A Decent Ride (16 page)

Fair day’s work fir a fair day’s pey, aye sur, so ah feel ah deserve a pint eftir that. So when ah gits back tae Gorgie ah’m gaunny go intae Campbell’s, but ah dinnae, nup, ah do not. Ah goes tae the bad place, that Pub Wi Nae Name, n ah goes in wi ma heid up aw high, cause ah dinnae want thum thinkin ah’ve goat anything tae hide. No fae thaim! N thaire’s Jake tae see, aboot the paintin. Aye.

But eh’s no behind the bar, so ah goes intae the lavvy n gits ma boaby oot for a pish, but it’s awfay itchy. It’s no a nice thing tae say aboot yir ain sister, but wi our Karen bein ower fat, ah dinnae think she cleans ursel doon thaire as good as the likes ay wee Jinty, naw she doesnae. So ah’m fillin up the sink wi warm water n pittin ma boaby intae it. Jist gittin it aw clean under the Jerry helmet likes, whin Lethal Stuart n Tony comes in n catches ays. — What ye up tae, Jonty . . .? Tony goes, ehs eyes bulgin.

— Jist washin ma boaby cause it’s a bit itchy likes. Aye sur, awfay itchy, aye, aye, aye . . .

They laughs n goes intae thon cubicle for mair ay the bad stuff. Thaire’s nae paper tooils so ah pits ma boaby under that hand dryer. It’s mental! It’s gittin dry in nae time! It feels nice n soothing blawin hoat air against ma boaby n it fair gits it awfay hard!

Then the Barksie brars, that Evan n Craig, comes in. Evan Barksie goes, — What the fuck are you daein, ya dirty wee cunt?!

Ma cock goes aw soft again n Lethal Stuart n Tony comes oot. — That’s a beauty ye goat thaire, Jonty!

— Ridin the fuckin machine! Evan Barksie points at ays.

N ah’m zipped up n ah’m leavin, n thir follayin ays oot the door, laughin n sayin things. But ah’m no runnin away, no fae thaim, so ah goes up n gits a pint. Ah takes it tae a seat, n thir aw ower beside ays.

— Awright, Jonty! Evan Barksie goes tae ehs, that wey whaire eh kids oan eh’s yir pal but ye ken eh’s no yir pal, no really but, ay. Naw sur. — Whaire’s wee Jinty these days? No seen her in here since that mad night wi aw goat the lock-in!

Ah feel ma face gaun rid. Ah takes a gulp oan the cauld Tennent’s Lager. Aye sur, sometimes it’s barry tae git the cauld Tennent’s Lager. It’s goat that nice cigarette sortay taste, n that’s guid cause ay the smokin ban: still being able tae taste a fag wi yir beer.

— Ah reckon eh’s choked hur tae death! Tony goes.

Thir talkin pish thir talkin pish
n ah cannae speak, n ma ears ring n ah want tae run ootay the door, but ah’m stuck in the middle ay thum n ah cannae move.

— That big fuckin welt ay yours, Jonty, Lethal Stuart sais, — doon her wee throat? Death by gam!

They aw laugh, except Barksie, whae’s lookin at ays aw bad. Aw sur, ah dinnae like this.

— Ah dinnae hud wi that talk, ah tell thum, — naw sur, naw sur.

Mair laughs ootay thum aw, then Tony goes, — C’moan, Jonty, dinnae take the huff, pal. The boys ur jist huvin a laugh. Thir aw jist jealous, mate!

But naw naw naw, ah’m no wantin that. — It’s no a laugh tae some! N ah gits up n pushes past thum n leaves half ma pint ay Tennent’s Lager n goes oot the door.

— That wee cunt’s a fuckin freak! A fuckin pervert, ah hear Barksie say as ah step ootside.

Then ah hears Tony go, — Naw, wee Jonty’s awright, eh’s a hermless wee cunt.

So ah goes ower the street n gits hame. Ah watches the telly fir a wee bit, then goes back tae McDonald’s fir ma tea. It’s better thin listenin tae that in the pub, aye sur, aye sur. N thaire’s Jinty, probably still in the bedroom, sayin nowt. Well, if she’s no talkin tae me ah’m no talkin tae hur. Naw sur.

Ah wis hungry, skirtin boards ey make ays hungry cause ay the smell ay the gloss paint, skirtin boards n doors, so ah thoat tae masel mibbe git the cheeseburger instead ay the Chicken McNuggets, for a wee chynge. Aw aye, it’s nice tae get a wee chynge. Aw sur, aye sur.

AH’M OOT WI
the wee fellys, Guillaume and the Ginger Bastard. We’ve been tae the pictures tae see thon
Wreck-It Ralph
. No too bad like: for a bairns’ film, ken? So wir gaun doon the Walk fae the Vue cinema, headin tae the fish bar in Montgomery Street, fir some scran. Wee Guillaume looks up at ays. — Does Ralph love Vanellope?

Now ah’m a wee bit uncomfy thinkin aboot this. — Eh, aye . . . but like a kind ay daughter, or mibbe a wee sister, a wee pal. No in the sense ay wantin tae ride her or nowt like that, cause she’s too young.

Guillaume rolls ehs lower lip doon, looks at the Ginger Bastard, whae sortay shakes ehs heid.

Thir no gittin this at aw. — Ah mean, Ralph isnae like a nonce or a sex pervert, ah explains. — Eh’s jist a big, dumb guy whae lives oan ehs ain n works oan a building site, ah goes, then realise, whoops, ah’m better just shuttin the fuck up here!

The wee cunts ur huvin a think aboot this. Then the Ginger Bastard goes, — Whose mum did you love best, his or mine?

Jesus pishybreeks Christ! Now thir baith lookin up at ays wi they Oliver Twist pusses, as we cross ower London Road at the lights. Well, that yin sortay stumps ays. Ah’m tryin tae remember which ay thair mas wis the best ride; been that long since ah cowped either. That’s what comes ay bein pretty much solidly booked. Probably the Ginger Bastard’s. Cause she isnae much tae look at, she gits rode less, which makes her try harder whin the boaby does come along. — Ah loved them baith tae the fill extent ay ma no inconsiderable abilities, ah goes, leavin the wee cunts tae ponder that yin.

— You’re talkin aboot sex but, no love, Guillaume goes as we gits intae the Montgomery n sits doon. Ah shouts up three fish suppers tae the lassie behind the counter. Ah’m thinkin, ‘a bit heavy, wi they varicose veins,’ but that mingin bastard Auld Faithful twinges back in the Morse code ay the baws, ‘in a fuckin minute!’

— You’re only nine, ah snaps at Guillaume, — ye shouldnae be thinkin aboot yir hole right now!

— He’s got a girlfriend, the Ginger Bastard says, laughin n pointin at um.

— Naw ah’ve no! Guillaume grabs the Ginger Bastard’s finger n bends it back. He screams oot.

— Enough! ah goes, n they settle doon as the grub comes ower. Jesus sex-case Christ. Talk aboot the inappropriate sexualisation ay bairns! That school must be fill ay fuckin nonces, groomin the perr wee cunts! What’s aw that aboot? You tell me! — Yous’ve goat a couple a years before ye start thinkin aboot that stuff, ah tell thum. — Ah wis eleven before ah popped ma cherry, ah explains. These wir mair innocent times: bairns the day ur like fuckin animals.

JONTY WALKS INTO
the Roman Catholic church. Looks in awe at the statues of Jesus and the Virgin Mary. He wonders who has more money, the Pope or the Queen: the feudal Roman Catholic Church or the British monarchy and aristocracy. Speculates whether, as a painter and decorator, it is better to be a Catholic or a Protestant.

He’s scared at first. Real dad Henry used to say to him as a kid:
Dinnae go in thaire, son, or the funny fellys in the frocks’ll git a hud ay ye.
But it was very posh, not like the old kirk in Penicuik with the Reverend Alfred Birtles, the minister with the hair growing out of his nose, who had a strange dampish smell that Jonty always associates with church.

He sees the confession booth, enters and sits down, like they do on television. He senses that the other side is occupied and, sure enough, the hatch slides open. The thin hands of a man are partly visible through a grille. There’s a fresh smell of aftershave, and the polished wood of the box, not like Reverend Freddie Birtles’s musty, dank smell. — Hello, my son, the voice of the priest says. — What troubles you?

Jonty clears his throat. — Ah’m no a Catholic, Faither, n ah dinnae agree wi huvin a pope, naw sur, naw sur, ah do not, but ah want tae confess ma sins.

— I really think you should see someone of your own faith, if you feel the need to unburden yourself, the priest says. His tone is very deep, Jonty thinks. This concerns him, as it is the voice of a less kind schoolmaster.

Jonty does not like what he is hearing. — But you’re supposed tae help but, sur, aye, meant tae help, cause wir aw God’s children, likes. Aw God’s children, Faither, that’s what it says in the good book, aye sur, the good book.

— But the act of confession is a sacred covenant. For it to work, you need to have faith. You are of the Protestant faith, I take it?

— Aye sur, aye sur, Prawstint, sur, that’s me, a Scottish Prawstint, Churchy Scotland, sur. Aye aye aye.

— So why here? the priest says. — You don’t have any connection with, or belief in, the doctrine and teachings of the Roman Catholic Church.

— Aye, ah dinnae like pape stuff usually, naw sur, but ah like that confession. That’s barry! Ah like the idea ay bein able tae confess ma sins. Guid fir the soul, sur, aye, guid for the soul.

He hears the sound of the priest forcibly expelling air. Then, the voice slowly and deliberately says, — But you don’t understand; you can’t simply pick and choose a particular article of a faith that happens to interest you. A Church isn’t like a supermarket!

Jonty considers Tesco’s, Sainsbury’s and Morrisons. How some things were better when you bought them from different shops. — Mibbe it should be but! That wid be awfay guid, sur, see, if ye could jist pick oot the best bits ay each religion! If ye didnae huv tae go tae church at aw, unless it wis fir weddins n funerals like us Proddies, n ye could git confession fir yir sins like youse papes, n then dress up the lassies like they Muslims dae, so that other men couldnae look at thum!

— I don’t think –

— Cause that’s the problem, Faither, that’s what ah want tae talk aboot, whin other laddies look at yir lassie!

— I really think you should leave –

— But wir aw God’s creatures –

— Please leave, before I call the police, the priest says, and Jonty can hear him rising.

— Aw sur, nae need fur that, sur, ah’m gaun, sur, and Jonty gets up, but when he moves outside he’s confronted by a younger man than he’d assumed, a cub priest. Jonty is shocked; this sort of man could get a girlfriend if he wanted, he doesn’t really need to bother with children. — That’s me away then –

— Go! The priest points to the door.

Jonty quickly runs out of the church. He knows that the priest would never catch him in that frock, even if he was a young fellow!

Outside it has turned cold. Jonty can see his dragon breath, but he keeps running until he gets to his own stair and safety. Mrs Cuthbertson from across the landing is coming from the other way, struggling with a big bag of messages. — It’s awfay cauld, Jonty son.

— It is that, Mrs Cuthbertson, it is that. Cauld, aye. Lit me take that bag ay messages up fir ye. Aye. Yir messages. Jonty holds the heavy stair door open and the thin-framed old woman squeezes inside, anxious to take refuge from the wind.

— God bless ye, Jonty son, ah cannae manage like ah used tae be able tae.

— Nae worries, aye, nae worries, Jonty says, taking the bag. — Fair weight, Mrs Cuthbertson, aye, an awfay weight, he repeats, but it’s no trouble for him. Although thin, Jonty is wiry and has strength.

— Yir no jokin, Jonty son. Mrs Cuthbertson feels her aching shoulder and arm pulse in grateful relief. She’s walking slowly alongside him as they start climbing the stairs. — Aye, yir a guid laddie, Jonty son. One ay the best.

— Jist a simple country lad. Penicuik, aye sur, aye sur, Penicuik.

Mrs Cuthbertson shakes her head. Her eyes spark fervently. — Dinnae you lit anybody tell ye thit yir simple, Jonty son, cause yir no. She points at his chest. — Mibbe yir slower cause yir no a city boy, but yir no simple. Yuv a good hert, Jonty son.

— A guid hert disnae count for nowt but, Jonty contends, and, thinking of the misery with Jinty, he advances the proposition, — disnae make ye happy, naw it does not.

Mrs Cuthbertson is hurt; she puts her hand on her bony old chest. — Dinnae say that, Jonty son. If yuv no goat a guid hert, yuv no goat nowt.

— Ah well, mibbe, Jonty nods, coming up to the landing, — but if yuv goat a guid hert some folks jist want tae stick a knife in it. They see that guid hert like a target, like a bullseye on a dartboard. They go: ‘We’ll git this guid hert here.’ Aye they do. Aye they do.

Mrs Cuthbertson’s face hangs at this response. Jonty knows that what he says is true, but her obvious melancholy forces him to say nothing further. He leaves her and gets into his flat. He realises that he’s shivering again, through walking in that cold drizzle outside with his wet collar up. He glances into the bedroom, sees Jinty, eyes blue-rimmed like she has on eyeshadow, in the bed as he left her, her head propped back on the stack of pillows. He thinks about going in, and is ready to knock on the door, but pulls his hand away and heads into the front room. He looks across Gorgie Road towards the bridge and The Pub With No Name. A taxi rumbles by.

Juice Terry is driving into town. He’s been to see his mother in Sighthill and has dropped off a couple of messages in Broomhouse and his old stomping ground of Saughton Mains. He looks at The Pub With No Name and thinks about going to ask after Jinty. However, there’s a familiar twinge in his groin area. — Yon time, he says to himself, and responds to one of the two messages Sara-Ann has left him, and heads for the Caledonian Hotel.

Sara-Ann is packing her stuff, ready to go to her mother’s. She asks Terry something about his South Side flat, and he doesn’t like the hopeful looks she’s giving him. Terry changes the subject in the manner he knows best. — Time for a bit ay rumpy-pumpy before we head oot tae Porty-worty?

She locks her arms round him, grabs his curly mane and they stumble to the bed. It’s a wild and intense session, of the sort that makes Terry yearn for the appearance of a couple of video cameras and an overhead boom mike, and even the cajoling, bossy presence of Sick Boy, his face set stoically, holding a clipboard. It would be a price worth paying to have this one down on tape.

Afterwards, in the sweat-saturated wreckage of a bed, Terry, feeling a tweak of romance in his heart, says, — Kin tell you’ve no hud any bairns. That chuff ay yours is as tight as a drum!