Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [69]
Sick Boy, looking like an advertising executive, pits his airm aroond ma Ma, and gies us a reptilian smile.
— This calls fir a fuckin celebration. Deacon’s? Franco suggests. Like junkies, we file out after him. Nobody hus the motivation tae dae anything else, and pish wins by default.
— If you knew what you’ve done tae me n yir faither . . . ma Ma looked at us, deadly serious.
— Stupid fucker, Billy sneered, — nickin books oot ay shoaps. This cunt wis gettin ma fuckin goat.
— Ah’ve been nickin books oot ay fuckin shoaps fir the last six years. Ah’ve goat four grand’s worth ay books at Ma’s n in ma flat. Ye think ah boat any ay thaim? That’s a four-grand profit oan nickin books, doss cunt.
— Aw Mark, ye didnae, no aw they books . . . Ma looked heartbroken.
— But that’s me finished now, Ma. Ah eywis sais thit the first time ah goat caught; that wis it over. Yir snookered eftir that. Time tae hang up yir boots. Finito. Endy story. Ah was serious aboot this. Ma must’ve thought so tae, cause she changes tack.
— And watch your language. You as well, she turned tae Billy. — Ah dunno whair yis got that fae, cause yis nivir heard it in ma hoose.
Billy raises his eyebrows dubiously at me, and ah’m gieing him the same gesture back, a rare display ay sibling unity between us.
Everybody gits a bit pished quickly. Ma embarrasses Billy n me, by talkin aboot her periods. Jist because she wis forty-seven n still goat periods, she hud tae make sure everybody kent aboot it.
— Ah wis flooded. Tampons ur useless wi me. Like tryin tae stoap a burst water main wi an Evening News, she laughed loudly, throwing her heid back in that sickening, sluttish too-many-Carlsberg-Specials-at-the-Leith-Dockers-Club gesture ah knew so well. Ah realise that Ma’s been drinkin this morning. Probably mixin it wi the vallies.
— Awright Ma, ah sais.
— Dinnae tell us yir auld mother’s embarrassing ye? She grabs ma thin cheek in between her thumb n forefinger. — Ah’m jist gled thit thuv no taken ma wee bairn away. He hates bein called that. Ye’ll always be ma wee bairns, the two ay yis. Remember whin ah used tae sing ye yir favourite song, whin ye wir a wee thing in yir pushchair?
Ah clamped ma teeth tightly thegither, as ah felt ma throat go dry and the blood drain fae ma face. Surely tae fuck, naw.
— Momma’s little baby loves shortnin shortnin, momma’s little baby loves shortnin bread . . . she sang tunelessly. Sick Boy gleefully joined in. Ah wished that ah hud gone doon instead ay that lucky cunt Spud.
— Wid momma’s little baby like another pint? Begbie asked.
— Aye, yis might bloody sing as well. Ye might bloody sing, ya fuckin bastards! Spud’s Ma had come intae the pub.
— Really sorry aboot Danny, Mrs Murphy . . . ah began.
— Sorry! Ah’ll gie yis sorry! If it wisnae for you n this crowd ay bloody rubbish, ma Danny widnae be in the fuckin jail right now!
— Come oan now Colleen hen. Ah ken yir upset, but that’s no fair. Ma stood up.
— Ah’ll tell ye bloody fair! It wis this yin! She pointed venomously at me. — This yin goat ma Danny oantae that stuff. Bloody standin up thair, fill ay his fancy talk in the court. This yin thair, and that bloody pair. Sick Boy and Beggars were included, tae ma relief, in her anger.
Sick Boy said nothing, but raised himself slowly in the chair with an I’ve-never-been-so-insulted-in-all-my-life expression, followed by a sad, patronising shake of his head.
— That’s fuckin oot ay order! Begbie snapped ferociously. There were no sacred cows for that cunt, not even auld ones fae Leith whose laddies had jist been sent tae jail. — Ah nivir touch that shite, and ah’ve telt Rents n Spu . . . Mark n Danny thit thir radges daein it! Sick . . . Simon’s been clean fir fuckin months. Begbie stood up, fuelled by his own indignation. He thrashed at his own chest with his fist, as if to stop himself from striking Mrs Murphy, and screamed in her face: — AH WIS THE FACKIN CUNT TRYIN TAE GIT UM OAF IT!
Mrs Murphy turned away and ran oot ay the pub. The expression oan her face got tae us;