Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

Ah’m thinkin aboot what else goat handed doon fae the auld cunt n ah wonder how the wee gadge goat tae be that simple. Ah mean the auld cunt’s nae rocket scientist, but Jonty’s auld girl must be a real fuckin dopester; either that or she droaped the perr wee bastard oan ehs heid at birth. Wee Lucy, ma first ex, she wis quite fuckin smart and oor Jason’s turned oot a lawyer. Viv, oor Donna’s ma, she wis nae mug either, but perr Donna’s mair like me: it’s a brains-in-the-underwear job. Neither wee Guillaume nor, tae be fair, the Ginger Bastard, seem like dummies but. Thank fuck ma auld lady wis the dux ay her class at DK, as she keeps tellin ays. No thit that’s sayin much, mind you, a bit like bein the best-lookin sex offender in Peterheid.

Aye, whin they shut that school doon aw the feral scum fae the tenements goat tae go tae Leith Academy wi the snobby bairns fae ower the links. Even as a fuckin sprog in Saughton Mains ah mind ay muh ma’s kid sister, Aunt Florence, greetin her eyes oot n gaun, ‘Oh God. . thir comin fir us. . they clarts fae Daft Kids ur comin fir us. .’

Course, the auld cunt wis one ay thum, that’s how eh goat muh ma. Goat her up the duff wi me, n they moved oot tae a new hoose in Saughton Mains. Steyed around long enough tae gie her Yvonne as well, then he fucked oaf, the dirty auld cunt. Rode his wey through toon eftir that, droapin bairns aw ower the place. Pre-Aids n CSA, the cunt wis laughin Twixes n Mars bars!

So ah takes the wee Jonty felly hame n watches him draggin the wheelbarry intae the stair. — Ye off tae yir kip now, Jonty?

— Naw, Terry, ah’m workin, no through the books but, sur. Ower thaire, aye, ah’m paintin The Pub Wi Nae Name, n eh pills oot a big key. — Ah’m supposed tae be daein it in the mornins, so dinnae tell naebody! It’s jist thit ah’ve goat mair work oan wi Raymond. Raymond Gittings. The Inch, aye sur, the Inch.

— Sound, yir secret’s safe wi me, bud. Ah’ll help ye sheet up ower thaire. Business is a wee bit slow, n ah gits oot the cab.

— Eh, ah cannae ask ye up, Terry, cause it’s gaunny make ays shy cause the flat’s minging, ken. But you wait here, ah’ll be right doon, aye sur, n the wee bastard vanishes. Ah gits back in the cab, n thaire’s a message fae Control, obviously Big Liz.

YOU’VE BEEN OFF THE SATELLITE AY LOVE TOO LONG, YOU BAD BOY! I THINK YOU NEED A WEE BIT AY DISCIPLINE!

Ah cannae bring masel tae type anything back. Then Ronnie’s on the phone, that cunt calls at aw ooirs.

— Terry. . good, I reckoned you might be on shifts, so I thought I’d try you.

— Ronnie, how goes?

— The goddamn whisky’s still missing. The police don’t give a shit, and Lars is busting my ass. Listen. . could I meet you at your place in an hour?

This is settin the warnin bells oaf. — Aye, fine, mate, ah goes, n gies um the address.

Sure enough, Jonty’s doon just a couple ay minutes later, n wi heads ower the street tae the pub. Eh pits the big key in the lock n opens the boozer.

We’re sheetin up in the gantry area behind the bar, n ah suddenly see a perfect opportunity for me. Ah’m lookin at the whiskies on offer, the Macallan’s aboot the best, n there’s a Highland Park, as well as they shitey Glenlivets and Glenmorangies that mugs whae ken nowt aboot whisky and think thir treatin themselves end up drinkin, n the usual blends: Bell’s, Grouse, Dewar’s, Teacher’s.

— What ye daein back thaire, Terry? Jonty laughs. — Ah hope yir no stealin drinks, cause yi’ll git me intae bother, aye ye will.

— Naw, mate, nowt here worth drinkin, ah’m a connoisseur these days but, ay, so ah helps him for a bit, then ah leaves the dippit wee cunt n heads back tae the South Side.

When ah arrive at ma flat, Ronnie’s thaire wi Jens n Lars, that ghoulish-lookin broker cunt n two fuckin slimy paedo bodybuilder types in suits. Straight away ye ken that these cunts are trouble, no that they wid dae much. It’s aw that pumped-up muscle; useless in a proper pager, nae functional strength in it.

— Listen, Terry. . Ronnie goes, takin me tae the side n lowerin ehs voice, — this is goddamn embarrassing, but the police won’t move quickly, so the brokers and the insurance company are investigating everybody who was around when the whisky went missing. This is at the insistence of Mr Simonsen. Eh nods ower at the Lars cunt. — I can’t force you to agree to this, I can only request. But we need to search your apartment. We’ve already done Mortimer and the golf club, and we, ehm, managed to convince the two guys to cooperate, Ronnie explains, and eh raises ehs hands. — Even my own hotel room has been gone over. Drew a blank each time.

— So ye found they boys fae the course then? How did ye manage that?

— Oh, we have our ways. Ronnie glances tae the suited-and-booted steroid nonces. — Not that it did us any good, there was no sign of the Bowcullen on them. But you see how we gotta cover all bases?

— Of course, mate. . ah goes, then looks at they two shrivel-scroted wankers, — cause ah’m reassured that ah’m no being singled oot. Just as long as yis dinnae trash the joint!

— You have my word, and I can’t thank you enough, Ronnie sais. — It goes without saying that I consider you above suspicion, but Lars has staked a lot of money and made an emotional investment in that Skatch, so he needs to be sure.

— Nae worries, boys, ah shouts, steppin ower tae the rest ay thum. — The only thing dodgy ah’ve got up thaire is some scud, n thaire’s nae illegal stuff.

— And we need to look in your taxi, too, Lars says.

— Okay, ah goes, n ah opens the cab door for Jens, then fishes oot the keys tae ma flat n gies them tae Ronnie.

AH’M NO FEELIN well. Aw feverish like, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur. . too much work. .

Aw feverish.

They noises in ma heid, like doors openin and shuttin aw the time. N thaire’s this smell ay burnin. Ah cannae stay in without Jinty n ah’m no gaun tae Penicuik tae see Karen n ah’m no gaun doon that Pub Wi Nae Name. Naw ah’m not. Cause they blame the fumes ay the paint oan me, aye sur, aye sur, that they do.

So ah phones Kind Terry oan the mobile phone n sais that ah wis gaun up tae the hoaspital tae see real faither Henry, n eh sais he’ll take ays. Aye, eh does, eh comes roond n ah meets um in the taxi at the fit ay the stair.

— You’re sweatin, Jonty, ye awright, mate?

— Aye, Terry, aye sur, n climbs intae the cab. — Ye no gaunny come n see Henry?

— Naw, mate, ah dinnae like the cunt.

— Ah dinnae like um either, but eh’s the real faither tae the baith ay us, Terry.

— Eh’s nae faither tae me, Terry goes.

But ah’m gaun up, cause ah ken that good people, they kin dae bad things, by mistake like, n mibbe real faither Henry wis the same n it wis aw jist mistakes. N eh saved ays, saved ma life, that time ah fell intae the harbour. Eh ey talks aboot it but. Aye eh does.

So Terry droaps ays oaf n ah’m up oan the ward n watchin um through that gless windae, sittin in ehs bed. Ah dinnae ken whether ah should go in n speak this time, or jist keep ma face pressed up against the gless. Like ah did whin the woman that wis wi Terry was here. Ah kin see a big mark oan the windae wi ma breath, so ah tries tae lick it oaf. Real faither Henry’s aw auld but looks like one ay the starvin bairns oan the telly, but in an auld sortay wey. Then eh turns ehs bony auld heid roond n looks right at ays. — Jonty, is that you. .? eh sais, in a voice aw soft. — Ma wee buddy. . come in. . come in. .

So ah jist sort ay steps roond n sits in the chair beside um.