Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

Ah goes n watches ma DVD ay Heathers , cause thaire’s barry lassies in it. Sort ay barry lassies that wear black. But ah saw yin ay thum that wis aw aulder now, but in another fullum. Still wearin black, but. Then ah watches Close Encounters . We ey used tae say: di-di-di-di-di, me n Jinty, at the end. When ah goes back through, Jinty’s dry n looks barry. Ah turns hur ower n does the other side ay hur. Ah watches Born on the 4th of July then Platoon. It’s guid that people watch war fullums. If everybody watched war fullums they’d aw see thit war wis wrong n no fight any mair. That’s what’s wrong: too many fullums aboot peace. It disnae gie folk enough chances tae see wi thair ain eyes how wrong war is. Naw sur, it does not.

When ah gits back tae the bedroom Jinty’s nice n dry. She looks barry aw gold. Like a statue, but like Jinty still. But it’s still too early, so ah goes through aw ma Bond movies but ah cannae find the yin whaire the lassie’s gold, so ah jist watches Thunderball , which is awfay auld but good still.

Eftir it’s finished it’s aw late n ah looks oot the windae. Thaire’s naebody oot oan the street n hardly even a motor passin. So ah wraps her gold body up inside the Herts duvet cover, the yin we goat fae the Herts shoap last Christmas, n takes her doon the stair. Goat her by the ankles n jist pillin her behind ays. If anybody comes now ah’m done fur! Even if it is four in the morning thaire must be boys oan shifts n that. But she’s smellin bad, ah huv tae git rid ay hur. Ah cannae look roond cause ah ken her heid’s bumpin, n ah dinnae like that, nae sur, ah dinnae, but ah’ve goat tae git her oot ay the hoose n make it aw like she nivir came back eftir Bawbag.

We git tae the bottom ay the stair n ah goes tae the back green n gits that wheelbarry. Ah eases her doon intae it n takes hur doon the road. The rain is like needles. Ah’m pushin the barry n it’s aw cauld, frozen rain lashin at ma face n stingin ma hands oan the grip ay the barry. It gits the Herts duvet aw wet n ye kin see the outline ay Jinty’s boady mair. Ah’m no sayin ah’m no bothered aboot that, but ah’m mair bothered aboot ma hands, cause ah wish ah’d pit gloves oan. It’s awfay cauld n the rains like aw sleety n it’s nippin ays, aye sur, nippin ays like hell. The streets are empty, then a car goes past, n ah git extreme spiders in the chist , but it disnae stoap.

It’s deserted but thi’ll be folk hingin aboot at Haymarket n ah cannae risk gaun yon wey, naw sur, ah cannot. So ah’m gaun the back wey, hur in the Herts duvet cover, aw curled up. It’s hard work n aw, but ah gits roond tae the back ay the station n tae whaire they tramlines are. Thaire’s a fence but it’s goat a gap, so ah gits through first, then ah sort ay drags Jinty through behind ays. It gits hard but ah realise it’s cause ay the Herts duvet gittin caught oan the fence. Ah’m lookin aroond fir the best place tae leave hur, n ah drags hur acroass this ground wi lumps ay concrete n bricks.

We gits tae the bridge bit, n ah looks right doon thaire n that’s whaire Jinty’s gaun. So ah cowps her intae the big hole wi the widden boax sides n they steel poles inside it. As she faws it’s like ma hert stoaps beatin but whin ah looks she’s went right doon tae the bottom ay the boax, n missed aw they metal spikes. Aw sur, that fair makes ays gled cause it wid huv been awfay, awfay biscuits if she’d landed on they spears. Thir dug oot deep doon, ye kin hardly see her, jist a bit ay gold oan her airm thit’s come oot fae under the Herts duvet. So ah gits back doon tae the boatum ay the bridge n looks intae the hole the spikes came oot ay. Then ah starts fillin it wi rubble, kickin piles ay it doon oan toap ay hur, coverin her up. Then ah sais ‘Cheerio, hen’ n ah goes hame.

Ah’m hopin thi’ll jist tip the concete right ower her, but ah ken thi’ll probably find her.

Ah’m circlin roond tae go back the other way, oan that big wide road, n ah come oot at Haymarket n then this taxi stoaps.

CUNT, THIS NO gittin a ride is fuckin well drivin me nuts. Real fuckin nuts, but: voices-in-the-heid nuts, dark-fuckin-thoughts nuts — the whole-fuckin-loat nuts. So ah’m daein as much backshift as ah kin, drinkin they poofy caffeinated teas tae keep awake n tae distract masel. There’s fuck all at this time ay the night and year, it’s mair shift workers n no sae many scantily dressed burds aroond tae torture ye. Except probably Standard Life staff: they can strike any time.

Yisterday wis bad enough, huvin tae make a statement tae the polis aboot the whisky. Then they asked ays tae come doon tae the station at the South Side, n go ower it. — When was the last time you actually saw the bottle of whisky, Mr Lawson?

Ah telt the copper — an aulder boy wi a big sack ay flesh like a huge bawbag under his chin — that ah’d only set eyes oan it once, wi Ronnie, n that wis at the Bowcullen Distillery, when it wis still in its display case. Ah never actually saw it that day on the links, just Morty comin along wi the bag. Cunt could’ve hud a boatil ay Tesco’s shite or fuck all in that bag for aw ah kent, ay. Boy seemed satisfied wi that, or as much as any polis cunt could ever be.

Eftir ah had a wee rundoon tae Liberty Leisure. Nae word aboot Jinty, n they seem tae huv gied up oan her. Went fir a coffee wi Saskia, then back tae ma kip (oan ma ain, torture but, eftir spendin aw that time wi a fit burd), tryin tae git some Zs in before gaun oot at night. Ah goat a phone call, didnae recognise the number, probably a call boax, but ah kent the voice right away. — Get rid, was aw it said, before the line went deid.

Ah’m headin doon Balgreen Road n ah sees this wee cunt up ahead pushin a big aluminium wheelbarry, turnin oantae Gorgie Road. Fuck sakes, it’s that dippit wee Jonty! Ah pills up alongside um. Eh looks up at ays, sort ay worried at first, then eh’s aw smiles whin eh sees it’s me. — Jonty! What’s up wi the barry, mate?

— Ah’m takin it back, back tae ma bit, aye sur, that ah am.

— Awright? ah goes. The perr wee cunt’s wearin a T-shirt n a thin wee jaykit n eh’s soaked n shiverin. — Ye look freezin, mate. Jump in. Ah’ve goat the meter oaf! C’moan. Where ur we gaun?

— Jist doon the road, Terry sur, then eh points to the big barry. — Ye dinnae mind a wheelbarry in yir taxi?

— Hud a few wheelbarries back thaire, mate, ah laughs, but the wee cunt disnae git it. Eh stands lookin at ays. — Aye, ye look frozen, pal. Ah’d git masel hame if ah wis you, n ah gies um a wink, then thinkin ay Jinty n seein if ah kin catch um oot, — git tucked up beside the missus, eh!

The wee fucker jist stares at ays. Then eh goes, — She’s away, aye sur, ah dinnae ken whaire she went, naw sur. .

Perr wee cunt. Aye, eh’s bit fuckin simple, but ah kin tell eh’s no spinnin porkies. She’s shot the fuckin craw. Probably kipped up wi another felly right now. — C’moan, mate, hop in.

— But ah’ve goat a barry, Terry, a wheelbarry.

— Nivir mind that, jist load it in thaire, mate. .

So ah gies um a hand n we gits it in n ah takes um roond tae the all-night coffee place oan the industrial estate. Ah buys um a black coffee n gits a tea fir me. — Thanks, Terry, Jonty goes, — yir awfay kind.

— Cheers, buddy.

— Terry the kind cab driver, this dippit wee cunt goes. — Kind Terry. Yir kind but, ay, Terry? Ay yir kind? No a loat ay people in this world ur kind, Terry, but you are. Kind Terry. Ay, Terry? Ay yir kind?

Kind ay fed up wi this doolally wee cunt, if the truth be telt. But the wee radge’s certainly goat something gaun fir um: pillin a burd like Jinty. N accordin tae they cunts in The Pub Wi Nae Name, that something is located in the trooser department, wi nae bad-hert issues tae fuck things up. .