Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

Disconcerted, depressed and at a loose end, Terry opts to swing by the Taxi Club for a beer. Stumpy Jack is there with Bladesey. — Private hire? Fuckin paedophiles. Recruited direct fae Peterheid they boys, ah telt the cunt, Jack declares, puffing out his chest. — Naw, mate, trust in Capital Cab Service.

— There does seem to be a higher proportion of felons working in the private-hire business, Bladesey ventures, as Terry walks up to the bar and gets a pint in.

Terry is cautious, as he hasn’t spoken to his taxi comrades since last week’s debacle with the drug deal and the botched whisky. He looks sheepishly over at them, just as Doughheid, who is now a Control stalwart, marches in. — Ah, Terry. . ah see you’ve actually been taking fares instead ay spending aw yir time offline.

— Git oaf ma case, Terry snaps, picking up his pint and necking an inch. — First youse gied ays flak for no pickin up fares, now it’s the reverse.

— Control’s goat nowt against ye, Terry, Doughheid states. — Yir no a marked man by Control. Dinnae think it.

Suddenly, the other cabbies galvanise round Terry in support. — What are you daein here anyway? It’s the Taxi Club, no the fuckin Control Club, shouts Jack.

— We’re aw part ay the same team, Doughheid says defensively.

— Are we fuck! You’ve been tryin tae git me oaf the fuckin team, Jack shouts. — Terry, tell um. Whaire’s eh gaun? Terry?

But Terry is heading out the door, and back into the cab. There is no respite at the Taxi Club; even the robust camaraderie now seems empty and only the harbinger of more hassle. Jonty is in London — he saw the wee man off the other week. Ronnie is back in the USA. He is utterly useless to his own family. So Terry finds himself driving aimlessly, exiting at Newbridge and heading out towards Fife. The Road Bridge spans ahead, about to be replaced by another construction further up the estuary. Redundant, like me, Terry thinks caustically. Realises that now is the time to end it all, in that most fitting of places.

He parks the cab and walks down the pedestrian gangway, battered by surging gusts. Yes, it is time. Terry climbs over the balustrade and looks down at the water, like a sheet of beaten black metal, punctuated by the odd foamy white slash which makes him think of Alec’s larvae. Would the fish do to his body what the land creatures had done to his father’s, to his great friend’s?

As he contemplates letting his cold hands go, the phone rings. He sees Donna on the caller ID. He answers it, pressing the earpiece to his head, to counter the noise from the swirling wind. He can still barely hear her. — Ma nana’s in the hoaspital. She’s hud a faw doon the stairs.

— Right, Terry says. He visualises Alice, rendered careless and clumsy by the rage their row induced, tumbling to the floor, her bones cracking.

— You’ll huv tae pick her up, ay. Ah cannae cause ah’ve goat the wee yin n she’s been up aw night wi the runs.

— Right. . is she okay?

— Aye, but it’s totally mingin n it nivir stoaps. Ah’ve went n changed her three times this affie awready, ay.

— Ah mean my ma, Terry says.

— Thuv no said aye, but thuv no said naw. You’ll need tae go n see cause ah cannae leave Kasey Linn but, ay.

— Right. . Terry clicks off the phone. He looks down again, and for the first time is petrified. His grip — he can’t feel his hand on the barrier. He stares at it; it looks bluish-pink, and as cold as Alec’s face in that block of ice. Fatigue spreads through his body like a virulent poison and he knows he’s too weak to climb back over. The other hand slips the phone into his North Face jacket. The cold numbs him and he has a sense that he is falling. .

He is falling. .

But it’s only a few feet. Somehow, he has slipped back over the balustrade on to the pathway. He cries out, feels the wind sting the salty tears that run down his face. Death has scared him. But cheating it has frustrated and tormented him. As if on cue, he feels a twinge in his underpants. — How is this happenin tae me? Aw ah want is. . aw ah fuckin well want is. . he screams into the unforgiving wind, down the black river’s estuary, — AW AH WANT IS A FUCKIN DECENT RIDE!

Then, without any sense of himself walking back down the bridge, his numbed hand is unlocking the door of the taxi. Similarly, he drives on automatic pilot towards the Royal. His only awareness of being there is when the electronic doors swing open and the heat blasts him.

Alice had fallen over and had been X-rayed but has suffered only bruising and inflammation. He drops her off in silence. His mother, lost in her own world of pain and misery, seems to register at the end of the ride that something is seriously amiss with her son. — Are you awright?

— Aye, ah’m fine, he says in a defeated tone, which chills Alice. She tries to get him to come inside, but Terry refuses and goes home, sitting up most of the night, scrolling through his phone numbers, wondering whom to call. Then someone rings him. He laughs at the ID: SUICIDE SAL. They could do a double dive together. True romance! He presses the red button to silence it. He goes to bed and falls into a jagged, uneven sleep.

He awakens more fatigued than ever in the anaemic light, the alarm on his mobile calling in a truculent tone he can’t recall setting it to. He isn’t looking forward to his hospital appointment. It is a wet, miserable morning, the sort where, even though it’s only May, Scotland has already practically given up hope of having any sort of a summer.

The first thing that puts Terry on edge is the presence of another man in the consulting room, who is sitting alongside Dr Moir. In contrast to the cardiovascular consultant’s tense bearing, he’s a louche-looking character in a brown suit, with a blond floppy fringe and a long, pockmarked face. Terry thinks he might be some sort of a specialist. There is an ominous charge in the room. It moves Terry to wonder: how much worse can this fuckin get?

Dr Moir clears his throat. — I’ve some terrible news, Mr Lawson.

Terry feels what is probably the last of his life being crushed out of him. He curses Donna’s intervention on the bridge. It surely was time to get several grams of coke, book into a nice hotel room, call somebody up and snort and pump his way into the next world. — Aye? What’s that then? he wearily asks, now completely beaten.

— This has genuinely never happened before. . at this health board, at any rate, Moir ventures cagily, looking like he’s bracing himself for an explosion.

Terry looks to the suited man, who, in contrast, juts his chin out defiantly, staring at the stumbling Moir, urging him to continue. — It seems that there are two Terence Lawsons. .

Terry’s mouth flaps open. It is as if all the muscles in his face have just torn. — Ye mean. .

— Yes, Moir says, his mouth set in a tight smile, but his eyes brimming with trepidation, — you don’t have a serious heart condition.

It feels to Terry as if he is coming up on the purest MDMA powder, yet at the same time being skewered by a broadsword. Shock, elation and resentment twist through him in conflicting, turbulent waves.

— You’re in very good health, Moir continues. — The cholesterol numbers could be a bit better, but generally speaking –

— AH’M FUCKIN AWRIGHT!! Terry declares, then gasps, — Ah. . ah wis awright aw along!

Moir’s eyes start blinking involuntarily. — Indeed. It seems that there was a glitch in our database that resulted in the system’s confusion between the different Terence Lawsons.

Terry sits back in the chair, his head spinning. Then his eyes narrow into tight slits. — Ah’m fuckin suin the NHS! Emotional stress! Damages fir loss ay fuckin ridin time! Look at the fuckin weight ah’ve pit oan, and he grabs a fistful of gut. — Career in scud doon the fuckin swanny! AH WENT VER-NEAR FUCKIN MENTAL, TRIED TAE FUCKIN TOP MASEL!! he roars, as Moir cringes in his chair. Everything that has happened to Terry crashes around him. He sees the image of Alec’s empty eyeball sockets, teeming with writhing maggots. — Ah fuckin. . he was going to say that he was driven to dig up his father’s grave to size his cock, but stops himself. He grips his hands tightly on the sides of the chair and tries to get control of his breathing. — Ronnie Checker’s one ay ma best mates! Ah’ll git the best fuckin lawyers money kin buy, n take aw youse cunts tae the fuckin cleaners!