Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [37]
— Ya dirty cunt, Franco! Gary sais.
Begbie pits his knob away, zips up, then grabs a handfae ay spunk n earth n rubs it in Gary’s face.
Ah’m nearly endin masel as Gary goes radge; standin up n bootin the sole ay Begbie’s trainer. Then he storms away in the cream puff. Whin ah think aboot it, this is really a Begbie rather than a Lizzy story, though it wis her brave performance against the Jam Rag that precipitated it.
Anywey, whin Tommy copped fir Lizzy a couple ay year back, maist cunts thought: Lucky fuckin bastard. Even Sick Boy has never shagged Lizzy.
Amazingly, Tommy still husnae mentioned smack. Even wi ma works lying aw ower the place, n he can probably tell that ah’m pretty bombed. Normally Tommy’s daein a bad impersonation ay ma auld lady in such circumstances; yir killin yirsel/pack it in/ye kin live yir life withoot that garbage, and other such shite.
Now he sais: — What does that stuff dae fir ye Mark? His voice is genuinely enquiring.
Ah shrug. Ah dinnae want tae talk aboot this. Thirs cunts wi degrees n diplomas at the Royal Ed n the City peyed tae go through aw this counselling shite wi us. It’s done fuck-all good. Tommy’s persistent though.
— Tell us Mark. Ah want tae ken.
But then, when ye think aboot it, mibbe mates, whae’ve stuck by ye through thick n thin, usually fuckin thin, deserve at least an attempt at an explanation, if the counsellors/thought polis get one. Ah launch intae a spiel. Ah feel surprisingly good, calm and clear, talkin aboot it.
— Ah don’t really know, Tam, ah jist dinnae. It kinday makes things seem mair real tae us. Life’s boring and futile. We start oaf wi high hopes, then we bottle it. We realise that we’re aw gaunnae die, withoot really findin oot the big answers. We develop aw they long-winded ideas which jist interpret the reality ay oor lives in different weys, withoot really extending oor body ay worthwhile knowledge, about the big things, the real things. Basically, we live a short, disappointing life; and then we die. We fill up oor lives wi shite, things like careers and relationships tae delude oorsels that it isnae aw totally pointless. Smack’s an honest drug, because it strips away these delusions. Wi smack, whin ye feel good, ye feel immortal. Whin ye feel bad, it intensifies the shite that’s already thair. It’s the only really honest drug. It doesnae alter yir consciousness. It just gies ye a hit and a sense ay well-being. Eftir that, ye see the misery ay the world as it is, and ye cannae anaesthetise yirsel against it.
— Shite, Tommy sais. Then: — Pure shite. He’s probably right n aw. If he asked us the question last week, ah’d huv probably said something completely different. If he asks us the morn, it wid be something else again. At this point in time though, ah’ll hing wi the concept that junk’ll dae the business whin everything else seems boring and irrelevant.
Ma problem is, whenever ah sense the possibility, or realise the actuality ay attaining something that ah thought ah wanted, be it girlfriend, flat, job, education, money and so on, it jist seems so dull n sterile, that ah cannae value it any mair. Junk’s different though. Ye cannae turn yir back oan it sae easy. It willnae let ye. Trying tae manage a junk problem is the ultimate challenge. It’s also a fuckin good kick.
— It’s also a fuckin good kick.
Tommy looks at us. — Gies a go. Gies a hit.
— Fuck off Tommy.
— Ye sais it’s a good kick. Ah pure wantae try it.
— Ye dinnae. C’moan Tommy, take ma word fir it. This jist seems tae encourage the cunt mair.
— Ah’ve goat the hireys. C’moan. Cook us up a shot.
— Tommy . . . fuck sake man . . .
— Ah’m tellin ye, c’moan. Supposed tae be fuckin mates, ya cunt. Cook us up a shot. Ah kin fuckin handle it. One fuckin shot isnae gaunnae hurt