Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [39]
Gail’s parents are sitting at the kitchen table. The sounds and smells of a traditional Sunday breakfast fry-up being prepared are nauseating. My guts do a quick somersault.
— Well, someone was in a state last night, Gail’s Ma says, but to my relief, teasingly, and without anger.
I still flushed with embarrassment. Mr Houston, sitting at the kitchen table, tried to smooth things over for me.
— Ah well, it does ye good tae cut loose once in a while, he commented supportively.
— It would do this one good tae be tied up once in a while, Gail said, realising a minor faux pas as I raised ma eyebrows at her, unnoticed by her parents. A wee bit bondage would do me fine. Chance would be fine fucking thing . . .
— Eh, Mrs Houston, I point to the sheets, in a bundle at my feet on the kitchen floor. — . . . Ah made a bit of a mess of the sheet and the duvet cover. Ah’m going tae take them home and clean them. Ah’ll bring them back tomorrow.
— Aw, don’t you worry about that, son. Ah’ll just stick them in the washing machine. You sit down and get some breakfast.
— Naw, but, eh . . . a really bad mess. Ah feel embarrassed enough. Ah’d like tae take them home.
— Dearie dear, Mr Houston laughed.
— Now no, you sit down, son, ah’ll see tae them, Mrs Houston stole across the floor towards me, and made a grab for the bundle. The kitchen was her territory, and she would not be denied. I pulled it to me, towards my chest; but Mrs Houston was as fast as fuck and deceptively strong. She got a good grip and pulled against me.
The sheets flew open and a pungent shower of skittery shite, thin alcohol sick, and vile pish splashed out across the floor. Mrs Houston stood mortified for a few seconds, then ran, heaving into the sink.
Brown flecks of runny shite stained Mr Houston’s glasses, face and white shirt. It sprayed across the linoleum table and his food, like he had made a mess with watery chip-shop sauce. Gail had some on her yellow blouse.
Jesus fuck.
— God sake . . . god sake . . . Mr Houston repeated as Mrs Houston boaked and I made a pathetic effort to mop some of the mess back into the sheets.
Gail shot me a look of loathing and disgust. I can’t see our relationship developing any further now. I’ll never get Gail into bed. For the first time, that doesnae bother me. I just want out of here.
Junk Dilemmas No. 65
Suddenly it’s cauld; very fuckin cauld. The candle’s nearly melted doon. The only real light’s comin fae the telly. Something black and white’s on . . . but the telly’s a black and white set so it was bound tae be something black and white . . . wi a colour telly, it wid be different . . . perhaps.
It’s freezing, but movement only makes ye caulder; by making ye more aware that there’s fuck all you can do, fuck all you can really do, tae get warm. At least if ah stey still ah can pretend to masel ah have the power tae make masel warm, by just moving aroond or switching the fire oan. The trick is tae be as still as possible. It’s easier than dragging yourself across the flair tae switch that fuckin fire oan.
Somebody else is in the room wi us. It’s Spud, ah think. It’s hard tae tell in the dark.
— Spud . . . Spud . . .
He sais nothing.
— It’s really fuckin cauld man.
Spud, if indeed it is the cunt, still says nothing. He could be deid, but probably no, because ah think his eyes are open. But that means fuck all.
Grieving and Mourning In Port Sunshine
Lenny looked at his cards, then scrutinised the expressions on his friends’ faces.
— Whae’s haudin? Billy, c’moan then ya cunt. Billy showed Lenny his hand.
— Two fuckin aces!
— Spawny bastard! You spawny fuckin cunt Renton. Lenny slammed his fist into his palm.
— Jist gies that fuckin loot ower here, Billy Renton said, raking up the pile of notes that lay in the centre of the floor.
— Naz. Chuck us a can ower then, Lenny asked. When the can was thrown over he missed his catch and it hit the floor. He opened it, and much of its