Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [67]
We start slaggin each other, then wir walkin fir a bit, bit ah start thinkin ay wee Dawn, the bairn, n that squirrel, like free n botherin naebody . . . n they wid jist kill it, like that ken, n fir what? It makes us feel really sick, n sad, n angry . . .
Ah’m gittin away fae they people. Ah turn n walk away. Rents comes eftir us. — C’moan Spud . . . fuck sakes man, what is it?
— Youse wir gaunnae kill that squirrel.
— S only a fuckin squirrel, Spud. Thir vermin . . . he sais. He pits his airm roond ma shoodirs.
— It’s mibbe nae mair vermin thin you or me, likesay . . . whae’s tae say what’s vermin . . . they posh wifies think people like us ur vermin, likesay, does that make it right thit they should kill us, ah goes.
— Sorry, Danny . . . s only a squirrel. Sorry mate. Ah ken how ye feel aboot animals. Ah jist, like . . . ye ken whit ah mean Danny, it’s like . . . fuck, ah mean, ah’m fucked up, Danny. Ah dinnae ken. Begbie n that . . . the gear. Ah dinnae ken what ah’m daein wi ma life . . . it’s aw jist a mess, Danny. Ah dinnae ken whit the fuckin score is. Sorry man.
Rents husnae called us ‘Danny’ for ages, now he cannae stoap callin us it. He looks really upset, likesay.
— Hey . . . hang loose catboy . . . it’s jist likesay animals n that, likes . . . dinnae worry aboot that shit . . . ah wis jist thinkin ay innocent wee things, like Dawn the bairn, ken . . . ye shouldnae hurt things, likes . . .
He likesay, grabs a haud ay us n hugs us. — Yir one ay the best, man. Remember that.That’s no drink n drugs talkin, that’s me talkin. It’s jist thit ye git called aw the poofs under the sun if ye tell other guys how ye feel aboot them if yir no wrecked . . . Ah slaps his back, n it’s likesay ah want tae tell him the same, but it would sound, likesay, ah wis jist sayin it cause he sais it tae me first. Ah sais it anywey though.
We hear Sick Boy’s voice at oor backs. — You two fuckin buftie-boys. Either go intae they trees n fuck each other, or come n help us find Beggars n Matty.
Wi break oor embrace n laugh. Wi both ken that likesay Sick Boy, for aw the cat’s desire tae rip open every binliner in toon, is one ay the best n aw.
Blowing It
Courting Disaster
The magistrate’s expression seems tae oscillate between pity n loathing, as he looks doon at me n Spud in the dock.
— You stole the books from Waterstone’s bookshop, with the intention of selling them, he states. Sell fuckin books. Ma fuckin erse.
— No, ah sais.
— Aye, Spud sais, at the same time. We turn aroond n look at each other. Aw the time we spent gittin oor story straight n it takes the doss cunt two minutes tae blow it.
The magistrate lets oot a sharp exhalation. It isnae a brilliant job the cunt’s goat, whin ye think aboot it. It must git pretty tiresome dealin wi radges aw day. Still, ah bet the poppy’s fuckin good, n naebody’s asking the cunt tae dae it. He should try tae be a wee bit mair professional, a bit mair pragmatic, rather than showin his annoyance so much.
— Mr Renton, you did not intend to sell the books?
— Naw. Eh, no, your honour. They were for reading.
— So you read Kierkegaard. Tell us about him, Mr Renton, the patronising cunt sais.
— I’m interested in his concepts of subjectivity and truth, and particularly his ideas concerning choice; the notion that genuine choice is made out of doubt and uncertainty, and without recourse to the experience or advice of others. It could be argued, with some justification, that it’s primarily a bourgeois, existential philosophy and would therefore seek to undermine collective societal wisdom. However, it’s also a liberating philosophy, because when such societal wisdom is negated, the basis for social control over the individual becomes weakened and . . . but I’m rabbiting a bit here. Ah cut myself short. They hate a smart cunt. It’s easy to talk yourself into a bigger fine, or fuck sake, a higher sentence. Think deference Renton, think deference.
The magistrate snorts derisively.