Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

— Aye, cannae hack gaun roond the schemes wi this ticker. Thaire’s eywis some burd wantin a wee laugh, ay.

— Your rep precedes ye, Juiceman.

— Aye, but now it’s a fuckin curse instead ay a blessing, ah tells um. Then ah gits back intae toon n sorts the darkie boy oot, then goes tae get Ronnie at the hotel. He’s goat his clubs so wir headin doon tae the coorse.

Ah chops oot two lines ay gak. — Git some speed up but, ay.

Ronnie isnae happy at aw. — We don’t wannabe pulled over by the cops again! You shouldn’t be doing this stuff with your heart condition! This is the worst idea ever. You need a steady, relaxed tempo for golf and coke is probably the worst drug you can do for it!

— Git oan yin, it’s jist a wee tickle fir the road! It’ll huv worn oaf by the time we git doon thaire. Think Bawbag!

Ronnie doesnae look convinced, but it’s still gaun up ehs hooter. Sometimes it’s no aboot what ye need, it’s aboot what ye want. — Hell. . yeah. . he says. — I got some good news. This Lord asshole of Glenbuttfuck, who has the third bottle of whisky and who hasn’t been returning my calls, is finally starting to cave in. Lars and his guys have put in a joint offer. Of course McFauntleroy’s pricks are playing hardball, but we should be able to close the deal.

— Still nae sign ay that second boatil?

— No. . Ronnie says, suddenly aw downcast again. — It’s like it’s vanished into thin air. I’ve got a private investigator full-time on Mortimer, but so far there’s nothing to suggest he has it.

Ah ken what’ll cheer the cunt up. — Ah gied Sal yir number.

— Wow! Think she’ll call?

— Whae kin tell wi lassies but, mate. Mind you, yuv goat fame and fortune oan yir side, n that’s a better aphrodisiac than column inches, if ye catch ma drift.

Ronnie says nowt, but ah widnae size that cunt at mair than five inches tops.

So we’re hittin the M8 and beatin the traffic. We’re doon thaire in just over an hour. It’s a big, open course, no many trees or bushes, which makes the wind a factor. So we’re on the fairway, n Ronnie’s gaun intae his clubs, n pills oot a fat bastard. — Golf rocks, Terry. Once you approach forty, believe me, it beats sex. Every time. He smiles n shows ays the basic drivin stance. Eh does a couple ay trial swings then hands ays the club. — This is a short par-three hole.

Ah looks ahead, thinking aboot Kelvin’s snidey face concentrated doon intae that wee baw. Looks up the fairway. Looks back n takes a swing at the cunt. The baw fairly fuckin flies: long and straight. It bounces oantae the green, rolls quite near the hole.

Ronnie lets oot a gasp n ehs eyes ur bulgin oot his heid. — Wow! Well done, Terry! I dunno if it’s beginner’s luck, or maybe you’re just a natural!

We walks doon n ah’m close tae the hole, much closer than Ronnie. But ah fucks up wi the putting, n takes four instead ay two. Ronnie makes it in par.

It’s the same fuckin story at the next couple ay holes. Ah’m awright at the drivin but this fuckin putting is a fuckin heid-nip! Then something hits ays like a ton ay bricks n ah suddenly understand it now; how aw life’s frustrations are aboot no gittin yir hole! This is what gowf’s aw aboot, that n overcomin aw the obstacles oan yir wey! At the end ay the game ah sais this tae Ronnie, n eh goes, — You were very good, Terry, you’ve got the swing of a natural and that is the most important asset a golfer can have. You just have to concentrate more when you’re putting.

We go tae the clubhouse for a drink. Then Lars comes in wi Jens, n the broker guy. Lars is aw frosty-faced and says, — They want one hundred and eighty grand for the third bottle.

— We oughtta bite their goddamn hands off!

— Pounds, not dollars.

— Motherfuckers! Did you tell him that there are only two of the Trinty around, and that it’s worth less?

— It is not worth less to us. It’s worth more, and he knows it.

Ronnie shrugs. — Okay, let’s do the deal. I’ll call my guys — not fucking Mortimer — and ask them to make the bank transfer to your account.

The Lars felly nods, aw slow like a Bond villain. — Obviously, once the deal is completed, this bottle will remain in my possession until we have played the golf, he sais, looking at the dippit wee broker boy. — It’s only fair, given your custody of the previous bottle.

Ronnie puffs ehsel up, like eh’s aboot tae contest this, but thinks better ay it n slumps back intae the chair. — I guess I can’t really argue with that, eh goes. Ah’ve gotten fond ay Ronnie, but that cunt would have been a shiny-ersed fillin clerk in the civil service if eh nivir hud ehs auld man’s money n Ivy League contacts.

— I believe that you do not have the bottle, but it did vanish while in your custody, auld Venus n Mars goes. — Therefore, there must be a punitive element in our challenge. My assistant, Jens, is a decent golfer, and then he glances at me, — we shall pair up in the game for the new bottle. Your partner will be your man, and he looks at ays again.

— Ah’m no a gowfer, mate, ah goes.

— Terry’s just had a club in his hand for the first time today! Ronnie sais.

— I’ve not been quite transparent with you, this Lars boy smiles. — I’ve already procured bottle number three with my own cash. Now we have one bottle each.

— We agreed the other two bottles would be jointly purchased and played for –

— That was before you lost one. Now we have one each. He nods to Jens whae opens up a case, n there’s the Gherkin-shaped gless boatil. — We play for the two bottles, yours and mine, and we play with partners, which will be these two.

Well, Ronnie’s fuckin speechless, and says he’ll think aboot it. Lars tells him no tae think too long.

So we’re headin back tae Edinburgh in the cab. — What ye gaunny dae?

— He knows how much I want those bottles. It’s high stakes, winner takes all. Two bottles or none.

— Ye cannae be –

— I think we can beat those assholes, Terry!

— No way. . ye cannae trust me tae win ye that bottle ay whisky, Ronnie, ah ken how much it means tae ye, ah goes, cause ah cannae believe this. This cunt off the telly, this billionaire boy whae’s faced aw they Ivy League posh cunts in The Prodigal , this wanker fuckin believes in ays! As eh should. But it’s that cunt whae needs tae make me, Juice Terry, believe in him .

— I want them all, he’s fuckin haverin, — and that asshole has me over a barrel. I’m even betting he’s in on the disappearance of bottle number two, perhaps with Mortimer. .

— Ah’m game, Ronnie, but ah’ll really need practice time.

— I’ll get you that! We’ll be out every day, Terry, and when I leave town, I’ll have you working with that golf pro asshole!

Cause ah’m fuckin well thinkin: it jist might fuckin work. Ronnie’s better than Lars, n even if Jens’s better than me, we’ve still goat a fuckin shot!

So it turns oot no a bad day at aw. That evening ah’m sittin at hame reading that Moby-Dick when the door goes. Ah’m gled ah dinnae answer it, cause it’s Suicide Sal. Fuck, ah hope her plays are as good as her lays, n that Ronnie’ll take her oaf ma hands. Ah look oot fae behind the curtains n see her walkin doon the street. When the coast’s clear ah go oot for a pint ay milk, roond tae the Hamilton’s. Whin ah gits back, the door goes again n ah’m shitin it. Then a text wi Jason on caller ID: C’mon, Terry, let me in. I’m outside .

Ah opens up. It’s great tae see him and ah grab um in an embrace. Eh feels stiff and tense, as eh gies ays these wee pats oan the back. When ah lit go eh sais, — What’s up?

Eh looks like ehs filled oot a bit, like muscle, as if eh’s been daein weights. Eh’s goat a number-one cut. Ah see a lot mair ay Lucy, ehs ma, aboot um, especially roond the eyes, no sae much ay me. — It’s that good tae see ye!