Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [22]
It Goes Without Saying
Ah hears the searin racket comin fae ootside the room. Sick Boy, crashed oot in the windae bay next tae us, shoots tae alertness like a dug thit’s heard a whistle. Ah shudder. That noise cut right through us.
Lesley comes intae the room screaming. It’s horrible. Ah wanted her tae stoap. Now. Ah couldnae handle this. Nane ay us could. No now. Ah never wanted anything mair in ma life than fir her tae stoap screamin.
— The bairn’s away . . . the bairn’s away . . . Dawn . . . oh my god . . . oh fuckin god, wis aboot aw ah could pick ootay the horrible sound. She collapses oantae the threadbare couch. Ma eyes stick oan a brown stain oan the wall above her. Whit the fuck was it? How did it get there?
Sick Boy wis on his feet. His eyes bulged oot like a frog’s. That’s what he reminded us ay, a frog. It was the wey he sort ay hops up, becomes suddenly so mobile fae a stationary position. He looks at Lesley for a few seconds, then nashes through tae the bedroom. Matty and Spud look around uncomprehendingly, but even through thir junk haze, they ken thit somethin really bad’s happened. Ah kent. Christ, ah fuckin knew awright. Ah said whit ah always sais when somethin bad happens.
— Ah’m cookin up in a bit, ah tell them. Matty’s eyes bore intae us. He gies us the nod. Spud stands up and moves oantae the couch, sittin a few feet fae Lesley. Her heid’s in her hands. For a minute ah thought thit Spud wid touch her. Ah hoped he would. Ah’m willing um tae dae it, but he jist stares at her. Ah knew, even fae here, thit he’d be focusing oan the big mole oan her neck.
— It’s ma fault . . . it’s ma fault, she cries through her hands.
— Eh, Les . . . likesay, Mark’s cookin up, eh . . . ye ken, likesay eh . . . Spud sais tae her. It’s the first words ah kin remember hearing um say for a few days. Obviously, the cunt’s spoken ower this period. He must huv, surely tae fuck.
Sick Boy comes back through. His boady’s strainin, seemingly fae the neck, as if against the limits ay an invisible leash. He sounds terrible. His voice reminded us ay the demon’s in the film The Exorcist. It shit us up.
— Fuck . . . some fuckin life, eh? Somethin like this happens, what the fuck dae ye dae? Eh?
Ah’ve never seen um like this before, and ah’ve kent the bastard practically aw my life. — What’s wrong Si? What’s the fuckin score?
He moves towards us. Ah thought he wis gaunnae kick us. We’re best mates but we’ve hit each other before, in drink or rage when one ay us has wound the other up. Nowt serious, jist sort ay lashing out in anger. Mates kin dae that. No now though, no wi me startin tae feel sick. Ma bones wid huv splintered intae a million fragments had the cunt done that. He jist stood ower us. Thank fuck. Oh, thank you Sick Boy, Simon.
— The gig’s fucked. It’s aw fuckin fucked! he moans, in a high, desperate whine. It was like a dug that had been run ower and wis waiting fir some cunt tae pit it oot ay its misery.
Matty and Spud haul themselves up, and go through tae the bedroom. Ah follow, pushing past Sick Boy. Ah can feel death in the room before ah even see the bairn. It wis lying face doon in its cot. It, naw, she, wis cauld and deid, blue aroond the eyes. Ah didnae huv tae touch her tae ken. Just lyin thair like a discarded wee doll at the bottom ay some kid’s wardrobe. That wee. So fuckin small. Wee Dawn. Fuckin shame.
— Wee Dawn . . . ah cannae believe it. Fuckin sin man . . . Matty sais, shakin his heid.
— Fuckin heavy this . . . eh, likesay em, fuck . . . Spud pits his chin oan his chest and exhales slowly.
Matty’s heid’s still shakin. He looks like he’s gaun tae implode.
— Ah’m fuckin right