Trainspotting Page #18

EXT. PARK - DAY

Renton and Sick Boy are seated in their firing patch,

sitting on plastic bags with beer, vodka, hash and the

cassette player. The airgun is present as before, but they

are not making any use of it.

SICK BOY:

Eughh. Sounds horrible.

RENTON:

It wasn't that bad.

SICK BOY:

Did he -- you know?

RENTON:

What?

SICK BOY:

You know.

RENTON:

No, he didn't make me touch it.

SICK BOY:

Oh no, don't even mention it.

RENTON:

He made me lick it.

SICK BOY:

God, you're sick.

RENTON:

And I got a stitch stuck between

my teeth, jerked my head back and

the whole f***ing stump fell off.

SICK BOY:

Cut it out.

RENTON:

When are you going to visit him?

SICK BOY:

Don't know. Maybe Thursday.

RENTON:

You're a real mate. And what about

Tommy? Have you been to see him

yet?

Sick Boy is silent. He stiffens as he avoids Renton's gaze.

They shift fractionally apart. RENTON tuts.

SICK BOY:

F*** you. OK, so Tommy's got the

virus. Bad news, big deal. The gig

goes on, or hadn't you noticed?

Swanney fucks his leg up. Well,

tough sh*t, but it could have been

worse.

RENTON:

You're all hear.

SICK BOY:

I know a couple of addicts. Stupid

wee lassies. I feed them what they

need. A little bit of skag to keep

them happy while the punters line

up at a fiver a skull. It's easy

money for me. Not exactly a fortune,

but I'm thinking, 'I should be

coining it here.' Less whores,

more skag. Swanney's right. Get

clean, get into dealing, that's

where the future lies. Set up some

contacts, get a good load of skag,

punt it, profit. What do you think?

RENTON:

F*** you.

SICK BOY:

And I'll tell you why. Because I'm

fed up to my back teeth with losers,

no-hopers, draftpacks, schemies,

junkies and the like. I'm getting

on with life. What are you doing?

INT. RENTON'S BEDSIT - NIGHT

Renton sits alone on the bed, making a joint and reading a

book. There is a knock at the door. Renton answers the

door.

RENTON:

What do you want?

DIANE:

Are you clean?

RENTON:

Yes.

DIANE:

Is that a promise, then?

RENTON:

Yes, as a matter of fact, it is.

DIANE:

Calm down, I'm just asking. Is

that hash I can smell?

RENTON:

No.

DIANE:

I wouldn't mind a bit, if it is.

RENTON:

Well, it isn't.

DIANE:

Smells like it.

RENTON:

You're too young.

DIANE:

Too young for what?

Renton looks in each direction along the empty passageway.

INT. RENTON'S BEDSIT - NIGHT

Renton and Diane are lying in the bed. Diane, wearing one

of Renton's T-shirts, is rolling a mega-joint, quite unaware

of the scrutiny of Renton.

DIANE:

You're not getting any younger,

Mark. The world is changing, music

is changing, even drugs are

changing. You can't stay in here

all day dreaming about heroin and

Ziggy Pop.

RENTON:

It's Iggy Pop.

DIANE:

Whatever. I mean, the guy's dead

anyway.

RENTON:

Iggy Pop is not dead. He toured

last year. Tommy went to see him.

DIANE:

The point is, you've got to find

something new.

Diane completes the joint.

RENTON (V.O.)

She was right. I had to find

something new. There was only one

thing for it.

EXT. LONDON - DAY

As contemporary retake of all those 'Swinging London'

montages:
Red Routemaster/Trafalgar Square/Big

Ben/Royalty/City gents in suits/Chelsea ladies/fashion

victims/Piccadilly Circus at night. Incut with close-ups

of classic street names on a street map (all the ones made

famous by Monopoly.

INT. ESTATE AGENT'S OFFICE - DAY

The montage ends on one street, then draws back to reveal

the whole map of London pinned to a wall. A Man holding a

telephone walks in front of the map and belches loudly.

Revealing more, he is in a scruffy, cramped office with

half a dozen occupied desks and twice as many telephones.

Seated at the one nearest to the belching Man is Renton.

He is wearing a shirt and tie now. He turns in response to

the belch.

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