Free Trainspotting by Irvine Welsh

Ma. Ahm lyin here jist a few feet fae the door, which leads tae a narrow hallway whichleeds tae another door. behind that door is ma mother.
    –Mark! Please son, please! Answer the door! It'syir mother, Mark! Answer the door!
    It sounds like Ma's greetin. It sounded like 'doe–ho–hore'. Ah love Ma, love her too much, but in a way which is hard for us tae define, a way which makes it difficult. almost impossible, tae ever actually tell her. But ah love her nonetheless. So much that ah don't wont her tae have a son like me. Ah wish ah could find her a replacement. Ah wish that because ah don't think change is an option fir us.
    Ah cannae go tae the door. Nae chance. Instead, ah decide tae cook up another shot. Ma pain centres say already.
    Already.
    Christ, life doesnae get any easier.
    This smack has too much shite in it. You can tell by the wey it’s no dissolving properly. Fuck that cunt Seeker!
    Ah'll have toe look in oan the ould lady and the auld man sometime; see how thir doein. Ah'll make that visit a priority; eftir ah see that cunt Seeker, of course.

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    25

    HER MAN

    For fuck sake.
    Wi just came oot fir a quick drink. This is pure fuckin mental.
    – Did ye see that? Fuckin out of order, Tommy sais.
    – Naw, fuckin leave it man. Dinnae git involved. Ye dinnae ken the score, ah sais tae um. Ah saw it though. Clear as day. He hit her. No a fuckin slap or nowt like that, but a punch. It wis horrible.
    Ah'm gled thit Tommy's sittin beside thum, n no me.
    – Cause ah fuckin sais! That's fuckin how! The boy's shoutin at her again. Naebody bothers. A big punter at the bar Wi long blond corkscrew hair n a rid coupon looks ower n smiles, then turns back tae watch the darts match. No one ay the boys playin darts turns roond.
    – Is that eighty? Ah point tae Tommy's nearly empty gless.
    – Aye.
    Whin ah git tae the bar, thuv started again. Ah kin hear thum. So kin the barman n the corkscrew–heided cunt.
    – Gaun then. Dae it again. Gaun then! She's tauntin um. Her voice is like a fuckin ghost's, shriekin =n that, bit her lips dinnae seem tae be movin. Ye only ken it's her because the sound's comin fae ower thair. The fuckin pub's nearly empty tae. We could've sat anywhere. Of aw the places tae sit.
    He punches her in the face. Blood spurts fae her mooth.
    – Hit us again, fucking big man. Gaun then!
    He does. She lets oot a scream, then starts greetin, and hauds her face in her hands. He sits, a few inches away fae her, starin at her, eyes blazing, mooth hingin open.
    – Lovers' tiff, the corkscrew–heided cunt smiles, catchin ma eye. Ah smile back. Ah don't know why. Ab just seem tae feel like ah need friends. Ah'd nivir say this tae any cunt, bit ah know thit ah've goat problems Wi the bevvy. Whin yir like that, yir mates tend tae keep oot yir road, unless they've goat problems Wi the bevvy n aw.
    Ah look ower tae the barman, an auld guy Wi grey hair n a moustache. He shakes his heid n says something under his breath.
    Ah take the pints back. Nivir, ivir hit a lassie, ma faither often telt us. It's the lowest scum thit dae that, son, he sais. This cunt thit's been hittin the lassie, he fits that description. He's goat greasy black hair, a thin white face n a black moustache. A wee ferret–faced fucker. Ah dinnae want tae be here. Ah jist came oot fir a quiet drink. Only a couple, ah promised Tommy, tae git um tae come. Ah've goat the bevvyin under control. Jist pints like, nae nips. Bit this kind ay thing makes us want a wee whisky. Carol's away tae her Ma's. No comin back, she sais. Ah came fir a pint, bit ah might jist git pished yit.
    Tommy's breathin heavily n lookin tense as ah sit doon.
    – Fuckin tellin ye Secks . . . he sais through grinding teeth. The lassie's eye is badly swollen and shuttin. Her jaw's swollen n aw, and her mooth is still bleedin She’s a skinny lassie n she looks like she'd