Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

— What? Terry’s head cranes round. — She doesnae even ken the bastard! Now she’s takin her bairn in tae see him?

— She barely kens her faither, so ye cannae blame her wantin tae know her grandfaither, Alice says quietly, her tone crestfallen rather than confrontational, so Terry sucks down a breath and starts the cab, pulling off without saying goodbye and driving right back into town.

The rain’s come on again, now falling in whipping sheets as Terry sets the wiper to work, cheerlessly negotiating the tired city-centre traffic. Having juggled multiple relationships for years, enduring all the myriad hassles, he believed that life without sexual encounters would at least become more straightforward. However, if anything, it seems to be getting more complex than ever, but without the telling pay-off. He decides to head back down to Leith and the sauna.

When he arrives, Kelvin is on the desk. Terry finds it impossible to look into those pinched, shrew-like eyes without the words TAXING CHEAT flashing into his brain. Although Kelvin had never called him, they’d swapped phone numbers as tired business protocol, and he’d punched his digits in under that designation. — Still nae sign ay Jinty? Terry mechanistically enquires.

— Naw, n Vic isnae chuffed, Kevin slyly trills. — He liked tae go a wee bit voodoo oan that scrubber, he volunteers, as Terry keeps his stare trained on him. — Bit ye could check oot that boozer in George Street, the one she goes tae every Setirday night. That Business Bar.

— Right, Terry nods, — ah ken the boy that owns it.

He immediately realises that he shouldn’t have disclosed that information, as it sets off a series of scamming gymnastics in Kelvin’s eyes that would be visible from space.

Then Sara-Ann phones, and Terry picks up to a storm of accusation. — Where are you? Where have you been?

He moves across the reception area, out of Kelvin’s earshot. — Busy, eh.

— I’ll bet! Sara-Ann roars. — You never think about one single soul other than yourself!

Terry is about to disclose his medical condition, but checks himself. A couple of girls are hanging around on the settees, talking and drinking coffee. Besides, rule number one: tell them fuck all. — Ah wis takin muh ma tae visit ma faither in the hoaspital, then helpin a pal look for this lassie in ehs work. He raises his voice to open out his motives. — She’s gone missin.

There follows a short silence on the line, which Terry takes as indicative of some kind of penitence. Then it is followed by a reaching, — When can I see you?

— Ah’ll gie ye a bell the morn. No bein wide, but I’m up tae ma eyes in it right now.

— Make sure you phone me! I need to see you!

A couple of days ago, Terry thought of Sara-Ann as a beautiful woman, feeling exalted in her company. Now that he can’t shag her, all he can see is hassle and need.

THE UNUSUAL SILENCE on the ride out to Musselburgh — other than Terry’s thin breathing and the ticking over of the engine — is starting to bug the shit outta me. I’m back on my phone, scrolling emails as I look out the window at the sunlight flickering through the threadbare trees. Maybe just a little sign that God ain’t quite given up on this place yet.

Terry must be about the only asshole I’ve never wanted to fire. Why? is the question that bugs me all the way out to the course. I run a business, and the first thing I wanna check is any employee’s résumé. I’m the star (the cocksucking, motherfucking STAR) of a TV show, where I repeatedly stress the same goddamn thing. So why did I hire Terry, some bum from a project, when I know nothing about him? I guess because he wants nothing from me. I guess because he said no. But he’s my fucking driver , and he orders me around! I take shit from this asshole that I ain’t taken from anybody !

God, give me the power to resist this strangely charismatic corkscrew-headed asshole and his crappy ghetto drugs. .

But hell, I gotta admit that I hate to see him crushed like this. There must be something I can do to cheer him up. I get a sudden inspiration. — You know, Terry, when I conclude this piece of business and obtain the second and third Bowcullen Trinity bottles, you and I are gonna open one of them, and we are gonna have a big drink from it!

— Aye, Terry says drearily, like I’ve suggested he lives off food stamps for ever, — but you said that the three bottles together were the investment. The big value was in the Trinity, and that two on their ain wirnae worth a sook.

I’m wondering what in hell’s name a ‘sook’ is — probably some Scarish name for a pound or ‘half a quid’ as those assholes put it.

— Hell yeah, but life is to be lived! If I obtain two, they can be the investment. I just let it be known that the third has been consumed. Then the demand for the two existing ones should become even bigger, once we concoct some bullshit story for the media of why we had to drink the third! C’mon! Let’s nail that motherfucker as a goddamn celebration!

Terry doesn’t seem too elated. — You’re countin your chickens, Ronnie, you’ve only got one bottle as things stand. Ye shouldnae take things for granted.

— Sack that loser talk, Terry. Think positive and take life’s prizes! It’s a foregone conclusion. I play off a five handicap, he’s a seven, and I’ve golfed head-to-head six times with that Dutch asshole, and won five of them! C’mon, buddy, think about it, a one-hundred-thousand-dollar bottle of Skatch, the most expensive whisky in the whole wide world ever , and we are gonna be drinking that sonofabitch. . I’ll bet you’re excited, huh?

— Cannae wait.

I’m trying to work out what this goddamn mood swing is all about. — That lil thing you’re sweet on been bustin your balls, huh? Ole Occupy? Hell, don’t worry about that shit! What was it you said about buses and broads, right?

Terry’s chewing on his bottom lip, like he’s fixing to say something, but opts to let it pass. We pull up in the parking lot and go to get a drink in the clubhouse. We opted for Musselburgh, as Muirfield is a little too well known. The hallway leading to the bar is dark and narrow. At the end there’s a radiance that hints at light without necessarily promising it. The Skatch seem to have embraced the outside darkness in their architecture and design, which throws up dark corners evoking concealed recesses, but also in the character of its people: full of hidden, bleak chambers. The broker, Milroy, comes in and joins us. He’s a worried-looking undertaker-like dude, close-cut receding hairline and the nervous grey eyes of a trauma victim expecting more shit-kicking pain to come down on his ass. The motherfucker deserving of real agony, though, is that asshole Mortimer, who still hasn’t shown up with the Skatch.

I call him, and he says he’s just left Edinboro airport as his flight from London was delayed. Third World bullshit!

I call Lars to tell him this and he ain’t happy, but he feels better when I suggest a game of golf. He and his henchman, whom Terry shakes hands with, arrive a little while later. Lars says he’s been working on his game and he wants to surprise me when we play off for the Skatch, so he’d rather go round with his own guy, this blond Nazi goon with the laser-blue eyes that seem to be perpetually looking for something to destroy. We let them go ahead, while Milroy and I decide to play each other. Terry’s caddying, or talking sneakily on his cellphone, probably to pussy, maybe even sweet lil Miss Occupy, as the game progresses.

Mortimer eventually arrives, wearing an overcoat and leather gloves, carrying the whisky in an ordinary duffel bag, as I instructed. He makes to open his mouth, but I decide that asshole’s penance will be to come round the course with me. Fuck his stiff Yankee ass! Well, he obliges, but he has that expression on his face, like he’s been rode long and put away wet.