Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [93]
The board tells us thit there is a gay skinheads night oan in the back bar. Cults and subcultures segment and cross-matrix in a place like this. Ye can be freer here, no because it’s London, but because it isnae Leith. Wir all slags on holiday.
In the public bar, ah scan for a familiar face. The layout and decor of the place has radically changed, for the worse. What was once a good, grotty local where you could fling beer over your mates and get sucked off in the women’s or men’s toilets is now a frighteningly sanitised hole. A few locals wi hard, bemused faces and cheap clathes, cling tae a corner ay the bar like shipwrecked survivors tae driftwood as yuppies guffaw loudly. Still at work, always in the office, but wi alcohol instead ay phones. This place is now geared up tae supplying all-day meals to workers ay the offices that continue to encroach into the Borough. Davo and Suzy widnae drink in a soulless toilet like this.
One ay the barmen, though, looks vaguely familiar.
— Does Paul Davis still drink in here? ah ask him.
— You wot Jock, the coloured geezer that plays for the Arsenal? he laughs.
— Naw, this is a big scouser. Dark, spiked hair, nose like a fuckin ski slope. Ye couldnae miss this guy.
— Roight . . . yeah, oi know the geezer. Davo. Angs around wiff that bird, little gel, short, black hair. Nah, ain’t seen that crowd in ere for ages. Don’t even know if they’re still on the manor.
Ah drink a pint ay fizzy pish, and crack wi the guy aboot his new customers.
— Fing is Jock, most orf them geezers ain’t even genuine yuppies, he disdainfully gestures over to a crowd of suits in the corner. — Mostly fucking shiny-arsed clerks or commission-based insurance salesmen that get a handful orf fucking roice each week in wages. It’s orl fucking image, innit. These cahnts are all up to their fucking eyes in debt. Strutting around the fucking city in expensive suits pretendin that they’re on fifty K a year. Most orf them aint even got a five-figure salary, ave they.
Thir wis a lot in what the guy said, bitter as the cunt wis. Thir wis certainly mair dosh kickin aboot down here thin up the road, but one thing the cunts doon here hud swallayed, wis the idea thit aw ye hud tae dae wis tae look the part, n it wid aw come your way, which wis fuckin shite. Ah’ve known scheme junkies in Edinburgh wi a healthier asset-tae-debt ratio thin some two-waged, heavily-mortgaged couples doon here. It’ll hit the fan one day. Thir are sackloads ay repossession orders in the post.
Ah go back up tae the flat. Still nae sign ay the cunts.
The woman across the wey comes back oot. — You won’t find em in. Her voice is smug and gloating. What a cunt ay the first order this old slag is. A black cat meanders past her, out ontae the landing.
— Choatah! Choatah! C’mere you bleedin little . . . She picks the cat up and holds it protectively to her bosom like a baby, staring at us bitterly as if ah somehow intended tae herm the bag ay shite.
Ah fuckin hate cats, nearly as much as ah hate dugs. Ah advocate the banning ay the use ay animals as pets and the extermination ay aw dugs, except a few, which could be exhibited in a zoo. That’s one ay the few things that me n Sick Boy consistently agree aboot.
Cunts. Whair the fuck ur they?
Ah go back doon tae the pub n huv another couple ay pints. It’s fuckin soul destroying, what the bastards have done tae this place. The nights we used tae huv in here. It’s like the past hus been eradicated along wi the auld fittings.
Withoot thinking consciously, ah’ve left the pub, n ah’m walking back the wey ah came, towards Victoria. Ah stoap oaf at a pay-phone, pull oot some loose change n ma battered address book. Time tae look fir alternative digs. Could be dodgy. Ah’ve fucked up wi Stevie or Stella, no way I’d be welcome back there. Andreas is back in Greece, Caroline is