Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

Jonty wonders whether Maurice will remove the canary-yellow fleece. And yes, it’s off, and Maurice is rising and leading him to the bedroom. Then they are both naked, Jonty not looking at Maurice’s cock, smelling Jinty as they get under the covers. It’s not Jinty as he liked to think of her, but how she was at the end. Even with the windows open, the decaying scent has lingered, permeating the sheets. Jonty realises, with a sinking feeling, that he should have visited the launderette. Maurice, though, seems to register nothing. A Cheshire cat expression has insinuated itself on to his face, and for a second that is both grotesque and beautiful, Jonty gets a vivid sense of the daughter he loved in her father’s expression.

And all he can think of is that he deserves this, whatever is coming, because Maurice’s daughter is dead and it’s all Jonty’s fault. The least ah kin dae is lit him git a decent ride oot ay ays.

He hears a violent spit and feels a running wetness in the crack of his arse. It’s followed by a touch, gentler than he expected, and an invasive sensation, that Jonty guesses is a finger working itself into his anus. He giggles nervously. — Ha ha ha. . Maurice. .

Then comes a vice-like grasp on his shoulder, followed by a violent thrust and a sharper penetration; breaching, unremitting and searingly painful. — Try tae relax, Maurice coos into his ear, — makes it less sair. .

Jonty wants to tell Maurice that there is gel in the bedside table cause sometimes Jinty was prone to being sore down there and liked him to use it. But Maurice grunts and thrusts again, and Jonty grits his teeth in a scorching ache he feels is only his due. — Aye. . Maurice. . aye. . he gasps.

Maurice lets out a string of instructions and encouragements, all of which are lost on Jonty. Despite his fissuring insistence, Jonty thinks not of the father, but the daughter and the strange row that led to this bizarre place. Then Maurice rasps bitterly, in a different sound of triumph, — Remember the Alamo, and suddenly it’s all over. Almost immediately, Maurice is out of the bed and quickly getting dressed.

Jonty rises too, heading for the front room, picking up his discarded trail of clothes and dressing as he goes. His arse is sore and itchy, and his piles are irritated, like when he does a jaggy shite. Only, as Dr Spiers who prescribed the haemorrhoid cream explained, it wasn’t the shite itself that was barbed but the distended piles. So Jonty stands up at the window, looking outside across the street to The Pub With No Name, willing Maurice to leave the flat.

But Maurice seems in no hurry to depart. — Ah dinnae want ye tae git the wrong idea aboot me, Jonty, he says, stepping into the front room, zipping up his trousers as Jonty watches a bus pass by, — Cause ah nivir learnt that in the jail. It wis the sites, Jonty, the big building sites, he seems at pain to stress. — Aw aye, thaire wis wimmin back then n aw, sometimes tons ay thum. But in case ay emergency, ay, Jonty. Ye need tae learn aboot they things, just in case ay emergency!

For the first time Maurice seems to experience guilt as Jonty remains silent, his look far away, but focused on the wooden blinds in the window of the tenement opposite. The seasoned convict and construction veteran feels moved to leave the canary-yellow fleece that Jonty has expressed admiration for. — Take that fir yirsel, Jonty son, ah kin easy git another, Maurice nods sombrely, thinking he can perhaps see some ignition spark in Jonty’s eye in response to this gift. — Ah ken a boy oot at Ingliston. Same as that, but wi Detroit Tigers oan it.

Jonty watches him go, anxious as Maurice departs, fearful that he’ll change his mind and return to reclaim the fleece. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding when he hears the door slam. Listens to Maurice’s tuneful whistling of the ‘Camptown Races’, and the fading slap of his shoes on the stair. But then Jonty starts crying for Jinty, and he heads to the shower and tears off his clothes. He wants to wash everything away, but there’s no hot water and the shower seems to be broken so he wipes his bum instead. Then he heats up the kettle and pours hot water into a basin, lowering himself into it.

Jonty n Jinty. . naw you kin go first, Jinty; Jinty n Jonty, Jinty n Jonty, Jinty n Jonty, Jinty n Jonty. .

He sits there for a bit till the water turns tepid, shrivelling his balls. He shivers, decides to get up and go out, delighted that he has enough for a McDonald’s.

FUCKIN TOON HOTCHIN wi minge. Thir aw stoatin aboot blind fuckin drunk, in n oot ay ma fuckin cab, tae and fae thair office perties. N here’s me, totally fucked n no able tae dae anything aboot it. Jist drivin aboot, no really bothered if the meter’s switched oan or oaf. The next cunt ah take oot tae that bridge in the wee small hours ay the morning, ah’m fuckin well gaun ower wi thum. Cause ah cannae fuckin well live withoot a ride.

Ah’m still in a daze eftir what they sais at the hoaspital, that specialist cunt, Doaktir Stuart Moir, wi the follow-up results.

— Mr Lawson, I’m afraid it isn’t very good news. Your heart is not in a good condition and unfortunately there is no viable surgical solution to the problem. This means that you’re going to be on this medication for the rest of your life.

— What. .? But ah’m feelin much better, ah lied.

— Well, that’s good. But sadly your heart is a fragile vessel and cannot stand much excitement. If you look here. .

N this Doaktir Stuart Moir cunt started shown ays this diagram ay a hert, n gaun oan aboot tubes n ventricles n blood supply, n ah goes, — So nae shaggin? Nae shaggin ever ?

— It’s not going to get any better, Mr Lawson. You are literally fighting for your life here.

— Jesus fuck. . ye mean ah could peg oot any time?

— Not if you stick to the medication, and avoid stress and strenuous activity. . and sexual arousal.

— Ye mean ah cannae huv a fuckin ride? Ever?! In ma puff?!

The cunt’s just sittin thaire like ah wis talkin aboot needin an oil change in the cab. — I understand that there are huge psychological ramifications in this adjustment –

— Naw. You understand fuck all —

— so I’m going to refer you to Dr Mikel Christenson, who is an excellent psychotherapist, that rude cunt jist fuckin talked over ays, — and I strongly recommend that you make an appointment to see him, and eh handed ays this caird.

— A nut doctor? What good’s that gaunny fuckin well dae? It’s a hert doctor ah need!

This Doaktir Stuart Moir wanker jist takes oaf eh’s specs n dusts them oan this cloth, n ehs starin at ays wi they rid marks oan the side ay his beak. — Regrettably, the situation now is all about management of the problem, rather than treatment of it.

So ah’m walkin oot ay the office, oot the building, headin for the car park n the motor. Ah’m drivin around aimlessly, ignorin Big Liz on the computer, n ah cannae even look oot the windaes at aw this fanny aboot toon. .

Suicide Sal phones ays up. She’s left tons ay messages n she isnae gaunny stoap, so ah picks up. — Terry, where have you been? Why are you avoiding me?

Aw ah kin think ay saying is, — Listen, Ronnie wants your number.

— What?! Don’t you dare give that crazy creep my number! I loathe everything he stands for!

— It’s maybe tae your advantage, ah goes, pillin up in a lane oaffay Thistle Street. — He telt ays he read one ay your plays, n liked it. Sponsorship wis mentioned. Eh does a fair bit ay that, ower in America, ay.

A wee silence, then, — You’re fuckin kidding me!

— Nup.

Another hush oan the line. Ah’m thinkin it’s gone deid till she goes, — Well, I suppose it can’t hurt to talk, right?