Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [45]
Ah’m lookin forward tae this London brek. Rents’s goat his mate’s flat, that Tony cunt n his burd, the shag, fir a couple ay weeks. Thair oan hoaliday somewhair. Ah ken a couple ay boys doon thair fae the jail; ah’ll look the cunts up, fir auld times’ sake.
That Lorraine’s servin Matty. She’s a fuckin wee ride. Ah goes ower tae the bar.
— Hi, Lorraine! C’mere the now. Ah pushes her hair back at the side ay her face n pits ma fingers behind her ears. Burds like that. Erogenous fuckin zones n aw that. — Ye kin tell whithir or no somebody’s hud sex last night by feelin behind thir ears. The heat, ken? ah explains.
She jist laughs, n so does Matty.
— Naw, but it’s fuckin scientific n aw that, ken? Some cunt’s ur fuckin clueless.
— Hus Lorraine hud sex last night then? Matty asks. The wee cunt looks fuckin awfay, like death warmed up.
— That’s oor secret, eh doll? ah sais tae her. Ah’ve goat a feelin thit she’s goat the hoats fir us, cause she ey goes that fuckin quiet, shy wey whin ah fuckin talk tae her. Once ah git back fae London, ah’ll fuckin move in thair, pretty fuckin sharpish n aw, ya cunt.
Fucked if ah’m gaunnae stey wi that fuckin June eftir the bairn’s here. N that cunt’s deid if she’s made us hurt that fuckin bairn. Ivir since she’s been huvin that bairn, she thinks she kin git fuckin lippy wi us. Nae cunt gits fuckin lippy wi me, bairn or nae fuckin bairn. She kens that, n she still gits fuckin smart. See if anything’s happened tae that fuckin bairn . . .
— Hi Franco, Rents sais, — we’d better be movin. Wuv goat that cairry-oot tae organise, mind.
— Aye, right. What ye gittin?
— Boatil ay voddy n a few cans.
Might’ve guessed. Hates a fuckin voddy, that rid-heided cunt.
— Ah’m gittin a boatil ay J.D. n eight cans ay Export. Ah might git Lorraine tae fill up a couple ay draftpaks n aw.
— Thill be a couple ay draftpaks gittin well filled up oan the train gaun doon, he sais. Sometimes ah dinnae understand that cunt’s sense ay humour. Me n Rents go back a long fuckin wey, but it’s like the cunt’s changed, n ah’m no jist takin aboot the drugs n that shite. It’s like, he’s goat his weys n ah’ve goat mines. Still a great cunt though, the rid-heided bastard.
So ah gits the draftpaks, one fill ay spesh fir me, n one fill ay lager fir that rid-heided cunt. We gits the cairry-oot n jumps a Joe Baxi up the toon n down a quick pint at that pub in the station. Ah gits crackin tae this cunt it the bar; boy fi Fife, ah kent the cunt’s brar in Saughton. No a bad gadge as ah remember. Harmless cunt likes.
The London train’s fuckin mobbed. This really gits ma fuckin goat, this. Ah mean, ye pey aw that fuckin dough fir a ticket, they British Rail cunts urnae fuckin shy, n then thir’s nae fuckin seats! Fuck that.
Wir strugglin wi they cans n boatils. Ma cairry-oot’s aboot tae burst oot the fuckin bag. It’s aw they cunts wi backpacks n luggage . . . n bairns’ fuckin go-carts. Shouldnae huv bairns oan a fuckin train.
— Fuckin mobbed man, Rents sais.
— The fuckin trouble is, aw they cunts thit uv booked seats. It’s no sae bad bookin fae Edinburgh tae London, capital fuckin cities n that, bit it’s aw they cunts thit’ve booked fae Berwick n aw they fuckin places. The train shouldnae stoap n aw they places; it should jist be Edinburgh tae London, end ay fuckin story. If ah hud ma fuckin wey, that wid be it, ah kin fuckin tell ye. Some cunts ur lookin at us. Ah speak ma fuckin mind, whitivir any cunt sais.
Aw they booked seats. Fuckin liberty, so it is. It should be first fuckin come, first fuckin served. Aw this bookin seats shite . . . ah’ll gie the cunts bookin fuckin seats . . .
Rents sits doon beside they two burds. Fuckin tidy n aw. Good fuckin choice by the rid-heided cunt!
— These seats ur free until Darlington, he sais.
Ah grabs the reservation cairds n sticks thum in ma tail. — Thir fuckin