Trainspotting by Irvine Welsh Page A

listened indulgently. Spud nodded sympathetically, occasionally indicating that the whole scene was 'too fuckin heavy ...'
    He felt that he was making an arse of himself, but he couldn't stop talking. What a bore he must be to Nicola, to Spud even. But he couldn't stop. Spud eventually left, to be replaced by Kelly.

    20

    Linda joined them. The football songs must be starting up in the front room. Nicola dispensed some practical advice: – Phone her, wait fir her tae phone, or go doon n see her.
    – STEVIE! 'MOAN THROUGH YA CUNT! Begbie roared. Stevie tamely allowed himself to be literally dragged back into front room. – Fuckin chatting up the mantovani in the fuckin kitchen. Yir fuckin worse thin that smarmy cunt thair, the fuckin jazz purist. He gestured over at Sick Boy, who was necking with the woman he'd been chatting up. They had previously overheard Sick Boy describe himself to her as 'basically a jazz purist'.
    So wir aw off tae Dublin in the green – fuck the queen! Whair the hel–mits glisten in the sun – fuck the huns! And the bayonets slash, the aw–ringe sash To the echo of the Thomson gun. Stevie sat gloomily. The phone would never be heard above this noise.
    – Shut up the now! shouted Tommy, – This is ma favourite song. The Wolfetones sang Banna Strand. Tommy crooned along with some of the others.
    oan the lo–ho–honley Ba–nna strand.
    There were a few moist eyes when the 'Tones sang James Connolly. – A fuckin great rebel, a fuckin great socialist and a fuckin great Hibby. James Fuckin Connolly, ya cunt, Gav said to Renton who nodded sombrely.
    Some sang along, others tried to maintain conversations above the music. However, when The Boys of the Old Brigade came on everybody joined in. Even Sick Boy took time off his necking session.
    Oh fa–thir why are you–hoo so–ho sad oan this fine Ea–heas–ti–her morn Sing ya cunt! said Tommy, elbowing Stevie's ribs. Begbie stuck another can of beer in his hand and threw his arm around his neck.
    Whe–hen I–rish men are prow–howd ah–hand glad off the land where they–hey we–her born
    Stevie worried about the singing. It had a desperate edge to it. It was as if by singing loudly enough, they would weld themselves into a powerful brotherhood. It was, as the song said,
    'call to arms' music, and seemed to have little to do with Scotland and New Year. It was fighting music. Stevie didn't want to fight anyone. But it was also beautiful music. Hangovers, while being pushed into the background by the drink, were also being fuelled. They were now so potentially big as to be genuinely feared. They would not stop drinking until they had to face the music, and that was when every bit of adrenalin had been burned away. Aw–haun be–ing just a la–had li–hike you I joined the I–hi–Ah–har–A ––provishnil wing!
    The phone rang in the passage. June got it. Then Begbie snatched it out of her hand, ushering her away. She floated back into the living–room like a ghost.
    – Whae? WHAE? WHAES THAT? STEVIE? RIGHT, HAUD OAN THE NOW. HAPPY
    NEW YEAR DOLL, BY THE WAY
    ... Franco put the receiver down, – ... whae ivir the fuck ye are... He went through to the front room. – Stevie. Some fuckin lemon oan the blower fir ye. Fuckin bools in the mooth likesay. London.
    – Phoa! Ya cuntchy! Tommy laughed as Stevie sprang out off the couch. He had needed a pee for the last half–hour, but hadn't trusted his legs. Now they worked perfectly.
    – Steve? She had always called him 'Steve' rather than 'Stevie,'. They all did down there. –
    Where have you been?
    – Stella ... where have ah been ... ah tried tae phone ye yesterday. Where are ye? What are ye daein? He almost said who are you with, but he restrained himself.
    – I was at Lynne's, she told him. Of course. Her sister's. Chingford, or some equally dull and hideous place. Stevie felt a euphoric surge.
    – Happy New Year! he said, relieved and brimming over. The pips went, then more