Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

Forcing his sense of violation into a gallows grin, Checker permits, — Divorced, three times, while moved to think of Sapphire, his third wife, with some rancour, then Margot, his first, in sharp, poignant pain. He tries to remember Monica, the fleeting middle incumbent, but can scarcely summon her image to mind, which both cheers and dismays him. All that flashes into his head is a grinning lawyer’s face and eight fat figures. For a man still a year shy of forty, three is a troubling statistic.

— Snap! Me n aw! Terry buzzes in empathy. — Kin find thum n gie thum a guid seein-tae awright, that part’s never been a bother, he sings triumphantly. — Auld Faithful here, Terry pats his groin reassuringly, — husnae had too many days oaf, ah’ll tell ye that for nowt! Goat tae be done but, ay, mate? Terry’s grin expands as Checker enjoys the sensation of his back flush against the hard seat, which feels good after the executive planes and limos he is constantly in. — See, keepin a hud ay thum but, well. . you ken the score! Worse thing ye kin dae is faw in love. Ye kid yersel oan that’s the burd yir gaunny be shagging exclusively the rest ay yir life. But wir no made that wey, mate. So eftir a few months, the auld rovin eye n stiff cock come back oot tae play! Guaranteed!

Checker feels the sides of his face redden. What newfangled Tophet had Mortimer cast him into? First an engineering failure in the Lear, which had forced upon him the ignominy of a scheduled flight , and now this!

— Ma days ay gaun through ceremonies ur ower. Terry drops his voice and briefly turns his head. — Listen, mate, if yir eftir any nook n cranny ower here, jist geez a shout. Ah’m the boy. Kin sort ye oot wi anything ye need in this toon. Just sayin likes!

Ron Checker has scant clue as to what this man is ‘just saying’. This asshole really has no idea who I am! Yet through the rush of contempt he feels for this cabbie, something else is happening: Ronald Checker is experiencing the phantom excitement at being cut adrift, of being a traveller again, as in his student days, as opposed to a cosseted business tourist. And those unyielding seats feel good on his spine! Strangely, Checker is conceding that part of him, that piece liberated by the most recent divorce, is enjoying himself! Why not? Here he is, striking out on his own, free from the sycophantic incompetents like Mortimer! Did he have to be limited and hemmed in by other people’s perceptions of Ronald Checker? Wasn’t it fun, to try and be somebody else for a while? And this back! Perhaps it was now time to give it a start. — I appreciate that. . er. .

— Terry, mate. Terry Lawson, but ah git called Juice Terry.

— Juice Terry. . Checker lets the name play on his lips. — Well, pleased to meet you, Juice Terry. I’m Ron. Ron Checker. He looks at the cabbie in the mirror for any traces of acknowledgement. None. This clown really doesn’t know who I am, so self-absorbed is he in his own petty, trivial life. But he’d seen this before in Scotland, during the Nairn debacle.

— Check thehhht! Juice Terry bellows, at what appears to Checker to be a rather ordinary young woman, who is stopped at a pedestrian crossing.

— Yes. . fetching, Checker forces himself to agree.

— Ah’m gittin a twinge fir that minge!

— Yes. . Listen, Terry, Checker begins, suddenly inspired, — I love these cabs. These seats sure feel good against my back. I’d like to hire you this week. You’d drive me around locally, some tourist places, one or two business appointments further north. I have some negotiations at a distillery in Inverness, and I’m a keen golfer. There will be some overnight stays, in the best hotels, of course.

Terry is intrigued, but shakes his head. — Sorry, mate, ah’ve goat ma shifts planned oot, ay.

Unused to non-compliance in others, Checker is incredulous. — I’ll pay you twice what you earn in one week!

A big grin framed by a mop of curls gazes back at him. — Cannae help ye, buddy boy!

— What? Checker’s voice screeches in desperation. — Five times! Tell me how much you earn in a week and I’ll pay you five times as much!

— This is the busiest time ay the year, mate, the run-up tae Christmas and Hogmanay — even worse thin the fuckin festival. Ah’m clearin two grand a week, Terry lies. — Ah doubt ye could pey us ten grand a week jist tae drive ye roond!

— Consider it a deal! Checker roars, and dives into his pocket, producing a chequebook. Waving it at the back of Terry, he shouts, — Do we have a deal?

— Listen, mate, it’s no jist aboot the money; ah’ve goat regular customers whae depend oan ays. Other activities, if ye catch ma drift. Terry turns, tapping the side of his nose. — In business-speak, ye cannae compromise the core enterprise, no just for a one-off. Ye huv tae look eftir the long-term client base, mate, the steady-income stream, n no git hijacked wi side projects, as lucrative as they might be in the short term.

Terry can see Checker in the rear-view mirror thinking about this. He feels pleased with himself, although he is only quoting his friend Sick Boy, who makes the porn videos he occasionally stars in.

— But I can offer –

— Ah’ve still got tae say naw, mate.

Checker is astounded. Yet deep in his core he is sensing that there is something about this man. Perhaps it’s even something he needs. This notion compels Ronald Checker to utter a word that he can’t consciously remember leaving his lips since he was a child at boarding school. — Terry. . please. . He gasps at his use of the word.

— Awright, mate, Terry says, flicking a smile into the mirror, — we’re baith men ay business. Ah’m sure we’ll be able tae strike up some kind ay a deal. Just one thing but, pittin ye in the picture, Terry’s head swivels round, — they overnight steys in hotels. . thaire’s gaunny be nae bum banditry gaun oan!

— What?! No way, man, Checker protests, — I ain’t no goddamn faggot –

— No sayin nowt against it, if that’s yir thing, like, n ah’m no sayin thit ah’m no partial tae a bit ay back-door action masel, but a hairy ersehole wi a pair ay hee-haws dangling under it, well, that jist disnae dae it fir the Juice felly here. Terry shakes his head violently.

— No. . you sure won’t have to worry about that! Checker says, wincing on the bitter aftertaste, but just about managing to swallow the power-ceding pill.

The cab pulls up outside the Balmoral. Portering staff, obviously anticipating Ron Checker’s arrival, literally drop what they are doing, in one instance the luggage of another guest, to descend on the cab as the American steps out. The wind has intensified, a surging gust whipping Checker’s oily black-dyed locks skywards, holding them up in a formidable peacock-like display, as he talks to Terry.

Terry Lawson is far more aware of the hovering porters than Ronnie Checker, taking his time and savouring the slow punching of digits into his phone as the two men exchange contact details. They shake hands, Terry going in aggressively to the hilt, without leaving trailing fingers to be crushed, reckoning that Checker is the type of man who would self-consciously work on a dominant shake.

— I’ll be in touch, Ronald Checker smiles, a charmless display that most people could only evoke reflexively and privately if fortunate enough to stumble upon a much-hated rival falling under a bus. Terry tracks Checker’s departure, the American’s stride jaunty, as he tries in futility to flatten his hair against the ministrations of the gales, visibly relieved to walk past an obsequiously grinning doorman.

The porters are miffed to discover no luggage in the taxi, giving Terry some dubious looks, as if he is in some way responsible. Terry bristles, but there are pressing matters to attend to. The funeral of his old friend Alec is due to take place this afternoon. He drives home to his South Side flat, where he changes and calls Doughheid, to take him down to Rosebank Cemetery.