Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [123]
Ah take the joint, sniff it, and hand it back. — Grass, with some opium in it, right? ah ask. It actually smells like good gear.
— Yeah . . . she sais, a wee bit fazed out.
Ah look again at the joint burning away in her hand. Ah try tae feel something. Anything. What ah’m really looking for is the demon, the bad bastard, the radge inside ay me who shuts down ma brain, who propels hand to joint and joint to lips and sucks and sucks like a vacuum cleaner. He’s no coming oot tae play. Maybe he doesnae live here any mair. All that’s left is the nine-to-five arsehole.
— Ah think ah’ll pass on your kind offer. Call me a wanker if ye will, but ah’ve always been a wee bit nervous around drugs. Ah know a few people who’ve been intae them, and run intae difficulties.
She looks intently at me, seeming to suss that it’s what I’m not saying that’s important. She obviously feels a bit of a tit, and gets up and leaves us.
— You’re mad, you are, the woman ah met in the pub, what the fuck did she say her name was again, laughs too loudly. Ah miss Kelly, who’s now back in Scotland. Kelly had a nice laugh.
The truth ay the matter is, the drugs thing just seems such a bore now; even though ah’m actually much more boring now than ah was when ah wis oan the skag. The thing is, this sort ay boredom’s new tae us, and therefore no quite as tedious as it appears tae be. Ah’ll just run wi it for a wee bit. For a wee bit.
Eating Out
Oh god, you can tell; it’s just going tae be one ay these nights. Ah prefer it when it’s busy, but when it’s deid like this, time drags. No chance ay tips either. Shite!
There’s hardly anybody in the bar. Andy’s sitting looking bored, reading the Evening News. Graham’s in the kitchen, preparing food that he hopes will be eaten. Ah’m leaning against the bar, feeling really tired. I’ve got an essay tae hand in the mom, for the philosophy class. It’s on morality: whether it’s relative or absolute, and in which circumstances, etcetera, etcetera. It depresses me tae think aboot it. Once ah finish this shift ah’ll be up all night writing it up. It’s too mad.
Ah don’t miss London, but ah do miss Mark . . . a wee bit. Well, maybe a bit more than jist a wee bit, but no as much as ah thought. He said if ah wanted tae go tae University, ah could dae it in London jist as easy as back hame. When ah told him it wisnae easy living on a grant anywhere, but in London, it was impossible, jist arithmetically impossible, he said that he was making good money, and that we’d manage awright. When ah told him that ah didnae want tae be kept, like he’s the big pimp and ah’m the cerebal whore, he said it wouldnae be like that. Anyway, ah came back, he steyed, and ah don’t think either ay us really regrets it. Mark can be affectionate, but he doesnae seem tae really need people. Ah lived with him for six months, and ah still don’t think ah really know him. Sometimes ah feel that ah was looking for too much, and that there’s a lot less tae him than meets the eye.
Four guys come intae the resturant, obviously drunk. Crazy. One looks vaguely familiar. Ah think ah might have seen him at the University.
— What can I get you? Andy asks them.
— A couple of bottles of your best piss . . . and a table for four . . . he slurs. Ah can tell by their accents, dress and bearing that they are middle to upper-middle-class English. The city’s full of such white-settler types, says she, who’s just back from London! You used to get Geordies and Scousers and Brummies and Cockneys at the Uni, now it’s a playground for failed Oxbridge home-counties types, with a few Edinburgh merchant-school punters representing Scotland.
Ah smile at them. Ah must stop having these preconceived notions, and learn to treat people as people. It’s Mark’s influence, his prejudices are infectious, the crazy prick. They sit down.
One