leaves me n Franco . . . some life man, ah kin tell ye. Ricky, Monny, Richard Monaghan, fellow Fenian freedom fighter, to be sure, to be sure, likesay fucks off, tae meet this lemon up the toon. This leaves yours truly on his Jack Jones, likesay. Ah decide tae visit Na Na in the sheltered housing gaffs at the bottom ay Easter Road, likes. Na Na hates it thair, even though she's likes, goat a barry pad. Wish ah could git one like that, ken. Dead smart, but only for aulder cats, likesay. Ye just pull a cord and an alarm goes, and this warden like, comes n sorts it aw oot fir ye, ken. That would be right up ma street man, Wi Frank Zappa's daughter, that crazy chick, the Valley girl, Moon Unit Zappa as warden, likesay. A dead peachy scene that would be, ah kid you not catboy!

Na Na's pins are fucked up likes, and the quack sais that it was too radge, her strugglin up tae the toap flight ay stairs in her auld gaff at Lorne Strasse. Too right, heap big medicine man. If ye took the varicose veins oot ay Na Na's legs, likesay, thir wid be nae legs, nothin tae haud her up, ken?

Ah've goat better veins in ma airms than she's goat in her scrambled eggs. She still gave the Doc some stick, likes; auld cats have been markin oot their territory, so tae speak, for likesay, donks, and git attached tae it. Sure as fuck, they arenae gaunnac gie it up withoot a scrap. Claws come oot, and fur flies, man. That's Na Na. . . Ms Mouskouri, as ah call her, ken?

There's a common–room for her block, likesay, which Na Na never uses, unless she's tryin tae cruise that Mr Bryce. The auld punter's family complained tae the Warden aboot her sexually harassing him. This Warden wifie tries tae mediate, likes, between ma Ma n Mr Bryce's daughter, but Na Na reduces the daughter tae tears by making snide remarks aboot the bad birthmark oan her face. Sortay one ay they wine stains, ken? It's likesay, thit Na Na picks oan people's weaknesses, particularly other women, and uses that against them, ken?

A series ay different locks click open, n Na Na smiles at us, n gestures us tae come in. Ah get a barry reception here, but ma Ma n sister git treated like, well, likesay, nothing. They dae everything fir Na Na n aw. But Na Na loves guys and hates lassies. She's hud, likesay, eight bairns by five different men, ken. An that's jist the ones we ken aboot.

– Hullo . . . Calum . . . Willie . . . Patrick . . . Kevin Desmond. . . she lists the names ay some ay her grandchildren, still likes, missin oot mine. Doesnae bother me though, likesay, ah git called 'Spud' that often, even ma Ma calls us it, ah sometimes forget ma name tae. – Danny.

– Danny. Danny, Danny, Danny. An ah caw Kevin Danny n aw. How could ah forget that yin, Danny Boy!

Well, likesay, how could she ... Danny Boy and Roses Ay Picardy ur likesay the only songs she kens. Ken? She sortay sings at the toap ay her voice; a breathless, tuneless sound, wi her airms sortay raised intae the air fir effect, ken.

– George's here. Ah look aroond the bend ay the L–shaped room n clock ma Uncle Dode, slumped in a chair, sippin a can ay Tennent's Lager. – Dode, ah sais.

– Spud! Awright boss? How ye livin?

– Peachy catboy, peachy. Eh, yirsel likesay?

– Cannae complain. How's yir Ma?

– Er, still likesay gittin oan ma case as usual, ken?

– Hi! That's yir mother yir talkin aboot! The best friend ye 'Il ever huv. S'at no right Ma?

he asks Na Na.

– Buckin right it is son! 'Buckin' is one ay Na Na's favourite words likesay, along Wi