A Decent Ride (17 page)

— Is that supposed to be a compliment?

— Course it is, it’s the best yin ye kin gie a lassie! Naebody wants telt that thuv goat a fanny like the Grand Canyon. Yours is tighter than Gary Barlow eftir a tax bill!

They talk about past loves. Sara-Ann tells Terry she’s had relationships with men and women. Terry, or rather Auld Faithful, hears the second part only, and sends his brain a signal. — We’ve goat a lot in common.

— What?

— Well, you like lassies n ah like lassies.

— Yes, Sara-Ann concedes. — I was completely finished with men. Then Andy came along, and that was a huge mistake. She shakes her head and wonders out loud, — So why the hell did I get into this?

— If it helps any, just think ay me as a lesbo, but wi a cock n baws.

Sal looks pointedly at him. — That’s not an original comment, Terry. In fact, every guy I’ve been with has said something along the same lines.

Terry shrugs off the declaration, but makes a mental note never to use such a line on a bisexual woman again. — You goat Internet in this room?

— Yeah. She nods to her laptop. — Help yourself. Sara-Ann reclines on the bed, watching Terry push back his corkscrew curls, his gaze burning into the screen. — What about you, ever been with another guy?

— It’s jist no ma thing. Dinnae git ays wrong, ah’ve tried, Terry says, then looks up from the screen. — Ah thoat, thaire’s goat tae be something in this, so ah tried tae ram this boy one night. But ah jist saw that hairy ersecrack n Auld Faithful here, he pats his cock, experiencing a satisfying twinge, — jist wisnae feelin it. N ah kin git it up like that. He snaps his fingers. — Well, a fuckin adult-fullum actor, yuv goat tae but, ay. Then ah thoat it was cause the boy wis a bit butch, so ah goat a hud ay this wee tranny one night. Tell ye, plenty burds ah’ve banged, no you likes, have been a lot rougher-lookin than this boy. Shaved erse crack between peachy wee cheeks, so ah thoat: here we go, Terry explains, then his eyes fall back on to the screen.

Sara-Ann props herself forward. — What happened?

— Fuck all. This boy, he swivels in the chair into her full view and pats his penis, — eh still wisnae playin ball. Terry shrugs. — Aye, in an ideal world, every other laddie would be celibate, n ah’d be bisexual: increase the pool ay opportunities. But naw, I’ve hud tae come tae terms wi ma heterosexuality.

Sara-Ann sits cross-legged on the bed, and pushes her hair back. — What about if somebody tried to fuck you?

— No wi these fuckin Duke ay Argyles; ma eyes water just thinkin aboot it.

— I thought you tensed up, when I tried to, you know, with my finger . . .

— Too right! Wi they nails you’ve goat? Ah’d be walkin aroond aw week wi an
Evening News
stuffed up ma hole tae try n staunch the bleedin!

— Shit. Sara-Ann glances at her watch on the bedside table, and pulls it on. — We should go.

They head downstairs and check out of the hotel, driving through the rainy Edinburgh streets. Terry knows he’s been lumbered, but part of him likes playing the Good Samaritan, and he takes Sara-Ann and her stuff out to, not quite Portobello, but snobbier Joppa, as he’d suspected.

— Wait, she says, — I’m just dropping this off. Take me back into town and we’ll get a drink.

Terry fights down his discomfort. — Ye no want tae get settled?

— No. I got settled for seventeen years in this place and I couldn’t wait to get the fuck out. Nothing has changed.

Terry soon sees why. Sara-Ann’s mother apprears, a thin, suspicious grey-haired woman, looking disdainfully at the cab. Terry’s first thought is that he’d love to give her one. He dispenses a friendly wave, but she responds with a sour pout and turns towards her daughter. — Now there’s an auld lum needs sweepin, Terry says softly, looking at the thickening outline of his cock in his tracksuit bottoms. Raised voices tell him that mother and daughter seem to be having harsh words.

Then her mother runs into the house, and Sara-Ann follows, slamming the door shut behind her. Thinking that she might not return, Terry wonders whether he should call her, but as he’s deliberating, Sara-Ann suddenly reappears. Her face is tense and white, and her eye make-up slightly smuged. It’s obvious that she’s been crying.

— I want to get fucking pissed, Sara-Ann declares, as she climbs into the taxi. — Somewhere cheap and nasty suits my mood right now.

— Ah’ll take ye tae the Taxi Club in Powderhall: cheapest pint in the toon!

They head into Leith, then up to Pilrig; Terry explains about tramworks, slipping into Powderhall through the backstreets of Broughton. When they get into the small club, it is practically empty, but Doughheid is playing darts with Cliff Blades, supervised by Stumpy Jack, a cider-drinking Falklands veteran with a prosthetic leg.

Terry introduces them to Sara-Ann. — This is ma mate Doughheid. Called so cause eh’s no the quickest bus in the Lothian Region depot.

Doughheid looks at him, bottom lip hanging south. — You telt me everybody called ays Doughheid cause ah wis eywis chasin the big money!

— Ah lied, mate, Terry admits, leaving Doughheid to consider the social implications of this revelation as he nods to a man with thick lenses. — This is Bladesey. And this slaverin peg-legged cunt here’s Jack. Terry sweeps a theatrical hand at his friends. — This ravishing beauty is Sara-Ann Lamont, known as Sal, and ah’m pleased tae say she cannae keep her greedy mitts off me!

Sara-Ann feels a strange coyness swamping her, hating herself for managing only a weak, prim retort, — You wish . . . before she corrects herself. — Fuck, I’m just back in this place, and I’ve turned into Miss Jean Brodie already!

— Where have you come from? Bladesey asks in an English accent.

— Close to where you’re from by the sound of it. London.

— I’m from Newmarket, actually.

— Control been fuckin ye aboot lately? Jack asks Terry.

— Naw, as long as ah’m slippin Big Liz a length, she keeps ays awright. That McVitie is the real cunt, but he’s retirin soon.

— Aye, they’ve been at it wi me, Jack sneers, lifting a whisky to his lips.

— They cunts fae Control get oan yir nerves, Terry agrees. The other week thaire they pit ays oafline aw night cause ah widnae pick up a fare fae the Ferry Boat doon tae Granton. They goes, ‘You’re the nearest cab.’ Ah goes, ‘Ah’m in Queensferry Road, no Ferry Road, ya daft cunt. Learn tae read a fuckin map.’ That cunt McVitie, ah heard it wis, goes, ‘My satellite tells me that you’re the nearest cab.’ Ah goes, ‘Yir satellite’s aw tae fuck. Where the fuck’s that come fae, outer space or somewhere?’

Jack laughs. — Aye, you’ve goat the gen oan him fae Liz, right enough.

Terry glances over, sees a slight reaction from Sara-Ann at the mention of Liz’s name. — Ah’ve been maistly off the system though, cause ah’m workin fir this boy, Ronnie Checker, ken the American cunt oan the telly?

— Business takes balls! Jack shouts.

— Ooh, I should imagine he would be something of a tyrant to work for, Bladesey says.

— Nah, eh’s a fuckin shitein cunt really, ay, Sal? Feart ay that Bawbag! Fuckin crappin ehs breeks! We hud tae go roond the other night n hud the cunt’s hand, ay?

— He seemed to think it was some kind of Hurricane Katrina/New Orleans-type deal, Sara-Ann laughs.

— Well, says Stumpy Jack, — never mind shitey hurricanes, ah’ll tell ye whae the real cunts are: they bastards in Control! Tryin tae git ays tae take a test! Sayin ah’m no fit tae drive a cab! Been drivin a fuckin cab for years!

— Be private hire for you next, Jackie boy, Doughheid observes.

— Private hire? Nivir kent one ay they cunts that didnae huv a record the length ay yir airm!

Terry nips to the toilet for a pish and a line, and on his return is delighted to see Sara-Ann bringing a round of drinks on a tray. — Class, he nods to the others, — ah like that in a burd.

Sara-Ann looks at the men around the table, in a deep socially anthropological way. She thinks about how, although she grew up in this city, she’s never spent any time in the company of men like these.

— Well, I’m an old-school chap in many respects, Bladesey contends, — but willingness to pay one’s way is an attractive feature in anybody.

Sara-Ann cracks a half-smile at him. — So what attracts you to a woman, Cliff?

Bladesey blushes slightly. — It would have to be her eyes. They say it’s the gateway to the soul.

— They’ve no goat fuckin eyes in your case! White-stick job, mate, Stumpy Jack says.

— What aboot you, Terry? Doughheid asks. — What is it attracts you to a woman?

— Just the fact that thir women’s enough for that randy cunt, Jack roars, then looks sheepishly at Sara-Ann. — Sorry, doll, ah didnae mean it like that –

— Shut it, ya fuckin splinter-thighed muppet, Terry roars, then turns to Clifford Blades, and puts his arm round him. — Ah’m wi you, Bladesey, it’s what you said, mate; nowt sexier in a lassie than the eyes. As in ‘
aye
, ah will suck yir boaby’, ‘
aye
, ah will sit oan yir face’.

As the drunken laughter erupts, the karaoke operator enters and starts setting up in the corner.

— It looks like it’s going to be one of those nights! Bladesey shouts.

— Ah cannae git too fucked up, Terry says, looking in mild appeal at Sara-Ann, — cause ah’ve goat tae drive this American bam up tae the Highlands the morn.

— I want more drink! Sara-Ann announces.

— Only if ye agree tae dae karaoke with me, Terry states.

— Done!

— Game on, and Terry goes across to the operator, tells him to put on Journey’s ‘Small Town Girl’.

MIND WHIN AH
first met ye, Jinty, in the pub oan Lothian Road? Aye sur, Lothian Road. Mind ay that, Jinty? Mind what ye sais tae ays? Ye goes: ‘Yir no that brainy, ur ye, Jonty?’ Ah meant tae say back, ‘Well, mibbe you’re no very brainy either, Jinty; ye might be brainier thin me, but yir still no that brainy.’ But ah said nowt cause ye wir brand new, aye ye wir, n then ye said, ‘Well, it doesnae matter but, cause yir a nice felly n ah like ye.’ N then we went hame n did it. Ye sortay moved in eftir that cause ye telt ays thit the boy ye wir steyin wi had kicked ye oot, n ye didnae want tae huv tae go hame n stey wi Maurice.

Mind when we first did it? The winchin? You goes, ‘Whoa, Jonty, yir a bigger boy thin ah thoat! Yir an awfay big laddie, mibbe no tall or brawny but aw the weight ay ye is in yon cock!’ N ah gied ye it awright, Jinty, mind ah gied ye it? Split ye right up the middle n ye liked it! Sure ye did! Aye sur, aye sur, aye sur. Makes ays feel bad but: aw them in that Pub Wi Nae Name makin a fool ay my boaby. Aye, they probably jist want ays tae paint doon thaire so thit they kin torment ays mair. You nivir made a fool ay ma boaby, Jinty.

Aye sur, ye wir ma girl, Jinty. Cept whin ye goat pished. Ye cheynged whin ye goat pished but, ay. It wis a different thing, Jinty, aye sur, a different thing. The demon drink, aye sur, the demon drink. N that funny white stuff, naw naw naw, ah’m no wantin tae talk aboot that . . . pit ye in the jile . . . ye dinnae want the jile. Cause it turned yir dad funny, aye, Jinty, Maurice, yir faither, he went funny in the jile, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur . . .

N ah telt ye, Jinty, whin ye came back n wi hud that row, n you said ye wir gaun oot again, ah said, ‘Dinnae stey oot wi thon Bawbag oan!’ That wis what ah said. Aye, ah did. No thon night whin the gales wir blawin doon the Gorgie Road at a hunner n sixty-five mile an ooir. N ye widnae listen, ye wanted tae go back tae that pub, wi thaim, in ye wid’ve jist went again for mair funny white stuff so ah hud tae stoap ye, Jinty, aye, ah did, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye, aye, aye, aye, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, Penicuik sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye, aye aye, that’s right, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur. Aye.

Shid nivir huv left Penicuik.

Naw sur.

Naw.

YA CUNT, THAT
wis some session, doon the Taxi Club last night. Some cunts say the Taxi Club isnae what it once wis, n it isnae, but it’s still one ay the cheapest pints in toon, n that hus tae count for something. Suicide Sal got pished as fuck but, n she wis anglin tae git back tae mine. Ah body-swerved that yin n she passed oot, so ah took her back oot tae Joppa. On the wey thaire she fuckin woke up n telt ays tae pull ower somewhere, already pillin her clathes off. Fuck sakes. Ah found a spot n banged her back tae sleep, but it wis some graft. A total goer and a tidy ride, but that shaved minge ay hers needs either another fuckin trim or tae grow oot a bit, cause it nearly tore the fuckin scrotum oaf ays. Baw sack like a fuckin blown-oot tyre oan the motorway! But job done: she wis fuckin wasted eftir that ride n aw the peeve. Hud tae cairry her oot the cab n hud her up when ah pressed the bell. The auld girl came oot n dragged her in; ah could hear another shoutin match gaun oan. But that wis me offski.

Up early this morning tae git doon tae the sauna, eftir stoapin oaf for breakfast at this place oan the Walk that does good porridge. Complex carbs: set ye up fir a day’s shaggin. When a burd sais, ‘What’s your fuckin secret, Terry?’ ah ey tell them: porridge. They think ah’m jokin but ah’m no: best source ay complex carbs but, ay.

That wee Jinty wis a bit ay a scrubber, aye, but wi aw are given the chance. Another tidy enough ride though, and that’s the main thing. Ah’m no that struck oan the vibe doon this Liberty place, n ah dinnae like tae think ay her bein in bother. Burds, even somewhere like that, shouldnae be huvin trouble at aw: you’ve goat tae respect fanny.

So ah check doon the sauna, but thaire’s jist that Andrea, wearin a black eye, n that grinning-pussed wee Kelvin cunt. Thaire’s nae Jinty, n nae Saskia either, which sort ay makes ays feel worried. So ah dinnae hing aboot n git back up tae the motor. Ah call Saskia, but it goes tae her answerphone. It’s goat nippy ootside, everybody’s wearin their winter clathes, yir even seein the odd hard cunt in a jackit or jumper.