A Decent Ride (37 page)

— Good on ye, hen, ah goes, n ah’m thinkin: better crunchin numbers than crunchin baws. Changed fuckin days, right enough.

Ah droap Saskia off in the toon. She’s a sound burd, ah hope it works oot for her. Then ah’m wonderin aboot wee Jinty, n what happened tae her. A decent ride, loved a length awright. N how ye’d nivir think it fae wee Jonty, but eh’s hung like an ox. It pits ays in mind tae phone Sick Boy, cause ah’m thinkin mibbe ah kin dae thum baith a favour.

— Terry . . . eh sings, — I thought you had retired!

— Aye, but it’s no me ah’m phonin aboot. Ah ken yi’ll think ah’m daft bringin this up –

— Terry, at this stage in our friendship, my estimate of your intellect can never be diminished further by anything you say or do, so, please, carry on.

Ah walked intae that yin wi that sarcastic, pish-takin cunt. — Naw, it’s yir male scud star. Ah ken a wee boy up here, very much in the Curtis mould. A bit slow, but eh’s goat it doonstairs n eh tells ays that eh kin root oan demand.

— Interesting . . .

— Ye’d huv tae test him, that’s jist his word for it, though ah kin believe um. And the boy’s nae oil paintin . . .

— Irrelevant if he has those other qualities. Male consumers of porn love an ugly everyman. They think: it really could be me. Send him down!

So withoot kennin what ah’m daein ah’m drivin doon tae the hoaspital. It’s started rainin again n the streets ur aw dark n wet. Ah should live in the fuckin South ay France or Miami Beach or somewhere . . . but no now cause ay aw the burds walkin aroond in bikinis. This ticker: it wid fuckin blaw in aboot two minutes flat. That’s if ma fuckin Dode Bernards didnae explode first n droon every cunt in the vicinity in a tsunami ay spunk.

N aw ah kin think aboot is that auld Henry Lawson, dyin in that bed at the Royal, no seemin tae gie a fuck. Who is that cunt? He did nowt for me, nivir. That snide look oan ehs coupon, like ay kens something you dinnae. Aw ma life, that same fuckin look. Filthy auld fucker is hidin something, n ah’m gaunny find oot what it is. So ah’m parkin up at the hoaspital n gittin oot the cab.

Ah deek through the gless windae, n eh’s conked oot oan his ward, mooth hingin open, but a dopey wee smile like eh’s dreamin aboot some burd eh’s ridin, the dirty, lucky auld fucker. Thaire’s a fuckin maroon-n-white Herts skerf wrapped aroond the bars ay the bed’s headrest. That’s what the auld cunt’s hingin oan fir: the Cup final! They cunts win, he dies happy, they lose, he fucks off and gits a bit ay peace fae aw the slaggins. Win-win: the fuckin auld minger.

Ah want tae shake that greasy auld bag ay bones awake, but instead ah cannae resist liftin up the stratchy sheet tae git a deek at the one decent thing the cunt’s ever gied ays, that welt that eh’s used oan that many fuckin burds . . .

What the fuck . . .

Ya cunt, it’s . . . it’s like a fuckin peanut! Thaire’s practically nae cock at aw! Jist a scabby wee helmet wi that pish tube comin oot ay it!

Nae wey is that cunt
ma
faither! My hert’s beatin wi excitement as ah pit the sheet back n take deep breaths. Stey fuckin calm, ah dinnae want the ticker exploding here n that dirty auld bastard outlastin ays – at least no before wi pump they cunts in the final!

In the corridor, ah starts thinkin. The number ay times ah’ve heard burds talk aboot the pleasant surprise they sometimes huv, when they git a boy stripped oaf n it looks like thuv goat a tiny tadger. Then, the next time they sketch it, thir’s this fuckin Darth Vader lightsabre stickin in thair coupon. Like a horse: a telescopic fuckin cock. So the auld cunt might be a grower instead ay a shower. Mibbe wi him dyin and a tube rammed up ehs length, it might make um stoap huvin the horny thoughts that make that felly come oot tae play.

Ah’m no touchin that scabby thing. Dinnae even want tae look at it again. So ah’m on the phone tae Saskia. She’s in toon gettin stuff for her flight the morn, but ah tells her tae come doon tae the hozzy; ah’ve one last joab fir her in Edinburgh. Ah’m waitin outside whin the taxi pills up, and it’s driven by Stumpy Jack. He gies ays that snidey ‘what you up tae?’ look as she gits oot wearin a black coat wi they rid boots. Hair aw blonde highlights, lookin a total ride.

She’s no lookin sae chuffed for long but, as ah explain the job. Then ah’ve goat her up in the ward, the screens pilled roond us, lookin at that slumberin auld cunt. — Aw yuv goat tae dae is jerk it oaf a wee bit, see if it stiffens.

— But he is sick . . . he looks as if he is dying . . . I cannot . . .

— Eh’s an auld minge-merchant, he’ll be as chuffed as fuck. Eh might no be able tae say, bein out for the count n under aw that medication, but he’ll ken, ah kin assure ye ay that!

— If it will help –

— Seriously, ah need ye tae dae this! N hurry, ah look outside the curtains, — ah’m meant tae be avoidin stress!

So she’s chuggin away, n ah’m half ootside the blinds, keepin shoatie, n ah’m lookin back in but thaire’s nowt much fuckin happenin. Ah mean, eh’s gittin bigger, but surely
that’s
no the fill extent . . . — Harder, ah goes, hearin groans comin fae the other three beds.

Then suddenly the auld cunt’s eyes flip open! Saskia tears her hand way as eh pills back n even tries tae hoist ehsel up oan his bony elbays. Eh looks at me, then her, then me again. — You! What are you daein here? What huv you been up tae? Tryin tae touch ma tube! Ah’ll call the nurse!

— Naw, relax, jist tryin tae help ye oot! Ma burd here, Saskia, she’s a nurse, she wis oaf duty. Yir covers hud ridden up n ye wirnae decent . . .

The auld cunt actually looks a bit embarrassed.

— . . . so ah wis pittin thum back. Saskia saw the tube had sortay worked its wey loose so she pit it back in.

He looks at her, then at me. It’s like the cunt nearly accepts it for a second, then ehs nasty eyes spark. — Ah dinnae believe ye! Yir talkin pish as usual! What you been up tae, ya fuckin waster?!

Disnae seem like eh’s dyin, the cunt. — Ah dinnae gie a fuck what ye believe! Ah turns tae Saskia, whae’s mortified. — Ye try n dae some cunts a fuckin favour n that’s the fuckin thanks ye git!

— A favour? Fae you? Aye, right, that’ll be the day, the auld cunt goes.

— Like you did loads fir me?

— Ah brought ye intae this world!

Ah smiles at the auld cunt, n points between ehs legs. — Wi that fuckin chipolata sausage?! Huh! You’re nivir ma faither, n ah slaps Auld Faithful fir reassurance.

— This has been in mair women than you’ll ever be in, pal, eh sneers, but ye kin tell the cunt’s fuckin rattled.

— Dinnae fuckin treat yir mind, maggot-tadger!

Two-nil, lean Lawson; the auld cunt’s jolted. Then eh goes aw that sneaky, snidey wey ay his. — Ah heard fae yir ma aboot yir wee problem. A big tadger’s nae use if it’s as limp as an auld lettuce ye’d buy oot the Paki’s! N fir the rest ay yir life n aw! Aye, how auld ur ye now? Forty-six, forty-seven? Ah’m sixty-five n ah hud Mary Ellis in here the other week. She sooked it good, son!

Ah’m fuckin ragin. Ehs puss creases up like an auld leather chamois.

— But you; you’ve hud yir
last ever
ride n yir no even fuckin fifty yet! Hope it wis a good yin! Or mibbe no, ye dinnae want tae mind ay it in that much detail, cause it might git ye too excited, then, bingo . . . Cunt tries tae snap ehs bony fingers but they dinnae click. He keeps up the evil grin but, wi a ‘ye ken what ah mean’ look. — Ye ken, ah barely recognised ye withoot they daft wee Shirley Temple curls ay yours . . .

Ah’m oot ay thaire, before ah pit that pillay ower that auld fucker’s heid.

Saskia’s come oot eftir ays. — Terry, what is wrong?

— What is wrong is that eh’s fuckin well won again, the auld cunt.

— Terry, please be trying to make yourself calm.

Ah’m thinkin aboot this dodgy ticker, how that cunt probably gied ays
that
. Saskia’s still tryin tae reassure me, n she’s pattin the side ay ma shaven heid, gaun, — It’s okay. But it’s no okay, n ah shake off her touch n we git intae the cab. We go back tae hers in Montgomery Street n she makes some tea n starts talkin aboot her family. Then she looks at ays n goes, — You have a reputation, but you never sleep with the girls from Vic’s, she says. — But Jinty, yes?

— Aye, but ah never peyed for it. That wis ootside ay work.

— This too could be outside of the work, she says wi this smile, n it’s fuckin angelic. Her hand strokes ma thigh. Auld Faithful twinges through the medication. — I would like us to do something fun before I leave Scotland!

But ah kin feel ma mooth turnin doon, n ah feel like every useless cunt in the world. — Ah cannae . . .

— You do not find me attractive, and she sortay pouts.

— It’s no that . . . what ma auld boy was sayin in thaire, aboot ma hert condition . . . eh wisnae jist bein cruel, well, eh wis, but it was cruel cause it wis true.

So we swerves the idea ay the chippy n goes tae Pizza Express for a meal, the good yin at Stockbridge in the barry building along the river. Which, tae be fair, is a bit ay a waste as a Pizza Express. I like this lassie, like her laugh, her habit ay pushin herself in her chest when she says something funny. Touchin the back ay ma hand. Ah like it too much n it’s gaun naewhaire, so ah makes ma excuses n goes. Thaire’s a wee look ay disappointment that passes between us . . . so this is how cunts that never shag fuckin well live. A lifetime ay impotence, resentment, anger and frustration; nae fuckin exuberance in life, forced tae become an Internet troll or a miserable drunk in a boozer.

So ah gits hame n tries tae sit up watchin fullums. Strange that when yir huntin for some tit or minge it’s like a needle in a haystack job oan the rewind n fast forward. Then, when ye dinnae want tae look at thum thir in
every fuckin frame
. It depresses ays n ah huv tae switch it oaf. Just as well ah’ve goat Rab Birrell’s books. Ah’ve done
Moby-Dick, The Great Gatsby
,
Naked Lunch
(thank fuck fir aw the gay sex, it kept Auld Faithful in line), but ah hud tae stoap readin
Wuthering Heights
as ah kept thinkin aboot that Kate Bush, which set oaf a fanny avalanche in ma brain.

The next morning ah’m droapin Saskia oaf at the airport fir the Ryanair flight tae Gdansk. Ah’ll miss her, but ah’m delighted tae see her oot ay the range ay The Poof n Kelvin; one or both ay they cunts did something awfay tae wee Jinty. Ah jist ken it. No that ah ken that much; in fact, ah ken fuck all. As Rab Birrell might say: ah’m now bein confronted by the extent ay ma ain ignorance.

So ah goes tae muh ma’s lookin for answers. Ma hus an aulder brother, Tommy, whae’s in the fuckin rest home wi dementia. But ah dinnae feel like gaun roond thaire n whippin oot
his
cock tae see if ah took eftir the men oan Alice’s side ay the family; no eftir aw that shite wi the auld cunt. But ah cannae really say tae her, ‘Hus your brother goat a big fuckin knob?’ She might take it the wrong wey, ay.

Ma’s goat the kettle oan n the Jacob’s Club biscuits oot, n ah’m scrutinising her reaction when ah sais, — Ah went tae see um.

— Yir dad? she sais wi a big smile.

— Henry. Ah ken eh wisnae ma real faither, ah goes. — See, we hud a wee talk.

Her face fuckin crumbles. It’s like she’s huvin a stroke. — Eh knew . . . what did eh tell ye . . .? Hur voice is that low ah kin practically hear fuck all.

Ah dinnae ken what’s gaun oan here, but ah do ken
exactly
how tae play this yin. — Everything, ah goes. — Now ah want tae hear it aw again, fae you. Ye owe ays that, ah snap at her.

She looks resigned, and as she sits doon at the Formica table ah dae the same. She looks a bit aulder, a bit tired. — It’s true, n she lets oot a long, weary sigh. — Ah think that’s how eh eywis resented ye, Terry. And me. Ah think that wis how eh left us n started wi aw they other women: tae git revenge. For ma mistake! One bloody mistake!

Ah feel ma hands grippin the sides ay the chair. — What aboot oor Yvonne?

— She’s his awright.

— So what’s the fuckin story then, Ma? C’moan!

She looks aw fretful, chewin oan her bottom lip. — Yi’ll hate me fir telling ye this . . .

— Ah’m jist fuckin relieved that bastard hus fuck all tae dae wi ays. Ah lower ma voice. — You’re ma mother. Ah’ll ey love ye. You brought ays up, gave ays everything. Ah reaches ower n grabs her thin wee hand n gies it a squeeze. Then ah leans back in the chair. — So tell ays the story!

Ma’s face is a kind ay chalky-white. Then a grim wee smile plays acroass they thin, puckered auld lips. — Ah wis fifteen when Henry Lawson set eyes oan us, Terry. At the school, back in Leith. David Kilpatrick’s.

— Aye, DK. Daft Kids, ah goes.

Her puss crinkles, but she carries oan. — Aye, eh wis a charmer awright, n wi started gaun oot. As you ken, Henry hud a mooth oan um . . .

Ah feel like tellin her that eh still fuckin well does, but ah jist nods at her tae carry oan.

Her heid bows a wee bit n she lowers her eyes tae the flair. — Everybody thoat, sort ay assumed, that we’d gaun aw the wey, but ah wis still a virgin, n she looks up n sees ma eyebrows rise. Ah cannae help the thought risin tae the surface: that auld cunt wisnae the big shagger eh made oot!

— Dinnae git me wrong, we’d done everything else . . .

Ma guts flip ower, but ah keeps ma fuckin mooth shut. Not fuckin easy.

— . . . but wi hudnae done
it
, she says, like she’s sad. — Then, one morning, it wis around Christmas, n thaire wis an awfay snowstorm. School wis cancelled for a couple ay days. Muh dad n oor Tommy went tae work at the shipyerd, Robb’s, n muh ma went tae her job in the whisky bonds. Oor Florence wis doonstairs at her pal Jenny’s – she played thaire aw the time. This young felly, workin oan the post, came tae the door, wi Christmas cairds n that. Eh wis soakin wet wi the snaw.

Workin oan the post
. . . a fuckin dagger right in ma chist. Ah look at hur n feel the blood drainin oot ma face.

— Eh wisnae really what ye’d call a looker, but eh hud the maist amazin piercin blue eyes ah’d ever seen, she smiles n then looks aw concerned. Cause she’s watchin me wilt in the chair. She nods slowly at ays, like tae confirm it. — You brought um tae ma hoose once. Eh wis a pal ay yours.