Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [27]
— It’s hard for me man . . . ken? It’s difficult tae git it thegither like that, likesay . . . ken? Ah git sortay likes, pure shy, ken?
— Tommy gied us some speed. What time’s yir interview again?
— No till half-two, likesay.
— Well, ah’m at one. Ah’ll see ye back here at two. Ah’ll gie ye ma tie tae pit oan, n some speed. Buck ye up a bit, let ye sell yirsel, ken? So let’s get tae work oan they appos.
They placed the application forms on the table in front of them. Renton’s was already half-completed. A few entries caught Spud’s eye.
— Hey . . . what’s this man, likesay? George Heriots . . . you went tae Leithy man . . .
— It’s a well-known fact thit ye nivir stand a fuckin chance ay gittin anything decent in this city if ye didnae go tae a posh school. Nae wey though, will they offer a George Heriots FP a porterin joab in a hotel. That’s only fir us plebs; so pit doon something like that. If they see Augies or Craigy oan your form, the cunts’ll offer ye the joab . . . fuck, ah’d better go. Whatever ye dae, dinnae be late. See ye back here in a bit.
2 — Process: Mr Renton (1.00 p.m.)
The trainee manager whae welcomed us wis a mucho spotty punter in a sharp suit, wi dandruff oan the shoodirs like piles ay fuckin cocaine. Ah felt like takin a rolled up fiver tae the cunt’s tin flute. His biscuit-ersed face and his plukes completely ruin the image the smarmy wee shite’s tryin tae achieve. Even in ma worse junk periods ah’ve nivir had a complexion like that, the poor wee bastard. This cunt is obviously along for the ride. The main man is the fat, stroppy-lookin gadge in the middle; tae his right thirs a coldly smiling dyke in a woman’s business suit wi a thick foundation mask, who looks catalogue hideous.
This is a heavy-duty line-up for a fuckin porter’s joab.
The opening gambit wis predictable. The fat cunt gies us a warm look and says: — I see from your application form that you attended George Heriots.
— Right . . . ah, those halcyon school days. It seems like a long time ago now.
Ah might huv lied on the appo, but ah huvnae at the interview. Ah did once attend George Heriots: whin ah wis an apprentice joiner at Gillsland’s we did some contract work there.
— Old Fotheringham still doing his rounds?
Fuck. Select from one of two possibilities; one: he is, two: he’s retired. Naw. Too risky. Keep it nebulous.
— God, you’re taking me back now . . . ah laugh. The fat gadge seems tae be happy wi that. It’s worrying. Ah feel that the interview is over, and that these cunts are actually going tae offer us the joab. The subsequent questions are all pleasantly asked and unchallenging. Ma hypothesis is fucked. They’d rather gie a merchant school old boy with severe brain damage a job in nuclear engineering than gie a schemie wi a Ph.D. a post as a cleaner in an abattoir. Ah’ve goat tae dae something here. This is terrifying. Fatso sees us as a George Heriots old boy fallen on hard times, and he wants tae help us oot. A gross miscalculation Renton, you radge.
Thank fuck for spotted dick. A fair assumption tae make, considering every other part of him seems tae be covered in zits. He gets tae nervously ask a question: — Ehm . . . ehm . . . Mr Renton . . . ehm . . . can you, ehm, explain . . . eh, your employment gaps, ehm . . .
Can you explain the gaps between your words, you doss wee cunt.
— Yes. I’ve had a long-standing problem with heroin addiction. I’ve been trying to combat this, but it has curtailed my employment activities. I feel it’s important to be honest and mention this to you, as a potential future employer.
A stunning coup de maître. They shift nervously in their seats.
— Well, eh, thank you for being so frank with us Mr Renton . . . eh, we do have some other people to see . . . so thanks again, and we’ll be in touch.
Magic. The gross git pulls down a wall of coldness and distance between us. They cannae say