Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [132]
Spud smiles, and raises his eyebrows. Looking at him, Renton reflects, you’d never guess how high the stakes are. This is the big one, no doubt about it. He’d needed that shot, to keep his nerves straight. It had been his first one in months.
Begbie turns around, his nerves jangling, and shoots them an angry grimace, almost as if he can sense their irreverence. — Whair the fuck’s Sick Boy?
— Eh, ah’m scoobied, likesay, Spud shrugs.
— He’ll be here, Renton says, nodding at the Adidas bag. — That’s twinty percent ay his gear yir haudin.
This shot off an attack of paranoia — Keep yir fuckin voice doon ya fuckin radge! Begbie hisses at Renton. He looks around, staring at the other passengers, feeling a desperate need for one, just one, to make eye-contact, to give him a target to unleash the fury within him which threatens to overwhelm him, and fuck the consequences.
No. He had to stay in control. There was too much at stake. There was everything at stake.
There is nobody looking at Begbie though. Those who are not oblivious to him, can feel the vibes he is giving out. They employ that special talent people have: pretending nutters are invisible. Even his companions won’t meet his gaze. Renton has pulled his green baseball cap down over his eyes. Spud, wearing a Republic of Ireland football strip, is eyeing a backpacker who has blonde hair, and has just removed her pack to give him a view of her tight-arsed jeans. Second Prize, who stands a bit apart from the others, is just drinking steadily; protective of the sizeable carry-out which sits at his feet in two white plastic bags.
Over the concourse, behind the pillbox which calls itself a pub, Sick Boy is talking to a girl named Molly. She is a prostitute and is HIV positive. She sometimes hangs around the station at night, looking for punters. Molly had been in love with Sick Boy since he necked with her in a seedy disco-bar in Leith a few weeks ago. Sick Boy had made a drunken point about HIV transmission and to illustrate it had spent most of the night french-kissing her. Later, he had a bad attack of nerves and brushed his teeth half-a-dozen times before turning in for a sleepless, anxiety-filled night.
Sick Boy has been peeking out at his friends from behind the pub. He’d keep the bastards waiting. He wants to make sure that no labdicks pounce before they get on the bus. If that happens, these cunts can go down alone.
— Sub us a ten-spot doll, he asks Molly, not forgetting that he has a three-and-a-half grand stake in the contents of the Adidas bag. These are assets, however. This is cash-flow, which is always a problem.
— Here ye are. The unquestioning way Molly goes for her purse almost touches Sick Boy. Then, with some bitterness, he notes the health of her wad, and curses inwardly for not making it twenty.
— Cheers babes . . . well, ah’d better leave ye tae yir punters. The Smoke beckons. He tousles her curly hair and kisses her; this time though, a derisory brush on the cheek.
— Phone us whin ye git back Simon, she shouts after him, watching his lean but sturdy body bounce away from her. He turns around.
— You jist try stoapin us babes, you jist try stoapin us. Look eftir yirsel how. He winks at her and flashes an open, heart-warming smile before turning away.
— Fucked-up wee hoor, he mutters under his breath, his face freezing in a contemptuous scowl. Molly was an amateur, nowhere near cynical enough for the game she was in. A total victim, he thinks, with an odd mixture of compassion and scorn. He turns the corner and bounds over to the others, head swishing from side to side, trying to detect the presence of the police.
He is not amused at what he sees as they prepare to board the bus. Begbie curses him for his lateness. You always had to watch that radge, but with the stakes as high as they were, that meant he’d be even more uptight than usual. He remembered the bizarre contingency plans of violence that Begbie had hatched at the impromptu party they’d had