A Decent Ride (26 page)

— So ye found they boys fae the course then? How did ye manage that?

— Oh, we have our ways. Ronnie glances tae the suited-and-booted steroid nonces. — Not that it did us any good, there was no sign of the Bowcullen on them. But you see how we gotta cover all bases?

— Of course, mate . . . ah goes, then looks at they two shrivel-scroted wankers, — cause ah’m reassured that ah’m no being singled oot. Just as long as yis dinnae trash the joint!

— You have my word, and I can’t thank you enough, Ronnie sais. — It goes without saying that I consider you above suspicion, but Lars has staked a lot of money and made an emotional investment in that Skatch, so he needs to be sure.

— Nae worries, boys, ah shouts, steppin ower tae the rest ay thum. — The only thing dodgy ah’ve got up thaire is some scud, n thaire’s nae illegal stuff.

— And we need to look in your taxi, too, Lars says.

— Okay, ah goes, n ah opens the cab door for Jens, then fishes oot the keys tae ma flat n gies them tae Ronnie.

AH’M NO FEELIN
well. Aw feverish like, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur . . . too much work . . .

Aw feverish.

They noises in ma heid, like doors openin and shuttin aw the time. N thaire’s this smell ay burnin. Ah cannae stay in without Jinty n ah’m no gaun tae Penicuik tae see Karen n ah’m no gaun doon that Pub Wi Nae Name. Naw ah’m not. Cause they blame the fumes ay the paint oan me, aye sur, aye sur, that they do.

So ah phones Kind Terry oan the mobile phone n sais that ah wis gaun up tae the hoaspital tae see real faither Henry, n eh sais he’ll take ays. Aye, eh does, eh comes roond n ah meets um in the taxi at the fit ay the stair.

— You’re sweatin, Jonty, ye awright, mate?

— Aye, Terry, aye sur, n climbs intae the cab. — Ye no gaunny come n see Henry?

— Naw, mate, ah dinnae like the cunt.

— Ah dinnae like um either, but eh’s the real faither tae the baith ay us, Terry.

— Eh’s nae faither tae me, Terry goes.

But ah’m gaun up, cause ah ken that good people, they kin dae bad things, by mistake like, n mibbe real faither Henry wis the same n it wis aw jist mistakes. N eh saved ays, saved ma life, that time ah fell intae the harbour. Eh ey talks aboot it but. Aye eh does.

So Terry droaps ays oaf n ah’m up oan the ward n watchin um through that gless windae, sittin in ehs bed. Ah dinnae ken whether ah should go in n speak this time, or jist keep ma face pressed up against the gless. Like ah did whin the woman that wis wi Terry was here. Ah kin see a big mark oan the windae wi ma breath, so ah tries tae lick it oaf. Real faither Henry’s aw auld but looks like one ay the starvin bairns oan the telly, but in an auld sortay wey. Then eh turns ehs bony auld heid roond n looks right at ays. — Jonty, is that you . . .? eh sais, in a voice aw soft. — Ma wee buddy . . . come in . . . come in . . .

So ah jist sort ay steps roond n sits in the chair beside um.

— Wee Jonty . . . eh goes, — saw ye lickin that windae thaire! Still an awfy laddie for pittin things in yir mooth, ey goes, aw sly.

Ah dinnae like his bad talk, so ah sais nowt. But ah kin feel aw the wee spiders in my chist cause ay him. Then it aw goes quiet fir a bit, so ah sais, — Ah met Kind Terry, he’s yours n aw, ay? Kind Terry. Doonstairs in the taxi.

Real faither Henry’s aw weak, but eh sort ay comes a wee bit alive at that. — Terry . . . Juice Terry? That fuckin bam? That fuckin waster? He’s nowt tae dae wi me!

N ah git ah annoyed cause Terry’s good, n ah’m thinkin aboot what he’s done. — Naebody’s nowt tae dae wi you! Even yir ain faimlay! It’s no right! God’ll punish ye!

Eh jist laughs at me. — Yir still no right in the heid, are ye, ma wee pal? Sometimes ah think ah should’ve let ye droon like a puppy or kitten in that harbour – mind whin ah pilled ye oot?

N ah feels ma heid hingin aw ashamed, cause eh did save ays, aye sur, aye eh did. — Aye . . . ah mind, aye sur . . .

— But yir a good yin, Jonty, yir no the worst ay thum, no like that Hank . . . n ehs eyes light up. — How’s Karen? How’s ma wee golden girl? Nivir comes tae see hur auld faither! Ma wee golden girl . . . aye, she liked pittin things in her mooth n aw!

N ah’m feelin aw seek thinkin ay Jinty aw gold n gaun doon that hole by the bridge, cause eh did call Karen that, cause ay her blonde hair, before she goat aw fat but, ay. — It’s no right what youse did! You made hur bad! You made us aw bad!

— She been talkin? Suppose thaire’s nowt tae dae doon thaire but talk, her n yir big fat ma. Aye, ah ey kent she’d run tae fat like her ma. That wis how ah hud tae brek her in, see, before she ran tae fat. Thaire’s nae guid ridin in a woman that’s run tae fat. It’s no jist the fat itsel, though that’s bad enough, it’s thit a lassie gets depressed when she runs tae fat. Nae guid ridin in a lassie that’s depressed, he shakes his heid, — yir jist gaun through the motions.

Ah’m hearin aw they noises in ma heid n ah’m thinkin ay Karen oan the couch n her bad tooth n wee Jinty, aw blue n then gold, n gaun doon the hole, a fly comin oot her mooth . . . — What you . . . what you did . . . what you did wis aw wrong!

Eh jist creases up his auld wee face intae a smile. — Whae’s tae say what’s right n what’s wrong, Jonty? N eh points tae the ceilin wi ehs bony hand. — He’ll decide, no you or naebody doon here, that’s fir sure.

— What dae ye mean?

Eh looks right at this wee telly eh’s goat, yin that comes right oot oan a metal leg. Thaire’s this programme aboot animals oan. Ah would watch but ah huv tae stoap cause they kin sometimes make ye greet when it’s a shame for them. Sometimes folks cannae see it but, cause ye learn tae greet inside. — Is it right thit thaire’s aw this pollution, wipin oot different species every day?

Eh’s tryin tae trick us wi words again. Ah pits ma fingers in ma ears. — Ah’ve goat tae go!

N ah runs away oot the ward, n even though ma fingers ur in ma ears ah kin still hear his laughin voice n see that skull-heided smile . . . aye, ah ken, ah do, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur . . .

Cause ah am right in the heid, ah am . . . Jinty’s fault . . . an accident, aye sur . . . but they’d nivir believe ays, they’d jist say he’s no right in the heid n eh’s goat a bad hert.

N ah’m phonin Kind Terry. — Awright, Jonty?

— Ah saw um, Terry, n eh wis bad like you said eh wid be. Eh said bad stuff, aye, he did that, sur, bad stuff that’s no right . . . aw sur . . . n ah’m sortay greetin, thinkin aboot him n Karen n Jinty, n how it’s aw an awfay mess.

— Are ye still thaire, at the hoaspital?

— Aye . . .

— You hud oan thaire, mate, n ah’ll pick ye up. Ah’m no far, ah’ll be thaire in five minutes.

— Aye . . . yir kind, Terry, aye sur . . . aye ye are . . .

— Jonty. Five minutes, mate, eh sais n the line goes deid.

But it’s awfay nice ay um n it cheers ays thit thaire’s guid people in the world like Terry, like new
half-brar Terry
, tae make up fir the badness ay him up thaire. So ah goes n hus another wee shot at makin the doors open n shut again. But the man in the uniform comes ower n sais tae stoap it or ah’ll brek the doors.

— How many times kin ye open n shut them before they brek?

— Ah dinnae ken!

— But how dae ye ken ah’ll brek thum then?

— You bein wide?

— Naw, ah jist want tae ken how many times ye kin dae it before it breks, soas ah’ll ken no tae dae it that many times!

— Ah dinnae ken! But stoap it! Yir causin an awfay draught, eh goes, so ah stoaps. Ah wis gaunny say thit ah wis tryin tae lit some fresh air in, but here’s Terry anywey and ah’m headin oot n ah’m climbin intae the safe taxi wi him, n the meter’s no oan again. — Lit’s git ye hame, pal, Terry goes.

Eftir a bit ay drivin doon the road, Kind Terry sais, — Tell me, Jonty, dae you ever get voices in yir heid?

— Aye, ah dae! But it’s like me, jist talkin tae masel! Aye sur! Dae you git thum n aw, Terry?

— Aye. N they used tae say jist one thing: cowp thon. Now thir sayin aw sorts ay shite, n ah dinnae like it, mate. It’s worse at night, when ah’m tryin tae git oaf tae sleep.

— Aye sur, at night.

— Kip, Terry sais, — ah’d gie anything fir one fuckin night ay peaceful kip!

N Terry droaps ays hame n ah gits intae the stair n sees where ah pit the barry back in the stair the other night, n now Jinty’s away wi the trams. Ah’m awfay worried that the polis’ll come tae ma door. Ah cannae settle in the hoose n before ah ken it ah’m doon The Pub Wi Nae Name, n ah’ve sectioned it aw oaf by the jukebox. Ah jist want tae kid oan ah’m normal, n dae ma paintin. So that’s me back at it, blottin thum aw oot, jist concentratin. Aye sur, jist concentratin. The paintin.

— Yir daein a guid joab, Jonty, Jake says.

Aye, but a guid joab disnae stoap aw
thaim
fae bein here, naw sur, it does not. Aye, cause
thir
aw here awright, n thir aw drinkin. Aye, they are. N daein the devil’s poodir as well, ye kin tell by the wey thir gaun tae that toilet in pairs, aye sur, in pairs. Poodir it’ll be, ay that ah’ve nae doots. Naw sur.

— Whaire ye been, Jonty? Tony goes.

Craig Barksie shouts, — Been giein wee Jinty the message again, ya dirty wee cunt? Hi-hi-hi-hi-hi!

— Kin tell by the look oan ehs face, eh! Hi-hi-hi-hi-hi! Tony goes.

— Hi-hi-hi-hi-hi!

Dinnae listen tae thair voices, thair laughin voices, jist keep oan paintin . . .

— Hi-hi-hi-hi-hi!

— Dirty wee cunt! Hi-hi-hi-hi-hi!

It’s no right, nae sur, it’s no right at aw . . .

— Dirty lucky wee cunt! When did last git
your
hole, ya cunt? Hi-hi-hi-hi-hi!

Ah want tae go, it isnae right bein here . . . keep paintin . . .

— Cheeky cunt!

Naw sur, naw sur, naw sur . . . dip the roller in the tray, squeeze oaf aw the durty big drips, run it ower that patch ay auld paint oan the waw . . . once . . . twice . . .

— Hi-hi-hi-hi-hi!

. . . like yon song once, twice, three times a lady, sung by the darkie boy that did the awfay nice song aboot stalkin the Chinky lassie, aye sur, eh did that, awfay nice song . . .

Cause ah’m jist paintin away, loast in the paintin, no hearin thair bad voices, cause ah sees thum at thair table n ah dinnae like thair table, ah dinnae like this pub. N whin ah say ah dinnae like the table ah’m no gaun oan aboot the table itsel, ah’m gaun oan aboot the
company
at the table. It’s the
company
that’s wrong, the
company
that made ays fight wi ma wee Jinty. Aye they did. So when ah finish that bit whaire the jukey is ah tell Jake thit ah’m done fir the day.

— Yuv done a guid joab, pal, eh sais.

Ah jist nods n ah walks tae the door, n ah’m no lookin at anybody. Like muh ma used tae say aboot the yins back in Penicuik, back at the skill. Ignore thum aw. Aye. Aye. Aye.

— Yuv chased um away!

— Hi, Jonty! Bring Jinty doon! Ah’ve goat a wee line fir hur, Evan Barksie’s gaun in ehs takin-the-pish voice!

— Shi’s wi the trams! ah turns n shouts back at thum, n ah wish ah hudnae said that.

— That’s what thir callin thum now!

N ah’m oot oot oot oot oot ay thaire, sur, aye that ah am, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur.

AWRIGHT, TERRY, YA
fuckin doss

cunt, ah’m ready fir duty but

what’s the story wi you, eh, ya

fuckin bam?! Ah’m gantin oan

fresh minge (no thit the minge

you provide ays wi is usually that

fuckin fresh, ya manky twat, but

ye nivir hear me complainin) but

ah’m no fuckin well intae this,

ay! What huv ah ivir fuckin well

asked ay ye? Ah’ve ey performed

even whin yuv flung peeve intae

yirsel aw night, n snorted enough

ching tae stoap Ron Jeremy gittin

a fuckin root oan! Nivir even goat

stroppy whin ye nearly halved me

in two oan that porno shoot! Aye,

think that yin wis aw a bundle ay

fun, ya fuckin choob? Well, ye kin git

tae fuck wi aw this bad-hert shite;

what’s yir fuckin hert or yir fuckin

brain ivir done fir ye that ah’ve no?

Fuckin nowt! Well, you’d better jist

fuckin well shape up, ya useless cunt,

cause ah’m fuckin well chokin oan

pussy n if ye think ah’m jist here tae

empty the fuckin stagnant peeve oot

ay your swollen bladder ye’d better

be fuckin well thinkin again, ya radge,

cause that wisnae the fuckin deal! So

ah’m tellin ye now, Lawson, man the

fuck up cause you’re the yin thit eywis

sais thaire’s nae point livin withoot a ride

n the auld ‘Juice’ Terry Lawson, no this

mortality-obsessed auld sweetie-wife,

wid huv jist said: ‘Doaktirs? What the

fuck dae they cunts ken?’ n jist went hell

fir leather n jist plundered every fuckin

pussy fae Pilton tae the Pentlands, naw,