Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [112]
Laura called the ambulance, and Spud woke up in hospital with six stitches above his eye, heavily concussed.
He never did get to fuck her in the arsehole. The rumour was that a frustrated Laura phoned up Sick Boy shortly after this, who came and stood in for his friend.
Soon after this disaster, Spud turned his attention to Nicola Hanlon.
— Eh, surprised wee Nicky wisnae it the perty, likesay . . . wee Nicky, ken, likesay? he told Gav.
— Aye. She’s a dirty wee hoor. Takes it aw weys, Gav said casually.
— Aye?
Noting, and savouring, the ill-disguised trepidation and concern on Spud’s face, Gav continues, gleeful inside, but talking in a stiff, brisk, businesslike manner. — Aw aye. Ah’ve poked it a few times. No a bad wee ride, likes. Sick Boy’s been thair. Rents n aw. Ah think Tommy tae. He wis certainly sniffin roond it fir a bit.
— Aye? . . . eh, right . . . Spud feels deflated, and optimistic at the same time. He’ll have to try to stay straighter, he resolves, thinking that he seems to miss everything that is going on under his nose.
Over at the table, Begbie indicates that he is in need of more solid nourishment: — Ah’m fuckin Lee Marvin. Lit’s git some scran, then hit a decent fuckin boozer. He looks bitterly around the cavernous, nicotine-stained bar, like an arrogant aristocrat finding himself in reduced circumstances. In fact, he has just seen the old drunkard at the bar.
It is still dark when they leave the pub, and go to a cafe in Portland Street.
— Fill breakfasts aw roond, Begbie enthusiastically looks at the others.
They all nod approvingly, except Renton.
— Naw. Ah’m no wantin meat, he says.
— Ah’ll huv your fuckin bacon n sausage n fuckin black puddin then, Begbie suggests.
— Aye, sure, Renton says sarcastically.
— Ah’ll fuckin swap ye ma fuckin egg n beans n tomatay then ya cunt!
— Awright, begins Renton, then he turns to the waitress. — Dae ye use vegetable oil whin ye fry, or fat?
— Naw, fat, the waitress says, looking at him as if he is an imbecile.
— Moantae fuck, Rents. Makes nae difference, Gav says.
— S up tae Mark what he eats, Kelly says supportively. Alison nods. Renton feels like a smug pimp.
— Fuckin well spoilin it fir ivray cunt, Rents, Begbie growls.
— How am ah spoilin it? Cheese salad roll, he turns to the waitress.
— We aw fuckin agreed. Fill fuckin breakfasts aw roond, Begbie states.
Renton cannot believe this. He wants to tell Begbie to fuck off. Instead he fights the instinct and slowly shakes his head. — Ah dinnae eat meat, Franco.
— Fuckin vegetarianism. Fuckin loaday shite. Ye need meat. A fuckin junky fuckin worryin aboot what he pits in his boady! That’s a fuckin laugh!
— Jist dinnae like meat, Renton says, feelin silly as they all snigger.
— Dinnae fuckin tell us ye hate killin fuckin animals. Remember they fuckin dugs n cats we used tae fuckin shoot wi the air rifles! N the fuckin pigeons we used tae set oan fire. Used tae fuckin tape bangers — fireworks likes — tae white mice, this cunt.
— No bothered aboot killin animals. Jist dinnae like eatin thurn, Renton shrugs, embarrassed that his adolescent cruelties have been exposed to Kelly.
— Fuckin cruel bastards. Dinnae ken how anybody could shoot a dug, Alison sneers, shaking her head.
— Well, ah dinnae ken now anybody could kill and eat a pig, Renton points to the bacon and sausage on her plate.
— S no the same.
Spud looks around: — It’s eh, likesay . . . Rents is daein the right thing, but it’s kinday the wrong reasons. We’ll nivir likesay, learn tae love oorsels, until we kin look eftir weaker things, likesay animals n that . . . but it’s good thit Rents is vegetarian . . . likesay, if ye kin keep it up . . . likesay . . .
Begbie vibrates his body in a floppy way and gives the peace sign to Spud. The others laugh. Renton, appreciative at Spud’s attempt to back him up, cuts in to deflect the slagging away from his ally.
— Keepin it up’s nae problem. Ah