Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [1]
— Rents. Ah’ve goat tae see Mother Superior, Sick Boy gasped, shaking his heid.
— Aw, ah sais. Ah wanted the radge tae jist fuck off ootay ma visage, tae go oan his ain, n jist leave us wi Jean-Claude. Oan the other hand, ah’d be gitting sick tae before long, and if that cunt went n scored, he’d haud oot oan us. They call um Sick Boy, no because he’s eywis sick wi junk withdrawal, but because he’s just one sick cunt.
— Let’s fuckin go, he snapped desperately.
— Haud oan a second. Ah wanted tae see Jean-Claude smash up this arrogant fucker. If we went now, ah wouldnae git tae watch it. Ah’d be too fucked by the time we goat back, and in any case it wid probably be a few days later. That meant ah’d git hit fir fuckin back charges fi the shoap oan a video ah hudnae even goat a deek at.
— Ah’ve goat tae fuckin move man! he shouts, standing up. He moves ower tae the windae and rests against it, breathing heavily, looking like a hunted animal. There’s nothing in his eyes but need.
Ah switched the box oaf at the handset. — Fuckin waste. That’s aw it is, a fuckin waste, ah snarled at the cunt, the fuckin irritating bastard.
He flings back his heid n raises his eyes tae the ceiling. — Ah’ll gie ye the money tae git it back oot. Is that aw yir sae fuckin moosey-faced aboot? Fifty measley fuckin pence ootay Ritz!
This cunt has a wey ay makin ye feel a real petty, trivial bastard.
— That’s no the fuckin point, ah sais, but withoot conviction.
— Aye. The point is ah’m really fuckin sufferin here, n ma so-called mate’s draggin his feet deliberately, lovin every fuckin minute ay it! His eyes seem the size ay fitba’s n look hostile, yet pleadin at the same time; poignant testimonies tae ma supposed betrayal. If ah ever live long enough tae huv a bairn, ah hope it never looks at us like Sick Boy does. The cunt is irresistible oan this form.
— Ah wisnae . . . ah protested.
— Fling yir fuckin jaykit oan well!
At the Fit ay the Walk thir wir nae taxis. They only congregated here when ye didnae need them. Supposed tae be August, but ah’m fuckin freezing ma baws oaf here. Ah’m no sick yet, but it’s in the fuckin post, that’s fir sure.
— Supposed tae be a rank. Supposed tae be a fuckin taxi rank. Nivir fuckin git one in the summer. Up cruising fat, rich festival cunts too fuckin lazy tae walk a hundred fuckin yards fae one poxy church hall tae another fir thir fuckin show. Taxi drivers. Money-grabbin bastards . . . Sick Boy muttered deliriously and breathlessly tae hissel, eyes bulging and sinews in his neck straining as his heid craned up Leith Walk.
At last one came. There were a group ay young guys in shell-suits n bomber jaykits whae’d been standin thair longer than us. Ah doubt if Sick Boy even saw them. He charged straight oot intae the middle ay the Walk screaming: — TAXI!
— Hi! Whit’s the fuckin score? One guy in a black, purple and aqua shell-suit wi a flat-top asks.
— Git tae fuck. We wir here first, Sick Boy sais, opening the taxi door. — Thir’s another yin comin. He gestured up the Walk at an advancing black cab.
— Lucky fir youse. Smart cunts.
— Fuck off, ya plukey-faced wee hing oot. Git a fuckin ride! Sick Boy snarled as we piled intae the taxi.
— Tollcross mate, ah sais tae the driver as gob splattered against the side windae.
— Square go then smart cunt! C’moan ya crappin bastards! the shell-suit shouted. The taxi driver wisnae amused. He looked a right cunt. Maist ay them do. The stamp-peyin self-employed ur truly the lowest form ay vermin oan god’s earth.
The taxi did a u-turn and sped up the Walk.
— See whit yuv done now, ya big-moothed cunt. Next time one ay us ur walkin hame oan oor Jack Jones, wi git hassle fi these wee radges. Ah wisnae chuffed at Sick Boy.
— Yir no feart ay they wee fuckin saps ur ye?
This cunt’s really gittin ma fuckin goat. — Aye! Aye ah fuckin am, if ah’m oan ma tod n ah git set oan by a fuckin squad ay shell-suits! Ye think ah’m Jean-Claude Van Fuckin Damme? Fuckin doss cunt, so ye are Simon. Ah called him ‘Simon’ rather