Trainspotting (14 page)
Authors: Irvine Welsh
Coke pushed up a barstool alongside Lenny’s. He ordered a pint of heavy. — Heard the news? Fuckin sad eh?
— Eh?
— Granty . . . ye didnae hear? . . . Coke looked straight at Lenny.
— Naw. Wha . . .
— Deid. Potted heid.
— Yir jokin! Eh? Gies a fuckin brek ya cunt . . .
— Gen up. Last night, likes.
— Whit the fuck happened . . .
— Ticker. Boom. Coke snapped his fingers. — Dodgy hert, apparently. Nae cunt kent aboot it. Perr Granty wis workin wi Pete Gilleghan, oan the side likesay. It wis jist aboot five, n Granty wis helpin Pete tidy up, ready tae shoot the craw n that likes, whin he jist hauds his chist n cowps ower. Gilly gits an ambulance, n they take the perr cunt tae the hoespital, but he dies a couple ay ooirs later. Perr Granty. Good cunt n aw. You play cairds wi the guy, eh?
— Eh . . . aye . . . one ay the nicest cunts ye could hope tae meet. That’s gutted us, that hus.
A few hours later, Lenny was guttered as well as gutted. He’d tapped twenty quid off Gav Temperley for the sole purpose of getting rat-arsed. When Peasbo entered the pub late afternoon, Lenny was slurring into the ear of a sympathetic barmaid and an embarrassed and sober-looking guy in a boilersuit with a Tennent’s Lager logo on it.
— . . . one ay the nicest fuckin cunts ye could hope tae meet . . .
— Awright Lenny. Ah heard the news. Peasbo grabbed one of Lenny’s broad shoulders heavily. A firm grip, to ensure that
one
of his mates was still there, and to make a partial assessment of his level of drunkenness.
one
of his mates was still there, and to make a partial assessment of his level of drunkenness.
— Peasbo. Aye. Still cannae fuckin believe it . . . one ay the nicest cunts ye could hope tae meet n aw . . . He turned slowly back to the barmaid and refocused his gaze on her. With his thumb protruding from a clenched fist, he then pointed over his shoulder at Peasbo. — . . . this cunt’ll tell ye . . . eh Peasbo? See Granty? One ay the nicest cunts any cunt could ivir hope tae meet . . . eh Peasbo? Granty? Eh?
— Aye, it’s a real shock. Ah still cannae believe it man.
— That’s it! One day the boy’s here, now wir nivir gaunnae see the perr cunt again . . . twenty-seven year auld. The game’s no straight, ah’ll tell ye that for fuck all. The game’s no straight . . . sure n it’s fuckin no . . .
— Granty wis twenty-nine, wis eh no? Peasbo quizzed.
— Twenty-seven, twenty-nine . . . who gies a fuck? Jist a young boy. It’s his burd n that wee bairn thit ah feel sorry fir . . . ye git some ay they auld cunts . . . Lenny gestured angrily over to the corner across to a group of old guys playing dominos. — . . . they’ve hud thair lives! Long fuckin lives! Aw they dae is moan like fuck! Granty nivir complained aboot fuck all. One ay the nicest cunts ye could hope tae meet.
He then noted three younger guys, known as Spud, Tommy and Second Prize, sitting across the other side of the pub.
— N they fuckin junky mates ay Billy’s brar. They cunts, aw fuckin dyin ay AIDS. Killing thumsels. Serves the cunts right. Granty fuckin valued life. They cunts ur flingin thairs away! Lenny glowered over at them, but they were too into their own conversation to notice him.
— C’moan now Lenny. Keep the heid. Nae cunt’s sayin nought against nae cunt. They boys ur awright. That’s Danny Murphy. Harmless cunt. Tommy Laurence, you ken Tommy, n that guy Rab, Rab McLaughlin, used tae be a good fitba player. Man United he went doon tae. They boys ur sound. Fuck sakes, thir mates ay that mate ay yours, the boy thit works fir the dole. What’s his name, Gav.
— Aye . . . but these auld cunts . . . Conceding the point, Lenny switched his attention back over to the other side of the room.
— Ah, come oan Lenny, fuck it. Harmless cunts, no botherin anybody. Down that pint, n we’ll go roond fir Naz. Ah’ll bell Billy n Jackie.
The mood was gloomy round at Naz’s flat in Buchanan Street. They had turned away from the issue of Granty’s death, onto the subject of the outstanding cash.
— The Friday before divvy day n the cunt fuckin snuffs it. One thousand n eight hundred he wis haudin. Split six weys that’s three hunner each, Billy moaned.
— No much we kin dae aboot it, Jackie ventured.
— Like fuck thir isnae. That dough gits divvied every fuckin year, the fortnight before trades. Ah’ve booked Benidorm oan the strength ay that. Ah’m fuckin brassic without it. Sheila’ll huv ma baws fir a game ay pool if ah cancel oot. Nae fuckin wey man, Naz declared.
— Too fuckin right. Ah feel sorry fir Fiona n the bairn n that, obviously. Any cunt wid. Goes withoot sayin, likes. Boatum line is, it’s oor fuckin poppy, no hers. Billy said.
— It’s oor ain fuckin fault. Ah knew somethin like this wid happen, Jackie shrugged.
The doorbell went. In came Lenny and Peasbo.
— S awright fir you, ya cunt. You’re fuckin flush, Naz challenged.
Jackie didn’t respond. He picked up a can of lager from the pile Peasbo had dumped on the floor.
— Fuckin terrible news, eh boys? Peasbo said, as Lenny morosely slurped on his can.
— One ay the nicest cunts ye could hope tae meet, Lenny said.
Naz was grateful for Lenny’s intervention. He was ready to commiserate about the money, when he realised that Peasbo had been referring to Granty.
— Ah ken ye shouldnae be selfish at a time like this, but thirs the question ay the poppy tae sort oot. Divvy day’s next week. Ah’ve goat a hoaliday tae book. Ah need they hireys, Billy said.
— Some cunt you Billy, eh? Kin we no fuckin wait until the perr cunt’s still no warm before we go oan aboot aw that shite? Lenny sneered.
— Fiona might blow the fuckin lot! She’ll no ken it’s oor dosh if nae cunt tells her. She’ll be gaun through his fuckin things, n it’ll be, aye, aye, what’s this? Nearly two grand. Tidy. Then she’ll be oaf tae the fuckin Caribbean or somewhere while we’re sittin in the fuckin Links wi a couple ay boatils ay cider fir the trades.
— Yir patter’s fuckin abysmal, Billy, Lenny told him.
Peasbo looked gravely at Lenny, who could feel a betrayal coming on.
— Hate tae say it Lenny, but Billy’s no far wrong. Granty didnae exactly keep Fiona in the lap ay luxury, great cunt as he wis likesay. Ah mean, dinnae git us wrong, ah’d nivir hear a word said against the cunt, but ye find two grand in yir hoose, ye spend first, n ask questions eftir. You would. Ah’m fuckin sure ah wid. Every cunt wid, if the fuckin truth be telt.
— Aw aye? Whae’s askin her fir it then? Fucked if ah’m gaunnae, Lenny hissed.
— We aw will. It’s aw oor poppy, Billy said.
— Right. Eftir the funeral. Oan Tuesday, Naz suggested.
— Awright, Peasbo agreed.
— Aye, Jackie shrugged.
Lenny nodded in a weary compliance. It was, he conceded, their poppy . . .
Tuesday came and went. Nobody could work up the bottle to say anything at the funeral. They all got drunk and offered more laments to Granty. The cash issue was never mentioned until late on. They met, with evil hangovers, the following afternoon, and went to Fiona’s place.
Nobody answered the door.
— Probably steyin at her Ma’s, Lenny said.
The woman from the flat across the landing, a grey-haired lady in a blue print dress, came out.
— Fiona left this mornin boys. Canary Islands. Left the bairn at her Ma’s. She seemed to enjoy breaking the news.
— Tidy, Billy muttered.
— That’s that then, Jackie said with a shrug which was a bit too smug for the liking of most of his friends. — No much we kin dae aboot it.
He was then stunned by a blow to the side of his face, delivered by Billy, which knocked him over, and sent him sprawling down the stairs. He managed to break his fall by grabbing the banister, and looked up at Billy in horror from the bend in the stair.
The rest of them were almost as shocked as Jackie by Billy’s actions.
— Easy Billy. Lenny grabbed Billy’s arm, but kept his gaze on his face. He was anxious and intrigued to find out the source of his outrage. — Yir ootay order. S’no Jackie’s fault.
— Aw is it no? Ah kept ma fuckin gob shut, but this smart cunt’s pushed us far enough. He pointed at the still prostrate figure of Jackie, whose rapidly swelling face had gained a new furtiveness.
— Whit’s the fuckin score here? Naz asked.
Billy ignored him, and looked straight at Jackie. — How long’s it been gaun oan Jackie?
— Whit’s the cunt oan aboot? Jackie said, but his watery voice lacked assurance.
— Canary Islands ma fuckin hole. Whair ur ye meetin Fiona?
— You’re fuckin tapped Billy. Ye heard whit the wifey sais, Jackie shook his head.
— Fiona’s ma Sharon’s fuckin sister. Ye think ah go aroond wi ma fuckin ears shut? How long ye been fuckin pokin her, Jackie?
— That wis a fuckin one oaf . . .
Billy’s outrage filled the stair, and he could feel it growing, swelling, in the breasts of the others. He stood over Jackie like a booming Old Testament god, scorning him in his judgement.
— One oaf ma hole! An whae’s tae fuckin say thit Granty didnae ken? Whaes’s tae say it wisnae that thit killed um? His so-called best fuckin mate, shaftin his burd!
Lenny looked at Jackie, shaking with anger. He then looked at the others, their eyes blazing. An unspoken contract was forged between them in a split-second.
Jackie’s screams reverberated around the stairwell, as they booted and dragged him from landing to landing. He vainly tried to protect himself and, through his fear and pain, hoped that there would be something left of him to move out of Leith, when the ordeal was over.
Kicking Again
Inter Shitty
Oh ya cunt yet Ma heid’s fuckin nippin this mornin, ah kin fuckin tell ye. Ah make straight fir the fuckin fridge. Yes! Two boatils ay Becks. That’ll dae me. Ah down the cunts in double quick time. Ah feel better right away. Huvtae fuckin watch the time, but.
She’s still fuckin sleepin whin ah go back ben the bedroom. Look at her; lazy, fat cunt. Jist cause she’s huvin a fuckin bairn, thinks it gies her the right tae lie aroond aw fuckin day . . . anywey, that’s another fuckin story. So ah git fuckin packin . . . that cunt hud better huv washed ma fuckin jeans . . . the 501s . . . whair’s they fuckin 501s? . . . thair they are. Jist as well fir her.
She’s wakin up now. — Frank . . . what ur ye daein? Whair ur ye gaun? she sais tae us.
— Ah’m ootay here. Fuckin sharpish, ah sais, no lookin roond. Whair the fuck’s they soacks . . . everything takes twice as fuckin long whin yir hungower n ah kin dae withoot this cunt nippin ma fuckin heid.
— Whair ur ye gaun? Whair!
— Ah telt ye, ah’ve goat tae fuckin nash. Me n Lexo pulled a bit ay business oaf. Ah’m sayin nae mair oan the fuckin subject, but it’s best ah disappear fir a couple ay weeks. Any polis cunts come tae the door, yuv no seen us fir yonks. Ye think ah’m oan the fuckin rigs, right. Yuv no seen us, mind.
— But whair ur ye gaun Frank? Whair ur ye fuckin well gaun?
— That’s fir me tae ken n you tae find oot. What ye dinnae fuckin well ken they cannae fuckin well beat oot ay ye, ah sais.
Then the fuckin boot gits up n starts fuckin screamin it us, saying thit ah cannae jist fuckin go like that. Ah punches it in the fuckin mooth, n boots it in the fuckin fanny, n the cunt faws tae the flair, moanin away. It’s her fuckin fault, ah’ve telt the cunt thit that’s what happens when any cunt talks tae us like that. That’s the fuckin rules ay the game, take it or fuckin leave it.
— THE BAIRN! THE BAIRN! . . . she screams.
Ah jist goes: — THE BAIRN! THE BAIRN! back at her, likes. — Shut yir fuckin mooth aboot the fuckin bairn! She’s jist lyin thair, screamin like some fuckin tube.
It’s probably no even ma fuckin bairn anywey. Besides, ah’ve hud bairns before, wi other lassies. Ah ken whit it’s aw aboot. She thinks it’s aw gaunnae be fuckin great whin the bairn comes, but she’s, in fir a fuckin shock. Ah kin tell ye aw aboot fuckin bairns. Pain in the fuckin erse.
Shavin gear. That’s what ah fuckin need. Kent thir wis somethin.
She’s still gaun oan aboot how she’s aw sair n tae git the fuckin doaktir n aw that. Ah’ve nae fuckin time fir that shite but, ah’m fuckin late is it is thanks tae that cunt. Goat tae fuckin nash.
— FRRRAAAANNNK! she shouts as ah git ootay the fuckin door. Ah wis thinkin tae masel, it’s like the fuckin advert fir Harp lager: ‘Time fir a sharp exit’; that wis me awright.
It wis fuckin stowed oot doon the pub, early fuckin doors n aw. Renton, the rid-heided cunt, pots the fuckin black baw tae take the game fi Matty.
— Rab! Pit ma fuckin name up fir the pool then. Whit’s every cunt fuckin wantin? Ah git up tae the bar.
Rab, the Second Prize, as we caw the cunt, he’s goat a fuckin stoatir ay an eye. Some fuckin liberty-taker’s been oan the cunt’s case.
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