Free Trainspotting by Irvine Welsh

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. Ah just seem tae feel like ah need friends. Ah’d nivir say this tae any cunt, bit ah know thit ah’ve goat problems withe 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 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.
    — 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