Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

— You’re a bit high n mighty, Sicky, for somebody whae makes his money through scud, ah goes.

— Nothing to do with anything, Terry. He shakes his heid. — Look at that mess — we’re two down and playin shite. Just before half-time we git one back n it’s game oan. Then, straight away, that prick of a referee takes ower again, gies them a penalty which is miles ootside the box, sends off that wee doss fullback for a daft foul, which is nae worse than Black’s earlier, when the cunt just had a laugh aboot it with him. So it’s game ower.

— Aye, ah suppose, ah goes, lookin at the traffic slidin by ootside.

As the Birrell brothers argue, Sick Boy whispers tae me, aw cagey, — Oh, it looks like the name Lawson might still grace Perversevere Films.

— Ah telt ye, ah cannae dae scud.

— No, I had a call from your Donna. She sent down some stuff. Impressive. Definitely worth employment, certainly a chip off the old block!

Ah cannae believe it. Ah feel ma face gettin hoat. Ah’m startin tae hyperventilate. — Yir fuckin jokin, right?

— Eh. . Sick Boy goes, — I take it this career move does not meet with parental approval?

Ah turns intae him n whispers in his ear, — She’s no daein fuckin scud!

— Parental approval is a luxury, Sick Boy pits oan that smug face, — and parental consent doesn’t apply as she’s an adult, able to make her own choices, Terry. Who’d have daughters, ay?

— She’s no daein scud, ah tells um, grabbin the lapels ay his jaykit, — cause if she does, you’ll make one last scud movie, which yi’ll star in, n it’ll be a fuckin snuff yin!

— Terry, cool yir fuckin jets, Billy shouts, as Sick Boy’s eyes bulge.

Ah loosen ma grip, and Billy stares at ays, before gaun back tae chattin tae Rab. — Jesus Christ, okay. . okay. . Sick Boy says, smoothin doon his jaykit. — It’s not like you to be so uptight. I never thought I’d say this, Terry, but you need tae get laid!

— Aye, well, you just back off wi her. Right?

— Point taken. But you have to tell her this, and eh cocks a finger n points at ays. — I’m not denting the lassie’s self-esteem by saying that she’s not got what it takes to be part of the Perversevere family!

— Ah will, ah goes, n ah dials Donna’s number. It goes tae voicemail but ah tell her that ah want tae see hur.

Ah’m relieved when the conversation goes back tae that fuckin shitey match. But now aw ah’m thinkin aboot is how that fuckin dirty cunt Henry’ll be laughin away in that hoaspital bed ay his. Treated ays like shite fae the fuckin start. Eh thinks ah’ll no be able tae face um, tae take the slaggin. But ah’ve made ma mind up: ah’ll fuckin well face the cunt awright!

We beats the traffic cause the driver boy is floorin it in the limo, n the game’s no long finished whin wir close tae toon. They want tae go tae the Business Bar, but ah’m askin them tae droap ays oaf at the hoaspital. — Ah thoat that wid be the last place ye’d want tae be the night, Tez, Billy says.

— Ah well, family, ay, Rab goes.

— Aye, right, ah goes.

Ah gits up tae the ward but the nurse is thaire so ah bends ower the auld cunt like ah’m gaunny kiss his heid (that’ll be fuckin right) n ah lits some gob droap fae ma mooth oantae his forehead. Ah’m watchin it runnin doon his heid, slippin tae the right as it gits tae the side ay his beak n tricklin intae his open gob.

The nurse is the yin wi seams up the back ay the stockins. Before, ah’d huv emptied a tank ay muck ower her. That’s a fuckin no-no now n ah kin feel the fresh spunk sluicin around in the baws, just overflowin like fuck.

— Try not to be too upset, Mr Lawson, she says, comin ower.

— It’s no that easy. Tell ye whae ah blame –

— I know what you’re going to say, the nurse goes, — people always blame themselves. We can never say enough to our loved ones, n she plumps up ehs pillays, n eh sortay stirs, but disnae wake.

Ah realise she thinks ah’m gaun oan aboot him, whin ah’m thinkin aboot the fitba n that cunt ay a referee. Penalty ma fuckin erse, n Sick Boy’s right: Black’s elbay oan Griffiths was a sending-off offence. N now this auld cunt lyin there, that maroon skerf entwined roond the bars at the heidrest ay the bed. A fuckin bullyin stepfaither: that’s aw that cunt ivir wis. The fuckin telly oan the swivel leg; like a fuckin first-class flight the cunt’s oan. N eh wakes up n catches us lookin at it.

— Aw. . it’s you. . eh goes, aw sleekit, then ehs face creases up, — Ye see the game?!

— Jist back, ay.

— That wis quick, eh sais wi a wee chuckle that shakes ehs skeletal frame. — Well, nae wonder, ay.

— Aye. How ye keepin?

— Dinnae you even pretend tae care!

— Fair dos. Glad yir fucked, ya mingin auld cunt!

— At least ah’ll go contented that ah saw Herts win the cup. Again. Against youse. At least ah kin say ah saw that.

— Aye, right.

— Five-one n aw. .

— Aye, right.

— Yi’ll be hurtin, son. Aye ye will. All-Edinburgh derby. . ehs weak hands come up fae under the sheets n hud up five fingers oan one hand n yin oan the other yin. — Five-one. .

— Aye.

— Nineteen-oh-two it’s been for youse. . you’re no gittin any younger yirself, son. Think yi’ll ever see your crowd lift the cup?

— Dinnae ken but, ay, ah goes. The funny thing is, ah realise that ah’m no really that fuckin bothered aboot the fitba, it’s aw in his mind. It dawns on ays that’s the wey it is; ye imagine it hurts the others mair than it does. Aw they years ah wasted rubbin it in aboot seven-nil on New Year’s Day, when they cunts probably wirnae even that bothered aboot it n maist likely jist thoat ah wis a bit simple. Still, it’s what it does for you that counts. What ah’m strugglin wi is a life withoot a ride, n that’s what’s hittin hame, n that abandonin stepfaither cunt’s still oan wi aw that Herts cup shite. .

— Oor defence is as strong as the auld castle rock. . eh whispers, then eh faws back intae a peaceful sleep. Ah’m lookin at the saline drip oan the hook. Before ah ken what ah’m really daein, ah’m pillin the curtains roond the bed. Ah unhooks the bag n ah’ve goat ma knife oot n ah’m cuttin a hole in the toap. Then ah pour oot three-quarters ay the saline intae the sink. Ah gits ma knob oot n pishes intae the bag, fillin it up, feelin it bulge oot aw warm in ma hands. It fills n some pish spills ower ma fingers. Ah huv tae limp tae the sink tae git rid ay the rest, then clean up the mess wi paper towels.

Ah gits a bit ay tape fae whaire thuv pit his well-wishin cairds oan the waw, n tapes the bag back up. Ah hing it oan the hook. It’s still yellay bit a loat darker n ye kin see strands ay spunk as thick as fuckin egg whites floatin in it.

Ah’m lookin at him in his sleep, as ah detach that morphine tube. Ah takes the wee buzzer oan the lead that eh uses tae call the nurse, and hings it behind his bed. The set ay the cunt’s mooth has changed, n eh’s awready startin tae sweat intae they jammies like a Liberty Leisure lassie oan the backshift. Suddenly his mooth flies open, n eh looks at ays. — You still here? Up tae nae good, ah bet! Then ehs face creases intae a grin. — Well, thaire’s nowt ye kin dae tae me. Ah saw ma team win the cup!

— Yir takin the pish, ah tell um, wi a big smile, as another wave ay thick sweat bursts oot fae the cunt’s pores. It’s tricklin doon his waxy skin, which is turnin a jaundice yellay before ma eyes. The rancid whiff oaffay him now, the stink ay ma pish merged wi ehs ain rottin flesh. Ehs finger snaps oan the morphine clicker. But thaire’s nae buzz fir him. The tired auld eyes faw in horror tae the thick auld vein n the absence ay the needle.