Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

Upstairs in the chapel of rest, the service has just concluded and the mourners have started to file out, when the massive explosion rumbles beneath their feet. Smoke billows out of the space under the podium where the coffin had sat, belching up into the chapel.

The mourners panic and quickly flee the building, gathering outside in the rain. Gasps hang in the air as they see Craig, the left side of his face horrifically burnt, being assisted up from the basement by his boiler-suited comrades, Vicky and Jim. Thick black smoke surges after them. Somebody has called the emergency services and already distant sirens are filling the air, heading towards the crematorium.

— She was too fuckin big, ya daft cunts! Vicky gives a coughing, rasping shout at the funeral director, who stares with traumatised eyes, and the crematorium manager, who shuffles nervously.

Firemen wearing masks and protective clothing seem to have appeared almost immediately as vehicles pull out of the car park to let them gain access. The main hold-up is getting Marjory’s lorry out of the way. Soon though, the firefighters are unravelling their hoses and attacking the blaze, forcing their way into the basement operations room, emerging with their suits covered in thick, black grease.

As Craig is loaded into an ambulance and Vicky is put into a second vehicle, to be taken away and treated for smoke inhalation, Jim explains to the fire chief that there was so much fat in the body, it was probable that it caused the oven to overheat. The likelihood was that Marjory’s gargantuan mass had blocked up some of the ventilation ducts, and the dramatic temperature rise caused a massive explosion, resulting in Craig being showered in burning body fat.

Throughout the commotion, Jonty MacKay glows with pride. — That wis muh ma, he says repeatedly as Karen weeps hysterically and Hank looks on in shock, — aw this jist for her!

— Ah’ll be gaun the same wey, his sister wails, as Hank shakes his head and exchanges a glance with Morag, acknowledging their joint desire to be anywhere but here.

— But Ma’s away now, Karen, she cannae enable yir fat, Jonty says supportively, — no sur, she cannae.

— Mibbe. . Karen painfully moans, as the firefighters battle on, and the ambulance takes Craig away, a piece of Marjory MacKay moulded into the side of his burning face. Terry stands back by the gates of the crematorium to grimly survey the scene. He knows that tonight will bring him more nightmares.

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FREE!

— THAT WIS THE fuckin worst dream ever! Ma fuckin cock. . eh, ma penis, lookin up at ays, screamin at me, then rippin oaf ma boady n flyin aroond the fuckin room. Then it goes and circles behind ays like a heat-seekin missile and flies straight up ma erse!

— Interesting. . this psychotherapist gadge says. Foreign accent: Danish, like Lars and Jens. Eh’s a chunky boy, thinnin blond hair, grey at the sides, cauld green eyes, like they sortay came ootay something else. Ya cunt, nae wonder ah’m huvin weird dreams eftir that fuckin shite at that funeral yesterday! Ah didnae want tae go tae any fuckin nut doaktir but ah hud tae. Cause this just isnae fuckin real: the lack ay shaggin n that. Ah’m gaun fuckin mental here, literally losin ma fuckin mind!

And this cunt’s just sittin back withoot a fuckin care in the world. — This is essentially a typical desexualisation anxiety dream, and it’s very common to people in your circumstance. It’s nothing to worry about, all fairly classic stuff; the removal of the penis, the sealing of the anus, by the penis, the anus of course, also being highly sexual –

— Tell ays aboot it. Ah’ve whapped it up a few choc-boxes in ma time. . jist burds, mind –

— Mr Lawson, you have to stop this –

— Stop what? You sais ah’ve got tae talk aboot ma personal feelins –

— Yes, but these sessions have become a constant stream of details about your sexual life –

— Former sexual life, n that’s the fuckin problem, mate! N that is ma personal feelins. Ah shakes ma heid, n looks up tae the ceiling. — What fuckin good does aw this dae? ah sort ay sais tae masel, but oot loud, then ah looks um right in the eye. — The only thing that’ll help me is a decent ride, n ye cannae sort that oot for ays. Aw youse dae is keep tellin me tae take aw they pills. Ah keep daein it, but ma life is shite n it’s gittin fuckin shiter by the day!

So ah’m gaun oan, but the boy kens the score. Eh’s aboot ma age, wi a face thit looks like eh’s seen a bit ay life, like eh’s no jist a college gadge. It’s jist the same as me in the taxi, like aw self-employed cunts in the service industry: he’s punchin the fuckin cloak, jist sittin back thaire listenin tae every cunt’s shite. — You seem fixated on your penis, and your sex life.