Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [97]
Ma spirits soared whin we goat doon the road tae Mel’s and ah heard reggae music blastin intae the street and saw the lights oan. The fag-end ay what must huv been a considerable party wis still gaun.
It wis good tae git amongst auld faces. They wir aw thair, aw the cunts, Davo, Suzy, Nicksy (bombed oot ay his boax), n Charlene. Bodies wir crashed oot aw ower the place. Two lassies wir dancin wi each other, n Char wis dancin wi this guy. Paul n Nicksy wir smokin; opium, no hash. Maist English junkies ah know smoke horse rather than shoot it up. Needles seem tae be mair ay a Scottish, Edinburgh, thing. Ah take a toke fae the cunts anywey.
— Farking great tuh see yah again, me old sahn! Nicksy slaps us oan the back. Clockin Gi, he whispers, — Oose the old cahnt then, eh? Ah’d brought the wee bastard along. Ah didnae huv the heart tae leave the cunt eftir listening tae aw his tales ay woe.
— Sound mate. Great tae see ye. This is Gi. Good mate ay mines. Steys up in Stokie. Ah slaps auld Gi oan the back. The perr wee fucker wears an expression like ye’d see oan a rabbit at the bars ay its cage asking fir a bit ay lettuce.
Ah go fir a wander, leavin Gi talking tae Paul n Nicksy aboot Napoli, Liverpool and West Ham, the international male language ay fitba. Sometimes ah lap up that talk, other times its pointless tediousness depresses the fuck oot ay us.
In the kitchen, two guys are arguin aboot the poll tax. One boy’s sussed oot, the other’s a fuckin spineless Labour/Tory Party servile wankboy.
— You’re a fuckin arsehole oan two counts. One, if ye think the Labour Party’s goat a fuckin chance ay ever gettin in again this century, two, if ye think it would make a blind bit ay fuckin difference if they ever did, ah jist butt in and tell the cunt. He stands thair open-moothed, while the other guy smiles.
— That’s joost wot oi was troi-ing to tell the bastid, he sais in a Brummie accent.
Ah split, leaving the servile cunt still bemused. Ah go intae in a bedroom whair this guy’s licking oot this lassie, aboot three feet away fae whair some junkies are usin. Ah look at the junkies. Fuck me, thir us in works, shootin up n that. So much fir ma theories.
— You want a photograph mate? this skinny wee Goth wide-o whae’s cookin asks.
— You want a fuckin burst mooth, cunt? Ah answer his question wi a question. He looks away n keeps cookin. Ah stare at the toap ay his heid fir a bit. Content that the cunt’s shat his load, ah loosen up. Whenever ah go doon south, ah seem tae huv that kind ay attitude. It goes eftir a couple ay days. Ah think ah ken why ah huv it, but it wid take too long tae explain, n sound too pathetic. As ah leave the room, ah hear the lassie groanin oan the bed n the guy sayin, — Wot a fucking sweet cunt you got gel . . .
Ah stagger through the door, wi that soft, slow voice resonating in ma ear: — Wot a fucking sweet cunt you got gel . . . and it starkly makes explicit to me just what ah’ve been looking around for.
Ah’m no exactly spoiled fir choice here. The scene’s pish-poor in the potential bag-off stakes. At this time ay the morning, the most desirable women huv either bagged off or fucked off. Charlene’s copped, so’s the woman that Sick Boy shagged oan her 21st birthday. Even the lassie wi the eyes like Marty Feldman and the hair like pubes, is spoken for.
Story ay ma fuckin life. Arrive too early, git too pished or stoned oot ay boredom n blow it, or git thair too fuckin late.
Wee Gi’s standing by the fireplace, sipping a can ay lager. He looks frightened and bemused. Ah think tae masel, ah might end up whappin it up the wee cunt’s choc-box yit.
The thought depresses the fuck oot ay us. Still, we are all slags oan hoaliday.
Bad Blood
I first meet Alan Venters through the ‘HIV and Positive’ self-help group, although he wasn’t part of that group for long. Venters didn’t look after himself very well, and soon developed one of the many opportunistic infections we’re prone to. I always find the term ‘opportunistic infection’ amusing. In our culture, it seems to invoke some admirable quality.