Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [110]
— Ah kin remember the night that we met down in Rio . . . that Guinness is fuckin loupin. Yir mad gittin Guinness in here, Mark.
— Telt um, Gav says, triumphantly.
— Aw the same but, Renton replies, a lazy grin still on his face. He feels drunk. He feels Kelly’s hand inside his shirt, tweaking his nipple. She’d been doing that to him all night, telling him that she really liked flat, hairless chests. It feels good having his nipples touched. By Kelly, it feels better than good.
— Vodka n tonic, she says to Begbie, who gestures to her from the bar. — Gin n lemonade for Ali. She’s jist away tae the bog.
Spud and Gav continue talking at the bar while the rest grab some seats in the corner.
— How’s June? Kelly asks Franco Begbie, referring to his girlfriend, suspected to be pregnant again after having just recently given birth to a child.
— Who? Franco shrugs aggressively. End of conversation.
Renton looks up at the early morning programme on the television.
— That Anne Diamond.
— Eh? Kelly looks at him.
— Ah’d fuckin shag it, Begbie says.
Alison and Kelly raise their eyebrows and look to the ceiling.
— Naw but, her bairn hud that cot death. Same as Lesley’s bairn. Wee Dawn.
— That wis a real shame, Kelly says.
— Good thing really bit. Wee lassie would’ve died ay fuckin AIDS if it hudnae died ay cot death. Easier fuckin death fir a bairn, Begbie states.
— Lesley did not have HIV! Dawn was a perfectly healthy baby! Alison hisses at him, enraged. Despite being upset himself, Renton cannot not help noting that Alison always speaks posh when she is angry. He feels a vague surge of guilt at being so trivial. Begbie is grinning.
— Whae’s tae say though? Dawsy says sycophantically. Renton looks at him with a hard, challenging stare, which he’d never dare do with Begbie. Aggression displaced to where it will not be reciprocated.
—
— Aw ah’m sayin is, nae cunt really kens, Dawsy shrugs tamely.
At the bar, Spud and Gav are slurring a conversation together.
— Reckon Rents’ll shag Kelly? Gav asks.
— Dunno. She’s finished wi that Des dude, likesay, n Rents isnae seein Hazel now. Free agents n that likesay, ken.
— That cunt Des. Ah hate that wanker.
— . . . dunno the cat, likesay . . . ken.
— Ye fuckin do! He’s your fuckin cousin, Spud. Des! Des Feeney!
— . . . right man . . . that Des. Still dinnae really ken the boy. Only likesay run intae the gadge a couple ay times since we wir ankle-biters, ken? It’s heavy though, Hazel bein at the perty wi that other guy, likes, n Rents wi Kelly, ken . . . heavy.
— That Hazel’s a torn-faced cow anywey. Ah’ve nivir seen that lassie wi a smile oan her face. Nae wonder, mind you, gaun oot wi Rents. Cannie be much fun hingin aroond wi some cunt thit’s eywis bombed ootay his box.
— Yeah, likesay . . . it’s too heavy . . . Spud briefly wonders whether or not Gav is having an indirect dig at him, by going on about people who are always bombed, before deciding that it’s an innocent remark. Gav was alright.
Spud’s muddled brain turns to sex. Everyone seemed to bag off at the party, everyone except him. He really fancies a ride. His problem is that he is too shy when straight or sober, and too incoherent when stoned or drunk, to make an impression on women. He currently has a thing about Nicola Hanlon, whom he thinks looks a bit like Kylie Minogue.
A few months ago, Nicola had been talking to him as they walked from a party at Sighthill to one at Wester Hailes. They had been having a good crack, becoming detached from the rest of the group. She had been very responsive, and Spud had chatted freely, high on speed. In fact, she seemed to be hanging on his every word. Spud wanted to never get to that party, wishing that they could just go on walking and talking.