Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [121]
There had always been a weakness about him, an inability to face his responsibilities, and also to face the force of his emotions. Most junkies she had met were closet romantics. Matty was. Shirely had loved that in him, loved it when he was open, tender, loving and full of life. It never lasted. Even before smack, a harshness and bitterness would descend upon him. He used to write her love poems. They were beautiful, not in a literary sense perhaps, but in the marvellous purity of the wonderful emotions they conveyed to her. Once, he read and then set fire to a particularly lovely verse he’d written to her. Through her tears, she asked him why he’d done that, as the flames seemed so symbolic. It was the most hurtful thing Shirley had experienced in her life.
He turned around and surveyed the squalor of the flat. — Look at this. Ye shouldnae huv dreams livin like this. Yir jist connin yirsel, torturin yirsel.
His eyes were black and inpenetrable. His infectious cynicism and despair took away Shirley’s hope for a better life. It had once threatened to crush that very life out of her, before she bravely said: No more.
2
— Keep it down, please gentlemen, the harassed-looking barman pleaded with the hard core of heavy drinkers the group of mourners had whittled down to. Hours of stoical drinking and wistful nostalgia had finally given way to song. They felt great singing. The tension flowed from them. The barman was ignored.
Shame on ye, Seamus O’Brien,
All the young girls in Dublin are cryin,
They’re tired o’your cheatin and lyin,
So shame on ye, Seamus O’Brien!
— PLEASE! Will you be quiet! he shouted. The small hotel on the posh side of Leith Links was not used to this sort of behaviour, especially on a weekday.
— What the fuck’s that cunt fuckin sayin? Entitled tae gie the fuckin mate a fuckin send oaf! Begbie cast a predatory eye over the barman.
— Hi Franco. Renton grabbed Begbie’s shoulder, realising the danger, and trying to move him quickly into a less aggressive frame of mind. — Mind yon time when you, me n Matty went doon tae Aintree fir the National?
— Aye! Ah fuckin minday that! Ah fuckin telt that cunt thit’s oan the fuckin telly tae goan fuck hissel. Whit wis the cunt’s name?
— Keith Chegwin. Cheggers.
— That’s the cunt. Cheggers.
— The guy oan the telly likes? Cheggers Plays Pop? Mind that? Gav asked.
— The very same cunt, Renton said, as Franco smirked indulgently at him, encouraging him to continue the story. — Wi wir at the National, right? This cunt Cheggers is daein interviews fir City Radio Liverpool, jist blethering shite tae punters in the crowd, ken? Well, he comes ower tae us, n we didnae wantae talk tae the cunt, but ye ken Matty, he’s thinkin, this is fuckin stardom, n he’s gaun oan aboot how great it is tae be here in Liverpool, Keith, n wir having a whale ay a time, n aw that shite. Then this doss cunt, this Cheggers fucker, or whativir ye call the cunt, thrusts the microphone in front ay Franco. Renton gestured towards Begbie. — This cunt goes: Away n fuck yirsel ya radge cunt! Cheggers wis fuckin crimson. They’ve goat that three-second delay oan the so-called live radio, tae edit that sortay thing oot.
As they laughed, Begbie justified his actions.
— Wir fuckin doon thair fir the fuckin racin, no tae talk tae some fuckin doss cunt oan the fuckin radio. His expression was that of a man-of-affairs, bored with being hassled by the media for interviews.
Franco could always find something to be enraged about, however.
— Fuckin Sick Boy should’ve been here. Matty wis his fuckin mate, he