Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

PICKED YOU UP ON THE SATELLITE OF LOVE.

Terry types back:

HAVE GOT A BIG ROCKET HERE WITH A COUPLE OF ASTEROIDS EITHER SIDE.

Liz retorts:

GET THEM INTO MY ORBIT.

Terry thinks of Joy Division and types:

SHE’S LOST CONTROL AGAIN!

Liz gets him a fare straight away, outside the Scottish Parliament, to take a man out to the airport. At this time of the morning, he’s certain to pick up another one quickly back into the city. The fare is a fat and ruddy man, like most Scottish parliamentarians. It’s a gravy train; a survey showed that election to Westminster added over two stone on to the average Scots MP in their first year of office.

— You in Parliament then, mate?

— Yes.

— MP?

— MSP, Scottish Parliament.

— The boy we had here in Edinburgh South, he got ehs jotters for bringing prossies back tae ehs office in Westminster, Terry says, looking round with one eye closed. — Hope youse urnae up tae that in Holyrood!

— No. . well, not that I’ve heard of, anyway!

— Aye, keep it clean. Mind you, if ah got the chance, ah’d be right doon thaire tae Westminster. Aw that parliamentary sleaze? Too right, Terry laughs, playfully swiping the dashboard. — But ah’d much rather be in the Hoose ay Lords than a commoner, though, mate, cause ah’ve got a bit ay expertise at pittin a big, thick, hefty piece ay legislation through the second chamber, if ye catch ma drift.

The MSP has a giggle, and Terry thinks it is shaping up to be a good day. Big Liz from Control has him back on the satellite and finds him a businessman at the airport, whom he takes into the financial centre, before it’s time to head to Liberty Leisure.

Customarily outgoing in the company of women, Terry finds himself oddly diffident stepping into the backstreet office that nestles in the bottom of a tenement building in a nondescript street off Leith Walk. Despite having absolutely no scruples about his low-level involvement in the pornography industry (he and his friend Sick Boy have made about thirty movies of varying quality, many of which he’s starred in), prostitution has always disquieted Terry.

It is the men.

Clients come in at all hours. He is most surprised by the office employees who arrive early for a session with the girl of their choice before work. Many are young, their sex lives wrecked by small children or post-natally depressed partners, but who seek to avoid the complications of an office affair. He tries to understand them as he watches them come and go, some in sneaky guilt, others with a swaggering arrogance. It isn’t good for business though, Terry reflects, to display overt disdain for clients, and it might get back to The Poof. They never seem to bother Kelvin though; it is Terry who cops most of his hostile vibes.

Terry considers how this is pretty much inevitable, given the unspecified but vaguely supervisory role in which The Poof has cast him, thereby building conflict and distrust into the relationship. The girls, once they figured out that he was there to monitor the detested Kelvin, are generally sound with Terry, enjoying a mug of tea and a laugh with him.

Kelvin is particularly edgy today, responding to Terry’s overtures in gruff monosyllables, so despite enjoying the girls’ company, he is glad to leave and return to the cab.

It’s a cold, blustery day, and Edinburgh is bracing itself for its first officially designated hurricane in living memory, which is to hit the town later this evening. Many people prepare by selecting the pub most expedient to get stuck in, and the town is already empty. Terry picks up a couple of fares, then some messages from his supplier, Rehab Connor, down in Inverleith, and drops them off to clients in Marchmont and Sighthill.

It is the afternoon by the time he gets back into the city centre. Locating the backstreet New Town hostelry of his choice, the Bar Cissism, Terry parks the cab outside on the cobbled road. It is a darkly lit spot, full of busy-looking professionals. Terry takes a number, B37, like the ones issued in government offices. Moving to a vantage point at the bar, he nurses a fresh orange juice, scrutinising a sea of occupied tables. When his number comes up, Terry saunters towards a wholesome-looking brunette, sitting down in front of her. He knows how he will play this one.

— Hi, I’m Valda, she says with a big smile.

— Terry. Pleasure to meet you, Valda. Listen, ah’m gaunny pit ma cairds right on the table here, he smiles, arching a roguish brow. Valda regards him in studied neutrality, though Terry fancies he can see a slight shiver in her left eye. — An important part ay any relationship is sex, n that’s primarily what ah’m interested in right now. Ah’m hung like a pit pony that wisnae shy in foalhood when the carrots wir gittin dished oot, n wi this tongue ye dinnae need a fuckin straw tae git tae the boatum ay a milkshake, if ye catch ma drift. Ah’ve goat a flat roond the corner. What d’ye say we jist git oot ay here right now? The apocalypse thit they news cunts call Bawbag, well, it’s gaunny hit the toon later!

Valda Harkins feels insulted. She is preparing her response, but by the time she is ready to sound off, Terry, who has read the signs, is already at the next table, giving another woman, Kate Ormond, exactly the same pitch. Kate is startled. — Wow. . you’re moving a wee bit too fast –

Terry cuts her off with, — Sound, easing out of his seat, and moving on to Carly Robson.

They leave together two minutes later. Terry is thinking how long it will take to ensconce her in his South Side flat, close the social transaction, and then get back out to catch some fares trying to get to where they need to go before Hurricane Bawbag beds in.

On the journey to his flat, the winds have kicked up and the phone reception is bad. Terry sees several missed calls — two from Ronnie Checker. He tries to call him back, but the bars of the signal fade.

‘MAKE SURE YE git hame early, mind, git hame early, we cannae go oot the night. .’ Wee Jonty’s like a fuckin parrot. Well, ah’m no bein stuck inside jist cause ay a load ay fuckin gales. That wis what ah sais tae um: ah’m no bein stuck in here just cause ay strong winds, Jonty.

Then eh turns roond n hands ays this sortay tube thing for ays tae take oot. Ah asks um what it wis n eh tells ays it’s a distress flare eh made, fae some site oan that Internet. — Distress flare, aye, eh goes, — if ye huv tae go oot in that Bawbag!

Ah telt um thaire wis nae wey ah wis gaun oot wi that in ma bag! Blaw masel up! So ah jist went oot n left him, wi him still beggin ays tae take the daft flare. — Beat it, Jonty, ah goes, — yir really startin tae annoy me, ah telt um, n ah went n left um.

How many times have we heard that aw nonsense aboot weather before? Winds. Load ay shite. It’s eywis fuckin windy here!

Ah gits the bus doon tae Leith, the 22. The sauna’s busy. Some familiar clients. There’s a wee guy who comes in and eywis jist wants gammed. Thaire’s another regular, a bodybuilder, but wi an awfay wee cock, mibbe it’s the steroids but that’s meant tae jist shrivel the baws. He eywis wants a ride, n ye really huv tae act for him, eh looks intae yir eyes aw tense and freaky, as bad as that cunt Kelvin. An easy shift otherwise, but.

Then ah’m jist gittin washed oot when Kelvin comes in and goes, — Ah’m up next.

Thaire’s nowt ah kin dae. The mair ye dinnae want tae be wi him, the mair he gits turned on n wants tae ride ye. Then when eh starts, ye really got tae make oot like yir intae it. He can turn a sick fucker if he thinks yir repulsed by him. He wisnae that bad this time roond, though ma nipple’s really sair where eh pinched it hard. The worst is the stuff that comes oot ay his mooth. Ah hate huvin tae dae it wi um, but the money’s good here.