Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

Maggie is torn. Part of her just doesn’t want her daughter to see her like this, while another part tries, in futility, to stress to herself that it’s no big deal. — I. . we. .

— Mum, what you do with your life is your business. Really. She looks at Terry.

— Terry. Ah’m. . eh, I’m an old friend of your mother’s.

— That’s also pretty apparent, Amber says. There is a charge in her voice, and Maggie can’t make out whether it is because her daughter disapproves, or is hostile to any assumption on her part that she might. — Well, I’m going to stay at Kim’s and give you guys some space.

— Nae need, ah’m just off. Shift on the taxis, ay. Nice tae see ye, Scarlett.

— I’m Amber.

— Sorry, wrong colour, Terry grins, and heads back up the stairs.

After a spell, Maggie follows him into the bedroom, where she finds him putting on his shirt and buttoning it. — Fuck!

— She’s a tidy young lassie. A credit tae ye, Terry says, pulling on his jacket.

Maggie sees the glint in his eye. — Don’t even think about it!

— What dae ye take ays for! Never crossed ma mind, Terry protests. He is never as convincing as when he is blatantly lying, and despite a lifetime spent in council chambers, Maggie just about buys it.

Terry calls Bladesey to see if he is still in the neighbourhood, but he’s taken an airport job. Doughheid is around, however, and he picks him up fifteen minutes later, taking him to his South Side flat.

Terry immediately gets changed, then ventures back out in his own cab, as there are some deliveries to drop off in west Edinburgh, mainly the schemes: Broomhouse, Wester Hailes, Sighthill and Saughton Mains. Having completed this task, he thinks about heading down to Liberty Leisure, The Poof’s facility, but opts to swing by the Gallery of Modern Art at the Dean Village, in case there is any posh fanny kicking around. He is delighted when two young women flag him down and climb into the cab. — Whaire’s it to be, girls?

— The Minto Hotel, one says in an American accent.

— Sound. Whaire’s it ye come fae?

— The USA.

— Aye, ah’d figured that one out, Terry says. — Whereaboots in America?

— Rhode Island.

— Rhode Island? Tell ye something for nowt, Terry whips his head round, winking, — they should call it ‘Ride Island’ if thir aw like you pair!

AH LIKE STEYIN in Oxford Street, cause you’ve got it aw here in the South Side. Quiet street, close tae the toon for office minge, near the university fir young student fanny, and a nice wee spot tae take lassies fae the scheme. Nowt too fancy, jist a tidy wee front room wi a big L-shaped settee, a bedroom wi a king-sized, n a wee kitchen wi aw that protein-shake stuff — ah live oan they cunts, me. Ah dinnae keep much furniture in the pad; ah like tae call it minimalist in design concept. Ah’ve goat a bookcase wi some books Rab Birrell lends ays which ah nivir fuckin read but ah keep tae impress the student burds. Moby-Dick, Crime and Punishment , that sort ay shite. That Dostoyevsky cunt, ah tried tae read um but every fucker hud aboot five different names, n ah left the scheme tae git away fae aw that! Too fuckin right.

Ah go tae Hog’s Head for second-hand music n film, git ma free Wi-Fi in the Southern Bar. The Commie Pool’s jist roond the corner; swim n trim, lean Lawson. Aye, we’ve goat the loat here in the South Side. Nae Starbucks in Leith, maybe doon by the civil service at the docks, but no the real Leith! Loads ay wee cafes tae, ah never bother wi the boozers here much, jist the Southern fir the Wi-Fi, ay.

And drivin a taxi is the best joab ah’ve hud in ma fuckin puff. Guaranteed. This is Juice Terry’s finest hour; even the gig as aerated-waters salesman on the juice lorries cannae compete wi this! The fuckin night owl here, heid gaun aw weys, lookin oot the windaes ay the TX4, ready to swoop on stray Mantovani! And they pey you! It’s aw oan the meter, n the meter disnae tell fibs. It’s best in August, wi aw the snobby tourist rides in the toon, but this time’s barry n aw, cause the festive period’s roond the corner n fanny are stoatin aboot rat-arsed. Problem wi Scotland is, aye, thaire’s tidy fanny, but wir a bit mono-ethnic. Loads ay dark-heided lassies, a few blondes, gingers n brunettes, but maistly aw white. Ah envy some cunt cabbyin doon in London; you git tae mix it up a bit mair doon thaire.

Ah dinnae care for Lothian Road but yuv goat the Filmhoose, Usher Hall n the Traverse here, eywis decent spots for posh fanny, ay. But nane aboot; the shows must be in progress. It suddenly starts tae rain, really chuckin it doon, n a crowd ay boys ur jumpin oot at ays, waving me doon, but ah jist speed up n watch them jump aside, laughin as the fuckin muppets shout and swear eftir ye. Ah’m no interested in these cunts; it’s lassies ah want. But ah decide tae stoap, fir the sport, tae git a wee deek at they relieved faces, then ah lit thum git close before shoutin, — GIT TAE FUCK, YA FUCKIN VICTIMS! Then ah’m oaf like fuckin shot doon the road, enjoyin the looks on they coupons in the rear-view mirror!

Fae the wine bars tae the bingo halls, cradle-snatchin (turn ay phrase, legal limits, like) tae ambulance-chasin, fat, thin, posh, destitute; everywhere thaire’s fuckin Gary Busey, you’ll see me purrin up kerbside in this fast black, ready tae run it right up thair fuckin erses!

These Yankee burds didnae half doodle-dandy, did they no, the other night! That wis a result! Of course, ye eywis go for the lassies oan hoaliday, thaire’s nowt like gittin away fae it aw tae lower a burd’s inhibitions. Now ah’ve goat another Septic oan the mobby, that fucker Ronnie fae the other day, him wi the heid like one ay they dinosaur radges, the yin that stabs the T-rex in the gut wi ehs horn, before gaun ower the cliff wi the cunt. — I need to get taken to East Lothian within the next few days. A place called Haddington.

— Piece ay pish, bud. Ken it well.

— Great, I was thinking about tomorrow but I hear a hurricane is gonna hit the city.

— Aye, so thir sayin, that Hurricane Bawbag.

— This is serious shit. Katrina totally pulped New Orleans, and you guys don’t seem prepared for this!

— Naw, mate, aw ye git here is wind n rain, same old, same old fir us but, ay.

— I don’t think you’re grasping the magnitude of the situation here, Terry.

— Dinnae worry, buddy, you jist stey holed up in the Balmoral till it aw blaws ower. Lit room service look eftir ye. N if ye want company, dinnae ask that concierge cunt, thi’ll jist set ye up wi some snooty hoor that’ll take ye tae the cleaners. Ah’ll bring a couple ay game lassies roond whae ken how tae perty, n it’ll cost ye nowt but yir minibar tab n mibbe a couple ay Gs. This burd ah ken, done some scud wi her, she’s the toon super-groupie; she’s banged every sportsman, TV personality, fitba player n stand-up comic that’s set fit in this place. Her nickname’s ‘Venue 69’ cause she’s that busy during the festival. She’d love tae git your notch oan her bedpost. Gen up.

The Ronnie felly’s voice is fused wi steel. — I thought you didn’t know who I was!

Fuck, ah blew that yin, but ah stey cool. — Hudnae a Scooby till ah googled ye this morning. I like tae check aw my clients in case thaire’s anything dodgy gaun oan. Nae offence likes. Business takes balls!

Course ah kent the cunt, right fae the off. A wee silence, then eh goes, — Very enterprising. . you can’t be too careful. But I have to ask you to be discreet.

— My middle name, buddy boy. Ye cannae bedroom-hop like the Juice felly and no ken the meaning ay the D-word inside oot! So ye wantin that intro tae the fanny or ur ye no?