Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [42]
— That’s it! One day the boy’s here, now wir nivir gaunnae see the perr cunt again . . . twenty-seven year auld. The game’s no straight, ah’ll tell ye that for fuck all. The game’s no straight . . . sure n it’s fuckin no . . .
— Granty wis twenty-nine, wis eh no? Peasbo quizzed.
— Twenty-seven, twenty-nine . . . who gies a fuck? Jist a young boy. It’s his burd n that wee bairn thit ah feel sorry fir . . . ye git some ay they auld cunts . . . Lenny gestured angrily over to the corner across to a group of old guys playing dominos. — . . . they’ve hud thair lives! Long fuckin lives! Aw they dae is moan like fuck! Granty nivir complained aboot fuck all. One ay the nicest cunts ye could hope tae meet.
He then noted three younger guys, known as Spud, Tommy and Second Prize, sitting across the other side of the pub.
— N they fuckin junky mates ay Billy’s brar. They cunts, aw fuckin dyin ay AIDS. Killing thumsels. Serves the cunts right. Granty fuckin valued life. They cunts ur flingin thairs away! Lenny glowered over at them, but they were too into their own conversation to notice him.
— C’moan now Lenny. Keep the heid. Nae cunt’s sayin nought against nae cunt. They boys ur awright. That’s Danny Murphy. Harmless cunt. Tommy Laurence, you ken Tommy, n that guy Rab, Rab McLaughlin, used tae be a good fitba player. Man United he went doon tae. They boys ur sound. Fuck sakes, thir mates ay that mate ay yours, the boy thit works fir the dole. What’s his name, Gav.
— Aye . . . but these auld cunts . . . Conceding the point, Lenny switched his attention back over to the other side of the room.
— Ah, come oan Lenny, fuck it. Harmless cunts, no botherin anybody. Down that pint, n we’ll go roond fir Naz. Ah’ll bell Billy n Jackie.
The mood was gloomy round at Naz’s flat in Buchanan Street. They had turned away from the issue of Granty’s death, onto the subject of the outstanding cash.
— The Friday before divvy day n the cunt fuckin snuffs it. One thousand n eight hundred he wis haudin. Split six weys that’s three hunner each, Billy moaned.
— No much we kin dae aboot it, Jackie ventured.
— Like fuck thir isnae. That dough gits divvied every fuckin year, the fortnight before trades. Ah’ve booked Benidorm oan the strength ay that. Ah’m fuckin brassic without it. Sheila’ll huv ma baws fir a game ay pool if ah cancel oot. Nae fuckin wey man, Naz declared.
— Too fuckin right. Ah feel sorry fir Fiona n the bairn n that, obviously. Any cunt wid. Goes withoot sayin, likes. Boatum line is, it’s oor fuckin poppy, no hers. Billy said.
— It’s oor ain fuckin fault. Ah knew somethin like this wid happen, Jackie shrugged.
The doorbell went. In came Lenny and Peasbo.
— S awright fir you, ya cunt. You’re fuckin flush, Naz challenged.
Jackie didn’t respond. He picked up a can of lager from the pile Peasbo had dumped on the floor.
— Fuckin terrible news, eh boys? Peasbo said, as Lenny morosely slurped on his can.
— One ay the nicest cunts ye could hope tae meet, Lenny said.
Naz was grateful for Lenny’s intervention. He was ready to commiserate about the money, when he realised that Peasbo had been referring to Granty.
— Ah ken ye shouldnae be selfish at a time like this, but thirs the question ay the poppy tae sort oot. Divvy day’s next week. Ah’ve goat a hoaliday tae book. Ah need they hireys, Billy said.
— Some cunt you Billy, eh? Kin we no fuckin wait until the perr cunt’s still no warm before we go oan aboot aw that shite? Lenny sneered.
— Fiona might blow the fuckin lot! She’ll no ken it’s oor dosh if nae cunt tells her. She’ll be gaun through his fuckin things, n it’ll be, aye, aye, what’s this? Nearly two grand. Tidy. Then she’ll be oaf tae the fuckin Caribbean or somewhere while we’re sittin in the fuckin Links wi a couple ay boatils ay cider fir the trades.
— Yir patter’s fuckin abysmal, Billy, Lenny told him.
Peasbo looked gravely at Lenny, who could feel a betrayal coming on.
— Hate tae say it Lenny, but Billy’s no far wrong. Granty didnae exactly keep Fiona in the lap ay luxury, great cunt as he wis likesay. Ah