Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

— Hop in, doll!

Saskia looks at the beaming smile and mop of corkscrew curls.

— I do not have money –

— Hi! This is me yir talkin tae! Hop in!

She doesn’t need to be asked a third time.

As they drive through town, Terry considers the saying ‘a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush’. He concludes that your hand in a bird’s bush, though, is something you can’t put a price on. . unless you were down in Liberty Leisure. Then it was about fifty bar. This is the direction he’s heading off in with Saskia, who says to him, — I go and see Jinty, but she is not in and her boyfriend says she isnae coming back. I think he knows what she was doing here and has stopped it.

— Well, that’s a shame, Terry says, enjoying the Edinburgh affectations of Saskia’s Eastern European accent, — ah liked that lassie. Rough as fuck and a wee bit mental, but she was sound. Where did she go?

— He did not say. Her boyfriend, he was a strange man.

— We aw are, hen, and so are youse. Terry gives her a smile, elicting one back from Saskia which strips away her worries, changing her face to reveal an intense, paralysing beauty, which lights Terry up from the inside.

Ya fucker. .

In moments of self-candour, Terry conceded he actually thrived on damaged girls. Somebody with her own career, place, money in the bank, no mental health issues. . that was fine for a while, but they soon tended to suss him out, once they’d had their rations of Auld Faithful. The nutters are hard work, yes, but they certainly keep coming back for more.

— When are you for finishing your shift?

— Once ah’ve droaped you oaf tae start yours, that’s me done. Goat tae meet a buddy.

— I can get out here if it is easier for you. .

— Nae worries, wir aw good. Terry checks the time on his dashboard. Ten minutes later, he feels a little sad as he watches her step out the cab, a discreet distance from Liberty. No formal pact is made, but both know it would do neither any good to be seen together by Kelvin.

So now he is off to meet Ronald Checker at the Balmoral. Terry notices that Ronnie is sporting a sheepish coupon. Nice tae see such a boastful rich fucker oan the telly looking like he kens he’s made a complete twat of himself!

— Where to, Ronnie?

— That Haddington place.

— So ye survived Bawbag then, Terry teases.

— Yes. . sorry about that. I guess I overreacted. See, I was there at Katrina, Ronnie lies, — as part of a government-backed task force. These people didn’t want our help, our leadership. It wasn’t the administration’s fault; the liberal media distorted it. But I saw a lot of shit. I guess I expected something on the same scale here.

— Aye, wisnae much ay a hurricane, or no that ah noticed. Terry pats his groin. — Ah wis involved in ma ain wee tornado at the time.

— Hell, I’ll bet you were! That gal was a feisty one, Terry, Ronnie declares, then his voice drops as his features seem to rush to the middle of his face. — You know, it’s always been a fantasy of mine to hate-fuck with one of those Occupy bitches! She ain’t got any buddies, huh?

Terry isn’t totally sure what Ronnie means, but is moved to consider the sexual encounters he’s enjoyed with posh fanny. Yes, opposites can attract, especially in the bedroom. At least in the short term. — No sure, but ah’ll ask her, mate.

They head out to East Lothian, which seems remarkably unscathed by Bawbag. At a stretch of woods that lead to the beach, they get out and look around. Ronnie is animated, the wind slapping the Mohawk across his skull like a comb-over. — Imagine if this place was a state-of-the-art golf course. . cut down those trees, level and landscape the area around it, some luxury apartments. . hell, we could revitalise this shithole!

Terry thinks it looks just fine as it is but keeps his counsel. In this game it is prudent to keep the customer sweet. Let them obsess over whatever shite they want. After all, everybody has their obsessions; yes, he concedes, even him.

— Whaddya think? Ronnie asks, crushing some wet bracken under the heel of his shoe.

— Cunts huv nae vision but, mate, Terry replies, trying to work out if this is a ‘we need to free ourselves from Westminster’s shackles’ or a ‘we’re muppets who couldn’t possibly run the place on our own’ number. Undecided, he ventures, — But ah’m no sayin nowt against nae cunt, mind. Huv tae say but, ah like the woods. Ye cannae compromise too many outside-shaggin sites.

This scarcely seems to register with Ronnie, who is breathing in deeply, filling his lungs. — Air sure is so sweet and fresh here, he concedes.

The next port of call is the council chambers in Haddington. Terry has fond memories of this town, with images of a girl from here dancing in his mind. As he parks outside the building, a man emerges to meet and greet Ronnie and usher him inside. Terry watches them depart into the old council building, and stretches out and yawns.

The rain has stopped, with the sky clearing up as dark clouds charge west with menacing intent, opening up a pallid blue. Terry exits the cab, then sees Ronnie’s Apple Mac on the back seat, and gets in, idly opening it. It’s still powered up. He goes online, looking for his favourite gaming site, and is tempted by a long shot at Haydock. He resists, moving on to Sick Boy’s pornographic website, X-tra Perversevere, and has an exhibitionist’s desire to show Ronnie The Fuck Locker: The Exploding Sex Bomb , which he regards as the best of his recent work. It culminates in him trying to bring off the frigid al-Qaeda operative, played by his friend Lisette, who is wired by remote control to a set of explosives in the Bora Bora caves (filmed near Dover), whereby her orgasm will detonate them and bring the entire terrorist network down. He thinks that it will chime with Ronnie’s politics. Then he is delighted to see that Sick Boy has finally put up the porn-football-hooligan film they did last year. The Biggest Hardest Mob is about a group of football-thug studs who learn that their main opposition mob have taken their girlfriends to Majorca. They drug the opposition mob, then film a full-on orgy with their rivals’ partners, which they later play back on the big stadium screens at the next meeting between the two teams. This is one you have to take your time with though, and Terry is pleased to see from the trailer that his love handles look tight.

He decides it might not be good to let Ronnie know he’s been browsing on his computer, so goes into the history to clear it. After completing this procedure, he realises that the window on Ronnie’s email account is still open. He reads a few; they are fairly dull and innocuous, though one, obviously from an ex-wife’s lawyer, seems a little ominous. The one that gets Terry, however, is from this morning:

Dear Mr Checker

I confirm that your recent offer of $100,000, for the remaining bottle of Bowcullen Trinity in our possession, is of interest to us. However, I feel duty-bound to inform you that we have had interest from another party, based in Europe.

With that in mind, might I suggest that you come and visit us at the Bowcullen Distillery, where you can enjoy lunch and our famous Highland hospitality, and you can examine this rare and highly prized collector’s item?

Yours sincerely

Eric Leadbitter-Cullen

President, Bowcullen Distillery

— A hundred grand for a fuckin boatil ay whisky. .? Terry gasps out loud, shutting the laptop, as Ronnie emerges, distracted in animated conversation with a portly man who is dressed in tweeds.

Terry gets out and walks towards them, as the man shakes hands with Ronnie and departs back into the chambers. — Awright, mate?