Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [92]
Junk Dilemmas No. 67
Deprivation’s relative. There are bairns starvin tae death, dying every second like flies. The fact that this is happening in another place, doesnae negate that fundamental truth. In the time it takes us tae crush up these pills, cook them and inject them, thousands ay bairns in other countries, and mibbe a few in this yin, will be deid. In the time it takes us tae dae this, thousands ay rich bastards will be thousands ay pounds richer, as investments ripen.
Crushin pills up: what a fuckin doss-heid. Ah should really leave the jack n jills tae the stomach. Brain and vein are too fragile tae carry that stuff direct.
Like Dennis Ross.
Dennis hud a great hit fae that whisky he injected intae hissel. Then his eyes started rollin, blood flooded fae his nostrils, n that wis Denny. Once ye see the blood fae yir nose hit the flair at that rate . . . the gig’s over. Junky machismo . . . naw. Junky need.
Ah’m feart awright, shitein ma keks, but the me that’s shitein it is a different me tae the one that’s crushin up the pills. The me that’s crushin up the pills sais that death cannae be worse than daein nowt tae arrest this consistent decline. That me eywis wins the arguments.
Thir’s nivir any real dilemmas wi junk. They only come when ye run oot.
Exile
London Crawling
No go. Whair the fuck are the cunts? Ma ain bastard fault. Should’ve phoned tae tell them ah wis comin doon. Well, the surprise is mine. Nae fucker’s in. The black door has a coldness, a stern, deathly front which seems tae say tae us thit they’ve been gone a long time, and willnae be back fir a longer yin, if ever. Ah deek though the letter boax, bit ah cannae see if thir’s any envelopes at the bottom ay the door.
Ah boot the door in frustration. The woman across the landing, a mumpy hoor as ah remember, opens her door and pokes hur heid oot. She stares at us as if tae ask us a question. Ah ignore her.
— They ain’t in. Ain’t been in for a couple of days, she tells us, looking suspiciously at ma sports bag as if thir wis explosives contained in it.
— Nice one, ah gruffly mumble, turnin ma heid ceilingwards in exasperation, hoping that this show ay desperation will encourage the woman tae say something like: I know you. You used to stay there. You must be exhausted travelling all the way down from Scotland. Come in, have a nice cup ay tea, and wait for your friends.
Whit she does say is: — Naah . . . ain’t seem em for at least two days.
Cunt. Fuck. Bastard. Shite.
They could be anywhere. They could be naewhaire. They could be back at anytime. They might never be back.
Ah walk doon Hammersmith Broadway, London seeming strange and alien, after only a three-month absence, as familiar places do when you’ve been away. It’s as if everything is a copy of what you knew before, similar, yet somehow lacking in its usual qualities, a bit like the wey things are in a dream. They say you have to live in a place to know it, but you have to come fresh tae it tae really see it. Ah remember walkin along Princes Street wi Spud, we both hate walkin along that hideous street, deadened by tourists and shoppers, the twin curses ay modern capitalism. Ah looked up at the castle and thought, it’s just another building tae us. It registers in oor heids just like the British Home Stores or Virgin Records. We were heading tae these places oan a shoplifting spree. But when ye come back oot ay Waverley Station eftir bein away fir a bit, ye think: Hi, this isnae bad.
Everything in the street today seems soft focus. It’s probably lack of sleep and lack of drugs.
The pub sign is a new one, but its message is old. The Britannia. Rule Britannia. Ah’ve never felt British, because ah’m not. It’s ugly and artificial. Ah’ve never really felt Scottish either, though. Scotland the brave, ma arse; Scotland the shitein cunt. We’d throttle the life oot ay each other fir the privilege ay rimmin some English aristocrat’s piles. Ah’ve never