Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [131]
Silver barely registers his comments, let alone takes offence. — Ah’ll jist head doon tae the clinic then. Some cunt might sell us a jelly.
— Au revoir, Johnny shouts at his back.
He does steady business. Some people furtively drop coins into his hat. Others, resentful at the intrusion of misery into their lives, turn away or resolutely look ahead. Women give more than men; young people more than their elders; people who appear to be of the most modest means seem more generous than the affluent looking.
A fiver lands in the hat. — God bless ye sir, Johnny acknowledges.
— Not at all, a middle-aged man says, — we owe you lads. It must be terrible to suffer that loss so young.
— Ah’ve nae regrets. Ye cannae allow yersel tae be bitter, pal. That’s ma philosophy anywey. Ah love ma country; ah’d dae it aw again. Besides, ah regard masel is one ay the lucky yins; ah came back. Ah loast some good mates in that swedge at Goose Green, ah kin tell ye. Johnny let his eyes take on a glazed, faraway look; he almost believed himself. He turned back to the man. — Still, meetin people like yirsel, whae remember, whae care; that makes it aw worthwhile.
— Good luck, the man says softly, before turning and mounting the steps up to Market Street.
— Fackin radge cunt, Johnny mutters to himself, shaking his bowed head, as spasms of light laughter ripple up his sides.
He makes £26.78 after a couple of hours. It’s not bad going and it’s easy work. Johnny’s good at waiting; even British Rail on a bad day couldn’t fuck up his junky karma. However, withdrawal gives advance notice of its cruel intentions with an icy burn which causes his pulse to kick up a gear and his pores to excrete a rich, toxic sweat. He is about to pack up and leave when a thin, frail woman approaches him.
— Wir ye a Royal Scot son? Ma Brian wis a Royal Scot, Brian Laidlaw.
— Eh, Marines, missis. Johnny shrugs.
— Brian nivir came back, god love um. Twinty-one he wis. Ma laddie. A fine laddie n aw. The woman’s eyes are welling up with tears. Her voice lowers to a concentrated hiss, which is all the more pitiful for its impotence. — Ye know son, ah’ll hate that Thatcher till ma dyin day. Thir isnae a day goes by whin ah dinnae curse her.
She takes out her purse and, producing a twenty-pound note, crushes it into Johnny’s hand. — Here son, here. It’s aw ah’ve goat, bit ah want you tae huv it. She breaks into a sob and almost staggers away from him; it was like she’d been stabbed.
— God bless ye, Johnny Swan shouts after her. — God bless the Royal Jocks. Then he thrashes his hands together at the prospect of adding some cyclozine to the methadone he already has. Psycho-methy cocktail: his ticket to better times, that wee private heaven the uninitiated pour scorn on, but they could never conceive of its bliss. Albo has a stack of cyclozine, prescribed for his cancer. Johnny will visit his sick friend this afternoon. Albo needs Johnny’s jellies as much as Johnny needs his psychos. A mutual coincidence of wants. Yes, god bless the Royal Jocks, and god bless the NHS.
Station to Station
It is a foul and dreich night. Filthy clouds hang overhead; waiting to spew their dark load on the shuffling citizens below, for the umpteenth time since the break of dawn. The bus station concourse is like a Social Security office turned inside out and doused with oil. A lot of young people living on big dreams and small budgets stand sombrely in line at the London rank. The only cheaper way down is by thumb.
The bus has come from Aberdeen with a stop at Dundee. Begbie stoically checks the seat reservation tickets, then fixes a malevolent glare at the people already on the bus. Turning away, he looks back at the Adidas holdall at his feet.
Renton, out of Begbie’s earshot, turns to Spud and nods towards their uptight friend.