Trainspotting by Irvine Welsh Read Free Book Online Page A

awright then. Ah’m jist gaun up tae the toilet.
    The gloves were still on top of the chest. She picked them up and put them in a jacket pocket, but her wet pants were there so she quickly removed the gloves, and put them in the other one. She looked around at Andy. There was something different about him. He was sweating. She saw him twitch. God, she was sure she saw him twitch. She touched his hand. It was warm.
    Nina ran downstairs. — It’s Uncle Andy! Ah think . . . ah think . . . ye should come . . . it’s like he’s still thair . . .
    They looked at her with incredulous expressions. Kenny was first to react, springing up the stairs three at a time, followed by Davie and Doctor Sim. Alice twitched nervously, open mouthed, but not really taking it in. — He wis a good man . . . nivir lifted his hands tae me . . . she moaned deliriously. Something inside her drove her to follow the herd upstairs.
    Kenny felt his brother’s sweaty brow, and his hand.
    — He’s burnin up! Andy’s no deid! ANDY’S NO DEID!
    Sim was about to examine the figure when he was pushed aside by Alice, who, having broken free of her constraints, fell upon the warm, pyjama-clad body.
    — ANDY! ANDY, KIN YE HEAR ME?
    Andy’s head bobbed to the side, his stupid, frozen expression never changing, his body remaining limp.
    Nina giggled nervously. Alice was seized and held like a dangerous psychotic. Men and women cooed and made soothing noises at her as Dr Sim examined Andy.
    — No. I’m sorry. Mr Fitzpatrick is dead. His heart has stopped, Sim said gravely. He stood back, and put his hand under the bedclothes. He then bent down and pulled a plug out of the wall. He picked up a white flex and pulled a hand switch which was attached to it, out from under the bed.
    — Someone left the electric blanket on. That explains the warmth of the body and the sweating, he announced.
    — Dearie me. Christ almighty, Kenny laughed. He saw Geoff’s eyes blazing at him. In self-justification he said: — Andy would be pishing hissel. Ye ken whit a sense ay humour Andy had. He turned his palms outwards.
    — You’re a fuckin arse . . . thirs Alice here . . . Geoff stammered, enraged, before turning and bolting from the room.
    — Geoff. Geoff. Wait the now, mate . . . Kenny pleaded. They heard the slamming of the front door.
    Nina thought that she would piss herself. Her sides ached, as she struggled to repress the spasms of laughter which shook through her. Cathy put her arm around her.
    — It’s awright darlin. There ye go hen. Dinnae worry yirsel, she said, as Nina realised that she was crying like a baby. Crying with a raw power and unselfconscious abandon as the tensions ebbed from her body and she became limp in Cathy’s arms. Memories, sweet childhood memories, flooded her consciousness. Memories of Andy and Alice, and the happiness and love that once lived here, in the home of her auntie and uncle.
    Victory On New Year’s Day
    — Happy New Year, ya wee cunt! Franco wrapped his arm around Stevie’s head. Stevie felt several neck muscles tear, as stiff, sober and self-conscious, he struggled to go with the flow.
    He returned the greeting as heartily as he could. There followed a round of Happy-New-Years; his tentative hands crushed, his stiff back slapped, his tight and unresponsive lips kissed. All he could think of was the phone, London and Stella.
    She hadn’t phoned: Worse, she hadn’t been in when he phoned. Not even at her mother’s. Stevie had gone back to Edinburgh and left the field clear for Keith Millard. The bastard would take full advantage. They’d be together right now, just like they probably were last night. Millard was a slag. So was Stevie. So was Stella. It was a bad combination. Stella was also the most wonderful person in the world in Stevie’s eyes. That fact made her less of a slag; in fact, not a slag at all.
    — Loosen up fir fuck sakes! It’s New fuckin Year! Franco not so much