Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

— Ron, I’ve a meeting back in town, with the Haddington developers.

— CANCEL IT! DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT MOVING ON ANYTHING TILL I GET MY SCATCH BACK!

I go to the restroom and kneel on the floor and pray for the safe return of my bottle of Bowcullen Trinity and the apprehension of all the twisted, deceitful and incompetent vermin who have contributed to the loss of the second bottle of this beautiful creation.

Dear Lord, am I to infer that you do not consider me a worthy custodian of the Bowcullen Trinity? Have I been too selfish and vain? This was a personal thing, Holy Father. I wasn’t asking you to help me provide service jobs for local workers, or opportunities for investors from the business community. This one, just this one tiny little thing, was for Ron. Was I asking too much of you? Give me a sign, oh Father.

When I return, there’s a cop present. He tells us that the assholes have been apprehended, but that there’s no sign of the whisky. — They do not have it their possession. They claim to know nothing about it.

— So what in hell’s name are you guys doing about it?

— Rest assured, we are looking for it.

Rest assured. I am not fucking resting assured. It takes all the patience and strength the Lord blessed me with to keep my mouth shut. We get to the cab, Terry, Milroy the broker and myself. I’m loath to let Mortimer out my sight, but I don’t want that contemptible creature riding with us.

We are heading back to the city, in a tense silence, which Terry breaks. — Listen, mate, he says, lookin at myself and Milroy in his mirror, — ah dinnae want tae be pointin fingers, it’s no ma style, but that Mortimer cunt, what dae ye ken aboot him?

— Everything! He’s a senior employee in the company! I know a damned sight more about him than I do about you, I shout at him, — other than that you’re a goddamn drug dealer and a pornographer!

— That’s ma point but. Terry stays calm. — Wi me, it’s aw oot thaire, what ye see is what ye git. That Mortimer cunt but; he’s the iceberg, maist ay it driftin away beneath the surface. He raises a hand, miming the action. — Wis he wi ye at yon Harvard Business School?

— No, he’s a Yale man, but so what?

— Big rivals, they two, or so ah hear, Terry says, both hands back on the wheel.

— Yes, but — I try to explain as Milroy gasps ‘this isn’t good’ softly to himself.

— You’re fae the south, right? Ah’m bettin he’s fae the north, aye?

— Yeah. .

— So we’ve goat auld-school rivalry, the north — south divide; ah bet he’s fae auld money n aw.

Lord, I can just see Mortimer’s bland face, his ludicrous, buttoned-down shirts; smell that sickening aftershave, all covering up the stench of treachery! — That obsequious asshole! I never thought that he could stoop so low. .

— Sounds tae me like he’s the boy, Terry shrugs. — He’s goat access tae yir private email account, aye? Ah’d change that, mate, jist tae be oan the safe side, likes.

— I can’t believe that he. .

— It hus tae be said, the cunt’s nose hus been pit oot ay joint by the arrival ay Juice Terry oan the scene!

And Terry is right on the goddamn money! — You know, he is obsessed with you! He’s made all sorts of hints at your untrustworthiness!

— Hus eh now? Convenient, Terry quickly rubbernecks. — Seems tae me that he’s a breadhead that just husnae goat your vision, Ronnie. Aw obsessed wi his cut oan this Haddington deal. He’ll be on big bucks, ah’m bettin.

— It’s a good commission, and there’s a finder’s fee, cause he set this motherfucker up, through contacts he’d made when we were over here for the Nairn project. .

— He doesnae like this whisky lark, mate. Terry looks at me in the mirror, whipping that mop of hair back. — He thinks it takes your eye oaf the ball. So ah widnae be surprised if eh’s trying tae scupper yir big whisky deal oot ay personal gain and, of course, pure spite.

Terry may be a goddamn lowlife in many ways, but he sure has a good insight into the human condition. My phone rings again, and it’s Lars. He tells me that his broker is going to phone Milroy to engage a recovery agency to find the whisky. I’m happy about that; those useless cops won’t give a goddamn crap.

Mortimer.

If his hands are tainted with this treachery, I will smite that Judas asshole, so help me God.

‘PENICUIK IS AWFAY great, ah’ve goat muh ma, ah’ve goat ma mates.’ That wis a poem ah once wrote, back at the skill. It’s sort ay no true but, cause ah dinnae really huv that many mates in the Cuik, cause they ey took the pish. Aye sure, that they did. N Gorgie’s gittin the same. Even worse thin Penicuik, if the truth be telt. Thaire’s no a place as bad as that Pub Wi Nae Name in Penicuik. No sur, there is not!

Cause at least here ah’ve goat muh ma n muh sister. Whereas in Gorgie thaire’s jist Hank, but he’s goat ehs ain faimlay now. Ah ken eh’s no goat any bairns, but ye huv tae count Morag. Aye sur, ain faimlay, that’s what ah sais tae Hank, ah sais, ‘Yuv goat yir ain faimlay now.’ Aye, ah’ve goat Karen n muh ma, even if thir baith gittin awfay fat.

So ah’m back at the auld hoose, in the front room, n Karen’s sittin back in thon chair wi her cookies. She’s pit two sausage rolls in the microwave, aye she hus that. Thaire’s a smell in the hoose, the yin that ah like tae call the smell ay washin n soup. — Well, ah think she’s jist away n left ye for good, Jonty. Ye kent it wis gaunny happen sooner or later, wi a lassie like Jinty. Flighty. It wis ey bound tae happen.

— Bound tae, ah goes.

— Flighty, that’s Jinty. Ye deserve better, pal.

Ah keep hur phone oan ays still. It goes oaf sometimes but ye kin see the names come up, like ANGIE n that, n ah ignores it. But this time it’s ma phone that’s gaun in ma poakit, no Jinty’s. It’s Raymond Gittings; ah kent it wis him cause ehs name came up. Aye, it’s barry how thair names come up now so ye ken whae it is, aye sur, ye dae that. Ah jist ignore thum aw oan Jinty’s phone; Maggie, April, Fiona B, Fiona C, Angie, ah jist lit thum aw run tae voicemail n leave thair message. Then ah play back the messages hudin the phone tae Jinty’s cauld ear, soas the guid Lord in the sky’ll ken thit ah’m no listenin intae hur business.

But this time it’s ma phone thit’s ringin n it’s Raymond. — Raymond, ah kent it wis you, wi the caller ID, that ah did. Saw yir name n ah goes: that’ll be Raymond.

— Aye, Jonty, yon caller ID it’s a barry thing right enough!

— Is it no though, Raymond! Caller ID!

— Listen, ah’ve goat a wee joab for ye. Couple ay housin association flats doon the Inch. Smoke damage, Jonty. Ah’m doon thaire right now, ma wee pal. Goat ledders, spare overalls, the lot. Ah really need a hand but, Jonty. Ah ken ye go by Shanks pony n Lothian Regional Transport, but when kin ye git yirsel doon here?

— Ah kin be thaire in an ooir, sur! Ah sur, an ooir!

— Kent ah could rely oan ye, Jonty boy! See ye in an ooir, 61 Inchview Gairdins.

— Ye see, ah’m no in Gorgie but, eh no, ah’m at muh ma’s in Penicuik. Aye sur, that ah ah’m. One bus, just the one bus.

— An ooir then, Jonty boy, Raymond goes, n eh pits the phone doon.

Ah shouldnae go oan like, bit ah git aw stressed in the chist whin ah talk sometimes, aye sur, stressed in the chist, like the spiders ur crawlin around in thaire. Aye. Ah ken ah’m paintin The Pub Wi Nae Name, but ah huv tae be loyal tae Raymond, even if it means workin in The Pub Wi Nae Name at nights. — So ah huv tae go now, ah tell Karen, aye, aye.

So Karen’s no happy, cause she’s been through tae the kitchen n brought the sausage rolls n goat they chocolate-chip cookies oan a plate, the yins that are aw American. It’s makin her aw fat, eatin American stuff. — Yuv jist goat here!