A Decent Ride (35 page)
The mourners panic and quickly flee the building, gathering outside in the rain. Gasps hang in the air as they see Craig, the left side of his face horrifically burnt, being assisted up from the basement by his boiler-suited comrades, Vicky and Jim. Thick black smoke surges after them. Somebody has called the emergency services and already distant sirens are filling the air, heading towards the crematorium.
— She was too fuckin big, ya daft cunts! Vicky gives a coughing, rasping shout at the funeral director, who stares with traumatised eyes, and the crematorium manager, who shuffles nervously.
Firemen wearing masks and protective clothing seem to have appeared almost immediately as vehicles pull out of the car park to let them gain access. The main hold-up is getting Marjory’s lorry out of the way. Soon though, the firefighters are unravelling their hoses and attacking the blaze, forcing their way into the basement operations room, emerging with their suits covered in thick, black grease.
As Craig is loaded into an ambulance and Vicky is put into a second vehicle, to be taken away and treated for smoke inhalation, Jim explains to the fire chief that there was so much fat in the body, it was probable that it caused the oven to overheat. The likelihood was that Marjory’s gargantuan mass had blocked up some of the ventilation ducts, and the dramatic temperature rise caused a massive explosion, resulting in Craig being showered in burning body fat.
Throughout the commotion, Jonty MacKay glows with pride. — That wis muh ma, he says repeatedly as Karen weeps hysterically and Hank looks on in shock, — aw this jist for her!
— Ah’ll be gaun the same wey, his sister wails, as Hank shakes his head and exchanges a glance with Morag, acknowledging their joint desire to be anywhere but here.
— But Ma’s away now, Karen, she cannae enable yir fat, Jonty says supportively, — no sur, she cannae.
— Mibbe . . . Karen painfully moans, as the firefighters battle on, and the ambulance takes Craig away, a piece of Marjory MacKay moulded into the side of his burning face. Terry stands back by the gates of the crematorium to grimly survey the scene. He knows that tonight will bring him more nightmares.
AULD FAITHFUL 3
FREEDOM . . . FREEDOM . . . FREEDOM . . .
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FREE!
AVOIDING STRESS
— THAT WIS THE
fuckin worst dream ever! Ma fuckin cock . . . eh, ma penis, lookin up at ays, screamin at me, then rippin oaf ma boady n flyin aroond the fuckin room. Then it goes and circles behind ays like a heat-seekin missile and flies straight up ma erse!
— Interesting . . . this psychotherapist gadge says. Foreign accent: Danish, like Lars and Jens. Eh’s a chunky boy, thinnin blond hair, grey at the sides, cauld green eyes, like they sortay came ootay something else. Ya cunt, nae wonder ah’m huvin weird dreams eftir that fuckin shite at that funeral yesterday! Ah didnae want tae go tae any fuckin nut doaktir but ah hud tae. Cause this just isnae fuckin real: the lack ay shaggin n that. Ah’m gaun fuckin mental here, literally losin ma fuckin mind!
And this cunt’s just sittin back withoot a fuckin care in the world. — This is essentially a typical desexualisation anxiety dream, and it’s very common to people in your circumstance. It’s nothing to worry about, all fairly classic stuff; the removal of the penis, the sealing of the anus, by the penis, the anus of course, also being highly sexual –
— Tell ays aboot it. Ah’ve whapped it up a few choc-boxes in ma time . . . jist burds, mind –
— Mr Lawson, you have to stop this –
— Stop what? You sais ah’ve got tae talk aboot ma personal feelins –
— Yes, but these sessions have become a constant stream of details about your sexual life –
—
Former
sexual life, n that’s the fuckin problem, mate! N that
is
ma personal feelins. Ah shakes ma heid, n looks up tae the ceiling. — What fuckin good does aw this dae? ah sort ay sais tae masel, but oot loud, then ah looks um right in the eye. — The only thing that’ll help me is a decent ride, n ye cannae sort that oot for ays. Aw youse dae is keep tellin me tae take aw they pills. Ah keep daein it, but ma life is shite n it’s gittin fuckin shiter by the day!
So ah’m gaun oan, but the boy kens the score. Eh’s aboot ma age, wi a face thit looks like eh’s seen a bit ay life, like eh’s no jist a college gadge. It’s jist the same as me in the taxi, like aw self-employed cunts in the service industry: he’s punchin the fuckin cloak, jist sittin back thaire listenin tae every cunt’s shite. — You seem fixated on your penis, and your sex life.
Thaire’s nowt tae say aboot that. Cannae very well fuckin argue, kin ye? — Which guy isnae but, if the truth be telt, ay, ah goes.
The gadge seems tae ponder this, n raises ehs eyebrows. — It’s a huge part of our humanity, our sexuality. And you do seem to have led a very active sex life. But it’s by no means everything. People do readjust to a life without sex.
— Ah’m no
people
!
The guy sort ay shrugs. Ah bet that cunt’s shaggin somethin. Probably plenty n aw. High-class credit-caird hookers at aw they medical conferences. Cunt disnae ken that ah played a psychiatrist once in
Paging Doctor Scud
. Aye, ah wis Professor Edmund Scud. Catchphrase tae burd oan the couch: ‘It is my considered professional opinion that ze root of your problem is sexual.’ Aye, it’s easy tae talk whin
you’re
gittin yir hole. The boy stares at ays like eh’s been readin ma thoats. — But surely the medication you’re on, it must be having
some
effect?
— Nup! Nane at aw. Ah’m still gantin on ma hole! Ah’m gittin twinges doonstairs aw the time, n ah feels ma eyes gaun south tae Auld Faithful.
The boy shakes ehs heid aw sternly. — Mr Lawson, that’s just not possible. This is such a high dosage that it’s tantamount to chemical castration. Regarding those sexual twinges that you speak off, well, you should be feeling nothing whatsoever.
— Aye, but ah’m no! Especially at night!
— I can only hypothesise that you’re also suffering from some general anxiety disorder that you are sublimating into your unfortunate sexual issues.
Wir gaun roond in circles here: cunt disnae fuckin get it at aw. — Aye, but that anxiety is caused by
no fuckin well bein able tae git ma hole
!
The boy shakes his heid. — There must be something that helps you.
— Aye, thaire is, n ah’m oaf thaire right now, ah tell the cunt. N ah am fuckin well offski, getting oot ay thaire n intae the cab n drivin doon taewards Silverknowes. Ah gits thaire n the boy in the starter’s box goes, — Nae gowf the day, mate, coorse is floodit. Same wi aw the council courses.
FUCK MA BAWS!
Back in the cab, ah cannae help thinkin aboot ma lot in life. Ah’m gaun mental, it’s like ah’m leadin some twilight existence. Thaire’s aw they nutty burds huntin ays doon oan the phone n by text, no fuckin well believin ays whin ah say tae thum ah cannae see ye. It jist makes thum keep tryin even mair; they think ah’m playin fuckin hard tae git! Me! That’ll be the day: nivir played
that
fuckin game in ma puff! Try tae fuckin tell thum thit ah’m fuckin well ill, ay, but they jist think ah’m solidly booked. Especially Big Liz fae Control, she’s gaun fae wantin tae tan ma erse tae threatenin tae kick ma cunt in!
The only thing ah’m solidly booked up wi is aw the fuckin bams in ma life.
Ah nips doon the Southern Bar tae git oan the Wi-Fi, but Doughheid comes in wi that dozy look on his face. They gied um a job in Control eftir eh lost ehs licence. That’s the cunt’s mentality, game turned predator. — Awright? ah goes. Ah’m wonderin what eh’s wantin.
— Tez, ah’m giein ye a heads-up here, mate. It’s bad news. Eh turns ehs mooth doon. — Ah’m only sayin this cause we’re buddies n ah ken you n Big Liz . . . well, yis urnae exactly cookin right now.
— Right. Ah fires up the laptop. — What’s the story?
— The bizzies’ cameras caught ye in the cab, giein some boy a couple ay wraps. Goat it fae Rab Ness’s lassie, wee Eleanor, she works for them oan the clerical side, ay. Jist giein ye the heads-up, mate.
JESUS FUCK ALMIGHTY
. . .
That’s aw ah fuckin need. — Fuck . . . the baws oan the fuckin slates then, ay . . .
— No necessarily, Terry. Doughheid pills a cheeky wee grin. — Ellie says that they didnae git the licence plate. They jist goat you, n thuv issued the description. He hands ays the picture.
Result! Ye kin jist see the mop ay hair, n ma beak, n they Ian Hunter oot ay Mott the Hoople shades. — Ye cannae make it oot tae be me though, ay, it’s jist the hair.
— Aye, but which other taxi driver in Embra’s goat a fuckin barnet like that?
— Right enough . . .
— Git tae the barber’s wid be ma advice, Terry, Doughheid shrugs. — Nae cunt’s gaunny grass ye up, but git rid ay that mop or yi’ll dae time. Seriously.
Ah clicks oaf the laptop n ah leaves Doughheid in the boozer, no kennin what the fuck tae dae. Back in the cab, ah starts thinkin it through. The cunt’s right. Ah phones Rab Birrell. — Rab, mind you used tae huv they cutters ye ey used fir number ones? Ye still goat thum?
— Aye.
So ah’m doon at Rab’s at Colinton n ah’ve telt um the tale ower cans ay cauld Guinness. — Ah dinnae ken whit tae dae. Ma hair is Juice Terry. Even mair thin ma cock. Ah’d gie a couple ay inches ay this tadger, jist tae keep the mane intact. Especially now. It’s aw uv fuckin goat wi these pills n this hert thing!
