Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [99]
I gave him a chance; a chance to show repentance. This was a sight more than the bastard deserved. At a group session, I told the first of several lies, the trail of which would lead to my grip on the soul of Alan Venters.
I told the group that I had had unprotected, penetrative sex with people, knowing full well that I was HIV positive, and that I now regretted it. The room went deathly silent.
People shifted nervously in their seats. Then a woman called Linda began to cry, shaking her head. Tom asked her if she wanted to leave the meeting. She said no, she would wait and hear what people had to say, venomously addressing her reply in my direction. I was largely oblivious to her anger though; I never took my eyes off Venters. He had that characteristic, perpetually bored expression on his face. I was sure a faint smile briefly played across his lips.
— That was a very brave thing to say, Davie. I’m sure it took a lot of courage, Tom said solemnly.
Not really you doss prick, it was a fucking lie. I shrugged.
— I’m sure a terrific burden of guilt has been lifted from you, Tom continued, raising his brows, inviting me to come in. I accepted the opportunity this time.
— Yes, Tom. Just to be able to share it with you all. It’s terrible . . . I don’t expect people to forgive . . .
The other woman in the group, Marjory, directed a sneering insult towards me, which I didn’t quite catch, while Linda continued crying. No reaction was forthcoming from the cunt who sat in the chair opposite me. His selfishness and lack of morality sickened me. I wanted to take him apart with my bare hands, there and then. I fought to control me senses, savouring the richness of my plan to destroy him. The disease could have his body; that was its victory, whatever malignant force it was. Mine would be a greater one, a more crushing one. I wanted his spirit. I planned to carve mortal wounds into his supposedly everlasting soul. Ay-men.
Tom looked around the circle: — Does anyone empathise with Davie? How do people feel about this?
After a bout of silence, during which my eyes stayed trained on the impassive figure of Venters, Wee Goagsie, a junky in the group, started to croak nervously. Then he blurted out, in a terrible rant, what I’d been waiting for from Venters.
— Ah’m gled Davie sais that . . . ah did the same . . . ah did the fuckin same . . . an innocent lassie that nivir did a fuckin thing tae naebody . . . ah jist hated the world . . . ah mean . . . ah thought, how the fuck should ah care? What huv ah goat fae life . . . ah’m twenty-three an ah’ve hud nothin, no even a fuckin joab . . . why should ah care . . . whin ah telt the lassie, she jist freaked . . . he sobbed like a child. Then he looked up at us and produced, through his tears, the most beautiful smile I have ever seen on anyone in my life. — . . . but it wis awright. She took the test. Three times ower six months. Nuthin. Shi wisnae infected . . .
Marjory, who in the same circumstances was infected, hissed at us. Then it happened. That cunt Venters rolled his eyes and smiled at me. That did it. That was the moment. The anger was still there, but it was fused with a great calmness, a powerful clarity. I smiled back at him, feeling like a semi-submerged crocodile eyeing a soft, furry animal drinking at the river’s edge.
— Naw . . . wee Goagsie whined piteously at Marjory, — it wisnae like that . . . waitin fir her test results wis worse thin waiting fir ma ain . . . yis dinnae understand . .