Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [72]
Tommy slaps us oan the back. — Nice one ma man, he sais. Then: — Goat any smack?
Ah tell um tae forget it, leave it alane while he still can. He tells us, aw the cocky cunt like, thit he can handle it. Seems tae me ah’ve heard that line before. Ah’ve spun it masel, n probably ah’ll dae so again.
Ah’m surrounded by the cunts thit ur closest tae us; but ah’ve nivir felt so alone. Nivir in ma puff.
Planet Ay The Apes hus insinuated hissel intae the company. The thought ay that cunt shaggin wee Maria Anderson is not aesthetically appealing. The thought ay that cunt shaggin anybody isnae aesthetically appealing. If he tries tae talk tae ma Ma, ah’ll gless the fucker’s primate pus.
Andy Logan comes intae the pub. He’s an exuberant cunt who reeks ay petty crime and prison. Ah met Loags a couple ay years ago when we were baith workin as park attendants at a council golf course, and pocklin loads ay cash. It wis the ticket checker in the park patrol van whae pit us oantae the scam. Lucrative times; ah nivir used tae touch ma wages. Ah like Loags, bit oor friendship nivir developed. Aw he could talk aboot wir these times.
Everybody wis at it, the reminiscing game. Each conversation began wi ‘mind the time whin . . .’ and we were talkin aboot perr auld Spud now.
Flocksy came intae the boozer and gestured us ower tae the bar. He asked us fir skag. Ah’m oan the programme. It’s mad. It wis ironic thit ah git nicked fir stealin books whin ah’m tryin tae git sorted oot. Its this methadone though, it’s a fuckin killer. Gies us the heebie-jeebies. Ah hud it bad in the bookshoap whin that baw-faced cunt hud tae try tae play the hero.
Ah tell Flocksy ah’m oan the maintenance, n he jist fucks off without sayin another word.
Billy clocked us talkin tae um n follays the cunt ootside, but ah bombs ower n pulls his airm.
— Ah’m gaunnae brek that fuckin trash up . . . he hisses through his teeth.
— Leave um, he’s awright. Flocksy’s headin doon the road, oblivious tae aw this, oblivious tae everything except the procurement ay smack.
— Fuckin trash. Ye deserve eveything ye fuckin git hingin aboot wi that scum.
He goes back in n sits doon, bit only because he sees Sharon n June comin doon the road.
When Begbie clocks June in the pub, he glowers accusingly at her.
— Whair’s the bairn?
— He’s at ma sisters, June sais timidly.
Begbie’s belligerent eyes, open mouth and frozen face turn away from her, trying to absorb this information and decide whether he feels good, bad or indifferent about it. Eventually he turns tae Tommy and affectionately tells him that he’s some cunt.
What huv ah goat here? Billy’s fuckin nosey, reactionary bastard’s outrage. Sharon lookin at us like ah’ve goat two heids. Ma, drunk and sluttish, Sick Boy . . . the cunt. Spud in the jail. Matty in the hospital, and nae cunt’s been tae see um, nae cunt even talks aboot um, it’s like he never existed. Begbie . . . fuck sakes, glowing, while June looks like a pile ay crumpled bones in that hideous shell-suit, an unflattering garment at the best ay times, but highlighting her jagged shapelessness.
Ah go tae the bog and when ah finish ma pish ah ken ah cannae go back in thair tae face that shite. Ah sneak out through the side door. It’s still fourteen hours n fifteen minutes until ah kin git ma new fix. The state-sponsored addiction: substitute methadone for smack, the sickly jellies, three a day, for the hit. Ah’ve no known many junkies oan that programme whae didnae take aw three jellies at once and go oot scorin. The morn’s mornin, that’s how long ah’ve goat tae wait till. Ah decide ah cannae wait that long. Ah’m off tae Johnny Swan’s for ONE hit, just ONE FUCKIN HIT tae get us ower this long, hard, day.
Junk Dilemmas No. 66
It’s a challenge tae move: but it shouldnae be. Ah can move. It has been done before. By definition, we, humans, likes, are matter in motion. Why move anyway, when you have everything you need right here. Ah’ll soon huv tae move though. Ah’ll move when ah’m sick enough; ah know that