Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [128]
— C’moan Johnny, Ali widnae huv that attitude.
He laughs again, reaching for a decaffeinated Diet Coke, ripping the ring back and taking a sip. — Thir’s yin in the fridge, he offers, pointing tae the kitchen. Ah nod in the negative.
— Aye, she wis roond the other day. Well, a few weeks ago now, ah suppose. Ah goes, whit aboot a gam, doll? Fir auld time’s sake, likes. Ah mean, it wis the least she could dae fir the Mother Superior, the White Swan, whae fuckin saw her awright plenty times. The cauld-hearted bitch k.b.d us, he shook his heid in disgust. — Ah nivir legged that wee hoor, ye ken? Nivir in ma puff. Even whin she wis gantin oan it. She’d uv let us fuck her aw weys fir a fix it one time.
— Right enough, ah conceded. It wis true, or wis it? Thir wis always a wee bit ay silent antagonism between masel n Ali. Dinnae really ken why. Whatever the reason, it makes it easier fir us tae believe the worst aboot her.
— The White Swan wid nivir take advantage ay a damsel in distress though, he smiles.
— Aye, sure, ah sais, totally unconvinced.
— Too right ah widnae, he stridently contends. — Ah didnae, did ah? The proof ay the puddin’s in the fuckin eatin.
— Aye, only because ye hud skag in yir baws.
— Uh, uh, uh, he goes, touchin his chist wi the can ay coke. — The White Swan disnae fuck ower his mates. Golden rule number one. No fir smack, no fir nowt. Nivir question the integrity ay the White Swan oan that issue, Rents. Ah wisnae skaggy-bawed aw the dme. Ah could’ve hud her cunt oan toast if ah hud’ve wanted it. Even whin ah wis skaggy-bawed; ah could’ve pimped her oot. Easy fuckin meat. Ah could’ve hud the bitch doon Easter Road in a short skirt n nae keks; gave her a jab tae keep her quiet, n stuck her oan the flair ay the pish-hoose behind the shed. Could’ve hud the whole fuckin home support oan a line-up, wi the White Swan standin ootside chargin a fiver a skull. Even wi a flunky thrown in, the margins wid be astro-fuckin-nomical. Then doon tae Tyney the next week, let aw they infected Jambo bastards go in eftir the boys hud hud thir fill.
Incredibly, Johnny’s still HIV negative, in spite ay bein involved in settin up mair shootin galleries than Mr Cadona. He has a bizarre theory that only Jambos get HIV and Hibbies are immune. — Ah’d uv been set up. Retirement joab. A few weeks ay that n ah could’ve been in Thailand, a posse ay oriental buttocks parked oan ma coupon. Didnae dae it though; cause ye cannae fuck ower yir mates.
— It’s tough bein a man ay principles, Johnny, ah smile. Ah’m wantin tae leave. Ah couldnae handle a round ay Johnny’s fantasised oriental adventures.
— Fuckin right it is. Ma problem wis ah forgot the wrong yins. Nae sympathy in business, n wir aw acquaintances whin it comes tae the law ay the dragon. Bit naw, soft-herted bastard that the White Swan is, he lets friendship come intae it. N how does that selfish wee hing-oot repay us? Ah asks her fir a wee blow-job, that’s aw. She wis gaunny gie us it n aw, oot ay sympathy fir the leg, ken. Ah hud even goat her tae git mair ay the make-up n lipstick oan, heavy duty likes, ken? So ah whips it oot. She takes one look it the weepin sores n boatils oot. Ah sais, dinnae worry, saliva’s a natural antiseptic.
— That’s whit they say right enough, ah acknowledge. It’s gettin oan.
— Aye. N ah’ll tell ye somethin else Rents, we hud the right idea back in sivinty-sivin. Aw that gobbin wi did. Drown the whole fuckin world in saliva.
— Pity we aw dried up, ah sais, risin tae make a move.
— Aye, too right, Johnny Swan says, quieter now.
It’s time ah wisnae here.
Winter In West Granton
Tommy looks well. It’s terrifying. He’s gaunny die. Sometime between the next few weeks and next fifteen years, Tommy will be no more. The chances are that ah’ll be exactly the same. The difference is, we ken this wi Tommy.
— Awright Tommy, ah sais. He looks so well.
— Aye, he sais. Tommy’s sitting in a battered armchair. The air smells ay damp, and rubbish that should have been pit oot ages ago.
—