Trainspotting Read Online Free PDF Page A

however, and it’s gaunnae git much worse if ah dinnae take immediate action. Ah consider going back tae Forrester’s, but ah want nothing mair tae dae wi that twat for the time being. Ah remember that the bookies in the shopping centre has a toilet at the back.
    Ah enter the smoke-filled shop and head straight tae the bog. What a fuckin scene; two guys stand in the doorway ay the toilet, just pishing intae the place, which has a good inch ay stagnant, spunky urine covering the flair. It’s oddly reminiscent ay the foot pool at the swimming baths ah used tae go tae. The two punters shake oot their cocks in the passage and stuff them intae their flies wi as much care as ye’d take putting a dirty hanky intae yir poakit. One ay them looks at us suspiciously and bars ma path tae the toilet.
    — Bog’s fuckin blocked, mate. Ye’ll no be able tae shite in that. He gestures tae the seatless bowl fill ay broon water, toilet paper and lumps ay floating shite.
    Ah look sternly at him. — Ah’ve goat tae fuckin go mate.
    — Yir no fuckin shootin up in thair, ur ye?
    Just what ah fuckin needed. Muirhoose’s Charles Bronson. Only this cunt makes Charles Bronson look like Michael J. Fox. He actually looks a bit like Elvis, like Elvis does now; a chunky, decomposing ex-Ted.
    — Away tae fuck. Ma indignation must have been convincing, because this radge actually apologises.
    — Nae offence meant, pal. Jist some ay they young cunts in the scheme huv been trying tae make this thir fucking shootin gallery. We’re no intae that.
    — Fuckin wide-o cunts, his mate added.
    — Ah’ve been oan the peeve fir a couple ay days, mate. Ah’m gaun fuckin radge wi the runs here. Ah need tae shite. It looks fuckin awfay in thair, but it’s either that or ma fuckin keks. Ah’ve nae shit oan us. Ah’m fuckin bad enough wi the bevvy, nivir mind anything else.
    The cunt gies us an empathetic nod and unblocks ma way. Ah feel the pish soak intae ma trainers as ah step ower the door ridge. Ah reflect oan the ridiculousness ay saying that ah hud nae shit oan ays when ma keks are fill ay it. One piece ay good luck though, is that the lock oan the door is intact. Fuckin astounding, considering the atrocious state ay the bogs.
    Ah whip oaf ma keks and sit oan the cold wet porcelain shunky. Ah empty ma guts, feeling as if everything; bowel, stomach, intestines, spleen, liver, kidneys, heart, lungs and fucking brains are aw falling through ma arsehole intae the bowl. As ah shit, flies batter oaf ma face, sending shivers through ma body. Ah grab at one, and tae ma surprise and elation, feel it buzzing in ma hand. Ah squeeze tightly enough tae immobilise it. Ah open ma mitt tae see a huge, filthy bluebottle, a big, furry currant ay a bastard.
    Ah smear it against the wall opposite; tracing out an ‘H’ then an ‘I’ then a ‘B’ wi ma index finger, using its guts, tissue and blood as ink. Ah start oan the ‘S’ but ma supply grows thin. Nae problem. Ah borrow fae the ‘H’, which has a thick surplus, and complete the ‘S’. Ah sit as far back as ah can, withoot sliding intae the shit-pit below ays, and admire ma handiwork. The vile bluebottle, which caused me a great deal of distress, has been transformed intae a work of art which gives me much pleasure tae look at. Ah am speculatively thinking about this as a positive metaphor for other things in my life, when the realisation ay what ah’ve done sends a paralysing jolt ay raw fear through ma body. Ah sit frozen for a moment. But only a moment.
    Ah fall off the pan, ma knees splashing oantae the pishy flair. My jeans crumple tae the deck and greedily absorb the urine, but ah hardly notice. Ah roll up ma shirt sleeve and hesitate only briefly, glancing at ma scabby and occasionally weeping track marks, before plunging ma hands and forearms intae the brown water. Ah rummage fastidiously and get one ay ma bombs back straight away. Ah rub off some shite that’s attached tae it. A wee bit