Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [130]
— Ah’m really sorry, Tommy.
— Ah dinnae ken whit tae fuckin dae, Mark. Whit ah’m ah gaunnae dae?
Ah just sit there, heid slightly bowed. Ah wanted tae tell Tommy: Git oan wi yir life. It’s aw ye can dae. Look eftir yirsel. Ye might no git bad. Look at Davie Mitchell. Davie’s one ay Tommy’s best mates. He’s HIV and he’s nivir used skag in his puff. Davie’s okay though. He leads a normal life, well as normal a life as any cunt ah ken leads.
But ah know that Tommy cannae afford tae heat this gaff. He isnae Davie Mitchell, never mind Derek Jarman. Tommy cannae put hissel in a bubble, live in the warm, eat good fresh food, keep his mind stimulated wi new challenges. He willnae live five, or ten, or fifteen years before he’s crushed by pneumonia or cancer.
Tommy will not survive winter in West Granton.
— Ah’m sorry mate. Ah’m really sorry, ah just repeat.
— Goat any gear? he asks, raising his heid and looking straight at me.
— Ah’m clean now Tommy. Whin ah tell him, he doesnae even sneer.
— Sub us then mate. Ah’m expectin a rent cheque.
Ah dig intae ma poakits and produce two crumpled fivers. Ah’m thinkin aboot Matty’s funeral. It’s odds on Tommy’s next and there’s fuck all anybody kin dae aboot it. Especially me.
He takes the money. Oor eyes meet, and something flashes between us. It’s something ah cannae define, but it’s something really good. It’s thair jist fir a second; then it’s gone.
A Scottish Soldier
Johnny Swan examines his close-shaven head in the bathroom mirror. His long, filthy hair had been shorn off a few weeks back. Now he had to get rid of this growth on his chin. Shaving was a drag when you only had one leg, and Johnny still hadn’t quite got his balance sorted out. However, after a few scares, he managed what is a passable attempt. He was determined that he’d never go back into that wheelchair again, that was for sure.
— Back oan the mooch, he says to himself, as he studies his face in the mirror. Johnny looked clean. It was not a nice feeling and the process had caused him a great deal of discomfort; but people expect standards from an old soldier. He starts whistling the tune A Scottish Soldier; indulging himself further he gives his reflection a stiff, regimental salute.
The bandage on his stump gives Johnny some cause for concern. It looks filthy. Mrs Harvey, the community nurse, is coming today to change it, doubtless with a few accompanying choice words on personal hygiene.
He examines his remaining leg. It was never the best of the two. That knee was dodgy; the remnant of a footballing incident many moons ago. It’ll get dodgier still as the sole bearer of his weight. Johnny thinks that he should’ve injected into the artery in this leg; let this one have been the cunt that went gangrenous and got hacked off by the surgeon. The curse of being right-sided, he reflects.
Outside in the cold streets, he swings and lurches towards the Waverley Station. Each step is a cruel one. The pain doesn’t come from the extremity of his stump, but seems to be all over his body; however, the two methadone jellies and the barbiturates he has swallowed take the edge off it. Johnny sets up his pitch at the Market Street exit. His large piece of cardboard reads, in black letters:
FALKLANDS VETERAN — I LOST MY LEG FOR MY COUNTRY. PLEASE HELP.
A junky called Silver, Johnny doesn’t know his real name, approaches him in freeze-frame movements.
— Any skag Swanney? he asks.
— Nothin happenin mate. Raymie’s oan fir Setirday, or so ah hear.
— Setirday’s nae good, Silver wheezes. — Thir’s a fuckin ape oan ma back wants feedin.
— The White Swan here’s a businessman Silver, Johnny points at himself. — If he hud merchandise tae punt, he’d dae jist that.
Silver looks downcast. A filthy, black overcoat hangs loosely on his grey, emaciated flesh. — Blootered oaf aw ma methy script, he states, neither looking for sympathy nor expecting it. Then a slight glint comes into his dead eyes. — Hey Swannenae, dae ye make any poppy oot ay that?
— As one door shuts, another opens,