Trainspotting by Irvine Welsh Read Free Book Online Page B

suggested, as commanded. That was his way. People would be forced to enjoy themselves if necessary.
    It generally wasn’t necessary. They were all frighteningly high. It was difficult for Stevie to reconcile this world with the one he’d just left. Now he was aware of them looking at him. Who were they these people? What did they want? The answer was that they were his friends, and they wanted him.
    A song on the turntable drilled into his consciousness, adding to his misery.
    I loved a lassie, a bonnie, bonnie lassie,
    She’s as sweet as the heather in the glen,
    She’s as sweet as the heather,
    The bonnie purple heather,
    Mary, ma Scots bluebell.
    They all joined in with gusto. — Cannae beat Harry Lauder. It New Year, likesay, Dawsie remarked.
    In the joy of the faces around him, Stevie gained a measurement of his own misery. The pit of melancholy was a bottomless one, and he was descending fast, falling further away from the good times. Such times often seemed tantalisingly within reach; he could see them, going on all around him. His mind was like a cruel prison, giving his captive soul a sight of freedom, but no more.
    Stevie sipped his can of Export and hoped that he could get through the night without bringing too many people down. Frank Begbie was the main problem. It was his flat, and he was determined that everyone was going to have a good time.
    — Ah goat yir ticket fir the match the night, Stevie. Intae they Jambo cunts, Renton said to him.
    — Naebody watchin it in the pub? Ah thoat it wis oan satellite, likesay.
    Sick Boy, who’d been chatting up a small, dark-haired girl Stevie didn’t know, turned to him.
    — Git tae fuck Stevie. You’re pickin up some bad habits doon in London, ah’m tellin ye man. I fucking detest televised football. It’s like shagging wi a durex oan. Safe fuckin sex, safe fuckin fitba, safe fuckin everything. Let’s all build a nice safe wee world around ourselves, he mocked, his face contorting. Stevie had forgotten the extent of Sick Boy’s natural outrage.
    Rents agreed with Sick Boy. That was unusual, thought Stevie. They were always slagging each other off. Generally, if one said sugar, the other said shite. — They should ban aw fitba oan the telly, and get the lazy, fat fucks oaf their erses and along tae the games.
    — Yis talked us intae it, Stevie said in resigned tones.
    The unity between Rents and Sick Boy didn’t last.
    — You kin talk aboot gittin oaf yir erse. Mister fuckin couch tattie hissel. Keep oaf the H for mair thin ten minutes and ye might make mair games this season thin ye did the last one, Sick Boy sneered.
    — You’ve goat a fuckin nerve ya cunt . . . Rents turned tae Stevie, then flicked his thumb derisively in Sick Boy’s direction. — They wir callin this cunt Boots because ay the drugs he wis cairryin.
    They bickered on. Stevie would once have enjoyed this. Now it was draining him.
    — Remember Stevie, ah’ll be steyin wi ye fir a bit in February, Rents said to him. Stevie nodded grimly. He’d been hoping Rents had forgotten all about this, or would drop it. Rents was a mate, but he had a problem with drugs. In London, he’d be straight back on the gear again, teaming up with Tony and Nicksy. They were always sorting out addresses where they could pick up giros from. Rents never seemed to work, but always seemed to have money. The same with Sick Boy, but he treated everybody else’s cash as his own, and his own in exactly the same way.
    — Perty at Matty’s eftir the game. His new place in Lorne Street. Be thair sharp, Frank Begbie shouted over at them.
    Another party. It was almost like work to Stevie. New Year will go on and on. It’ll start to fade about the 4th, when the gaps between the parties start to appear. These gaps get bigger until they become the normal week, with the parties happening at the weekend.
    More first foots arrived. The small flat was heaving. Stevie had never seen Franco, the Beggar, so at ease with