Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

On The Poof’s approach, Terry feels his buttocks clench involuntarily. There’s going to be trouble. He has done some business with The Poof before, delivering cocaine to the sailors at the naval base in Helensburgh, before a security crackdown had burnt his fingers and made it too dangerous a market. — Terry. . A familiar fetid cabbage-stalk breath assails him.

— Sorry, Vic. On reflection, ah realise it wis in bad taste. . the speech likes, Terry concedes, again checking out where The Poof’s young accomplice is situated.

— Fuck that! It was brilliant! Some cunts huv nae sense ay humour. The Poof shakes his head. — Alec would be laughin his heid oaf. The day wis aboot him, no thaim, and he flashes a reprimanding sneer over at the grieving family.

Terry is so relieved, he lets his defences fall, showing a greater receptiveness to The Poof’s subsequent pitch than would normally be the case. — Listen. Ah need a wee favour. I’m off tae Spain for a wee spell, two or three weeks, mibbe mair. The Poof drops his voice. — Between you n me, ah’m gittin a wee bit ay heat here. I need you tae keep an eye oan the sauna. Liberty, the one doon by Leith Walk.

Terry feels his meagre nod slowing to immobility. — Eh, ah dinnae really ken that much aboot saunas. .

— Nowt tae ken. The Poof waves a dismissive, ring-covered hand. — Besides, ah hear yir still at that porno vid stuff, wi that cunt, what’s his name again, him doon in London?

— Sick Boy, aye. Now and again. A wee hobby. Nae poppy in it but, ay.

The Poof raises a doubtful eyebrow. — Just check in a couple ay times a week, and he glances at his young cohort, now putting a sandwich and sausage roll onto a paper plate. — Keep that taxin wee cunt Kelvin, he’s the wife’s younger brother, and they fuckin nippy hoors on their taes. . or thair backs. His face creases in a grin. — Make sure it’s the doonstairs lips that’s gittin wide, n no the upstairs yins!

Terry knows he should be sharing a collusive cackle, but feels his features sinking south. This is hassle he doesn’t need.

The Poof is far too astute not to realise that threats are a last resort in securing compliance, and that, in the first instance, winning hearts and minds always works best. — Obviously, thaire’s free cowps in it for ye, oan the hoose. Some nice goods n aw.

— Fair dos, Terry says, unable to stop the words spilling from his mouth, even though a part of him is outraged. He has genuinely never paid for sex, and he tells The Poof this.

— We aw pey for it in some weys, The Poof observes.

Terry considers his three previous divorce settlements and the CSA harassment he’s been subjected to, and can’t dispute this. — Yir no wrong. Ah’ll swing by later.

— Kent ah could count on you, buddy. The Poof gleefully, and not too lightly, punches Terry’s shoulder. — Kelvin! he shouts to the sidekick, who pivots, tuned like a dog to a high-pitched whistle, and bounds over.

— Terry, this is Kelvin. Kelv, Terry’s gaunny be helping ye oot at Liberty while ah’m away.

— Ah telt ye, ah dinnae need –

— Done deal, The Poof waves his protests down. — Be nice, he warns.

Kelvin seems to contemplate this, before dispensing Terry a curt, gunfighter nod, which is returned in equally minimal measure. The Poof, catching the vibe, attempts to introduce levity by throwing out some football inanities. If Terry had wanted to extricate himself before, he is now determined to do so. He likes football, watches it on TV and still occasionally goes to Hibs games, but regards it as utterly pointless as a general topic of conversation. He excuses himself and goes to look for Maggie, deciding that it’s time to build bridges. He finds her standing alone by the bar, drinking whisky, seemingly in deep contemplation. He grabs a glass from the table and holds it up to her. — Absent friends?

She reluctantly clinks drinking vessels.

— Sorry aboot the speech. Ah jist thoat it was what Alec wid’ve wanted.

— But what aboot what ma cousin wanted?!

Terry is delighted that the alcohol has brushed aside the professional refinement and Maggie’s tones are, once again, straight out of Broomhouse. — Ah admit, ah wis wrong. Ah didnae think aboot that, Terry nods. The truth is that his speech was partially pitched as a wind-up to Stevie. Alec was a jakey, yes, but at least he had a good heart, unlike his own father, and Stevie had never appreciated that.

— You n him were close, Maggie says.

— He wis one ay the best, n we wir great mates for years, Terry agrees, then his face tightens teasingly. — Mind ay how him and I first met? Through you!

Maggie blushes through her whisky glow. — Aye. . she says, evoking a younger, previous self to Terry, and with enough flirtation in it for him to feel encouraged.

After another couple of drinks, their chary joint exit follows, with a stroll down Newhaven Road. It is cold and wet, and there are no taxis around. They take the gamble of pushing on to Ferry Road and the only vehicles in the vicinity are the heavy lorries that whip menacingly past them, bound for Leith Docks. Terry senses Maggie is quickly going off any boil she might have been on, but thankfully, a cab approaches, driven by Cliff Blades, a drinking friend of Terry’s from the Taxi Club in Powderhall. — Hop in, Terry! Blades cheerfully sings in his English accent, before he notices their demeanour, dress and locale, and puts two and two together. — Ah. . you’ve been at the crematorium. . sorry for your loss. Anyone close?

— Naw, it wis the cemetery, ay. Aye, her uncle, Terry sombrely nods to Maggie, — and a very close pal ay mine. Maggie, this is ma mate Bladesey, and he forces levity into his tone. — Dinnae get him started on Scottish nationalism, for fuck’s sake.

— Scottish independence please, Bladesey ticks.

— No, I won’t be doing that, she says pointedly.

Cliff Blades, despite being English, is a keen advocate of Scottish independence, while Maggie, though privately convinced of the argument, still holds the Labour Party whip in the council chambers.

Bladesey is known to be discreet and drops Terry and Maggie off at her place in Craigleith. Terry is surprised how rampant she is, how Maggie leads him straight to the bedroom without any pleasantries. Surely he couldn’t have expected her to be the chaste, demure teenager he’d encountered in this scenario all those years back? It seems that Maggie is just pleased to get a bit of solid cock inside her, with no questions asked. He’d heard the split from this Colin guy had been long and protracted. Now with her daughter at university, she can let rip again.

And they do, with gusto.

Later, as they are lying in bed, and Terry is looking at his watch, wondering how long it will take him to get another erection after just spending himself (he reckons somewhere between three and four minutes), they hear the sound of the key in the door coming from downstairs.

— What. . Maggie sits up, torn out of a satisfying post-coital doze, — what’s that. .?

— Some cunt’s in the hoose, Terry says. — You expecting anybody?

— Nuht. . Maggie is out of the bed and into a robe. Terry follows, pulling himself into his grey trousers. Used to leisurewear, the material feels strange against him.

On going downstairs, Maggie immediately heads into the open-plan kitchen and sees her daughter Amber, making a sandwich. — What. . I thought you were in Glasgow, at the university. .

— I’ve come home for Lacey’s twenty-first this weekend. Amber briefly looks up.

— I’ve been at my uncle Alec’s funeral; I was just having a lie-down. .

— Evidently, Amber snorts, as she sees a bare-chested Terry appear behind her mother.