Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [134]
— Aye.
— He still fuckin hasslin ye? Begbie asks.
— The cunt’s goat a lam oan because ah’ve been pokin his wee slut ay a daughter. Meanwhile, he’s playing stoat-the-baw wi every wee hairy that drinks in his shitey club. Fuckin hypocrite.
— Pulled ye up ootside the fuckin Fiddlers, ah heard. They fuckin telt us ye shat yir fuckin load, Begbie mocks.
— Like fuck ah did! Whae telt ye that? The cunt says tae us: if you lay a finger oan her . . . Ah jist goes: Lay a finger oan her? Ah’ve been pimpin it oot fir fuckin months, ya cunt!
Renton smirks softly at this, and Second Prize, who didn’t really hear it, laughs loudly. He is not, as yet, pickled enough to feel completely comfortable forgoing the bare bones of social contact. Spud says nothing, but grimaces as the vice-like grip of junk withdrawal squeezes harder on his brittle bones.
Begbie is unconvinced that Sick Boy would have the bottle to stand up to McGregor.
— Shite. You wouldnae fuckin mess wi that cunt.
— Fuck off. Jimmy Busby wis wi us. That cunt McGregor shites it fae the Buzz-Bomb. He’s shit-scared ay aw the Cashies. The last thing he wants is a squad ay the Family swedgin in his club.
— Jimmy Busby . . . he’s no a fuckin hard cunt. A fuckin shitein cunt. Ah stoated that radge in the Dean. You minday that time, Rents, eh? Rents! Mind the time ah panelled that Busby cunt? Begbie glances over the seat for support but Renton is starting to feel like Spud. A shudder twists through his body and a grim nausea hits him. He can only nod unconvincingly, rather than provide the elaboration Begbie is looking for.
— That wis years ago. Ye widnae dae it now, Sick Boy contended.
— Whae fuckin widnae! Eh? Think ah fuckin widnae? Ya fuckin radge! Begbie challenges aggressively.
— It’s aw a loaday shite anywey, Sick Boy meekly counters, using one of his classic tactics. If you can’t win the fine detail of the argument, then rubbish its context.
— That cunt kens no tae fuckin mess, Begbie says, in a low growl. Sick Boy does not respond, knowing that this was a warning by proxy, directed at him, through the absent Busby. He realises that he’s been pushing his luck.
Spud Murphy’s face is smeared against the glass window. He sits in silent misery, lashing sweat and feeling like his bones are grinding against each other. Sick Boy turns to Begbie, seizing the opportunity to make a common cause.
— These cunts, Franco, he nods backwards, — sais they wid stey clean. Lyin bastards. Fuck us aw up. His tone is a mixture of disgust and self-pity, as if he is resigned to the fact that his lot in life is to have all his moves sabotaged by the weak fools he was unfortunate enough to have to call his friends.
Nonetheless, Sick Boy fails to strike an empathetic chord with Begbie, who dislikes his attitude even more than he disapproves of Renton and Spud’s behaviour.
— Stoap fuckin moanin. You’ve fuckin been thair often enough.
— No fir ages. These nondy cunts never grow up.
— So ye’ll no be wantin any fuckin speed then? Begbie teased, dabbing at some salty granules in silver foil.
Sick Boy really wants some Billy Whizz, to cut down the hideous travelling time. He is fucked if he going to plead with Begbie however. He sits staring ahead, gently shaking his head and muttering under his breath, a wrenching anxiety in his guts forcing his mind to flip through unresolved grievance after unresolved grievance. He then springs up and goes to grab a can of McEwan’s Export from Second Prize’s pile.
— Ah telt ye thit ye should’ve goat yir ain cairry-oot! Second Prize’s face resembled that of an ugly bird whose eggs are under threat from a stalking predator.
— One can then, ya tight cunt! Fuck sakes! Sick Boy slaps his forehead with his palm in exasperation. Second Prize reluctantly hands a can over, which, in the event, Sick Boy cannot drink. He has not eaten for a while and the fluid feels heavy and sickly in his raw guts.
Behind him, Renton’s slide into the misery of withdrawal continues apace. He knows he has to act. This means holding out on Spud. However,