Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [36]
Now auld Baxter has gone tae the great gig in the sky; replaced by his hospice-humoured bastard ay a son. A cunt who expects rent fir this dive.
— RENT. Somebody’s shouting through the letterbox.
— Rents!
It’s no the landlord. It’s Tommy. What the fuck does the cunt want at this time?
— Haud oan Tommy. Jist comin.
Ah shoot intae ma knob for the second consecutive day. As the needle goes in, it looks like a horrible experiment being conducted on an ugly sea-snake. The gig is getting sicker by the minute. The rush wastes nae time in racin tae ma box. Ah git a magic high, then think ah’m gaunnae puke. Ah under-estimated how pure this shite wis, and took a wee bit too much in that shot. Ah take a deep breath and get it thegither. Ah feel as if a thin stream ay air is comin in tae ma boady fae a bullet hole in ma back. This is not an OD situation. Calm doon. Keep that auld respirator going. Easy does it. This is nice.
Ah stagger tae ma feet, n let Tommy in. That wisnae easy.
Tommy looks offensively fit. Majorca tan still intact; hair sun-bleached, cut short and gelled back. Gold stud and hoop in one ear; mellow sky-blue eyes. It has to be said that Tommy’s a fairly handsome cunt wi a tan. It brings oot the best in him. Handsome, easy-going, intelligent, and pretty tidy in a swedge. Tommy should make you jealous, but somehow he doesnae. This is probably because Tommy doesnae have the self-confidence tae recognise n make the maist ay his qualities; nor the vanity tae be a pain in the erse aboot them tae every other cunt.
— Split up wi Lizzy, he tells us.
It’s hard tae work oot whether congratulations or commiserations are in order. Lizzy is a shag extraordinaire, but has a tongue like a sailor and a castrating stare. Ah think Tommy’s still tryin tae sort oot his feelins. Ah kin tell that he’s deep in thought because he husnae telt us what a daft cunt ah am tae be usin, husnae even mentioned the state ah’m in.
Ah struggle tae show concern through ma self-centred smack apathy. The outside world means fuck all tae us. — Pished oaf aboot it? ah ask.
— Dinnae ken. If ah’m bein honest, ah’ll miss the sex maist. That n like, jist huvin somebody, ken?
Tommy needs people a loat mair thin maist.
Ma endurin memory ay Lizzy is fae the school. Me, Begbie n Gary McVie wir lyin in the Links at the bottom ay the running track, away fae the beady eyes ay that bastard Vallance, the housemaster, á Nazi cunt ay the highest order. We took up that position so’s we could see the lassies race in thir shorts n blouses, n accumulate some decent wanking material.
Lizzy pit up a game race, but finished second tae the lanky strides ay big Morag ‘Jam Rag’ Henderson. We wir lyin oan oor stomachs, heids propped up oan elbays n hands, watchin Lizzy struggle along wi the expression ay vicious determination which characterised everything she did. Everything? Once Tommy’s over his loss, ah’ll ask him about the sex. Naw ah winnae . . . aye ah will. Anywey, ah hears this heavy breathin and turns tae notice Begbie slowly swivellin his hips; starin at the lassies, gaun: — That wee Lizzy MacIntosh . . . total wee ride . . . fuckin shag the erse oafay that any day ay the week . . . the fuckin erse oan it . . . the fuckin tits oan it . . .
Then he lets his face faw doon oantae the turf. Ah wisnae as wary ay Begbie then as ah am now. He wisnae the main man in they days, jist another contender, n he wis also a bit shy ay ma brar, Billy, at the time. Tae some extent, in fact tae every extent, ah cynically lived oaf Billy’s reputation, bein a closet sap. Anywey, ah pulled Begbie ower oantay his back, exposing his spunk drippin,