Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

Sara-Ann is packing her stuff, ready to go to her mother’s. She asks Terry something about his South Side flat, and he doesn’t like the hopeful looks she’s giving him. Terry changes the subject in the manner he knows best. — Time for a bit ay rumpy-pumpy before we head oot tae Porty-worty?

She locks her arms round him, grabs his curly mane and they stumble to the bed. It’s a wild and intense session, of the sort that makes Terry yearn for the appearance of a couple of video cameras and an overhead boom mike, and even the cajoling, bossy presence of Sick Boy, his face set stoically, holding a clipboard. It would be a price worth paying to have this one down on tape.

Afterwards, in the sweat-saturated wreckage of a bed, Terry, feeling a tweak of romance in his heart, says, — Kin tell you’ve no hud any bairns. That chuff ay yours is as tight as a drum!

— Is that supposed to be a compliment?

— Course it is, it’s the best yin ye kin gie a lassie! Naebody wants telt that thuv goat a fanny like the Grand Canyon. Yours is tighter than Gary Barlow eftir a tax bill!

They talk about past loves. Sara-Ann tells Terry she’s had relationships with men and women. Terry, or rather Auld Faithful, hears the second part only, and sends his brain a signal. — We’ve goat a lot in common.

— What?

— Well, you like lassies n ah like lassies.

— Yes, Sara-Ann concedes. — I was completely finished with men. Then Andy came along, and that was a huge mistake. She shakes her head and wonders out loud, — So why the hell did I get into this?

— If it helps any, just think ay me as a lesbo, but wi a cock n baws.

Sal looks pointedly at him. — That’s not an original comment, Terry. In fact, every guy I’ve been with has said something along the same lines.

Terry shrugs off the declaration, but makes a mental note never to use such a line on a bisexual woman again. — You goat Internet in this room?

— Yeah. She nods to her laptop. — Help yourself. Sara-Ann reclines on the bed, watching Terry push back his corkscrew curls, his gaze burning into the screen. — What about you, ever been with another guy?

— It’s jist no ma thing. Dinnae git ays wrong, ah’ve tried, Terry says, then looks up from the screen. — Ah thoat, thaire’s goat tae be something in this, so ah tried tae ram this boy one night. But ah jist saw that hairy ersecrack n Auld Faithful here, he pats his cock, experiencing a satisfying twinge, — jist wisnae feelin it. N ah kin git it up like that. He snaps his fingers. — Well, a fuckin adult-fullum actor, yuv goat tae but, ay. Then ah thoat it was cause the boy wis a bit butch, so ah goat a hud ay this wee tranny one night. Tell ye, plenty burds ah’ve banged, no you likes, have been a lot rougher-lookin than this boy. Shaved erse crack between peachy wee cheeks, so ah thoat: here we go, Terry explains, then his eyes fall back on to the screen.

Sara-Ann props herself forward. — What happened?

— Fuck all. This boy, he swivels in the chair into her full view and pats his penis, — eh still wisnae playin ball. Terry shrugs. — Aye, in an ideal world, every other laddie would be celibate, n ah’d be bisexual: increase the pool ay opportunities. But naw, I’ve hud tae come tae terms wi ma heterosexuality.

Sara-Ann sits cross-legged on the bed, and pushes her hair back. — What about if somebody tried to fuck you?

— No wi these fuckin Duke ay Argyles; ma eyes water just thinkin aboot it.

— I thought you tensed up, when I tried to, you know, with my finger. .

— Too right! Wi they nails you’ve goat? Ah’d be walkin aroond aw week wi an Evening News stuffed up ma hole tae try n staunch the bleedin!

— Shit. Sara-Ann glances at her watch on the bedside table, and pulls it on. — We should go.

They head downstairs and check out of the hotel, driving through the rainy Edinburgh streets. Terry knows he’s been lumbered, but part of him likes playing the Good Samaritan, and he takes Sara-Ann and her stuff out to, not quite Portobello, but snobbier Joppa, as he’d suspected.

— Wait, she says, — I’m just dropping this off. Take me back into town and we’ll get a drink.

Terry fights down his discomfort. — Ye no want tae get settled?

— No. I got settled for seventeen years in this place and I couldn’t wait to get the fuck out. Nothing has changed.

Terry soon sees why. Sara-Ann’s mother apprears, a thin, suspicious grey-haired woman, looking disdainfully at the cab. Terry’s first thought is that he’d love to give her one. He dispenses a friendly wave, but she responds with a sour pout and turns towards her daughter. — Now there’s an auld lum needs sweepin, Terry says softly, looking at the thickening outline of his cock in his tracksuit bottoms. Raised voices tell him that mother and daughter seem to be having harsh words.

Then her mother runs into the house, and Sara-Ann follows, slamming the door shut behind her. Thinking that she might not return, Terry wonders whether he should call her, but as he’s deliberating, Sara-Ann suddenly reappears. Her face is tense and white, and her eye make-up slightly smuged. It’s obvious that she’s been crying.

— I want to get fucking pissed, Sara-Ann declares, as she climbs into the taxi. — Somewhere cheap and nasty suits my mood right now.

— Ah’ll take ye tae the Taxi Club in Powderhall: cheapest pint in the toon!

They head into Leith, then up to Pilrig; Terry explains about tramworks, slipping into Powderhall through the backstreets of Broughton. When they get into the small club, it is practically empty, but Doughheid is playing darts with Cliff Blades, supervised by Stumpy Jack, a cider-drinking Falklands veteran with a prosthetic leg.

Terry introduces them to Sara-Ann. — This is ma mate Doughheid. Called so cause eh’s no the quickest bus in the Lothian Region depot.

Doughheid looks at him, bottom lip hanging south. — You telt me everybody called ays Doughheid cause ah wis eywis chasin the big money!

— Ah lied, mate, Terry admits, leaving Doughheid to consider the social implications of this revelation as he nods to a man with thick lenses. — This is Bladesey. And this slaverin peg-legged cunt here’s Jack. Terry sweeps a theatrical hand at his friends. — This ravishing beauty is Sara-Ann Lamont, known as Sal, and ah’m pleased tae say she cannae keep her greedy mitts off me!

Sara-Ann feels a strange coyness swamping her, hating herself for managing only a weak, prim retort, — You wish. . before she corrects herself. — Fuck, I’m just back in this place, and I’ve turned into Miss Jean Brodie already!

— Where have you come from? Bladesey asks in an English accent.

— Close to where you’re from by the sound of it. London.

— I’m from Newmarket, actually.

— Control been fuckin ye aboot lately? Jack asks Terry.

— Naw, as long as ah’m slippin Big Liz a length, she keeps ays awright. That McVitie is the real cunt, but he’s retirin soon.

— Aye, they’ve been at it wi me, Jack sneers, lifting a whisky to his lips.

— They cunts fae Control get oan yir nerves, Terry agrees. The other week thaire they pit ays oafline aw night cause ah widnae pick up a fare fae the Ferry Boat doon tae Granton. They goes, ‘You’re the nearest cab.’ Ah goes, ‘Ah’m in Queensferry Road, no Ferry Road, ya daft cunt. Learn tae read a fuckin map.’ That cunt McVitie, ah heard it wis, goes, ‘My satellite tells me that you’re the nearest cab.’ Ah goes, ‘Yir satellite’s aw tae fuck. Where the fuck’s that come fae, outer space or somewhere?’

Jack laughs. — Aye, you’ve goat the gen oan him fae Liz, right enough.

Terry glances over, sees a slight reaction from Sara-Ann at the mention of Liz’s name. — Ah’ve been maistly off the system though, cause ah’m workin fir this boy, Ronnie Checker, ken the American cunt oan the telly?