Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

But assuming the position at the old taxi rank seems to be a mistake. He’d always enjoyed sitting in Nicolson Square taxi rank on hot days, not taking any fares, just watching the student girls lying about, waiting for somebody who wanted ching to swing by. But now his circumstances have changed, and the hang-out brings nothing but pain, as Auld Faithful tweaks and his damaged heart starts pumping up his pulse rate. Then, worse follows.

— Are you the film-maker? The slightly plummy English accent belongs to a pretty young girl with short dark hair. She wears a tight green top and seems to be overtly thrusting a bounteous chest at him.

— What. .? Terry says, thinking for the first time, not of scud, but of Iain Renwick’s confessions tape, copies of which had been sent to the golf pro’s wife and the secretary of his club in North Berwick. Renwick had been subsequently thrown out of his home, lost his job at the club, and was living in a rented caravan in Coldstream.

— I’ve got a friend in third year who says there are two guys, Simon and Terry, who make these fun movies. . the girl explains, raising her eyebrows, — and Terry sometimes drives a taxi.

— Nup. . ah mean, aye, ah used tae. Packed it in but. Terry wearily hands her Sick Boy’s card. — Muh mate Simon’s still at it but, ay.

— Pity. . they say you’re an animal. . she winks and sashays off like a catwalk model.

Terry laments how you once had to work hard to convince lassies to do scud. Now many students just see it as another way to supplement their income. They practically audition. He decides he can’t stay around here, so drives down to Leith and the sauna. He is still checking up on Kelvin and the girls as The Poof has opted to stay in Spain indefinitely. It hadn’t been too bad, mainly because the police had finally taken an interest in Jinty’s disappearance and had been down the sauna asking questions. This had led to Kelvin behaving better around the girls, but it didn’t last when police attention cooled off again; Terry had faced more inquiries from them about the missing bottle of the Bowcullen Trinity, which still hasn’t been located. Scottish Television News ran a feature about the absent whisky, with the purchaser reported as ‘an anonymous overseas buyer’. A glum-faced detective described the probable larceny as ‘a major antiques robbery, most likely by a gang of unscrupulous, organised, international criminals. This is not like somebody shoplifting a bottle of Teacher’s from their local off-licence.’

The latest news from the USA is that Mortimer has filed defamation of character and anti-harassment lawsuits against Ronnie, his former employer. He is also planning to write a warts-and-all biography of his ex-boss, which Ronnie is trying to quash.

On entering the sauna, Terry’s heart skips a beat as he catches sight of Saskia’s eye. It is swollen and bruised, the damage badly concealed with foundation. He looks from her to Kelvin, who whips his head away in guilt, then turns it quickly back, his features reset in truculence.

Terry keeps quiet, but he hangs around till Saskia finishes her shift and confronts her outside. — What happened?

— It was a door, I was silly. . she mumbles unconvincingly, trying to pass him on the steps.

— It was him, ay? Kelvin?

Saskia nods fearfully. — I want to leave here, Terry, to get away. I am nearly at the money I need to go.

— Listen, ah’ll gie ye money. Just go.

— But I need two more hundred pounds. .

Terry digs into his pockets and peels off three hundred in fifties from a horse-choker of a wad. — Take this. Don’t go back in thaire. Ever. You got any personal stuff in there ye want, anything valuable?

— No.

— Then go.

— But. . I cannot pay you back.

— Nae need. I’ll call ye later. Just dinnae set foot in there again, Terry says, jumping back down the steps to the basement. He throws open the door and springs across to Kelvin, pushing him against the wall, wedging his forearm into his throat. — You fuckin prick, he hisses, watching Kelvin’s eyes pop.

— Vic’s gaunny hear aboot this, Kelvin moans in low, strangulated tones.

As Terry’s free hand clamps like a vice on his genitals, Kelvin manages a ragged squeal. Conscious of his own heartbeat rising dangerously, Terry sneers, — Consider this a yellay caird for persistent offences. Next time these boys ur comin oaf, and he drinks the fear in Kelvin’s eyes. He is fronting it, but knows that Kelvin is too much of a shitebag to discern the difference. He lets him go, and Kelvin is cowed, too scared to even mumble a stock, empty half-threat of defiance. Terry gets back outside and starts the cab, heading out to the Royal Infirmary.

Things have gotten very complicated. Now The Poof will be on his case. Why the fuck, Terry asks himself, am I putting himself on the line for a bunch of scrubbers?

He thinks back to all the people he’s wronged. The biggest of them all, Andrew Galloway: his childhood mate who committed suicide. His friend did this for all sorts of reasons, but Terry knows that the fact that he was shagging Gally’s wife couldn’t have helped. Gally is a horrible internal scar at the centre of Terry, which has never healed. And he knows that it never can. But what makes it infinitely better, especially as he gets older, is at least trying to do the right thing by people in a vulnerable state, rather than taking advantage of those circumstances.

By the time he gets to the hospital, though, the skies are black and it has started to rain again.

Terry walks down the institutionally lit sterile corridor, averting his eyes from every nurse that passes him. Despite managing to get on to the links around five or six times a week, he still has bleak days and sees a Danish psychologist, who reminds him of Lars. His gut is expanding over his trousers, and he is tired. Always so very, very tired.

He has never gone so long without some form of sexual release since he was about six years old. Even a porno shoot accident, several years back, hadn’t incapacitated him for this length of time. Now he is condemned to a life of celibacy. He will never enjoy a decent ride again, and a dark, gloomy phantom seems to walk every step alongside him.

Standing up ahead, his back to the wall, is wee Jonty MacKay. He has his eyes shut and palms outstretched, touching its cold, painted surface. It looks like he is meditating. It has been a while since Terry has seen Jonty up here. — Jonty. What are ye daein?

Jonty’s eyelids snap open. — Hiya, Terry! Hiya, pal! Ah wis jist imagining thit ah wis gittin shot by a firin squad, Terry! Aye sur, a firin squad! Like they wir gaunny pill the trigger any minute. Cause it’s a shame fir people thit git shot by firin squads n ah wanted tae see what it felt like; aye sur, tae see what it felt like.

— No nice, ah’d guess. Terry yawns and stretches. Then he sees another familiar figure shuffling towards them. He formally introduces Jonty to Alice, although they’ve exchanged a few words previously in cross-over visits to Henry. They let Mrs Ulrich, as Alice calls herself, go on to the ward.

Jonty believes it is wrong that both Terry’s mum and his mum have been married to Henry. If it was up to him, it would just be one man and one woman like it was with him and Jinty. However, if that had been the case, he considers, he wouldn’t be here. But Henry Lawson is a bad man. He was his father, yes, but he wasn’t a kind man like best faither wee Billy MacKay. However, wee Billy had also run away from his mother when she’d gotten so fat that she couldn’t leave the house. Then Henry had come back, making all sorts of promises, but Jonty knew it was only because he had nowhere else to go.

— What wis it like growin up wi him. . that Henry? Terry can’t bring himself to say ‘father’. Why the fuck is he still hingin on?