Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [3]
The bad-taste bastard breaks the junky’s golden rule by pitten oan ‘Heroin’, the version oan Lou Reed’s Rock ’n’ Roll Animal, which if anything, is even mair painful tae listen tae whin yir sick than the original version oan The Velvet Underground and Nico. Mind you, at least this version doesnae huv John Cale’s screeching viola passage oan it. Ah couldnae huv handled that.
— Aw fuck off Raymie! Ali shouts.
— Stick in the boot, go wi the flow, shake it down baby, shake it down honey . . . cook street, spook street, we’re all dead white meat . . . eat the beat . . . Raymie burst intae an impromptu rap, shakin his erse and rollin his eyes.
He then bent doon in front ay Sick Boy, whae had strategically placed hissel beside Ali, never taking his eyes oaf the contents ay the spoon she heated over a candle. Raymie pulled Sick Boy’s face tae him, and kissed him hard oan the lips. Sick Boy pushed him away, trembling.
— Fuck off! Doss cunt!
Johnny n Ali laughed loudly. Ah wid huv n aw had ah no felt that each bone in ma body wis simultaneously being crushed in a vice n set aboot wi a blunt hacksaw.
Sick Boy tourniqued Ali above her elbow, obviously staking his place in the queue, and tapped up a vein oan her thin ash-white airm.
— Want me tae dae it? he asked.
She nodded.
He droaps a cotton ball intae the spoon n blaws oan it, before sucking up aboot 5 mls through the needle, intae the barrel ay the syringe. He’s goat a fuckin huge blue vein tapped up, which seems tae be almost comin through Ali’s airm. He pierces her flesh and injects a wee bit slowly, before sucking blood back intae the chamber. Her lips are quivering as she gazes pleadingly at him for a second or two. Sick Boy’s face looks ugly, leering and reptilian, before he slams the cocktail towards her brain.
She pulls back her heid, shuts her eyes and opens her mooth, givin oot an orgasmic groan. Sick Boy’s eyes are now innocent and full ay wonder, his expression like a bairn thit’s come through oan Christmas morning tae a pile ay gift-wrapped presents stacked under the tree. They baith look strangely beautiful and pure in the flickering candlelight.
— That beats any meat injection . . . that beats any fuckin cock in the world . . . Ali gasps, completely serious. It unnerves us tae the extent that ah feel ma ain genitals through ma troosers tae see if they’re still thair. Touchin masel like that makes us feel queasy though.
Johnny hands Sick Boy his works.
— Ye git a shot, but only if ye use this gear. Wir playin trust games the day, he smiled, but he wisnae jokin.
Sick Boy shakes his heid. — Ah dinnae share needles or syringes. Ah’ve goat ma ain works here.
— Now that’s no very social. Rents? Raymie? Ali? Whit d’ye think ay that? Ur you tryin tae insinuate that the White Swan, the Mother Superior, has blood infected by the human immunodeficiency virus? Ma finer feelins ur hurt. Aw ah kin say is, nae sharin, nae shootin. He gies an exaggerated smile, exposing a row ay bad teeth.
Tae me that wisnae Johnny Swan talkin. No Swanney. No fuckin way. Some malicious demon had invaded his body and poisoned his mind. This character was a million miles away fae the gentle joker ah once knew as Johnny Swan. A nice laddie, everybody sais; including ma ain Ma. Johnny Swan, so intae fitba, so easy going, that he eywis goat lumbered washin the strips eftir the fives at Meadowbank, and nivir, ivir complained.
Ah wis shitein it that ah widnae git a shot here. — Fuck sakes Johnny, listen tae yirsel. Git a fuckin grip. Wuv goat the fuckin hirays here. Ah pulled some notes ootay ma poakit.
Whether it wis through guilt, or the prospect ay cash, the