Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

— Naw, ah’m awright, she sais. Then looks ay ays that stubborn wey. — If ye must ken, ah’m gaun tae see yir faither.

Ah fuckin kent something wis gaun on. — Right, so that’s been yir game, eh?

— He isnae a well man, Terry. The big C. He’s no goat much time left.

— Good.

— Dinnae say that!

— How no? Ah shake ma heid. — Ah cannae fuckin believe yir gaun up tae see him. Yir littin um take the pish again. Eftir aw they years that he humiliated ye.

— He’s still the faither ay. . he’s yours and Yvonne’s dad!

— Whit the fuck hus eh ever done fir ays?

She points at ays, wi rage burning in her eyes. — Dinnae start aboot him! What huv you done for your bairns? Yuv goat enough ay thum dotted aboot here, thaire n God knows where else! Donna says she’s no heard fae you in ages, she wis up here wi Kasey Linn yesterday.

— Eh? What’s a case ay lin?

— Kasey Linn! Your granddaughter!

— Aw. . the bairn. . ah goes. Jesus fuck, ah nearly forgot oor Donna even hud a bairn. . Ah should go n see it, but ah hate the idea ay bein a grandad. Tae burds ah’m a GILS but: a grandfather I’d like tae shag!

But now she’s giein ays that eye. — You’ve no even seen the bairn yet, yir ain granddaughter, bichrist! Huv ye!

— Ah’ve been a wee bit busy. .

— The bairn’s nearly a year auld! Yir a useless waster! Worse than Henry Lawson ever was!

— Fuck you, ah goes, n ah jist steams oot the hoose. Auld boot kin git two buses!

— Wait, Terry! Wait, son!

So ah’m gaun away doon the stairs, n it’s started pourin rain again as ah gits intae the cab. Kasey Linn, what kind ay name is that tae gie a fuckin bairn anywey? Thaire’s the same bullshit message fae Control oan the tagger. It’s that cunt Jimmy McVitie — Big Liz telt ays he wis oan the day.

FARE AT 23 WESTER HAILES DRIVE.

Ah type back:

JUST PICKED UP AT SIGHTHILL.

Then:

YOU ARE THE NEAREST CAB IN THE VICINITY.

Me:

WHAT PART OF JUST PICKED UP AT SIGHTHILL ARE YOU NOT UNDERSTANDING?

That shuts the snoopin cunt up. But ah looks up n punches the dashboard as ah sees muh ma come oot the stair, headin doon the street oantae the dual carriageway. Ah circles roond the back ay the flats, tae sketch her standin by the makeshift bus stop in the pishin rain, no even a fuckin shelter now, thanks tae these cunts n thair fuckin trams. So ah pills up n rolls doon the windae. — Git in, Ma!

— I’m fine waiting on the bus!

— Look, ah’m sorry. Ah jist dinnae want um takin the pish oot ay ye again. Come oan in!

She seems tae think aboot it, then relents and climbs in. — You prove you’re a better man than he wis, n she actually wags her finger at ays. — Dae right by yir ain bairns! See Donna! Phone Jason! Bring they two young laddies roond!

Ah’m no arguing wi her again aboot this. Ah’m no as bad as she makes oot. Ah speak tae Jason doon in Manchester every few weeks oan the phone. Ah jumps oantae the bypass n we travel pretty much in silence till ah droaps her oaf at the hozzy. She asks if ah’d like tae come up n see um, or gie um a message.

— Tell um thanks fir nowt n tae git fucked.

She’s no happy as she goes away inside, but it makes ays think. So ah goes, fuck it, n ah phones Suzanne n Yvette, wee Guillaume’s and the Ginger Bastard’s mas, n ah arranges tae take the two laddies oot. They cannae believe it, but they baith seem happy enough.

Ah go tae pick up Guillaume fae Niddrie Mains first, then we drives up tae posh Blackford Hills n gits the Ginger Bastard. Ah kin see the wee felly thinkin, as the Ginger Bastard runs doon the driveway ay the big house, through that landscaped gairdin, tae meet us, ‘How is it his ma n him live here, n my ma n me live in a mingin scheme?’ The Ginger Bastard, wearin a rid T-shirt that sets oaf the sheer, well, ridness ay the wee gadge, gits in, n they say weak ‘hiyas’ tae each other. Disnae say much, the Ginger Bastard, but eh’s eywis lookin aroond. Might huv ehs ma’s brains, cause ay his heid taperin backwards intae a point like a fuckin alien. Ken like they green cunts that ey goat wide wi Dan Dare, ay?

Then thaire’s wee Guillaume. Suzanne wis convinced that eh wis this French waiter’s at first. She’d banged the cunt the night before me, but nae fuckin chance ay that: the amount ay spunk that comes oot ay they hee-haws isnae fuckin real! Spunk? Ya cunt, if she’d stood up wi her legs apart ower a bucket eftir, ah could’ve wallpapered her fuckin hoose!

But wi spunk ay this quality ye goat tae fuckin guard it, cause burds want a bairn wi personality. Bein a man fae the bareback era n huvin they instincts, yuv goat tae be double-wide. Make sure a lassie’s oan the bun. But wi that Aids n STDs thaire’s loads thit’ll insist oan a johnny. Fuckin passion killers at the best ay times, n when yuv goat a welt like mine it kin take ages tae git one ay they things roond it. Tae me it’s like destroyin the gains made by the pill n the sexual revolution. The fuckin government’s fault: if aw they buftie public-school cunts hudnae been ridin each other thaire wid be nae fuckin Aids n STDs in the first place.

Anywey, that’s wee Guillaume but, ay. That one weekend ay madness n the next thing ah ken is ah’m draggin him n the Ginger Bastard roond. Wisnae a style-cramper at first, ye jist cut yir cloth, ay, n ah lapped it up n joined every single-parent’s event. Creche, nursery, school, ah did the fuckin loat. Telt aw the single mas that wee Guillaume’s mother had died in childbirth n ah hud adopted the Ginger Bastard, whae wis ma nephew, eftir his faither, ma kid brar, died in Afghanistan n his ma became a drug addict. Banged aboot half a dozen ay thum aw weys, even goat one intae the scud flicks, before the bairns goat aulder n started gabbin, n then every cunt cottoned oan tae the scam. Loast a bit ay interest in the wee cunts eftir that, if the truth be telt.

So ah’ve goat the laddies in the cafe n we’re havin a juice before gaun tae a matinee in the cinema; thaire’s naewhaire else worth takin bairns when it’s this cauld. Now the Ginger Bastard’s lookin up at ays wi they eyes ay his. — You don’t love me as much as you love Guillaume.

Jesus fuck! What does the wee cunt expect? Has eh taken a fuckin deek at ehs hair in the mirror lately? — One question fir ye, pal, seein as you seem tae ken everything. What is love?

The Ginger Bastard’s bottom lip goes ower the toap yin. — It’s like. . I dunno. .

— Youse ur brothers, well, half-brothers, and youse might love each other. But in a different wey tae, say, how a man loves a woman, right?

— Yes, baith nod at once, n thank fuck. That’s a relief. No wantin a buftie son, especially the wee rid yin; cunt’s gaunny git it tight enough through bein a ginger bastard!

— Well, it’s like you two are different, n ah love yis baith the same, but in different weys, ay. Ah leave thum tae think aboot that. It’s jist a shame thit, wi the Ginger Bastard, it’s in a he’s-fuckin-well-no-wi-me sortay wey! Anyweys, ah took them tae see that Up film. Ya cunt, ah wis nearly fuckin greetin when the auld bastard wis talkin aboot ehs deid wife n how they wanted bairns n couldnae huv thum! Ah felt like telling um, shoutin at the screen: take these two wee fuckers, cause ah’m no wantin thum! Popcorn, hoat dogs, ice cream, Twixes, the fuckin lot, the greedy wee cunts!

So ah’m fuckin relieved tae dump thum oaf, but it wisnae a bad day oot. Wee Guillaume first at Niddrie Mains. As he heads intae the hoose, wi a wee nod fae his ma, Suzanne, ah looks at the Ginger Bastard n goes, — Think yirsel lucky yir in Blackford Hills. Ye widnae last two minutes doon here.