Trainspotting by Irvine Welsh

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, held 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 himself Rab McLaughlin, or Second Prize, as they called him, hadn't even been assaulted when he'd pished up the back of Begbie's curtains. Second Prize had been incoherently drunk for weeks now. New Year was a convenient camouflage for people like him. His girlfriend, Carol, had stormed off in protest at his behaviour. Second Prize hadn't even realised that she was there in the first place.
    Stevie moved into the kitchen, where it was quieter, and he had at least a chance of hearing the phone. Like a yuppi,,God, no businessman, he'd left a list of the numbers where he was likely to be at with his mother. She could pass these onto Stella, if she phoned. Stevie had told her how he felt about her, in that ugly barn of a pub in Kentish Town, the one they never usually drank in. He laid his heart bare. Stella had said that she would have to think about what he said, that it had really freaked her out, and was too much to handle right now. She said she would phone him when he got back up to Scotland. And that was that They left the pub, going in separate directions. Stevie went towards the tube station to get the underground to Kings Cross, sports bag over his shoulder. He stopped, turned and watched her cross the bridge. Her long brown curls swished wildly in the wind, as she walked away clad in her donkey jacket, short skirt, thick, black woollen tights and nine–inch Doctor Martens. He waited for her to glance back at him. She never turned around. Stevie bought a bottle of Bell’s whisky at the station and had arsed the lot by the time the train rolled into Waverley. His mood hadn't improved since then. He sat on the formicaWh worktop, contemplating the kitchen tiles. June, Franco's girlfriend, came in and smiled at him, nervously fetching some drinks. June never spoke, and often seemed overwhelmed by such occasions. Franco spoke enough for both of them.
    As June left, Nicola came in, being pursued by Spud, who trailed behind her like a faithful salivating dog. –
    – Hey ... Stevie ... Happy New Year, eh, likesay ... Spud drawled.
    – Ah've seen ye Spud. We wir up the Tron thegither, last night. Remember?
    – Aw ... right. Hang loose catboy, Spud focused, grabbing a full bottle of cider.
    – Awright Stevie? How's London? Nicola asked. God, no, thought Stevie. Nicola is so easy to talk to. I'm going to pour my heart out ... no I'm not ... yes I am. Stevie started talking. Nicola