A Decent Ride (41 page)

Sick Boy is gaun mental. — That little cunt Black didnae even git spoken tae by Thomson eftir elbayin Griffiths in the puss when he should have fucking walked. It’s all a big laugh between them. Ye know from that point on those cheating cunts wi thair drug n human traffickin money, peyin for players they cannae afford, ur gaunny git away with fuckin murder on the pitch as well as off it.

— You’re a bit high n mighty, Sicky, for somebody whae makes his money through scud, ah goes.

— Nothing to do with anything, Terry. He shakes his heid. — Look at that mess – we’re two down and playin shite. Just before half-time we git one back n it’s game oan. Then, straight away, that prick of a referee takes ower again, gies them a penalty which is miles ootside the box, sends off that wee doss fullback for a daft foul, which is nae worse than Black’s earlier, when the cunt just had a laugh aboot it with him. So it’s game ower.

— Aye, ah suppose, ah goes, lookin at the traffic slidin by ootside.

As the Birrell brothers argue, Sick Boy whispers tae me, aw cagey, — Oh, it looks like the name Lawson might still grace Perversevere Films.

— Ah telt ye, ah cannae dae scud.

— No, I had a call from your Donna. She sent down some stuff. Impressive. Definitely worth employment, certainly a chip off the old block!

Ah cannae believe it. Ah feel ma face gettin hoat. Ah’m startin tae hyperventilate. — Yir fuckin jokin, right?

— Eh . . . Sick Boy goes, — I take it this career move does not meet with parental approval?

Ah turns intae him n whispers in his ear, — She’s no daein fuckin scud!

— Parental approval is a luxury, Sick Boy pits oan that smug face, — and parental consent doesn’t apply as she’s an adult, able to make her own choices, Terry. Who’d have daughters, ay?

— She’s no daein scud, ah tells um, grabbin the lapels ay his jaykit, — cause if she does, you’ll make one last scud movie, which yi’ll star in, n it’ll be a fuckin snuff yin!

— Terry, cool yir fuckin jets, Billy shouts, as Sick Boy’s eyes bulge.

Ah loosen ma grip, and Billy stares at ays, before gaun back tae chattin tae Rab. — Jesus Christ, okay . . . okay . . . Sick Boy says, smoothin doon his jaykit. — It’s not like you to be so uptight. I never thought I’d say this, Terry, but you need tae get laid!

— Aye, well, you just back off wi her. Right?

— Point taken. But
you
have to tell her this, and eh cocks a finger n points at ays. — I’m not denting the lassie’s self-esteem by saying that she’s not got what it takes to be part of the Perversevere family!

— Ah will, ah goes, n ah dials Donna’s number. It goes tae voicemail but ah tell her that ah want tae see hur.

Ah’m relieved when the conversation goes back tae that fuckin shitey match. But now aw ah’m thinkin aboot is how that fuckin dirty cunt Henry’ll be laughin away in that hoaspital bed ay his. Treated ays like shite fae the fuckin start. Eh thinks ah’ll no be able tae face um, tae take the slaggin. But ah’ve made ma mind up: ah’ll fuckin well face the cunt awright!

We beats the traffic cause the driver boy is floorin it in the limo, n the game’s no long finished whin wir close tae toon. They want tae go tae the Business Bar, but ah’m askin them tae droap ays oaf at the hoaspital. — Ah thoat that wid be the last place ye’d want tae be the night, Tez, Billy says.

— Ah well, family, ay, Rab goes.

— Aye, right, ah goes.

Ah gits up tae the ward but the nurse is thaire so ah bends ower the auld cunt like ah’m gaunny kiss his heid (that’ll be fuckin right) n ah lits some gob droap fae ma mooth oantae his forehead. Ah’m watchin it runnin doon his heid, slippin tae the right as it gits tae the side ay his beak n tricklin intae his open gob.

The nurse is the yin wi seams up the back ay the stockins. Before, ah’d huv emptied a tank ay muck ower her. That’s a fuckin no-no now n ah kin feel the fresh spunk sluicin around in the baws, just overflowin like fuck.

— Try not to be too upset, Mr Lawson, she says, comin ower.

— It’s no that easy. Tell ye whae ah blame –

— I know what you’re going to say, the nurse goes, — people always blame themselves. We can never say enough to our loved ones, n she plumps up ehs pillays, n eh sortay stirs, but disnae wake.

Ah realise she thinks ah’m gaun oan aboot him, whin ah’m thinkin aboot the fitba n that cunt ay a referee. Penalty ma fuckin erse, n Sick Boy’s right: Black’s elbay oan Griffiths was a sending-off offence. N now this auld cunt lyin there, that maroon skerf entwined roond the bars at the heidrest ay the bed. A fuckin bullyin stepfaither: that’s aw that cunt ivir wis. The fuckin telly oan the swivel leg; like a fuckin first-class flight the cunt’s oan. N eh wakes up n catches us lookin at it.

— Aw . . . it’s you . . . eh goes, aw sleekit, then ehs face creases up, — Ye see the game?!

— Jist back, ay.

— That wis quick, eh sais wi a wee chuckle that shakes ehs skeletal frame. — Well, nae wonder, ay.

— Aye. How ye keepin?

— Dinnae you even pretend tae care!

— Fair dos. Glad yir fucked, ya mingin auld cunt!

— At least ah’ll go contented that ah saw Herts win the cup. Again. Against youse. At least ah kin say ah saw that.

— Aye, right.

— Five-one n aw . . .

— Aye, right.

— Yi’ll be hurtin, son. Aye ye will. All-Edinburgh derby . . . ehs weak hands come up fae under the sheets n hud up five fingers oan one hand n yin oan the other yin. — Five-one . . .

— Aye.

— Nineteen-oh-two it’s been for youse . . . you’re no gittin any younger yirself, son. Think yi’ll ever see your crowd lift the cup?

— Dinnae ken but, ay, ah goes. The funny thing is, ah realise that ah’m no really that fuckin bothered aboot the fitba, it’s aw in his mind. It dawns on ays that’s the wey it is; ye imagine it hurts the others mair than it does. Aw they years ah wasted rubbin it in aboot seven-nil on New Year’s Day, when they cunts probably wirnae even that bothered aboot it n maist likely jist thoat ah wis a bit simple. Still, it’s what it does for
you
that counts. What ah’m strugglin wi is a life withoot a ride, n that’s what’s hittin hame, n that abandonin
stepfaither
cunt’s still oan wi aw that Herts cup shite . . .

— Oor defence is as strong as the auld castle rock . . . eh whispers, then eh faws back intae a peaceful sleep. Ah’m lookin at the saline drip oan the hook. Before ah ken what ah’m really daein, ah’m pillin the curtains roond the bed. Ah unhooks the bag n ah’ve goat ma knife oot n ah’m cuttin a hole in the toap. Then ah pour oot three-quarters ay the saline intae the sink. Ah gits ma knob oot n pishes intae the bag, fillin it up, feelin it bulge oot aw warm in ma hands. It fills n some pish spills ower ma fingers. Ah huv tae limp tae the sink tae git rid ay the rest, then clean up the mess wi paper towels.

Ah gits a bit ay tape fae whaire thuv pit his well-wishin cairds oan the waw, n tapes the bag back up. Ah hing it oan the hook. It’s still yellay bit a loat darker n ye kin see strands ay spunk as thick as fuckin egg whites floatin in it.

Ah’m lookin at him in his sleep, as ah detach that morphine tube. Ah takes the wee buzzer oan the lead that eh uses tae call the nurse, and hings it behind his bed. The set ay the cunt’s mooth has changed, n eh’s awready startin tae sweat intae they jammies like a Liberty Leisure lassie oan the backshift. Suddenly his mooth flies open, n eh looks at ays. — You still here? Up tae nae good, ah bet! Then ehs face creases intae a grin. — Well, thaire’s nowt ye kin dae tae me. Ah saw ma team win the cup!

— Yir takin the pish, ah tell um, wi a big smile, as another wave ay thick sweat bursts oot fae the cunt’s pores. It’s tricklin doon his waxy skin, which is turnin a jaundice yellay before ma eyes. The rancid whiff oaffay him now, the stink ay ma pish merged wi ehs ain rottin flesh. Ehs finger snaps oan the morphine clicker. But thaire’s nae buzz fir him. The tired auld eyes faw in horror tae the thick auld vein n the absence ay the needle.

Eh sterts tae make this high-pitched noise, but it goes soft n croaky. — Ah feel terrible . . . ah feel aw dried oot n poisoned . . . git ays water . . . eh’s reachin oot, lookin tae the gless ay water, the nurse’s buzzer, the clicker oan the morphine dispenser.

But thir aw jist that wee bit oot ay reach.

— Yir
really
takin the pish, ah tell um, whippin the gless ay water oan the nightstand oot the road n placin it away ower by the sink, ootay reach ay they withered airms n that bony grasp.

— Terry . . . help ays . . . git the nurse . . . ah’m yir faither, son . . .

— In yir fuckin dreams, ya cunt, ah tells um, bendin ower um. — Post Alec rattled her first, back in the day; that time the snaw wis oan the ground, n ah twists that bony auld heid roond n looks right intae they eyes: thir so sae fuckin snide now. — Aye, eh pushed they flaps aside n rammed that Christmas package in thaire. She gied ye yir hole eftir he’d been thaire first. Mind? Aye, eh nailed hur when eh wis deliverin the mail, as you fuckin well ken, ya cunt. You wir tryin tae git yir hole fir yonks n she kept knockin ye back. Must’ve been a disappointment for her eftir Alec’s welt!

Eh looks at ays, n eh cannae even make a spiteful remark. — Whaaa . . .

— Post Alec. Ah wis ehs mate. Alec Connolly. He wis ma real faither. Eh ploughed your burd, Alice, whin she wis a young thing. Yvonne’s yours, poor wee cow, but no me, thank fuck. Ah crinkle ma nose up. — You’re gantin!

Eh’s tryin tae say something, but it comes oot in a gasp, as ehs eyes bulge n eh struggles fir breath. Ah’m fuckin offski, headin oaf the ward n right doon the corridor n oot the door. As ah goes tae the car park the bars oan the cheeky phone come up n ah gits oan tae Ronnie. Ah ken that eh’s due back the day. It’s this personal assistant cunt that picks up. — Ronald Checker’s office.

— It’s Terry. Whaire’s Ronnie?

— Mr Checker is not available right now.

— Git the cunt, fuckin pronto, ah goes. — It’s an emergency. Ah need tae git oantae the links or ah’ll go fuckin crazy.

— For your information, Mr Checker had to stay in New York on urgent business. He won’t be returning to Scotland till next Friday.

— Fuck . . . Ah hing up. Then ah’m thinkin about what Sick Boy said n gits oantae Donna. — Meet ays in toon.

— Ah cannae, ah’ve goat Kasey Linn, n ah’m no gaun up thaire, it’ll be mobbed.

Of course, it’ll be fill ay they cunts. — Right, ah goes.

It’s shite no huvin the cab, but if ah go intae toon tae pick it up, ah’ll be snookered. So ah phones a couple ay taxi boys, n lucky Bladesey’s no that far, n picks ays up about fifteen miniutes later at Cameron Toll. We sticks tae the bypass, but it still takes ages tae git doon tae Broomhoose. Ah’m feel really shite now. Ah might huv nane ay that auld cunt’s DNA in me, but he’s goat a fuckin pint ay mine in him now. Ah could be fir the jail. Bladesey’s gaun on aboot the game, but ah cannae even hear a word the poor cunt’s sayin, till eh droaps ays oaf n ah square um up. Funny, when Donna comes tae the door wi nae make-up, she looks a lot younger than she is. Muh ma wis right, ah should’ve done better by her. — Jist got her settled, she goes. At least she looks better than the last time ah wis doon. There’s a better colour aboot her, and she looks mair in control ay things. The hoose is a lot tidier, n thaire’s nae shite lyin around or scumbags at the door.

Ah walks intae the bedroom, her follayin ays, n sees the bairn in the crib, asleep. A lovely wee thing. Ah wonder whae the faither is, now actually wishin it wis that cunt Renwick, so ah could pit the bite oan the mug. Naw, it’ll be a fuckin useless sperm donor, a permanent daft laddie like one ay they cunts ah saw hingin aboot here before: probably a fucker just like me. Cause ah ken ah’m in nae position tae say nowt, but ah huv tae, for that wee yin’s sake. — Dae ye think daein scud wi Sick Boy’s gaunny be a good example tae this wee yin?

— You dae scud.

— What does yir ma think ay it?

— Same as you, it seems. Ah need money but, ay.

Ah cannae help it, ah blurts it oot: — Yir gittin an awfay reputation in this toon!

— Like yours? she asks, leaning her arm against the frame ay the door. — Think ah liked hearin aboot that, when ah wis growin up?

— That’s changed now!
Ah’ve
changed!

— Aye, cause ay yir bad hert! Nan telt ays, n she blinks as ah take a step towards her.

Ah stoaps, n looks back at the bairn.

She flicks a few strands ay curly hair oot her face, like ah used tae. — Yir tellin me ye’d huv quit aw the shaggin aboot
and
packed in the scud oan yir ain?

— Mibbe . . . look . . .

— Naw, you fuckin well look, she says, her face screwin up. — The only thing that wis good aboot you wis that ye wir nivir a hypocrite. Now ah cannae even see that in ye!

— Ye said it wis money. Ah kin gie ye money, fir you n the bairn! Ah pills oot some notes. — Is this aw jist a wey ay tryin tae git ma attention? Well, yuv goat it, ah snaps, then ah feel myself fawin tae ma knees n ah’m crawlin across the flair tae her. Ah looks up at her, like ah’m a bairn n she’s muh ma. — Please, dinnae dae this.

She’s unnerved, but she goes, — Mibbe it’s a wee bit late for that! Ye never gied a toss before!

What kin ah say? That ah ignored her in her teens cause ah thoat that she wis confident n daein okay? The sad fuckin truth was that ah didnae want tae embarrass her by firin intae her pals. Aw can dae is stand up n take her in ma airms. She feels so small, like a kid. Ah glance tae the bairn and think ay when ah first saw Donna in Viv’s airms at the hospital. Where the fuck did they years go? — Please think aboot it, darlin. Please. Ah love ye.

Wir baith sobbin away. She’s rubbin ma back. — Aw, Dad . . . you’ve goat me aw confused now.

No as confused as ah am. So ah’m thaire half the night, n wir drinkin tea a ah’m pourin oot a load ay stuff, n she is tae. N when ah leaves, Stumpy Jack pickin ays up, ah faws intae ehs cab, exhausted, but kind ay unburdened. Wir drivin through the now-deserted night streets. Ah looks intae ma poakit tae see the pages ah ripped oot ay Jinty’s diary. Ah dinnae want the polis, or perr wee Jonty, tae ken ah’m mixed up in this, so when ah’m droaped oaf hame, n say goodnight tae Jack, ah gits oot the lighter, strikes up a flame under it and watches it burn. It’s fir the best.