A Decent Ride (18 page)
Ah’m back tae Gorgie n check in at The Pub Wi Nae Name. The Barksies are in thaire, n Evan (at least ah think that’s Evan) is oan the pool table wi some muppet. — Barks.
— Tez.
Evan kin be awright, in fact eh kin be a bit ay a laugh oan his good days. But basically eh’s one ay they moanin-faced cunts that’s doon oan every other fucker. Been like that since school; ey has that ‘how uv they goat that, n ah’ve no’ sort ay mumpy, snidey wey aboot um. Weird tae think how eh used tae bully The Poof back then. Wi aw did, ah suppose, but Evan took it tae extremes.
Ah
even telt um tae fuckin cool it a few times. — Nae sign ay that wee Jinty burd?
— Nah, that wee Jonty cunt disnae lit her oot. Eh caught her bein a wee bit naughty wi me in the bogs. Hi hi hi! That night you wir in: you droaped her oaf, mind? eh goes, n ehs mate, a skinny cunt in a V-neck jumper, sniggers. It’s that Lethal Stuart boy. Evan lines up his shot, looks up fae the table. — The night the hurricane wis oan. Mind?
— Right. Nice one. So whaire’s this Jonty boy?
The Evan Barksie twin points oot this dippit-looking wee cunt in the corner, which is sectioned oaf, n eh’s paintin away at the waws in the alcove. Ah’m watchin um sortay starin oaf intae space, as eh paints in smooth, steady strokes.
FUCK ME!
AW NAW.
Ah ken that wee cunt’s puss! Eh’s fuckin Hank’s brar, which makes him one ay that auld cunt’s up the hoaspital! Which makes um, technically speakin, ma fuckin half-brar, even though ah’ve no spoken a word tae the wee radge in ma puff! N ah’ve jist banged the dippit wee cunt’s burd!
JESUS FUCK ALMIGHTY!
At least it’s no as bad as what happened tae ays before. Shagged a burd oan hoaliday in Tenerife, found oot she wis one ay that auld minger Henry’s! Ya cunt, ah couldnae git up for an ooir eftir finding that oot! So now ah’ve goat a golden rule wi toon fanny, even when ye meet them oot ay toon, like oan hoaliday: ask them whae thair fuckin faither is.
The boy looks ower n half smiles ay ays, n ah thinks aboot gaun ower tae um, bit naw, fuck that, ah jist gies um a drinker’s salute back. He grins back at ays, aw shy, then looks away tae the waw. So ah sit at the bar wi a boatil ay Beck’s n watch um.
— Eh’s no aw right in the heid, the other Barksie, Craig, goes. — Came intae the bogs n washed ehs welt in the fuckin sink, then dried it under the dryer. Fuckin retard.
— Some welt oan the boy but, this gadge Tony laughs. — Wee cunt’s like a fuckin tripod!
Makes sense; if the boy’s knobbin that feisty wee ride Jinty, eh’d need something gaun fir um, n him packin a welt is likely tae be it. Straight fae the Lawson gene pool, probably aboot the only decent thing that cunt Henry gied us both. Cannae talk tae the boy but: dinnae want tae draw attention tae the fact that ah’ve banged ehs missus. Perr boy looks that dippit eh probably doesnae even ken she’s been graftin as a Roger Moore.
I get in the cab and head tae the golf coorse tae pick up Ronnie whae’s telt ays tae meet um thaire. Eh’s wi that stiff-ersed cunt, Mortimer the boy’s name is, and they’ve been huvin another wee barney. — Make that your priority! Ronnie snaps, sendin the muppet oaf wi a flea in ehs ear. The radge turns n gies me a funny look as he heads oaf tae ehs motor. Ronnie shakes ehs heid in disgust, then smiles at me. He’s wearing a hat wi Atlanta Braves oan it; the Mohawk must be flattened doon. We heads tae the Balmoral, n he goes upstairs tae git his stuff thegither. Ah’m waitin for him in the lobby, so ah phones Saskia again. This time she picks up, which is a wee relief. — Terry . . .
— Awright, pal? You okay?
— Yes, I was just for having some flu. There is still no word from Jinty?
— Naw, ah say, n hear her sneeze. — You’d better get back tae bed wi some Lemsip. Ah’ll see ye later n shout ye if thaire’s any news.
— Okay . . . I will too, if I am hearing something. Thanks . . .
— Sound, cheers. Ah hings up as ma mate Johnny Cattarh phones, telling ays some ketamine story that ah kin dae without hearin, n ah’m gled tae git shot ay the cunt. Drug tales are like dream tales and shaggin tales: only interestin if thir yir ain. Ah only watch porn tae make a list ay the lassies that ah’d love tae work wi. Which is basically thum aw, mind you. It wid be nice tae git doon tae Tufnell Park n see Camilla n Lisette again. Top burds. So that pits ays in mind tae call Sick Boy, whae picks up right away, which is unusual. — Terry.
— Simon! How goes?
— Busy. Your point is, caller?
— Ah’m rarin tae git intae some scud! Nae scripts oan the go?
— Nothing on the slate, apart from
Shagger 3
, which as you know, is Curtis’s movie.
That wee cunt wi the stutter. Fuckin taught the bastard aw eh kens n aw. — Right . . .
— I’m taking a wee break and working on the distribution. The website’s being revamped, which requires a substantial investment in both time and money. But it’ll make the downloading and processing of credit-card details easier, so we’ll hopefully get the pay-off in sales. I’m rebranding Perversevere Films as quality erotica, Terry, and script development takes more time in the premium market. Can’t even see us shooting
Shagger 3
till closer to spring. Have you been keeping up with those acting classes?
— Aye, ah lie. Ah stoaped last year. There wis only three burds in the fuckin group, and once ah’d rode them aw, thaire wis nae real point.
— Good, well, stay patient and stay trim.
— Sound. In the meantime, ah’ll keep talent-scouting!
— I’m sure you will. Till later, he goes, hingin up. He’s an abrupt cunt, but ah’m no bothered as Ronnie’s appeared oot ay the lift. The hat’s away but the Mohawk’s still combed back.
— Jist tryin tae sort oot some shaggin work, ah grins, waving the cheeky phone.
— You got a one-track mind, Terry. Ronnie shakes ehs heid, then ehs eyes crinkle up. — So, hey, how’s ole Occupy the Streets doing?
— Ah’m no sure she’s an Occupy the Streets sort ay burd, ah goes, checking the emails list on the cheeky phone. — She writes plays, like fir theatre n that.
— Theatre, huh? Never my thing, he says, but ye kin tell he’s thinkin aboot it.
So we’re in the fuckin sherbet, makin good time, clearin the city n gaun ower the Forth Road Bridge, n ah’m tellin um aboot Johnny. — Cunt wis tellin ays aboot that fuckin ketamine. Telt ays that he didnae ken what he wis daein, it wis like travellin back in time n losin ooirs. Ah sais, ya cunt, ah’m fuckin well like that aw the time wi this knob. Aw the blood goes fae the heid n ye wake up in a strange place a few ooirs later wi the polis bangin oan the door, fittin ye up fir the register n a cell in Peterheid! Time travel? Ya cunt, ah’ve started cawin Auld Faithful here the fuckin Tardis!
— Interesting . . .
— Wrecked fae last night, bud. Too much peeve n shaggin, ah goes n fingers a wrap in ma poakit. — Here, ye fancy a wee bitty posh up the hooter, mate?
Ronnie looks at ays, tryin tae work oot what ah’m talkin aboot.
— Ching. Racket. Bugle. Gak. Charlie.
— Oh . . . I’ve told you I don’t do drugs, Terry.
— Ye cannae really class a bit ay ching as a fuckin
drug
these days, mate. Besides, it wisnae that the other night whin Bawbag wis rattlin oan yir windae!
— That was an emergency . . . No, I hate drugs, though I believe that they are instruments of God, designed to snare and eradicate the feckless ghetto dweller, thus lowering the tax burden. I choose to follow a diet prepared by an expert nutritionist, designed for those who aspire to longevity.
— Each tae their ain. Dinnae listen tae they so-called experts but, mate, thir aw part ay an industry that’s there tae con ye oot ay yir dosh. Ah pits the radge in the picture. — He’s peyed tae gie ye advice, right?
— Yes. Considerably.
— Well, ah’m giein ye it for free. You can say it’s worthless, that ah’ve nae expertise. Or ye can be enlighted and think, ‘This cunt has nae vested interest, so he might just be on the ball here.’ Whae dae ye pey for advice? The likes ay that cunt Mortimer, whae only tells ye what eh thinks ye want tae hear. That’s nae good tae you!
— Okay, okay . . . God, Terry, you sure can talk. What the hell’s the point you’re making here?
— You’ve goat aw they organs in yir body: liver, kidneys n aw that. The function ay they organs is tae process aw the shite ye pit intae yirsel. Right?
— Yes . . .
— So if you’re no giein them the occasional bit ay shite, n jist puttin poofy stuff through them, thir no gittin tested. So they never build up tae the level ay resistance they need tae be at. Think Scottish teams in Europe. Then some real disease hits ye, like Real Madrid style, n they’re useless, cause they’ve never hud serious game time. It’s science, mate, it’s how aw they tribes’ auld-school medicine men would go n take aw sorts ay poisons n walk intae the forest or desert. They’d trip, then spew, n then shite like a squaddie, and come back aw purged. N they cunts lived donkey’s years. Ah hud the wrap. — Gie the cunts a wee test. A rigorous trainin stint, ah call it. No gaun ower the score, but a wee workoot, likes.
Ronnie’s defo thinkin aboot this; eh starts teasin up that Mohawk. — You really believe that? That the occassional test is the best way of keeping your vital organs ticking over?
— Of course! Everything has a function! Lit thum git oan wi thair fuckin joab! Ah’m no sayin go ower the score, but the odd wee toot isnae gaunny dae ye any herm!
— Dammit, Terry, I hadn’t touched drugs since freshman year, before that Ballbag came along . . . and now . . . you are a bad influence, eh goes, lookin at ays aw pretend hurt, but the cunt takes the wrap n sticks a bit oan ehs key n snorts it.
Ya cunt, ah’m sure that fuckin Mohawk stiffened up at that toot!
— Listen, you’ve taken me into your confidence regarding your activities. Could I presume to do the same?
— Of course, Ronnie, wir muckers, ah tells the cunt, which is obviously shite. This is business n thaire’s nae sympathy in business: that cunt should ken that mair thin maist. It’s gittin tae be quite a barry drive now, as we’re hittin the banks ay Loch Leven.
— The land thing is important, but it’s just another development deal. It’s all about legacy, that’s what guys like Mortimer don’t get. I’m here to get something that only one other man on this planet has, because there are only three of them in existence. I already have one, and I want the other two. Both of them are here in Skatlin, and I’m closing in on them. He taps his beak. — This is all hush-hush, you understand. I have rivals.
The cunt’s talkin aboot they Bowcullen Distillery boatils ay whisky, but ah’m obviously no littin him ken that ah ken what ehs eftir, n how much eh wants tae pey. They sais oan that distillery website that the third boatil wisnae fir sale, bit that’s probably jist shite, tae drive the bids up. Everything’s fir sale if the fuckin price is right.
We goes through this toon n stoaps at the lights as Ronnie takes a huge hit up his hooter. But ah looks roond n realise that we’re right alongside this fuckin polis car!
FUCK SAKE.
The cops have clocked this n thuv telt us tae pill up, which ah dae acroass the street. They dae the same a few yards back n come right oot.
— Fuck . . . it’s the polis . . . ah goes, as Ronnie slips the wrap intae his poakit. — Dinnae grass ays up, ah’ll lose ma licence.
— I ain’t no goddamn snitch, Ronnie shouts. — Lemme handle this, eh shouts, as the cop taps oan the windae. Ronnie rolls it doon n thaire’s a load ay ching on his beak and he’s fuckin wired. — Is there a problem, officer?
The cop looks at Ronnie, then at me. — Where are you taking this man?
— Up tae the Bowcullen Distillery. He’s got a meeting –
— Why are you asking my goddamn driver?! Ronnie shouts.
— Sir, I’d ask you to be calm . . . you’re obviously intoxicated.
— What?! Do you know who I am?
— I’m going to have to ask you to accompany me down to the station, sir, we can get those details en route . . .
— No way! I have an important business meeting! There is something on the line here! Something that you will never get in a million years on your Skatch cop salary, you goddamn loser!
— You are coming with me, the cop snaps and starts shoutin intae his radio.
— You goddamn maggot! Do you know who I am? I could crush you and your entire two-bit Lothian Police Squad with one single phone call!
— Which you will be able to do down the station, sir. Now if you would please accompany me? The cop reaches in and opens the door.
Ronnie gets oot and the cop grabs him under the airmpit. Ronnie pushes the cop, who tumbles backwards on his erse. — Fuck you, assholes! I’m Ronald Checker!
A second cop comes oot the car and blasts Ronnie wi the Taser gun. Ronnie’s Mohawk seems tae stand oan end for a second, then eh faws doon, pish spreadin across ehs light canvas golf trews.
The Taserin polisman’s lookin worried, n sayin, — He assaulted a police officer, I had no option, as they load Ronnie, whae’s semi-conscious, intae the back ay the car.
— You will follow us, please, sir, the other cop snaps.
So ah follow the polis car doon tae the station in fuckin Kinross. It’s a shitey two-storey building like a couple ay council hooses knocked thegither. While they’re chargin the cunt ah clocks ehs laptop n grabs a hud ay it. Ah goes intae the email windae, which is still open. Ah trawl through the usual shite, but thaire’s yin that’s interesting.
From: [email protected]
Dear Ronald,
I trust you are well.
As you may or may not know, I have also bid for the rare Bowcullen whisky, one of the ‘Trinity collection’. You, of course, already have one of the bottles.
I’ll come to the point: I feel that the distillery is playing us off against each other in order to up the bid. The gentlemanly and sporting thing to do would be for us to jointly purchase the whisky, and then settle its ownership by playing a game of golf.
What do you say?
Kind regards,
Lars Simonsen
