A Decent Ride (31 page)

Ah gits hame n ah dozes oaf reading
Moby-Dick
, aboot the cunt chasing the whale. Ah’m thinking: nivir mind Moby-Dick, what aboot perr Terry’s fuckin dick?

RIGHT, LAWSON, THAT’S
it finito

wi us, cuntface, time tae cast

aside the yoke ay oppression

n go full oot fir independence!

Aye, ah’m separatin masel fae

ye! You hud yir chance wi this

union n ye fucked it up! N lit ays

tell ye, before ye start makin

jokes aboot separatist pricks,

mind yir jist a big, useless fanny

withoot me! So it’s adios, bawbag

(cause it’s aw ye are withoot me),

n ah’ll be seein ye in the next life!

Ye see, Terry, if you’re no daein any

ridin, dinnae expect me tae sit in

scabby keks sweatin like an auld

piece ay cheese, while you pump

ays wi blood-thinnin chemicals jist

tae try n stoap ays fae standin tae

attention in the presence ay a lady.

Cause it’s no happenin, mate, it’s no

fuckin well happenin. You mind ay

thum, Terry, aw they tunnels ay love

ye poked ays intae ower the years.

A long wey fae thon tight fanny ay

thon wee Rachel Muir whae wis

jist thirteen whin ye forced ays up

her n ah wis jist eleven fuckin year

auld, ya filthy wee cunt, but did ah

complain? Did ah fuck! Aye ah did!

Nae wee-boy fear-wilt, ah wis right

in thaire, you poundin me intae her

in that dirty stair, n yersel intae a

fuckin ecstatic state! N fast-forward

through aw they rides tae now, n nae

wey the Suicide Sara-Ann burd’s gaunny

be the last hole this dirty auld tadger

kens, not a chance ay that! But you

broke the contract, mate, so it’s numero

uno fae now on in . . . independence . . .

independence . . . freedom . . . freedom . . .

freedom . . . freedom . . . freedom . . . freedom . . .

freedom . . . freedom . . . freedom . . . freedom . . .

freedom . . . freedom . . . freedom . . . freedom . . .

freedom . . . freedom . . . freedom . . . freedom . . .

freedom . . . freedom . . . freedom . . . freedom . . .

freedom . . . freedom . . . freedom . . . freedom . . .

AH’M NO HAPPY
at aw, cause ah’m no a lassie n ah didnae like tae be treated like a lassie or a poof. Maurice daein that: it wisnae right, naw sur, naw sur, naw sur, it wisnae right. Cause the bad stuff is meant tae go oot thaire n thaire’s nae bad things ur meant tae go in thaire. Mibbe sometimes wi a laddie n a lassie, fir a wee chynge, but no two men! Naw sur, that’s no right. N wi Maurice bein a Prawstint as well, n no a Catholic priest or a public-skill Tory at the BBC, that it makes it even mair wrong. Aye sur, aye it does.

Felt awfay funny up the erse, aw squeamish n seek in ma stomach. Maurice jist gruntin n sayin ‘it’s awright, Jonty son, it’s jist a wee ride, nowt tae git aw worked up aboot’, n then shoutin aboot the Alamo, but naw sur, it wisnae right. N it’s jist yin mair bad thing tae play oan ma mind.

But ah think ay perr wee Jinty aw cauld in yon concrete pillar under the new tram brig, n ah ken ah’ve done some awfay bad things. Ah start tae think aboot God, n how He’ll punish me fir aw that. N that priest: if only that dirty Fenian bastard would have let me confess ma sins! Shouldnae be one set ay rules for one n a different set fir the others. No right that, naw sur.

Ye see aw daft things oan that Internet. They tell ye how tae git a boatil, a rag n some turpentine. Then ye light the rag n fling it n yuv goat a bomb. Easy-peasy. That’s what ah’m gaunny be daein. Makin bombs. Cause ye cannae lit thum away wi it, naw sur, naw ye cannot. Ye kin see how a Molotov cocktail’s easy-peasy tae make, jist by gaun oan that Internet. Jinty ey gied ays a row for spendin too much time oan it. ‘Yi’ll git square eyes, Jonty MacKay,’ she wid go. N ah’d say, ‘Naw ah’ll no, cause ah heard thit the Chinese use the Internet mair than anybody, n ye nivir see a Chinaman wi square eyes, naw ye do not.’ N Jinty wid jist say, ‘Aye, yuv goat me thaire, Jonty, right enough.’

But tae make a Molotov, aw ye dae is get a boatil, n fill it half fill ay petrol, ay. Jist ordinary petrol, aye sur. Ye kin add a wee bit motor oil, like yon Castrol GTX. Liquid engineerin. Aye sur, aye sur, aye sur. Ye soak a rag, then ye stick it in the neck ay the boatil n hud it in wi a rubber stoaper, leavin a wee bit oot. Then ye light it, n chuck it, but hard, soas it breks against a waw or a flair.

Then bang!

Easy!

So ah goes doon tae the garage n gits aw the stuff, but tae git the rubber stoapers ah hus tae go tae a posh wine shop in the toon. — Rubber stoapers, ah goes tae this lassie in a nice blouse.

— We have a selection.

— That pack ay fower, ah sais tae the lassie, — jist the fower.

— Anything else I can help you with? We have excellent Chilean reds, Cabernets, just in today . . .

— Jist the fower rubber stoapers, aye, aye, aye.

N she takes the money n rings it up. Awfay dear, they rubber stoapers, but the shop wis posh but. Aye sur, it wis that!

So ah gits hame n pits the bombs thegither. Then ah goes outside, wearin the canary-yellay fleece n a balaclava. It’s cauld still, n it’s started tae git dark n ah’m walkin under the bridge. A few cars go past, then a 22 bus. Well, ah goes roond the back where they sometimes go oot fir a fag. Ah kin hear thum aw inside the pub. So ah nip roond tae the side door, ah’ve goat a spare key made, n ah loaks it. Sometimes Jake forgets tae open it, cause the boys ey moan whin they want oot fir a fag. Then ah goes doon the alley tae the front n lights the two up, boots open the doors n flings ma cocktail bombs inside n shuts the doors! Ah see a boy ah dinnae recognise looking at me before the crash n the flames n the shoutin n screamin. Ah’ve turned roond n ah rushes back taewards the hoose.

That’ll gie thum an awfay fright!

When ah gits in the stair, ah’m thinkin ah mibbe did too much, aye ah am, n thit it might’ve goat oot ay control. Ah kin hear noises fae ootside the stair, like screamin n aw that. Ah goes up n sees the Paki lassie Mrs Iqbal n her broon bairn comin oot intae the stair n ah tells hur, — Dinnae go oot! Thaire’s a fire in the pub acroass the road. It wis aw ma fault. Ah shidnae huv done it but thaire’s bad people in thaire.

— Yes, yes, very bad. Every time I pass with the baby they are saying bad things and I am so frightened! Quick, come, she says n grabs ma airm n takes me intae the hoose wi the bairn.

Ah peeks oot the windae fae behind the curtains. The fire engines ur wailin ootside. — Ah’m gaunny git the jail . . . Ah looks at Mrs Iqbal, she’s jist goat a half-mask oan the day, n her eyes ur awfay kind. She’s lookin oot wi me; the front doors ay the pub huv opened, n people come out aw chokin n coughin n ah’m really feart. — Ah should nash away, ah tells Mrs Iqbal, thi’ll come lookin fir ays!

— There are bad people there, but you are a good man.

— Aye, but ah’ll git huckled now, ah tells her, — aye ah will. Thi’ll ken it wis me, aye sur, they will.

— Yes, you must go away. You must hurry! But you cannot go dressed like that!

She takes ays through n makes me pit oan one ay they dresses that she goes oot in. She says it’s a burka. Ah’m gaunny say ah dinnae like that cause they used tae sponsor Hibs, cause ah seen an auld photae ay George Best in a Hibs strip wi that oan it. Mind you but it’s aw changed, n ye widnae see George Best, if eh wis still here, wearin one ay these. So ah pits it oan.

Aye, it’s goat a barry grille oan it. Ye kin barely hear or see or nowt like that. So ah take the canary-yellaw fleece under ma juke cause it’s Maurice’s n ah’m no a bad person thit does that sort ay thing for money or clathes. Naw sur. It’s awkward gaun doon they stairs but ah say cheerio tae Mrs Iqbal n ah’m walkin oot, gaun past the fire engines.

Aye, ye cannae see much but, n it’s aw blurred even mair cause ay the smoke comin oot ay the pub.

Thaire’s bad Evan Barksie gittin takin intae an ambulance, face aw roasted doon one side. His brar Craig Barksie looks at me, right intae ma eyes like eh kin tell it’s me, n ah’m lookin back as eh goes, — What ur lookin at, ya fuckin Paki slag, that’s ma brar! N thaire’s polis lookin, n ah want tae say, ‘it wis me, ah did this tae make up fir wee Jinty . . .’ but ah jist walk on. A big crowd hus gathered, funny whaire they aw come fae cause thaire’s nae game oan, nae Ryan Stevenson, n the polis try tae divert thum, bit thir still takin bodies oot the pub, so ah walk oan.

Aw ah dinnae like this at aw, naw sur, ah do not. Goat tae git away fae here, aye sur, aye, aye . . .

— Paki slag!

Aw naw sur . . . naw . . . naw . . .

— Dinnae fancy yours much!

Ah keep walkin, aye, aye ah do, sur . . .

— Thoat youse wirnae allowed oot oan yir ain! Ah bet it wis hur! Terrorist hoor’s probably goat another fuckin bomb under thaire!

— Leave ur – it wis a cunt in a canary-yellay fleece, saw um oan camera!

Aw this isnae right, no sur, it isnae. Ah jist keep gaun till ah gits tae Maurice’s stair. Ah gits inside cause ay the entryphone n lock bein aw broke, n ah tiptoe up tae ehs landin and an awfay smell ay cat pish, aye sur, n pills oot the canary-yellay fleece n hings it oan ehs doorknob. Ah hears somebody comin oot but ah’m nashin back doon the stairs, pillin up the skirt soas ah kin hurry. But outside it’s still aw crazy, thaire’s another ambulance n mair polis.

Then ah slips doon a side street n nashes up towards Polwarth. Ah’m walkin, aye sur, ah’m walkin aw the wey doon the street. Ah keeps gaun n it’s funny in the burka but ah’d no say nowt cause it’s nice ay Mrs Iqbal tae help ays like that, n ah’m thinkin it’s gaunny be a long walk oot tay Penicuik, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur . . .

THANK FUCK FOR
the gowf! Ronnie n me wir oot early oan posh St Andrews before ah droaped the cunt oaf at the airport. Eh boat ays a barry new set ay clubs n they goat used awright: ah beat the cunt by two shots, 75 tae 77! The cunt couldnae believe it, goat aw stroppy at first, said it isnae possible as he’s a five-handicap player. Telt the cunt that ah kent aw thaire wis tae ken aboot handicaps, cause the ultimate fuckin handicap is no gittin a ride. Eh’s away tae New York for a while oan business n ah’m gaunny miss the fucker, so ah need tae find a new gowf partner quick style. The gowf is just aboot the only thing that stoaps me fae obsessin aboot fanny. It’s that fuckin swing! It seems simple enough, but thaire’s a loat gaun oan: stance, follay-through, backswing, like bein oan set tryin tae work it intae a burd’s erse when yir bangin baws wi Curtis, whae’s up her fanny, n Sick Boy’s elbayin ye n shoutin at ye, tryin tae git ehs fuckin camera in.

Ronnie’s goat a cheerful look on ehs coupon, n ah’m sayin nowt but ah ken how. It’s aw tae dae wi gittin laid, n ah ken the particular Porty playwright n failed high-diver whae’s daein the pipe cleanin. Wish they widnae dart around behind ma back like fuckin bairns: it disnae matter tae me whae’s shagging whae. Never been jealous ay any cunt in that department, but mind you, ah suppose ah’m jealous ay
every
cunt now. So we’re at departures n eh goes, — I want you to practise every day. We are going to have to be at the top of our game to take down those Swede assholes.

— Danes.

— Whatever, it’s all Viking shit. Make sure you call that fat, lazy Iain Renwick asshole, and that he jumps when you shout. He’s being well paid to coach you!

— Sound, ah goes, n ah tell um, — It really is helpin ays take ma mind oaf the hootenanny, this gowf.

— Hootenanny . . . that’s another of your names for pussy, right? I’m picking up all your crazy shit.

— Yir daein no bad, mate.

Ronnie chuckles at the thought. — Well, I gave you the golf, so fair exchange. I needed it so bad after Sapphire left me, he says. — It was a fucking nervy time. If I was snapped by the paparazzi, then my divorce settlement . . . well, I guess you know the story.

— Tell ays aboot it. Till yuv hud the fuckin CSA oan yir back, ye dinnae ken the half ay it, gadge, ah goes, then ah sais, — So Suicide Sal’s no gied ye a bell, then?

Ronnie shrugs, n goes, — Nope. I guess that ole Occupy n I ain’t meant to be, he smiles. Eh’s no bad at the poker face n clear eyes, but ah kin see the kip gittin slightly ridder, a telltale sign. As if ah fuckin care that they’re gittin it oan – ah fuckin well set the cunts up. It’s funny how the maist unlikely cunts kin git aw school playgroond when it comes tae the Ian McLagan.

— Okay, Terry, be safe, and try to remember, think golf, not puss . . . hootenanny! Ronnie punches ma shoodir n turns away tae git the plane.

Easy for that cunt tae say, when eh’s knobbin ma fuckin burd! But ah feel lonely, watchin um go. If any cunt telt ays that some rich American radge oaf the telly wid be the only fucker that understood ays, ah’d huv said that they wir fuckin mental.