Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [136]
Opposite him sits an overweight couple in shell-suits. Shell-suited bastards are another breed apart, he caustically thinks. They should be fuckin exterminated. It surprised Sick Boy that the Beggar did not have a shell-suit in his wardrobe. Once they coined in the dough, he thinks he’ll treat the bastard to one, just for the crack. Additionally, he resolves to present Begbie with an American Pit-Bull pup. Even if Begbie neglected it, it wouldn’t go hungry with the bairn in the house.
There was one rose amongst thorns on the bus, however. Sick Boy’s eyes cease their critical scrutiny of his fellow passengers when they focus on the streaked-blonde backpacker. She sits all by herself, in front of the shell-suited couple.
Renton feels full of mischief and pulls out the Benidorm lighter and starts burning Sick Boy’s ponytail. Hair crackles, and yet another unpleasant smell mingles with the rest at the back of the bus. Sick Boy, realising what is happening, springs round in his seat. — Fuck off! he snarls, thrashing at Renton’s now raised wrists. — Immature cunts! he hisses as the laughter of Begbie, Second Prize and Renton mocks him, ricocheting around the bus.
Renton’s intervention though, gives Sick Boy the excuse he scarcely needs to leave them and join the backpacker. He pulls off his Italians Do It Better t-shirt, exposing a wiry, tanned torso. Sick Boy’s mother is Italian, but he wears the t-shirt less to show pride in his origins, as to wind up the others at his pretension. He pulls down his bag and rummages through its contents. There is a Mandela Day shirt, which was politically sound and rock enough, but too mainstream, too sloganistic. Worse, it was dated. He felt that Mandela would prove to be just another tedious old cunt once everyone got used to him being out of the jail. He only gave Hibernian F.C. — European Campaigners a cursory glance before rejecting it out of hand. The Sandinistas were also passé now. He settled for a Fall t-shirt which at least had the virtue of being white and would show off his Corsican tan to its best effect. Pulling it on, he moved over and slid into the seat beside the woman.
— Excuse me. Sorry, I’m going to have to join you. My travelling companions’ behaviour is a touch immature for my taste.
Renton observes, with a mixture of admiration and distaste, the metamorphosis of Sick Boy from waster into this woman’s ideal man. Voice modulation and accent subtly change. An interested, earnest expression comes over his face as he fires seductively interrogative questions at his new companion. Renton winces as he hears Sick Boy say: — Yeah, I’m more of a jazz purist myself.
— Sick Boy’s cracked it, he observes, turning to Begbie.
— Ah’m fuckin pleased fir the cunt, Begbie says bitterly. — At least it fuckin keeps the moosey-faced cunt away fae us. Fuckin nondy cunt’s done fuck all but fuckin moan since we saw um . . . the cunt.
— Every cunt’s a wee bit tense, Franco. Thir’s a loat at stake. We did aw that speed the other night thair. Everybody’s bound tae be a wee bit para.
— Dinnae keep fuckin stickin up fir that cunt. Needs a fuckin lesson in manners that fuckin wide-o. Might soon be fuckin well gittin yin n aw. Disnae fuckin cost nowt tae huv manners.
Renton, realising that the discussion cannot be fruitfully advanced, settles down into his seat, letting the gear massage him; unravel the knots, and smooth out the creases. It was quality stuff alright.
Begbie’s bitterness towards Sick Boy is not so much fuelled by jealousy but resentment at his departure; he is missing sitting beside someone. He now has a big speed kick on. His mind flashes with insight after insight, which Begbie thinks are just too good not to share. He needs someone to talk at. Renton notes the danger signs. Behind him, Second Prize is snoring loudly. Begbie would get little from him.
Renton