Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [51]
Wee Alec, the co-op insurance man, whae’d jist been widowed, wis Na Na’s next eh, victim, likesay. They said that Alec thought, ken, that the bairn Na Na wis cairyin wis his. He lasted three years, likesay, giein her another bairn, before the perr dude stormed oot, eftir likesay, catchin her shaggin another guy in the hoose.
He sortay likes, waited fir the boy in the stair, or so the story goes, likesay, wi this boatil. The guy pleaded fir mercy. Alec pit the boatil doon, sayin thit eh didnae, likes, need a weapon tae sort the likes ay that boy oot. The gadge’s expression sortay changed, and he booted perr Alec aw ower the stair, draggin the perr cat intae the Walk, dazed and likesay, covered in blood, before flinging him oantae a pile ay rubbish stacked oan the kerb ootside a grocer’s shoap.
Ma mother sais that Alec wis likesay, a decent wee man. He wis, ken, the only cat in Leith whae didnae ken that Na Na wis oan the game, likesay.
The last but one bairn Na Na hud wis a real mystery, likesay. That’s ma Auntie Rita, whae’s much nearer ma age than ma Ma’s. Ah suppose ah’ve eywis hud the hots fir Rita, a cool chick, dead sortay sixties, ken? Naebody found oot whae Rita’s faither wis, but then came Dode, whae Na Na hud whin she wis well intae her forties, ken?
When ah wis a sprog Dode eywis seemed a real spooky dude. You’d go up tae Na Na’s oan a Setirday, likesay, fir yir tea, and there would be this nasty young black cat, starin at everybody, before creepin oaf, likesay roond the skirtin boards. They aw said that Dode hud this chip oan his shoodir, n ah thought so n aw, until ah began tae suss the kinday abuse the gadge wis takin, at school n in the streets n aw that. It wis naebody’s business, ah kin tell ye man. Ah sortay jist laugh whin some cats say that racism’s an English thing and we’re aw Jock Tamson’s bairns up here . . . it’s likesay pure shite man, gadges talkin through their erses.
There’s a strong tea-leaf tradition in ma family, likesay, ken? Aw ma uncles are oan the chorie. It wis eywis likesay, Dode, thit got the heaviest sentences for the pettiest crimes, ken. A fundamentally unsound gig man. Rents once sais, thirs nothin like a darker skin tone tae increase the vigilance ay the police n the magistrates: too right.
Anyway, me n Dode decide tae hop on doon tae the Percy for a pint. The pub’s a wee bit crazy; normally the Percy’s a quiet family type pub, but it’s mobbed oot the day wi these Orange cats fi the wild west, who’re through here for their annual march and rally at the Links. These cats, it has tae be said, have never really bothered us, but ah cannae take tae them. It’s aw hate, likesay, ken. Celebratin auld battles seems, likesay, well, pretty doss. Ken?
Ah see Rents’s auld man wi his brars and nephews. Rents’s brar Billy, he’s thair n aw. Rents’s auld boy’s a soapdodger and a Paris Bun, but he’s no really intae this sortay gig any mair. His family fi Glesgie sure are though, and his family seems tae matter tae Rents’s papa. Rents doesnae hit it oaf wi these cats; really sortay hates them, likesay. Doesnae like talkin aboot them. Different story wi Billy though. He’s intae aw this Orange stuff, this sortay Jambo/Hun gig. He gies us a nod fae the bar, but ah don’t think the cat really digs us, but.
— Awright Danny! Mr R. sais.
— Eh . . . sound Davie, sound likes. Heard fi Mark?
— Naw. He must be daein awright. Only time ye hear fi that wan is whin he’s eftir somethin. He’s only half jokin, and these young nephew kittens are lookin us ower in a baaad way, so we git a seat in a corner by the door.
Bad move . . .
Wir in the vicinity ay some unsound lookin cats. Some ur skinheids, some urnae. Some huv