Free Trainspotting by Irvine Welsh Page B

We see that mental couple up ahead ay us.
    – Ah want a wee wurd Wi that cunt, Tommy sais, ready tae start eftir thum. Ah clocks a bus comin. A 22. That'll dae us.
    – Fuck it Tommy. Here's a bus. C'moan. We run tae the stoap n git oan the bus. We go upstairs tae the back, even though wir only gaun a few stoaps.
    – How's ma face? Tommy asks us whin we sit doon.
    – Same as usual. A fuckin mess. That burd improved it, ah tell um. He looks at his reflection in the bus windae.

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    – The fuckin slag, he curses.
    – The pair ay fuckin slags, ah sais.
    That wis fuckin ace ay Tommy hittin the boy, likes, n no the bird, even if it wis the burd thit hit him. Ah've done loads ay things in ma time thit ah'm no proud ay, but ah've nivir hit a burd. Whit Carol sais is shite. She says thit ah used violence oan her, but ah nivir hit her. Ah jist held oantae her so thit we could talk. She sais restrainin is like hittin, it's still violence against her. Ah cannae see that. Aw ah wanted tae dae wis tae keep her thair, tae talk. Whin ah telt this tae Rents, he sais thit Carol wis right. Eb sais she's entitled tae come n go as she wants. That's shite though. Aw ah wanted tae dae wis talk. Franco agreed wi us. It's different whin yir in a relationship, we telt Rents.
    Ah felt sick n nervous oan the bus. Tommy might've felt the same, cause we nivir spoke any mair. The morn though, we'll be in some boozer wi Rents, Beggar, Spud, Sick Boy n aw thame, boasting like fuck.

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    SPEEDY RECRUITMENT

    1 – PREPARATION

    Spud and Renton were sitting in a pub in the Royal Mile. The pub aimed at an American theme–bar effect, but not too accurately; it was a madhouse of assorted bric–a'–brac.
    – Fuckin weird man though, likesay, you n me gittin sent fir the same joab, ken? Spud said, slurping at his Guinness.
    Joab. It'd be a fuckin nightmare. Renton shook his head.
    – Yeah, ah'm likesay happy steyin oan the rock =n roll the now man, ken?
    – Trouble is though Spud, if ye dinnae try, if ye blow the interview oan purpose; the cunts tell the dole n these bastards stoap yir giro. Happened tae us in London. Ah'm oan ma last warnin doon thair.
    – Yeah . . . me n aw man. What ye gaunnae dae, likesay?
    – Well, what ye huv tae dae is tae act enthusiastic, but still fuck up the interview. As long as ye come across as keen, they cannae say fuck all. If we jist be oorselves, n be honest, thill nivir gie either ay us the fuckin joab. Problem is, if ye just sit thair n say nowt tae the cunts, thir straight oantae the dole. Thill say: That cunt jist cannae be bothered.
    – It's hard for me man . . . ken? It's difficult tae git it thegither like that, likesay. . . ken?
    Ah git sortay likes, pure shy, ken?
    – Tommy gied us some speed. What time's yir interview again?
    – No till half–two, likesay.
    – Well, ah'm at one. Ah'll see ye back here at two. Ah'll gie ye ma tie tae pit oan, n some speed. Buck ye up a bit, let ye sell yirsel, ken? So let's get tae work oan they appos. They placed the application forms on the table in front of them. Renton's was already half–completed. A few entries caught Spud's eye.
    – Hey. . . what's this man, likesay? George Heriots . . you went tae Leithy man .
    – It's a well–known fact thit ye nivir stand a fuckin chance ay gittin anything decent in this city if ye didnae go tae a posh school. Nae wey though, will they offer a George Heriots =FP a porterin joab in a hotel. That's only fir us plebs; so pit doon something like that. If they see Augies or Craigy oan your form, the cunts 'Il offer ye the joab. . . fuck, ah'd better go. Whatever ye dae, dinnae be late. See ye back here in a bit.

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    2 – PROCESS: MR RENTON (1.00 P.M.)

    The trainee manager whae welcomed us wis a mucho spotty