Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

She’s lookin right at ays in that wide-eyed horror, like the burds they huv in the movies like Scream , but, kinday no like Scream n aw, cause her mooth’s gaun aw tight, like ah’ve rumbled her.

— But that’s up tae you, ah shrugs. — It’s your business. Jist tell ays if ye are, so ah kin gie the bizzies some story, like ye telt ays ye wir gaun tae yir sister’s in Inverkeithing, then sais ye wir sick n hud tae git oot n puke, n the next thing ye’d cowped yirsel ower the rail, that sort ay shite. Goat tae cover ma erse but, ay.

She puts her heid in her hands and mumbles something ah dinnae catch, then jerks up and goes, — I can get out here.

— Naw, ah’ll take ye tae the bridge. Ah shakes ma heid. — Wey ah see it, if yir determined tae dae it, ye will. N it’s fuckin kickin up big time ootside. Ye might as well go thaire in comfort, n she disnae even flinch at that. — Tell ye one thing but, ah pits her in the picture, — yir no gittin oot this cab withoot peyin the fare first.

— I wasn’t — I’ve got money. . She reaches intae her purse.

— How much?

— Seventy pounds and some change. .

— No bein wide, ah goes, glancin in the mirror, — but ye might as well jist hand it aw ower. . if yir sure, like. Jist that it would be a waste ay dosh, ay, jumpin wi aw that in yir poakits. No being wide, likes.

The burd looks angry, starin at ays for the first time, then sortay shrugs n settles back in the seat. — If I was ever in any doubt that this was the right time to leave this fucking place, you would have convinced me, and she reaches forward again n shows the contents ay the purse.

Ah stoaps at the rid light, turns n reaches through the Judas Hole tae take the poppy, n crams it intae ma poakit. The road’s empty, thank fuck. — Ah’m no bein funny like, ah’m no tryin tae stop ye, gen up, but ah’ve goat tae ask: what’s a good-lookin young lassie like you wantin tae dae this fir?

— You wouldn’t understand. She shakes her head. — Nobody does.

— Well, explain tae us, ah goes. Cause they sais oan that course tae try n git thum talkin. — What’s yir name? Ah’m Terry, by the by. Ah git kent as ‘Juice’ Terry cause ah worked oan the juice lorries way back. Sometimes ‘Scud’ Terry cause. . well, ah’ll no bore ye wi the details.

— My name is Sara-Ann Lamont, she says, like she’s a robot. — I get called Sal. S-A-L. Sara. Ann. Lamont.

— You fae up here, Sal?

— Yes, Portobello originally. But I’ve lived in London for years.

— Lamont, ye said, aye?

— Yeah. .

At least it isnae Lawson: thank fuck. Yuv goat tae check, wi that cunt ay an auld man ay mine huvin chucked ays spunk around toon like a lunatic sprayin asylum waws. — What’s it ye dae doon thaire, like, what line ay work ur ye in?

Another bitter wee shrug, then she pushes the wet tresses ay hair oot her eyes. — I write plays. Though the rest of the world seems to disagree.

— Nae felly doon thaire, somebody who’ll be worried aboot ye?

— Ha! She laughs, aw sort ay cynical. — I’m fleeing an emotionally abusive relationship. I’m back in my home city with a specially commissioned play at the Traverse. It was supposed to be the return of the prodigal daughter. But the critics have not been kind and I’ve had enough. Does that answer your questions?

— So yir gaunny kill yirsel ower a felly n a play?

— You don’t understand –

— Find another felly. Write another play, if that yin wis shite. Shot this prisoner-ay-war scud flick once, They Do Like It Up ’Em ; wisnae that great, but it didnae deter –

— It wasn’t shite! she goes, now aw angry fir the first time. — You just don’t get it! But I’m not surprised.

Awright, so the burd’s gaunny be fish food in twenty minutes, but ah’m no that struck oan her patter, ay. — Aw ah see, ah dinnae understand cause ah jist drive a cab, is that it? Cause ah drive a taxi ah cannae be expected tae understand the complex mind ay an artiste ?

— I didn’t say that!

— Ah’ve done a fair bit ay actin, no stage, but screen, n ah understand the process, ah’ll huv ye ken, ah tell her. People think scud’s jist aboot bangin away, but as ma mate Sick Boy ey says, ‘Wir telling a story here,’ so yuv goat tae ken yir lines n hit yir mark. No sayin ah’m fuckin Brad Pitt, but then again ah’m no sayin that cunt’s Juice Terry! Last year whin we wir shootin Doctor Scheme: A Thorough Examination ah hud tae stick one thermometer up this burd’s fanny, n the other up her erse, n say, ‘The hottest hole is the one that gets this fat dick, baby.’ Sounds fuckin straightforward enough but it’s no that easy whin thaire’s cameras on ye, lights shinin in yir coupon, n a boom mike overheid n Sick Boy fuckin prancin aboot shoutin orders at ye!

But she’s oaf oan one but, ay. Aw good: lit thum talk, the boy oan the course says. — All I ever wanted to do was write, she shouts. — Four years of my life went into that play, and they didn’t get it! They didn’t get me ! Those sneering men I could understand, that cabal of sad old queens, but when the jealous fucking so-called sisters turned on me. . She shakes her heid, lettin they wet locks fly. — No, I’ve had enough. .

Thaire’s no a loat ye kin say tae that. Ah look at her in the mirror. She reminds me a bit ay that burd fae Liverpool ah made Anal Torpedo 3 wi. That was when ah played the captain oan the whalin ship crewed by burds, aw wearin fishnet tights. Catchphrase: ‘Thar she blows!’

She’s gaun aw quiet as we’re passin the Barnton roondabout, her hands clasped thegither oan her lap, heid bowed, starin at them. So ah thinks, fuck it, ah’ll make a wee move. — Listen, this might seem a wee bit cheeky, Sal, but kin ah ask you a favour?

She looks up ay ays like ah’m fuckin tapped. — What. . you want a favour? From me ? What favour can I do for anyone now?

— Well, ah wis jist wonderin, see if ye wirnae in any big hurry, ah shrugs, giein her a cheeky wee smile, — any chance ay a ride before ye jump?

— What? Her face sortay twists, and then she’s silent again. Suits me! She’s no sayin aye, but she’s no sayin naw!

— Ah wis jist wonderin, Sal, n ah ken it’s a wee bit cheeky, but the quiet bairn gits nowt, ay. Mibbe jist go oot wi a bang, last night oan Earth, ah goes. — Tell ye what, ah’d gie ye a guid fuckin cowp, pardon ma French.

— You want to have sex with me? Ha ha, Suicide Sal laughs, her voice gaun aw high, like she cannae believe what she’s hearin. N fuck, she’s gittin oot her coat, n pillin oaf her jumper! She’s sittin thaire in a black bra. — Go ahead, pull up, do what the fuck you like!

N ah does that awright, headin oaf that slip road jist before the bridge tollbooth comes intae view. The howlin wind is that strong that ah kin barely move the door at first, but wi a ride in the back, it could be oan its side, n buried in an avalanche, n ah’d still be able tae fuckin well open it. — Fasten yir seat belt, hen, ah shouts tae her, — cause we could be in for some awfay bumpy rumpy-pumpy!

GRACIOUS LORD, ETERNAL saviour, I am so, so sorry, for I know I have sinned against your profligate wastrels! Lord, I accept that in your infinite wisdom you saw fit to create those beings too, just as you did the cockroach and house fly. As your servant it is not for me to question your unfathomable mysteries. But my comments in Time magazine about those unfortunate Negroes were twisted and taken out of context by the liberal media! I was asked a question about government spending and I simply said that the citizens of New Orleans were feeling your wrath, and that President George Bush was correct to butt out of this one, and let your judgement hold sway.