Trainspotting by Irvine Welsh

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 yuppie 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 formica 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 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. 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