Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [25]
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 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,