A Decent Ride (27 page)

fae the North tae the South Pole, tae make

sure thit Auld Faithful here wis gittin ehs

fuckin rations, ya fuckin useless corkscrew-

heided cunt. Mind, yir no gittin any younger,

Lawson, yi’ll probably be fuckin deid soon

anywey, wi the peeve n the ching, but that’s

no ma department, so ah dinnae gie a fuck.

What ah’m sayin is that we’re gonny huv a

serious fuckin problem, you n me, if you

dinnae start gittin yir act thegither n gittin

me the fanny ah deserve! Ah dinnae care if

it’s tight young things, or slack auld pots, I’ll

fuckin well fill thum aw, but you’ve goat tae

keep your fuckin side ay the bargain. Listen

good, Terry, cause ah’ll tell ye one thing, pal: ye

really dinnae want tae faw oot wi yir auld pal

here. So that’s you fuckin well telt, ya cunt!

TERRY WAKES IN
the thin, reedy sunlight, sweating, with his chest heaving. Last night he’d collapsed on top of his bed in his tracksuit bottoms and T-shirt. The heating had been left on full blast making the flat feel like a sauna. On blinking awake, he contemplates the terrible, weird dreams that plagued him.

After rising, showering and dressing, Terry looks down at the outline of his cock, springing to the right in his tight nylon tracksuit leggings, and mutters a curse, resolving that he is going to wear jeans to work. The tracky bottoms are far too sexualising.

In the cab, driving is difficult. Even with the pills, the horny twinges won’t completely subside. He tries to avoid looking at passing women. Yet when he glances away from the road, he is confronted by the swelling at his groin. — You’re tryin tae kill me, ya cunt, he says to the bulge.

— What? a voice comes from the back.

— No you, mate, Terry says, turning round to address Doughheid. Lost in his thoughts, he has forgotten he’s picked up his friend and is driving him up to the court.

Doughheid’s nerves are finely shredded. Terry fancies he can practically feel him vibrating against the cab’s upholstery. — Somebody’s killin
me
, that’s fir sure! Ah’m gaunny lose ma licence, Terry! Ma fuckin livelihood; aw for a wee bit ay fuckin tarry!

— Could be worse, mate, Terry declares, again moved to glance down at his groin. Perhaps the doctor’s chemical ministrations are finally having some effect. Auld Faithful now seems inert, but all that realisation does is trigger a dull, sinking thud in his chest.

— How? How can it be worse?! Doughheid squeals.

— At least ye kin git yir hole, ya lucky cunt, Terry muses. — Stoap moanin.

Doughheid’s eyes bore manically into the back of Terry’s head. — You deal loads ay ching, n then ah git caught wi a wee bit ay tarry! Whaire’s the fuckin justice in that!

Terry decides not to respond. Doughheid is irate and, after he is banned, there might be some exit interview with Control. He wants to keep his old mate onside, to make sure Doughheid’s disinclined to grass him up. The worst thing is being unable to tryst with Big Liz. You can’t snub Big Liz; that is asking for trouble. He’ll have to explain his predicament to her. He pulls the cab up at Hunter Square. He and Doughheid exit and silently make for the court buildings. Terry opts to stay for the case, taking a seat in the public gallery, beside the usual assembly of students and dole moles who head there for the entertainment.

The judge is a slack-featured man in his sixties, who looks wearily at Doughheid. It’s plain to Terry that this case is just part of another personal Groundhog Day to him. — Why did you have that marijuana on your person?

Dougheid looks back wide-eyed. — Ah’ve goat anxiety issues, Your Honour.

— Have you seen a doctor?

— Aye. He jist telt ays tae stoap daein sae much ching but, ay.

A series of guffaws erupt from the public gallery. The magistrate is less amused: Doughheid is fined a grand and banned from driving for a year.

Terry meets his friend outside, where Doughheid is talking to his brief. He hears the lawyer say that it ‘would be futile’ to consider an appeal. Terry sees it as a decent result. — At least ye kin still ride, mate. This bad-hert thing hus made me reassess my priorities, he sadly discloses.

— What? Yir jokin! What um ah gaunny dae fir a livin?

— Ah once went through a period where ah jist steyed in ma auld bedroom at muh ma’s, Terry muses, lost in his own sad narrative. — Goat a bit depressed eftir this mate ay mine topped ehsel, n this burd ah wis seein jacked ays in. Obviously, ah still hud a couple ay manky lassies come roond tae watch porn wi ays, n sit oan ma coupon.

— So? So what does that mean?

— At least yir a free man, and ye kin git yir hole, Terry ruefully laments, — that’s better thin me. He pats his chest. — Better thin huvin a dodgy ticker. One fuckin bit ay excitement then, boom: goodnight Vienna, endy fuckin story, the baw’s oan the slates. Sometimes ah think, thaire’s nae point, just fuckin well go fir it.

They get back into the cab and head for the Taxi Club in Powderhall. Bladesey, Stumpy Jack and Eric Staples, a former Hibs top boy who became a born-against Christian, are all present, and a round of drinks is shouted up as they commiserate with Doughheid.

— At least you’ll no have Control oan yir back, Eric says to the disgraced cabbie.

— You’ve always goat Control oan yir back, Terry, Stumpy Jack smirks, — in the form ay Big Liz!

They all laugh at this, except for Doughheid and Terry himself.

— Where’s that new lassie ay yours, Terry? Jack asks.

— Which one? Bladesey chuckles. — Between taxi driving and all his film-making activities there seems to be quite a few of them on the go!

Doughheid becomes animated for the first time, studying the uncharacteristic encroaching doom on Terry’s face, as Jack recounts a tale of trying to stop two young women getting in a private cab. — Private hire? Fuckin sex cases. Widnae let any lassie ah ken git intae a cab wi one ay they mingin jailbirds!

Eric informs them that he’s met a girl from his Bible group. Her strict religious views mean that her fanny is off-limits until she sees an engagement ring, but she reluctantly does anal. He gives the impression that he’s in no hurry to propose. — Best wait, he winks, — till we get the message fae the big man, and he looks to the ceiling.

This conversation rankles Terry, who inside is fizzing and flailing in self-pity. He makes his excuses and leaves, to a round of strange looks passing between his friends.

Outside it’s very cold. As Terry gets into the car, he is suddenly suffused with defiance.

FUCK IT.

So he drives out to Portobello to Sal’s. She is delighted to see him, and drags him straight upstairs to the bedroom, barely scenting the unfamiliar reticence in his movements, as she tells him that her mum is out at Jenners for an afternoon coffee, whipping off her drawers and unbuckling Terry’s belt and tugging down his jeans. She assists his cock out in its jack-in-the-box spring towards her; even through the medication it’s stiffening up and she’s right down on it.

Terry lies back on the bed looking up at the pastel-coloured shade, which casts a vapid light across the room.

Ya cunt, she’s fuckin killin ays . . .

Fuck it, wi aw die . . .

Aw ya cunt!

Then Terry is aware that his heart is racing and he hears a voice boom out: — STOAP!!

He is as shocked as Sal is. It seems to come from anywhere but his own throat.

— What? What is it? Sal looks up at him, a strand of pre-cum hanging from her bottom lip to the bell end of Terry’s cock.

— It’s nowt, he says urgently, now desperate for her to continue.

Then the door swings open and Sara-Ann’s mother, Evelyn, stands watching them. She halts a couple of seconds, then raises an imperious brow and turns away, closing the door behind her.

— FUCK! Sara-Ann Lamont screams. — Nosy old fucking cow!

Terry sees it as a sign. This woman has saved his life. Without her intervention, he wouldn’t have been able to avoid the full-on session that would pop his fragile heart. He springs up, and starts to dress in haste.

— Oh my God. Sara-Ann lets her eyes roll. — What . . . where are you going?

— Ah’m oot ay here, Terry says, and heads downstairs, followed by Sara-Ann, pulling on her own clothes.

— Terry, wait, she begs.

Evelyn is lurking at the bottom of the stair. She jumps out and confronts them, an arcane sneer on her face. — Isn’t your friend staying for his tea?

— Nup, ta, but goat tae nash, ay, Terry nods, then turns to Sara-Ann. — See ye, and he opens the front door and steps out into the chilled air.

Sara-Ann charges out after him. — What’s wrong? What’s up with you? We aren’t fucking kids! I do what I like, and that poisonous old bitch can’t stop us screw—

— Look, ah’m no well, Terry snaps. — It’s best we dinnae see each other for a while. Ah’m sorry.

— Well, fuck you, Sara-Ann screams, turning to see her mother standing, arms folded, in the doorway. She storms past her into the house as Terry goes into the cab and pulls away.

He is just passing Meadowbank stadium, as Ronnie Checker calls. So distraught is he at his plight, Terry confides to the American the grim extent of his problem. Ronnie suggests they meet at the Balmoral.

On his arrival at the hotel, he sees Ronnie in the lobby, sat in a huge leather chair by the fireplace. His Mohawk is flattened down and he wears a Pringle sweater. A golf bag is by his side. Terry slides an identical chair closer and sits beside him. — That is a tough break, Terry, Ronnie sighs, — especially for a guy like you who can’t stop thinking about pussy.

— It’s drivin ays mental, Terry acknowledges, but anxious to turn his thoughts somewhere else. — How are you daein? Nae word fae the polis or they investigators oan that whisky?

— Those assholes . . . you know, since I screwed up with them, I doubt they have their hearts in it. The broker still has those guys from the agency investigating, but it’s like it’s just vanished into thin air.

A glamorous woman strides into the lobby with catwalk entitlement, and is immediately set upon by fussing staff. Ronnie catches Terry’s deep groan of longing futility. — You need something to take your mind off women.

— Thaire’s nowt that kin take ma mind oaffay burds! That’s the fuckin problem!

— You oughtta come out and hit some balls around with me the next time I go down to North Berwick to practise with that club pro.

— Ah’ve nivir played golf, mate, Terry scoffs, — it’s no ma thing.

— That statement has no goddamn logic, Terry. How y’all know it ain’t for you if you haven’t played it? Ronnie shakes his golf bag then lowers his voice. — Besides, it’s the best sex subsitute known to man. When my second wife left me and was screwing her racquetball instructor – not her tennis instructor or fitness instructor, her goddamn
racquetball
instructor, how fucking emasculating is that? – Well, I had to be on the links every day. It was the only thing that took my mind off what they were doing together.

Terry is now all ears. — Aye?

— Golf is Zen, Terry. Once you’re on that course, you’ve stepped into another world, where all life’s frustrations and triumphs become totally irrelevant if they aren’t happening right there.

— Ah’m in, Terry says in glum resignation.

— Great – we can hire you a set of clubs down there! Pick me up here tomorrow at nine.

— Can we make it later? Ah’ve got a doaktir’s appointment then.

— Sure . . . Ronnie says, picking up on Terry’s anxiety. — Call me when you’re done. Oh, he grins hopefully. — Listen, Terry, I don’t wanna be seen to be taking advantage of your bad situation, but I was kinda wondering, you couldn’t spot me ole Occupy’s digits, could you? I mean, I’m guessing that you can’t get involved no more, and I gotta confess, I ain’t been able to get that gal out of my head!

— A gentleman never passes round a lady’s number, Terry’s curls swish in reprimand, though he’s massively relieved at the opportunity this presents, — but I’ll pass yours oantae her if ye like, n tell her tae gie ye a bell.

— Of course . . . thanks, Terry.

— Wee bit ay advice. Terry’s voice plummets. — Ye might have a bit ay luck if ye took some interest in her work. Like if ye said ye were keen oan sponsoring one ay her plays at the festival. Costs big bucks tae git a space thaire. Ah mean it’s nowt tae you, but her art is everything tae her.

— Now there’s an idea, Ronnie winks, — you are a sly one!

— Psychology, mate. Terry taps his head and rises. — See ye the morn, and thanks for the blether. It’s helped.

— Any time, buddy! Ronnie sings. — And, Terry, that thing about searching your apartment the other night, you know that was down to Lars, right? I trust you, bro. You’re one of the few people I can trust.

— Nae worries, Terry mumbles as he leaves, thinking,
he can go and fuck ehsel, him n Suicide Sal are welcome tae each other.
He heads outside and gets into the taxi, driving to Broomhouse.

The scheme has been refurbished since the days he’d hung around there, delivering aerated waters from the back of a lorry. It is still a poor area, but the gardens are now discreetly sectioned of with quality metal fencing. He finds Donna’s place, reasoning she would have gotten the ground-floor flat from the council when she had the kid. As he enters the stair, two thin young guys, one sheepish, the other belligerent, are leaving the premises. Donna sees Terry and is surprised. — Ter . . . Dad, she says, seemingly more for the benefit of the departing boys than him. — See ye, Drew, Pogo, she says, as they skulk off, tracked in their departure by Terry, who steps into the flat. It smells strongly of nappies. Terry’s spirits sink as he enters the front room to find the detritus of a party, or worse, a lifestyle, that is not going to be good for a child. Empty cans, full ashtrays, pipes and discarded wraps lie strewn across a grubby glass coffee table.

— How ye daein? Donna asks.

With her roundish face, and big, oval eyes, she looks so like her mother, Vivian, his second real love, that Terry briefly feels the air being squeezed from his lungs. — No bad. Thought ah’d swing by, he says, suddenly shamed. — See the bairn, ay.