Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [101]
The shrivelled vessel of skin and bone which contained the life-force of Venters seemed to be an inadequate home for a spirit of any sorts, let alone one in which to invest your hopes for humanity. However, a weakened, decaying body was supposed to bring the spirit closer to the surface, and make it more apparent to we mortals. That was what Gillian from the hospital where I worked told me. Gillian is very religious, and it suits her to believe that. We all see what we want to see.
What did I really want? Perhaps it was always revenge, rather than repentance. Venters could have babbled for forgiveness like a greetin-faced bairn. It might not have been enough to stop me from doing what I planned to do.
This internal discoursing; it’s a by-product of all that counselling I got from Tom. He emphasised basic truths: you are not dying yet, you have to live your life until you are. Underpinning them was the belief that the grim reality of impending death can be talked away by trying to invest in the present reality of life. I didn’t believe that at the time, but now I do. By definition, you have to live until you die. Better to make that life as complete and enjoyable an experience as possible, in case death is shite, which I suspect it will be.
The nurse at the hospital looked a bit like Gail, a woman I’d once gone out with, pretty disastrously, as it happens. She wore the same cool expression on her face. In her case she had good reason, as I recognised it as one of professional concern. In Gail’s case, such detachment was, I feel, inappropriate. This nurse looked at me in that strained, serious and patronising way.
— Alan’s very weak. Please don’t stay too long.
— I understand, I smiled, benign and sombre. As she was playing the caring professional, I thought that I had better play the concerned friend. I seemed to be playing the part quite well.
— He’s very fortunate to have such a good friend, she said, obviously perplexed that such a bastard abomination could have any friends. I grunted something noncommittal and moved into the small room. Alan looked terrible. I was worried sick; gravely concerned that this bastard might not last the week, that he might escape from the terrible destiny I’d carved out for him. The timing had to be right.
It had given me great pleasure, at the start, to witness Venters’s great physical agony. I will never let myself get into a state like that when I get sick; fuck that. I’ll leave that engine running in the lock-up garage. Venters, shite that he is, did not have the guts to leave the gig of his own accord. He’d hang on till the grim end, if only to maximise the inconvenience to everyone.
— Awright Al? I asked him. A silly question really. Convention always imposes its lunacy on us at such inappropriate times.
— No bad . . . he wheezed.
Are you quite sure, Alan, dear boy? Nothing wrong? You look a bit peaky. Probably just a touch of this little bug that’s doing the rounds. Straight to bed with a couple of disprins and you’ll be as right as rain tomorrow.
— Any pain? I ask hopefully.
— Naw . . . they goat drugs . . . jist ma breathin . . . I held his hand and felt a twinge of amusement as his pathetic, bony fingers squeezed tightly. I thought I was going to laugh in his skeletal face as his tired eyes kept shutting.
Alas poor Alan, I knew him Nurse. He was a wanker, an infinite pest. I watched, stifling smirks, as he groped for breath.
— S awright mate. Ah’m here, I said.
— You’re a good guy, Davie . . . he spluttered. — . . . pity we nivir knew each other before this . . . He opened his eyes and shut them again.
— It was a fuckin pity awright you trash-faced little cunt . . . I hissed at his closed eyes.
— What? . . . what was that . . . he was delirious with fatigue and drugs.
Lazy cunt. Spends too long in that scratcher. Should