A Decent Ride (39 page)

Cause ah owe Kind Terry but, aye ah do. Cause when somebody hus been kind tae you, yuv goat tae be kind back tae thaim. N Terry never asks ays any questions aboot Jinty; tell ays nowt, eh eywis sais tae me. Even though ah’d tell um it aw, if it wis up tae me. Aye sur, ah wid that.

So Terry comes roond tae pick ays up. Ah sees Karen lookin at him. He goes up tae the lavvy n she whispers, — Ah like that Terry, ur you sure eh’s gaun oot wi somebody?

— Aye eh is, ah sais back.

Ah ken it’s wrong but Terry’s ma pal, n she did wrong by me but ah’m no littin her dae bad by him, no wi them baith bein fae the spunk that’s in real faither Henry’s auld baws, naw sur. But ye kin tell that Terry’s no interested in that, cause Terry’s good. Ah wish ah could be mair like him.

Wi leaves tae go intae the motor, aye sur, the big black taxi. Thaire’s two big spades thaire, still in thair Sainsbury’s Homebase wrappin. — Wir gaun diggin, Terry sais.

Ye kin tell Terry’s no feelin right but, cause eh usually jokes aw the time, but eh’s no jokin aboot, aw serious wi ehs eyes oan the road.

Ah cannae believe it whin we parks outside the auld graveyard in Pilrig, yon Rosebank Cemetery. Aye. Terry’s goat the spades n eh’s goat this Adidas bag. Aye, a bag meant fir tae play sport wi. The waw beside the cemetery gates is awfay high. Terry pits ehs hands thegither tae boost ays ower the waw, but ah goes, — The waw isnae sae high roond the corner. Naw sur, it is not.

Terry looks at ays, then moves doon the street n ah follays. Thaire’s naebody aboot, jist yin car thit passes. On Bonnington Road the waw is much wee-er than oan Pilrig Street, n Terry nods n ah scurry up, then Terry throws the spades eftir me n climbs ower ehsel. Eh’s bein awfay careful no tae batter the Adidas bag. It’s tricky fir Terry but eh’s sort ay found a bit near the bus stoap wi this wee metal step n eh pushes ehsel up n ah’m helpin um ower. — Thanks, Jonty pal, good spot oan that waw, he goes, dreepin doon tae ooir side. — Thaire’s nae security cameras in here as far as ah ken, ah gied it a good casin fae the inside, but wuv goat tae be quiet.

So ah whispers, as we walks through the dark graveyard, — Funny fir somebody tae be buried n this day n age, Terry. Aye, funny. Aye sur.

— It’s some family plot. Ye couldnae cremate this auld cunt, he’d blaw the fuckin place up! Worse thin your ma, Terry goes, then says, — Sorry, ma wee pal.

— Aye, dinnae worry, ah sais tae Terry, cause yuv goat tae huv a laugh n no be aw serious aw the time. — Thank God for that moonlight or we’d no be able tae see whaire wir gaun, ah goes, but ah still nearly faw oan the uneven path n Terry huds ays up.

— Watch, mate!

Terry gits a torch oot ay the Adidas bag, n shines it oan the path. Then wir lookin at aw the graves, n eh shines the light on this stane, wi the boy’s name oan it:

ALEC RANDOLPH CONNOLLY

21 August 1943–3 December

Beloved husband of Theresa May Connolly

and loving father of Stephen Alec Connolly

Gaun by the date on the stane the boy’s no long deid. Aye, no long deid at aw. — Did ye bring flooirs? ah goes.

— Naw, Terry says, then looks at ays aw serious. — Listen, Jonty, ah’m tellin ye the score here, in strict confidence cause ah dinnae want ye freakin oot oan ays. We’re gaunny dig up that coffin and open it up.

Ah cannae believe ma ears. But Terry isnae jokin! — But, Terry, that’s no right! Naw sur . . .

— Wir jist daein it fir a wee minute, Terry’s noddin at ays. — Thaire’s something inside it that ah want tae see. Jist a quick peek.

— A quick peek, ah goes. — Bit we cannae dae that, it’s wrong, sur, aye it is –

— Listen, Jonty, ah really need ye tae trust me here, mate. Ah’m no gaunny dae nowt wrong, ah’m no gaunny interfere wi the body. It’s an auld pa . . . thaire’s jist something ah need tae see, n something ah need tae leave for um. Eh shakes the Adidas bag. — It’s awright if ye dinnae touch anything, Jonty. Ah’m no touchin nowt, no stealin nowt. Ah jist need tae see something. Will ye help ays, ma wee pal?

Ah jist nods cause Kind Terry’s different fae the rest. Eh doesnae laugh at ays. Naw sur, eh does not. — Is it something eh wis buried wi? ah goes, thinkin aboot a watch, or a ring.

— Aye, that’s it, mate, Terry sais.

— N yir no gaunny take it?

— Ah promise ye, ah certainly am not!

Kind Terry’s ey good tae me. So ah jist smiles n goes, — Barry! Lit’s dae it!

— Good man, Jonty, yir a good mate, pal, n eh grips ma shoodir. — A real brother, eh sais, aw sortay upset n sad, but happy tae, n ah still sortay want tae tell um aboot Jinty, but it’s no really the time. Naw it is not.

So ah feel aw warm in ma hert, like the other wey whaire it’s aw different fae a bad hert. N wir workin away, aye sur, we surely are! Wi take oaf the turf first, bein awfay careful, cuttin it away in neat sections, then wir baith diggin at the soil underneath. It comes away easy at first but then it’s harder, n even though it’s cauld, wir sweatin away in this ditch. Terry lights up a fag. — Should’ve brought a wee flask ay tea, ah goes. — If ah’d kent it wis gaunny be aw this work, ah’d’ve goat oor Karen tae make a wee flask ay tea. Aye sur, flask ay tea.

— Ah really appreciate this, Jonty, Terry sais. — Yir a true friend. Ma life’s been turned upside doon, pal. Ah’ve got this hert problem . . . ah shouldnae really be daein this diggin . . . ah cannae afford the luxury ay stress. No wi this hert.

— Lit me, Terry, lit me finish . . .

— Yir a true friend, wee man . . .

N ah’m daein it, aye, scoopin up the earth n jist diggin, diggin, diggin . . .

Terry’s watchin me, gaun, — Yir a good lad, Jonty . . . everything’s crazy, ken? Ah dinnae ken who ah am any mair. Ye ken that feelin?

— Aye sur, aye sur, ah goes, still diggin, cause ah do n aw.

— This no gittin a ride . . . it sends ye crazy . . . ah’m jist no masel, mate . . . ah dinnae ken whae ah am. Ah’m huvin what ma mate Rab Birrell calls an ‘existential crisis’, Jonty. Ah used tae think it wis just snobby student pish but thaire’s nae other words fir ma predicament . . . cunt, ah’m fuckin well even soundin like um now . . .

— Soundin like um, aye sur, aye sur . . . ah goes, still diggin, diggin n diggin . . .

— Thaire wis this one book, Jonty, by this boy that reckoned wi wir aw jist matter in motion, like protons, neutrons n electrons, but wi a consciousness, Terry’s gaun oan, aye eh is sur, but then ma spade hits something solid. He hears it and jumps intae the ditch wi us n wir diggin the earth offay yon coffin. Much wee-er thin muh ma’s, aye it’s that awright, sur, much wee-er.

Terry’s goat a screwdriver in eh’s hand n ehs openin the screws oan the coffin. Ah dinnae like this cause ah kin feel rustlin. It’s like the sound ye make standin oan deid autumn leaves n it’s comin fae
inside
the coffin. Worse thin that, the coffin lid’s aw hoat . . . — Terry, ah’m feart . . . it’s like thaire’s something alive in thaire . . . it’s aw warm . . .

— Aye, ah kin feel the heat oaf this coffin, Terry goes, — but dinnae worry, pal, it’s wi him decomposin, it’s the energy wi him breakin doon, nowt tae worry aboot but, ay.

— Nowt tae worry aboot . . .

— Ah jist hope thaire’s something left, eh sais, n eh’s prisin at they brass snibs at the side.

It snaps open, and eh slides the lid aside a bit and the smell . . . naw sur, ah dinnae like this . . . worse thin Jinty, much worse thin ma wee Jinty . . . Ah huds ma nose but it’s like it goes intae yir mooth n poisons ye aw ower, still, aye sur . . . aw sur, aw naw, ah dinnae like this. Terry’s goat they gauze masks that cyclists sometimes wear in toon, n eh’s gied me one tae pit oan, so ah does n it’s better. Thaire’s still that creepin, rustling sound comin fae the boax but. Terry pills the lid oaf n aw they flies swarm oot. Ma eyes ur waterin, n whin they clear ah sees thaire’s an auld man in a suit wi a face thit’s grey n rid n blue.

— Jesus fuck . . . Terry says, lookin at the boy’s eyes. — Ehs blue eyes . . . thir away . . .

Terry’s right . . . thaire’s nae eyes. It’s like thuv eaten ehs eyebaws oot! Thaire like they things wi hatched at skill. — The lava goat um . . .

— Larvae . . . fly larvae . . . Terry says. — Shine the torch here, eh goes tae ays, n thir aw white n slitherin where thuv eaten ehs eyebaws oot, n thir comin oot ay his mooth n ears n nose n aw! Aw sur, ah dinnae like this, naw sur, naw sur.

Then Terry bends ower um, n eh’s unzippin the boy’s flies on ehs troosers! — What ur ye daein, Terry? ah sais, sortay through the mask, but eh kin hear ays.

— It’s awright, buddy, eh sais, ehs eyes aw blazin ower the toap ay the mask, n eh unbuckles the belt . . . aw the smell, even through the mask. Ah tries tae turn away, ah does that, sur, but it aw comes up, the frozen pizza Karen made, pushin the mask aside, aw ower ays.

— Jonty, watch, ya dirty wee cunt, yir gittin it oan ehs suit, Terry shouts at ays. — Respect fir the fuckin deid but, mate! N eh’s taken the deid boy’s troosers doon n eh’s pillin oot the boy’s wee man . . . ah big wee man . . . n eh goes, aw happy, — That’s a fuckin welt! That’s ma dad, Jonty! That man wis ma faither, n eh pills a hud ay me n lifts up ehs mask n kisses ays oan the heid. Ah cringes, cause ah sees thum comin oot ay the boy’s cherry at the end ay his cock, mair ay they wrigglin fly maggots . . . — Look . . .

— Aye . . . we’d better git ma faither boxed back up, Terry grins.

— But what aboot Henry Lawson?

— That fuckin imposter . . . nivir ma faither. Eh’s yours but, Jonty, so ah’m no sayin nowt aboot um. But ah feel a huge fuckin weight oaf ma shoodirs . . . help ays wi this lid . . .

— Ye no gaunny pit ehs thing back in?

— Naw, that boy should be swingin free, plenty fir the maggots n worms tae feed oan whin they work thair wey through yon casket! Buryin cunts in this day n age . . . fuckin mingin . . . mind you, your ma wis cremated n that dinnae work oot sae good . . .

— Aye, eh’s smellin awfay bad, Terry, aye sur.

— Aye, but Alec eywis did, ay. The peeve does that. Ah mind whin we went for a pish, he eywis used the shitehoose. Ah thought it wis cause eh wis a sexless jakey, n felt shown up standin next tae ma swingin beauty, but ah kin see now ah wis wrong. He probably suffered fae peever’s erse, n went intae the traps tae sort oot the follay-thru.

N wi pits the lid back oan n Terry secures the clips. Ah’m suddenly awfay sad. Terry looks at me. — Jonty, yir greetin, what is it, pal?

— You n me’s no brars any mair, ah sais, but ah’m really thinkin aboot Jinty, surely the flies’ bairn maggots widnae git at her in solid concrete . . .

Eh pits ehs airm roond ma shoodirs. — We’re better thin brars, Jonty. We’re mates. Best mates. Nivir forget that. Brothers ye cannae choose, mates ye kin, n you’re the best, ya wee cunt! N dinnae worry, yuv goat a big fuckin tadger anywey, but it wis yir ma’s side ye goat that oaffay! Guaranteed!

— But muh ma’s nivir hud a tadger . . .

— Oan her faither n her brother’s side but, Jonty, that’s whaire the heat thit yir packin comes fae!

— Aye . . . Jinty ey used tae say . . . but, but how dae you ken that, Terry, how dae ye ken ah’ve goat a big wee boaby man?

Terry looks a bit pit oot, then sais, — Ah kin size a man a mile away. They could be wearin a suit ay armour n ah’d ken. It’s no the bulge, that kin jist be aw the George Bernard Shaws or the cut ay the trooser. It’s no the feet or the hands or the nose. It’s aw in the walk, eh goes, then laughs. — N the boys at that Pub Wi Nae Name wir talkin aboot it!

— Talkin aboot it, ah goes. Ah’ll bet they wir makin fun ay ma boaby again. Well, serves thum right fir thair burnt faces! Aye it does!

— Too right! Now lit’s git this earth shovelled back!

N wi dae, aye sur, dae wi no but! Wir kickin the piles doon, then shovellin, n shovellin n shovellin, n it’s gaun back a loat easier thin it came up! Ah sais that tae Terry, ah goes, — It’s gaun doon quicker thin it came up!

Terry goes back, — It’s eywis the wey, pal, n eh isnae wrong. Naw sur, eh is not. Bit ah dinnae tell um that, cause ah ken ah kin go oan a bit sometimes, like Terry sais. Aye sur: oan a bit. Aye. Aye.

Then ah starts thinkin aboot Jinty again, n aw the bugs that goat Terry’s real faither Alec. Ah goes, — See, if yir real faither Alec wis pit in concrete, Terry, aw the bugs couldnae eat him like that, no if eh wis cased in concrete but, ay-no, Terry?

— Depends, if ye pit um in the concrete right away he’d be awright, but if ye left um oot, for even an ooir or so, the flies wid lay thair eggs . . .

N ah’m greetin, thinkin aboot that fly gaun in n oot ay Jinty’s mooth n thinkin aboot Jinty wi nae eyes, aw sur, naw sur, naw sur . . .

— What’s wrong, pal?

Ah want tae tell um, but ah cannae, ah cannae, cause it wisnae ma fault, she jist fell back. It wis like what happened tae her ma, like Karen sais, it wis what Maurice said when eh found her ma in bed. The name whin something bad happens tae the brain. A brain haemorrhoid. It wis like a light switch gaun oaf, Maurice ey used tae say, she didnae suffer. Jinty wis the same wey. Ah cannae tell anybody but, cause they wid find oot she took that bad stuff and ah ken they wid blame me, aye sur, they wid cause they eywis huv, fae way back tae the skill n real faither Henry hittin ays. But ah cannae tell Terry how it is ah’m greetin so ah jist goes, — It’s awfay sad, the bugs daein that tae yir faither, Terry . . . it’s no right . . .

— Aye, yir much better oaf cremated, mate. But that’s jist his remains, Jonty. He’s away, at peace now. So dinnae distress yirsel.

— Like heaven?

— Aye, ah suppose so, Terry sais, sortay thinkin, then goes, — If thaire’s endless rivers ay peeve n loads ay big hooses wi nae security cameras in heaven, eh sortay chuckles.

— Will ma Jinty be in heaven n aw, Terry?

— Ah dunno, pal, Terry goes, n eh looks right at ays, — if she’s broon breid, aye. But dinnae upset yirsel, she’s maist likely jist taken off.

— Aye . . . aye . . . aye . . . aye . . . went oan a wee trip . . . ah sais, thinkin aboot Jinty gittin oan a tram but yin thit’s like that train in
Harry Potter
. But instead ay gaun tae a posh school for wizards, Jinty wid be ridin yon tram right tae the gates ay heaven. In a white dress, likes, cause she sortay deserves a white dress. Aye sur. Then wir ower thon waw, much easier fae this side, n wir ootay that graveyard, aye wi are, n back in the cab n oot tae Penicuik. Ah’m still thinkin ay Jinty n goes, — Bawbag did aw this, Terry, it wis Bawbag thit took ma Jinty away . . .