Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [38]
Ah shrug n dae as Tommy requests. Ah gie ma works a good clean, then ah cook up a light shot and help him take it.
— This is pure fuckin brilliant Mark . . . it’s a fuckin rollercoaster ride man . . . ah’m fuckin buzzin here . . . ah’m jist pure buzzin . . .
His reaction is shitein us up. Some cunts are just so predisposed tae skag . . .
Later, when Tommy comes doon and is ready tae go, ah tell um: — Yuv done it mate. That’s you goat the set now. Dope, acid, speed, E, mushies, nembies, vallies, smack, the fuckin lot. Knock it oan the heid. Make that the first n last time.
Ah said that because ah wis sure the cunt wis gaunnae ask us fir some tae take away wi him. Ah’ve no goat enough tae spare. Ah’ve never goat enough tae spare.
— Too fuckin right, he sais, flingin oan his jaykit.
When Tommy’s gone, ah notice fir the first time thit ma cock’s itchin like fuck. Ah cannae scratch it though. If ah start scratchin it, ah’ll infect the bastard. Then ah’ve goat some real problems.
Traditional Sunday Breakfast
Oh my god, where the fuck am I. Where the fuck . . . I just don’t recognise this room at all . . . think Davie, think. I can’t seem to generate enough saliva to free my tongue from the roof of my mouth. What an arsehole. What a cunt . . . what a . . . never again.
OH FUCK . . . NO . . . please. No, no fuckin NO . . .
Please.
Don’t let this be happening to me. Please. Surely no. Surely yes.
Yes. I woke up in a strange bed in a strange room, covered in my own mess. I had pished the bed. I had puked up in the bed. I had shat myself in the bed. My heid is fucking buzzing, and my guts are in a queasy turmoil. The bed is a mess, a total fucking mess.
I take the bottom sheet up, then remove the duvet cover and wrap them together; the pungent, toxic cocktail in the middle. It’s bundled into a secure ball, with no sign of leakage. I turn the mattress over to conceal the damp patch, and go to the toilet; showering the crap off my chest, thighs and arse. I now know where I am: Gail’s mother’s house.
Fucking hell.
Gail’s mother’s. How did I get here? Who brought me here? Back in the room, I see that my clothes are neatly folded. Oh christ.
Who the fuck undressed me?
Try tracing back. It’s now Sunday. Yesterday was Saturday. The semi-final at Hampden. I had got myself into some fucking state before and after the match. We’ve no chance, I thought, you never do at Hampden against one of the Old Firm, with the crowd and the referees firmly behind the establishment clubs. So instead of getting worked up about it, I just decided to have a good crack and make a day of it. I don’t want to think about the day I made of it. I don’t even remember whether or not I actually went to the game. Got on the Marksman bus at Duke Street with the Leith boys; Tommy, Rents and their mates. Fuckin heid-bangers. I remember fuck all after that pub in Rutherglen before the match; the space-cake and the speed, the acid and the dope, but most of all the drink, the bottle of vodka that I downed before we met in the pub to get onto the bus to get back into the pub . . .
Where Gail came into the picture, I’m no really sure. Fuck. So I get back into the bed, the mattress and duvet seeming cold without the sheets. A few hours later, Gail knocks at the door. Gail and I have been going out together for five weeks but have not yet had sex. Gail had said that she didn’t want our relationship to start off on a physical basis, as that would be how it would principally be defined from them on in. She’d read this in Cosmopolitan, and wanted to test the theory. So five weeks on, I’ve got a pair of bollocks like watermelons. There’s probably a fair bit of spunk alongside that pish, shite and puke.
— You were is some state last night David Mitchell, she said accusingly. Was she genuinely upset or playing at being upset? Difficult to tell. Then: — What happened to the covers? Genuinely upset.
— Eh, a wee accident Gail.
— Well, never mind that. Come downstairs. We’re just about to have breakfast.
She left, and I wearily got dressed and tentatively