A Decent Ride (30 page)

— Cool.

So the boy gits oot, n ah heads to Inverleith tae pick up the wee message fae Rehab Connor tae sort the cunt oot later. The worst thing aboot aw this is huvin tae tell folks. — I thought you’d been quiet, Connor goes, eftir ah spill the beans aboot the hert condition.

— Aye, cannae hack gaun roond the schemes wi this ticker. Thaire’s eywis some burd wantin a wee laugh, ay.

— Your rep precedes ye, Juiceman.

— Aye, but now it’s a fuckin curse instead ay a blessing, ah tells um. Then ah gits back intae toon n sorts the darkie boy oot, then goes tae get Ronnie at the hotel. He’s goat his clubs so wir headin doon tae the coorse.

Ah chops oot two lines ay gak. — Git some speed up but, ay.

Ronnie isnae happy at aw. — We don’t wannabe pulled over by the cops again! You shouldn’t be doing this stuff with your heart condition! This is the worst idea ever. You need a steady, relaxed tempo for golf and coke is probably the worst drug you can do for it!

— Git oan yin, it’s jist a wee tickle fir the road! It’ll huv worn oaf by the time we git doon thaire. Think Bawbag!

Ronnie doesnae look convinced, but it’s still gaun up ehs hooter. Sometimes it’s no aboot what ye need, it’s aboot what ye want. — Hell . . . yeah . . . he says. — I got some good news. This Lord asshole of Glenbuttfuck, who has the third bottle of whisky and who hasn’t been returning my calls, is finally starting to cave in. Lars and his guys have put in a joint offer. Of course McFauntleroy’s pricks are playing hardball, but we should be able to close the deal.

— Still nae sign ay that second boatil?

— No . . . Ronnie says, suddenly aw downcast again. — It’s like it’s vanished into thin air. I’ve got a private investigator full-time on Mortimer, but so far there’s nothing to suggest he has it.

Ah ken what’ll cheer the cunt up. — Ah gied Sal yir number.

— Wow! Think she’ll call?

— Whae kin tell wi lassies but, mate. Mind you, yuv goat fame and fortune oan yir side, n that’s a better aphrodisiac than column inches, if ye catch ma drift.

Ronnie says nowt, but ah widnae size that cunt at mair than five inches tops.

So we’re hittin the M8 and beatin the traffic. We’re doon thaire in just over an hour. It’s a big, open course, no many trees or bushes, which makes the wind a factor. So we’re on the fairway, n Ronnie’s gaun intae his clubs, n pills oot a fat bastard. — Golf rocks, Terry. Once you approach forty, believe me, it beats sex. Every time. He smiles n shows ays the basic drivin stance. Eh does a couple ay trial swings then hands ays the club. — This is a short par-three hole.

Ah looks ahead, thinking aboot Kelvin’s snidey face concentrated doon intae that wee baw. Looks up the fairway. Looks back n takes a swing at the cunt. The baw fairly fuckin flies: long and straight. It bounces oantae the green, rolls quite near the hole.

Ronnie lets oot a gasp n ehs eyes ur bulgin oot his heid. — Wow! Well done, Terry! I dunno if it’s beginner’s luck, or maybe you’re just a natural!

We walks doon n ah’m close tae the hole, much closer than Ronnie. But ah fucks up wi the putting, n takes four instead ay two. Ronnie makes it in par.

It’s the same fuckin story at the next couple ay holes. Ah’m awright at the drivin but this fuckin putting is a fuckin heid-nip! Then something hits ays like a ton ay bricks n ah suddenly understand it now; how aw life’s frustrations are aboot no gittin yir hole! This is what gowf’s aw aboot, that n overcomin aw the obstacles oan yir wey! At the end ay the game ah sais this tae Ronnie, n eh goes, — You were very good, Terry, you’ve got the swing of a natural and that is the most important asset a golfer can have. You just have to concentrate more when you’re putting.

We go tae the clubhouse for a drink. Then Lars comes in wi Jens, n the broker guy. Lars is aw frosty-faced and says, — They want one hundred and eighty grand for the third bottle.

— We oughtta bite their goddamn hands off!

— Pounds, not dollars.

— Motherfuckers! Did you tell him that there are only two of the Trinty around, and that it’s worth less?

— It is not worth less to us. It’s worth more, and he knows it.

Ronnie shrugs. — Okay, let’s do the deal. I’ll call my guys – not fucking Mortimer – and ask them to make the bank transfer to your account.

The Lars felly nods, aw slow like a Bond villain. — Obviously, once the deal is completed, this bottle will remain in my possession until we have played the golf, he sais, looking at the dippit wee broker boy. — It’s only fair, given your custody of the previous bottle.

Ronnie puffs ehsel up, like eh’s aboot tae contest this, but thinks better ay it n slumps back intae the chair. — I guess I can’t really argue with that, eh goes. Ah’ve gotten fond ay Ronnie, but that cunt would have been a shiny-ersed fillin clerk in the civil service if eh nivir hud ehs auld man’s money n Ivy League contacts.

— I believe that you do not have the bottle, but it did vanish while in your custody, auld Venus n Mars goes. — Therefore, there must be a punitive element in our challenge. My assistant, Jens, is a decent golfer, and then he glances at me, — we shall pair up in the game for the new bottle. Your partner will be your man, and he looks at ays again.

— Ah’m no a gowfer, mate, ah goes.

— Terry’s just had a club in his hand for the first time today! Ronnie sais.

— I’ve not been quite transparent with you, this Lars boy smiles. — I’ve already procured bottle number three with my own cash. Now we have one bottle each.

— We agreed the other two bottles would be jointly purchased and played for –

— That was before you lost one. Now we have one each. He nods to Jens whae opens up a case, n there’s the Gherkin-shaped gless boatil. — We play for the two bottles, yours and mine, and we play with partners, which will be these two.

Well, Ronnie’s fuckin speechless, and says he’ll think aboot it. Lars tells him no tae think too long.

So we’re headin back tae Edinburgh in the cab. — What ye gaunny dae?

— He knows how much I want those bottles. It’s high stakes, winner takes all. Two bottles or none.

— Ye cannae be –

— I think we can beat those assholes, Terry!

— No way . . . ye cannae trust me tae win ye that bottle ay whisky, Ronnie, ah ken how much it means tae ye, ah goes, cause ah cannae believe this. This cunt off the telly, this billionaire boy whae’s faced aw they Ivy League posh cunts in
The Prodigal
, this wanker fuckin believes in ays! As eh should. But it’s that cunt whae needs tae make me, Juice Terry, believe in
him
.

— I want them all, he’s fuckin haverin, — and that asshole has me over a barrel. I’m even betting he’s in on the disappearance of bottle number two, perhaps with Mortimer . . .

— Ah’m game, Ronnie, but ah’ll really need practice time.

— I’ll get you that! We’ll be out every day, Terry, and when I leave town, I’ll have you working with that golf pro asshole!

Cause ah’m fuckin well thinkin: it jist might fuckin work. Ronnie’s better than Lars, n even if Jens’s better than me, we’ve still goat a fuckin shot!

So it turns oot no a bad day at aw. That evening ah’m sittin at hame reading that
Moby-Dick
when the door goes. Ah’m gled ah dinnae answer it, cause it’s Suicide Sal. Fuck, ah hope her plays are as good as her lays, n that Ronnie’ll take her oaf ma hands. Ah look oot fae behind the curtains n see her walkin doon the street. When the coast’s clear ah go oot for a pint ay milk, roond tae the Hamilton’s. Whin ah gits back, the door goes again n ah’m shitin it. Then a text wi Jason on caller ID:
C’mon, Terry, let me in. I’m outside
.

Ah opens up. It’s great tae see him and ah grab um in an embrace. Eh feels stiff and tense, as eh gies ays these wee pats oan the back. When ah lit go eh sais, — What’s up?

Eh looks like ehs filled oot a bit, like muscle, as if eh’s been daein weights. Eh’s goat a number-one cut. Ah see a lot mair ay Lucy, ehs ma, aboot um, especially roond the eyes, no sae much ay me. — It’s that good tae see ye!

— It’s great tae see you as well! I’m up visiting Mum and I thought –

— I’m proud ay ye, ye ken that, ah just blurt oot.

— Terry, this isn’t like you –

— Call me Dad, son.

— Now you’re
really
scaring me. Is everything okay?

So ah tells um the fuckin lot.

After ma spiel, Jason just looks at me and says, — I’m really sorry. I know that you’ve always been sexually active, that it’s a big part of your life, and you like to do the . . . you know, videos.

For some reason, ah’m feelin masel shiver. It’s like the eyes ay the world ur oan ays. Normally ah lap that up, but no now. Ah kin barely look him in the eye. — Ah bet ye ah embarrassed ye, me daein the scud n that, wi you bein at college.

Jason jist goes n gies ays that wee half-smile ay his. He wis ey a happy laddie; nowt seemed tae bother him. But deep n aw. Enigmatic, as Rab Birrell might say, oan one ay his intellectual casual websites. Cunt thinks it wis some kind ay postmodern statement tae punch a cunt in the mooth last century, but it’s apparently ‘reactionary’ now. — I always tried to respect that the porn stuff was your thing.

— Ye did, ah tell um. — You were always a great wee guy, and you’ve ey made ays proud.

— Well, thanks . . . Jason goes, — but you’ve never really opened up like this before . . .

— Mibbe ah should’ve. Mibbe that’s what wis wrong! What kind ay faither was I?

Jason shakes his heid n shrugs. — We don’t need to get into this. I mean, you are what you are, and I love you. You know that, right?

Ah feel a tennis baw stuck in ma throat n ma eyes tear up. It dawns oan ays for the first time that eh really does. Eh loves ays, in spite ay . . . nowt. Eh wis eywis jist happy tae hing oot wi me. Ah wish ah could’ve gied him mair. — Ah love you . . . son. Ye ken that, surely?

— Of course I do. I always have.

— But I was never a faither. Was ah?

— They come in all shapes and sizes. I’m not going to bullshit you, Ter— Dad. Grandad, he was my traditional father. Mum was as well. Between them, they gave me everything I needed as a kid, Jason goes, and ah glance up tae see how worried he is tae see me so down, ma heid bowed. — But . . .

Ah force masel tae look up.

— You came into your own when I got to my teens. You were my best friend and the best big brother I could have wished for. And believe you me, that was exactly what I needed right then.

We sits up wi a couple ay beers n pit the world tae rights. I realise that it’s great havin him here. He looks at the books on the shelf and shakes his head.

— What? ah goes.

Then we look at each other n burst oot laughin uncontrollably.

When Jason leaves ah cannae settle n ah decide tae have a wee bit ching, but ah mind that ah shouldnae touch it. Ah flushes it doon the toilet soas no tae be tempted. Ah realise that ah’ve goat three great sons n a barry daughter, n that’s only the yins the CSA would ever be able tae pin oan ays, so ah’ve plenty tae live fir. Ye kin live without a ride. Ah pick up Rab Birrell’s copy ay
Moby-Dick
.

Ah’m readin the book, thinkin aboot the round ay gowf Ronnie n me are gaunny fit in the morn, ah’m fair lookin forward tae it! So ah reads till ah’m exhausted, then practically crawl through tae bed n huv a deep sleep.

Ah wakes up feelin mair rested than ah’ve done in yonks, n lookin forward tae gettin on the links wi Ronnie. This time we’re headin doon tae Peebles, and the Macdonald Cardrona Golf and Country Club. These pills are making me much calmer, and ah enjoy the drive tae the Borders in the weak morning sun.

One thing aboot gowf clubs is that it’s maistly middle-aged fuckers n auld cunts. Any fanny thaire tends tae be strictly boilerhoose material, so thaire’s fewer temptations. A bit ay wholesome fresh air, n a few fuckin peeves eftir, what mair dae ye want?

Ronnie’s chuffed wi ma progress, but the puttin is still away tae fuck. Ah’m relaxed enough, but ah keep missin shots oan the green that look easy. — Concentrate, Terry, he goes, as we get oan the rough at the seventh, — try and empty your mind of everything except that hole . . .

N ah’m realisin that ye do huv tae concentrate. Focus on that hole. On gittin it intae that fuckin hole. That dark fuckin hole. Black everything else oot. Jist a smooth, easy stroke . . . it rolls off the roughage oantae the green n curves slightly in n . . . bang! Right intae that fuckin hole! — Ya fucker!

— Wow! What a putt, Terry. You’ve got it! You really are a goddamn natural at this!

Ah think ah’ve cracked this gowf shite. Ma game’s gittin better! Aw through watchin n listenin tae Ronnie, the voice ay experience. It’s jist like when ah started hingin oot at the Tivoli Bingo Hoose tae bag aw the auld burds. Ye kin only learn so much fae schoolies, before ye start gaun fir thair mas. When ah wis in ma teens n pittin aw they wee burds through thair paces, n they went ‘Whae showed ye how tae dae that?’, ah’d eywis think: probably your fuckin ma. Either that, or the Classic cinema in Nicolson Street. Guaranteed! This gowf’s the same: if yuv goat game, yuv goat game, ay, ye jist need the experienced heid tae help bring it oot. But thaire’s something else gaun oan n aw. Ye huv tae be thaire in the moment, soas yir focused oan the job at hand, but also outside the moment, so that other stuff gaun oan aroond ye disnae pit ye oaf. It hit me that gowf is
exactly like scud
for that. You’ve goat tae be able tae swing that big fuckin club oan demand, n let nowt distract ye fae gettin that hole.

Things are gaun well, and Ronnie’s aw chuffed later oan in Spikes clubhouse bar. The peeves are gaun doon nicely. Then eh looks at me a bit hangdog and says, — I’m meeting a lady tonight. We’re going out to dinner. The woman from the speed-dating club you took me to.

— Sound. Good on ye.

So ah drives um back intae toon n the hotel. Something aboot what eh sais didnae chime, so as eh vanishes intae the Balmoral, ah stalls for a bit. Sure enough, ah sees her comin ower the road. Of course, it’s no the burd fae the quick hookup club at aw, it’s Sal. She looks different, posher, mair sophisticated, aw dolled up as she steps into the hotel. Ah takes off n heads back tae ma fuckin lonely flat.