A Decent Ride (13 page)

He decides it might not be good to let Ronnie know he’s been browsing on his computer, so goes into the history to clear it. After completing this procedure, he realises that the window on Ronnie’s email account is still open. He reads a few; they are fairly dull and innocuous, though one, obviously from an ex-wife’s lawyer, seems a little ominous. The one that gets Terry, however, is from this morning:

Dear Mr Checker

I confirm that your recent offer of $100,000, for the remaining bottle of Bowcullen Trinity in our possession, is of interest to us. However, I feel duty-bound to inform you that we have had interest from another party, based in Europe.

With that in mind, might I suggest that you come and visit us at the Bowcullen Distillery, where you can enjoy lunch and our famous Highland hospitality, and you can examine this rare and highly prized collector’s item?

Yours sincerely

Eric Leadbitter-Cullen

President, Bowcullen Distillery

— A hundred grand for a fuckin boatil ay whisky . . .? Terry gasps out loud, shutting the laptop, as Ronnie emerges, distracted in animated conversation with a portly man who is dressed in tweeds.

Terry gets out and walks towards them, as the man shakes hands with Ronnie and departs back into the chambers. — Awright, mate?

— Hell yeah, Terry, Ronnie grins. — Our next little trip is gonna be up to the Highlands. Do you know the Bowcullen Distillery in Inverness-shire?

— Naw, but ah soon will, mate, Terry smiles, thinking about how any bottle of whisky could be worth a hundred thousand dollars, even if it was American toytown money.

IT’S AW CAULD
n draughty when ah rise fae the couch. An awfay lumpy sleep, awfay lumpy, aye, it is that. But ah cannae go intae the bedroom, cause ay Jinty no speakin tae ays. Naw sur, ah cannot. So ah shuts the bedroom door withoot looking in. Thaire’s nae sounds, jist an awfay bad smell.

This cauld is like a shirt oan yir back; a cauld white shirt thit ye cannae take oaf but, no ye cannot. Ah mind yin time, as a wee laddie, whin ah fell intae Newhaven Harbour. Ma faither, real faither Henry, went doon the iron ledders n grabbed ays n pilled ays oot or ah wid’ve drooned. Ah couldnae git that freezin cauld shirt oaffay ma back. Muh ma, whae wisnae that fat then, wis undaein the buttons n ah wis screamin at her tae hurry up, aye sur, screamin. It wis that cauld. Jist like now, sur, jist like now. Aye. Ma feet ur awright, no sur, ah’m no bothered aboot ma feet, but ma back n ma hands . . .

Ah turns up the cushions oan the couch n thaire’s a poond coin, a fifty pee a five pence n some coppers! Ah ken whaire ah’m gaun! Aw aye sur, that ah do, that ah do.

So ah goes tae Campbell’s for a heat. Better thin yon Pub Wi Nae Name anyway! Ye git a rerr heat in thaire, sur, aye ye do, a rerr heat. Thaire’s a paper opened, a posh
Scotsman
, n it’s aw aboot yon Bawbag. Aye.

It’s fair to say that life, post-Bawbag, will never be the same. The lessons of Bawbag were that Scots, once again, realised that they were back at the centre of the world, which would look to us to provide the appropriate behavioural response to this sort of natural calamity, though within the context of a strong, free Britain, and with a powerful military presence to assist our American allies in their selfless quest in maintaining peace throughout the globe.

Thir no wrong n aw sur, they are not wrong. Life is nivir gaunny be the same again. Mair thin the cocaine n the Barksie twin, n them acroass the road in that Pub Wi Nae Name even, it wis Bawbag thit did aw this!

Aw God. Aw God.

Ah sees Maurice, Jinty’s faither, come in, n ah turns away as eh sortay perches at the bar. Eh’s wearin a smert yellay fleece. It makes um look like a giant canary thit’s come intae the pub, n the bar bein ehs perch. But eh’s seen ays. Aw God, eh’s seen ays, eh hus that.

— Jonty!

So thaire’s nowt ah kin dae but leave ma posh paper n head ower wi ma pint. — Mo. Nice fleece ye goat there, Maurice, sort ay canary-yellay, aye sur. Looks awfay comfy, sur, sure it does, Maurice. Canary-yellay fleece. Aye. Canary-yellay.

Maurice rubs ehs sleeve ay ehs fleece between ehs thumb n forefinger. — Ye dinnae see many like these, Jonty.

— Yir no gaunny git knocked doon oan the dark mornins wearin that, the barman goes.

Maurice looks like eh’s gaunny take it the wrong wey, ken, pittin oan that face, then eh smiles n goes, — Naw, that’s no gaunny happen right enough! Eh turns tae me. — Ay, Jonty! Ah’m no gaunny git knocked doon croassin the road wearin this!

Ah jist laughs at that yin. — Nae yir no, ye urnae, naw sur, naw sur, naw sur, yi’ll no git knocked doon wearin that yin! Naw yi’ll no, Maurice, that’s for sure, aye sur, it is.

Then this boy standin at the other corner ay the bar, eh looks a wee bit drunk n goes, — No unless it’s a summary execution for crimes against fashion.

Maurice’s grippin the bar, ehs knuckles aw white. — Always jealous ignorant people, ye notice that, Jonty? Ye notice that?

The boy’s jist smilin, like eh’s no bothered at aw.

— Aye, bit dinnae rise tae the bait but, Maurice, dinnae rise tae the bait, nae sur, naw sur. Nup. The bait.

Thank the guid Lord that the boy’s turned away tae ehs mate, n Maurice lits it go. — Ah’m no wantin back in the chokie, Jonty, no at ma age, n ehs face, cheery a minute ago, goes aw miserable. — Ah’m no a young man any mair, Jonty. Ah couldnae dae mair jail time now, n eh looks back ower at the boy, talkin tae his mate, a younger sort ay felly, — no for jealous bastirts like yon!

— Jealousy, Maurice.

— Aye n they aw sit in that toilet n dae thair funny snuff, n eh makes a sniff up ehs nose, n ah sortay cringe, thinkin aboot Jinty, — but Scotland’s smokers urnae extended the same rights! Naw, we huv tae go ootside in the rain, while drug addicts, jealous drug addicts, are free tae brek the law any time they like in the toilets!

— Aye sur, aye sur, jealousy is what it is, ah goes, — cause it’s a fine-lookin toap, Maurice. Warm n aw, ah’m bettin!

— Ye widnae believe it, Jonty! Maurice sais, now aw cheered up again. — Ah wis oot last night whin that hurricane, that fuckin Bawbag or whatever they call the cunt, it wis fair blazin doon Gorgie Road, n ah nivir felt a thing! Nowt!

— Aye? Ah’ll bet ye didnae! That’s a barry fleece, right enough! That wid stand up tae Bawbag n pit um in ehs place! Ah bet ye it wid!

— Yir no wrong, Jonty, Maurice laughs, then eh sais, — The only thing wi it, eh goes, dippin ehs cuff in his pint ay Tennent’s n rubbin at a mark oan the sleeve, — is that it picks up stains awfay easy. This wis some broon sauce thit came ootay ma bacon roll ower in the cafe. Ma ain fault, eh shrugs, — ah pit too much oan.

— Too much.

— Aye, too much, Jonty, easy done, eh goes, eyes aw sad again.

— Easy done though, Maurice, cause ye cannae beat broon sauce oan a bacon roll, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, broon sauce, sur, bacon roll, sur.

— Aye, you’ve goat ma wee Jinty fir aw that. Wee Jinty ey made a good bacon roll, ah’ll say that fir her. The square sausage n aw! The English huvnae goat that! Naw thuv no!

— The English dinnae huv that?

— Dae they fuck! Ah’ve worked aw ower England, Jonty – Cambridge, Doncaster, Luton – n ah’ve hud fill English breakfasts everywhaire. Nane ay thum ken aboot the square sausage. Git fuckin genned up, ah’d say tae they landladies servin the brekkies at they B&Bs, the square fuckin sausage! Made fir rolls!

— Ah sur, they ur that!

— Ma Jinty; one bacon roll, one egg roll, n yin oan the square sausage, eh, Jonty! Her ma taught her that!

— Aye sur, ah’ll bet she did!

Maurice takes a gulp ay lager. — How’s she daein? Jinty? She’s no been roond lately. Come intae some money, ah bet!

Aw naw, it pits a pain in ma hert whin eh asks yon. — Naw sur, jist daein away quietly, aye sur, daein away quietly, ah tells um, but ah didnae want tae hear Maurice tell tales ay his deid wife, Jinty’s ma.

— Jist like hur ma, that yin, Maurice sais, aw glassy-eyed like eh’s aboot tae greet.

— Aye sur, aye, she wid be . . .

— Jist like hur ma, n no like hur ma, if ye catch ma drift.

— Aye sur . . . aye . . . aye . . . aye.

— Her ma wis a great wummin. Never a day goes by whin ah dinnae think ay her.

Aye, the memories make ye sad, but ah’ve goat ma ain yins tae make ays sad, so ah drink up n leave, sure ah do, sur. Tell Mo ah huv tae go. Nice canary-yellay fleece though.

IT’S A SCABBY
wee fuckin room wi a faint smell ay seek; they must’ve hud a weddin in here the other night. Chairs arranged in a semicircle wi one cunt at the front, whae introduces ehsel as Glen. Thaire’s aboot twenty people here, n roond aboot fifteen are guys. That’s nae fuckin use tae me! N bein the new sheriff in toon, aw eyes ur oan me, especially this Glen cunt. A podgy-faced fucker wi a blond fringe, n they earnest eyes like some Americans uv goat; yins thit sort ay
implore
. So ah stands up, soas the burds can sketch the outline ay Auld Faithful (eywis oan permanent semi-alert through the tight nylon tracky bottums ah’m wearin), n jist spits it oot, wi a big ah’ve-jist-fell-intae-a-barrel-ay-fannies grin acroass ma coupon. — My name is Terry, n ah’m a sex addict.

They start giein ays aw they sincere welcomes: ‘Hi, Terry. Hello, Terry’ . . . aw that shite. Ah kin tell one wee burd’s clocked whit’s fir muncho-luncho but! Wee dark-heided thing wi thin, tight lips n a shagger’s glint in her eye. She crosses they nylon pins tae gie that pussy a cheeky wee squash. Jist tae wake it up, soas it kens thit jumbo-sized hot dogs ur oan the menu fir later! Fuck me, ah kin feel Auld Faithful shuffling forward an inch. She’ll dae!

This Glen cunt looks at ays aw stroppy as ah sit doon, but ah dinnae gie a fuck, ah’ve said ma piece n pit the goods oan display. Time tae jist kick back n see what bites n gets reeled in but, ay. Ah’ve sat back wi ma right leg restin high oan the chair in front, tae lit Auld Faithful display nicely ower the inside ay ma thigh. This Glen boy, he’s haein nane ay it, though, ay. — Perhaps, Terry, you might like to tell us why you’re here?

Ah gies a wee shrug. — A bit deep. Why’s any ay us here but, mate? Ah’ve came along tae this meetin cause ah like a ride, ay. Thoat ah’d meet some kindred spirits! Spice ay –

— I don’t think you understand the meaning of this group, Glen sortay gasps oot, ehs puss aw creasin up. Thaire’s a few tuts aroond the room.

But ah fuckin well dae ken the meaning, cause ah’ve been lookin at the burds’ reactions; maist ay thum’uv goat that stroke-victim turned-doon-mooth oan thum, but that wee honey, the yin thit checked the goods oan display, she’s fair crackin up! Ah’m fuckin well gaun hame wi her! Guaranteed!

This Glen cunt’s still giein it the big yin: — . . . the people in this group have had their lives wrecked by their addictions to sex, and inappropriately acting on those emotions. He looks roond them aw for support.

This big fat bastard stands up. — I’m Grant and I’ve been sober now for eight years . . .

— Well done, Grant, Glen goes, as the other cunts start aw that ‘good oan ye, mate’ shite.

Ah dinnae git this at aw. — Whin ye say sober, does that mean yuv no hud a ride in eight years? Cause if ah hudnae hud a fuckin ride in eight years ah widnae be sober, ah’d be right oan the fuckin pish!

Thaire’s a few gasps n heid-shakes at that but the wee honey in ma sights jist pits her hand ower her mooth tae stifle a wee laugh. The fat cunt, this Grant boy, he’s nearly greetin but, ay. — My addiction cost me my whole life, my family, my beautiful daughters and the love of a fantastic –

Ah cuts um oaf. — Cause ah kin sort ay believe it ay you, mate. No bein wide, but yir a big laddie, likes . . . but in aw the wrong weys, if ye git ma drift but, ay. N yir daein that feelin sorry for yirsel thing, nae burd wants that, ah goes, n turnin tae the lassies, fir support, likes. Feminism in action!

— No . . . you don’t understand . . . I’m sober through choice . . .

Ah’m startin tae fuckin tipple. — Ye mean by sober thit yuv no hud a ride?

The Glen gadge steams in. — Terry, you seem to be fundamentally misunderstanding what this group is about. We’re here to talk about the crippling losses our addiction has cost us. You must have had broken marriages, estranged children, destroyed relationships . . .

This pits ays oan the spot. A sea ay faces, burds, bairns, but maist ay aw fannies, seems tae flash before ma eyes. Shaved minges, Brazilians, ginger, blonde, but they soon get swamped by a pulsin forest ay thick black bushes; which tells us wir back tae the fuckin eighties. — Aye . . . uv hud aw that. N it isnae very nice, ah admit, cause it isnae, n besides, yuv goat tae gie the cunts something. — But you gadges are too gless-is-half-empty. Ah’ve hud a loat ay fuckin barry rides fae some quality fanny, ah explain, — a few muck-buckets n aw, ah’ll gie ye that, but ah widnae change a fuckin minute ay it! Shot over twenty scud flicks!

This Glen cunt sees the wey this is gaun, n tries tae switch the conversation. — Look, this group is about coming to terms with our addiction, not celebrating it.

A burd who looks rough as fuck, but ah’d still gie yin tae, turns roond n goes, — Typical defence mechanism, not dealing with the loss, pain and heartbreak the disease of addiction causes!

— Ye kin talk aboot that aw ye like, but as oor Italian cousins say: ye dinnae take-a the humpy wi the rumpy-pumpy!

Well, that gits a few laughs, before it gits aw borin again n ye huv tae listen tae cunts gaun oan aboot how ridin’s fucked up thair lives. Fuck that: take shaggin n peeve oot ay the equation n yir left wi the square root ay sweet fuck all! N the only root ah’m fuckin well bothered aboot is Auld Faithful’s, whae’s stiffenin nicely. Down, boy . . .

That wee raven-haired honey, she’s a total wee clart; gies ays a wee slow wink. Ya cunt! She gits ma ‘ah’m game’ yin right back at her!
You wi the hair that’s awfay inky, yir fuckin well getting the stinky pinky! Guaranteed!

Of course, when it’s coffee brek we’re straight oot the fuckin door n intae the cab, right up tae the fuckin Pentlands. Ah’ve pilled up in a secluded spot n wir in the back, n ah’ve soon goat ma hands slappin against the roof ay ma cab n ah’m pumpin away good style!