Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [122]
— Eh, he’s in France but . . . wi that burd, likesay. Probably couldnae cut it man, ken . . . ah mean . . . France, likesay, Spud drunkenly observed.
— Makes nae fuckin difference. Rents n Stevie came up fae London for this. If Rents n Stevie kin come up fae fuckin London, Sick Boy kin come up fae fuckin France.
Spud’s senses were dangerously dulled with the alcohol. Stupidly, he kept the argument going. — Yeah, but, eh . . . France is further away . . . wir talkin aboot the south ay France here, likesay. Ken?
Begbie looked incredulously at Spud. Obviously the message had not got across. He spoke slower, higher and with a snarl twisting his cruel mouth into a strange shape below his blazing eyes.
— IF RENTS N STEVIE KIN COME UP FI FUCKIN LONDON, SICK BOY KIN COME UP FAE FUCKIN FRANCE!
— Yeah . . . right enough. Should’ve made the effort. Mate’s funeral likesay, ken. Spud thought that the Conservative Party in Scotland could do with a few Begbies. It’s not what the message is, the problem is just communication. Begbie is good at getting the message across.
Stevie was badly feeling the session. He was out of practice for this type of thing. Franco whipped an arm around him and another one around Renton.
— It’s fuckin great tae see yous cunts again. The fuckin baith ay yis. Stevie, ah want ye tae fuckin look eftir this cunt doon in London, he turned to Renton. — If you go the same fuckin wey as Matty, ah’ll fuckin sort you right oot ya cunt. Listen tae fuckin Franco talkin here.
— If ah go the same wey as Matty, th’ill be nowt left ay us tae sort oot.
— Dinnae you fuckin believe it. Ah’ll dig yir fuckin boady up n boot it up n doon Leith fuckin Walk. Git us?
— Nice tae ken thit ye care Frank.
— Course ah fuckin care. Ye back up yir mates. S’at fuckin right Nelly?
— Eh? Nelly turned around slowly, drunk.
— Ah’m jist fuckin tellin this cunt here, ye back up yir fuckin mates.
— Too fuckin right ye do.
Spud and Alison were talking. Renton slipped away from Franco to join them. Franco was holding Stevie up, displaying him like a trophy to Nelly telling him what a great cunt he was.
Spud turned to Renton: — Jist sayin tae Ali, this is heavy shite, aw this, likesay, man. Ah’ve been tae too many funerals fir a gadge ma age, likesay. Wonder whae’s next?
Renton shrugged. — At least we’ll be prepared, whaeivir the fuck it is. If they gave oot qualifications in bereavement, ah’d be a fuckin Ph.D. by now.
They filed out into the cold night at closing time, heading for Begbie’s place with a carry-out. They’d already spent twelve hours drinking and pontificating about Matty’s life and his motivations. In truth, the more reflective of them realised, all their insights pooled and processed, did little to illuminate the cruel puzzle of it all.
They were no wiser now than at the start.
Straight Dilemmas No. 1
— C’mon, have a bit of this, it’s alright, she sais, holding the joint towards me. How the fuck did ah get here? Ah should’ve gaun hame n got changed, then watched telly or went down The Princess Diana. It’s Mick’s fault, him and his quick-one-after-work.
Now ah’m oot ay place here, still in ma suit n tie, sitting in this comfortable flat amidst denim and t-shirt punters who think they’re bigger wasters than they are. Weekend zanies are such a drag.
— Leave ’im alone Paula, sais the woman ah met in the pub. She’s really trying tae get intae ma keks, with that frantically obvious desperation ye tend tae find in such London scenes. She’ll probably succeed, despite the fact that whenever ah go to the bathroom and try tae think of what she looks like, ah can’t conjure up even an approximate image. These types are irritating twats; plastic bastards. All you can do is fuck them, take from them, and then go. They even give you the impression that they’d be disappointed if you did anything else. Ah’m soundin like Sick Boy now, but his attitude does have its place, which is here and now.
— Nah, come on Mister Suit en Tie. I’ll bet you ain’t had nuffink like this in your life.
Ah sip at ma vodka and study this