Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

— You’re talkin aboot sex but, no love, Guillaume goes as we gits intae the Montgomery n sits doon. Ah shouts up three fish suppers tae the lassie behind the counter. Ah’m thinkin, ‘a bit heavy, wi they varicose veins,’ but that mingin bastard Auld Faithful twinges back in the Morse code ay the baws, ‘in a fuckin minute!’

— You’re only nine, ah snaps at Guillaume, — ye shouldnae be thinkin aboot yir hole right now!

— He’s got a girlfriend, the Ginger Bastard says, laughin n pointin at um.

— Naw ah’ve no! Guillaume grabs the Ginger Bastard’s finger n bends it back. He screams oot.

— Enough! ah goes, n they settle doon as the grub comes ower. Jesus sex-case Christ. Talk aboot the inappropriate sexualisation ay bairns! That school must be fill ay fuckin nonces, groomin the perr wee cunts! What’s aw that aboot? You tell me! — Yous’ve goat a couple a years before ye start thinkin aboot that stuff, ah tell thum. — Ah wis eleven before ah popped ma cherry, ah explains. These wir mair innocent times: bairns the day ur like fuckin animals.

JONTY WALKS INTO the Roman Catholic church. Looks in awe at the statues of Jesus and the Virgin Mary. He wonders who has more money, the Pope or the Queen: the feudal Roman Catholic Church or the British monarchy and aristocracy. Speculates whether, as a painter and decorator, it is better to be a Catholic or a Protestant.

He’s scared at first. Real dad Henry used to say to him as a kid: Dinnae go in thaire, son, or the funny fellys in the frocks’ll git a hud ay ye. But it was very posh, not like the old kirk in Penicuik with the Reverend Alfred Birtles, the minister with the hair growing out of his nose, who had a strange dampish smell that Jonty always associates with church.

He sees the confession booth, enters and sits down, like they do on television. He senses that the other side is occupied and, sure enough, the hatch slides open. The thin hands of a man are partly visible through a grille. There’s a fresh smell of aftershave, and the polished wood of the box, not like Reverend Freddie Birtles’s musty, dank smell. — Hello, my son, the voice of the priest says. — What troubles you?

Jonty clears his throat. — Ah’m no a Catholic, Faither, n ah dinnae agree wi huvin a pope, naw sur, naw sur, ah do not, but ah want tae confess ma sins.

— I really think you should see someone of your own faith, if you feel the need to unburden yourself, the priest says. His tone is very deep, Jonty thinks. This concerns him, as it is the voice of a less kind schoolmaster.

Jonty does not like what he is hearing. — But you’re supposed tae help but, sur, aye, meant tae help, cause wir aw God’s children, likes. Aw God’s children, Faither, that’s what it says in the good book, aye sur, the good book.

— But the act of confession is a sacred covenant. For it to work, you need to have faith. You are of the Protestant faith, I take it?

— Aye sur, aye sur, Prawstint, sur, that’s me, a Scottish Prawstint, Churchy Scotland, sur. Aye aye aye.

— So why here? the priest says. — You don’t have any connection with, or belief in, the doctrine and teachings of the Roman Catholic Church.

— Aye, ah dinnae like pape stuff usually, naw sur, but ah like that confession. That’s barry! Ah like the idea ay bein able tae confess ma sins. Guid fir the soul, sur, aye, guid for the soul.

He hears the sound of the priest forcibly expelling air. Then, the voice slowly and deliberately says, — But you don’t understand; you can’t simply pick and choose a particular article of a faith that happens to interest you. A Church isn’t like a supermarket!

Jonty considers Tesco’s, Sainsbury’s and Morrisons. How some things were better when you bought them from different shops. — Mibbe it should be but! That wid be awfay guid, sur, see, if ye could jist pick oot the best bits ay each religion! If ye didnae huv tae go tae church at aw, unless it wis fir weddins n funerals like us Proddies, n ye could git confession fir yir sins like youse papes, n then dress up the lassies like they Muslims dae, so that other men couldnae look at thum!

— I don’t think –

— Cause that’s the problem, Faither, that’s what ah want tae talk aboot, whin other laddies look at yir lassie!

— I really think you should leave –

— But wir aw God’s creatures –

— Please leave, before I call the police, the priest says, and Jonty can hear him rising.

— Aw sur, nae need fur that, sur, ah’m gaun, sur, and Jonty gets up, but when he moves outside he’s confronted by a younger man than he’d assumed, a cub priest. Jonty is shocked; this sort of man could get a girlfriend if he wanted, he doesn’t really need to bother with children. — That’s me away then –

— Go! The priest points to the door.

Jonty quickly runs out of the church. He knows that the priest would never catch him in that frock, even if he was a young fellow!

Outside it has turned cold. Jonty can see his dragon breath, but he keeps running until he gets to his own stair and safety. Mrs Cuthbertson from across the landing is coming from the other way, struggling with a big bag of messages. — It’s awfay cauld, Jonty son.

— It is that, Mrs Cuthbertson, it is that. Cauld, aye. Lit me take that bag ay messages up fir ye. Aye. Yir messages. Jonty holds the heavy stair door open and the thin-framed old woman squeezes inside, anxious to take refuge from the wind.

— God bless ye, Jonty son, ah cannae manage like ah used tae be able tae.

— Nae worries, aye, nae worries, Jonty says, taking the bag. — Fair weight, Mrs Cuthbertson, aye, an awfay weight, he repeats, but it’s no trouble for him. Although thin, Jonty is wiry and has strength.

— Yir no jokin, Jonty son. Mrs Cuthbertson feels her aching shoulder and arm pulse in grateful relief. She’s walking slowly alongside him as they start climbing the stairs. — Aye, yir a guid laddie, Jonty son. One ay the best.

— Jist a simple country lad. Penicuik, aye sur, aye sur, Penicuik.

Mrs Cuthbertson shakes her head. Her eyes spark fervently. — Dinnae you lit anybody tell ye thit yir simple, Jonty son, cause yir no. She points at his chest. — Mibbe yir slower cause yir no a city boy, but yir no simple. Yuv a good hert, Jonty son.

— A guid hert disnae count for nowt but, Jonty contends, and, thinking of the misery with Jinty, he advances the proposition, — disnae make ye happy, naw it does not.

Mrs Cuthbertson is hurt; she puts her hand on her bony old chest. — Dinnae say that, Jonty son. If yuv no goat a guid hert, yuv no goat nowt.

— Ah well, mibbe, Jonty nods, coming up to the landing, — but if yuv goat a guid hert some folks jist want tae stick a knife in it. They see that guid hert like a target, like a bullseye on a dartboard. They go: ‘We’ll git this guid hert here.’ Aye they do. Aye they do.

Mrs Cuthbertson’s face hangs at this response. Jonty knows that what he says is true, but her obvious melancholy forces him to say nothing further. He leaves her and gets into his flat. He realises that he’s shivering again, through walking in that cold drizzle outside with his wet collar up. He glances into the bedroom, sees Jinty, eyes blue-rimmed like she has on eyeshadow, in the bed as he left her, her head propped back on the stack of pillows. He thinks about going in, and is ready to knock on the door, but pulls his hand away and heads into the front room. He looks across Gorgie Road towards the bridge and The Pub With No Name. A taxi rumbles by.

Juice Terry is driving into town. He’s been to see his mother in Sighthill and has dropped off a couple of messages in Broomhouse and his old stomping ground of Saughton Mains. He looks at The Pub With No Name and thinks about going to ask after Jinty. However, there’s a familiar twinge in his groin area. — Yon time, he says to himself, and responds to one of the two messages Sara-Ann has left him, and heads for the Caledonian Hotel.