Irvine Welsh - Trainspotting

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Irvine Welsh is the author of nine other works of fiction, most recently Crime , published by Jonathan Cape in 2008. He lives in Dublin.

ALSO BY IRVINE WELSH

Fiction

The Acid House

Marabou Stork Nightmares

Ecstasy

Filth

Glue

Porno

The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs

If You Liked School, Youll Love Work ...

Crime

Drama

Youll Have Had Your Hole

Screenplay

The Acid House

This ebook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publishers prior consent in any form (including any digital form) other than this in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Epub ISBN: 9781407019994

Version 1.0

www.randomhouse.co.uk

Published by Vintage 2004

8 10 9

Copyright Irvine Welsh 1993

Irvine Welsh has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

First published in Great Britain in 1993 by Secker & Warburg

First published by Vintage in 1999

Vintage

Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,

London SW1V 2SA

www.vintage-books.co.uk

Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm

The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 9780099465898

to Anne

Thanks to the following: Lesley Bryce, David Crystal, Margaret Fulton-Cook, Janice Galloway, Dave Harrold, Duncan McLean, Kenny McMillan, Sandy Macnair, David Millar, Robin Robertson, Julie Smith, Angela Sullivan, Dave Todd, Hamish Whyte, Kevin Williamson.

Versions of the following stories have appeared in other publications: The First Day Of The Edinburgh Festival in Scream If You Want To Go Faster: New Writing Scotland 9 (ASLS), Traditional Sunday Breakfast in DOG (Dec. 1991), It Goes Without Saying in West Coast Magazine No. 11, Trainspotting at Leith Central Station in A Parcel of Rogues (Clocktower Press), Grieving and Mourning In Port Sunshine in Rebel Inc No. 1 and Her Man, The Elusive Mr Hunt and Winter In West Granton in Past Tense (Clocktower Press). The second part of Memories of Matty also appeared in the aforementioned Clocktower Press publication as After The Burning.

Contents

The Skag Boys, Jean-Claude Van Damme and Mother Superior ; Junk Dilemmas No. 63 ; The First Day of the Edinburgh Festival ; In Overdrive ; Growing Up In Public ; Victory On New Years Day ; It Goes Without Saying ; Junk Dilemmas No. 64 ; Her Man ; Speedy Recruitment Scotland Takes Drugs In Psychic Defence ; The Glass ; A Disappointment ; Cock Problems ; Traditional Sunday Breakfast ; Junk Dilemmas No. 65 ; Grieving and Mourning In Port Sunshine Inter Shitty ; Na Na and Other Nazis ; The First Shag In Ages ; Strolling Through The Meadows Courting Disaster ; Junk Dilemmas No. 66 ; Deid Dugs ; Searching for the Inner Man ; House Arrest ; Bang To Rites ; Junk Dilemmas No. 67 London Crawling ; Bad Blood ; There Is A Light That Never Goes Out ; Feeling Free ; The Elusive Mr Hunt Easy Money for the Professionals ; A Present ; Memories of Matty ; Straight Dilemmas No. 1 ; Eating Out ; Trainspotting at Leith Central Station ; A Leg-Over Situation ; Winter In West Granton ; A Scottish Soldier Station to Station

Kicking

The Skag Boys, Jean-Claude Van Damme and Mother Superior

The sweat wis lashing oafay Sick Boy; he wis trembling. Ah wis jist sitting thair, focusing oan the telly, tryin no tae notice the cunt. He wis bringing me doon. Ah tried tae keep ma attention oan the Jean-Claude Van Damme video.

As happens in such movies, they started oaf wi an obligatory dramatic opening. Then the next phase ay the picture involved building up the tension through introducing the dastardly villain and sticking the weak plot thegither. Any minute now though, auld Jean-Claudes ready tae git doon tae some serious swedgin.

Rents. Ahve goat tae see Mother Superior, Sick Boy gasped, shaking his heid.

Aw, ah sais. Ah wanted the radge tae jist fuck off ootay ma visage, tae go oan his ain, n jist leave us wi Jean-Claude. Oan the other hand, ahd be gitting sick tae before long, and if that cunt went n scored, hed haud oot oan us. They call um Sick Boy, no because hes eywis sick wi junk withdrawal, but because hes just one sick cunt.

Lets fuckin go, he snapped desperately.

Haud oan a second. Ah wanted tae see Jean-Claude smash up this arrogant fucker. If we went now, ah wouldnae git tae watch it. Ahd be too fucked by the time we goat back, and in any case it wid probably be a few days later. That meant ahd git hit fir fuckin back charges fi the shoap oan a video ah hudnae even goat a deek at.

Ahve goat tae fuckin move man! he shouts, standing up. He moves ower tae the windae and rests against it, breathing heavily, looking like a hunted animal. Theres nothing in his eyes but need.

Ah switched the box oaf at the handset. Fuckin waste. Thats aw it is, a fuckin waste, ah snarled at the cunt, the fuckin irritating bastard.

He flings back his heid n raises his eyes tae the ceiling. Ahll gie ye the money tae git it back oot. Is that aw yir sae fuckin moosey-faced aboot? Fifty measley fuckin pence ootay Ritz!

This cunt has a wey ay makin ye feel a real petty, trivial bastard.

Thats no the fuckin point, ah sais, but withoot conviction.

Aye. The point is ahm really fuckin sufferin here, n ma so-called mates draggin his feet deliberately, lovin every fuckin minute ay it! His eyes seem the size ay fitbas n look hostile, yet pleadin at the same time; poignant testimonies tae ma supposed betrayal. If ah ever live long enough tae huv a bairn, ah hope it never looks at us like Sick Boy does. The cunt is irresistible oan this form.

Ah wisnae... ah protested.

Fling yir fuckin jaykit oan well!

At the Fit ay the Walk thir wir nae taxis. They only congregated here when ye didnae need them. Supposed tae be August, but ahm fuckin freezing ma baws oaf here. Ahm no sick yet, but its in the fuckin post, thats fir sure.

Supposed tae be a rank. Supposed tae be a fuckin taxi rank. Nivir fuckin git one in the summer. Up cruising fat, rich festival cunts too fuckin lazy tae walk a hundred fuckin yards fae one poxy church hall tae another fir thir fuckin show. Taxi drivers. Money-grabbin bastards... Sick Boy muttered deliriously and breathlessly tae hissel, eyes bulging and sinews in his neck straining as his heid craned up Leith Walk.

At last one came. There were a group ay young guys in shell-suits n bomber jaykits whaed been standin thair longer than us. Ah doubt if Sick Boy even saw them. He charged straight oot intae the middle ay the Walk screaming: TAXI!

Hi! Whits the fuckin score? One guy in a black, purple and aqua shell-suit wi a flat-top asks.

Git tae fuck. We wir here first, Sick Boy sais, opening the taxi door. Thirs another yin comin. He gestured up the Walk at an advancing black cab.

Lucky fir youse. Smart cunts.

Fuck off, ya plukey-faced wee hing oot. Git a fuckin ride! Sick Boy snarled as we piled intae the taxi.

Tollcross mate, ah sais tae the driver as gob splattered against the side windae.

Square go then smart cunt! Cmoan ya crappin bastards! the shell-suit shouted. The taxi driver wisnae amused. He looked a right cunt. Maist ay them do. The stamp-peyin self-employed ur truly the lowest form ay vermin oan gods earth.

The taxi did a u-turn and sped up the Walk.

See whit yuv done now, ya big-moothed cunt. Next time one ay us ur walkin hame oan oor Jack Jones, wi git hassle fi these wee radges. Ah wisnae chuffed at Sick Boy.

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