This is a bit like being accused of shagging the sister ah don’t have.

– Eh? Ah think ah manage tae cough out.

– These cunts are your fuckin mates. Where dae they fuckin stay?

– Fuck off, ah say, turning away. Then ah feel his airm on my shooder. He’s gaunnae hit ays. No. He’s no gaunnae let ays go. That is worse. Violence in the form of blows ah can take, but the idea of being constrained, no fuckin way … ah punch him, in the chest, what a place to punch any cunt, but ah didnae want to really punch him, just get him tae let go, and that’s nae good cause as any wideo will tell you, you either punch some cunt or you dinnae and silly wee halfway-house slaps and pushes just make you look a cunt so ah start really punching the boy but it feels like I’m punching a mattress and he’s shouting: – Phone the polis! Phone the polis! This man’s ran out of my restaurant without paying, and I’m screaming: – Lit go ya cunt it wisnae fuckin me, and punching at the cunt but ah feel like rubber and I’m out of breath and he keeps a grip, his face aw screwed up and determined through its fear and apprehension

and

and a polisman is beside us. He’s pulled us apart.

– What’s this? he asks.

Ah’ve got four trips in my flannels. My poakits. The wee poakit, the compartment. Ah feel them. The cunt is saying: – This guy’s mates ran up a food and drinks bill for nearly a hundred and twenty pound and then did a runner! I’m fishing out those wee squares of impregnated paper.

– This true? the polisman turned tae me and asked.

– How the fuck dae ah ken, eh, ah mean, ah jist sees they two guys runnin doon the road. Ah recognised one ay them vaguely fae The Sub Club so ah jist lets ontae the boy. Then this cunt here, ah nods at the restaurateur, – he’s eftir the two boys. Then he comes back and grabs a hud ay me.

The polisman turns back tae the restaurateur. Ah get the trips between my forefinger and thumb and ah swallow the lot, silly fuckin cunt; ah could have left them, the polis would never find them wouldnae search me anywey I’ve done nowt wrong but ah swallowed the fuckin lot when ah could’ve even fuckin flung them away. No thinkin straight …

They called the child Lloyd Beattie

the cunt grew up a right wee sweetie

Lloyd One calling Lloyd Two, can you hear me Lloyd Two? Can you hear me Lloyd Two? Can you hear

am I floating

The beefy bastard is not amused. – These cunts robbed me! Ah’m strugglin tae make this business pay n they fuckin wee toerags …