Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [66]
— How ye daein doll? Whit ye up tae? he asks her.
— Goin to the Southern, she sais, a bit stoned . . . a little stoned princess, Jewish? No a blemish oan her face . . . wow, those chicks try tae act cool, but thir a bit nervous ay Rents n Sick Boy. They’ll let those superstar wasted junkies dae anything wi them, likes. Real cool chicks would slap their pusses, likesay, and jist watch the bastards crumble intae a heap. These lassies are playin at it . . . gaun through an upset-yir-posh-Ma-n-Dad phase . . . no thit Rents wid take advantage ay this, mind you, ah suppose he awready has, but Sick Boy’s a different matter. His hands are inside that wee Jill’s jeans . . .
— Ah know about you girls, that’s whair yis hide the drugs . . .
— Simon! I’ve not got anything! Simon! Siiimoon! . . .
Sensin a freak oot, he sortay lets the lassie go. Every cat laughs nervously, tryin tae aw pretend it wis a big game likesay, then they go.
— Mibbe see you dolls the night! Sick Boy shouts after them.
— Yeah . . . down the Southern, Jill shouts, walking backwards.
Sick Boy sortay likes, slaps his thigh. — Should’ve taken they wee rides back tae the gaff n banged thum senseless. Wee slags wir fuckin gantin oan it. It wis like he sais this tae hissel rather than me n Rents.
Rents starts shoutin and pointin.
— Si! There’s a fuckin squirrel at yir feet! Kill the cunt!
Sick Boy’s nearest tae it, n tries tae entice it tae him, but it scampers a bit away, movin really weird, archin its whole boady likesay. Magic wee silvery grey thing . . . ken?
Rents picks up a stane and flings it at the squirrel. Ah feel likes, sick, ma hert misses a beat as it whizzes past the wee gadge. He goes tae pick up another, laughin like a maniac, but ah stoap um.
— Leave it man. Squirrel’s botherin nae cunt likesay! Ah hate it the wey Mark’s intae hurtin animals . . . it’s wrong man. Ye cannae love yirsel if ye want tae hurt things like that . . . ah mean . . . what hope is thir? The squirrel’s likes fuckin lovely. He’s daein his ain thing. He’s free. That’s mibbe what Rents cannae stand. The squirrel’s free, man.
Rents is still laughin as ah haud oantay um. Two posh lookin wifies, gie us the eye as they pass us. They look likesay, disgusted. Rents gits a glint in his eye.
— GIT A HAUD AY THE CUNT! he shouts at Sick Boy, but makin sure that the wifies kin hear um. — WRAP IT IN CELLOPHANE SO’S IT DISNAE SPLIT WHIN YE FUCK IT!
The squirrel’s dancin away fae Sick Boy, but the wifies turn roond and look really repelled by us, like we wir shite, ken? Ah’m laughin now n aw, bit still haudin oantay Rents.
— Whae’s that foostie-minged fucker starin at? Fuckin tearoom hag! Rents says, loud enough fir the wifies tae hear.
They turn and increase thir pace. Sick Boy shouts: — FUCK OFF GOBI DESERT FANNY! Then he turns tae us n sais, — Ah dinnae ken what these auld hounds are cruisin us for. Naebody’s gaunnae fuck them, even doon here at this time. Ah’d rather stick it between a couple ay B&Q sandin blocks.
— Fahk aff! You’d shag the crack ay dawn if it hud hairs oan it, Rents said.
Ah think he felt bad aboot this as soon as he said it, likesay, cause Dawn wis a wee bairn thit died, Lesley’s bairn, it died ay that cot death n that, likesay, n everybody sortay kens it wis likesay Sick Boy thit gied her the bairn . . .
Aw Sick Boy sais though, is: — Fuck off spunk-gullet. You’re the city dog pound man here. Every burd ah’ve fucked, and there has been plen-tee, has been worth fucking.
Ah remember this burd fae Stenhoose, thit Sick Boy once took hame whin he wis pished . . . couldnae really likesay say she wis anything special . . . ah suppose every cat’s got thir sortay achilles heel, ken.
— Eh, remember that Stenhoose chick, eh, what’s-her-name?
— Dinnae you start talkin! You