Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [88]
Ma cousin Nina looks intensely shaftable. She’s goat long, dark hair, and is wearing an ankle-length, black coat. Seems tae be a bit ay a Goth. Noting some ay Willie’s squaddy pals and ma Weedjie uncles gettin oan well, ah find masel whistling ‘The Foggy Dew’. One squaddy wi big, protruding front teeth, cottons oan and looks at us in surprise n then anger, so ah blaws the cunt a kiss. He stares at me for a bit, then looks away, shit up. Good. Wabbit season.
Billy Boy, ah wis your other spastic brother, the one who’d never had a ride, as you’d tell your mate Lenny. Lenny’d laugh and laugh until he’d almost have an asthma attack. It wisnae particularly Billy no you stupid, fuckin cunt
Ah give Nina a broad wink and she smiles, embarrassed. Ma faither’s been clocking this and he steams ower tae me.
— Wahn fuckin bit ay crap oot ay you n that’s us finished. Right?
His eyes were tired, sunk deep intae thir sockets. Thir wis a sad and unsettling vulnerability aboot him ah’d nivir seen before. Ah wanted tae say so much tae the man, but ah resented him fir allowing this circus tae take place.
— See ye up the hoose, faither. Ah’m gaun tae see Ma.
An overhead conversation in the kitchen, fuck-knows when. Faither goes: — Thir’s something wrong wi that laddie Cathy. Sittin in aw the time. It’s no natural. Ah mean, look at Billy.
Ma sais back: — The laddie’s jist different Davie, that’s aw.
Different fae Billy. Not a Billy Boy. You won’t know him by his noise, but by his silence. When he comes for you, he won’t come screaming, announcing his intentions, but he’ll come. Hello, hello. Goodbye.
Ah git a lift fae Tommy, Spud n Mitch. They urnae fir comin in. They depart quickly. Ah see ma auld lady, delirious, bein helped oot ay the taxi by her sister Irene, and sister-in-law Alice. The Weedjie aunties are clucking around in the background, ah can hear these horrible accents; bad enough oan a man, fuckin revolting oan a woman. These hatchet-faced auld boots dinnae look comfortable. Obviously, thir mair in their niche at the funeral ay an elderly relative whin thir’s goodies up fir grabs.
Ma grabs the airm ay Sharon, Billy’s burd, whae’s goat a big bun in her oven. Why the fuck dae people ey grab each other’s airms at funerals?
— He wid’uv made an honest wimmin ay ye hen. You wir eywis the one fir him. The wey she sais it, it was like she was trying tae convince herself as much as Sharon. Perr Ma. Two years ago, she hud three sons, now she’s only got one, whae’s a junky. The game’s no straight.
— Dae ye think the army’ll huv anything fir me? ah heard Sharon asking ma Auntie Effie, as we got intae the hoose. — Ah’m cairryin his bairn . . . it’s Billy’s bairn . . . she pleads.
— Dae ye think the moon’s made oot ay green fuckin knob cheese? ah remark.
Fortunately, everyone seems too loast in thumsels tae pick it up.
Like Billy. He started to ignore me when I became invisible.
Billy, ma contempt for you jist grew over the years. It displaced the fear, jist sortay squeezed it oot, like pus fae a pluke. Of course, there’s the blade. A great leveller, very good at negating physical assets; as Eck Wilson found oot tae his cost in second year. You loved us for that, once you got ower yir shock. Respected and loved me as a brother fir the first time. Ah despised you mair than ever.
You knew that your strength became superfluous once ah’d discovered the blade. You knew that, ya crappin bastard. The blade and the bomb. Just like the Naw. No the fuckin bomb. No
Ma embarrassment and discomfort grows. People fill their glasses and say what a great cunt Billy wis. Ah cannae really think ay anything good tae say aboot him, so ah shut up. Unfortunately, one ay his squaddy mates, the rabbit-toothed punter ah blew a kiss at, sidles up tae me. — You wir his brother, he sais, choppers hingin oot tae dry.
Ah might’ve guessed. Another Weedjie Orange bigot. Nae wonder he’s hit it oaf wi