Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [106]
— Think of the worst possible thing I could do to make you pissed off, Al. Then multiply it by one thousand . . . and you’re not even fuckin close. I shook my head mournfully.
I showed him a photograph of myself and Frances. We were posing confidently, casually displaying the arrogance of lovers in their first flush.
— What the fuck, he spluttered, trying pathetically to pull his scrawny frame up in the bed. I thrust my hand to his chest and effortlessly pushed him back home. I did this slowly, savouring my power, and his impotence in that one gorgeous motion.
— Relax, Al, relax. Unwind. Loosen up a little. Take it easy. Remember what the doctors and nurses say. You need your rest. I flipped the first photo over, exposing the next picture to him. — That wis Kevin thit took the last picture. Takes a good photae fir a wee laddie, eh? There he is, the wee felly. The next photograph showed Kevin, dressed in a Scotland football strip, on my shoulders.
— What have you fuckin done . . . It was a sound, rather than a voice. It seemed to come from an unspecific part of his decaying body rather than his mouth. The unearthliness of it stung me, but I made the effort to continue sounding nonchalant.
— Basically this. I produced the third photo. It showed Kevin, bound to a kitchen chair. His head hung heavily to one side, and his eyes were closed. Had Venters looked at the detail, he may have noticed a bluish tint to his son’s eyelids and lips, and the almost clownish whiteness of his complexion. It’s almost certain that all Venters noticed were the dark wounds on his head, chest, and knees, and the blood which oozed from them, covering his body, at first making it hard to note that he was naked.
The blood was everywhere. It covered the lino in a dark puddle underneath Kevin’s chair. Some of it shot outwards across the kitchen floor in squirted trails. An assortment of power tools, including a Bosch drill and a Black and Decker sander, in addition to various sharpened knives and screwdrivers, were laid out at the feet of the upright body.
— Naw . . . naw . . . Kevin . . . for god’s sake naw . . . he done nuthin . . . he hurt naebody . . . naw . . . he moaned on, an ugly, whingey sound devoid of hope or humanity. I gripped his thin hair crudely, and wrenched his head up from the pillow. I observed in perverse fascination as the bony skull seemed to sink to the bottom of the loose skin. I thrust the picture in his face.
— I thought that young Kev should be just like Daddy. So when I got bored fucking your old girlfriend, I decided I’d give wee Kev one up his . . . eh . . . tradesman’s entrance. I thought, if HIV’s good enough for Daddy it’s good enough for his brat.
— Kevin . . . Kevin . . . he groaned on.
— Unfortunately, his arsehole was a bit too tight for me, so I had to extend it a little with the masonry drill. Sadly, I got a wee bit carried away and started making holes all over the place. It’s just that he reminded me so much of you, Al. I’d love to say it was painless, but I cannae. At least it was relatively quick. Quicker than rotting away in a bed. It took him about twenty minutes to die. Twenty screaming, miserable minutes. Poor Kev. As you sais, Al, it’s a disease which kills the innocent.
Tears rolled down his cheeks. He kept saying ‘no’ over and over again in low, choking sobs. His head jerked in my grip. Worried that the nurse would come, I pulled out one of the pillows from behind him.
— The last word wee Kevin sais wis ‘Daddy’. That wis yir bairn’s last words, Al. Sorry pal. Daddy’s away. That wis whit ah telt him. Daddy’s away. I looked straight into his eyes, all pupils, just a black void of fear and total defeat.
I pushed his head back down, and put the pillow over his face stifling the sickening moans. I held it firmly down and pressed my head on it, half-gasping, half-singing