A Decent Ride (20 page)

— Ah dae awright.

— Yir gaunny dae awright here, ah winks. — This tongue could take the crumbs oot the bottom ay a Pringles tube, ah tells her, n she hus a wee giggle. Ah sees her lookin at Auld Faithful, standin tae attention, like a fox staring at a juicy chicken. — Aye, first burd ah ever went wi wis baith epileptic and asthmatic and she started huvin a double episode, right when we wir gaun at it! Ah said tae masel eftir: ‘Terry, dinnae lit yir standards droap.’ They huvnae since! Anywey, less talk, mair cock . . .

So ah’m doon oan it but she’s turned roond n giein Auld Faithful the same treatment. N this burd’s an expert, it’s gittin sooked, licked, teased, flicked, then she’s takin it right tae the back ay the throat. See, whin ye meet yir equivalent in the burd world, it’s jist so fuckin barry! Ye acknowledge that yuv baith goat other holes n poles tae colonise, so thaire’s nae point in pretendin it’s gaun anywhere, but see, those moments: fuckin vintage, ya cunt.

So ah’m wonderin if we can sort something oot oan camera later, when . . . ya fucker . . . she’s gaspin away, pushed the cock aside, n ah’m oaf her n roond her and in her, giein her it good style. Her coupon’s flushin up the same colour as that napper, n she makes a slutty, evil face n we’re baith screamin n tearin away like some cunt had poured petrol oan us n set us alight n time slows doon like a car crash n wir fillin the room, flat, stair, street, city, country n world wi noise, signallin tae some green space pervert wi fifty cocks n fannies oan it, whae’s settin course fir Earth right now, tae git some ay this action . . . another wey ay sayin: a decent ride.

Eftir oor heids start tae reassemble, ah pits the scud-movie proposition tae her, but she’s no interested. — Ah work for the Royal Bank ay Scotland. The last thing I want is everybody in ma office looking at me doing that online!

She was bound tae be a raver working for the Royal Bank. Eftir aw, these cunts went n fucked everybody! She doesnae stick aboot though, n ah like that. She’s the sort ay burd that’ll be thinkin aboot cock, but different cock, within an ooir. When she heads off, ah checks ma phone. Perr Ronnie’s left two messages, so ah shoots doon tae the Balmoral, still in a bit ay a daze. Lookin at the passin fanny soon sharpens ays up again but, it’s like a line a ching, n Auld Faithful’s twingein, like eh wants another feed, by the time ah’ve hit the fuckin Bridges. Then the idea ay ching starts burnin ays, so ah pills into this wee lane ah ken, in a turning oaf Chambers Street, n cut oot two enormous lines above the dashboard n take them up the Vespa scooter.

Ah’m flyin as ah gits parked up n intae the Balmoral reception. Ah sees Ronnie waitin, but the phone goes again, and this time THE POOF comes up oan the caller ID. Stupid really, ah’ll huv tae change that tae VICTOR, but ah cannae be ersed, n ah like seein it flash up. Ah waves doon Ronnie, whae’s takin a call ay his ain, n The Poof’s giein it the big yin aboot Jinty. — One of our scrubbers is missing, Tez.

— Aye, wee Jinty, still nae sign. Nane ay the other lassies huv seen her.

— Right . . . She didnae say anything tae you . . . aboot me, likes?

— Nup, never talked aboot you or the sauna at aw, ah goes, cause neither she did. And even if she had, ah widnae be grassin her up tae that cunt.

A silence on the phone as ah glances in the mirror, sees Ronnie lookin at ays aw that impatient wey, jist cause he’s finished his call. Him lookin at ays like eh owns ays, n The Poof oan the line, whae’s probably aw pit oot that Jinty never mentioned him. Wi cunts like The Poof, n Ronnie, it’s aw aboot thaim, n they get aw upset if naebody’s talkin aboot them, and aw paranoid if everybody is. That’s how aw celebrities, gangsters, businessmen n politicians are jist totally fucked up. Ah jist swerve aw that shite; it’s a ride that ey does it fir me. Strugglin tae keep ma mooth shut but, wi aw this ching coursin through ma system.

Then the voice goes, — Right, Terry, just keep ays in the loop. Anything ye hear aboot Kelvin, let me ken, on the QT like. And keep tryin tae find Jinty.

When ah finishes the call ah sees that Ronnie still isnae chuffed. Cunt kens ah’m lit up, n kens that something’s wrong. Ah gits in first. — How did ye git on wi that burd? Cowp it, aye?

— What . . .? No, we exchanged numbers and she said she’d come round but she called to reschedule.

— Reschedule? Sounds tae me like she’s taking the pish, mate. Top Tezza tip: never run eftir a bus or a lassie, there’s eywis another comin.

Ronnie’s still no smilin. Eh might be a straight cunt now, but in his twenties he probably went n did mair lines thin Doughheid in a bookies office. — What’s going on with you . . . are you okay? Are you doing more cocaine? After the hassles we had with those cop assholes?!

Ah decide tae tell him ma dilemma. — This burd, good friend ay mine, ah explains (if ye cannae count somebody ye cowped aw weys as a good friend, then wir in a sorry state as a fuckin species) — she seems tae huv vanished oaf the face ay the Earth, ay. N cause she disappeared oan ma watch ah’m feelin a wee bit guilty.

— Your watch?

So ah’m tellin him aboot The Poof, n how ah’m lookin after this business he runs that she works at, n how ah want her back before he returns fae Spain or eh might take the strop.

— You oughtta get the police involved, Ronnie says, then seems tae think aboot it.

— No wantin them intae anything we dae. Keep the state n its agencies oot ay yir private biz, ah goes.

— Damn straight, Ronnie agrees. — Assholes. Hell, a cop don’t even carry a piece here, I guess that’s why they go around harassing decent citizens instead of locking up ghetto-gangster scum.

Ah suddenly realise thit ah’m feelin a bit fuckin rough, sortay sweatin n dizzy, so ah sits doon. It’s like ah’m fuckin trippin here, n ah’m tryin tae git ma breath as everything’s spinnin roond. Fuck knows what wis in yon ching . . .

Ah hear Ronnie’s voice: — Terry, you okay? What’s up?

— Aye . . . Ah’m leanin against the fireplace, watchin they cunts checkin in. This isnae good.

Ronnie’s got his hand oan ma shoodir. — You okay, buddy? ah hear um ask but like it’s aw muffled n far away, then eh’s shoutin, — GET A DOCTOR!

N ah’m oan the flair, ah dinnae mind ay fawin ower, but ah’m oan the fuckin flair, lookin up at the big glistenin chandelier in the lobby. — Ya fucker, ah passed oot thaire for a minute, ah goes, tryin tae git up.

— Don’t move, Ronnie goes, hudin ays doon. — There’s an ambulance on its way.

— Ah dinnae need –

— This ain’t good, Terry. You oughtta get it checked out, I got it covered under associates on my health-care plan.

N ah’m thinkin: wi that auld cunt Henry in the hoaspital, n pit it thegither wi the auld girl’s legs, mibbe ay fuckin well should kick back here n let them investigate. Genes n that but, ay. N thaire’s a fuckin ambulance outside, n the boys come in, n they’ve goat ays oan a stretcher n thir cartin ays away . . .

WE’RE HEADIN TAE
the big hoaspitality suite under the stand! Panelled wid oan the waws, they say, aye sur, panelled wid! Me! Jonty MacKay fae Penicuik! Aye, me n Hank ur gaun right in tae see ma cousin Malky! Jist walkin through they doors, like wir aw important! If ah telt wee Jinty, she’d say, — Yir fair gaun up in the world, Jonty! Yi’ll no be wantin tae speak tae the likes ay us!

But ah’d ey speak tae Jinty, aw aye, ah wid that, but she hus tae speak tae me first but. Aye she does. But ah’m no thinkin aboot that, cause ah’m aw excited n happy even though Hank’s no lookin that chuffed. — Thi’ll be thinkin wir too good for the Cuik now, Hank, ah goes, cause they will that. If they saw us, like.

— Nowt wrong wi Penicuik, Jonty, Hank goes. — People forget that, people like Malky. Dinnae you become one ay thum.

— It’s nice ay um tae ask us but, Hank, nice ay um, aye sur.

— Aye, suppose so. Hank’s lookin at me aw that wey, like in the eyes, like he ey did whin we wir younger. — As long as eh disnae start lordin it ower us. He forgets thit we’re just as good as him.

— Jist as good, Hank, aye, jist as good. Wi are that, aye, aye, aye, ah goes, n wi gits tae the door. Thaire’s an awfay nice smile fae a felly in a maroon jaykit. Likes ay a steward. Ah’d like a maroon jaykit like that. Tae dress up in. It would be a barry job tae jist take people intae the hoaspitality oan match day. But what if somebody ah kent wanted tae git in, but wisnae oan the list? Ah’d huv tae turn thum away, cause that wid be ma job. But ah widnae huv the hert tae dae that, nae sur, ah wid not. Maybe it isnae the job fir me, cause ah like the paintin wi Raymond n aw. Skirtins. So when wi gits up tae the felly in the maroon jaykit, eh goes, — Welcome to the Tynecastle hospitality!

N eh lits us in cause wi gie him the names; aye, oor names thit’s oan the list. — Nice smile fae the doorman but, Hank, ah goes, as we walks intae the room, n they waws are wid-panelled n aw, just like folks sais it wid be. — Nice tae be nice. Panelled wid n aw!

— Too Americanised, Hank goes. — Ye dinnae want aw that phoney shite in Scottish fitba.

— Bit phoney’s an American word, Hank, so mibbe yir gittin aw Americanised yirsel but, ay? Goat ye thaire! Aye sur, aye sur, aye, aye, aye.

Hank’s no hearin ays but, cause eh’s lookin at Malky, whae’s goat a drink in ehs hand, talkin tae some people. Aye, n Hank’s goat kind ay a bad-hert face oan. — Eh thinks runnin a minicab firm makes um a big noise. We’ll, eh isnae a fuckin big noise tae me, Hank goes.

Ah kin see what Hank means, but huvin a fleet ay cabs is better thin drivin a forklift truck, or paintin a hoose, or a pub, even, ay that ah’ve nae doots! — Aye . . . aye . . . grand . . . aye sur, n it is, ah goes tae Hank, lookin aboot. — Thaire’s white tablecloths n fellys in suits! Ah goes up tae the panelled wid n starts smellin it, fir the polish oan it, ken?

Ah feels Hank’s hand oan ma shoodir. — Stoap sniffin wid, Jonty!

— Jist fir the smell ay the polish but, Hank –

— What huv ah telt ye aboot smellin wid? Yir showin us up! Hank goes, n thaire’s this other steward boy, n we lets um see the passes Hank’s goat. The steward nods, n Malky’s thaire, talkin tae two boys in suits. But fair play, eh comes right ower tae welcome us awright. — It’s my cuz Hank and my cuz Jonty!

— It’s nice here eh, nice, ah goes, cause it is. — Thaire’s wid-panellin n cream waws above it. Magnolia, that’s what they caw that kind ay paint. Aye, ah ken aw aboot that, dae ah no, ah tells um. — This is the life!

Malky nods ower tae a guy in a nice blue suit. — Keith Fuller, eh sort ay whispers. — Made it big in double glazing back in the eighties. See what he did? Reinvested intae personal insurance, medical stuff n that. Eh taps ehs nose. — Made a mint.

Ah’m thinkin aboot this, because that Vladimir, the Lithuanian felly fae Russia, he’s no meant tae be helpin the club nae mair. — What does he no come in n help the club fir?

Malky goes tae speak, then eh sort ay cannae.

— Aye, Jonty’s goat ye there, Hank goes. — If eh’s goat that much money, what does eh no come in n help the club fir?

Malky shakes ehs heid. — Naebody goat rich fae pittin money intae a fitba club, n quite a few goat poor, eh sais. — Let’s jist say Keith is part ay a wee consortium – in which I expect to hold a small interest – who are watching developments closely, n eh taps the side ay ehs nose again.

— Shite, Hank goes, n Malky hears but sort ay kids oan he disnae.

Then this wee guy comes ower n goes, — Hello, Malcolm.

— My good friend Mr Deans!

They start huvin a blether, about Herts’s chances the day. See, if it wis me that wis Paulo Sergio, ah’d tell thum aw tae gie the baw tae Ryan Stevenson. That’s aw ah’d say, jist one thing: gie the baw tae Ryan Stevenson. Aye sur, Ryan Stevenson.

Then the wee boy goes away but this big tall boy comes ower. Looks awfay posh; pan-loafy as muh ma would say. Malky introduces the pan-loafy boy tae us. — My good friend Donald Melrose QC!

The pan-loafy boy wi the funny letters eftir his name sais, — Malcolm. How are you?

— I’m just telling my cousins Hank and John –

— Jonty, ah goes, n Malky looks a wee bit pished oaf wi ays, but ah’ve ey been kent as Jonty, fae way back in Penicuik, n he should ken that, aye sur, eh should ken that.

— Jonty . . . the boy goes, then looks at Hank and nods. Then eh smiles and turns tae Malky. — This fabled consortium, of Scotsman Publications myth, which may or may not exist, and, assuming it was said to do so, and I was indeed a member, though, as you know, no such verifying document proves the existence or otherwise of the undernoted so-called consortium . . .

Ah’m tryin tae follay the boy, pan-loafy Donald, but eh’s talkin awfay fast n posh n ah cannae hear um right . . .

— So . . . and the boy smiles at ays again, — . . . it could very well be a figment of the imagination of some of the more obtuse members of our local Fourth Estate. Eh turns tae Malky. — No minutes of meetings, no documentation, no emails between prominent members of the business community and high-ranking local city officials and councillors can be evidenced to exist, the boy goes, n ye ken eh’d be good as a lawyer cause naebody wid understand what eh wis sayin, no until ye wir in the jail. Ye would understand then awright! Aye sur, ye wid. Aye.

But what eh sais gits me tae thinkin, so ah turns tae Hank. — It wis like that dug Clint, Hank, mind Clint the dug?

Hank looks away, like eh’s no heard ays. Ah tugs ehs sleeve. — What, Jonty?

— And sorry, you are, again . . .? Pan-loafy Donald goes.

— Jonty, ma cousin, Malky goes.

— Aye, Jonty, ah goes. — Aye sur. Jonty. Jonty MacKay.

— What about
Clint the dug
, Jonty? this pan-loafy Donald Melrose boy sais. But the word ‘dug’ didnae seem right comin fae such a posh mooth.

— Mind ah goat Clint the dug, ay, Hank? ah goes tae Hank, but eh jist shrugs it oaf like eh cannae remember, so ah turns back tae pan-loafy Donald. — But see whin ah goat um, Clint the dug, eh hud somethin in ehs throat. But ah hud went tae the skill tae tell everybody ah hud a puppy, Clint the dug, n everybody wanted tae see um, ah explain n Donald looks tae Malky, whae looks tae Hank. Ah carries oan. — Then ah goat hame n the dug hud goat pit doon. Somethin in ehs throat. Mind, Ma n that, ah goes tae Hank, whae’s still lookin away acroass the room, — they sais tae ays, Ma n real faither Henry, ‘Clint the dug wis taken ill, n eh couldnae swallay right.’ So they hud um pit doon.