Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [117]
The wee guy takes his dough n leaves. Perr wee cunt goat nuthin really, aboot a couple ay hundred quid fae nears enough five grand, likesay. Still, bags ay loot for a cat that age, if ye catch ma drift. Mind you, ah still say thit Franco’s been a bit hard oan the nipper.
— Hey man, that kids’s made us a couple ay grand each man . . . eh, jist sortay saying Franco, likesay, mibbe ye wir a bit hard oan the gadge, likesay, ken?
— Ah dinnae fuckin want that wee cunt boastin, or flashin a fuckin wad aroond. Daein anythin wi wee cunts like that, it’s the riskiest fuckin business gaun. Thuv nae fuckin discretion, ken? That’s how ah like tae go screwin fuckin shoaps n hooses wi you Spud. Yir a true fuckin professional, like masel, n ye nivir say nowt tae nae cunt. Ah respect that fuckin professionalism, Spud. Whin ye goat true professionals oan a joab, it’s nae fuckin problem, ya cunt.
— Yeah . . . right man, likesay, ah sais. What else kin ye say, likesay, ken? True professionals. Sounds awright tae me; sounds peachy.
A Present
Ah decided that ah couldnae handle steyin at ma auld girl’s; too much ay a heid-nip. So Gav’s pittin us up fir the duration ay Matty’s funeral. The train journey up wis uneventful; jist the wey ah wanted it. Some Fall tapes oan the Walkman, four cans ay lager n ma H.P. Lovecraft book. Nazi cunt, auld H.P., but he kin spin a good yarn. Ah set ma coupon intae the do-not-disturb-or-else-cunt mode every time a smiling jackass apologetically squeezes into the seat opposite me. It’s an enjoyable journey, and therefore a short one.
Gav’s new gaff is in McDonald Road; ah decide tae pad the hoof. Whin ah git doon tae his place, he isnae in a happy frame ay mind. Ah’m jist aboot tae git a bit para; likes ah’ve mibbe imposed masel, when he indicates the source ay his misery.
— Telling ye Rents, see that cunt Second Prize, he sais, shakin his heid bitterly n pointing tae an empty front room, — ah gave um the cash tae dae this place up; a bit ay plasterin and paintin. Ah’m away doon the B&Q, he sais tae us this mornin. No seen the cunt since.
Ma instinct wis tae tell Gav thit he wis crazy tae commission Second Prize tae dae the joab in the first place; n totally fuckin doolally giein the cunt the poppy up front. Ah suspect, however, that’s no whit he wants tae hear right now, n ah am his guest. Instead, ah dump ma bag n the spare room n take um doon tae the pub.
Ah want tae hear aboot Matty; what happened tae the cunt. Ah wis obviously shocked by the news, though it hus tae be said, far fae surprised.
— Matty nivir knew he wis HIV, Gav said. — He probably hud been fir some time.
— Wis it pneumonia or cancer, likes? ah ask.
— Naw, eh toxoplasmosis. A stroke, ken.
— Eh? Ah’m scoobied here.
— Fuckin sad. Could only uv happened tae Matty, Gav shook his heid. — He wanted tae see his wee lassie, that wee Lisa, Shirley’s bairn, ken? Shirley widnae let um near the hoose. Nae wonder, the state ay um at the time. Anywey, ken wee Nicola Hanlon?
— Aye, wee Nicky, aye.
— Her cat hud kittens, so Matty gits one oafay her. The idea is thit the cunt’s gaunnae take it tae Shirley’s tae gie it tae the bairn ken? So he takes it oot tae Wester Hailes, tae gie it tae wee Lisa; a present fir her, ken?
Ah cannae really see the connection between the kitten n Matty huvin a stroke, but this sounds a typical Matty tale. Ah shake me heid. — That sums Matty up. Git a wee cat as a gesture, then leave it fir some other fucker tae look eftir. Ah bet ye Shirley gave um the short shrift.
— Exactly, the clueless cunt, Gav smiles, nodding grimly. — She says: Ah’m no wantin a cat tae look eftir, take it away, git tae fuck. So thair’s Matty stuck wi this kitten. Ye kin imagine whit happened. The thing wis neglected; the litter tray swimmin in pish; shite aw ower the hoose. Matty’s jist lyin aroond, fucked ootay his eyeballs oan smack or downers; or jist depressed, ye ken the wey he goat.