Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [71]
Sick Boy bought a roond ay drinks, makin a total meal ay it, ostentatiously waving his money aboot.
— BILLY! LAGER? MRS RENTON . . . EH CATHY! WHAT’S THAT? GIN N BITTER LEMON? he shouted back at the corner table fae the bar.
Ah realised thit Begbie, now involved in a conspiratorial tale wi an ugly, box-heided wanker, the type who ye avoid like the plague, hud slipped Sick Boy the dough tae git the bevvy up.
Billy wis arguing wi Sharon oan the phone.
— Ma fuckin brar gits oaf fi gittin sent doon! Nickin books, assaultin a member ay the shoap’s staff, possession ay drugs. The spawny cunt gits a result. Even ma Ma’s here! Ah’m entitled tae celebrate, fuck sake . . .
He must have been desperate if he wis reduced tae playin the brotherly love caird.
— Thair’s Planet Ay The Apes, Sick Boy whispered tae us, noddin ower at a guy whae drank in the pub. He looked like an extra fi that film. As always, he wis pished n tryin tae find company. Unfortunately, his eye caught mine, n he came ower tae us.
— Interested in hoarses? he asks.
— Naw.
— Interested in fitba? he slurs.
— Naw.
— Rugby? he’s soundin desperate now.
— Naw, ah sais. Whether he wis oan the make or jist wanted company wis difficult tae determine. Ah don’t think the cunt knew hissel. He hud lost interest in me anywey, n turned tae Sick Boy.
— Interested in hoarses?
— Naw. Ah hate fitba n rugby n aw. Films ah like though. Especially yon Planet Ay The Apes? Ivir seen that yin? Ah lap that up.
— Aye! Ah remember that yin! Planet Ay The Apes. Charlton Fuckin Heston. Roddy Mc . . . what’s the boy’s name? Wee cunt. Ye ken whae ah’m talkin aboot. He kens whae ah’m talkin aboot! Planet Ay The Apes turns tae us.
— McDowall.
— That’s the cunt! He says triumphantly. He turns tae Sick Boy again. — Whair’s yir wee burd the day?
— Eh? Whae’s that? Sick Boy asks, totally scoobied.
— That wee blonde piece, the one ye wir in here wi the other night.
— Aw, aye, her.
— Tidy wee bit ay fanny . . . if ye dinnae mind us sayin, likesay. Nae offence likes, pal.
— Naw, nae problem mate. Yours fir fifty bar, n that’s nae joke. Sick Boy’s voice droaps.
— You serious?
— Aye. Nae kinky stuff, jist a straight hump. Cost ye fifty bar.
Ah couldnae believe ma ears. Sick Boy wisnae jokin. He wis gaun tae try tae set up Planet Ay The Apes wi wee Maria Anderson, this junky he’d been fucking on and oaf for a few months. The cunt wanted tae pimp her oot. Ah felt sickened at what he’d come tae, what we’d aw come tae, and started tae envy Spud again.
Ah pull um aside. — Whit’s the fuckin score?
— The score is ah’m looking eftir numero uno. Whit’s your fuckin problem? When did you go intae social work?
— This is fuckin different. Ah dinnae ken whit the fuck’s gaun oan wi you mate, ah really dinnae.
— So you’re Mister fuckin Squeaky Clean now, eh?
— Naw, bit ah dinnae fuck ower any cunt else.
— Git ootay ma face. Tell us it wisnae you thit turned Tommy oantae Seeker n that crowd. His eyes wir crystal clear and treacherous, untainted by conscience or compassion. He turned away n moved back ower tae Planet Ay The Apes.
Ah wis gaunny say thit Tommy hud a choice; wee Maria disnae. Aw that would huv done wis precipitate an argument aboot whair choice began and ended. How many shots does it take before the concept ay choice becomes obsolete? Wish tae fuck ah knew. Wish tae fuck ah knew anything.
As if oan cue, Tommy came intae the pub; follayed by Second Prize, whae wis guttered. Tommy’s started using. He nivir used before. It’s probably our fault; probably ma fault. Speed wis eywis Tommy’s drug. Lizzy’s kicked um intae touch. He’s awfay quiet, awfay subdued. Second Prize isnae.
— The Rent Boy knocks it oaf! Hey! Ya fuckin cunt thit ye are! he shouts, crushin ma hand.
A chorus ay ‘there’s only one Mark Renton’ echoes throughout the pub. Auld, toothless Willie Shane is giein it laldy. So’s Beggars’s grandfaither, a nice auld cunt wi one leg. Beggars and two ay his psychotic friends whae ah dinnae