Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [74]
The dug lets oot a series ay hideous gasps through its nose and muffled jaws, as ah throttle the cunt tae death. Even in its death throes, and after, when it’s as still as a sack ay tatties, it keeps its grip. Ah take the bat fae its collar, tae help us lever its jaws open, freeing the gadge’s airm. By this time the polis have arrived, and ah’ve wrapped the boy’s airm wi the rest ay his jaykit.
The skinhead is singing ma praises tae the polis n the ambulanceman. He’s upset at Shane, he still cannae understand what turned this loving pet whae ‘wouldnae hurt a fly’, the cunt actually said that, mouthed that hideous cliché, intae a deranged monster. Theshe beashts can turn at any time.
As they led him into the ambulance, the young cop shook his heid. — Fuckin stupid works. These things are just killers. It’s a big ego-trip for these daft cunts tae own them, but they always go berserk sooner or later.
The aulder polisman is gently interrogative aboot ma need tae huv a baseball bat, and ah tell him it’s for home security, as there have been a lot of break-ins in the area. Not that Simone, I explain, would ever dream of talking the law into his own hands, but, well, it just gives one a certain peace of mind. Ah wonder if anybody this side of the Atlantic has ever bought a baseball bat with playing baseball in mind.
— Ah can understand that, the auld cop says. I’ll bet you can, you dippet cunt. The offishers of the law are rather shilly, eh Sean? Not particularly impreshiff, Shimon.
The guys are telling me that I’m a brave gadge, and that they will be recommending a commendation. Why shank you offisher, but it’sh nothing really.
The Sick Boy is going round tae Marianne’s the night for some sick fun. Doggy style must certainly be on the menu, if only as a tribute to Shane.
I am as high as a kite and horny as a field of stags. It’s been a fucking beautiful day.
Searching for the Inner Man
Ah’ve never been incarcerated for junk. However, loads ay cunts have had stabs at rehabilitating me. Rehabilitation is shite; sometimes ah think ah’d rather be banged up. Rehabilitation means the surrender ay the self.
Ah’ve been referred tae a variety of counsellors, wi backgrounds ranging fae pure psychiatry through clinical psychology to social work. Doctor Forbes, the psychiatrist, used non-directive counselling techniques, basing his approach largely on Freudian psychoanalysis. This involved getting us tae talk aboot ma past life and focus oan unresolved conflicts, the assumption presumably bein that the indentification and resolution ay such conflicts will remove the anger which fuels ma self-destructive behaviour, that behaviour manifesting itself in ma use ay hard drugs.
A typical exchange:
Dr Forbes: You mentioned your brother, the one with the, eh, disability. The one that died. Can we talk about him?
(pause)
Me: Why?
(pause)
Dr Forbes: You’re reluctant to talk about your brother?
Me: Naw. It’s just that ah dinnae see the relevance ay that tae me bein oan smack.
Dr Forbes: It seems that you started using heavily around the time of your brother’s death.
Me: A loat happened aroond that time. Ah’m no really sure how relevant it is tae isolate ma brar’s death. Ah went up tae Aberdeen at the time; the Uni. Ah hated it. Then ah started oan the cross-channel ferries, tae Holland. Access tae aw the collies ye could hope fir.
(pause)
Dr Forbes: I’d like to go back to Aberdeen. You say you hated Aberdeen?
Me: Aye.
Dr Forbes: What was it about Aberdeen you hated?
Me: The University. The staff, the students and aw that. Ah thought they were aw boring middle-class cunts.
Dr Forbes: I see. You were unable to form relationships with people there.
Me: No sae much unable,