Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

Terry knows how this works. He is supposed to get all panicky, to assume that he might be incriminated in the diary, and to admit he removed those pages. But the only information the document offered about him was Jinty’s confirmation that he was a shagging machine. Or had been. No good to let Shite Cop know this though. He pulls a forlorn face. — You think one ay the other lassies sent it in?

— Dunno. Seems a reasonable assumption. But what we haven’t mentioned was that your name cropped up in it.

While this is bullshit, and the only references to him were on the discarded pages, Terry has decided it’s best to look guilty, which isn’t a hard act to pull off. — Aw. .

— You never said that you and Jeanette Magdalen were lovers.

Though shocked, and wondering who grassed him up about this, Terry is compelled to laugh out loud. — Lovers is overeggin the puddin a wee bit. Cowped her once in the cab: before that Hurricane Bawbag, ay. She wis the second-last passenger ay the night. That’s aw accounted for in the statement ah gied yis. Ah admitted tae droapin her oaf at the boozer, but the shaggin, well, ye huv tae be discreet aboot they things.

Shite Cop shrugs, expressing something that might have even been agreement. He then mentions the names of two girls — one being Saskia — who left Liberty following Jinty’s disappearance. — Do you know anything about them?

— The Saskia lassie went back tae Poland. No that sure if ah mind ay the other yin, Terry says, telling the truth.

The policeman confirms that the Liberty Leisure girls took little persuading to come forward and talk of the intimidation and violence they suffered at the hands of The Poof and Kelvin. Shite Cop then asks Terry if he was aware of anything untoward occurring at Liberty Leisure.

Terry can’t resist. — Well, apart fae it bein a knockin shop?

The detective bristles. The police are collusive in Edinburgh’s bizarre but pragmatic prostitution practices. Provided nobody talks too much about it, most people, conscious of the terrible legacy of the ‘Aids capital of Europe’ days, are pretty much happy to leave things as they are.

— The P— Victor. . is an old school pal. As ah’ve said, he wanted me to keep an eye on the place. Terry swallows, knowing he could never say this in court, but he has to give Shite Cop something. — He didnae trust Kelvin.

Shite Cop snorts in a derisive manner, which Terry takes to mean the pot was calling the kettle black. — Once again: do you know why Victor Syme is in Spain?

— Business. As in his ain. Terry looks at Shite Cop with an are-you-daft expression. — I ken no tae ask these kind of questions.

— What kind of questions?

— The ones ah dinnae want tae hear the answers tae.

Shite Cop nods thoughtfully. — If you hear anything, let us know, he says, and the chat is over.

Or almost. As Shite Cop goes to rise, Terry asks, in earnest tones, — What do you think happened tae her? Jinty?

Shite Cop smiles, and contemplates the question for a second. Then, almost as if moved by Terry’s sincerity, he muses, — Well, we can only speculate, but she was with a dippit wee felly and being abused by a couple of psychopaths. There were a lot of guys sniffing around her at the sauna. It wasn’t a great life she had, maybe somebody made her the offer of a better one somewhere else.

Terry considers this and nods, as Shite Cop turns and leaves. It was as sound a hypothesis as any. He gets back to the cab, considering the sudden cold winds and the accompanying grim tales of a local virus that was laying Edinburgh’s elderly citizens to waste. Yesterday he’d inadvertently caught an old girl on Scotland Today moaning pathetically about her isolation and his heartstrings were tugged. Whatever Alice had done, she is still his mother, and Terry’s avoidance of her has been total. It is time to rectify this. Besides, he has an urgent reason to square things with Alice. Tomorrow morning Terry has a hospital appointment, which the local NHS Health Board had astonishingly brought forward , and that certainly wasn’t a good sign.

He heads out to Sighthill, and in the event, Alice is fine when he calls, if obviously a little upset, which he attributes to his non-contact. She beckons him through to the kitchen, where she is robustly making soup, her blade chopping the vegetables with force. Terry had assumed that the visit would be routine. However, Alice quickly reveals the source of her distress, informing him that Henry died last weekend.

This news has not been unanticipated by Terry, who shrugs casually. — And that’s meant tae mean something tae me?

— It means something tae me!

Terry shakes his head. He hasn’t intended for the conversation to take this turn, but realises that it can go no other way. — It obviously never meant that much.

— Eh? Alice’s eyes bulge. Terry is relieved when she lowers the knife to the cutting board.

— Well, ye fuckin well shagged that auld jakey cunt, Post Alec, lit him git ye up the fuckin duff. .

Alice goes to speak, hesitates, then gets going again. — Eh wisnae an auld jakey then! Eh wis a very presentable and handsome young postman before the drink got tae um! N eh wis your fuckin pal!

Terry’s eyes dart across the kitchen, looking for something to fixate on. He chooses an old Swiss cuckoo clock on the wall, whose figures stopped making an appearance a good two decades ago. — Yuv ruined ma life, he says in stifled accusation.

— What? Alice screeches in retaliation, stepping towards him. — What are you on about?

— You! Terry turns back to her, the glint in his eye scornful and demonic. — Ah used tae think it wis that Jambo cunt Henry, but it was you aw along! You!

— It’s you that ruined ma life! Alice barks. — It’s you that cost me Walter n every other chance ay happiness ah bloody well hud. . Her bony hand reaches out with sudden speed and grapples Terry’s hair, unable to gain traction due to the absence of the corkscrew curls, while the other makes contact with his face. Then Alice steps back, but there’s fire in her eyes.

The punch, though puny, pulled and ineffectual, shocks Terry as it is the first time he can recall Alice laying hands on him since the repeated slaps to the back of his short-trousered legs when he was a wee laddie.

— Yir a waster! Yuv done nuthin wi yir life! Yuv achieved nuthin! Dirty fullums whaire ye make a fool ay yirsel n embarrass everybody!

All Terry can think about are fairways, roughs, bunkers, greens, flags and, most of all, white balls and dark, dark holes. — You ken nowt! Ah’ve won a big fuckin gowf tournament!

— Aye, Alice laughs bitterly, — Yir new sad obsession! Ye think the gowf’ll fuckin save ye? Eh? Dae ye? Answer ays!

— Ah dinnae ken! But it’s something ah’m fuckin good at!

— Good at? Good at? You? Yuv barely held a club in yir hands!

— Ah won an international tournament the other week! Big prize money! Worth a hundred grand!

— Aye, in yir dreams!

— Ah’m tellin ye! And ah goat a 69 oan Silverknowes on Setirday n aw! Awright, jist a glorified council pitch n putt, but when wis the last 69 you hud? Wi that dirty auld cunt, Post Alec, ah bet! And Terry storms out the house, making for the cab, Alice slamming the door shut behind him.

He starts up the motor to head into town, but for some reason stops by the park where he played as a child. The slope of it makes it unsuitable for ball games, or practically anything other than letting dogs roam free to shit to their hearts’ content, and Terry spies a woman with two small children in a buggy, with grocery bags hanging precariously from its handles. She’s still young but careworn, bent out of shape probably by back-to-back pregnancies and poor diet. She’s pushing the buggy across the park, but its wheels have stuck in thick mud, and her pleas for the toddler to get out and walk are met with violent screams. She shouldn’t have taken the short cut. The deep pain Terry experiences on behalf of this woman shocks him. He wants to blare his horn, signal her over and give her a lift home. But he’s a cabbie. She’d think he was a weirdo. So he drives into town.