Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [30]
It’s tae my mother’s ah go, tae tap some cash for the gig. Ah need dosh for the train fare as well as drink and drugs. Speed’s my drug, it goes well with drink, and ah’ve always liked a drink. Tommy the pure speed freak.
My Ma gives me a lecture on the dangers of drugs, telling me what a disappointment ah’ve been to her, and tae my dad, who, although he doesnae say much, really worries about me. Later when he comes in from work, he says while my Ma is upstairs that she mightnae say much, but really worries about me. Frankly, he tells me, he’s really disappointed in my attitude. He hopes ah’m not taking drugs, scrutinising my face as if he can tell. Funny, I know junkies, dope-heads and speed freaks, but the most fucked-up punters on drugs I know are pish-heids, like Seeks. That’s Rab McLaughlin, the Second Prize. He’s blown the fucking lot, man.
Ah tap the cash and meet Mitch in the Hebs. Mitch is still seein that lassie Gail. It’s obvious though, that he’s no gittin his leg ower. Listenin tae um fir ten minutes, ye kin pure read between the lines. He’s in a pure bevvying mood, so ah tap some cash off ay um. We tan four pints ay heavy then get on the train. Ah dae four cans of Export and two lines ay speed during the journey to Glasgow. We down a couple in Sammy Dow’s, then get a taxi to Lynch’s. After another two pints, might’ve been three; and another line of speed each in the bog, we sing a medley of Iggy songs and go ower tae the Saracen Head in the Gallowgate, opposite the Barrowland. We drink some cider and wine chasers, dabbing frantically at salty speed in silver foil.
All ah can see is a blurred neon sign when ah leave the pub. It is pure fucking freezing here, I kid you not my man, and we move towards the light and into the ballroom. We head straight for the bar. We have more drinks at the bar, although we can hear that Iggy’s started his set. Ah rip off my torn t-shirt. Mitch lines up some Morningside speed, cocaine, on the formica-top table.
Then something changes. He says something tae us about money which ah don’t catch, but ah can feel the resentment. We have a heated, slurred argument, exchanging punches, ah don’t recall who strikes the first blow. We cannae really hurt each other or feel force on our fists or bodies. Too wasted. Mind you, ah step up a gear when ah sees the blood flowing fae ma nose onto my bare chest, and ower the table. Ah get Mitch’s hair in a grip and ah’m trying tae smash his heid against the wall, but ma hands are so numb and heavy. Someone pulls me off, and throws us out the bar, down a passage. Ah get up, singing, following the music into the packed hall of sweating bodies, pushing and shoving ma way tae the front.
One guy headbutts me, but ah ride it, no even stopping tae acknowledge my assailant, still pure jostling to the front. Ah’m pure jumping aroond at the front of the stage, a few feet away from The Man. They are playing ‘Neon Forest’. Somebody slaps me on the back saying, — You are mental, by the way, my man. Ah sing out, a twisting, pogo-ing mass of rubber.
Iggy Pop looks right at me as he sings the line: ‘America takes drugs in psychic defence’; only he changes ‘America’ for ‘Scatlin’, and defines us mair accurately in a single sentence than all the others have ever done . . .
Ah cease my St Vitus dance and stand looking him in stunned awe. His eyes are on someone else.
The Glass
The problem wi Begbie wis . . . well, thirs that many problems wi Begbie.