Read Online Trainspotting by Irvine Welsh - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Irvine Welsh
Tags: Fiction, General, Humorous, Young men, Psychology, Travel, Unread, Psychopathology, Addiction, Drug addicts, Edinburgh (Scotland), Narcotic addicts
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fuck.
Sick Boy comes back through. His boady's strainin, seemingly fae the neck, as if against the limits ay an invisible leash. He sounds terrible. His voice reminded us ay the demon's in the film The Exorcist. It shit us up.
– Fuck. . . some fuckin life, eh? Somethin like this happens, what the fuck dae ye dae?
Eh?
Ah've never seen um like this before, and ah've kent the bastard practically aw my life. –
What's wrong Si? What's the fuckin score?
He moves towards us. Ah thought he wis gaunnae kick us. We're best mates but we've hit each other before, in drink or rage when one ay us has wound the other up Nowt serious, jist sort ay lashing out in anger. Mates kin dae that. No now though, no wi me startin tae feel sick. Ma bones wid huv splintered intae a million fragments had the cunt done that. He jist stood ower us. Thank fuck. Oh, thank you Sick Boy, Simon.
– The gig's fucked. It's aw fuckin fucked! he moans, in a high, desperate whine. It was like a dug that had been run ower and wis waiting fir some cunt tae pit it oot ay its misery. Matty and Spud haul themselves up, and go through tae the bedroom. Ah follow, pushing past Sick Boy. Ah can feel death in the room before ah even see the bairn. It wis lying face doon in its cot. It, naw, she, wis cauld and deid, blue aroond the eyes Ah didnae huv tae touch her tae ken.
23
Just lyin thair like a discarded wee doll at the bottom ay some kid's wardrobe. That wee. So fuckin small. Wee Dawn. Fuckin shame.
– Wee Dawn . . . ah cannae believe it. Fuckin sin man . . Matty sais, shakin his heid.
– Fuckin heavy this . . eh, likesay em, fuck . . Spud pits his chin oan his chest and exhales slowly.
Matty's heid's still shakin. He looks like he's gaun tae implode.
– Ah'm fuckin right ootay here, man. Ah cannae fuckin handle this.
– Fuck it Matty! Nae cunt's leavin here the now! Sick Boy shouts.
– Stay cool man. Stay cool, sais Spud, whae sounds anything but.
– We've goat fuckin gear stashed here. This street's been crawlin wi the fuckin DS for weeks now. We fuckin charge oaf now, we aw fuckin go doon. Thir's polis bastards every fuckin where ootside, sais Sick Boy, strugglin tae compose hissel. Thoughts ay polis involvement eywis concentrated the mind. On the issue of drugs, we wir classical liberals, vehemently opposed tae state intervention in any form.
– Aye, but mibbe we should git the fuck ootay here. Lesley can git the ambulance or polis once wuv tidied up and fucked off. Ah still agreed wi Matty.
– Hey . . mibbe wuv goat tae stick wi Les, likesay. Like, mates n that. Ken? Spud ventures. That sort av solidarity seems a bit ay a fanciful notion in the circumstances. Matty shakes his heid again. He'd just done six months in Saughton. If he wis done again, that wid be him well fucked. Ootside though, there were pigs cruising aboot. At least that's how it felt. Sick Boy's imagery had got tae me mair thin Spud's pleas tae stick thegither. Flushing aw our gear down the lavvy was just not on. Ah'd rather get sent doon.
– The way ah see it, sais Matty, is thit it's Lesley's bairn, ken? Mibbe if she'd looked eftir it right, it might not be deid. How should we git involved?
Sick Boy starts hyperventilatin.
– Hate tae say it, bit Matty's goat a point, ah sais. Ah'm startin tae hurt really badly. Ah jist want tae take a shot and fuck off.
Sick Boy's noncommittal. This is weird. Normally the bastard's barking orders at every cunt in sight, whither they take any notice or no.
Spud sais: – We cannae, likesay, leave Les here on her puff, that's eh, ah mean like, fuck. Ken what ah mean? Ah'm looking at Sick Boy. – Whae gied her the bairn? ah ask. Sick Boy sais nothing.
– Jimmy McGilvary, Matty sais.
– Shite it fuckin wis, Sick Boy dismissively sneers.
– Dinnae you play Mister–fuckin–innocent, Matty turns oan me.
– Eh? 'Moan tae fuck! Whit you oan aboot? ah respond, genuinely fuckin perplexed at the bastard's outburst.
– You
Sick Boy comes back through. His boady's strainin, seemingly fae the neck, as if against the limits ay an invisible leash. He sounds terrible. His voice reminded us ay the demon's in the film The Exorcist. It shit us up.
– Fuck. . . some fuckin life, eh? Somethin like this happens, what the fuck dae ye dae?
Eh?
Ah've never seen um like this before, and ah've kent the bastard practically aw my life. –
What's wrong Si? What's the fuckin score?
He moves towards us. Ah thought he wis gaunnae kick us. We're best mates but we've hit each other before, in drink or rage when one ay us has wound the other up Nowt serious, jist sort ay lashing out in anger. Mates kin dae that. No now though, no wi me startin tae feel sick. Ma bones wid huv splintered intae a million fragments had the cunt done that. He jist stood ower us. Thank fuck. Oh, thank you Sick Boy, Simon.
– The gig's fucked. It's aw fuckin fucked! he moans, in a high, desperate whine. It was like a dug that had been run ower and wis waiting fir some cunt tae pit it oot ay its misery. Matty and Spud haul themselves up, and go through tae the bedroom. Ah follow, pushing past Sick Boy. Ah can feel death in the room before ah even see the bairn. It wis lying face doon in its cot. It, naw, she, wis cauld and deid, blue aroond the eyes Ah didnae huv tae touch her tae ken.
23
Just lyin thair like a discarded wee doll at the bottom ay some kid's wardrobe. That wee. So fuckin small. Wee Dawn. Fuckin shame.
– Wee Dawn . . . ah cannae believe it. Fuckin sin man . . Matty sais, shakin his heid.
– Fuckin heavy this . . eh, likesay em, fuck . . Spud pits his chin oan his chest and exhales slowly.
Matty's heid's still shakin. He looks like he's gaun tae implode.
– Ah'm fuckin right ootay here, man. Ah cannae fuckin handle this.
– Fuck it Matty! Nae cunt's leavin here the now! Sick Boy shouts.
– Stay cool man. Stay cool, sais Spud, whae sounds anything but.
– We've goat fuckin gear stashed here. This street's been crawlin wi the fuckin DS for weeks now. We fuckin charge oaf now, we aw fuckin go doon. Thir's polis bastards every fuckin where ootside, sais Sick Boy, strugglin tae compose hissel. Thoughts ay polis involvement eywis concentrated the mind. On the issue of drugs, we wir classical liberals, vehemently opposed tae state intervention in any form.
– Aye, but mibbe we should git the fuck ootay here. Lesley can git the ambulance or polis once wuv tidied up and fucked off. Ah still agreed wi Matty.
– Hey . . mibbe wuv goat tae stick wi Les, likesay. Like, mates n that. Ken? Spud ventures. That sort av solidarity seems a bit ay a fanciful notion in the circumstances. Matty shakes his heid again. He'd just done six months in Saughton. If he wis done again, that wid be him well fucked. Ootside though, there were pigs cruising aboot. At least that's how it felt. Sick Boy's imagery had got tae me mair thin Spud's pleas tae stick thegither. Flushing aw our gear down the lavvy was just not on. Ah'd rather get sent doon.
– The way ah see it, sais Matty, is thit it's Lesley's bairn, ken? Mibbe if she'd looked eftir it right, it might not be deid. How should we git involved?
Sick Boy starts hyperventilatin.
– Hate tae say it, bit Matty's goat a point, ah sais. Ah'm startin tae hurt really badly. Ah jist want tae take a shot and fuck off.
Sick Boy's noncommittal. This is weird. Normally the bastard's barking orders at every cunt in sight, whither they take any notice or no.
Spud sais: – We cannae, likesay, leave Les here on her puff, that's eh, ah mean like, fuck. Ken what ah mean? Ah'm looking at Sick Boy. – Whae gied her the bairn? ah ask. Sick Boy sais nothing.
– Jimmy McGilvary, Matty sais.
– Shite it fuckin wis, Sick Boy dismissively sneers.
– Dinnae you play Mister–fuckin–innocent, Matty turns oan me.
– Eh? 'Moan tae fuck! Whit you oan aboot? ah respond, genuinely fuckin perplexed at the bastard's outburst.
– You
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