Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

Was that not the right thing to say?

I now worry that perhaps I’ve wronged you, and now you’ve brought this hurricane, here to Scotland, to punish me for my mortal folly in daring to interpret your mysterious ways!

Spare me, Lord!

I drop the Bible back on to the nightstand, hoping to hell that He’s listening to me. Sometimes He does, as in the Broward County development in Florida, while other times my pleas seem to fall on deaf ears, the Sacramento mall debacle being a case in point.

I feel my spine shake as I raise myself up out of this bed, on to my elbows, to get another shot of Skatch. Mindful of that physician prick in New York’s words, I’m sitting up to minimise the reflux reaction, and feel that golden elixir sliding down, slowly fusing through me and warming up my core. But even with its comfort, I can’t stay in this goddamn hotel room, listening to those howling winds rattling the windows. It’s like freakin 9/11, you expect a terrorist plane to come crashing in here, maybe to take out the railroad station! But this is Skatlin, so who damn well cares?

No, sorry, almighty Father, they are human beings too.

The window rattles again, and this time I swear I can see it bellying in. Those cheap-ass wooden frames! I grab the phone and call the desk. — This motherfucker is gonna blow! What are the evacuation plans? How the hell do we get outta here?!

— Please calm down, sir, and try to relax. Would you care for anything from room service?

— Fuck your room service in the ass! We got ourselves an emergency situation here! How the hell can you guys be so goddamn complacent?!

— Sir, please try to calm yourself!

— Fuck you! Asshole! I slam the phone down on the cradle.

I pick up the bottle of Skatch and refill my glass. That Highland Park eighteen-year-old malt sure goes down smooth. The hotel staff don’t give a goddamn shit. . I pick up my cell, but I still can’t get a signal for Mortimer. That asshole is so fucking fired! But God willing, if I’m spared to survive this ordeal, I will tell him straight to his face just how fucking fired he is!

Another savage rattle on the window; this goddamn hurricane is closing in, finding its strength. Edinboro is by the sea. That castle, that’s where the high ground is, that’s where I gotta be! I’ll bet that Salmond guy — Jesus, even the politicians are out of shape here — and all those assholes are up there right now, drinking the best Skatch, gorging themselves on sheep’s intestines, safe and secure from this fucking apocalypse! I grab the phone again and get an outside line. They don’t even have 911 here, it’s all this 999 shit. Which is like 666 upside down! It’s a goddamn message! I can practically feel the breath of Satan on the back of my neck! Forgive me, Lord!

Our father, which art in heaven. .

— Lothian and Borders police –

— Is that the Edinboro police?

— Yes. .

— You said something different! Why? Why did you say that?

— We call it Lothian and Borders Police. . but we cover Edinburgh.

— Well, I’m trapped in room 638 of the Balmoral Hotel, here in Princes Street, Edinboro, right in the middle of this goddamn hurricane! The asshole on the line actually chuckles, like this life-and-death scenario is one big fucking gag! Do these people value human life so cheaply? — What’s so funny?

— Nothing. You might think it’s very funny, but you’re blocking up emergency services lines –

— I’m blocking up emergency services lines cause this is a fucking emergency, you asshole! I’m Ronald Checker! I am a businessman and an American citizen!

A tired sigh comes down the line, like this asshole, this duty cop, is yawning at me! — Aye, I read in the paper that you were in town, Mr Checker. Love The Prodigal , by the way. Well, just you relax and calm down.

— Relax?! How can I goddamn relax –

— Mr Checker, you’re in the best possible place. I’d stay right where I was if I were you!

— No way! This crumbling tip is a death trap! We have a situation here. I want a police escort to take me to Edinboro Castle!

— I don’t understand. Why would you want to go out to Edinburgh Castle? There’s a hurricane on and we’re strongly advising people to stay indoors.

— No, you don’t fucking understand! There is a hurricane situation! That’s why I’m calling: you assholes have obviously never seen a goddamn hurricane before! You have no levee, no emergency services, and you do not give a rat’s ass! Well, I do! And if you can’t see the shit that’s going down, then damn you all to hell!

I smash the phone onto its cradle, and get down on my belly and crawl under the bed. I’ve got Mahler’s soothing strings on my headphones. Spare me this torment. Spare me, Lord.

That cab driver, Terry, he said he can fix anything! He’ll be able to see me through this panic attack. . I find his number on my cell. . the signal bars are coming up. . it’s ringing. .

— Ronnie boy!

— Terry. . thank God! You gotta help me. I’m caught up in this hurricane!

— Got caught up in yin masel, Ronnie. Inside the cab, if ye git ma drift. .

— What?

— Nivir mind. Whaire are ye?

— I’m in my room at the Balmoral.

— Yir fine thaire, mate, try being caught baw-deep in –

— I’M NOT FINE! EVERYBODY KEEPS TELLING ME THAT I’M FINE! YOU DON’T KNOW ABOUT NEW ORLEANS!

— Okay, buddy, you hang on in there. Sounds like you’re huvin a wee panic attack. . you’ve no been takin anything naughty, huv ye?

— No! I don’t touch drugs! Well, just a few whiskies and some Ambien. .

— Whisky and prescriptions disnae count as drugs, Terry says, which I like, know . — Okay, well, hing loose, wir oan oor wey!

— Terry, thank you, you are a godsend. . but please hurry!

I’ve built over two hundred tower blocks, trying to get closer to the Lord with every development, but my vertigo means that I’ve never been anywhere near the top of any of them.

I put on the TV, there’s still a signal, but you can’t get Fox News on any of those Limey channels. It’s all godless commie liberal shit, full of assholes talking funny and parading around in strange clothes. I’m relieved when I find some repeats of Magnum P.I. I swallow two more Ambien with my Skatch. I pick up the phone and call room service again. It rings once, twice. . they’ve fucking deserted me! Left me in this Gothic ghost hotel, which is gonna crumble around me as the hurricane rips it to pieces and –

— Room service! Hello, sir! Can I help you?

— Send up two bottles of your most expensive Skatch!

— Our most expensive is a 1954 single-malt Macallan, but we only have one bottle of it. It costs two thousand pounds.

— Send it up! What else ya got?

— The next most expensive is a 1958 Highland Park, which is eleven hundred pounds.

— Send them up! And tell the guy to knock three times!

— I will be glad to do just that, Mr Checker.

So I’ll drink their shit, and just hope I’m spared to get those proper bottles of real Bowcullen Skatches back to the USA! But I gotta get through this goddamn nightmare first.

New Orleans. . Please God, I swear that if I get through this night I will donate a seven-figure sum to the Katrina disaster fund!

THE PUB WITH No Name nestles in darkness underneath a block of tenements and a railway bridge. The clandestine, forbidding site with its esoteric feel has made the howf a favoured spot for the area’s uncompromising drinkers since its founding back in the Victorian era. On match days, the bar’s proximity to Tynecastle stadium has secured its popularity with football supporters. Outside of that it has enjoyed a chequered history. There has been a steady chain of unfortunate owners, and the hostelry has attracted a mixed clientele of rival biker factions, right-wing loyalist elements, some veteran drinkers who appreciate its competitive prices, and antagonistic football gangs, who attack it regularly on the basis of its Hearts connections.