Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [48]
— Nae problem . . . the cunt sais, takin a big fuckin swig oot ay the draftpak. He screws his face up. It’s hard no tae fuckin pish masel.
— The lager’s loupin. Seems tae huv gone dead flat, ken. Tastes like fuckin pish.
Ah’m daein ma best tae haud it in. — Stoap makin fuckin excuses, ya crappin cunt.
— Ah’ll still drink it like, the cunt goes. Ah try tae look oot the windae, wi that daft cunt finishing the fuckin loat.
Ah’m really fuckin ootay it by the time we hit Kings Cross. They burds’ve fucked oaf; ah thoat we wir oantae a fuckin good thing thair n aw, n ah sortay loast Rents comin oaf the train. Ah’ve even goat that rid-heided cunt’s bag instead ay ma ain. That cunt better huv mines. Ah dinnae even ken the fuckin address . . . but then ah clocks the rid-heided cunt talkin tae this wee cunt wi a plastic cup ootside the entrance tae the tube. Rents’s goat ma fuckin bag. Lucky fir him, the cunt.
— Any change fir the boy Franco? Rents sais, n this daft-lookin wee cunt hauds oot the fuckin cup; lookin it us wi they fuckin sappy eyes.
— Git tae fuck ya gypo cunt! ah sais, knockin the cup oot ay his hand, n fuckin pishin masel it the daft cunt scramblin aroond oan the deck between cunts’ legs, tae git his fuckin coins.
— Whair the fuck’s this flat then? ah sais tae Rents.
— No far, Rents sais, lookin it us like ah wis fuckin . . . the wey that cunt looks it ye sometimes . . . he’s gaunnae git a sair face one ay they fuckin days, mates or nae fuckin mates. Then the cunt jist turns away n ah follay um doon oantae the Victoria Line.
Na Na and Other Nazis
The Fit ay Leith Walk is really likes, mobbed oot man. It’s too hot for a fair-skinned punter, likesay, ken? Some cats thrive in the heat, but the likes ay me, ken, we jist cannae handle it. Too severe a gig man.
Another total downer is being skint, likesay. Pure Joe Strummer, man. Aw ye dae is walk aroond n check people oot, ken. Every cat’s dead palsy-walsy likesay, but once they suss that you’re brassic lint, they sortay just drift away intae the shadows . . .
Ah clock Franco at Queen Sticky-Vicky’s statue, talkin tae this big dude, a mean hombre called Lexo; a casual acquaintance, if ye catch ma drift. Funny scene, likesay, how aw the psychos seem tae ken each other, ken what ah mean, likes? Such alliances are unholy man, just unholy . . .
— Spud! Awright ya cunt! How’s it gaun? The Beggar is one high catboy.
— Eh, no sae bad likesay, Franco . . . yirsel?
— Barry, he sais, turnin tae this square-shaped mountain beside um. — Ye ken Lexo, a statement likesay, no a question. Ah just sortay nods, ken, and the big hombre looks at us for a second, then turns and talks tae Franco again.
Ah can tell that those cats have, likesay, binliners tae slash open, n rubbish tae rummage through. So ah sortay sais, like: — Eh . . . goat tae nash like, catch yis later.
— Haud oan mate. How ye fixed? Franco asks us.
— Eh, basically man, ah’m totally brassic. Ah’ve goat thirty-two pence in ma poakit and a pound in ma account at the Abbey National. No really the kind ay investment portfolio tae cause the Charlotte Square dudes sleepless nights, likesay.
Franco slips us two tenners. Nice one, the Beggar-boy.
— Nae skag now, ya radge cunt! he gently chides us, likesay. — Gie us a bell at the weekend, or come doon fir us well.
Did ah ever say anything derogatory against ma man Franco? Well, likesay . . . he’s no a bad punter. Pure jungle cat, ken, but even jungle cats sit doon n huv a wee purr tae themselves now and again, likesay, usually after they’ve likes, devoured somebody. Ah sortay cannae help wondering who Franco n Lexo’s devoured, likesay. Frankie-baby wis doon in London wi Rents, hidin oot fae the labdicks. What had the boy been up tae? Sometimes it’s better no tae ken. In fact, it’s always better no tae ken, likesay.
Ah cut through Woolies, which is busy, likesay, really busy. The security dude’s engrossed in chatting up this sexy catgirl on