Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [40]
— Moantae fuck ya doss cunt!
— Sorry Peasbo. It’s that cunt, Lenny laughed as he pointed at Naz. — Ah sais tae um tae chuck us a can ower, no tae fling it at ma fuckin heid.
Lenny rose and went to the window.
— Still nae sign ay the cunt? Naz asked. — The game’s fucked withoot the big money.
— Naw. The cunt’s patter’s fuckin rotten, Lenny said.
— Gie the cunt a bell. Find oot whit the fuckin story is, Billy suggested.
— Aye. Right.
Lenny went into the lobby and dialled Phil Grant’s number. He was upset at playing for this toy town stake. He would have been well up by now if Granty had shown up with the money.
The phone just rang.
— Nae cunt’s in, or if they are, they arenae answerin the fuckin phone, he told them.
— Ah hope the fucker husnae absconded wi the fuckin loot, Peasbo laughed, but it was an uneasy laugh, the first open acknowledgement of a collective unspoken fear.
— Better no huv. Cannae stick a cunt thit rips oaf his mates, Lenny snarled.
— Whin ye think aboot it though, it’s Granty’s poppy. He kin spend it oan whit he likes, Jackie said.
They looked at him with bemused belligerence. Eventually Lenny spoke.
— Away ye fuckin go.
— In a wey though, the cunt won it fair n square. Ah ken what we agreed. Build up a big kitty wi the club money tae add a bit ay spice tae the caird games. Then divvi up. Ah ken aw that. Aw ah’m sayin is thit in the eyes ay the law . . . Jackie explained his position.
— It’s aw oor poppy! Lenny snapped. — Granty kens the fuckin Hampden roar.
— Ah ken that. Aw ah’m sayin is thit in the eyes ay the law . . .
— Shut yir fuckin mooth ya stirrin cunt, Billy interjected, — wir no talkin aboot the eyes ay the fuckin law here. Wir talkin aboot mates. If it wis up tae the eyes ay the fuckin law you’d huv nae furniture in yir hoose ya gypo cunt.
Lenny nodded approvingly at Billy.
— Wir jumpin tae fuckin conclusions here. Might be a perfectly good reason as tae why the cunt isnae here. Mibbe he’s goat held up, Naz suggested, his pock-marked face taut and tense.
— Mibbe some cunt’s mugged the cunt n taken the poppy, Jackie said.
— Nae cunt wid try tae mug Granty. He’s the kind ay cunt thit mugs cunts, no gits mugged fae thum. If he comes in here pullin a stunt like that, ah’ll tell um whair tae fuckin go. Lenny was in a state of some anxiety. This was the club money they were talking about.
— Jist sayin thit it’s daft tae be cairryin that type ay cash aroond. That’s aw ah’m sayin, Jackie stated. He was a little frightened of Lenny.
Granty had not missed a Thursday night card session in six years, unless he was on holiday. He was the reliable lynchpin of the school. Lenny and Jackie had both missed periods through doing time for assault and housebreaking respectively.
The club money, the holiday money, had been a remnant of the time they had all gone to Loret De Mar on holiday together, as teenagers. Now older, they generally went in smaller groups, or with wives or girlfriends. The strange mixing up of the card money and the club money occurred a couple of years ago when they were drunk. Peasbo, then the treasurer, jokingly threw in a wad of the club money as his stake. They played with it, for a laugh. They liked the feel of playing with all that money, got such a buzz from it, that they divvied it up and played pretend games with it. Whenever they decided that they were into serious saving, they would stop playing cards for ‘real’ money, and play for ‘club’ money. It was just like playing for monopoly money.
There were times, particularly when someone ‘won’ the entire pot, like Granty last week, that the bizarre and dangerous nature of their actions crossed their mind. They were mates though, and it was generally assumed that they would never do the dirty on each other. However, logic as well as loyalty underpinned this assumption. They all had ties in the area, and could never leave it for good, and not for just the £2,000 in the kitty. Leaving the area was what it would mean if one ripped off the rest. They told themselves this over and over