Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

— STOAP STARIN AT MA FACE!

— FUCKIN SACK IT, BARKSDALE, AH’M TELLIN YE! Terry shouts. — You’ve goat what ye came for, so git the fuck oot ay here!

Evan Barksie sortay blinks like eh’s shocked, then eh moves forward, but ehs mates hud um back. Tony goes tae um, — That Ronnie Checker’s here tae buy Herts oaffay Vlad, ya daft cunt, leave thum.

— Terry, I think we maybe oughtta leave, Ronnie goes.

Now The Pub Wi Nae Name boys huv went tae thair corner whaire thair drinks are, n thir drinkin up, but thir makin five-one signs at Terry, n callin him a Hobo.

— Fuck you, Lawson, Evan Barksie shouts ower, — n we ken yir jist hingin aboot wi that muppet simpleton cause ye wir kno—

Terry jumps ower n batters Evan Barksie in the mooth, aw aye, n Barksie faws back, hudin it but no bleedin even though ye kin tell it wis a sair batterin, aye it wis, n it aw goes mental. Everybody’s fightin or shoutin or hudin n somebody kicks me up the erse fir nowt! Aye sur, that they did. Ah goes tae turn but some beer comes flyin ower, then a gless, n it hits Malky n cuts ehs hand n thaire’s a big row n they boys, like the boy wi one leg, come ower n shove the other boys taewards the door.

— Git the fuck away fae here, the one-legged boy sais tae us, n tae Ronnie. — You ought tae be ashamed of yirsel!

— ASHAMED?! ME? GOD DAMN YOU!

So Terry’s sort ay shepherdin us aw oot the door eftir The Pub Wi Nae Name boys. — Sorry, Jack, Bladesey, eh says tae the boys fae the club. — Ah brought them here. Ah thoat they’d behave. Ah’ll git thum oot — c’moan, boys, eh sais tae us.

Terry’s pushin us oot the door, n wi gits intae the car park. Some ay The Pub Wi Nae Name boys ur waitin outside. — I’m going to bring my lawyers down here and sue your miserable asses. . Ronnie shouts at thum.

Lethal Stuart steps forward, and rams the heid oan Ronnie, aw God ah kin hear the crack ay his neb. Aw sur, that’s a sair yin awright.

— Fuck sake, Terry goes, n moves forward as Stu runs back ower tae the mob ay boys.

The other boys are outside now tae, the boy wi the stump n the English felly wi the glesses. The stumpy boy goes tae Terry, — Ye ought tae be ashamed ay yirsel, Lawson, bringing they private-hire paedos tae oor club for drug deals!

A boatil comes flyin, flung by Barksie, n Terry’s ower the road eftir thum, n ah am tae, but thir backin away! Sure they are, the bullies! Aw thir daein is screamin threats as they go doon the road. Ah wish ah hud ma petrol bombs, aye sur, ah dae! Dae ah no but!

Then ah sees Malky comin oot wi the tooil roond ehs hand, lookin aboot, n Terry’s gittin Ronnie in the taxi. — Jonty, come oan, pal! So ah climbs in, leavin Malky lookin aw sad.

Then Terry droaps Ronnie oaf at the hoaspital. When eh’s gittin his nose reset, we’re sittin in the waiting room. Ah whispers tae Terry, — Ye see that thing ye pit in real faither Alec’s grave?

— Aye. .

— Wis that that missin boatil ay the nice whisky, the other yin that Ronnie wanted? Terry looks at ays, then looks aroond the other people in the waitin room. — What did ye pit it in his grave for, Terry?

— Ah couldnae bring masel tae erse it, Jonty, Terry pills me close, whispers in ma ear, — even though it’s a lovely whisky. N ah didnae want Ronnie tae huv it, tae take it oot ay Scotland.

— But ah thoat eh wis yir mate, Terry, ah goes.

— Eh is, sortay. But eh’s a greedy cunt n it ey does a greedy cunt good tae learn how tae lose, n no tae git thair ain wey aw the time. Tae be like the rest ay us.

— So yir sortay helpin um really?

— Aye, helpin um tae join the human race. But that’s beside the point, cause that’s doon tae him. Eh’s goat two oot the three: tae ma mind that’s enough for any cunt. Ah couldnae sell it, see; it’s way too hoat for collectors. So ah wanted tae pit it somewhaire that Ronnie could never git tae it. Leave it wi somebody whae’d appreciate it. Alec’ll keep it safe doon thaire till aliens land oan Earth n find it, or, mair likely, till some cunt like Ronnie excavates it when they build mair shitey flats. But ah’m gittin you ootay here the morn, pal.

— How’s that?

— Cause you’re gaun oaf tae London, mate. You’ll be shaggin fir Penicuik soon.

— Aye. . aye. . shaggin fir Penicuik, aye sur, aye sur, that ah will, ah goes.

I’M HOLDING MY nose into a bloody hanky wondering why it is that every lowlife in this Aids chamber, this fucking New Orleans without the heat or the music, has to headbutt people in the face! — I’m gonna sue. . that’s fucking twice this has happened in this goddamn place. .

Terry ran after those assholes, but they’ve gone and he comes back from across the street, out of breath. — Fuck suin, these cunts fuckin well die. He bends over, resting his hands on his knees, trying to catch his wind, looking up. — Ah’m meant tae be avoidin stress!

The hanky’s soaked and somebody hands me a towel, probably has more disease on it that anything else, but it staunches the flow of blood and I climb into Terry’s taxi. That strange little Jonty guy who was caddying is with us. I knew I shouldn’t have gotten involved in that scuzzy ghetto drug shit of Terry’s! We head to this hospital which is like the campus of every 1970s college you wouldn’t wanna attend. I’m about to demand that they take me to a real hospital, but they give me a sedative and reset my nose.

I try to pay but they won’t take it.

I get back out and Terry’s waiting with the little guy. — What’s up, Ronnie? Terry asks. — Beak looks aw set nice.

The little Jonty asshole does what he always does and repeats what Terry just said. Don’t they have schools in this goddamn place?

— They won’t take my goddamn card, Platinum Amex. . what kind of commie hospital is this?

— It’s free, ya bam!

— Free, aye, free, this goddamn nutcase constantly repeats.

— It shouldn’t be free! This is — Then I feel something garrotting me inside and I turn to Terry. — No. . oh my God. .

Please Lord God Almighty, do not do this to me. I am your most loyal and humble servant!

— What is it now? Terry’s asking me.

— The Skatch! THE GODDAMN THIRD BOTTLE OF SKATCH!!! HAVE YOU GOT IT?

— How would ah huv it? You kept a hud ay it. Terry shakes his head. — Ye wouldnae let it leave yir side. Ye hud it in the club. . check the Joe Baxi –

— The club, aye aye, aye, the club, this fucking retard parrots on.

God damn them all to hell!

I run out to the cab, followed by the others. The cold stings my nose. I can’t see a goddamn thing inside. Then Terry opens up to confirm: there’s nothing there. — I MUST HAVE LEFT IT IN THAT FUCKING CLUB!! I CAN’T LOSE TWO FUCKING BOTTLES!!

We’re heading back up to that shithouse Taxi Club. My heart is racing. To lose one bottle of Trinity is a fluke, but to lose two. . it makes me a loser. A goddamn one hundred per cent, gilt-edged loser. I cannot let this happen to me! I must have dropped it when that asshole assaulted me. I need to speak to my legal people, and I’m punching in numbers on the phone. .

Please God. . let the Skatch be there. .

This little retarded caddy friend of Terry’s is still saying the words ‘club’ and ‘whisky’ over and over and all the way to the shithole I have my tongue between my teeth and I’m controlling my bite, but soon feeling the distracting pain and the taste of my own blood. Now this little asshole is looking at me and pointing at my mouth and saying what I still think is ‘club’ over and over again, but I soon realise that it’s ‘blood’, and mine is trickling down my face and on to my goddamn shirt. I hate them all, and that crazy Sara-Ann with her fucking plays. . and another fucking email from her pops into my phone with the headline: SUPPORT IS MORE THAN WRITING A CHEQUE! No wonder Terry was so keen to dump that crazy bitch on me!