Trainspotting (2 page)

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towards her brain.

She pulls back her heid, shuts her eyes and opens her mooth, givin oot an orgasmic groan. Sick Boy's eyes are now innocent and full ay wonder, his expression like a bairn thit's come through oan Christmas morning tae a pile ay gift–wrapped presents stacked under the tree. They baith look strangely beautiful and pure in the flickering candlelight.

– That beats any meat injection ... that beats any fuckin cock in the world ... Ali gasps, completely serious. It unnerves us tae the extent that ah feel ma am genitals through ma troosers tae see if they're still thair. Touchin masel like that makes us feel queasy though. johnny hands Sick Boy his works. Ye git a shot, but only if ye use this gear. Wir playin trust games the day, he smiled, but he wisnae jokin.

Sick Boy shakes his heid. – Ah dinnae share needles or syringes. Ah've goat ma ain works here.

Now that's no very social. Rents? Raymie? Ali? Whit d'ye think ay that? Ur you tryin tae insinuate that the White Swan, the Mother Superior, has blood infected by the human immunodeficiency virus? Ma finer feelins ur hurt. Aw ah kin say is, nae sharin, nae shootin. He gies an exaggerated smile, exposing a row ay bad teeth.

tae me that wisnae johnny Swan talkin. No Swanney. No fuckin way. Some malicious demon had invaded his body and poisoned his mind. This character was a million miles away fae the gentle joker ah once knew as Johnny Swan. A nice laddie, everybody sais; including ma ain Ma. johnny Swan, so intae fitba, so easy going, that he eywis goat lumbered washin the strips eftir the fives at Meadowbank, and nivir, ivir complained.

Ah wis shitein it that ah widnae git a shot here. – Fuck sakes Johnny, listen tae yirsel. Git a fuckin grip. Wuv goat the fuckin hirays here. Ah pulled some notes ootay ma poakit. Whether it wis through guilt, or the prospect ay cash, the auld Johnny Swan briefly reappeared.

Dinnae git aw serious oan us. Ah'm only fuckin jokin boys. Ye think thit the White Swan wid hud oot can his muckers? Oan yis go ma men. Yir wise men. Hygiene's important, he stated wistfully. – Ken wee Goagsie? He's goat AIDS now.

– Gen up? ah asked. Thir wis eywis rumours aboot whae wis HIV and whae wisnae. Ah usually jist ignored thum. Thing is, a few people hud been saying that aboot wee Goagsie.

– Too right. He's no goat the full AIDS likes, bit he's tested positive. Still, as ah sais tae um, it isnae the end ay the world Goagsie. Ye kin learn tae live wi the virus. Tons ay cunts dae it withoot any hassle at aw. Could be fuckin years before ye git sick, ah telt um. Any cunt withoot the virus could git run ower the morn. That's the wey ye huv tae look at it. Cannae jist cancel the gig. The show must go oan.

It's easy tae be philosophical when some other cunt's goat shite fir blood. Anywey, Johnny even helped Sick Boy tae cook up and shoot home. just as Sick Boy wis aboot tae scream, he spiked the vein, drew some blood back intae the barrel, and fired the life–giving and life–taking elixir home. Sick Boy hugged Swanney tightly, then eased off, keeping his airms aroond him. They were relaxed; like lovers in a post–coital embrace. It was now Sick Boy's turn tae serenade johnny. Swanney, how ah love ya, how ah love yah, my dear old Swanney

... The adversaries ay a few minutes ago were now soul–mates. Ah went tae take a shot. It took us ages tae find a good vein. Ma boys don't live as close tae the surface as maist people's. When it came, ah savoured the hit. Ali wis right. Take yir best orgasm, multiply the feeling by twenty, and you're still fuckin miles off the pace. Ma dry, cracking bones are soothed and liquefied by ma beautiful heroine's tender caresses. The earth moved, and it's still moving.

Alison is tellin us that ah should go and see Kelly, who's apparently been reallv depressed since she hud the abortion. Although her tone's no really judgemental, she talks as if ah hud something tae dae wi Kelly's pregnancy n its subsequent termination.

– How should ah go n see her? It's goat nowt tae dae wi me, ah sais defensively. Yir her friend, ur ye no?

Ah'm tempted tae quote johnny n say that we wir aw acquaintances now. It sounds good in ma heid: 'We are all acquaintances now.' It seems tae go beyond our personal junk circumstances; a brilliant metaphor for our times. Ah resist the temptation. Instead ah content masel wi making the point that we wir aw Kelly's friends, and

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questioning why ah should be singled oot fir visiting duties.

– Fuck sake Mark. Ye ken she's really intae ye.

– Kelly? Away tae fuck! ah say, surprised, intrigued, and mair than a wee bit embarrassed. If this is true ah'm a blind and stupid arsehole.

– Course she is. She's telt us tons ay times. She's eywis oan aboot ye. It's Mark this, Mark that.

Hardly anybody calls us Mark. It's usually Rents, or worse, the Rent Boy. That is fuckin awful, getting called that. Ah try no tae show that it bugs us, because that only encourages cunts mair. Sick Boy's been listening in. Ah turn tae him. – Ye reckon that's right? Kelly's goat a thing aboot us?

Every cunt under the sun kens that she's goat the hots fir ye. It's no exactly a well–kept secret. Ah cannaeunderstand her, mind you. She wants her fuckin heid examined.

– Thanks fir tellin us then cunt.

– If you choose tae sit in darkened rooms watchin videos aw day long, no noticing what's going on around ye, it's no up tae me tag fuckin point it oot tae ye.

– Well, she nivir sais nowt tae me, ah whinge, biscuit–ersed. – Ye want her tae pit it oan a t–shirt? Ye dinnae ken much aboot women, do ye Mark? Alison sais. Sick Boy smirks. Ah feel insulted by that last remark, but ah'm determined tae treat the issue lightly, in case it's a wind–up, doubtlessly orchestrated by Sick Boy. The mischief–making cunt staggers through life leaving these interpersonal booby–traps fir his mates. What fuckin pleasure the radge derives fae these activities is beyond me.

Ah score some gear fi johnny.

– Pure as the driven snow, this shit, he tells us.

That meant thit it wisnae cut too much, wi anything too toxic. It wis soon time fir us tae go. johnny wis gabbin a load ay shite intae ma ear; things ah didnae want tae listen tae. Problems aboot whae hud ripped off whae, tales ay scheme vigilantes making every cunt's life a misery wi their anti–drug hysteria. He wis also babbling oan about his ain life in a maudlin sortay wey, and, spouting fantasies aboot how he wis gaunnaegit hissel straightened oot n take oaf tae Thailand whair the women knew how tae treat a gadge, n whair ye could live like a king if ye had a white skin n a few crisp tenners in yir poakit. He actually sais things a loat worse thin that, a loat mair cynical and exploitative. Ah telt masel, that's the evil spirit talkin again, no the White Swan. Or wis it? Who knows. Who the fuck cares.

Alison and Sick Boy hud been exchanging terse sentences, sounding like they were arranging another skag deal. Then they got up and trooped ootay the room thegither. They looked bored and passionless, but when they didnaecome back, ah knew that they'd be shaggin in the bedroom. It seemed, for women, that fucking was just something that you did wi Sick Boy, like talking, or drinking tea wi other punters.

Raymie wis drawing wi crayons can the wall. He wis in a world ay his ain, an arrangement which suited himself, and every other cunt.

Ah thought aboot what Alison hud said. Kelly hud jist hud the abortion last week. If ah went and saw her, ah'd be too squeamish tae fuck her, assuming that she'd want us tae. Surely though, there would still be something there, gunge, bits ay the thing, or even a sortay rawness? Ah wis probably being fuckin daft. Alison wis right. Ah didnaereally know much aboot women. Ah didnae really know much aboot anything.

Kelly steys at the Inch, which is difficult tae git tae by bus, n ah'm now too skint fir a taxi. Mibbe ye kin git tae the Inch by bus fae here, bit ah dinnae ken which one goes. The truth ay the matter is, ah'm a bit too skaggy–bawed tae fuck n a bit too fucked tae jist talk. A number 10 comes, n ah jump oan it back tae Leith, and jean–Claude Van Damme. Throughout the journey ah gleefully anticipate the stomping he's gaunnae gie that smart cunt.

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JUNK DILEMMAS NO. 63

Ah'm just lettin it wash all over me, or wash through me ... clean me oot fae the inside. This internal sea. The problem is that this beautiful ocean carries with it loads ay poisonous flotsam and jetsam . . . that poison is diluted by the sea, but once the ocean rolls out, it leaves the shite behind, inside ma body. It takes as well as gives, it washes away ma endorphins, ma pain resistance centres; they take a long time tae come back. The wallpaper is horrific in this shite–pit ay a room. It terrorises me. Some coffin–dodger must have put it up years ago . . . appropriate, because that's what ah am, a coffin–dodger, and ma reflexes are not getting any better . . . but it's all here, all within ma sweaty grasp. Syringe, needle, spoon, candle, lighter, packet ay powder. It's all okay, it's all beautiful; but ah fear that this internal sea is gaunnae subside soon, leaving this poisonous shire washed up, stranded up in ma body. Ah start tae cook up another shot. As ah shakily haud the spoon ower the candle, waitin for the junk tae dissolve, ah think; more short–term sea, more long–term poison. This thought though, is naewhere near sufficient tae stop us fae daein what ah huv tae dae.

THE FIRST DAY OF THE EDINBURGH FESTIVAL

Third time lucky. It wis like Sick Boy telt us: you've got tae know what it's like tae try tae come off it before ye can actually dae it. You can only learn through failure, and what ye learn is the importance ay preparation. He could be right. Anywey, this time ah've prepared. A month's rent in advance oan this big, bare room overlooking the Links. Too many bastards ken ma Montgomery Street address. Cash oan the nail! Partin wi that poppy wis the hardest bit. The easiest wis ma last shot, taken in ma left airm this morning. Ah needed something tae keep us gaun during this period ay intense preparation. Then ah wis off like a rocket roond the Kirkgate, whizzing through ma shopping list.

Ten tins ay Heinz tomato soup, eight tins ay mushroom soup (all to be consumed cold), one large tub ay vanilla ice–cream (which will melt and be drunk), two boatils ay Milk of Magnesia, one boatil ay paracetamol, one packet ay Rinstead mouth pastilles, one boatil ay multivits, five litres ay mineral water, twelve Lucozade isotonic drinks and some magazines: soft porn, Viz, Scottish Football Today, The Punter, etc. The most important item bus already been procured from a visit tae the parental home; ma Ma's bottle ay valium, removed from her bathroom cabinet. Ah don't feel bad about this. She never uses them now, and if she needs them her age and gender dictate that her radge GP will prescribe them like jelly tots. I lovingly tick off all the items oan ma list. It's going tae be a hard week.

Ma room is bare and uncarpeted. There's a mattress in the middle ay the flair with a sleeping–bag oan it, an electric–bar fire, and a black and white telly oan a small wooden chair. Ah've goat three brown plastic buckets, half–filled wi a mixture ay disinfectant and water for ma shite, puke and pish. Ah line up ma tins ay soup, juice and ma medicines within easy reach ay ma makeshift bed. Ay took ma last shot in order tae git us through the horrors ay the shopping trip. Ma final score will be used tae help us sleep, and case us oaf the skag. Ah'll try tae take it in small, measured doses. Ah need some quickly. The great decline is setting in. It starts as it generally does, with a slight nausea in the pit ay ma stomach and an irrational panic attack. As soon as ah become aware ay

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the sickness gripping me, it effortlessly moves from the uncomfortable tae the unbearable. A toothache starts tae spread fae ma teeth intae ma jaws and ma eye sockets, and aw through ma bones in a miserable, implacable, debilitating throb. The auld sweats arrive oan cue, and lets no forget the shivers, covering ma back like a thin layer ay autumn frost oan a car roof. It's time for action. No way can ah crash oot and face the music yet. Ah need the old 'slowburn', a soft, come–down input. The only thing ah kin move for is smack. One wee dig tae unravel those twisted limbs and send us oaf tae sleep. Then ah say goodbye tae it. Swanney's vanished, Seeker's in the nick. That leaves Raymie. Ah go tae bell the cunt fae the payphone in the hall.

Ah'm aware that as ah dial, someone has brushed past us. Ah wince fae the fleeting contact, but have no desire tae look and see whae it is. Hopefully ah'll no be here long enough tae need tae check out any ay ma new 'flatmates'. The flickers dinnae exist fir us. Nae cunt does. Only Raymie. The money goes doon. A lassie's voice. – Hello? she sniffs. Has she goat a summer cauld or is it the skag?

– Is Raymie thair? It's Mark here. Raymie has evidently mentioned us because although ah dinnae ken her, she sure as fuck kens me. Her voice chills over. – Raymie's away, she says. London.

– London? Fuck . . . when's he due back?

– Dinnae ken.

– He didnae leave anything fir us, did he? Chance wid be a fine thing, the cunt.

–Eh, naw . . .

Ah shakily pit the phone doon. Two choices; one: tough it oot, back in the room, two: phone that cunt Forrester and go tae Muirhoose, get fucked aboot and ripped oaf'wi some crap gear. Nae contest. In twenty minutes it wis: – Muirhoose pal? tae the driver oan the 32 bus and quiveringly stickin ma forty–five pence intae the box. Any port in a storm, and it's raging in here behind ma face. An auld boot gies us the evil eye as ah pass her oan the wey doon the bus. No doubt ah'm fuckin boggin n look a real mess. It doesnae bother us. Nothing exists in ma life except masel and Michael Forrester and the sickening distance between us: a distance being steadily reduced by this bus.

Ah sit oan the back seat, doonstairs. The bus is nearly empty. A lassie sits across fae us, listening tae her Sony Walkman. Is she good looking? Whae fuckin cares. Even though it's supposed tae be a 'personal' stereo, ah kin hear it quite clearly. It's playing a Bowie number . . . 'Golden Years'.

"Don't let me hear you say life's takin' you nowhere Angel . . Look at those skies, life's begun, nights are warm and the days are yu–hu–hung . . ." Ah've goat every album Bowie ever made. The fuckin lot. Tons ay fuckin bootlegs n aw. Ah dinnae gie a fuck aboot him or his music. Ah only care aboot Mike Forrester, an ugly talentless cunt whae has made no albums. Zero singles. But Mikey baby is the man of the moment. As Sick Boy once said, doubtlessly paraphrasing some other fucker: nothing exists outside the moment. (Ah think some radge oan a chocolate advert said it first.) But ah caiinae even endorse these sentiments as they are at best peripheral tae the moment. The moment is me, sick, and Mikey, healer. Some auld cunt, they're always oan the buses at this time, is fartin and shitein at the driver; firing a volley ay irrelevant questions about bus numbers, routes and times. Get the fuck oan or fuck off and die ya foostie auld cunt. Ah almost choked in silent rage at her selfish pettiness and the bus driver's pathetic indulgence of the cunt. People talk aboot youngsters and vandalism, what aboot the psychic vandalism caused by these auld bastards? When she finally gits oan the auld fucker still has the cheek tae have a gob oan her like a cat's erse,