Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

— Comes tae us aw, Hank replies in the same tone. — Appreciate ye comin, n drivin them n that.

— Nae bother. Sorry for your loss.

— Aye, the wrong yin went first.

— Amen tae that, Terry happily endorses Hank’s caustic observation. An occasion, one of the first when he’d seen Hank, is dredged up in his memory. He must have been around fourteen, maybe fifteen, and he was up the town with some mates, Billy, Carl and Gally, at the east end of Princes Street. They were probably on a Saturday-shoplifting expedition before going down to Easter Road for the football. There was Henry, dragging this crying, distressed six-year-old down the road. Terry was hyperventilating, he felt for the kid, actually wanted to take him away from the old bastard. But to do what? His own son, Jason, had been on his way to arriving in the world, and he hadn’t known what to do then, or subsequently. He’d just blanked Henry that time. His friend Carl had seen him do this, then looked at him and turned away in a strange kind of proxy embarrassment. Carl, well dressed, with his loving, funny, exuberant and interesting dad, who seemed to have enough time for them all. Even Billy had his cheerful, stoical old man, very quiet compared to his outgoing wife, but always a rock-solid presence. He remembers envying his friends with those guiding, protective figures; men who created havens in their modest homes, instead of wreckage and chaos. He thinks about his own offspring. Jason has thrived, in spite of, or perhaps because of, his relative absence. Guillaume and the Ginger Bastard seem to be doing okay. Donna is a different story. It dawns on Terry that she’d not just needed him to be there, but also to be different. And he’d come up short on both counts.

— This is Morag, Hank points up at the woman in the cabin.

Morag nods thinly, and Terry returns a smile, reflexively flirtatious, before a thump in his chest slackens his expression.

The extra-large coffin is unable to fit into the back of a traditional hearse, so Marjory MacKay is transported to the crematorium on a flatbed haulage truck, reminding Terry of the juice lorries he’d worked on as a youth. The vehicle slowly rumbles into the city, exasperating Terry as he’s stuck behind it most of the way. At this point, the tramworks actually have made crossing Princes Street a frustrating, turgid experience, and he feels all his cabbie’s scamming fibs coming back to haunt him.

Eventually, the party, running a little late, pull into the crematorium. The funeral had indeed cleaned out the meagre family finances. As well as the gargantuan coffin, they needed to hire extra bearers to carry the monstrous box into the chapel of rest. The men look very relieved to lay it on the belt. — That’s nivir gaun doon that space, Jonty, Karen remarks from the front pew.

— Aw aye, Karen, aye it is sur, Jonty nods. He and Hank had talked to the funeral people. He nods to Hank. — Ay, Hank? Ay it is! Measured it aw, ay, Hank?

— Fuckin is, Hank says curtly to Karen.

The service passes smoothly enough, although anxious mourners glance nervously at each other as the creaking weight of the coffin is lowered towards the cellar and the incinerator. Terry studies the Book of Psalms, trying not to be distracted by the women present. Few people were expected as Marjory had been isolated for many years, but several loyal Penicuik folk with long memories have shown up. Billy MacKay, barely recognised by Jonty, Hank and Karen due to his silver hair and his own portly frame, is in attendance.

If Jonty feels a little uncomfortable at the presence of Billy, he is jolted to see Maurice, in an electric wheelchair, sporting a black corduroy jacket with a dribbling stain on the lapel. He moves over to Jonty. — Shaw the notish. . notish in the paypuhr. . thoat ah’d pey ma respects. .

— Respects, said Jonty.

Terry approaches them. — Whae’s that cunt? he asks Jonty, vaguely recognising the crumpled figure in the chair from somewhere.

— Jinty’s faither, aye it is.

— Aw. . nice ay the boy tae show but.

— You. . you. . did the thing. . wi the fleece. . Maurice suddenly tugs on Jonty’s sleeve, slavers trailing down the side of his face, — fleeeeccee. . fleeeceee. .

Jonty pulls away. — Now now. . now now. . c’moan, Maurice. C’moan now, he protests.

Terry is raging, and grabs the handles of Maurice’s chair and pushes the distressed, protesting figure towards the exit. — Fuckin beat it, Stephen Hawking, perr wee cunt just loast ehs fuckin ma!

— Ah loasht. . ah loasht. . Maurice groans as Terry swivels him round and bumps him down a set of steps, leaving him in the rain, before jumping under the canopy to have a quick cigarette. As he pulls out a smoke from the case, Maurice sees the gleam of the gold and becomes more agitated. — Kay. . kay. .

— Fuck sake, Terry mutters and produces a cigarette. Maurice’s trembling hands fumble for the case, but Terry snatches it away. — Watch, ya cunt, he snaps, standing back and lighting a cigarette and sticking it between Maurice’s lips, before heading inside again. — Boy’s a bit simple, but ye cannae cause distress tae the bereaved, he announces, taking in the acquiescent nods.

Down in the basement, underneath the small chapel, Craig Barksdale and his colleagues, Jim Bannerman and Vicky Hislop, watch the huge box descend towards them. — Fuckin hell, Vicky says excitedly, turning back and looking at the incinerator. — That’s never gaunny fit in the oven!

— Aye it will, Jim contends, — measured it masel. Thaire isnae much clearance but it’ll work oot awright. The biggest problem is gaunny be getting it oantae that trolley and over there. I’m not sure it’ll take the weight.

— Only one way tae find oot, Craig says ruefully, as they watch the coffin descend from the creaking hoist, on to a set of rollers. Then they take a corner each, sliding the box on to the trolley, one end of which Vicky has fastened by a catch to the edge of the table. She pulls at the front of the coffin and it begins to slide towards the trolley. — We’re gaunny huv tae git this ower there quick, or these legs might no hud, Jim says, as Craig and Vicky nod in agreement.

Sure enough, the legs of the trolley groan and buckle as Vicky undoes the clip and it careens drunkenly towards the roaring furnace, the three operatives struggling to keep it straight. Craig surges forward and lowers the coffin edge on to the bottom jaw of the large oven. The heat drives first him, then the others, back to the periphery of the room. The weight of the coffin makes it impossible for them to push it all the way into the incinerator by the use of the huge ‘pizza poles’ as Jim calls them. The three of them need all their weight on one pole before they are able to force it, inch by sweaty inch, into the furnace, the heat scorching at the skin on their faces. By the same painstaking means, they are able to shut the cast-iron doors of the incinerator.

Sweating, gasping and greatly relieved, Jim signals to Craig, who stoically hits the controls to send the already flaming furnace up to its highest setting. The trio then gratefully go to the large refrigerator, procuring for themselves bottles of ice-cold water, keeping its door open to enjoy the luxury of the cool air. After a couple of minutes, Craig checks the gauge. The temperature dial in the furnace is deep in the red zone. — Gaffer, he shouts at Jim, — check this. .

— Jesus fuck — Jim begins, looking at the dial. He has never seen it so high. He is about to shut down the incinerator, but then a massive bang explodes in his ears. The cast-iron doors blow open, as flames spew and lumps of burning fat erupt out from the furnace like grenades. One hissing chunk flies into a screaming Craig Barksdale’s face.