by Irvine Welsh
— Fuck. Sorry Spud, Laura said, open-mouthed.
She helped him off the bed, and assisted him into the toilet. He hopped along, tears of pain blinding him. She filled the sink with water, and then left the room to search for knife to cut the binding on his ankles and wrists.
Balancing precariously, Spud put his cock into the water. It stung even more violently, the shock making him recoil. As he fell back, his head crashed against the toilet bowl and split open above his eye. When Laura came back, Spud was unconscious, and thick, dark blood was oozing onto the lino.
Laura called the ambulance, and Spud woke up in hospital with six stitches above his eye, heavily concussed.
He never did get to fuck her in the arsehole. The rumour was that a frustrated Laura phoned up Sick Boy shortly after this, who came and stood in for his friend.
Soon after this disaster, Spud turned his attention to Nicola Hanlon.
— Eh, surprised wee Nicky wisnae it the perty, likesay . . . wee Nicky, ken, likesay? he told Gav.
— Aye. She’s a dirty wee hoor. Takes it aw weys, Gav said casually.
— Aye?
Noting, and savouring, the ill-disguised trepidation and concern on Spud’s face, Gav continues, gleeful inside, but talking in a stiff, brisk, businesslike manner. — Aw aye. Ah’ve poked it a few times. No a bad wee ride, likes. Sick Boy’s been thair. Rents n aw. Ah think Tommy tae. He wis certainly sniffin roond it fir a bit.
— Aye? . . . eh, right . . . Spud feels deflated, and optimistic at the same time. He’ll have to try to stay straighter, he resolves, thinking that he seems to miss everything that is going on under his nose.
Over at the table, Begbie indicates that he is in need of more solid nourishment: — Ah’m fuckin Lee Marvin. Lit’s git some scran, then hit a decent fuckin boozer. He looks bitterly around the cavernous, nicotine-stained bar, like an arrogant aristocrat finding himself in reduced circumstances. In fact, he has just seen the old drunkard at the bar.
It is still dark when they leave the pub, and go to a cafe in Portland Street.
— Fill breakfasts aw roond, Begbie enthusiastically looks at the others.
They all nod approvingly, except Renton.
— Naw. Ah’m no wantin meat, he says.
— Ah’ll huv your fuckin bacon n sausage n fuckin black puddin then, Begbie suggests.
— Aye, sure, Renton says sarcastically.
— Ah’ll fuckin swap ye ma fuckin egg n beans n tomatay then ya cunt!
— Awright, begins Renton, then he turns to the waitress. — Dae ye use vegetable oil whin ye fry, or fat?
— Naw, fat, the waitress says, looking at him as if he is an imbecile.
— Moantae fuck, Rents. Makes nae difference, Gav says.
— S up tae Mark what he eats, Kelly says supportively. Alison nods. Renton feels like a smug pimp.
— Fuckin well spoilin it fir ivray cunt, Rents, Begbie growls.
— How am ah spoilin it? Cheese salad roll, he turns to the waitress.
— We aw fuckin agreed. Fill fuckin breakfasts aw roond, Begbie states.
Renton cannot believe this. He wants to tell Begbie to fuck off. Instead he fights the instinct and slowly shakes his head. — Ah dinnae eat meat, Franco.
— Fuckin vegetarianism. Fuckin loaday shite. Ye need meat. A fuckin junky fuckin worryin aboot what he pits in his boady! That’s a fuckin laugh!
— Jist dinnae like meat, Renton says, feelin silly as they all snigger.
— Dinnae fuckin tell us ye hate killin fuckin animals. Remember they fuckin dugs n cats we used tae fuckin shoot wi the air rifles! N the fuckin pigeons we used tae set oan fire. Used tae fuckin tape bangers — fireworks likes — tae white mice, this cunt.
— No bothered aboot killin animals. Jist dinnae like eatin thurn, Renton shrugs, embarrassed that his adolescent cruelties have been exposed to Kelly.
— Fuckin cruel bastards. Dinnae ken how anybody could shoot a dug, Alison sneers, shaking her head.
— Well, ah dinnae ken now anybody could kill and eat a pig, Renton points to the bacon and sausage on her plate.
— S no the same.
Spud looks around: — It’s eh, likesay . . . Rents is daein the right thing, but it’s kinday the wrong reasons. We’ll nivir likesay, learn tae love oorsels, until we kin look eftir weaker things, likesay animals n that . . . but it’s good thit Rents is vegetarian . . . likesay, if ye kin keep it up . . . likesay . . .
Begbie vibrates his body in a floppy way and gives the peace sign to Spud. The others laugh. Renton, appreciative at Spud’s attempt to back him up, cuts in to deflect the slagging away from his ally.
— Keepin it up’s nae problem. Ah jist hate meat. It makes us puke. Endy story.
— Well, ah still fuckin say yir fuckin spoilin it fir ivray cunt else.
— How?
— Cause ah fuckin sais, that’s fuckin how! Begbie hisses, pointing to himself.
Renton shrugs again. There was little sense in arguing further.
They hurry the meal down, all except Kelly, who plays with her food, oblivious to the ravenous stares of the others. Eventually, she scrapes some bits and pieces onto Franco and Gav’s empty plates.
They are asked to leave after chanting: — Oooh to, ooh to be, oooh to be a Hibby! when a nervous and uncomfortable looking guy in a Hearts shell-top walks in for a takeaway. This sets off a medley of football and crap pop songs. The woman at the counter threatens to phone the police, but they vacate the premises with good grace.
They stop off at another pub. Renton and Kelly stay for one drink, then slope off together. Gav, Dawsy, Begbie, Spud and Alison continue drinking heavily. Dawsy, who has been teetering for some time, passes out. Begbie gets in tow with a couple of psychos that he knows at the bar, and Gav has a proprietory arm around Alison.
Spud hears T’Pau’s ‘China In Your Hand’ starting, and immediately realises that Begbie is up at the juke-box. He always seemed to put on either that one, Berlin’s ‘Take My Breath Away’, the Human League’s ‘Don’t You Want Me’ or a Rod Stewart song.
When Gav staggers off to the toilet, Alison turns to Spud. — Spu . . . Danny. Let’s get ootay here. Ah want tae go hame.
— Eh . . . aye . . . likesay.
— Ah dinnae want tae go hame oan ma ain Danny. Come wi us.
— Eh, yeah . . . hame, right . . . eh . . . right.
They slink out of the smoke-filled bar as surreptitiously as their wasted bodies allow.
— Come hame an stey wi us fir a while Danny. Nae drugs or anything. Ah dinnae want tae be oan ma ain just now, Danny. Ken what ah’m sayin? Alison looks at him tensely, tearfully, as they lurch along the street.
Spud nods. He thinks he knows what she is saying, because he doesn’t want to be alone either. He can never be sure though, never, ever quite sure.
Feeling Free
Alison’s getting really terrible. Ah’m sitting here wi her in this cafe, tryin tae make sense ay the rubbish that she’s talkin. She’s bad-mouthing Mark, which is fair enough, but it’s starting tae get oan ma wick. I know that she means well, but what about her and Simon, who just comes along and uses her when he’s got naebody else tae fuck? She isnae exactly in the best position tae talk.
— Dinnae get me wrong, Kelly. Ah like Mark. It’s jist that he’s goat a load ay problems. He isnae what you need right now.
Ali’s being protective because ah got fucked about wi Des, and the abortion and aw that. It’s such a pain in the arse though. She should hear herself. Tryin tae kick heroin, n she feels she’s in a position tae tell everybody else how tae live thir lives.
— Aw aye, n Simon’s what you need?
— Ah’m no sayin that Kelly. That’s nothing tae dae wi it. Simon’s at least tryin tae keep off the smack, Mark doesnae gie a toss.
— Mark isnae a junky, he jist uses sometimes.
— Aye sure. What fuckin planet are you oan Kelly? That’s how that Hazel lassie tore up his caird. He cannae l
eave the gear alane. You’re even talkin like a junky yirsel. Keep thinkin like that, n you’ll be oan it as well, soon enough.
Ah’m no gaunnae argue wi her. It’s time for her appointment at the Housing Department anywey.
Ali’s doon tae see aboot her rent arrears. She’s pretty mad, like, screwed-up and tense; but the guy behind the desk’s awright. Ali explains that she’s oaf the gear n she’s been for a few job interviews. It goes quite well. She gits given a set amount tae pay back each week.
Ah kin tell thit Ali’s still uptight though, because ay the wey she reacts when these guys, workies, whistle at us ootside the GPO.
— Awright doll? one shouts.
Ali, crazy fuckin cow that she is, turns oan the guy.
— Have you goat a girlfriend? Ah doubt it, because yir a fat, ugly prick. Why no just go intae the toilet wi a dirty book and have sex wi the only person crazy enough tae touch ye — yirsel.
The guy looks at her wi real hate, but he was lookin like that anywey. It’s only like, now he’s got a reason tae hate her, rather than just because she’s a woman.
The guy’s mates are gaun: — Whoooaah! Whoooaah!, sortay egging this guy on, n he’s jist standin thair shakin wi anger. One ay the workies is danglin like an ape fi the scaffoldin. That’s what thir like, low primates. Too mad!
— Fuck off ya boot! he snarls.
Ali stands her ground though. This is embarrassing, but sortay fun n aw, cause a few people have stopped tae check out the hassle. Two other women, like student types wi backpacks, are standing alongside us. It makes me feel, like really good. Crazy!
Ali, god, that woman is mental, sais: — So ah wis a doll a minute ago whin ye wir hasslin us. Now that ah tell ye tae fuck off, ah’m a boot. Well, you are still a fat, ugly prick, son, and ye always will be.
— And so say all of us, one ay the backpacker women sais, in an Australian accent.
— Fuckin dykes! another guy shouts. That gets right on ma tits, getting called a dyke, just because ah object tae being hassled by revolting, ignorant radges.
— If aw guys wir as repulsive as you, ah’d be fuckin proud tae be a lesbian, son! ah shouts back. Did ah really say that? Too mad!
— You guys have obviously got a problem. Why don’t you just go and fuck each other? the other Aussie says.
Quite a crowd’s gathered and two auld wifies are listening in.
— That’s terrible. Lassies talkin like that tae the laddies, one sais.
— It’s no terrible at aw. Thir bloody pests. It’s good tae see young lassies stickin up for thirsels. Wish it happened in ma day.
— The language though, Hilda, the language. The first wifie puckers her lips and shudders.
— Aye, well what aboot their language? ah sais tae her.
The guys are looking embarrassed, really shit up by the crowd that’s developed. It’s sortay like, feeding off itself. Crazy! Then this foreman, playin at being fuckin Rambo, comes along.
— Can’t you control these animals? one ay the Aussie women sais. — Haven’t they got any work to do instead of harassing people?
— Back inside yous! the foreman snaps, gesturing the guys away. We sortay let oot a cheer. It wis brilliant. Crazy!
Me n Ali went back over the road tae the Cafe Rio wi the Aussies and the two wifies came along as well. The ‘Aussies’ actually turned out tae be New Zealand lassies, who were lesbians, but that’s got fuck all tae dae wi anything. They were jist travelling around the world together. That’s too mad! Ah’d love tae gie that a go. Me n Ali; that would be crazy. Imagine coming tae Scotland in November, but. That is too fundamentally mad. We all just blethered for ages about everything in sight, and even Ali didnae seem so screwed up aboot things.
Eftir a bit we decided tae go back tae ma place for a smoke ay hash and some more tea. We tried tae get the wifies tae come, but they had tae go hame and get their men’s teas on, despite us telling them to let the bastards get their ain food.
One was really tempted: — Ah wish ah wis your age again hen, ah’d dae it aw different, ah kin tell ye.
Ah’m feelin brilliant, really likes, free. We all are. Magic! Ali, Veronica and Jane (the New Zealanders) and masel got really stoned back at ma place. We slagged off men, agreeing that they are stupid, inadequate and inferior creatures. Ah’ve never felt so close tae other women before, and I really did wish I was gay. Sometimes I think that all men are good for is the odd shag. Other than that, they can be a real fuckin pain. Mibbe that’s crazy, but it’s true when you think aboot it. Our problem is, we don’t think aboot it that often and jist accept the bullshit these pricks dish oot tae us.
The door goes, and it’s Mark. Ah cannae help smirkin in his face. He comes in looking completely bewildered as we fall aboot laughing at him, stoned oota oor boxes. Mibbe it’s the dope, but he just looks so strange; men just look so strange, these funny, flat bodies and weird heads. It’s like Jane said, they’re freaky looking things that cairry their reproductive organs on the ootside ay their bodies. Pure radge!
— Awright doll! Ali shouts, in a mock workie’s voice.
— Get ’em off! Veronica laughs.
— Ah’ve fuckin shagged it. No a bad fuckin ride as ah remember. Bit oan the fuckin smaw side likes! ah sais, pointing at him, impersonating Franco’s voice. Frank Begbie, every woman’s dream, I don’t think, has been getting well slagged by me and Ali.
He takes it well though, poor Mark, ah’ll say that for him. Just shakes his heid n laughs.
— Ah’ve obviously called at an inconvenient time. Ah’ll gie ye a bell the morn, he sais tae me.
— Aw . . . perr Mark . . . wir just havin a woman’s crack . . . ye ken the score . . . Ali sais, guiltily. Ah laugh oot loud at what she said.
— Which woman’s crack are we havin? ah sais. We’re all fallin about laughing wildly. Ali n me maybe should’ve been born men, wi see sex in everything. Especially when wir stoned.
— It’s awright. See yis, he turns n leaves, giein me a wink.
— I suppose some of them are okay, Jane sais, eftir we’ve composed oorselves.
— Aye, when they’re in the fucking minority thir okay, ah sais, wondering where the edge in ma voice had come fae, then no want in tae wonder too much.
The Elusive Mr Hunt
Kelly is working behind the bar at a punter’s pub in the South Side. She is kept busy, as it is a popular shop. It is particularly mobbed out this Saturday afternoon when Renton, Spud and Gav call in for a drink.
Sick Boy, positioned at the phone in another pub over the road, calls the bar.
— Be wi ye in a minute Mark, Kelly says, as Renton goes up to get the drinks in. She picks up the ringing phone. — Rutherford’s Bar, she sings.
— Hi, says Sick Boy, disguising his voice, Malcolm Rifkind merchant-school style. — Is there a Mark Hunt in the bar?
— Thir’s a Mark Renton, Kelly tells him. Sick Boy thinks for a second that he’s been rumbled. However, he carries on.
— No, it’s Mark Hunt I’m looking for, the plummy voice stresses.
— MARK HUNT! Kelly shouts across the bar. The drinkers, who are almost exclusively male, look around at her; faces breaking into smiles. — ANYBODY SEEN MARK HUNT? Some guys at the bar collapse into loud laughter.
— Naw, but ah’d like tae! one says.
Kelly still doesn’t catch on. With a puzzled expression at the reaction she is getting, she says: — This guy on the phone wis after Mark Hunt . . . then her voice tails off, her eyes widen and she puts her hand to her mouth, understanding at last.
— He’s no the only one, Renton smiles, as Sick Boy comes into the pub.
They practically have to hold each other up, as they are so overwhelmed with laughter.
Kelly throws the half-empty contents of a water jug at them, but they scarcely notice. While it’s all a laugh to them, she feels humiliated. She feels bad about feeling bad, about not being able to take a joke.
Until she realises that it�
�s not the joke that bothers her, but the men in the bar’s reaction to it. Behind the bar, she feels like a caged animal in a zoo who has done something amusing. She watches their faces, distorted into a red, gaping, gloating commonality. The joke is on the woman again, she thinks, the silly wee lassie behind the bar.
Renton looks at her and sees her pain and anger. It cuts him up. It confuses him. Kelly has a great sense of humour. What’s wrong with her? The knee-jerk thought: Wrong time of the month is forming in his head when he looks about and picks up the intonations of the laughter around the bar. It’s not funny laughter.
This is lynch mob laughter.
How was ah tae know, he thinks. How the fuck was ah tae know?
Easy Money for the Professionals
It wis a piece ay pish, a total piece ay pish, but likesay, Begbie’s so fuckin uncool man; ah’m tellin ye, likes.
— Say fuckin nowt tae nae cunt, mind. Nowt tae nae fucker, he sais tae us.
— Eh, likesay, readin ye loud n clear man, likesay, crystal clear. Chill oot Franco man, chill oot. We cracked the gig likesay, ken.
— Aye, but fuckin nowt tae nae cunt. No even fuckin Rents n that. Mind.
There’s nae reasoning wi some cats. You say ‘reason’, they mew ‘treason’. Ken?
— N nae fuckin drugs. Keep the fuckin dough back fir a bit, he adds. Now the cat is tellin us how tae spend the brass, likesay.
This is a tacky scene, likes. We’ve goat a couple ay grand apiece, eftir wuv peyed oaf the young guy, likesay, and this cat’s fur’s still standin oan end. The Beggar-boy is one feline whae willnae jist curl up in a nice warm basket n purrrrrrr . . .
We down another pint, then call a Joe Baxi. These sports bags wir cairryin man, they should have SWAG oan the side ay thurn, instead ay ADIDAS and HEAD, likesay. Two fuckin grand, likes. Phoah! Don’t you-ho be te-heh-heh-rified, it’s just a token of my extreme . . . as the other Franco, one Mister Zappa, would say.
The taxi takes us tae Begbie’s. June’s in, and she’s got the Begbie ankle-biter up, oan her lap.
— Bairn woke, she sais tae Franco, likesay she’s explainin. Franco looks at her like he wants tae kill them baith.
