Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

— Okay. . what are you suggesting?

— The same arrangement. We pool our resources and approach this buyer, then make a joint purchase and play another game for the third bottle.

This Norwegian may be a goddamn cocksucker, but he sure likes a sporting wager. — Hell, yeah, we will! We’re gonna have ourselves a little series here! I’ll call you when the second bottle is in my hands!

I ring off, catching a sly glance from Renwick, as I get Mortimer on the phone. He’s still dragging his feet and going on about the land deal for the goddamn hotel and the apartments. I tell him straight: fuck the hotel deal, this takes precedence. The two-bit deal is only a cover for my acquisition of that sweet, sweet Bowcullen Trinity. The holiest Trinity outside of Father, Son and Holy Ghost!

I catch another glance at that Renwick douchebag; sonofabee has that slimy grin on his smug-but-dumb-ass peasant face, like he knows something you don’t. Well, ain’t about fucking golf, that’s for sure!

We’re tied on 74 going into the last hole, a five par and the longest on the course at 490 yards, and I pray for a victory against the wheezing Skatch charlatan.

If you are busy, oh Lord, please ignore me for seeking counsel on what seems such a manifestly frivolous matter. I only raise this safe in the knowledge that your energy and vision is boundless. As I said in Leadership 2: The Business Paradigm, ‘Strive for the eye of God in the pursuit of business, to see and to know all. Obviously you will never get to that point of perfection, but He loves the aspirational.’ (This was not an insinuation that you are susceptible to flattery; hell, that sickly offspring of vanity is a Mortal sin.) But please give me the power and eye to take out both this alcoholic Scot and the non-believing, cold-hearted socialist-materialist Scandinavian. For you are the power, the kingdom and glory, for ever, Amen.

And in this dark land, with its dull, bruised skies, He answers my prayer! A gargantuan drive down the fairway, a slick, hard pitch on to the green off the six iron, and a short putt against a brutish wind into the hole! A shit-kicking eagle on the last! That goddamn cocksucker Renwick comes in at one over! I feel a tumult of divine glory rise in my breast, till it dawns on me: I’m paying this incompetent asshole to teach me golf.

— Aye. . good game, the treacherous creature in the Pringle sweater reluctantly wheezes, as I turn to find Terry.

I see him, bunched against the clubhouse with his hands in his pockets, his brow furrowed and his eyes vapid and empty. He doesn’t even react when this woman in the parking lot is bending into the back seat of her car to get something, displaying a fine ass to the world. Worse, he bristles all indignantly when Renwick, looking like a sex offender, makes some lascivious comment. That ain’t like Terry! To look at his face you’d think the world was coming to a goddamn end!

JONTY KNOWS THAT it will now be impossible for him to take Jinty down to The Pub With No Name. Or even Campbell’s. No, not with the way she smells. He is moved to lament on the unfairness of it all, because Jinty was usually so clean. She was always showering, and not just in the morning, but also when she got home from work, from those dirty and dusty offices; it was the first thing she did. And the way she washed, that stuff she put on, not soap but this lotion from a tube that had gritty bits in it. Jonty sometimes tried it, but they always scraped him. All those creams and perfumes though, they made Jinty smell so nice and her skin so soft. Not like now: it is cold to the touch, and a fetid odour is rising from her.

And she isn’t waking up; just lying there on that bed. Jonty has tried to take most of the blood off her mouth and chin with the sponge. But she is starting to smell bad. They would be complaining in this stair soon, like people did. He worries about what they might say: That Jonty, eh shouldnae even be in the toon, eh’s jist a simple country lad fae Penicuik, he cannae take care ay himself.

But he still loves her so much, even after the terrible argument. It is so cold and damp, and wee Jinty has drastically changed, he can see that, but when he looks at her he finds that he is as stiff as ever. Yes, he still loves her. But he would have to put something on for them both. There is gel in the bedside cabinet. And then he is looking at her and touching his hardness and greasing it.

The flat is a mess. The bedclothes stink of Jinty; not how she was really, but how she is now. Jonty pulls the duvet aside, and looks at her lying there, all cold and different. He shuffles on to the bed beside her and fixes her fringe so that it falls into her eyes, like it sometimes did.

It’s easy to slide off her jeans, then remove her blouse and silky underpants. He keeps her bra on, not wanting to reach round her cold back to fiddle with the catch, not until he warms her up. — Aw, Jinty, it’s awright, Jinty, dinnae worry, Jinty, you’ll no be alone, ah’m comin, ah’ll be wi ye, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur. .

As Jonty’s weight falls on her, gas suddenly belches out from Jinty’s mouth. The rank air reeked even more. — Aw, Jinty. .

Jonty pushes and pokes at her opening with his greasy cock. Why did she do this to them? Why did she go to The Pub With No Name?

— Aw, Jinty. .

It seems like she is closed to him, but suddenly, a stinging, icy rush grips his dick as he slides into her. It is not an altogether unfamiliar sensation. When Jinty came in and her hands were cold (she always used to say ‘Cold hands, warm heart’) and she grabbed his cock, it was like a game they played: it was like that. She would say ‘Sorry, Jonty, my hands are really cauld’ and he would tell her ‘It doesnae matter cause ma cock’s still hot!’ But she is cold down there. — The wey ye like it but, Jinty, the wey ye like it, but ye huv tae wake up now. Ye huv tae wake up n move, Jonty grunts, as he thrusts. This will wake her up, it was like Sleeping Beauty. . if somebody could wake up through a kiss, how much more likely were they to do it with a ride? And Sting had done that. Sting had. Yes, he had. Jonty had seen it once in a play on the telly, which he’d only watched cause Sting was in it. Sting had rode a lassie into life.

WAKE UP, JINTY. .

WAKE UP. .

He almost stops when a fly pops out of her open mouth. It spins around in the air slowly, then lands on her face, crawling over it, before vanishing from his sight. They were like helicopters, flies, when they got tired. So Jonty grits his teeth and pumps. He will pump her back into life. But nothing is happening. He keeps thrusting. — Ah did it wi Karen, Jinty, ah ken it wisnae right, but ah wis feart, Jinty, ah wis feart ye’d nivir talk tae ays again. . talk tae ays, well!

For a spell it even looks like Jinty is enjoying it, like she used to. The hair falls back, and her face almost has a twisted smirk. Jonty’s fingers go up and he has to push his mouth hard on her frozen lips to be able to stand her cold, glassy eyes. That’s better. The way he could batter into her and she would always want more. But it isn’t the same, not now that she’s so cold and stiff, her lips all hard and blue, not the soft way she used to be. It is hardly like Jinty at all. But he loves her still and at least he can still make love to his beloved Jinty, not like that Barksie down The Pub With No Name. He wouldn’t look at Jinty now, he would turn his nose up, because people like that know nothing about love, and Jonty will never let his Jinty go because he loves her so.

But it isn’t the same.

And he knows: it isn’t right.

He keeps pushing, but it isn’t right as she’s that cold and it is all sore and tight, but he inches further in but it’s so cold, and her weight shifts under him, and her mouth, it hangs open again and that smell comes up like sulphur from deep inside of her and Jonty thrusts in further to try to bring her back, but that smell from her mouth. . shut yir mooth. . shut yir mooth . .