A Decent Ride (45 page)

Terry’s pushin us oot the door, n wi gits intae the car park. Some ay The Pub Wi Nae Name boys ur waitin outside. — I’m going to bring my lawyers down here and sue your miserable asses . . . Ronnie shouts at thum.

Lethal Stuart steps forward, and rams the heid oan Ronnie, aw God ah kin hear the crack ay his neb. Aw sur, that’s a sair yin awright.

— Fuck sake, Terry goes, n moves forward as Stu runs back ower tae the mob ay boys.

The other boys are outside now tae, the boy wi the stump n the English felly wi the glesses. The stumpy boy goes tae Terry, — Ye ought tae be ashamed ay yirsel, Lawson, bringing they private-hire paedos tae oor club for drug deals!

A boatil comes flyin, flung by Barksie, n Terry’s ower the road eftir thum, n ah am tae, but thir backin away! Sure they are, the bullies! Aw thir daein is screamin threats as they go doon the road. Ah wish ah hud ma petrol bombs, aye sur, ah dae! Dae ah no but!

Then ah sees Malky comin oot wi the tooil roond ehs hand, lookin aboot, n Terry’s gittin Ronnie in the taxi. — Jonty, come oan, pal! So ah climbs in, leavin Malky lookin aw sad.

Then Terry droaps Ronnie oaf at the hoaspital. When eh’s gittin his nose reset, we’re sittin in the waiting room. Ah whispers tae Terry, — Ye see that thing ye pit in real faither Alec’s grave?

— Aye . . .

— Wis that that missin boatil ay the nice whisky, the other yin that Ronnie wanted? Terry looks at ays, then looks aroond the other people in the waitin room. — What did ye pit it in his grave for, Terry?

— Ah couldnae bring masel tae erse it, Jonty, Terry pills me close, whispers in ma ear, — even though it’s a lovely whisky. N ah didnae want Ronnie tae huv it, tae take it oot ay Scotland.

— But ah thoat eh wis yir mate, Terry, ah goes.

— Eh is, sortay. But eh’s a greedy cunt n it ey does a greedy cunt good tae learn how tae lose, n no tae git thair ain wey aw the time. Tae be like the rest ay us.

— So yir sortay helpin um really?

— Aye, helpin um tae join the human race. But that’s beside the point, cause that’s doon tae him. Eh’s goat two oot the three: tae ma mind that’s enough for any cunt. Ah couldnae sell it, see; it’s way too hoat for collectors. So ah wanted tae pit it somewhaire that Ronnie could never git tae it. Leave it wi somebody whae’d appreciate it. Alec’ll keep it safe doon thaire till aliens land oan Earth n find it, or, mair likely, till some cunt like Ronnie excavates it when they build mair shitey flats. But ah’m gittin you ootay here the morn, pal.

— How’s that?

— Cause you’re gaun oaf tae London, mate. You’ll be shaggin fir Penicuik soon.

— Aye . . . aye . . . shaggin fir Penicuik, aye sur, aye sur, that ah will, ah goes.

I’M HOLDING MY
nose into a bloody hanky wondering why it is that every lowlife in this Aids chamber, this fucking New Orleans without the heat or the music, has to headbutt people in the face! — I’m gonna sue . . . that’s fucking twice this has happened in this goddamn place . . .

Terry ran after those assholes, but they’ve gone and he comes back from across the street, out of breath. — Fuck suin, these cunts fuckin well die. He bends over, resting his hands on his knees, trying to catch his wind, looking up. — Ah’m meant tae be avoidin stress!

The hanky’s soaked and somebody hands me a towel, probably has more disease on it that anything else, but it staunches the flow of blood and I climb into Terry’s taxi. That strange little Jonty guy who was caddying is with us. I knew I shouldn’t have gotten involved in that scuzzy ghetto drug shit of Terry’s! We head to this hospital which is like the campus of every 1970s college you wouldn’t wanna attend. I’m about to demand that they take me to a real hospital, but they give me a sedative and reset my nose.

I try to pay but they won’t take it.

I get back out and Terry’s waiting with the little guy. — What’s up, Ronnie? Terry asks. — Beak looks aw set nice.

The little Jonty asshole does what he always does and repeats what Terry just said. Don’t they have schools in this goddamn place?

— They won’t take my goddamn card, Platinum Amex . . . what kind of commie hospital is this?

— It’s free, ya bam!

— Free, aye, free, this goddamn nutcase constantly repeats.

— It shouldn’t be free! This is – Then I feel something garrotting me inside and I turn to Terry. — No . . . oh my God . . .

Please Lord God Almighty, do not do this to me. I am your most loyal and humble servant!

— What is it now? Terry’s asking me.

— The Skatch! THE GODDAMN THIRD BOTTLE OF SKATCH!!! HAVE YOU GOT IT?

— How would ah huv it? You kept a hud ay it. Terry shakes his head. — Ye wouldnae let it leave yir side. Ye hud it in the club . . . check the Joe Baxi –

— The club, aye aye, aye, the club, this fucking retard parrots on.

God damn them all to hell!

I run out to the cab, followed by the others. The cold stings my nose. I can’t see a goddamn thing inside. Then Terry opens up to confirm: there’s nothing there. — I MUST HAVE LEFT IT IN THAT FUCKING CLUB!! I CAN’T LOSE TWO FUCKING BOTTLES!!

We’re heading back up to that shithouse Taxi Club. My heart is racing. To lose one bottle of Trinity is a fluke, but to lose two . . . it makes me a loser. A goddamn one hundred per cent, gilt-edged loser. I cannot let this happen to me! I must have dropped it when that asshole assaulted me. I need to speak to my legal people, and I’m punching in numbers on the phone . . .

Please God . . . let the Skatch be there . . .

This little retarded caddy friend of Terry’s is still saying the words ‘club’ and ‘whisky’ over and over and all the way to the shithole I have my tongue between my teeth and I’m controlling my bite, but soon feeling the distracting pain and the taste of my own blood. Now this little asshole is looking at me and pointing at my mouth and saying what I still think is ‘club’ over and over again, but I soon realise that it’s ‘blood’, and mine is trickling down my face and on to my goddamn shirt. I hate them all, and that crazy Sara-Ann with her fucking plays . . . and another fucking email from her pops into my phone with the headline: SUPPORT IS MORE THAN WRITING A CHEQUE! No wonder Terry was so keen to dump that crazy bitch on me!

GOD, PLEASE COME TO MY RESCUE!

We get to the club, and the assholes who caused all the trouble are gone. But this table of bums are still sitting around with dominoes in their hands. That asshole with the one leg . . .

And my whisky . . .

MY GOD! OH MY GOD! WHAT HAVE I DONE TO DESERVE THIS?!

It’s opened! The assholes have opened it! There’s about two-thirds left, but that is totally irrelevant. They opened my fucking bottle of the Bowcullen Trinity . . .

— Too late, Terry says, — the gannets have descended!

That crow-faced gimpy asshole with the porcine eyes looks up at us. — So ye got rid ay they bams then, eh? Private-hire fuckin sex-offender cunts . . .

— Aye, sorry aboot that, Jackie boy, they’ll no be in here again, Terry says. — How’s the whisky, mate?

— No bad, the old asshole says.

God sacrificed His only son, Jesus Christ, so that those people would be saved. Is this what saved is? Is this what it means? To live among cretins? Why, God? Why?

Another leather-faced bum says, — Nah, ah’d take a nip ay Grouse ower that shite any day ay the week. That’s never a whisky that! No worth a sook, ay-no.

— Well, I thought it wasn’t too bad myself, although I have to say that a nice eighteen-year-old Highland Park takes some beating, this Limey prick in glasses says.

— ASSHOLES!!!!

I fall to my knees and I’m screaming at them all, pounding the ugly, stained carpet tiles in this rancid room, cursing all the assholes in this goddamn hellhole! I pray for a proper hurricane to come back, to wipe, please God, this shithole off the planet!

KILL THEM, GOD!

KILL THEM, JESUS!

BRING BACK THAT GODDAMN HURRICANE BAWBAG!!!

TERRY LAWSON DRIVES
through an Edinburgh that seems to him tawdry and second-rate. A city crushed by its own lack of ambition, grumblingly miserable about its status as a provincial north British town, yet unwilling to seize its larger destiny as a European capital. His mood is bleak as he drives towards Haymarket to meet Shite Cop. The detective had called him to say there was another development in the Jinty case.

His anonymous dispatch of the diary had produced the desired impact. Kelvin, after being sweated down by police, had been ready to confess to any charge short of murder, which, in any case, couldn’t have been made as there was no body to be found. The police, despite locating a pair of Jinty’s DNA-soaked knickers (and those of every other Liberty girl) in Kelvin’s locker, couldn’t charge him with anything relating to her disappearance. But there was more than enough combined evidence and testimony to charge him with three counts of rape, two of grievous bodily harm, and several of sexual assault.

The Poof had decided to stay in Spain for a protracted spell and let Kelvin take the heat. The day after the arrest, he’d called Terry to tell him that Kelvin should be praying they give him a long sentence. This would be a far better option than his brother-in-law getting a hold of him.

As welcome as it was, Terry couldn’t take much cheer from this news. His own life has become a constant struggle. All he has to look forward to is a golf tournament in New York that Ronnie has set up. Meantime, women torment him with slutty calls and propositions. The dumber Jambos make five-one signs at him, which is nowhere near as bad as the smart ones, who silently deploy a knowing smirk every time their paths cross. He was even relieved when his best friend, Carl Ewart, after an extended stay, headed back to Australia. Since then, he’s emailed Terry every day, with FIVE-ONE on the masthead of his bulletins.

Perhaps the most galling thing is the play that Sara-Ann has written,
A Decent Ride
, the Edinburgh Festival production she is working on with the Traverse Theatre. — It obviously leans a lot on our time together and Steam Tommy might be taken as you by some people, but it’s
fiction
, she’d explained in a rambling message left on his phone. — Writers are thieves; that’s what we do.

All those factors wouldn’t have bothered him in the slightest if he didn’t have his sexual issue; but, as things stood, they relentlessly underscore his misery, to the point of him considering that he’ll have to leave Edinburgh.

But where could he go? Spain or Florida are out; too warm, and the naked flesh on show would destroy him. Northern Europe is too expensive. Perhaps he’d take up cabbying down in Newcastle or Manchester, and live a simple life with his books.

As an insipid sun comes out from behind the clouds, Terry lowers the visor and wonders what the ‘other development’ in Jinty’s case could be. Is it possible that he’s even in the frame for her murder? Not that he cares. Going to prison, for anything, he thinks, will probably be the best option for him. No women. Just books.

The lights at Tollcross seem to take an age, as Terry shivers in the chilly snap that has hit the city, destroying any confidence of a decent summer. It feels more like February than the end of May, and, on cue, the sun vanishes, spreading a black shadow over the town.

There will certainly be, he considers, no ‘other developments’ in the missing Bowcullen Trinity saga. Terry had drunk with some guilt as Ronnie had treated both him and Jonty to a couple of nips from the opened bottle of whisky. Of course, with the seal no longer intact, that blend of rare malts was now worth little more than a few thousand pounds. But Ronnie had resolved that he would enjoy it on special occasions, and took the half-empty bottle and the stories it contained back to the USA. His parting boast that he owned two of the whiskies, albeit one with the seal broken, therefore still more than any other man on this planet, almost made Terry want to tell him where the missing prize was.

At Saughton Mains roundabout, close to his old home, he thinks about Alec’s corpse, lying in Rosebank Cemetery with the second bottle. Poor Ronnie, back in Atlanta or New York, or wherever, still fretting over the fate of the vanished Bowcullen, unawares Rehab Connor and Johnny Cattarh had started that row on the links with them. Footballer’s shin pads wrapped under his jeans, Johnny was able to withstand the powerful blow that Terry’s putter hammered into them. Though he went down so convincingly, for a few seconds Terry wondered whether he’d remembered to put them in. And the police and Ronnie went after them, oblivious that when they’d taken the bottle in the melee, they’d stashed it in the wheelie bin in the club’s rear car park before driving off. Terry had returned later that evening to retrieve it.

It had been so tempting to let Ronnie know he had been played, but the consumption of the third bottle gnawed constantly at his American friend, so any form of disclosure was not an option. Besides, the investigation by the insurance company and the police was still ongoing, as was Ronnie’s litigation with Mortimer.

He meets Shite Cop, now sporting a beard, in Starbucks at Haymarket. He still has the default expression of studied neutrality on his face, but there is an underlying busy element to the eyes, hinting at the characteristic nosy police slyness, a quality his DJ friend Carl claimed they shared with many journalists. — So what’s the story? Terry asks, perfecting that air of detachment, but hoping Shite Cop will divulge the news about Jinty. Shite Cop toys with his espresso, then looks searchingly at Terry. — You heard that somebody anonymously sent us Jeanette Magdalen’s diary?

Terry plays dumb.

— Aye, this gave us the chance to get a search warrant, he explains, scrutinising Terry’s reaction. Then he adds, — But there were two pages ripped out.

Terry knows how this works. He is supposed to get all panicky, to assume that he might be incriminated in the diary, and to admit he removed those pages. But the only information the document offered about him was Jinty’s confirmation that he was a shagging machine. Or had been. No good to let Shite Cop know this though. He pulls a forlorn face. — You think one ay the other lassies sent it in?