Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [125]
Ah feel charged wi a great power, actually enjoying their insults. It’s a lot easier tae keep smiling now. The fat bastard has drawn the short straw though; his ice-cream is laced wi ground up traces of rat poison. Ah hope Graham doesnae get intae trouble. I hope they dinnae close the restaurant doon.
In my essay, ah now think that ah’d be forced tae put that, in some circumstances, morality is relative. That’s if ah was being honest with masel. This is not Dr Lamont’s view though, so ah may stick wi absolutes in order tae curry favour and get high marks.
It’s all too mad.
Trainspotting at Leith Central Station
The toon seems sinister and alien as ah pad it doon fae the Waverley. Two guys are screaming at each other under the archway in Calton Road, by the Post Office depot. Either that, or the cunts are screaming at me. What a place and time for a kicking. Is there ever a good one, though? Ah quicken ma pace — which isnae easy wi this heavy holdall — and get oantae Leith Street. What the fuck’s it aw aboot? Wide cunts. Ah’ll fuckin . . .
Ah’ll fuckin keep moving. Sharpish. By the time ah get tae the Playhouse, the noise fae the two arseholes has been replaced by the appreciative chattering ay groups ay middle-class cunts as they troop oot ay the opera: Carmen. Some of them are making for the restaurants at the top ay the Walk, where reservations have been made. Ah stroll on. It’s downhill all the way.
Ah pass ma auld Montgomery Street gaff, then the former junk zone of Albert Street, now sandblasted and tarted up. A polis car frantically lets rip on the siren as it hurtles doon the Walk. Three guys stagger oot ay a pub and intae a Chinky. One ay the cunts is willing us tae make eye-contact. Any flimsy pretext tae fill some fucker in, some wide-os will grasp it wi baith hands. It’s the auld discreet increase of pace again.
In terms ay probability, the further ye go doon the Walk at this time ay night, the mair likely ye are tae git a burst mooth. Perversely, ah feel safer the further doon ah git. It’s Leith. Ah suppose that means hame.
Ah hear gagging sounds and look doon this alley which leads tae a builder’s yard. Ah witness Second Prize boakin up a load ay bile. Ah discreetly wait fir um tae pull umsel thegither, before talkin tae um.
— Rab. Ye awright man?
He turns roond and wobbles oan the spot, tryin tae focus oan us, when aw his heavy eyelids want tae dae is crash doon, like the steel shutters ay a late-night Asian shoap ower the road.
Second Prize sais something which sounds a bit like: — Hey Rents, sound as a fuckin pound . . . ya cunt . . . Then his face sortay changes and he sais: — . . . fuckin cunt . . . ah’ll fuckin have you ya cunt . . . He lurches forward and swings at us. Even wi ma holdall, a kin still step back fast enough and the nondy cunt crashes intae the wall, then staggers backwards, fawin oan his erse.
Ah help um up and he’s talkin a loaday shite which ah cannae make oot, but he’s at least mair passive now.
As soon as ah put ma airm aroond um tae help um along the road, the radge collapses like a pack ay cairds, wi that learned helplessness that chronic drunks have, as he completely surrenders hissel tae us. Ah huv tae droap ma travel bag tae support the fucker, tae stop him fawin and taking another second prize fae the pavement. This is useless.
A taxi cruises up the Walk and ah flag it doon and stick Second Prize in the back ay it. The cabbie doesnae look too pleased, but ah gie him a fiver and say: — Let um oot doon the Bowtow, pal. Hawthornvale. He’ll find his wey hame fae thair. It’s the festive period, eftir aw. Cunts like Second Prize jist blend in at this time ay the year.
Ah wis tempted tae git intae the taxi wi Seeks, and jump oaf at ma Ma’s, but Tommy Younger’s looked too tempting. Begbie’s in, haudin court wi a few wide-os, one ay whom looks