Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

— Guess what ah’ve goat fir ye, Terry?

— What’s that, Billy?

— Exec club tickets fir the final! Me, you n Rab. Ewart’s comin ower fae Australia, but eh’s gaun tae the Hertz end wi Topsy n that.

— Right. .

— Dinnae sound so cheerful then, Terry!

— Ah’m no that bothered, Billy.

— You’re fuckin brutal, Lawson. It’s a Cup final, all-Edinburgh, first time in oor lifetime!

Dinnae want tae tell the cunt that ma life’s awready fuckin well ower. — Aye, ah suppose it’ll be a laugh, ah goes.

— For fuck sake, Terry, dinnae dae me any favours!

Ah forces some cheer intae ma voice: — Sorry, Billy, just a wee bit doon but, ay. The auld girl’s no been sae well, ah lie.

— Sorry tae hear it, bro, n sorry tae hear aboot yir auld man bein seek. Ah ken you n him nivir saw eye tae eye, but in some weys that must make it worse.

— Ta, Billy, ah’ll try n pop intae the bar later, ay.

— Fine, Birrell goes, then starts aw the usual snidey shite. — But, Terry, dinnae be bringin ching along, n nae bams, n nae turnin up scruff order!

— Awright, bud, ah goes. Fuckin muppet. Ah’m jist settlin back intae the cab when Saskia comes on the line. — Awright, Sassy Pole, how’s it gaun? Ye booked up for hame yet?

— Yes, I am leaving tomorrow! Can we meet for a coffee?

— Aye, sure, ah goes.

So ah heads doon tae this gaff in Junction Street n she’s sittin thaire, lookin as fit as a butcher’s dug. At least till she turns face on, n ye kin still see the swellin and bruisin on her eye, inflicted by that wee prick. Hope he’s Peterheid-bound n lookin forward tae some tough love. Then ah think, fuck sake, she’s younger than Donna. That never bothered ays before, in fact it wis a result! But she looks sadly at me and goes, — What have you done with all your lovely curly hair?

— Dinnae ask, ah sighs, — it’s a long story.

Now she’s puttin her hand across the table n grabbin mine. — You are one of the kindest persons I have met. Before when people did something for me, they wanted. . what I am trying to say is that I feel safe with you. You are not sleazy. You never try to fuck me, like the others.

Jesus Christ, talk aboot a slap in the puss! Feels fuckin safe? Wi me!? Juice Terry!?!? — Well, eh, ah dinnae like tae see people in bother but, ay, ah hears masel mumble.

— I have something for you. When Jinty vanished, I thought something bad might have happened. I go into her locker. There is just the cosmetics, tampons, other things, but also there is this.

She hands ays this notebook. It’s a diary, n it’s fill ay appointments. But ye kin hardly read the writin; it’s like a gypsy burd’s pubes in a bathtub.

— I think of handing it to the police, but I am so scared. I know I can trust you.

— Thanks.

— You are the only thing I will miss about this place, Terry, she goes, then says, — Tomorrow morning I am flying to Gdansk on Ryanair. I will never be back here!

Ah’m fuckin relieved, cause she’s a nice lassie n deserves better than being knocked aboot by they two creeps. They aw dae: ah’d pey fir them aw tae git back hame, but if thir in Liberty Leisure, hame might no be that great a place for some ay them. N ah’m thinkin aboot wee Jinty, how it might huv went further thin jist knockin aboot, ay. — Best thing tae dae, hen: git the fuck oot ay here. Dinnae ken how much yir makin in that game, but yir better oot ay it.

— My plan was to just do this for a short time. Now I go to college, she says aw cheery. — It is my wish to become a chartered accountant.

— Good on ye, hen, ah goes, n ah’m thinkin: better crunchin numbers than crunchin baws. Changed fuckin days, right enough.

Ah droap Saskia off in the toon. She’s a sound burd, ah hope it works oot for her. Then ah’m wonderin aboot wee Jinty, n what happened tae her. A decent ride, loved a length awright. N how ye’d nivir think it fae wee Jonty, but eh’s hung like an ox. It pits ays in mind tae phone Sick Boy, cause ah’m thinkin mibbe ah kin dae thum baith a favour.

— Terry. . eh sings, — I thought you had retired!

— Aye, but it’s no me ah’m phonin aboot. Ah ken yi’ll think ah’m daft bringin this up –

— Terry, at this stage in our friendship, my estimate of your intellect can never be diminished further by anything you say or do, so, please, carry on.

Ah walked intae that yin wi that sarcastic, pish-takin cunt. — Naw, it’s yir male scud star. Ah ken a wee boy up here, very much in the Curtis mould. A bit slow, but eh’s goat it doonstairs n eh tells ays that eh kin root oan demand.

— Interesting. .

— Ye’d huv tae test him, that’s jist his word for it, though ah kin believe um. And the boy’s nae oil paintin. .

— Irrelevant if he has those other qualities. Male consumers of porn love an ugly everyman. They think: it really could be me. Send him down!

So withoot kennin what ah’m daein ah’m drivin doon tae the hoaspital. It’s started rainin again n the streets ur aw dark n wet. Ah should live in the fuckin South ay France or Miami Beach or somewhere. . but no now cause ay aw the burds walkin aroond in bikinis. This ticker: it wid fuckin blaw in aboot two minutes flat. That’s if ma fuckin Dode Bernards didnae explode first n droon every cunt in the vicinity in a tsunami ay spunk.

N aw ah kin think aboot is that auld Henry Lawson, dyin in that bed at the Royal, no seemin tae gie a fuck. Who is that cunt? He did nowt for me, nivir. That snide look oan ehs coupon, like ay kens something you dinnae. Aw ma life, that same fuckin look. Filthy auld fucker is hidin something, n ah’m gaunny find oot what it is. So ah’m parkin up at the hoaspital n gittin oot the cab.

Ah deek through the gless windae, n eh’s conked oot oan his ward, mooth hingin open, but a dopey wee smile like eh’s dreamin aboot some burd eh’s ridin, the dirty, lucky auld fucker. Thaire’s a fuckin maroon-n-white Herts skerf wrapped aroond the bars ay the bed’s headrest. That’s what the auld cunt’s hingin oan fir: the Cup final! They cunts win, he dies happy, they lose, he fucks off and gits a bit ay peace fae aw the slaggins. Win-win: the fuckin auld minger.

Ah want tae shake that greasy auld bag ay bones awake, but instead ah cannae resist liftin up the stratchy sheet tae git a deek at the one decent thing the cunt’s ever gied ays, that welt that eh’s used oan that many fuckin burds. .

What the fuck. .

Ya cunt, it’s. . it’s like a fuckin peanut! Thaire’s practically nae cock at aw! Jist a scabby wee helmet wi that pish tube comin oot ay it!

Nae wey is that cunt ma faither! My hert’s beatin wi excitement as ah pit the sheet back n take deep breaths. Stey fuckin calm, ah dinnae want the ticker exploding here n that dirty auld bastard outlastin ays — at least no before wi pump they cunts in the final!

In the corridor, ah starts thinkin. The number ay times ah’ve heard burds talk aboot the pleasant surprise they sometimes huv, when they git a boy stripped oaf n it looks like thuv goat a tiny tadger. Then, the next time they sketch it, thir’s this fuckin Darth Vader lightsabre stickin in thair coupon. Like a horse: a telescopic fuckin cock. So the auld cunt might be a grower instead ay a shower. Mibbe wi him dyin and a tube rammed up ehs length, it might make um stoap huvin the horny thoughts that make that felly come oot tae play.

Ah’m no touchin that scabby thing. Dinnae even want tae look at it again. So ah’m on the phone tae Saskia. She’s in toon gettin stuff for her flight the morn, but ah tells her tae come doon tae the hozzy; ah’ve one last joab fir her in Edinburgh. Ah’m waitin outside whin the taxi pills up, and it’s driven by Stumpy Jack. He gies ays that snidey ‘what you up tae?’ look as she gits oot wearin a black coat wi they rid boots. Hair aw blonde highlights, lookin a total ride.