— Aye, sounds aboot right tae me.
— Sayer, they toast, raising their glasses, with Spud adding, — The show must go oan.
— Well, if this show hus tae fuckin well go oan, you git up n git a fuckin round in, ya Jewish cunt, Begbie says, killing his pint in one extended swallow, forcing the others to keep up.
Spud pulls a sullen, petulant expression but complies. He’s still working in the furniture deliveries, though his employer has sold off one lorry, and there’s been talk of further redundancies. But he consoles himself with the fact that he’s been there since he left schooclass="underline" a good, reliable worker. Surely he’s safe. Keezbo hasn’t been so fortunate; he tells them he’s been made redundant from the building firm he works for as a brickie. — Ah’ll still dae some casual work for um, but he cannae afford tae send us tae Telford College tae finish ma City n Guilds.
— Whaire the fuck’s Second Prize? Begbie asks. — Heard the cunt goat a doin. They tell us he’s no sayin whae fuckin well did it.
— He’ll no mind, he went intae the club mingin eftir bein oan the peeve aw weekend. Dunfermline sacked him, freed the cunt. He went oan a bender n he’s been oan it since, Tommy explains, looking at Keezbo and Renton. — We shouldnae huv left him in Blackpool.
— He left us, as ah recall, Renton says.
— Mark’s right, Tommy. Keezbo takes of his specs and rubs at his eye. — Ye cannae nursemaid the boy.
— Cunt’s turnin intae a fuckin alkie, Begbie scoffs.
— Yir no wrong, Mr Frank, Keezbo nods, scoring the air with his specs to make the point.
As the conversation turns to wasted talent, Renton takes his chance to move. Almost to his disappointment, the speed is kicking in, everyone is gabbing with nobody bothering about the game. So he asks Mickey tae turn down the commentary for a bit, which he reluctantly does, but only after looking to Begbie to get the okay. The heads of some silently disgruntled drinkers pivot round to the other screen in the far corner by the entrance to the bar. Then Renton hits the jukebox and puts on Kajagoogoo’s ‘Too Shy’. Thinking of the line Modern medicine falls short of your complaint, he finds it amusing to consider Frank Begbie sporting a haircut like Limahl’s. As the refrain strikes up he flutters his lashes, like a roaring twenties chorus girl, at the back of Begbie’s bullet head, drawing nervous, pained expressions from the others.
Something seems to register on Franco’s psycho radar and he turns quickly, almost catching Renton out. — Seen Sick Boy?
— Aye, bumped intae him in the Walk jist the other day. Had a quick beer in the Cenny on the wey hame fi work, Renton responds coolly. — Movin in wi him up at Montgomery Street.
— What aboot the game? Keezbo moans.
— We can still watch it, pit the commentary back oan fir the second half. Ah jist fancy some sounds, Renton’s moved to explain, noting that Tommy’s not too happy either.
Begbie won’t be shifted from the subject of Sick Boy, until his point is made. — Cunt’s eywis oan aboot bein too fuckin good fir the Bannanay flats, but ah hear he’s been hingin aroond his fuckin ma’s bit aw the time.
— That’s cause his auld man fucked off wi that younger bird, Renton says.
Keezbo has his glasses off again, and is polishing them on his Clash Combat Rock T-shirt. It’s XXL but it strains across his gut. — That’s right, Mr Mark. Ah saw him up the toon wi her. She’s only aboot twenty-five or something. Goat a bairn, ah hear.
Renton turns away to the screen. Fuck shagging somebody that’s had a bairn. It was bad enough thinking about another guy’s cock having been up the bird you were cowping, but their bairn being pulled through her fanny … no fucking way, he thinks, and gives a shudder to shake off his squeamishness.
— Tidy, is she? Tommy asks.
— No bad, Keezbo admits, — ah’d gie her one.
— Dirty, lucky auld cunt.
— You jist need tae git yir fuckin hole, Tam, Begbie says, then turns to the table. — Saw um tryin tae fuckin chat up that Lizzie McIntosh at the Fit ay the Walk the other day.
— Jist sayin hiya, Tommy shrugs.
— Punchin above yir weight wi that yin, Mr T, Keezbo laughs.
Tommy responds with a calculating smile, while Spud reminisces. — Ah spoke tae her once. She wis paintin, like wi an easel n that, doon the Shore. Barry paintin n aw. That wis what ah sais tae her: barry paintin. She’s at the art college, eh, Tam?
— Aye.
— Wee snobby fanny, Begbie says, — ah mind ay her fae school. Yill git nowt oafay her, Tam. Should come wi me tae the Spiral, met this bird thaire last week. She wisnae fuckin shy!
Renton grinds his teeth, recollecting a school incident with Begbie that he considers bringing up, and then decides against it. Instead he recalls Lizzie from the O-grade art class. A ride and a half, though that class was rammed with them, he considers: it still made up about fifty per cent of his wanking material.
— Lizzie isnae really snobby, but. She swears like a fuckin trooper, Tommy says. As the words spill from his mouth, his own cowardice and that of all them around the table suddenly shames him. They’d all experienced that chance encounter with a girl like a long-absent sun, calling you out of a dark place, opening you up, rendering you as helpless as any blossoming flower.
— You are right on the money wi the McIntosh honey, Renton smiles, discreetly squeezing the bone and cartilage of Tommy’s knee. — She gies off that aloof vibe that a lot ay shaggable rides dae, but it’s basically just a defence mechanism tae stop radges chatting them up. She’s awright when ye get spraffin wi her.
The others seem to accept this contention; all except Begbie. — Aye, bit swearin’s aw fir fuckin show wi they snobby cunts, they dinnae jist fuckin swear naturally like normal cunts fuckin well dae.
For some reason that eludes him, Renton’s suddenly beset with a great love in his heart for Franco, dispensing him an acknowledging wink. — You ain’t wrong thaire, buddy.
Begbie bristles vaingloriously, sitting back, almost purring in contentment. Then his face alters dramatically and paranoia swamps Renton, as he thinks: I’ve misjudged what’s gaun oan in this moody cunt’s heid!
Then he realises that Begbie’s focused on something behind him, so he spins in his seat to see a skinny, angular-framed girl, around eighteen years old, with spiky mousy-blonde hair, shaved short at the sides. Ignoring Lesley at the bar, she advances towards them, stopping a few feet away, her arms folded across her slight chest. They register her one by one as Begbie sits back with a belligerent set to his face. — What are you fuckin well wantin?
— Tae talk, she says.
Renton immediately thinks the girl looks interesting. Actually mair my type than Franco’s. He usually prefers a bit ay meat on dem bones dem bones dem dry bones.
— Talk aw ye want, Begbie scoffs, shrugging off her attentions, — fuckin free country!
— No here, she says, glancing poisonously at the others, who look back to the screen, except Tommy, who gives the girl an anaemic smile, then nods hopefully to Begbie and the door. Franco seems to consider this, then rises and heads across to an adjacent table with his pint, compelling the girl to join him. The others note that he isn’t offering to buy her a drink.