Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [116]
— N nae fuckin drugs. Keep the fuckin dough back fir a bit, he adds. Now the cat is tellin us how tae spend the brass, likesay.
This is a tacky scene, likes. We’ve goat a couple ay grand apiece, eftir wuv peyed oaf the young guy, likesay, and this cat’s fur’s still standin oan end. The Beggar-boy is one feline whae willnae jist curl up in a nice warm basket n purrrrrrr . . .
We down another pint, then call a Joe Baxi. These sports bags wir cairryin man, they should have SWAG oan the side ay thurn, instead ay ADIDAS and HEAD, likesay. Two fuckin grand, likes. Phoah! Don’t you-ho be te-heh-heh-rified, it’s just a token of my extreme . . . as the other Franco, one Mister Zappa, would say.
The taxi takes us tae Begbie’s. June’s in, and she’s got the Begbie ankle-biter up, oan her lap.
— Bairn woke, she sais tae Franco, likesay she’s explainin. Franco looks at her like he wants tae kill them baith.
— Fuck sakes. C’moan Spud, the fuckin bedroom. Cannae even git a bit ay fuckin peace in yir ain fuckin hoose! He gestures tae the door, like.
— What’s aw this? June asks.
— Dinnae fuckin ask. Jist you fuckin see tae yir fuckin bairn! Begbie snaps. The wey he sais it, it’s likesay, it’s no his bairn n aw, ken? Ah suppose in a wey he’s right, likesay; Franco’s no what ye’d really sortay call the parental type, ken . . . eh, what sortay type is Franco?
It wis beautiful though man. Nae violence, nae hassle, ken. A set ay dummy keys, n we jist likesay, walked in. This wis the false panel in the flair tile behind the counter, under the till, and thair wis that big, canvas bag full ay that lovely poppy. Peachy! Aw they beautiful notes and coins. Ma passport tae better times man, ma passport tae better times.
The doorbell rings. Me n Franco are a bit shit up in case it’s the labdicks, but it turns oot tae be the wee gadge, up fir his cut. Just as well, likesay, cause Franco n me’s goat coins n notes aw ower the bed; divvyin up likesay, ken?
— Yis git it? the wee dude sais, eyes then wide in disbelief at the sight ay the goodies oan the bed.
— Sit fuckin doon! You shut yir fuckin pus aboot this, right? Franco growls. The wee guy’s shiters, likesay.
Ah wanted tae tell Franco tae go easy on the kiddo, ken? That’s likesay, the kitten that turned us oantay this bread. The wee guy told us the story, even slipped us the keys tae copy, likesay. Even though ah say nowt likes, the Begbie cat can still read ma face.
— This wee cunt’ll be straight back doon the fuckin school throwin his fuckin poppy aboot tae impress his fuckin mates, n aw the wee burds.
— Naw ah’ll no, the wee guy says.
— Shut the fuck up! Begbie sneers. The guy shites it again. Begbie turns tae us. — Fuckin sure ah’d be, if it wis me.
He stands up n throws three darts intae this board oan the waw, wi real force, real violence, man. The wee guy’s lookin worried.
— Thir’s one fuckin thing worse thin a grassin cunt, he sais, takin the darts ootay the board n flingin thum back intae it wi the same evil force. — N that’s a fuckin lippy cunt. The cunt thit shoots his fuckin mooth oaf eywis does mair fuckin damage thin the grass. That’s the cunts thit fuckin feed the grass. The grass feeds the fuckin polis. Then wir aw fucked.
Eh flings a dart straight at the wee guy’s face. Ah jump, n the wee boy screams, n starts greetin hysterically, shakin, like he’s huvin a fit, likesay.
Ah see thit Begbie’s jist flung the plastic flight, huvin slyly screwed oaf the metal spike n barrel before flingin it. The wee guy’s still greetin, likesay, wi shock n that.
— The fuckin flight, ya daft wee cunt! A wee bit ay fuckin plastic! Franco laughs scornfully and counts oot a load ay notes, but maistly jist the coins, fir the wee man. — Polis stoap ye, ye won it fae the shows at Porty, or in a fuckin arcade. Breathe a fuckin word ay this tae any cunt, n ye better fuckin hope thit the polis git a haud ay ye n send ye tae fuckin Polmont before ah fuckin catch up wi ye, ye hear us?
— Aye . . the wee boy’s still tremblin, likesay.
— Now fuck off, back tae yir fuckin Setirday joab at the