Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

Jonty is totally enthralled by this notion. — Did that make you feel like God, like oan yir weddin night n that, Maurice? Bet ye it did!

Maurice bristles with repressed violence, staring harshly at Jonty. Decides that he’s too innocent to be taking the piss. — Yir an awfay laddie. . and he puts his hand on Jonty’s shoulder. Then he looks at him with tears in his eyes. — Ah suppose it did, Jonty. Aye, that’s how it did make ays feel.

— That must huv been double barry.

Maurice nods and takes a cigarette out of a gold case. The cigarette case is a personal signature and is very important to Maurice. He believes that Scotland’s smokers were guilty of self-sabotage, bringing the ban on themselves by looking like cheap jakeys, tawdry fag packets crushed into their pockets. How much time and effort did it take to load a cigarette case? Life was about perceptions. He lights up a Malboro, pushing his long, greasy grey hair out of his bespectacled eyes. The way his locks fall forward again reminds Jonty of a Highland cow, or more likely, he thinks, with his big yellow teeth, a Shetland pony. Maurice sweeps them away again. — Huv ye spoke tae her? Ma wee Jinty?

— Naw, ah try tae phone but it just keeps ringin. Tae be honest wi ye, Maurice, ah think mibbe she kin see it’s me but, so she’s no answerin, no pickin it up, aye sur, no pickin it up. Aye. Aye.

Maurice shakes his head. — Naw, it’s no that, cause she’s no pickin up for me either. He brandishes his own phone. Jonty feels Jinty’s phone in the pocket of his tracksuit bottoms, rubbing against his own one. — So what else wir yis arguin aboot? Maurice looks at Jonty through one measuring eye. — Apart fae the cocaine drugs and the felly doon The Pub Wi Nae Name?

— It wis money, Maurice, Jonty says, inspired.

— Aye, it’s tight, right enough. When wis it no, but?

— That’s right, Maurice, when wis it no!

Then the phone goes off in Jonty’s tracksuit bottoms pocket. But he has two phones, his and Jinty’s, both of which play ‘Hearts, Hearts, Glorious Hearts’.

— Ye no gaunny fuckin answer that?

Jonty gets to his feet and picks out the ringing phone. He is sure that he’s put Jinty’s on vibrate. But out comes her one, distinguished from his maroon device by its pink Earl of Rosebery case. He swallows hard, lets it ring.

— Answer yir bloody phone! It might be hur, at a phone boax or summit! Maurice’s eyes blaze.

So Jonty answers it, carefully walking across the room to the window. He presses it close to his ear. — Is that you, Jinty? It’s Angie! Whaire ye been, Jinty? Is that you? Jonty remains silent and clicks it off.

— Whae wis that? Maurice comments as he scrolls through the contacts list on his own phone.

— Wrong number, Jonty responds, — well, but, no a wrong number, sur, but ken one ay they yins, when they try tae sell ye insurance?

— Fuckin pain in the erse, Maurice grumbles, still fiddling around with his own device, but now more absent-mindedly. He looks up at his daughter’s lover. — Ah’ve nae money, Jonty. But ye ken that, n Jinty kens it tae. Ah’d help oot if ah could, but ah’m t-toilin masel. See they fuckin rid bills? Pey one cunt oaf, another cunt wants mair right away. Maurice shakes his head.

Jonty does too, because he thinks Maurice isn’t wrong. — Yir no wrong, Maurice, aye sur, truth be telt, yir no wrong!

— Wimmin. Maurice rolls his eyes up into his head, and for a brief few moments, under the lenses and the light, he appears to Jonty as the dead daughter he stuck in the hole, so much so that her lover lets out a gasp. — Ah’m no sayin thit Jinty’s easy, Jonty. Maurice fails to register Jonty’s desolation. — She wisnae an easy lassie growin up. His face creases into a sad smile. — Ye ken, ah’m surprised she stuck wi you fir that long. Thought she’d jist take the pish oot ay ye, like she did wi other laddies. Aw aye, thaire wis others awright, n plenty ay thum tae, Jonty! Maurice fixes Jonty in his layered gaze. — Ah’m no speakin oot ay turn here, am ah, Jonty? You ken the score but! Ye sais so yirsel! Yir argument! The other laddie! The Pub Wi Nae Name!

But Jonty doesn’t want to hear this, no he does not. — Naw, Maurice, yir right tae speak yir mind, aye sur, aye sur, speak yir mind, aye sur. . he says distractedly, as he sits back on the couch beside Maurice.

— Is thaire another felly? N ah’m no jist talkin aboot some bam wi a bit ay cocaine in his poakit! Is that whit ye urnae tellin ays? Maurice’s sectioned gobstopper eyes mesmerise Jonty. — She’ll be shacked up wi somebody else now! Takin thaim fir a mug! Am ah right?

Jonty’s brain is spinning, but all that escapes is a dark mutter. — Pub Wi Nae Name. . it’s no a guid place. Naw sur, it is not.

— You said it, Jonty! That Jake telt everybody eh’d rather go tae the fuckin jail before eh’d enforce the smoking ban in ehs pub. Eh joined EROSS, the fuckin loat! Hud ehs picture in the fuckin News ! Then, as soon as they brings it in, eh flings me oot for huvin a puff! Goes, ‘It’s ma livelihood,’ and Maurice’s face flares in rage. — That bastard stabbed Scotland’s smokers in the back!

— Stabbed. .

— Aye, ah go in thaire sometimes, n ah dinnae say nowt. Ah jist sit in the corner n look at him, n silently judge him, Jonty. Judge him on behalf ay aw ay Scotland’s tobacco users. Fuckin hypocrite!

— Judge. .

— But you nivir judge ma wee Jinty, n ah like that. Aye, yir loyal tae hur, n ah do like that, Jonty, Maurice repeats, seeming to stand up out of the couch, but only to shuffle close to Jonty, resting his hand back on his shoulder. — Ah dinnae ken what she’s telt ye aboot hersel, behind closed doors n aw that, but ah suppose her past is her ain affair.

— Ain affair, Jonty gasps softly, his own hand caressing his chin, as he stares off into space.

— Aye, thaire wis plenty ay thum before you. Maurice’s eyebrows crawl out from behind the top of his lenses, and up his forehead.

Jonty feels he should respond but he doesn’t know how. He thinks of Jinty, first pink, then blue, then gold.

Maurice sharply squeezes his shoulder. The arthritic paralysis in that hand makes it feel and look like the talons of a predatory bird. — N they aw hud a loat mair gumption thin you. He briefly looks to the floor and shakes his head. — Ah blame masel for that. Ah used tae tell hur, ‘Find a felly wi gumption.’ But a felly wi gumption wid soon see right through her. . He looks up at Jonty then bursts into tears. — Whaire’s ma wee princess, Jonty? Whaire’s ma wee Jinty?

Now Jonty has his arm around Maurice. — Thaire. . Maurice. . take it easy. . aye. . easy. ..

Maurice winds his arm round Jonty’s thin waist from the back and says, — Ah’m that lonely, Jonty. . nae Veronica. . n now nae wee Jinty. . ye ken what ah mean?

— Aye. .

— You’ll be lonely yirsel, Jonty boy. You’ll be missin her n aw, he moans in a low voice, but his eyes are busy, searching for a reaction. Jonty, cold and confused, doesn’t react when he feels Maurice’s thumb slip inside the back of his tracksuit bottoms, rubbing at him.

— Aye. . Jonty looks at the side of Maurice’s face, the inside of his nose, which is all wee red spider’s legs. He has the sense that something bad is going to happen, but feels that he deserves it.

— Stuck wi jist each other, eh, mate!

— Aye. . stuck. .

Then Maurice turns round and kisses Jonty on the mouth. Jonty neither responds nor resists. His stiff lips are like that of a letter box. Maurice backs away, but still sly and emboldened as he begins to untie the cord on Jonty’s tracksuit leggings. This doesn’t seem to Jonty to be as devastatingly violating as what he’d just done before. — C’moan, Jonty pal, hell mend us, but let me help ye oot ay this. . c’moan, pal. .