Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [23]
— Fuck it Matty! Nae cunt’s leavin here the now! Sick Boy shouts.
— Stay cool man. Stay cool, sais Spud, whae sounds anything but.
— We’ve goat fuckin gear stashed here. This street’s been crawlin wi the fuckin DS for weeks now. We fuckin charge oaf now, we aw fuckin go doon. Thir’s polis bastards every fuckin where ootside, sais Sick Boy, strugglin tae compose hissel. Thoughts ay polis involvement eywis concentrated the mind. On the issue of drugs, we wir classical liberals, vehemently opposed tae state intervention in any form.
— Aye, but mibbe we should git the fuck ootay here. Lesley can git the ambulance or polis once wuv tidied up and fucked off. Ah still agreed wi Matty.
— Hey . . . mibbe wuv goat tae stick wi Les, likesay. Like, mates n that. Ken? Spud ventures. That sort ay solidarity seems a bit ay a fanciful notion in the circumstances. Matty shakes his heid again. He’d just done six months in Saughton. If he wis done again, that wid be him well fucked. Ootside though, there were pigs cruising aboot. At least that’s how it felt. Sick Boy’s imagery had got tae me mair thin Spud’s pleas tae stick thegither. Flushing aw our gear down the lavvy was just not on. Ah’d rather get sent doon.
— The way ah see it, sais Matty, is thit it’s Lesley’s bairn, ken? Mibbe if she’d looked eftir it right, it might not be deid. How should we git involved?
Sick Boy starts hyperventilatin.
— Hate tae say it, bit Matty’s goat a point, ah sais. Ah’m startin tae hurt really badly. Ah jist want tae take a shot and fuck off.
Sick Boy’s noncommittal. This is weird. Normally the bastard’s barking orders at every cunt in sight, whither they take any notice or no.
Spud sais: — We cannae, likesay, leave Les here on her puff, that’s eh, ah mean like, fuck. Ken what ah mean?
Ah’m looking at Sick Boy. — Whae gied her the bairn? ah ask. Sick Boy sais nothing.
— Jimmy McGilvary, Matty sais.
— Shite it fuckin wis, Sick Boy dismissively sneers.
— Dinnae you play Mister-fuckin-innocent, Matty turns oan me.
— Eh? ‘Moan tae fuck! Whit you oan aboot? ah respond, genuinely fuckin perplexed at the bastard’s outburst.
— You wir thair Rents. Boab Sullivan’s perty, he sais.
— Naw man, ah’ve never been wi Lesley. Ah’m tellin the truth, which ah realise is a mistake. In some company people will always believe the opposite ay what ye tell thum; particularly whair sex is concerned.
— How come ye wir crashed oot wi her in the mornin at Sully’s perty?
— Ah wis fucked man. Ootay ma box. Ah couldnae huv goat a stiff neck wi a doorstep as a pillay. Ah cannae remember the last time ah hud a ride. Ma explanation convinces them. They ken how long ah’ve been using heavily and what that kin mean in the shaggin stakes.
— Like, eh . . . somebody sais it wis . . . eh, Seeker’s . . . Spud suggests.
— Wisnae Seeker, Sick Boy shakes his heid. He puts a hand oan the deid bairn’s cauld cheek. Tears are fillin in his eyes. Ah’m gaun tae greet n aw. There’s a constricting tightness in ma chest. One mystery has been solved. Wee Dawn’s dead face looks so obviously like ma mate Simon Williamson’s.
Then Sick Boy pulls up his jaykit sleeve, showing the weeping sores oan his airm. — Ah’m never touchin that shite again. Ah’m fuckin clean fae now oan. He pits oan that wounded stag expression which he always uses when he wants people tae fuck or finance him. Ah almost believe him.
Matty looks at him. — C’moan Si. Dinnae jump tae the wrong fuckin conclusions. Whit happened tae the bairn’s nowt tae dae wi the skag. It’s no Lesley’s fault either. Ah wis oot ay order saying that. She wis a good mother. She loved that bairn. It’s naebody’s fault. Cot death n that. Happens aw the time.
— Yeah, likesay, cot death man . . . ken what ah mean? Spud agreed.
Ah feel thit ah love thum aw. Matty, Spud, Sick Boy and Lesley. Ah want tae tell thum. All try, but it comes oot as: — Ah’m cookin. They look at us, fuckin scoobied. — That’s me, ah shrug ma shooders, in self-justification. Ah go ben the livin-room.
This is murder. Lesley. Ah