Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [84]
Ah stroll self-consciously doon Great Junction Street, the auld man nivir takin his eyes oaf us in case ah try tae dae a runner. Ah run intae Mally at the Fit ay the Walk, n we crack away fir a bit. The auld man intervenes, ushering us along, n lookin at Mally as if he wanted tae brek this evil pusher’s legs. Poor Mally, whae widnae even touch a joint. Lloyd Beattie, whae used tae be a good mate ay oors years ago, before every cunt found oot he’d been shaggin his ain sister, gied us a meek nod.
In the club, people huv big smiles for the auld man n auld lady and strained ones fir me. Ah wis conscious ay some whispers n nods, followed by silences as we took a table. Faither slaps us oan the back n winks n Ma gies us a heart-wrenchingly tender and smotheringly indulgent smile. Nae doubt aboot it, thir no bad auld cunts. Ah love the fuck oot ay the bastards, if the truth be telt.
Ah think aboot how they must feel aboot me huvin turned oot the wey ah huv. Fuckin shame. Still, ah’m here. Perr Lesley’s nivir gaunnae see wee Dawn grow up. Les and Sick fuck n Lesley, they say she’s in the Southern General in Glesgie now, oan life-support. Paracetamol joab. She went through tae Glesgie tae git away fae the smack scene in Muirhoose n ended up movin intae Possil wi Skreel n Garbo. There’s nae escape fir some fuckers. Hara-kiri wis Les’s best option.
Swanney wis his customary sensitive self: — Fuckin Weedjies git aw the best gear these days. Thair oan that pure pharmaceutical shite while we’re reduced tae crushin up any fuckin jack n jills wi kin git oor hands oan, Good gear’s wasted oan these cunts, maist ay thum dinnae even inject. Smokin and snortin skag, a fuckin waste, he hissed contemptuously. — N that fuckin Lesley: she should be turnin the White Swan oantae that gear. Does she punt any ay it ma wey? Naw. She just sits feelin sorry fir hersel aboot her bairn. Shame n that, ken, dinnae git us wrong. Thing is, thir’s opportunities n aw. Freedom fae the responsibility ay bein a single parent n that. Ye’d think she’d lap up the chance tae spread her wings.
Freedom fae responsibility. That sounds good. Ah’d like freedom fae the responsibility ay sittin in this fuckin club.
Jocky Linton comes ower tae join us. Jocky’s pus is shaped like an egg oan its side. He’s goat thick black hair flecked wi silver. He wears a blue shirt which is short-sleeved and exposes his tattoos. Oan one airm he’s goat ‘Jocky & Elaine — True Love Will Never Die’ and ‘Scotland’ wi a Lion Rampant oan the other. Unfortunately, true love did bite the dust and Elaine shot the craw a long time ago. Jocky’s now livin wi Margaret whae obviously hates the tattoo, but every time he goes tae git another one pit ower it, he bottles oot, makin excuses aboot the fear ay HIV wi the needles. It’s obviously shite, a feeble cop-oot because he still huds a candle fir Elaine. The thing ah remember maist aboot Jocky is his singing at pairties. He used tae sing George Harrison’s My Sweet Lord, that wis his perty-piece. Jocky niver quite mastered the lyrics tae it though. He only kent the title and ‘ah really want tae see you Lord’ and the rest wis da-da-da-da-da-da-da.
— Day-vie. Cah-thy. Loo-kin-gor-jis-the-night-doll. Din-nae-you-be-tur-nin-yer-back-Ren-tin-or-ah’ll-be-ruh-nin-ah-way-wi-her! Gles-kay-kee-lay-thit-ye-ur. Jocky spat out his syllables Kalashnikov style.
The auld girl tries tae look coy, her expression makin us feel a bit queasy inside. Ah jist hide behind a pint ay lager and fir once in ma puff am gled tae observe the total silence that the club bingo game imposes. Ma customary irritation at huvin ma every word policed by morons is now a replaced by a feeling ay sheer bliss.
Ah should have hud a house, bit ah didnae want tae speak, tae draw any attention tae masel whatsoever. It seemed though that fate — n Jocky — wir determined