Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

And Vic put aw his fingers in me the other week. With those rings he wears. I was so sore that I had to tell my wee Jonty that I was feeling a bit sick with a bug I’d picked up at the cleaning. I look at my wee Jonty, sleeping, innocent, like a baby, and I sometimes wonder what I’ve got the both of us into.

Cause Vic thinks he owns me. He told me yesterday that if I tried to leave he’d have my face messed up so that no other guy would ever want to touch me. And he pulled the razor against my cheek, the flat side. I was fucking shaking all day, and couldn’t sleep that night, thinking about it. My dad knows a lot of people. He was in jail all the time when I was growing up. I feel like telling him, but I’ve heard so many stories about Victor. It’s scary. And worst of all is Kelvin. He’s going to turn out an even bigger bastard than Victor.

KIND TERRY PHONED ays; aye sur, sure eh did. Ah thoat wi wir gaun tae play the gowf again n ah wis fair lookin forward tae it. But naw, eh telt ays thit eh needed ma help wi something eh hud tae dae at night, something secret, aye, he did that, sur. Ah wis gittin ready tae go n Karen sais no tae go oot the hoose, but ah telt ur it wis a wee joab at night. At night jist, Karen, ah goes, wi Kind Terry. Cause Karen likes Kind Terry, when eh comes doon tae take ays oot tae the gowf, he’s the only yin she’ll let intae the hoose. Terry’s no bothered aboot her but!

Cause ah owe Kind Terry but, aye ah do. Cause when somebody hus been kind tae you, yuv goat tae be kind back tae thaim. N Terry never asks ays any questions aboot Jinty; tell ays nowt, eh eywis sais tae me. Even though ah’d tell um it aw, if it wis up tae me. Aye sur, ah wid that.

So Terry comes roond tae pick ays up. Ah sees Karen lookin at him. He goes up tae the lavvy n she whispers, — Ah like that Terry, ur you sure eh’s gaun oot wi somebody?

— Aye eh is, ah sais back.

Ah ken it’s wrong but Terry’s ma pal, n she did wrong by me but ah’m no littin her dae bad by him, no wi them baith bein fae the spunk that’s in real faither Henry’s auld baws, naw sur. But ye kin tell that Terry’s no interested in that, cause Terry’s good. Ah wish ah could be mair like him.

Wi leaves tae go intae the motor, aye sur, the big black taxi. Thaire’s two big spades thaire, still in thair Sainsbury’s Homebase wrappin. — Wir gaun diggin, Terry sais.

Ye kin tell Terry’s no feelin right but, cause eh usually jokes aw the time, but eh’s no jokin aboot, aw serious wi ehs eyes oan the road.

Ah cannae believe it whin we parks outside the auld graveyard in Pilrig, yon Rosebank Cemetery. Aye. Terry’s goat the spades n eh’s goat this Adidas bag. Aye, a bag meant fir tae play sport wi. The waw beside the cemetery gates is awfay high. Terry pits ehs hands thegither tae boost ays ower the waw, but ah goes, — The waw isnae sae high roond the corner. Naw sur, it is not.

Terry looks at ays, then moves doon the street n ah follays. Thaire’s naebody aboot, jist yin car thit passes. On Bonnington Road the waw is much wee-er than oan Pilrig Street, n Terry nods n ah scurry up, then Terry throws the spades eftir me n climbs ower ehsel. Eh’s bein awfay careful no tae batter the Adidas bag. It’s tricky fir Terry but eh’s sort ay found a bit near the bus stoap wi this wee metal step n eh pushes ehsel up n ah’m helpin um ower. — Thanks, Jonty pal, good spot oan that waw, he goes, dreepin doon tae ooir side. — Thaire’s nae security cameras in here as far as ah ken, ah gied it a good casin fae the inside, but wuv goat tae be quiet.

So ah whispers, as we walks through the dark graveyard, — Funny fir somebody tae be buried n this day n age, Terry. Aye, funny. Aye sur.

— It’s some family plot. Ye couldnae cremate this auld cunt, he’d blaw the fuckin place up! Worse thin your ma, Terry goes, then says, — Sorry, ma wee pal.

— Aye, dinnae worry, ah sais tae Terry, cause yuv goat tae huv a laugh n no be aw serious aw the time. — Thank God for that moonlight or we’d no be able tae see whaire wir gaun, ah goes, but ah still nearly faw oan the uneven path n Terry huds ays up.

— Watch, mate!

Terry gits a torch oot ay the Adidas bag, n shines it oan the path. Then wir lookin at aw the graves, n eh shines the light on this stane, wi the boy’s name oan it:

ALEC RANDOLPH CONNOLLY

21 August 1943–3 December

Beloved husband of Theresa May Connolly

and loving father of Stephen Alec Connolly

Gaun by the date on the stane the boy’s no long deid. Aye, no long deid at aw. — Did ye bring flooirs? ah goes.

— Naw, Terry says, then looks at ays aw serious. — Listen, Jonty, ah’m tellin ye the score here, in strict confidence cause ah dinnae want ye freakin oot oan ays. We’re gaunny dig up that coffin and open it up.

Ah cannae believe ma ears. But Terry isnae jokin! — But, Terry, that’s no right! Naw sur. .

— Wir jist daein it fir a wee minute, Terry’s noddin at ays. — Thaire’s something inside it that ah want tae see. Jist a quick peek.

— A quick peek, ah goes. — Bit we cannae dae that, it’s wrong, sur, aye it is –

— Listen, Jonty, ah really need ye tae trust me here, mate. Ah’m no gaunny dae nowt wrong, ah’m no gaunny interfere wi the body. It’s an auld pa. . thaire’s jist something ah need tae see, n something ah need tae leave for um. Eh shakes the Adidas bag. — It’s awright if ye dinnae touch anything, Jonty. Ah’m no touchin nowt, no stealin nowt. Ah jist need tae see something. Will ye help ays, ma wee pal?

Ah jist nods cause Kind Terry’s different fae the rest. Eh doesnae laugh at ays. Naw sur, eh does not. — Is it something eh wis buried wi? ah goes, thinkin aboot a watch, or a ring.

— Aye, that’s it, mate, Terry sais.

— N yir no gaunny take it?

— Ah promise ye, ah certainly am not!

Kind Terry’s ey good tae me. So ah jist smiles n goes, — Barry! Lit’s dae it!

— Good man, Jonty, yir a good mate, pal, n eh grips ma shoodir. — A real brother, eh sais, aw sortay upset n sad, but happy tae, n ah still sortay want tae tell um aboot Jinty, but it’s no really the time. Naw it is not.

So ah feel aw warm in ma hert, like the other wey whaire it’s aw different fae a bad hert. N wir workin away, aye sur, we surely are! Wi take oaf the turf first, bein awfay careful, cuttin it away in neat sections, then wir baith diggin at the soil underneath. It comes away easy at first but then it’s harder, n even though it’s cauld, wir sweatin away in this ditch. Terry lights up a fag. — Should’ve brought a wee flask ay tea, ah goes. — If ah’d kent it wis gaunny be aw this work, ah’d’ve goat oor Karen tae make a wee flask ay tea. Aye sur, flask ay tea.

— Ah really appreciate this, Jonty, Terry sais. — Yir a true friend. Ma life’s been turned upside doon, pal. Ah’ve got this hert problem. . ah shouldnae really be daein this diggin. . ah cannae afford the luxury ay stress. No wi this hert.

— Lit me, Terry, lit me finish. .

— Yir a true friend, wee man. .

N ah’m daein it, aye, scoopin up the earth n jist diggin, diggin, diggin. .

Terry’s watchin me, gaun, — Yir a good lad, Jonty. . everything’s crazy, ken? Ah dinnae ken who ah am any mair. Ye ken that feelin?

— Aye sur, aye sur, ah goes, still diggin, cause ah do n aw.

— This no gittin a ride. . it sends ye crazy. . ah’m jist no masel, mate. . ah dinnae ken whae ah am. Ah’m huvin what ma mate Rab Birrell calls an ‘existential crisis’, Jonty. Ah used tae think it wis just snobby student pish but thaire’s nae other words fir ma predicament. . cunt, ah’m fuckin well even soundin like um now. .