Trainspotting by Irvine Welsh Page B

change was put into the machine. Stella was not at home. Where was she? In a pub with Millard?
    – Happy New Year, Steve. I'm at Kings Cross. I'm getting on the Edinburgh train in ten minutes. Can you meet me at the station at ten forty–five?
    – Fuckin hell! Yir jokin . . . fuck! There's nowhere else in the world ah'll be at ten forty–five. You've made my New Year. Stella ... the things ah sais the other night . . . ah mean them more than ever, ye know . . .
    – That's good, because I think I'm in love with you . . . all I've done is think about you. Stevie swallowed hard. He felt tears well up in his eyes. One left its berth and rolled down

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    his cheek.
    – Steve . . . are you okay? she asked.
    – Much better than that, Stella. Ah love you. No doubts, no bullshit. Fuck . the money's running out. Don't ever mess me about, Steve, this is no fucking game ... I'll see you at quarter to eleven . . . I love you....
    I love you! I LOVE YOU! The pips went and the line died.
    Stevie held the receiver tenderly, like it was something else, some part of her. Then he put it down and went and had that pee. He had never felt so alive. As he watched his fetid pish splash into the pan, his brain allowed itself to be overwhelmed with delicious thoughts. A powerful love for the world gripped him. It was New Year. Auld Lang Syne. He loved everyone, especially Stella, and his friends at the party. His comrades. Warm–hearted rebels; the salt of the earth. Despite this, he even loved the Jambos. They were good people; just supporting their team. He'd first–foot a lot of them this year, irrespective of the result. Stevie would enjoy taking Stella around the city to various parties. It would be brilliant. Football divisions were a stupid and irrelevant nonsense, acting against the interests of working–class unity, ensuring that the bourgeoisie's hegemony went unchallenged. Stevie had it all worked out.
    He went straight into the room and put The Proclaimers' Sunshine On Leith on the turntable. He wanted to celebrate the fact that wherever he went, this was his home, these were his people. After a few grumbles, it struck a chord. The catcalls at the previous record's removal were muted at the sight of Stevie's exuberance. He slapped Tommy, Rents and Beggar around vigorously, sang loudly, and waltzed with Kelly, caring nothing about people's impressions of the obviousness of his transformation.
    –Nice ay ye tae join us, Gav said to him.
    He was still high throughout the match, whereas for the others it went drastically wrong. Again he became distanced from his friends. First he couldn’t share their happiness, now he couldn't relate to their despair. Hibs were losing to Hearts. Both teams were carving out ridiculous numbers of chances; it was schoolboy stuff, but Hearts were putting at least some of theirs away. Sick Boy's head was in his hands. Franco glared malevolently over towards the dancing Hearts supporters at the other end of the ground. Rents shouted for the manager's resignation. Tomrny and Shaun were arguing about defensive shortcomings, trying to apportion blame for the goal. Gav cursed the referee's masonic leanings, while Dawsy was still lamenting Hibs' earlier misses. Spud (drugs) and Second Prize (alcohol) were bombed out of their boxes, still at the flat, their match tickets good for nothing except future roach material. None of this mattered for the moment, as far as Stevie was concerned. He was in love.
    After the match, he left the rest of them to head to the station and meet Stella. The bulk of the Hearts support were also headed up that way. Stevie was oblivious to the heavy vibes. One guy shouted in his face. The cunts won four–one, he thought. What the fuck did they want? Blood?
    Obviously.
    Stevie survived some unimaginative taunting on the way up to the station. Surely, he thought, they could do better than 'Hibby bastard'or'fenian cunt'. One hero tried to trip him from behind, egged on by baying