Free Trainspotting by Irvine Welsh Page A

snap intae pieces if he hit her again. Still, she cairries oan.
    – That's yir answer. That's eywis yir answer, she spits oot between sobs, angry n feelin sorry fir hersel at the same time.
    – Shut it! Ah'm tellin ye! Shut the fuck up! He's nearly chokin Wi anger.
    – Whit ye gaunnae dae?
    – Ya fackin . . . He seems ready tae punch her again.
    – That's enough mate. Leave it. Yir oot ay order, Tommy sais tae the guy.
    – It's nane ay your fuckin business! You keep oot ay this! The boy points at Tommy. –
    That's enough thair. Come on now! The barman shouts.
    The corkscrew–heided cunt smiles and a couple ay the darts boys look ower.
    – Ah'm makin it ma fuckin business. Whit you gaunnae fuckin dae aboot it? Eh? Tommy leans forward.

    26

    – Fuck sake Tommy. Cool it man. Ah half–heartedly grab his airm, thinkin ay the barman. He frees it Wi a quick shake.
    – You want yir mooth punched? the boy sais.
    – Think ah'm gaunny jist sit here n lit ye dae it? Fuckin wide–=o! Ootside then cunt. Cu–mauugghhnn! Tommy sort ay sings tauntingly. The boy's shitein hissel. He's right tae. Tommy's quite a tidy cunt.
    – Nane ay your business, he sais, no soundin sae smart.
    Then the woman screams at Tommy.
    – That's ma man! That's ma fackin man yir talkin tae!
    Tommy's too shocked tae stoap her as she leans ower an digs her nails intae his face. Everythin happened eftir that. Tommy stood up an punched the boy in the mooth, the guy fell back oaf his seat ontae the flair.
    Ah wis up n straight ower tae the corkscrew–heided cunt at the bar. Ah tanned um in the jaw n grabbed a haud ay his fuckin curls, haulin his heid doon, n bootin him a couple ay times in the face.
    Ah think he blocked one Wi his hands, n ah doubt if the other hurt the cunt, cause ah'm wearin trainers. He swings Wi his airms, brekin ma grip. Then he backs away, face beamin rid n confused. Ah thought the cunt would huv me then, he could've easily, but he jist stands thair n opens oot his hands.
    – What's the fuckin score?
    – It's a big joke tae you, eh? ah sais.
    – Whit ye talkin aboot? The cunt seems genuinely scoobied.
    – Ah'll phone the polis! Git ootay here or ah'll phone the polis! The barman sais, pickin up the receiver fir effect.
    – Nae hassle in here now boys, a big, fat cunt fae the darts team sais, threateningly. He's still goat his arrays in his hand.
    – It's nowt tae dae Wi me mate, the corkscrew–heided cunt sais tae us.
    – Mibbe ah goat it wrong likesay, ah tell um.
    The woman and her man, thame thit caused the whole fuckin problem, we wir jist oot fir a quiet drink, ur skulkin oot ay the door.
    – Fuckin bastards. That's ma man, she shouts tae us as they leave. Ah feel Tommy's hand oan ma shoodir.
    – C'moan Secks. Lits git Gotay here, he sais.
    The fat cunt fae the darts team, he's goat a rid shirt Wi the pub name, a dartboard crest, and
    'Stu' underneath it, he's still goat plenty tae say fir hissel.
    – Dinnae come in here n cause bother, pal. This isnae your local. Ah ken your faces. Yous ur mates Wi that rid–heided cunt n that Williamson laddie, the one Wi the ponytail. These cunts ur fuckin drug–dealin scum. We dinnae want that fuckin trash in here.
    – We dinnae deal fuckin drugs, pal, Tommy sais.
    – Aye. No in this fuckin pub ye dinnae, the fat cunt goes.
    – C'moan Stu. =S no they boys' fault. It's that cunt Alan Venters n his burd. They're mair intae drugs thin any cunt aroond here. You ken that, this other guy Wi thin fair hair sais.
    – They should be daein that kind ay arguin in the hoose, no in a pub, another guy sais.
    – Domestic dispute. That's whit it is. Shouldnae be botherin people thit ur jist oot fir a drink Wi aw that, Fair–hair agrees.
    The worse bit is gitting ootside. Ah'm shitein masel in case wi git follayed. Ah'm walkin fast, while Tommy's haudin back.
    – Stall the now, he sais. – Fuck off. Let's git ootay here. We move doon the road. Ah look back, but nae cunt's left the pub.