Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

— Fuckin wide cunt, Evan Barksie sais, turnin tae me. — How dae ye ken that fuckin Hobo tramp?

Ah nivir kent eh wis a fuckin Hobo! Wid’ve thoat twice aboot giein um ehs hole if ah kent that! It’s nane ay Evan’s fuckin business but. — Eh wis seein a mate ay mine, ah goes.

— Aye, eh’s good at daein that, Barksie sais, n ehs mooth goes aw tight n ehs eyes aw slitty. — Wisnae seein you n aw, wis eh?

Ah’m lookin right n ehs wee eyes. — What’s it tae you?

Evan Barksie shuffles n ehs voice droaps, n eh’s tryin tae force cheer intae it. — Wee Jonty widnae be too chuffed.

— Ah dae what ah like.

— Aw aye? Prove it!

— How?

— Come for a line wi me. Eh nods tae the lavvy.

— Awright.

Well, we goes intae the laddies’ bogs n thaire’s two traps. We gits in one n Evan Barksie starts cuttin oot a huge line. Wi takes half each. Ma eyes ur waterin n my hert’s thumpin. — Ye awright? he goes.

— Aye. .

— A loat ay folk here, eh gies a wee smile showin oaf mingin yellay teeth, — they think wee Jonty’s punchin above ehs weight.

— Aye. . is that what you think as well? ah goes. Fuck, ah’m strugglin here, sweatin, n ma hert’s poundin away like the clappers.

— Jist sayin likes.

This isnae real! It’s no good fir ye tae snort that much coke: ye kin peg right oot. Ah’m mad fir it but. — My hert. . whoa. .

— Lit’s see, Evan goes, n eh pits ehs hand oan ma chist. It feels good huvin it thaire, lookin at his daft wee smile as eh stares at ma tits. So ah dinnae dae nowt when eh undoes the two toap buttons oan ma blouse n spreads his palm oot. — Barry tits, by the way, eh goes. Then eh sais, — Get them oot then!

— Chop oot another fuckin line first, ah sais, though the sweat’s still rippin oaf ays n ma hert’s bangin like a drum machine. Ah’m fuckin mad fir this ching but!

So eh does, n wi git oan it again n wir baith fuckin rattlin big time. Then Evan unbuttons ma blouse n lits it faw doon ma shoodirs. — A fuckin waste. . eh goes, n eh unfastens ma bra. Eh’s goat baith ma tits n ehs hands n eh’s right beside me, rubbin up against us. — Lawson rode ye, eh?

— Aye. . ah tells um, gittin intae it, — eh rode ays wi ehs big cock. . so you fuckin gaunny well dae it then. .?

— Aye. . Evan’s gaun fir ehs zip. And then, fae outside, thir’s a knock oan the door.

— Jinty! Ur you in thaire? Eh! What ur ye daein? Jinty? Aye, yer in thaire! Aye sur! Aye!

It’s wee Jonty. Oor eyes ur poppin oot oor heids n Barksie pits one hand ower ma mooth, n a finger acroass ehs ain lips.

— Ah ken yir in thaire, Jake n Sandra fae behind the bar telt us, aye they telt us likes, aye, aye, aye. . in thaire, Jinty. .

— Jonty, ah’m jist huvin a wee bit ay a livener. . ah tells um. Ah cannae even be bothered tryin tae pit ma blouse back oan, ah’m fuckin melted.

— Jinty! Come oot! Come oot! Dinnae touch thon bad stuff, please dinnae, Jinty. . n ehs wee voice is brekin up.

— Ah’ll be oot n a minute, dinnae trouble yersel, Jonty! N ah’m lookin at Evan n wuv both goat oor hands ower oor mooths now, tryin no tae laugh oot loud!

Wee Jonty’s voice is that high, it’s like somebody’s cut his perr wee baws oaf! — Ah kin see another pair ay feet in there! Under that door! Aye sur, aye ah kin, aye. Ah ken it’s you, Barksie! What ur yis daein? What ur yis daein in thaire?

— JONTY, GIT TAE FUCK! Evan shouts. Ah shakes ma heid n starts laughin.

— What ye daein. .? What yis daein in thaire? Come oot! JINTY!

— Wir jist powderin our noses, Jonty, ah goes. — Ah ken you dinnae like it whin ah dae that, so you go ben that bar n git ays a Bicardi n Coke, n we’ll be oot in a minute. . ah goes, n ah starts shuttin up ma blouse.

— Nup! Come oot! JINTY! PLEASE! Please come oot, Jinty darlin, aw please, aye, aye, aye. .

Evan Barksie’s face screws up again. — JONTY, AH’M FUCKIN WARNIN YE! SHUT IT!

— AYE, ah goes, cause eh’s startin tae git oan ma nerves, embarrassin ays like that, — GIT HAME OR GIT UP TAE THE FUCKIN BAR! A FUCKIN BICARDI N COKE, WELL!

Then thaire’s a bang, then another, n the door comes flyin in! Eh’s burst the lock! Ah’ve goat ma wrists in front ay ma tits tryin tae cover masel. — JONTY!

— YOU. . Eh looks at me, then at Barksie, then back tae me. — Jinty, come hame! COME HAME WI US NOW!

Evan Barksie steps forward n pushes Jonty back oot. — Git tae fuck, Jonty, ah’m telling ye!

— This isnae right, Jonty’s gaun, n eh looks at us, then looks at the flair. Eh’s shakin his heid gaun, — Naw, naw, naw. . n eh turns n runs oot the bogs.

Ah’ve goat ma blouse back oan, n ah’m gaun eftir him. Evan Barksie grabs ays by the wrist n goes, — Leave the fuckin wee muppet, n eh tries tae kiss us, but ah pushes him away.

— Git tae fuck, n ah goes outside intae the bar, but it’s mobbed, n ah sees Jake opening the doors n Jonty gaun ootside. N ah gits thaire n Jake goes, — ANYBODY WANT OOT GIT OOT NOW! AH’M LOCKIN US IN TILL IT STOAPS!

— YA FUCKIN BEAUTY! somebody shouts.

A chant goes up: — BAWBAG, BAWBAG, BAWBAG, BAWBAG! BAW-HAW-BAG, BAW-AW-BAG. .

Ah dinnae ken what tae dae, but whin ah turns roond n sees Evan Barksie wavin a big bag ay ching n shoutin, — Perty time, ah ken ah’m gaun naewhaire fir a bit, ay.

TALK ABOOT FUCKIN warnin bells! It’s pishin wet wi they gales, n thaire’s this lassie oot, walkin doon Queensferry Road, which is fuckin deserted. She’s headin taewards the Forth Road Bridge! At this time, and in this fuckin weather! A fare’s a fare but, ay, n besides, the jumpers are usually gadges: very seldom dae ye git fanny tryin tae top itsel that wey. Aye, sent us oan a fuckin course, soas we could spot the hari-kari crew. They telt ye aw the things ye need tae say tae try n stoap thum. Like counsellin n that. No that ah ever fuckin well bother; cunt wants tae jump, lit thum fuckin well jump, ay. Fuck aw that nanny state George Bernard’s; some cunt’s made thair mind up aboot it, they must huv good fuckin reasons. It’s no fir the likes ay a total stranger tae say any different. Wouldnae be me anyway! Jump oaf a cliff, then some burd phones ye up the next day deciding she’s gaunny gie ye yir hole eftir aw? Naw, fuck that! Too much tae live for, me but, ay. Mind you, ah kin understand how some gadges that urnae gittin a ride wid want tae jump: fuck that fir a game ay sodjirs!

But wi a burd it’s different. Naebody in thair right mind wants tae see good fanny gaun tae waste. A burd’s minge is meant tae be hot for the rumpy-pumpy, no aw cauld, stretched oot oan a slab, though thaire’s some dirty cunts thit wid go fir that. Ah blame that fuckin Internet, littin bairns watch extreme porn, whin thuv no even hud a proper wank. That shite would fuck any cunt’s heid up. Too right! Ah mean, ah’ve made the odd scud flick, aye, but it’s ey been consenting adults, nae dodgy stuff.

So ah stoaps, n the lassie gits in the cab. Her black hair’s plastered tae her heid by the rain, her long black coat’s heavy wi it, n her eyes ur aw fogged ower. — Awright, doll? A bit blustery tae be oot the night but, ay. Nivir heard ay Bawbag?

But this burd, she’s jist sittin thaire, starin oaf intae space wi they dark eyes, probably broon, set in a roundish face. The lights ur oan but thaire’s nae cunt hame. — The bridge, she sais in this accent that’s either posh Scottish or English.

— So what’s happenin oot at the bridge?

She suddenly looks at ays aw offended. Like it’s nane ay ma business.

— Dinnae look at ays like that, ah’m gaun, — wi that moosey face oan. See, if you jump oaf that bridge, it’s ma case the polis git oan! Ah’ve goat tae ask they questions!