Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [41]
The next morning there still no sign of Granty, and Lenny was late signing on.
— Mister Lister. You only live around the corner from this office, and you only have to sign on once every fortnight. It’s hardly an excessive demand, Gavin Temperley, the clerk, told him in pompous tones.
— Ah understand the position ay your fuckin oafice, Mister Temperley. But ah’m sure thit yill take intae consideration thit ah’m a fuckin busy man wi several flourishin enterprises tae look eftir.
— Shite, Lenny. Lazy cunt thit ye are. Ah’ll see ye in the Crown. Ah’m oan first lunch. Be thair it the back ay twelve.
— Aye. Ye’ll need tae gie us a bung though Gav. Ah’m fuckin brassic until this rent cheque hits the mat the morn.
— Nae problem.
Lenny went down to the pub and sat at the bar with his Daily Record and a pint of lager. He considered lighting a cigarette, then decided against it. It was 11.04 and he’d had twelve fags already. It was always the same when he was forced to rise in the morning. He smoked far too many fags. He could cut down by staying in bed, so he generally didn’t get up until 2 p.m. These Government cunts were determined, he thought, to wreck both his health and finances by forcing him up so early.
The back pages of the Record were full of Rangers/Celtic shite as usual. Souness spys on some fucker in the English second division, McNeill says Celts’ confidence is coming back. Nothing about Hearts. No. A wee bit about Jimmy Sandison, with the same quote twice, and the short passage finishing in mid-sentence. There’s also a small space on why Miller of Hibs still thinks he’s the best man for the job, when they’ve only scored three goals in the last thirty games or something like that.
Lenny turned to page three. He preferred the scantily clad women the Record featured to the topless ones in the Sun. You had to have some imagination.
From the corner of his eye he spotted Colin Dalglish.
— Coke, he said, without looking up from his paper.
Coke pushed up a barstool alongside Lenny’s. He ordered a pint of heavy. — Heard the news? Fuckin sad eh?
— Eh?
— Granty . . . ye didnae hear? . . . Coke looked straight at Lenny.
— Naw. Wha . . .
— Deid. Potted heid.
— Yir jokin! Eh? Gies a fuckin brek ya cunt . . .
— Gen up. Last night, likes.
— Whit the fuck happened . . .
— Ticker. Boom. Coke snapped his fingers. — Dodgy hert, apparently. Nae cunt kent aboot it. Perr Granty wis workin wi Pete Gilleghan, oan the side likesay. It wis jist aboot five, n Granty wis helpin Pete tidy up, ready tae shoot the craw n that likes, whin he jist hauds his chist n cowps ower. Gilly gits an ambulance, n they take the perr cunt tae the hoespital, but he dies a couple ay ooirs later. Perr Granty. Good cunt n aw. You play cairds wi the guy, eh?
— Eh . . . aye . . . one ay the nicest cunts ye could hope tae meet. That’s gutted us, that hus.
A few hours later, Lenny was guttered as well as gutted. He’d tapped twenty quid off Gav Temperley for the sole purpose of getting rat-arsed. When Peasbo entered the pub late afternoon, Lenny was slurring into the ear of a sympathetic barmaid and an embarrassed and sober-looking guy in a boilersuit with a Tennent’s Lager logo on it.
— . . . one ay the nicest fuckin cunts ye could hope tae meet . . .
— Awright Lenny. Ah heard the news. Peasbo grabbed one of Lenny’s broad shoulders heavily. A firm grip, to ensure that one of his mates was still there, and to make a partial assessment of his level of drunkenness.
— Peasbo. Aye. Still cannae fuckin believe it . . . one ay the nicest cunts ye could hope tae meet n aw . . . He turned slowly back to the barmaid and refocused his gaze on her. With his thumb protruding from a clenched fist, he then pointed over his shoulder at Peasbo. — . . . this cunt’ll tell ye . . . eh Peasbo? See Granty? One ay the nicest cunts any cunt could ivir hope tae meet . . . eh Peasbo? Granty? Eh?
— Aye, it’s a real shock. Ah still cannae believe