Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [82]
— Hash? Hash! You’re a fuckin comedian. Might as well try tae combat third world famine wi a packet ay frozen peas.
— Naw, but listen tae us man. Once the pain goes away, that’s whin the real fuckin battle starts. Depression. Boredom. Ah’m tellin ye man, ye’ll feel so fuckin low ye’ll want tae fuckin top yirsell. Ye need something tae keep ye gaun. Ah started bevvyin like fuck eftir ah came oaf the gear. Ah wis creamin a boatil ay tequila a day at one stage. Second Prize wis embarrassed in ma company! Ah’m oaf the bevvy now, n seein a few birds.
Eh handed us a picture. It showed Sick Boy wi this gorgeous looking lassie.
— Fabienne. French likes. Ower oan hoaliday. That wis taken up the Scott Monument. Ah’m gaun ower tae her bit in Paris next month. Then it’s oaf tae Corsica. Hur folks’ve goat a wee place thair. Fuckin subliminal scene man. Hearin a woman speak in French when yir shaggin her is such a big turn oan.
— Aye, but whit’s she saying? Ah bet it’s somethin like: Your deek eez so how you say, tynee, ‘ave you starteed yet . . . Ah bet that’s whit she speaks in French fir.
He gave us that patient, patronising have-you-quite-finished smile.
— Oan that particular subject, ah wis talkin tae Laura McEwan last week. She indicated tae me that you had problems in that self-same area. Told us ye couldnae raise a smile the last time she ended up wi ye.
Ah raise a smile, and shrug. Ah thought ah’d got away with that disaster.
— Says thit ye couldnae satisfy yersel, nivir mind any cunt else, wi that fuckin thimble yuv goat the nerve tae call a penis.
Thir isnae much ah kin say tae Sick Boy on the subject ay cock size. His is bigger, no doubt about it. Whin we wir younger we used tae git pictures taken ay oor knobs in the passport photo booth at Waverley Station. Then we’d stick the photaes doon behind the glass panels in the auld grey bus shelters fir people tae look at. Wi used tae call thum oor public art exhibitions. Conscious ay the fact thit Sick Boy wis bigger, ah’d put ma dick as far up tae the camera lens as ah could. Unfortunately, the cunt soon tippled us n started daein the same.
Oan the particular subject ay ma disaster wi Laura McEwan thir wis even less tae say. Laura’s a nutter. Intimidating at the best ay times. Ah’ve goat mair scar tissue oan ma boady fi one night wi her, than ah ever goat fi needles. Ah’d made aw the excuses ah could aboot that event. It’s so depressing that people willnae let they things go. Sick Boy’s determined tae let every fucker ken what a crap shag ah am.
— Awright, ah admit, that wis a pish-poor performance. But ah wis bevvied n stoned, n it wis her thit dragged me intae the bedroom, no the other wey roond. What the fuck did she expect?
He sniggered at me. The bastard always gave ye the impression he hud even mair choice slaggin material that he wis haudin back for another occasion.
— Well mate, jist think whit yir missin. Ah wis sniffin aroond in the gairdins the other day. Schoolies everywhere. Ye light up a joint and thir like flies aroond a crap. The manto’s hoachin. Thir’s foreign fanny aw ower the place, some ay them gaggin oan it. Ah’ve even seen a few wee honeys in Leith, fir fuck sakes. And speakin ay wee honeys, Mickey Weir wis fuckin brilliant at Easter Road oan Saturday. Aw the boys wir askin whair yiv been. Mind, thir’s Iggy Pop and The Pogues gigs comin up shortly. It’s aboot fuckin time that you goat yirsel thegither n started livin yir fuckin life. Ye cannae hide away in darkened rooms fir the rest ay yir puff.
Ah wisnae really interested in the cunt’s shite.
— Ah really need jist one wee fix Si, tae ease us oaf the gear. Even a swallay ay methadone . . .
— If yir a good boy, ye might git a bit ay watered doon Tartan Special. Yir Ma wis sayin thit she might take ye tae the Dockers’ Club oan Friday night; if yir oan yir best behaviour.
When the patronising cunt left, ah missed him. He nearly