Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [94]
Charlene Hill. She’s Brixton. First choice. Might even git a ride, if ah play ma cairds right. Could certainly dae wi one . . . that’s whit being straight, well straightish, does tae ye . . . torture.
— Hello? Another woman’s voice.
— Hi. Can I speak to Charlene?
— Charlene . . . she don’t live ere anymore. Don’t know where she is now, Stockwell, I fink . . . ain’t got an address . . . old on . . . MICK! MICK! YOU GOT CHARLENE’S ADDRESS?. . . . CHARLEEENE Na. Sorry. Ain’t got it.
No ma fuckin day. Hus tae be Nicksy.
— No. No. No Brian Nixon. Gone. Gone; an Asian voice.
— Goat an address firummate?
— No. Gone. Gone. No Brian Nixon.
— Whair’s he steyin likesay but?
— What? What? I cannot understand you . . .
— Where-is-my-friend-Bri-an-Nicks-on-stay-ing?
— No Brian Nixon. No drugs. Go. Go. The cunt slams the phone doon oan us.
It’s gettin late, and this city has shut me oot. An alko wi a Glasgow accent taps twenty pence fi us.
— Yir a fuckin good boey, ah’ll tell ye that son . . . he groans.
— You’re orlroight Jock, ah tell um, in ma best Cockney. Other Scots in London ur a pain in the erse. Particularly Weedjies, whae irritate us at the best ay times wi thir nosey cunt patter, which they pretend is friendliness. The last thing ah want right now is tae be stuck wi a fuckin soapdodger in tow.
Ah think aboot gittin the 38 or 55 up tae Hackney, and callin oan Mel at Dalston. If Mel’s no in, and the cunt’s no oan the phone, then ma boats ur well n truly burned.
Instead ah find masel peyin tae git intae the all-night cinema in Victoria. It shows porno movies throughout the night, until five a.m. It’s a crash pad for every low-life under the sun. Winos, junkies, vagrants, sex-fiends, psychos, they all converge here at night. Ah pledged tae masel thit ah’d nivir spend a night here again, eftir the last time.
A few years back ah wis in here wi Nicksy n some boy goat stabbed. The polis came n jist lifted every cunt they could git thir hands oan includin us. We hud a quart ay hash oan us n hud tae eat the lot. We couldnae even fuckin speak by the time they goat roond tae interviewin us doon the station. They kept us in the cells overnight. Next day they took us roond tae Bow Street magistrates court, it’s right next tae the nick, and fined every cunt whae wis too incoherent tae give evidence wi a breach ay the peace. Nicksy n me goat stung fir thirty bar each; whin it wis thirty bar.
Here ah am again though. If anything, the place has gone downhill since ma last visit. Aw the films are pornographic, except fir one excruciatingly violent documentary, where various animals tear each other apart in exotic locations. Its graphic nature takes it a million miles fae David Attenborough’s jobs.
— Ya black bastards! Fuckin black bastards! roars a Scots voice as a group ay natives hurl spears intae the side ay a big bison-like creature.
A racist Scottish animal lover. Odds-on he’s a Hun.
— Dirty fucking jungle-bunnies, a sycophantic Cockney voice adds.
Whit a fuckin place tae be. Ah try tae git intae the films tae take ma mind oaf the screaming and heavy breathing gaun oan around us.
The best film is a German one overdubbed wi American English. The plot is no great shakes. It concerns this young lassie in a Bavarian costume who gets fucked in a variety of ways and locations by almost every male and a few ay the females oan the farm. The set pieces are quite imaginative though, and ah’m gettin intae it. These images are obviously the nearest most cunts in this dive ever come tae sex, although having said that, ye can tell by the sounds that some men and women and men and men are fucking. Ah find ah’ve goat a hard-on, and ah’m even tempted tae have a wank, but the next film crushes ma erection.
It’s a British one, inevitably. It’s set in a London office during the party season and is imaginatively entitled: The Office Party.