Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

. . n ah screeches tae a halt, cowpin the cunts forward in their seats, speedin away, before turnin oaf at Sighthill intae the deserted industrial estate.

— What the fuck, man!

— Hi! Driver! Whaire the fuck ye gaun?

— Trams. Depot construction. Re-routing, ah sais, no lookin back.

— That’s shite. . the depot’s at the Maybury. . what’s the fuckin score?!

Ah pills the baseball bat oot fae under the seat. N ah only dae that tae stoap maself fae pickin up the knife that’s thaire an aw. Huds it in ma fist and shakes it. — This is the fuckin score. Ye insulted the wrong person, in the wrong cab.

— What? Mate, look –

— Ah’m no yir fuckin mate.

Ah floors it, zooms fifty yards n breks. Again. Again. Again. Ah kin hear thair cries, hear thum thumpin in the cab like peas in a whistle. Then ah jumps oot, bat in hand, opens the cab passenger door n gits a hud ay the first yin. Yanks him oot n leathers the cunt oan the wrist as eh raises it tae defend ehsel. Eh screams oot, a high-pitched animal sound, n ah hits him again, acroass the side ay the puss, n eh faws tae the asphalt like a sack ay tatties. Eh’s no movin either. Ah shites it for seconds, then eh groans as claret spills oot ehs heid, but ah’m relieved that eh’s alive.

The other boy’s screamin, — Naw, man! Ah’m sorry! Please!

Ah tells um tae git oot, n thit ah’m no gaunny touch um. Eh looks at ays n climbs slowly oot, shakin, his face white. As eh steps oot, ah swings the bat at ehs kneecap, n eh crumples oantae the tarmac in a loud squeal. Eh looks up at ays wi betrayal oan ehs coupon. — It’s called fuckin lyin, ah tell um. Then ah looks tae ehs mate, groanin, tryin tae push ehsel tae ehs feet. — AH’M MEANT TAE BE AVOIDIN STRESS!

Jumpin in the cab, ah reverses, tae avoid crushin the cunts oan the deck, then pits the cab intae a full-circle turn. As ah drive oot the estate, ah kin see the first boy’s hobbled ower tae his mate n is helpin um up. Tryin tae git ma breathin in order n ma hert rate doon, ah stoaps in a lay-by oan the bypass, lookin at the diary Saskia hud left ays.

Jinty’s diary.

It’s maistly jist daft lists but thaire’s some stuff aboot clients, which ah’d laugh aboot if ah wisnae sae tense and moosey-faced. Suppose it gied her a sense ay control, gittin back at thum in that wey. Thaire’s a couple ay pretty nasty entries though: they certainly dinnae show those cunts The Poof n Kelvin in a very good light. Might make interestin readin for some fucker.

They coppers thit came doon, Shite Cop n Worse Cunt, if ah sent it tae them, they’d jist go through every cunt n ken it wis me whae passed it oan. Then ah mind ay one time me n that cunt Alec goat pilled in fir some questionin aboot a hoosebrekin. Genuinely wisnae even us, kent nowt aboot it. Ah wis shiteing it, like ye always dae when yir totally innocent. Like ye feel it wid be some sort ay karma tae git banged up for yonks fae something ye didnae dae.

It wis a really fuckin hoat summer’s day. This polis boy wis askin us whaire wi wir n what we’d been up tae. Alec wis relaxed, he hud the alibi n he’s spraffin away wi the boy. Meantime, ah’m lookin ower ma shoodir at this lassie cop sittin at hur desk. Short broon hair page-cut, nowt special tae look at, but wi that white blouse n tight blue skirt, Auld Faithful wis fuckin stirrin. It wis roastin in that cop shop, like the air conditioning wisnae workin, and she pills oot this hanky n mops hur sweaty brow. Felt like a reverse Incredible Hulk. Ken how the boy eywis breks ehs jaykits n T-shirts, but the fuckin troosers ey stey intact? Well, the wey Auld Faithful wis shapin up it wid’ve been the fuckin opposite wi me, the fuckin breks wid huv goat trashed. Ah looked at the gold desk plate: DETECTIVE SERGEANT AMANDA DRUMMOND. Since then ah’ve seen her photae in the news tons ay times, workin a lot wi lassies, victims ay domestic abuse n the like. She’s nae connection tae me, so she’s the yin gittin Jinty’s fuckin diary!

So ah’m doon the post office, gittin it sent oot tae her, though ah rips oot a couple ay compromisin pages, and that should be another wee nail in that cunt Kelvin’s coffin. That polis burd will show a bit mair empathy wi the lassies than Shite Cop and Worse Cunt, she’ll no be hassling them tae find oot whae sent it anonymously, and anyway, Saskia’ll be well oot the road by then.

Ah think a wee celebration is called for, n ah heads doon tae The Pub Wi Nae Name. The fire damage hus been pit right by the insurance company; thaire’s a new pool table n jukey. The Barksdale twins are in wi Tony, and thir mair like twins again, cause thuv goat matchin burns on the left-hand side ay thair coupons. Ah git up a pint fae Jake behind the bar, happy tae clock what ah see oan the spirits gantry.

— You’ve no been in here for a while, stranger, Evan Barksie says in that wide-cunt, accusin wey.

As if ah’m bothered aboot this fuckin mingin toilet. — Ah’ve popped ma heid in a couple ay times, ay.

— Well, ah’m gled yir here now, eh goes, — cause we’re needin sorted big time. Wanting 20 Gs, ay.

— No wey. Ah nivir cairry or deal jailbait amounts.

— C’moan, Terry, we’re off tae Magaloof, or Shagaloof as it should be fuckin called, for a month at the end ay the week. Ma compo for this came through, n eh pats ehs buckled cheek.

— Awright, that gies ays a bit ay time. Leave it wi ays, ah’ll see what ah kin dae.

— Sound.

Ah kills the Beck’s n goes up tae the bar. Jake’s daein the Sun crossword. — Listen, Jake, ah’m off tae a perty at ma mate’s hoose. Ah’m needin tae buy a boatil ay whisky n ah fell oot wi that cunt at the offie. Widnae gie the fucker the steam oaf ma pish. What ye goat? n ah looks up at the gantry. It’s the usual pub blends ay Bell’s, Teacher’s, Grouse n Johnnie Walker, wi a couple ay shitey malts, they yins that start wi the word ‘Glen’, and a pair ay decent yins in Macallan and Highland Park. And right in between thum, that distinctive Gherkin-shaped boatil.

Jake’s screwin up ays eyes, n reelin oaf the list.

— What’s that yin in the funny boatil?

Jake takes it doon oaf the shelf, n huds it up tae the light. — Bowcullen Trinity. . nivir heard ay it, n didnae order it. Cunts must huv sent it by mistake. Naebody wants it, the seal’s no even been broke. Probably no worth a sook. Look at that colour, disnae even look like whisky! Should send it back tae the merchants.

— Ah’ll take it oaf yir hands, ah goes, aw casual, — it’ll be good tae see ma buddy’s coupon, that sort ay ‘what the fuck is this’ look!

Jake grins, then says, — Thaire’s nae price oan it, n thaire’s nowt oan ma list for it, then eh looks aw hopeful. — What aboot a double score?

— Forty bar?! Yir huvin a laugh, ya cunt!

— Thirty?

— Awright, ah goes, handin ower the thirty sheets n droppin the Gherkin-shaped felly intae ma bag. Ah swaggers oot the pub n intae the cab. Sometimes it really is best tae hide things in plain sight.

Ah’m sittin wonderin aboot wee Jinty again, whaire is she hidin? Ah looks at one ay the pages ah ripped oot.

I’M USUALLY NOT scared of ANYBODY but that Vic and Kelvin give me the creeps. The other lassies feel the same. I know that Saskia does. They hate it when Vic, and especially Kelvin, want to have sex with us. You really have to pretend that you’re into it with them, otherwise they get all twisted with you. Kelvin put fag burn marks on Saskia’s arm. He’s not tried that with me, but I think that’s cause he knows I’m no single. But you can tell he’s working up to doing something. You can see it in his ferrety wee eyes, hear it from his filthy piglet mouth.