Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [81]
Is this sssllllleeeeeeeeepppppp.
There goes ma first lurve.
Then ah’m back in the bed, still haudin the bairn, softly cradlin it. Wee Dawn. Fuckin shame.
It’s jist ma pillay. There’s blood oan ma pillay. Mibbe it wis fae ma tongue; mibbe wee Dawn hus been here.
Thir must be less tae life than this.
More pain, then more sleep/pain.
When ah re-assemble intae consciousness ah’m aware that a period ay time has passed. How much ah don’t know. The clock sais: 2:21.
Sick Boy is sitting in the chair looking at us. He has an expression ay mild concern overlaid wi a benign and patronising contempt. As he sips his cup ay tea and munches oan a chocolate digestive, ah realise that ma Ma and faither are also in the room.
What’s the fuckin score?
The fuckin score is
— Simon’s here, Ma announces, confirming that ah’m no hallucinating unless the mirage has audio as well as visual content. Like Dawn. Each dawn I die.
Ah smile at him. Dawn’s dad. — Awright Si.
The bastard is charm itself. Jocular and matey banter about fitba wi ma Hun auld man, coming ower like the concerned GP family friend wi ma auld girl.
— It’s a mug’s game, Mrs Renton. Ah’m no tryin tae say thit ah’m blameless masel, far from it, but there comes a point whin ye jist huv tae turn yir back on that nonsense and say no.
Just say no. It’s easy. Choose Life. Skin Kay-uh boi Eroin.
My parents find it impossible to believe that ‘Young Simon’ (who’s four months aulder than me, and ah never git called ‘Young Mark’) could possibly have anything to do wi drugs, beyond the odd youthful experimental flirtation. Young Simon is identified with conspicuous success in their eyes. There’s Young Simon’s girlfriends, Young Simon’s smart clathes, Young Simon’s suntan, Young Simon’s flat up the toon. Even Young Simon’s jaunts to London are seen as more colourful chapters in the trendy, swashbuckling adventures of Leith Bannanay Flats’s lovable cavalier, while my trips south invariably have a seedy and unsavoury association in their eyes. Young Simon can do no wrong though. They see the cunt as some sort ay Oor Wullie for the video generation.
Does Dawn intrude intae Sick Boy’s dreams? No.
Although they have never came out and said it, ma Ma n faither suspect that ma drug problems ur due tae ma association wi ‘the laddie Murphy’. This is because Spud is a lazy, scruffy bastard, who’s naturally spaced out and seems as if he’s oan drugs, even when he’s clean. Spud is incapable ay upsettin a spurned lover wi a bad hangover. On the other hand Begbie, total fuckin crazy psycho Beggars, is held up as an archetypal model of manhood Ecosse. Yes, there may be poor bastards picking bits ay beer glass oot ay thir faces when Franco goes oan the rampage, but the laddie works hard and plays hard etcetera, etcetera.
After being treated like a simple cunt for an hour or so by all present, ma parents leave the room, convinced that Sick Boy is truly drug-free and not intending to slip their off-spring any H, more’s the fuckin pity.
— Like auld times up here, eh? he sais, looking around at ma posters.
— Hing oan, ah’ll bring oot the Subbuteo and the dirty books. We used to wank off tae porno mags as wee laddies. Stud thit he is these days, Sick Boy hates tae be reminded ay his fledging sexual development. Typically, he changes the subject.
— You’ve goat a right lam oan, he sais. What the fuck does the cunt expect in the circumstances?
— Too fuckin right ah huv. Ah’m fuckin sick here, Si. Yiv goat tae score us some smack.
— Nae chance. Ah’m steyin clean Mark. If ah start hingin roond losers like Spud, Swanney n that, ah’m back tae usin again in nae time at aw. No way José, he blaws through pursed lips n shakes his heid.
— Thanks mate. Yir aw fuckin heart.
— Stoap fah-kin whingein. Ah ken how bad it is. Ah went through this a few times n aw remember. Yiv been oaf it a couple ay days now. Yir