Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [24]
— Really sorry Les . . . naebody’s fault though . . . cot death n that . . . wee Dawn . . . barry wee bairn . . . fuckin shame . . . fuckin sin man, ah’m tellin ye.
Lesley lifts her heid up an looks at us. Her thin, white face is like a skull wrapped in milky clingfilm; her eyes are rid raw, circled wi black rings.
— Ye cookin? Ah need a shot Mark. Ah really need a fuckin shot. C’moan Marky, cook us up a shot . . .
At last ah could be ay some practical help. There were syringes and needles lying aw ower the place. Ah tried tae remember which works wir mine. Sick Boy says that he’d never, ever share wi any cunt. That’s shite. Whin yir feelin like ah am, the truth is thit ye dinnae care too much. Ah take the nearest, which at least isnae Spud’s, as he’s been sittin ower the other side ay the room. If Spud isnae HIV positive by now, then the Government should send a deputation ay statisticians doon tae Leith, because the laws ay probability urnae operatin properly here.
Ah produce ma spoon, lighter, and cotton balls as well as some ay this fuckin Vim or Ajax thit Seeker has the audacity to call smack. Wir joined in the room by the punters.
— Back oot ma fuckin light boys, ah snap, gesturing the cunts away wi backward sweeps ay ma hand. Ah know ah’m playing at being The Man, n part ay us hates masel, because it’s horrible when some cunt does it tae you. Naebody though, could ivir be in this position and then deny the proposition thit absolute power corrupts. The gadges move a few steps back and watch in silence as ah cook. The fuckers will huv tae wait. Lesley comes first, eftir me. That goes without saying.
Junk Dilemmas No. 64
— Mark! Mark! Answer the door! Ah ken yir in thair son! Ah ken yir in thair!
Its ma Ma. It’s been quite a while since ah’ve seen Ma. Ah’m lyin here jist a few feet fae the door, which leads tae a narrow hallway which leads tae another door. Behind that door is ma mother.
— Mark! Please son, please! Answer the door! It’s yir mother, Mark! Answer the door!
It sounds like Ma’s greetin. It sounded like ‘doe-ho-hore’. Ah love Ma, love her too much, but in a way which is hard for us tae define, a way which makes it difficult, almost impossible, tae ever actually tell her. But ah love her nonetheless. So much that ah don’t want her tae have a son like me. Ah wish ah could find her a replacement. Ah wish that because ah don’t think change is an option fir us.
Ah cannae go tae the door. Nae chance. Instead, ah decide tae cook up another shot. Ma pain centres say that it’s yon time already.
Already.
Christ, life doesnae get any easier.
This smack has too much shite in it. You can tell by the wey it’s no dissolving properly. Fuck that cunt Seeker!
Ah’ll have tae look in oan the auld lady and the auld man sometime; see how thir daein. Ah’ll make that visit a priority; eftir ah see that cunt Seeker, of course.
Her Man
For fuck sake.
Wi just came oot fir a quick drink. This is pure fuckin mental.
— Did ye see that? Fuckin out of order, Tommy sais.
— Naw, fuckin leave it man. Dinnae git involved. Ye dinnae ken the score, ah sais tae um.
Ah saw it though. Clear as day. He hit her. No a fuckin slap or nowt like that, but a punch. It wis horrible.
Ah’m gled thit Tommy’s sittin beside thum, n no me.
— Cause ah fuckin sais! That’s fuckin how! The boy’s shoutin at her again. Naebody bothers. A big punter at the bar wi long blond corkscrew hair n a rid coupon looks ower n smiles, then turns back tae watch the darts match. No one ay the boys playin darts turns roond.
— Is that eighty? Ah point tae Tommy’s nearly empty gless.
— Aye.
Whin ah git tae the bar, thuv started again. Ah kin hear thum. So kin the barman n the corkscrew-heided cunt.
— Gaun then. Dae it again. Gaun then! She’s tauntin um. Her voice is like