Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [32]
We’re drinking on a balcony bar, and our attention is caught by a squad of nutters entering the crowded pub below. They swagger in, noisy and intimidating.
Ah hate cunts like that. Cunts like Bebgie. Cunts that are intae baseball-batting every fucker that’s different; pakis, poofs, n what huv ye. Fuckin failures in a country ay failures. It’s nae good blamin it oan the English fir colonising us. Ah don’t hate the English. They’re just wankers. We are colonised by wankers. We can’t even pick a decent, vibrant, healthy culture to be colonised by. No. We’re ruled by effete arseholes. What does that make us? The lowest of the fuckin low, the scum of the earth. The most wretched, servile, miserable, pathetic trash that was ever shat intae creation. Ah don’t hate the English. They just git oan wi the shite thuv goat. Ah hate the Scots.
Begbie’s gaun oan aboot Julie Mathieson, whae he used tae huv the hoats fir. Julie always hated him. Ah really liked Julie, maybe that’s why. She wis a really good punter. She hud a bairn whin she wis HIV, but the bairn wis all-clear, thank fuck. The hoespital sent Julie hame in an ambulance wi the bairn, wi two guys dressed in sortay radioactive-proof suits — helmets, the lot. This wis back in 1985. It had the predictable effect. The neighbours saw this, freaked, and burnt her oot the hoose. Once ye git tagged HIV, that’s you fucked. Especially a lassie oan her puff. Harassment followed harassment. Eventually, she hud a nervous breakdoon and, wi her damaged immune system, wis easy prey fir the onset ay AIDS.
It wis last Christmas thit Julie died. Ah nivir made the funeral. Ah wis lyin in ma ain puke oan a mattress in Spud’s gaff, too fucked tae move. It wis a shame, cause Julie n me wir good mates. Wi nivir shagged or nowt like that. Wi baith thought it wid change things too much, like it does in male/female friendships. Sex generally makes them intae real relationships, or ends them. Ye go backwards or forwards after shagging, but maintaining the status quo is difficult. Julie looked really good when she started oan smack. Maist lassies dae. It seems tae bring oot the best in them. It always seems tae gie, before it takes back, wi interest.
Begbie’s epitaph tae Julie is: — Fuckin waste ay a good bit ay fanny.
Ah fight back the urge tae tell um what a fuckin waste ay a silver bullet he’d be. Ah try no tae show ma anger; it’ll achieve nothing except a burst mooth fir me. Ah go doonstairs tae git another round up.
These draftpak cunts are at the bar, jostling each other, and every other fucker. Getting served is a nightmare. A mosaic shell ay scar tissue and indian ink, ah presume that there’s some cunt inside it, is screaming: — DOUBLE VODDY N COKE! DOUBLE FAAHKIN VODDY N COKE THEN CUNT! at the nervous barstaff. Ah focus on the whisky bottles on the gantry, trying everything in ma power tae avoid makin eye contact wi this radge. It’s like ma eyes huv a life ay thir ain, involuntarily turning tae the side. My face reddens n tingles, as if in anticipation ay a fist or a boatil. These cunts are damaged fucking goods, nutty boys of the highest order.
Ah take the drinks back, the nips first fir the women, then the pints.
Then it happens.
Aw ah did wis put a pint ay Export in front ay Begbie. He takes one fuckin gulp oot ay it; then he throws the empty gless fae his last pint straight ower the balcony, in a casual, backhand motion. It’s one ay they chunky, panelled glesses wi a handle, n ah kin see it spinnin through the air oot ay the corner ay ma eye. Ah look at Begbie, whae smiles, while Hazel n June look disorientated, thir faces