Trainspotting (33 page)

– Wis it pneumonia or cancer, likes? ah ask.

– Naw, eh toxoplasmosis. A stroke, ken.

– Eh? Ah'm scoobied here.

Fuckin sad. Could only uv happened tae Matty, Gav shook his heid. – He wanted tae see his wee lassie, that wee Lisa, Shirley's bairn, ken? Shirley widnae let urn near the hoose. nae wonder, the state ay um at the time. Anywey, ken wee Nicola Hanlon?

– Aye, wee Nicky, aye.

– Her cat hud kittens, so Matty gits one oafay her. The idea is thit the cunt's gaunnac take it tae Shirley's tae gie it tae the bairn ken? So he takes it oot tae Wester Hailes, tae gie it tae wee Lisa; a present fir her, ken?

Ah cannae really see the connection between the kitten n Matty huvin a stroke, but this sounds a typical Matty tale. Ah shake me heid. – That sums Matty up. Git a wee cat as a gesture, then leave it fir some other fucker tae look eftir. Ah bet ye Shirley gave um the short shrift. Exactly, the clueless cunt, Gav smiles, nodding grimly. She says: Ah'm no wantin a cat tae look eftir, take it away, git tae fuck. So thair's Matty stuck wi this kitten. Ye kin imagine whit happened. The thing wis neglected; the litter tray swimmin in pish; shite aw ower the hoose. Matty’s jist lyin aroond, fucked ootay his eyeballs oan smack or downers; or jist depressed, ye ken the wey he goat. As ah sais, he didnae ken he wis HIV. He didnae ken thit ye could git that toxoplasmosis fae cat shit.

– Ah didnae ken either, ah sais. – Whit the fuck is it?

– Aw, it's fuckin horrible, man. It's likesay brain abscesses, ken?

Ah shivered, n felt a crushin weight oan ma chist, thinkin ay perr Matty. Ah hud an abscess oan ma knob once. Imagine huvin one oan yir fuckin brain, inside, yir fuckin heid bein full ay pus. Fuck sakes. Matty. Fuckin hell. – So whit happened?

– He starts gittin headaches, so he jist uses mair; tae blot oot the pain, ken? Then he hus, like a stroke. A boy ay twinty–five; a fuckin stroke, it's no real. Ah didnae recognise the cunt eftir it. Nearly walked past um in the street; this is doon the Walk, ken? He looked fuckin ancient. He wis aw bent tae one side, hobblin like a cripple, wi his face aw twisted. He wis only like that fir aboot three weeks; then he hud a second stroke n died. He died in the hoose. The perr bastard hud been thair fir ages before the neighbours complained aboot the kitten's miaows n the stench thit wis comin fae the place. The polis broke the door doon. Matty wis lyin deid, face doon in a pool ay dried vomit. The kitten wis fine.

Ah thoat aboot the squat Matty n me shared in Shepherd's Bush; that wis him at his happiest. He loved the whole punk thing. They loved him doon thair. He shagged every burd in that squat, includin that lassie fae Manchester thit ah'd been tryin tae git oaf wi fir donks, the spawny wee cunt. It aw started tae go wrong fir the perr bastard whin we came back up here. It nivir stoaped gaun wrong eftir that. Perr Matty.

– Fuck sake, Gav muttered, – – that cunt Perfume james. That's aw we fuckin need. Ah looked up n saw the open, smilin face ay Perfume james comin taewards us. He hud his case n aw.

– Awright James?

– No bad boys, no bad. Whair ye been hidin yersel Mark? – London, ah goes. Perfume james wis a pain in the erse; he wis eywis tryin tae punt perfume tae ye. – Romantically involved these days, Mark?

– Naw, ah took great pleasure in inforrnin him.

– Perfume james frowned and puckered his lips: – – Gav, how's your good lady?

– Awright, Gav mumbles.

– If ah'm no mistaken, the last time ah saw ye doon here wi yir good lady, she wis wearin Nina Ricci, yeah?

– Ah'm no wantin any perfume, Gav states with a cold finality. Perfume james twists his heid tae the side n extends his palms.

– Your loss. Ah kin tell ye though, thir's nae better way tae impress a lassie thin perfume. Flooirs are too temporary n ye kin firget chocolates in these figure–conscious times. Still, nae skin

117

oafey ma nose, Perfume james smiles, opening his case anywey, as if the very sight ay these boatils ay pish'll make us change oor minds. – Ah've done well the day though, ah cannae complain. Your mate, Second Prize, as a matter ay fact. Ah ran intae um in the Shrub an hour or so ago. He wis quite bevvied. He sais: Geez some ay that perfume, ah'm away doon tae Carol's. Ah've treated her like shite, it's time tae spoil ur a bit. Boat a fuckin stack, so he did. Gav's chin visibly droaps. He clenches his fists n shakes his heid in angry resignation. Perfume james bounds over tae the lounge in search ay another victim. Ah flings back ma pint. – – Let's see if wi kin find second Prize; before the cunt drinks every bit ay yir money away. Much did ye gie um?

– Two hundred sobs, Gav sais.

– Doss cunt, ah sais, sniggerin. Ah couldnae help it, it wis jist nerves. Ah want ma fuckin heid looked at, Gav concedes, but he cannae force a smile. Ah suppose, whin all's said n done, thir isnae a fuckin loat tae smile aboot.

MEMORIES OF MATTY

1

– Awright Nelly? Long fuckin time no see, ya cunt thit ye are, Franco smiled at Nelly, who looked incongruous in a suit, with a tattooed snake coiling up his neck and a palm–treed desert island with the sea lapping up drilled onto his forehead.

– Pity it hus tae be under they circumstances likes, Nelly replied soberly. Renton, who was talking to Spud, Alison and Stevie, allowed himself a smile, upon hearing the first funeral cliche of the day.

Taking up the cue, Spud said: – Perr Matty. Fuckin bad news, likesay, ken.

– That's it for me. Ah'm steyin clean, Alison said, shudder–ing, despite having her arms wrapped around herself.

– Wir aw gaunnae be wiped oot if we dinnac git it thegither. That's as sure as fuck, Renton acknowledged. – You taken the test yit Spud? he asked.

– Hey . . . come oan man, this isnae the time tae be talkin aboot that . . . Matty's funeral, likesay.

– When is the time? Renton asked.

– Ye really should, Danny, ye really should, Alison implored.

– Mibbe yir better no tae ken. Ah mean, likesay, whit sortay life did Matty huv whin he kent he wis HIV?

– That wis Matty. Whit sortay life did he huv before he kent he wis HIV? Alison said. Spud and Renton nodded acquiescence at this point.

Inside the small chapel attached to the crematorium, the minister gave a short spiel about Matty. He had a lot of burnings to fit in that morning and couldn't afford to fuck about. A few quick comments, a couple of hymns, one or two prayers and a click of a switch to send the corpse down into the incinerator. just a few more of these, and that was his shift finished.

– To those of us gathered here today, Matthew Connell filled a number of different roles in our lives. Matthew was a son, a brother, a father and a friend. Matthew's last day in his young life were bleak, suffering ones. Yet, we must remember the real Matthew, the loving Young man who had a great lust for life. A keen musician, Matthew loved to entertain friends with his guitar–playing . . . Renton could not make eye contact with Spud, standing next to him in the pew, as nervous laughter gripped him. Matty was the shitest guitarest he'd known, and could only play the Doors'

'Roadhouse Blues'and a few Clash and Status Quo numbers with any sort of proficiency. He tried hard to do the riff from'Clash city Rockers', but could never quite master it. Nonetheless, Matty loved that Fender Strat. It was the last thing he sold, holding onto it after the amplifier had been flogged off in order to fill his veins with shite. Perr Matty, Renton thought. How well did any of us really know him? How well can anybody really know anybody else?

Stevie was wishing he was four hundred miles away, in his Holloway flat with Stella. It

118

was the first time they'd been apart since they moved in together. He was ill at ease. Try as he might, he could not sustain the image of Matty in his head. Matty kept turning into Stella. Spud thought that it must be really crap to live in Australia. The heat, the insects, and all these dull suburban places that you see on Neighbours and Home and Away. It seemed like there were no real pubs in Australia, and that the place was like a warm version of Baberton Mains, Buckstone or East Craigs. It just seemed so boring, so shite. He wondered what it was like in the older parts of Melbourne and Sydney and whether they had tenements there, like in Edinburgh, or Glasgow or even New York, and if so, why they never showed them on the telly. He also wondered why he thought of Australia in connection with Matty. Probably because whenever they called round, he was lying junked on his mattress, watching an Aussie soap opera. Alison remembered the time when she had sex with Matty. That was ages ago now, before she was using. She would have been eighteen. She tried to remember Matty's cock, the dimensions of it, but couldn't visualise it. Matty's body came to mind though. It was lean and firm, though not particularly muscular. He had skinny good looks and busy, penetrating eyes, which gave away the restlessness of his character. What she remembered most however was what Matty said to her as they got into bed that time. He told her: – I'm gaunnae fuck you like you've never been fucked in your life. He was right. She'd never been fucked that badly, either before or since. Matty came in seconds, depositing his load into her and rolling off her, gasping breathlessly. She made no attempt to hide her displeasure. – That was fuckin rubbish, she told him, getting out of the bed, all anxious and tense, charged up but unsatisfied, wanting to scream in frustration. She pulled her clothes on. He said nothing and never moved, but she was sure that she saw tears spill from his eyes as she left. This image stuck with her as she looked at the wooden box, and she wished she'd been a bit kinder.

Franco Begbie felt angry and confused. Any injury to a friend he took as a personal insult. He prided himself on looking after his mates. The death of one of them confronted him with his own impotence. Franco resolved this problem by turning his anger on Matty. He remembered the time that Matty shat it off Gypo and Mikey Forrester in Lothian Road, and he had to have both the cunts on his puff. Not that it presented him with any difficulty. It was the principle of the thing though. You had to back up your mates. He'd made Matty pay for his cowardice: physically, with beatings, and socially, with heaps of humiliating slaggings. Now he realised, he'd not made the cunt pay enough. Mrs Connell was thinking about Matty as a wee laddie. All boys were dirty, but Matty had been particularly bad. Hard on shoes, reducing clothes to threadbare status in no time at all. She was therefore not concerned when he grew into punk as he grew into adolescence. It seemed merely to be making a virtue out of necessity. Matty had always been a punk. One particular incident came to her mind. As a child, he had accompanied her to get her false teeth fitted. She felt self–conscious on the bus home. Matty insisted upon telling everyone on the bus that his Ma had false teeth put in. He was a particularly loving child. You lose them, She thought. After they get to seven, they're no longer yours. Then, just when Yu adjust, it happens again at fourteen. Something happens. Then when You Put heroin into it, they're no longer their own. Less Matt more heroin. She sobbed softly and rhythmically, the valium measuring out her grief in sickening little breezes, attempting to dissipate the raging hurricane of raw angst and misery within her, which it simultaneously struggled to keep under wraps.

Anthony, Matty's younger brother, was thinking about revenge. Revenge on all the scumbags who'd brought his brother down. He knew them, some of them had the fucking gall to be here today. Murphy, Renton and Williamson. These pathetic arseholes, who breezed around like they shat ice–cream Cones, like they knew something nobody else did, when all they were was junky trash. Them, and the More sinister figures behind them. His brother, his fuckin weak, stupid brother, had got in tow with that scum. Anthony's mind cast back to the occasion that Derek Sutherland had beaten him up badly at the disused railway yard. Matty found out, and went to have Deek Sutherland, who was the same age as Anthony, and two years Younger than himself. Anthony rememberd his eager anticipation of Deek Sutherland's complete humiliation at the hands of his brother. In the event, it was Anthony who was again humiliated, this time by Proxy. It was almost as intense as the one he'd received from Deek Sutherland himself, as he watched his old adversary almost casually overwhelm and kick the shite out of his brother. matty had let him down there. He had let everybody down since. We, Lisa Connell felt sad that her Daddy was in that box, but he would have wings like an angel and go up to heaven. Her Nana cried when Lisa had suggested that might happen. It was like he was sleeping in that bbox. Her nana said that the box went away, to heaven. Lisa thought that

119

angels grew wings and flew to heaven It mildly concerned her that he would not be able to fly, unless they let him out of the box. Still, they probably knew what they were doing. Heaven sounded good. She would go there some day, and see her dad. When he had come to see her in Wester Hailes he usually wasn't well so she wasn't allowed to talk to him. It would be good to go to heaven, to play with him, like they used to when she was really wee. He'd be well again in heaven. Heaven would be different from Wester Hailes.

Shirley held her daughter's hand tightly, and tousled her curls. Lisa seemed to be the only evidence that Matty’s life was not a futile one. Yet, looking at the child, few could argue that it was not substantial evidence. Matty, though, had been a father in name only. The minister had irritated Shirley by describing him as such. She was the father, as well as the mother. matty had provided the sperm, came around and played with Lisa a few times, before the junk had really got to hi'm. That was his sole contribution.

There had always been a weakness about him, an inability to face his responsibilities, and also to face the force of his emotions. Most junkies she had met were closet romantics. Matty was. Shirley had loved that in him, loved it when he was open, tender, loving and full of life. It never lasted. Even before smack, a harshness and bitterness would descend upon him. He used to write her love poems. They were beautiful, not in a literary sense perhaps, but in the marvellous purity of the wonderful emotions they conveyed to her. Once, he read and then set fire to a particularly lovely verse he'd written to her. Through her tears, she asked him why he'd done that, as the flames seemed so symbolic. It was the most hurtful thing Shirley had experienced in her life. He turned around and surveyed the squalor of the flat. Look at this. Ye shouldnae huv dreams livin like this. Yir jist connin yirsel, torturin yirsel.