A Decent Ride (10 page)

Hank and Morag live in a council house in Stenhouse, which had been purchased by Morag’s late parents, under Margaret Thatcher’s right-to-buy legislation. Morag’s father had died of a massive coronary, and her mother, who has senile dementia, is living in a home. Morag’s sister Kirsty had inherited the house first, but had left her husband and taken her kids to Inverness, to live with a guy she’d met in Spain. It had been a Herculean task for Hank and Morag to get Kirsty’s estranged, embittered husband out of the house, but they’d finally managed it, and are now happily nesting. The place is cosy and clean, and Jonty likes it. Morag has made roast beef, with gravy, mashed potatoes and peas. — Roast beef, Jonty said, — double barry. Aye sur!

— It is that, Jonty, Hank agreed. Hank is a tall, thin man. His hair is receding and thinning on top, like Jonty’s, but unlike his brother, he keeps it long at the back and sides. He wears a pair of Wrangler jeans and a Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirt with a Confederate flag motif.

— Pity Jinty couldnae join us, Morag says. She is a big-boned woman, in a lilac blouse and black skirt, and she works at an insurance office in town. — They shifts must be a killer.

— Aye . . . aye, aye . . . Jonty says, suddenly uneasy. Hank and Morag steal an edgy glance at each other.

— Whatever ye think aboot her, Morag says warily, turning from Hank to Jonty and back, — she’s a grafter. Did she get hame fae work awright, wi aw that Bawbag cairry-oan, Jonty?

— Aye . . . aye she did. Hame. Aye. Came hame early this mornin, Jonty says, forcing cheer into his tone. — Locked in the pub! Aye sur!

Morag frowns, shaking her head in tight disdain, but Hank shrugs. — No necessarily a bad thing, he states. — Ah’d have certainly waited till the worst ay yon Bawbag hud passed, that wid have been ma advice.

Jonty feels something pulling at his insides. He is trying not to squirm in his seat. He changes the subject, looking at the gravy boat. — Rerr gravy, Morag. Eywis makes a rerr gravy, ay, Hank? Ay, Morag makes a rerr gravy?

— She doesnae half, Jonty! Beyond yir wildest dreams! Hank winks at Morag, occasioning a slight flush in his partner.

The rest of the meal is eaten in silence, until Morag, scrutinising Jonty for a while, begins, — Ah hope Jinty’s lookin eftir ye, Jonty son, cause yir wastin away tae nuthin. Ye dinnae think ah’m speakin oot ay turn, dae ye?

— Aye, wastin away, Jonty repeats back. — Wastin away tae nuthin. Aye sur. Ah miss gaun oot tae muh ma’s oot in Penicuik, aye sur, Penicuik. Aw different now. Eh, Hank?

Hank has been staring over Jonty’s shoulder at the television and the Scottish news, which is cataloguing the devastation caused by Bawbag. —
The damage could eventually run into tens of thousands of pounds
, the sombre-voiced anchorman declares. — Aye, it is that, Jonty son, Hank concedes, — aw different right enough.

— Aw aye, aw different.

The dessert of Sainsbury’s apple pie and Bird’s custard is gratefully dispatched. Later, as a stuffed, contented Jonty makes to depart, Hank pats his shoulder and urges him, — Dinnae make a stranger ay yirsel, n bring wee Jinty doon tae the pub one night. Campbell’s, or that Pub Wi Nae Name.

Jonty nods, but he did not mean that. No, sir, he did not mean that, because he is firmly of the opinion that The Pub With No Name was what started all the problems in the first place.

So Jonty takes his leave and cuts across the park, back on to the Gorgie Road, passing that chip shop at the Westfield Road junction. It is one that he really likes. With that one and C.Star, Gorgie has better chippies than Leith. That can’t be denied. The other shops aren’t that good though, it has to be admitted. But Gorgie Road is always great to just walk down. Where else could you get a farm? Leith Walk has never had a farm on it! Up ahead, he sees Mrs Iqbal from downstairs again, with her infant in the cart. A broon bairn, thinks Jonty. There is nothing wrong with that; he’d made that very point, one night down The Pub With No Name, that nobody got to pick which colour they come out.

Tony had agreed with Jonty. It was right enough, it was nobody’s fault that they weren’t white.

Evan Barksie had sneered, called his neighbours tooil-heided terrorists, said the flat below was probably a bomb-making factory.

But Jonty wondered how a young lassie and her bairn could be like that. So he’d told them that, Evan Barksie, Craig Barksie, Tony and Lethal Stuart and all that crowd. Barksie just dismissed him, saying that he was too thick to understand politics.

Jonty had agreed that he was a simple country lad from Penicuik. Aye sur, aye sur, Penicuik, sur, he’d said in refrain till it trailed off under his breath. But it intrigued him that people could make bombs in their house. He had been moved to look it up on the Internet. A Molotov cocktail; it would be so easy to make.

Steering clear of the front room where Jinty still sleeps, Jonty, from the frosted window of his narrow bathroom, looks across the street and sees it in its starkness: The Pub With No Name. He doesn’t want to go in, but he decides that he will steel himself and do it: show them all that nothing is wrong. He gulps back mouthfuls of air, forcing it into his lungs and walking over the road, into the pub. His nerves are making his hands shake as he pulls money out of his pocket and orders a pint of lager, which Sandra pours with a smile.

He hasn’t looked across to the seats beside the dartboard but he knows they are there. They regard him in silence, till he hears Lethal Stuart’s booming voice: — Thaire he is!

— Awright, Jonty! Tony says.

Jonty picks his pint up off the bar, and moves over to them. Something falls inside him as he sees Evan Barksie’s face set in a sneer. He says nothing but is tightly focused on Jonty.

— Aye sur, ah saw that lassie fae ma stair, her wi the mask n the broon bairn. Aye, ah did.

— You’d git oan wi her, Jonty! She’ll be a fermer’s lassie, fae a wee toon n aw, Tony laughs.

— Nae cunt even talks like him back in Penicuik! He’s no like a real fermir’s boy! Ay, Jonty? Craig Barksie challenges, his bottom jaw sticking out.

— Aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, Penicuik, sur.

They all laugh at Jonty’s performance, but he contents himself that they don’t know what he does. — Aye, Gorgie’s changed n aw, changed jist like the Cuik hus, Jonty explains to the assembled company, — wi aw the broon people n the Chinkies n that, the boys sellin the DVDs, that
Name ay the Rose
, aye sur. Good fullum that yin, sur. But Penicuik, it’s aw different now, aye sur.

They laugh again, all except Evan Barksie, who twirls his index finger into his temple and informs Jonty that he’s mental.

Jonty doesn’t care about them; he goes up to the jukebox. There are some barry-barry Christmas songs on the jukebox. He likes that one he calls ‘I Will Stop the Calvary’, and believes it’s about going to Canada. He thinks going to Canada would be great, but very cold. Not that it was easy here, especially after Hurricane Bawbag. Everybody just stayed in the pub until it blew ower. But that caused a lot of problems too. It caused him and Jinty terrible problems. Now she isn’t well. He will have to get back to her soon, to look after her. He picks up his beer and drinks it and walks out of the pub without glancing at any of the boys or saying goodbye.

When Jonty gets to the flat, he lifts a sleeping Jinty up off the couch and carries her through to the bedroom. He lays her in the bed, tucking her in, kissing her head. He will make them both a hot toddy; there’s some whisky left over in that bottle Hank brought round a while ago.

THE WHOLE POINT
in huvin rules is tae brek the cunts. But yir eywis better brekin some other cunt’s rules thin brekin yir ain. Well, ah fuckin well broke one ay ma ain when ah took a passenger hame. Of course, ah bring burds back aw the time, but it’s no that sensible wi a fuckin passenger.

Some ay thum see ye as a priest or a social worker, n sometimes it feels like that since we’ve aw hud this counsellin shite! Ye git aw this pish aboot no overstepping boundaries. Makes sense but, ye bring a burd back n some cunt sees ye, it leaves ye in a position ay being easy tae grass up tae Control. Guaranteed. Thank fuck ah’ve goat Big Liz as ma spy-oot-ay-the-cab. But wi Bawbag n the lassie bein in a vulnerable state ay mind and wantin tae jump ower thon bridge, ah jist thoat: knight in shining armour. They kill basic chivalry n we aw might as well jist go hame, ay. N besides, ah’d jist fuckin well cowped it, big time!

Then ah goat a panic call fae that American radge in the Balmoral, shitein ehs fuckin keks, the daft cunt. So ah huv tae go up tae see him, too right; at 10 Gs a week, ah’m mair than happy tae tuck the cunt in! But even though ah’ve jist banged this Suicide Sal burd back intae the real world, ah dinnae feel comfortable aboot letting her wander off. No that she’s in any big hurry, ay-no. In fact she’s lookin a bit dopey eftir the ride as we drive back intae toon. — Can’t we go back to yours . . .?

— For sure, ah sais, sortay wary, — but we’ve goat tae look in oan this boy ah’m daein some work fir. Eh’s huvin a big-time panic attack, thinks they gales are gaunny git um. American likes, ah think eh wis in that Katrina in New Orleans n goat aw traumatised by it.

— That was terrible, Sal goes.

So when wi gits up thaire, Ronnie’s in a towellin robe, trembling and sweatin like a hoor oan ching cut wi rat poison. The Mohawk is wet and combed back. Eh lits us in and ah kin see thit the cunt’s tanned a boatil ay Johnnie Walker eighteen-year-auld n opened a vintage-lookin Highland Park. Thaire’s a fill boatil ay Macallan. Game oan!

Ronnie’s shitein ehsel, as ah’m dolin oot the drinks n rackin up some lines. — Drugs . . . I don’t touch cocaine . . .

— Wee bit ay ching, Ronnie, restore that swagger, mate. Yi’ll no be feart ay nae Hurricane Bawbag eftir this. In fact yi’ll be ootside wantin a square go wi the cunt!

— You really think it’ll help?

— Guaranteed.

So we’re rippin intae the ching n whisky n Ronnie’s aw back in the zone, n goes, — You know, it’s this kinda thing that makes you value human life. I thought about making a donation to the victims of Katrina in New Orleans, but . . . I haven’t had any affirming sign from God telling me to make that gesture.

— What fuckin hurricane, ay, mate? ah points at the windae.

Ronnie grins, but Sal cuts in, — So you talk to God?

— I feel the spirit of the Holy Father inside me.

Sal looks tae the empty boatil. — I don’t think that’s the spirit you’re feeling inside you.

— This is barry whisky, ah goes, catchin the wee bit ay strop oafay Suicide Sal, as ah hud the gless up tae the light.

— This is nothing, Terry. I’m hoping for some stuff coming my way that . . . well, let’s just say it’ll make this taste like hillbilly moonshine!

Sal’s eyes are aw focused narrowly on Ronnie. — I know who you are, I’ve seen your shit programme, where you fire those wankers who are just as obnoxious as you.

Ronnie lets out a loud laugh. — Well, if we’re talking obnoxious, lady, you are in
my
hotel room, drinking
my
goddamn Skatch –

— C’moan, ah goes, — wir aw Jock Tamson’s bairns. Ah looks tae Sal. — You wirnae in a good frame ay mind earlier. N ah turns tae him. — It hus tae be said, Ronnie, neither wir you. Whae saved the day? The Juice T felly! So relax, drink up, n let me pit oot another set ay Newcastle-upon-Tynes.

— I am pretty good with that, yessir! Ronnie smiles.

Sal’s rollin her eyes, but she’s doon oan another line awright. Ah’m sortay thinkin that loads ay ching n whisky might no be the best thing for a burd that’s jist tried tae toap herself, but Auld Faithful’s sorted her heid oot n eh’s oan hand tae gie oot extra rations – any time she fuckin well likes! Ronnie’s doubts have collapsed, even that fan heid ay his has dried n is sortay bouncin back up. The storm’s blowin itsel oot, n Ronnie, even though eh’s aw lit up, is tons mair calm n happy, so ah tells um we huv tae git oaf.

— Terry, I really can’t thank you enough. I owe you, buddy.

— Nae worries, mate. Auld Faithful wants sorted but, ay.

Ronnie nods at me, n glances at Sal. — Right, thanks for swinging by, you guys.

— Any time, pal, n ah gies um a wee hug, as Sal says nowt, just gets to her feet n picks up her bag.

We leave and head doonstairs and ootay the hotel.

Walkin up the Bridges is mental – thaire’s rubbish blowin aw ower the place. Ah gits some fuckin grit in ma eye, n this hair’ll want washin again wi aw that shite flyin aboot. — That guy is crazy, Sal sais, — hearing those voices –

— Hi! You were trying tae top yirsel a while ago!

Sal shrugs it oaf, n ah takes her back tae the flat n gits her intae the scratcher. The ching’s done its job, as it ey does wi lassies, the lines making her jumpy and wired. So ah’m giein her the message big time, a nice tight pussy oan it n aw. N it’s the same story maist ay the night, the big bang, then wi faws asleep for a bit, then Auld Faithful’s nudgin ays awake, so ah’m nudgin her awake.

— Don’t you ever stop . . .? she half gasps, half groans, when ah’m at her for the fourth or fifth time.

— No until every single thought ay suicide’s been rode right oot yir napper, ah tells her, but she’s gantin oan it; each time she’s like two slices ay nicely done breid bouncing up oot the slots ay a springy toaster.

In the mornin, ah gits up n through, blawin ching n snotter oot ay ma beak, openin the blinds n lookin oot oantae the street. Looks cauld ootside. A few bins turned ower, some rubbish blawin aboot n seagulls squawkin. Fuck that. Ah turns back in tae survey the gaff. This is a shaggin pad awright, n gittin a place in toon wis the best fuckin move ah ever made.

Ah’m thinkin aboot the epic knobbin ah gied that Suicide Sara-Ann Lamont aw night: gaun the extra mile fir the purposes ay therapy! Cure for aw the problems in the world? A decent fuckin ride. What the fuck has anybody got tae worry aboot when they’ve had a good shaggin? Politics . . . what a load ay fuckin shite. Relationships . . . well, any burd huvin a bad relationship just needs a solid length ay boaby slammed intae her. Then it’s: what bad relationship? Works fuckin wonders! Ah’m hopin now that Sal’s no a nutter wi a saviour complex. But that’s a silly thing tae say: of course she’s a nutter, she wis gaunny fuckin well top herself last night!