Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [54]
— That’s you n me left, Spud, he observes.
— Likesay, eh, yeah . . . it looks that way, catboy.
Renton likes it when Spud calls other people ‘catboy’ but he hates being referred to in that way himself. Cats make him sick.
— Ye ken, Spud, sometimes ah wish ah wis back oan the skag, Renton says, mainly, he thought, to shock Spud, to get a reaction from his hash-stoned, wasted face. As soon as it comes out, though, he realises that he actually means it.
— Hey, likesay, fuckin heavy man . . . ken? Spud forces some air out from between tightened lips.
It dawns on Renton that the speed they’d done in the toilet, which he’d denounced as shite, is now taking effect. The problem with being off smack, Renton decides, is that they are stupid, irresponsible fuckers, taking anything that they can get their hands on. At least with smack, there is no room for all the other crap.
He has an urge to talk. The speed is a good lap ahead of the dope and alcohol in his system.
— Thing is though, Spud, whin yir intae skag, that’s it. That’s aw yuv goat tae worry aboot. Ken Billy, ma brar, likes? He’s jist signed up tae go back intae the fuckin army. He’s gaun tae fuckin Belfast, the stupid cunt. Ah always knew that the fucker wis tapped. Fuckin imperialist lackey. Ken whit the daft cunt turned roond n sais tae us? He goes: Ah cannae fuckin stick civvy street. Bein in the army, it’s like bein a junky. The only difference is thit ye dinnae git shot at sae often bein a junky. Besides, it’s usually you that does the shootin.
— That, eh, likesay, seems a bit eh, fucked up like man. Ken?
— Naw but, listen the now. You jist think aboot it. In the army they dae everything fir they daft cunts. Feed thum, gie the cunts cheap bevvy in scabby camp clubs tae keep thum fae gaun intae toon n lowerin the fuckin tone, upsettin the locals n that. Whin they git intae civvy street, thuv goat tae dae it aw fir thumsells.
— Yeah, but likesay, it’s different though, cause . . . Spud tries to cut in, but Renton is in full flight. A bottle in the face is the only thing that could shut him up at this point; even then only for a few seconds.
— Uh, uh . . . wait a minute, mate. Hear us oot. Listen tae whit ah’ve goat tae say here… what the fuck wis ah sayin . . . aye! Right. Whin yir oan junk, aw ye worry aboot is scorin. Oaf the gear, ye worry aboot loads ay things. Nae money, cannae git pished. Goat money, drinkin too much. Cannae git a burd, nae chance ay a ride. Git a burd, too much hassle, cannae breathe withoot her gittin oan yir case. Either that, or ye blow it, and feel aw guilty. Ye worry aboot bills, food, bailiffs, these Jambo Nazi scum beatin us, aw the things that ye couldnae gie a fuck aboot whin yuv goat a real junk habit. Yuv just goat one thing tae worry aboot. The simplicity ay it aw. Ken whit ah mean? Renton stops to give his jaws another grind.
— Yeah, but it’s a fuckin miserable life, likesay, man. It’s nae life at aw, ken? Likesay whin yir sick man . . . that is the fuckin lowest ay the low… the grindin bones… the poison man, the pure poison . . . Dinnae tell us ye want aw that again, cause that’s likesay, fuckin bullshit. The response packs a bit of venom, especially by Spud’s gentle, laid-back standards. Renton notes he’s obviously touched a nerve.
— Aye. Ah’m talkin a loaday shite. It’s the Lou Reed.
Spud gives Renton the kind of smile that would make old wifies in the street want to adopt him like a stray cat.
They clock Sick Boy preparing to leave with Annabel and Louise, the two Americans. He’d spent his obligatory half hour boosting Beggar’s ego. That is, Renton decides, the sole function of any mate of Begbie’s. He reflects on the insanity of being a friend of a person he obviously dislikes. It was custom and