by Irvine Welsh
— The Hibbies didnae do too well against us, did they?
Renton smiled, glad for the first time, for reasons other than sexual ones, to have shagged this man’s daughter. It was amazing, he decided, how things like sex and Hibs, which were nothing to him when he was on smack, suddenly became all-important. He speculated that his drug problems might be related to Hibs poor performances over the eighties.
Dianne was ready. With less makeup on than last night, she looked about sixteen, two years older than she was. As they hit the streets, Renton felt relieved to be leaving the house, but a little embarrassed in case anyone he knew saw them. He had a few acquaintances in the area, mainly users and dealers. They would, he thought, think that he’d gone in for pimping if they came across him now.
They took the train from South Gyle into Haymarket. Dianne held Renton’s hand on the journey, and talked incessantly. She was relieved to be liberated from the inhibiting influence of her parents. She wanted to check Renton out in more detail. He could be a source of blow.
Renton thought about last night and wondered chillingly what Dianne had done, and with whom, to gain such sexual experience, such confidence. He felt fifty-five instead of twenty-five, and he was sure that people were looking at them.
Renton looked scruffy, sweaty and bleary in last night’s clothes. Dianne was wearing black leggings, the type so thin that they almost looked like tights, with a white mini-skirt over them. Either of the garments, Renton considered, would have sufficed on its own. One guy was looking at her in Haymarket Station as she waited for Renton to buy a Scotsman and a Daily Record. He noticed this and, strangely enraged, he found himself aggressively staring the guy down. Perhaps, he thought, it was self-loathing projected.
They went into a record shop on Dairy Road, and thumbed through some album sleeves. Renton was now pretty jumpy, as his hangover was growing at a rapid rate. Dianne kept handing him record sleeves for examination, announcing that this one was ‘brilliant’ and that one ‘superb’. He thought that most of them were crap, but was too nervy to argue.
— Awright Rents! How’s ma man? A hand hit his shoulder. He felt his skeleton and central nervous system briefly rip out of his skin, like wire through plasticine, then jump back in. He turned to see Deek Swan, Johnny Swan’s brother.
— No bad Deek. How ye livin? he responded with an affected casualness which belied his racing heartbeat.
— No sae bad boss, no sae bad. Deek noted that Renton had company, and gave him a knowing leer. — Ah’ve goat tae nash likes. See ye aroond. Tell Sick Boy tae gie us a bell if ye see um. The bastard owes us twenty fuckin bar.
— You n me both mate.
— His patter’s pure abysmal. Anywey, see ye Mark, he said turning to Dianne. — See ye doll. Yir man here’s too rude tae introduce us. Must be love. Watch this punter. They smiled uneasily at this first external definition of them, as Deek departed.
Renton realised that he had to be alone. His hangover was growing brutal, and he just couldn’t handle this.
— Eh, look Dianne . . . ah’ve goat tae nash. Meetin some mates doon in Leith. The fitba n that.
Dianne raised her eyes in knowing, weary acknowledgement, accompanying this gesture with what Renton thought were some strange clucking noises. She was annoyed that he was going before she could ask him about hash.
— What’s your address? She produced a pen and a piece of paper from her bag. — No the Forrester Park one, she added, smiling. Renton wrote down his real address in Montgomery Street, simply because he was too out of it to think up a false one.
As she departed, he felt a powerful twinge of self-loathing. He was unsure as to whether it came from having had sex with her, or the knowledge that he couldn’t possibly again.
However, that evening he heard the bell go. He was skint so he was staying in this Saturday night, watching Braddock: Missing in Action 3 on video. He opened the door and Dianne stood before him. Made-up, she was restored in his eyes to the same state of desirability as the previous evening.
— Moan in, he said, wondering how easily he’d be able to adjust to a prison regime.
Dianne thought she could smell hash. She really hoped so.
Strolling Through The Meadows
The pubs, likesay, dead busy, full ay loco-locals and festival types, having a wee snort before heading off tae the next show. Some ay they shows look okay . . . a bit heavy oan the hirays though, likesay.
Begbie’s pished his jeans . . .
— Pished yir keks, Franco? Rents asks him, pointing at a wet patch oan the faded blue denim.
— Like fuck ah huv! It’s jist fuckin water. Washin ma fuckin hands. No thit you’d fuckin ken aboot that, ya rid-heided cunt. This cunt’s allergic tae water, especially if ye mix it wi fuckin soap.
Sick Boy’s scannin the bar for women . . . chick crazy that kid. It’s like he gets bored in the company of punters eftir a while. Mibbe that’s why Sick Boy’s good wi women; like mibbe cause he has tae be. Yeah, that could be it. Matty’s talkin quietly tae hissel, shakin his heid. Thirs likesay somethin wrong wi Matty . . . no jist smack. It’s Matty’s mind, it’s like a bad depression, likes.
Renton and Begbie are arguing. Rents hud better watch what he’s daein, likesay. That Begbie, man, it’s likesay . . . that’s a fuckin jungle cat. We’re just ordinary funky feline types. Domestic cats, likesay.
— They cunts’ve goat the fuckin poppy. You’re the cunt thits eywis fuckin gaun oan aboot killin the rich n aw that anarchy shite. Now ye want tae fuckin shite oot! Begbie sneers at Rents, and it’s, likes, very ugly n aw; they dark eyebrows oan toap ay they darker eyes, that thick black hair, slightly longer than a skinheid.
— S no a question ay shitein oot Franco. Ah’m jist no intae it. Wir huvin a barry crack here. Wuv goat the speed n the E. Let’s jist enjoy oorsels, mibbe go tae a rave club, instead ay wanderin aboot the fuckin Meadows aw night. Thuv goat a big fuckin theatre tent thair, n a fuckin fun fair up. It’ll be crawlin wi polis. It’s too much fuckin hassle man.
— Ah’m no gaun tae any fuckin rave clubs. You sais yirsel thit thir fir fuckin bairns.
— Aye, but that wis before ah went tae yin.
— Well ah’m no fuckin gaun tae yin. So let’s fuckin pub crawl well, n git some cunt in the fuckin bogs.
— Nah. Ah cannae be ersed.
— Fuckin shitein cunt! Yir still fuckin shitein yir keks aboot the other weekend in the Bull and Bush.
— Naw ah’m no. It wis jist unnecessary, that’s aw. The whole fuckin thing.
Begbie looked at Rents, and likes, really tensed up in his seat. He’s straining forward, n ah thoat the dude wis gaunnae gub the Rent Boy, likesay, ken.
— Eh? Eh! Ah’ll fuckin unnecessary ye, ya radge cunt!
— C’moan Franco. Take it easy man, Sick Boy says.
Begbie seems tae realise that he’s ower the top, likesay, even fir him. Keep these claws in catboy. Show the world some soft pads. This is a bad cat, a big, bad panther.
— We fill in some fuckin Sherman Tank. Whaes he tae you? The smart cunt deserved ivraything he goat! Besides, ah didnae see you fucking lookin the other wey whin we wir in the fuckin snug at the Barley divvyin up the fuckin loot.
— The guy ended up unconscious in the hoespital, he loast a loat ay fuckin blood. It wis in the News . . .
— The cunt’s awright now though! It fuckin sais! Nae fuckin herm done tae nae cunt. N even if thir wis, so fuck? Some fuckin rich American cunt whae shouldnae even fuckin be here in the first place. Whae gies a fuck aboot that cunt? N you ya cunt, you’ve chibbed some cunt before; Eck Wilson, at the school, so dinnae you fuckin start gaun aw fuckin squeamish.
That sortay shuts Rents up cause he likesay hates talkin aboot that, but it sortay happened, ken? That wis jist lashin oot at some cat that wis scratchin ye like, no likesay plannin tae dae some radge ower. Beggars likesay cannae see the difference but. It wis bad though, really sick likesay . . . the Yank, the boy likes, jist wou
ldnae hand ower the wallet, even when Begbie pulled the chib, likesay . . . the last words ah heard the dude say wis: You won’t use that.
Begbie went fucking crazy, goat that carried away likesay, wi the bladework, ken, we nearly forgoat the wallet likes. Ah goat intae the guy’s poakits and fished it oot while Begbie wis bootin um in the face. Blood wis flowin intae the latrine, mixin wi the pish, Ugly, ugly, ugly man, likesay, ken? Ah still shake thinkin aboot it. Ah lie in bed n likes, shudder. Everytime ah see a punter, likesay, whae looks like our catboy, Richard Hauser of Des Moines, Iowa, USA, ah freeze. Whenever ah hear a Yank voice in the toon, ah jump. Violence is fuckin ugly man. The Beggar, dear old Franco, he raped us likesay, raped us aw that night, sort ay shafted us up oor erses n peyed us oaf, like we wir hoors man, ken likes? Bad cat Beggar. A wild, wild cat.
— Whae’s comin? Spud? Begbie’s talkin tae us. He’s bitin his bottom lip.
— Eh, likesay . . . eh . . . violence n that . . . isnae really ma sortay gig . . . ah’ll jist stey n git bombed . . . likesay, ken?
— Another shitein cunt, he turns away fae me . . . no disappointed, like he sort ay expects nothin fae us in this kinday gig likesay . . . which is mibbe good n mibbe no sae good, but who really kens the score aboot anything these days, likesay?
Sick Boy says somethin aboot bein a lover, no a fighter, and Begbie’s aboot tae say somethin, whin Matty goes: — Ah’m game.
This diverts Begbie’s attention fae Sick Boy. The Beggar Boy then starts tae praise Matty, likes, n calls us aw the shitein cunts under the sun; but it’s like tae me thit Matty’s the shitein cunt, likesay, because he’s the groover that goes along wi everything Franco sais . . . ah’ve never really liked Matty . . . one fucked up punter. Mates take the pish oot ay each other likes, bit whin Matty slags ye, it’s likesay, ye kin feel mair thin that, ye kin feel . . . likesay . . . hate, ken? Jist bein happy. That’s the crime whin Matty’s aboot. He cannae bear tae see a gadge happy, likesay.
Ah realise that ah never see Matty oan his ain, likesay. It’s likesay sometimes jist me n Rents . . . or jist me n Tommy . . . or jist me n Rab . . . or jist me n Sick Boy . . . or even jist me and Generalissimo Franco . . . but never jist me n Matty. That sortay sais something, likesay.
These bad cats leave the basket tae stalk their prey, and the atmosphere is like . . . brilliant. Sick Boy brings oot some E. White doves, ah think. It’s mental gear. Most Ecstasy hasnae any MDMA in it, it’s just likesay, ken, part speed, part acid in its effects . . . but the gear ah’ve hud is always jist likesay good speed, ken? This gear is pure freaky though, pure Zappaesque man . . . that’s the word, Zappaesque . . . ah’m thinkin aboot Frank Zappa wi Joe’s Garage n yellow snow n Jewish princesses n Catholic girls n ah think that it wid be really great tae huv a woman . . . tae love likesay . . . no shaggin likes, well no jist shaggin . . . but tae love, cause ah sortay feel like lovin everybody, but no sortay wi sex . . . jist huvin somebody tae love . . . but likesay Rents’ goat that Hazel n Sick Boy . . . well, Sick Boy’s goat tons ay burds . . . but these catpersons don’t seem any happier than moi . . .
— The other man’s grass is always greener, the sun shines brighter on the other side . . . ah’m fuckin singing likesay, ah never sing . . . ah’ve goat some gear n ah’m singing . . . ah’m thinkin aboot Frank Zappa’s daughter, Moon, likesay . . . she’d dae us fine . . . hingin oot wi her auld man . . . in the recording studio . . . jist tae see likesay the creative process, ken, the creative process . . .
— This is fuckin mad . . . goat tae move or ah’ll git gouchy . . . Sick Boy’s goat his hands in his heid.
Renton’s shirt’s unbuttoned n he’s sortay tweakin his nipples, likesay . . .
— Spud . . . look at ma nipples . . . they feel fuckin weird man . . . nae cunt’s goat nipples like mine . . .
Ah’m talkin tae him aboot love, n Rents says that love doesnae exist, it’s like religion, n likesay the state wants ye tae believe in that kinday crap so’s they kin control ye, n fuck yir heid up . . . some cats cannae enjoy thirsels withoot bringing in politics, ken . . . but he doesnae bring us doon . . . because, it’s likesay he doesnae believe it hissel . . . because . . . because wi laugh at everything in sight . . . the mad guy at the bar wi the burst blood-vessels in his coupon . . . the snobby English Festival-type lemon whae looks like somebody’s just farted under her nose . . .
Sick Boy sais: — Let’s hit the Meadows n take the fuckin pish ootay Begbie n Matty . . . straight, boring, draftpak, schemie cunts!
— Ris-kay catboy, ris-kay . . . he’s pure radge, likesay . . . ah sais.
— Let’s do it for the fans, Rents sais. Him n Sick Boy picked this up fae a Hibs programme advertising the Isle Of Man pre-season soccer tournament. It’s got Hibs top cat Alex Miller looking really stoned in the picture, wi the caption that sais, likesay, ‘Let’s Do It For The Fans’. Whenever thir’s drugs aroond . . . that’s what they say.
We float ootay the pub n cross over tae the Meadows. We start tae sing, likesay Sinatra, in exaggerated American Noo Yawk voices:
Yoo en I, were justa like-a kapil aff taahts
strollin acrass the Meadows
pickin up laahts aff farget-me-naahts.
Thir’s likesay two lassies comin doon the path towards us . . . we ken them . . . it’s likesay that wee Roseanna n Jill . . . two pure honey cats, fae that posh school, is it Gillespie’s or Mary Erskine’s? . . . they hing aboot the Southern likesay, for the sounds, the drugs, the experiences . . .
… Sick Boy outstretches his airms and sortay grabs wee Jill in a bear hug, n Rents likesay does the same wi Roseanna . . . ah’m left jist looking at the clouds likesay, Mr Spare Prick at a hoors convention.
Thir neckin away thegither. This is cruel man, cruel. Rents breks away first, but keeps his airm roond Roseanna. It’s a sortay joke wi Rents likesay . . . mind you . . . that wee bird Rents goat off wi at Donovan’s she wisnae that auld. What wis her name, Dianne? Bad cat, Rents. Sick Boy, well Sick Boy’s likesay bundled wee Jill against a tree.
— How ye daein doll? Whit ye up tae? he asks her.
— Goin to the Southern, she sais, a bit stoned . . . a little stoned princess, Jewish? No a blemish oan her face . . . wow, those chicks try tae act cool, but thir a bit nervous ay Rents n Sick Boy. They’ll let those superstar wasted junkies dae anything wi them, likes. Real cool chicks would slap their pusses, likesay, and jist watch the bastards crumble intae a heap. These lassies are playin at it . . . gaun through an upset-yir-posh-Ma-n-Dad phase . . . no thit Rents wid take advantage ay this, mind you, ah suppose he awready has, but Sick Boy’s a different matter. His hands are inside that wee Jill’s jeans . . .
— Ah know about you girls, that’s whair yis hide the drugs . . .
— Simon! I’ve not got anything! Simon! Siiimoon! . . .
Sensin a freak oot, he sortay lets the lassie go. Every cat laughs nervously, tryin tae aw pretend it wis a big game likesay, then they go.
— Mibbe see you dolls the night! Sick Boy shouts after them.
— Yeah . . . down the Southern, Jill shouts, walking backwards.
Sick Boy sortay likes, slaps his thigh. — Should’ve taken they wee rides back tae the gaff n banged thum senseless. Wee slags wir fuckin gantin oan it. It wis like he sais this tae hissel rather than me n Rents.
Rents starts shoutin and pointin.
— Si! There’s a fuckin squirrel at yir feet! Kill the cunt!
Sick Boy’s nearest tae it, n tries tae entice it tae him, but it scampers a bit away, movin really weird, archin its whole boady likesay. Magic wee silvery grey thing . . . ken?
Rents picks up a stane and flings it at the squirrel. Ah feel likes, sick, ma hert misses a beat as it whizzes past the wee gadge. He goes tae pick up another, laughin like a maniac, but ah stoap um.
— Leave it man. Squirrel’s botherin nae cunt likesay! Ah hate it the wey Mark’s intae hurtin animals . . . it’s wrong man. Ye cannae love yirsel if ye want tae hurt things like tha
t . . . ah mean . . . what hope is thir? The squirrel’s likes fuckin lovely. He’s daein his ain thing. He’s free. That’s mibbe what Rents cannae stand. The squirrel’s free, man.
Rents is still laughin as ah haud oantay um. Two posh lookin wifies, gie us the eye as they pass us. They look likesay, disgusted. Rents gits a glint in his eye.
— GIT A HAUD AY THE CUNT! he shouts at Sick Boy, but makin sure that the wifies kin hear um. — WRAP IT IN CELLOPHANE SO’S IT DISNAE SPLIT WHIN YE FUCK IT!
The squirrel’s dancin away fae Sick Boy, but the wifies turn roond and look really repelled by us, like we wir shite, ken? Ah’m laughin now n aw, bit still haudin oantay Rents.
— Whae’s that foostie-minged fucker starin at? Fuckin tearoom hag! Rents says, loud enough fir the wifies tae hear.
They turn and increase thir pace. Sick Boy shouts: — FUCK OFF GOBI DESERT FANNY! Then he turns tae us n sais, — Ah dinnae ken what these auld hounds are cruisin us for. Naebody’s gaunnae fuck them, even doon here at this time. Ah’d rather stick it between a couple ay B&Q sandin blocks.
— Fahk aff! You’d shag the crack ay dawn if it hud hairs oan it, Rents said.
Ah think he felt bad aboot this as soon as he said it, likesay, cause Dawn wis a wee bairn thit died, Lesley’s bairn, it died ay that cot death n that, likesay, n everybody sortay kens it wis likesay Sick Boy thit gied her the bairn . . .
Aw Sick Boy sais though, is: — Fuck off spunk-gullet. You’re the city dog pound man here. Every burd ah’ve fucked, and there has been plen-tee, has been worth fucking.
Ah remember this burd fae Stenhoose, thit Sick Boy once took hame whin he wis pished . . . couldnae really likesay say she wis anything special . . . ah suppose every cat’s got thir sortay achilles heel, ken.
— Eh, remember that Stenhoose chick, eh, what’s-her-name?
