Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [86]
— He eywis goat aroond did oor Simon, she sais wi a wistful smile.
Daddy Simone.
— Sure did. Stoat the baw, pimpin, drug-dealin, extortin money fae people. That’s oor Simon. The bitterness in ma voice surprised us. Sick Boy wis ma best mate, well, Sick Boy n Spud . . . n maybe Tommy. Why am ah giein the cunt such a bad press? Is it solely because ay his neglect ay parental duties, or indeed his lack of acknowledgement ay parental status? It’s more likely because I envy the cunt. He doesnae care. Because he doesnae care, he cannae be hurt. Never.
Whatever the reason, it freaks Tricia.
— Eh . . . well, right, eh, see ye Mark.
They leave quicky, Tricia cairryin the tray ay drinks and the Sutherland gorilla (or ah think he wis a Sutherland) lookin back at us, his knuckles nearly scrapin the varnish oan the dance flair.
It wis oot ay order bad-mouthin Sick Boy like that. Ah jist hate it whin the cunt gits oaf scot-free and ah’m painted as the big villain ay the piece. Ah suppose that’s jist ma perception ay things. Sick Boy hus his anxieties, his personal pain. He also probably hus mair enemies thin me. He undoubtedly does. Still, what the fuck.
Ah take the drinks tae the table.
— Awright son? Ma asks us.
— Brand new Ma, brand new, ah sais, tryin tae sound like Jimmy Cagney n failin pathetically; like ah dae wi maist things. Still, failure, success, what is it? Whae gies a fuck. We aw live, then we die, in quite a short space ay time n aw. That’s it; end ay fuckin story.
Bang to Rites
It’s a beautiful day. That seems to mean
Concentrate. On the job at hand. Ma first burial. Somebody sais: — C’moan Mark, a gentle voice. Ah step forward and grab a length of the cord.
Ah help ma faither n ma uncles, Charlie n Dougie, tae lower the remains ay ma brother intae the groond. The army’s pit up the hireys fir this do. Leave it to us, the softly-spoken Army Welfare Officer told Ma. Leave it to us.
Yes, this is the first burial ah’ve been at. Usually it’s cremations these days. Ah wonder what’s in the boax. No much ay Billy, that’s fir sure. Ah look ower at ma Ma n Sharon, Billy’s burd, who are being comforted by an assortment ay aunties. Lenny, Peasbo n Naz, Billy’s mates, ur here, along wi some ay his squaddie pals.
Billy Boy, Billy Boy. Hello, hello, we are the. It’s nothing tae dae wi
Ah keep thinking ay that auld Walker Brothers number, the one Midge Ure covered: There’s no regrets, no tears goodbye, I don’t want you back etcetera, etcetera.
Ah cannae feel remorse, only anger and contempt. Ah seethed when ah saw that fuckin Union Jack oan his coffin, n watched that smarmy, wimpy cunt ay an officer, obviously oot ay his depth here, tryin tae talk tae ma Ma. Worse still, these Glasgow cunts, the auld boy’s side, are through here en masse. They’re fill ay shite aboot how he died in the service ay his country n aw that servile Hun crap. Billy was a silly cunt, pure and simple. No a hero, no a martyr, jist a daft cunt.
A fit ay giggles hits us, threatening tae completely overwhelm us. Ah nearly cowped ower laughing hysterically, when ma faither’s brar, Charlie, grabbed us by the airm. He looked hostile, but that cunt always does. Effie, his wife, pulls the fucker away sayin, — The boey’s upset. It’s jist his wey Chick. The boey’s upset.
Get a fuckin wash ya soapdodgin Weedjie cunts.
Billy Boy. That’s what these cunts called him as a laddie. It wis: Awright Billy Boey? Wi me, skulking behind the couch, it wis a grudging: Aye son.
Billy Boy, Billy Boy. Ah remember you sitting oan toap ay us. Me helplessly pinned tae the