Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [63]
They went into a record shop on Dairy Road, and thumbed through some album sleeves. Renton was now pretty jumpy, as his hangover was growing at a rapid rate. Dianne kept handing him record sleeves for examination, announcing that this one was ‘brilliant’ and that one ‘superb’. He thought that most of them were crap, but was too nervy to argue.
— Awright Rents! How’s ma man? A hand hit his shoulder. He felt his skeleton and central nervous system briefly rip out of his skin, like wire through plasticine, then jump back in. He turned to see Deek Swan, Johnny Swan’s brother.
— No bad Deek. How ye livin? he responded with an affected casualness which belied his racing heartbeat.
— No sae bad boss, no sae bad. Deek noted that Renton had company, and gave him a knowing leer. — Ah’ve goat tae nash likes. See ye aroond. Tell Sick Boy tae gie us a bell if ye see um. The bastard owes us twenty fuckin bar.
— You n me both mate.
— His patter’s pure abysmal. Anywey, see ye Mark, he said turning to Dianne. — See ye doll. Yir man here’s too rude tae introduce us. Must be love. Watch this punter. They smiled uneasily at this first external definition of them, as Deek departed.
Renton realised that he had to be alone. His hangover was growing brutal, and he just couldn’t handle this.
— Eh, look Dianne . . . ah’ve goat tae nash. Meetin some mates doon in Leith. The fitba n that.
Dianne raised her eyes in knowing, weary acknowledgement, accompanying this gesture with what Renton thought were some strange clucking noises. She was annoyed that he was going before she could ask him about hash.
— What’s your address? She produced a pen and a piece of paper from her bag. — No the Forrester Park one, she added, smiling. Renton wrote down his real address in Montgomery Street, simply because he was too out of it to think up a false one.
As she departed, he felt a powerful twinge of self-loathing. He was unsure as to whether it came from having had sex with her, or the knowledge that he couldn’t possibly again.
However, that evening he heard the bell go. He was skint so he was staying in this Saturday night, watching Braddock: Missing in Action 3 on video. He opened the door and Dianne stood before him. Made-up, she was restored in his eyes to the same state of desirability as the previous evening.
— Moan in, he said, wondering how easily he’d be able to adjust to a prison regime.
Dianne thought she could smell hash. She really hoped so.
Strolling Through The Meadows
The pubs, likesay, dead busy, full ay loco-locals and festival types, having a wee snort before heading off tae the next show. Some ay they shows look okay . . . a bit heavy oan the hirays though, likesay.
Begbie’s pished his jeans . . .
— Pished yir keks, Franco? Rents asks him, pointing at a wet patch oan the faded blue denim.
— Like fuck ah huv! It’s jist fuckin water. Washin ma fuckin hands. No thit you’d fuckin ken aboot that, ya rid-heided cunt. This cunt’s allergic tae water, especially if ye mix it wi fuckin soap.
Sick Boy’s scannin the bar for women . . . chick crazy that kid. It’s like he gets bored in the company of punters eftir a while. Mibbe that’s why Sick Boy’s good wi women; like mibbe cause he has tae be. Yeah, that could be it. Matty’s talkin quietly tae hissel, shakin his heid. Thirs likesay somethin wrong wi Matty . . . no jist smack. It’s Matty’s mind, it’s like a bad depression, likes.
Renton and Begbie are arguing. Rents hud better watch what he’s daein, likesay. That Begbie, man, it’s likesay . . . that’s a fuckin jungle cat. We’re just ordinary funky feline types. Domestic cats, likesay.
— They cunts’ve goat the fuckin poppy. You’re the cunt thits eywis fuckin gaun oan aboot killin the rich n aw that anarchy shite. Now ye want tae fuckin shite oot! Begbie sneers at Rents, and it’s, likes, very ugly n aw; they dark eyebrows oan toap ay they darker eyes, that thick black hair, slightly longer than a skinheid.
— S no a question