A Decent Ride (21 page)

— Fascinating, this posh Donald boy goes, then asks, — And your point here is?

— Everybody sais, ‘Whaire’s this puppy, this Clint the dug?’ But whin ah telt thum what hud happened, they jist goes, ‘Yir talkin rubbish, Jonty, thaire’s nae Clint the dug, you jist made aw that up!’ N ah couldnae prove thaire wis, aye, but they couldnae prove thaire wisnae. Naw sur, they could not! But it meant it wis up tae me tae prove it, cause ah’d sais tae everybody thit thaire wis a Clint the dug. N thaire wis! Mind, Hank?

Hank’s still lookin away but. — Jonty, Malky goes, in a low voice.

Posh Donald, eh’s sortay like a bloodhound ehsel wi they hooded, bloodshot eyes. Aye, that’s what eh looks like! Mibbe it wis Clint thit pit ays in mind ay that, but Clint wisnae a bloodhound. — Hmmm. So you’re drawing an analogy . . . Jonty, this posh Donald goes, — an
analogy
between the existence of this unfortunate canine . . . Clint –

— Aye sur, Clint the dug, aye sur –

— And the hitherto much-disputed and speculated-upon existence of the consortium?

Ah ken whit an allergy is, cause it’s what Clint the dug hud, in ehs throat. — Aye sur, aye sur, aye sur. Ehs throat. Aye sur.

— Your cousin is a fascinating fellow, with a rather interesting and speculative perspective on life, Malcolm, Posh Donald sais, then eh turns tae me. — Jonty, we must resume this discussion another time. Eh looks at ehs watch. — Right now the game is about to commence and we should take our seats.

So we goes outside intae the good bit wi the seats, lookin ower at oor auld seats in the Wheatfield. Seats we dinnae need any mair! No now! Malky whispers in ma ear, — Keep it doon a wee bit, Jonty, n try no to show me up, no in front ay a member ay the consortium!

The teams ur comin oot tae a big cheer.

— But he wis sayin thaire isnae a consortium –

— Shh! Here’s the boys comin oot.

Ah starts twirlin ma skerf tae try n git some atmosphere gaun, ye goat tae git some atmosphere, n this steward boy comes ower n says, — Nae twirlin ay skerfs oot here, mate, go ower thaire if ye want tae dae that, n eh points ower at oor auld seats in the Wheatfield Stand.

— Jist tryin tae git some atmosphere gaun. Aye sur, atmosphere, ah tells the boy. Cause naebody sings ‘Hearts, Glorious Hearts’ or ‘The Gorgie Boys’ ower here.

— Ower thaire fir the twirlin ay skerfs!

N aw pits the skerf doon n looks aroond n ah’m jist aboot the only yin wi a skerf oan here! Malky bends intae ays n goes, — That’s a big no-no in here, Jonty. Yir no ower in the Wheatfield now! Thaire’s different standards ay behaviour required for the hospitality, Jonty. Ye cannae git away wi murder in here!

— Sorry, Malky . . .

— Showin us up like that in front ay members ay the consortium, Malky sais, n eh’s no very happy. — It’s no every day that somebody like me, an ordinary laddie fae Penicuik –

— Aye sur, Penicuik, the Cuik, the Cuik, the Cuik –

— Ah could even git asked tae join the consortium!

— Bit thaire’s nae consortium, the boy just sais. Ah turns tae the pan-loafy Donald, whae’s sitting behind ays. — Ay, Donald, ay, pal, ay, thaire’s nae –

Malky tugs ma sleeve. — Jonty! Enough! Behave yirsel! Unbelievable. Eh shakes his heid.

— Sorry, Malky –

Malky’s awfay upset wi ays now, lookin aw that hurt wey. — See, Jonty, ah thoat thit if ah took ye here ah could educate ye. Help ye better yirsel. Eh shakes ehs heid again. — But ah wis wrong.

Now Hank’s gittin aw huffy n eh turns oan Malky. — Well, if that’s what ye think ay us, we’ll jist go! Come oan, Jonty!

— Naw, stay fir five minutes, please, Hank, five minutes, ah sortay begs, hudin um doon cause Templeton’s jist gied Ryan Stevenson the baw n it’s grand here cause ah got a nice smile fae a blonde-heided lassie in a sortay broon fur coat, sittin in front ay us, n they say ye even git a free half-time pie! — Stey till the half-time pie, ah goes tae Hank, whae shrugs n settles back, n Malky does n aw, n it’s barry-barry cause the baw goes zing! Right intae the net! N wir aw pals again, huggin each other, n ah goes tae the blonde lassie, — Ryan Stevenson; aye sur, aye sur. Ryan Stevenson, mind ah sais?

— Ye did that, Jonty, ye did that! Hank goes.

— The Jont’s called it right! Malky slaps ma back.

Donald the lawyer boy bends forward in between me n Malky. — Malcolm, your cousin Jonty appears to be a modern-day Nostradamus!

N ah keep ma mooth shut cause that wis the boy in the village wi the humpy back, n cause eh wis a bit slow the villagers hounded the boy, like they did wi me in that Pub Wi Nae Name, aye sur, they did. N that posh lawyer wi his education, he sees aw that, cause eh’s used tae investigatin guilt, n ah dinnae want tae think aboot The Pub Wi Nae Name again, naw sur, naw ah do maist certainly not. Nup.

So ah keep quiet for the rest ay the game. That ah do, sur. Aye. Aye. Aye.

HUD A PRETTY
bad night eftir ah got back fae the hozzy, couldnae kip right n felt totally fuckin Zorba. The hert wis thrashin away, n ah wis thinkin thit ah must’ve goat an awfay dodgy batch ay ching, like either the worst or the fuckin best. Aw they tests they done: fuckin blood, pish, shite, X-rays – the cunts took the fuckin loat.

Now ah’m gittin aw stressed aboot the results.

So the next day ah’m roond tae the fuckin hozzy tae find oot the Hampden Roar. Ah’m waitin for a fair bit, distractin masel by checkin oot this lassie working oan the reception. An aulder burd (well, probably a good bit younger than me if the truth be telt, but ah’ve ey been a timeless sort ay cunt) goes n gies ays a wee smile. She’s got that shagger’s glint in the eye, n a tight set tae the mooth, which spells: G-A-M-E. Ah’m checkin fir a wedding ring, no that that rules anything oot. Jist useful tae dae a bit ay profilin, like fuckin
CSI: Saughton Mains
, or mair like
FSI – Fanny Scene Investigation
:
Saughton Mains
!

Ah’m aboot tae make a move when a boy pokes ehs heid oot an office. It’s the same cunt that wis aboot last night, when ah barely kent whaire ah wis; him that gied ays aw the tests. Practically aw ah mind is the boy ramming ehs finger up ma erse tae check the prostate gland, n ma eyes waterin cause ay the Dukes ay Hazzard. Ah sais tae the cunt, ‘You eywis like this oan a first date? What aboot the music n soft lights first, ay?’

Cunt didnae like it; hud the serious face oan, jist like eh hus now. — Mr Lawson? Please come in.

Well, ah think yuv goat tae huv a laugh at work. But right away ah dinnae like the coupon oan this cunt. No one bit.

— Please, take a seat.

— What’s the story then, Doc? Or should ah say, ‘
Who’s
the story then, Doc?’ That’s an auld yin, ay. Ah hud tae go back in time tae git it! Back in time? Tardis? Naw?

The cunt jist shakes ehs heid. Ah’m no happy here.

— I’m sorry, Mr Lawson. I have to inform you that the initial results of our tests yesterday detected an irregular heartbeat. It’s quite a common thing.

— What? What is?

Cunt seems no tae hear ays. Eh hands ays this prescription fae two sets ay pills. — So it’s important that you take these medicines and refrain from everything that could cause stress. No alcohol, and particularly no sexual activity.

WHAT?

Ah cannae believe what ah’m fuckin hearin here. — But . . . it’s the spi—

— I stress that any form of sexual arousal could be fatal, eh goes.

— EH? YIR FUCKIN JOKIN!

— I’m afraid not, Mr Lawson. In any case, those anticoagulants will thin your blood, making erection very difficult to achieve. And, to be doubly sure, the second set contains a compound that suppresses the libido.

— What the fuck –

— I know this is a shock, but you have a very serious heart condition. You must start taking these medicines immediately, and we’ll monitor what effect they’ve had when you come back in a week’s time. I stress that they are essential, and they will help to prevent heart attacks, but they will not reverse the damage you’ve already sustained to your heart.

— What damage?

— You’ve had a minor heart attack, Mr Lawson. Unfortunately, it’s not unusual for an attack of this kind to be followed up by a more severe one. The cunt’s lookin ower they specs at ays like a fuckin gunfighter. — And by that I mean a potentially fatal one. So get on this medication immediately and give it a chance to work.

JESUS FUCK.

Ah goes tae speak but ah cannae. Thaire’s nowt tae be said.

— In the meantime, we need to do more detailed tests. So if you take this form, n eh hands ays a sheet, — and go to Radiology at the end of the corridor, they’ll set the wheels in motion.

So ah jist walks ootside in a daze, n goes through aw they fuckin tests, n some ay them seem tae be the same yins ah awready did n aw.

Eftir it ah’m shattered, n ah gits back intae the cab n sits doon, n looks at they fuckin pills in the two different boatils. Ah cannae believe how yir life kin jist change like that, n mine’s fuckin ower.

The phone goes. It’s Suicide Sal. Ah switches it oaf.

GOLF. THE GREATEST
personal freedom a man can enjoy is going around the golf course with a friend or business associate. Of course, I have to beat this asshole Lars, and he’s pretty good. I invited Terry to caddy for me, but he’s opted to sit in the car and be goddamn miserable, which sure ain’t like him. I guess that sweet lil’ Ms Occupy must be bustin his nuts.

I realise I gotta get into training for the whisky play-off against that Swede asshole, so I’ve hired a specialist, the pro at the local club. This Iain Renwick guy is a non-event, who once led the British Open on day two before crumbling and barely scraping into the top ten. But that makes him a hero for ever here. Those people and their celebration of mediocrity, hell, it’s almost quaint, and they seem happy enough. That’s why we gotta help them all, we gotta make them striving and, yes, unhappy, because that’s the
only
way they’ll achieve. We are here to help them.

We are to here to help them, oh Lord.

Myself and this out-of-shape Renwick guy, fifty pounds overweight, ruddy face, sweating, are both three over par, struggling in the sudden gusts of wind that burst from over the North Sea. They make a game of golf into a frustrating fucking lottery. The prick of a coach is saying that my posture is too tense and that I need to ‘open up my shoulders’ on my swing. I feel like telling the cocksucker that he’d be stiff too, if he was playing for the stakes I am!

I’m relieved when a call comes in on my phone and it’s the motherfucking Viking. — Lars.

— Ronald . . . so all is good with regard to the whisky? You have it, yes?

— The sale has been concluded.

— Obviously, you understand that I would like to see it.

— You
are
goddamn suspicious. But I guess I would be too. My guy Mortimer is picking it up and plans to take it to a safe-deposit box at the Royal Bank of Skatlin.

— My people must first examine it to establish that it is the genuine article and not a forgery. We both want to enjoy the best, Mr Checker, this we have in common.

— Sure. So it’s no problem for you to see the whisky. I’ll give Mortimer a call – it should be with us very shortly.

There’s a cold laugh down the line. — Good. And you and I both know that there is a third bottle, which has been purchased by a private collector, and it is here in Scotland.

— The blue blood . . . I heard he was in the Carribbean, I say, too quickly. I’m watching Renwick tee off at the fifth. The fat, red-faced asshole looks uncomfortable in the wind, like it’s shoving the air back into his crappy lungs.

Lars smirks at me down the phone. — Do not insult us both, Ronald. I know you know where he is and that your people have been in touch with him. As have mine. I have a broker who is –

— Okay . . . what are you suggesting?

— The same arrangement. We pool our resources and approach this buyer, then make a joint purchase and play another game for the third bottle.

This Norwegian may be a goddamn cocksucker, but he sure likes a sporting wager. — Hell, yeah, we will! We’re gonna have ourselves a little series here! I’ll call you when the second bottle is in my hands!

I ring off, catching a sly glance from Renwick, as I get Mortimer on the phone. He’s still dragging his feet and going on about the land deal for the goddamn hotel and the apartments. I tell him straight: fuck the hotel deal, this takes precedence. The two-bit deal is only a cover for my acquisition of that sweet, sweet Bowcullen Trinity. The holiest Trinity outside of Father, Son and Holy Ghost!

I catch another glance at that Renwick douchebag; sonofabee has that slimy grin on his smug-but-dumb-ass peasant face, like he knows something you don’t. Well, ain’t about fucking golf, that’s for sure!

We’re tied on 74 going into the last hole, a five par and the longest on the course at 490 yards, and I pray for a victory against the wheezing Skatch charlatan.

If you are busy, oh Lord, please ignore me for seeking counsel on what seems such a manifestly frivolous matter. I only raise this safe in the knowledge that your energy and vision is boundless. As I said in
Leadership 2: The Business Paradigm,
‘Strive for the eye of God in the pursuit of business, to see and to know all. Obviously you will never get to that point of perfection, but He loves the aspirational.’ (This was not an insinuation that you are susceptible to flattery; hell, that sickly offspring of vanity is a Mortal sin.) But please give me the power and eye to take out both this alcoholic Scot and the non-believing, cold-hearted socialist-materialist Scandinavian. For you are the power, the kingdom and glory, for ever, Amen.

And in this dark land, with its dull, bruised skies, He answers my prayer! A gargantuan drive down the fairway, a slick, hard pitch on to the green off the six iron, and a short putt against a brutish wind into the hole! A shit-kicking eagle on the last! That goddamn cocksucker Renwick comes in at one over! I feel a tumult of divine glory rise in my breast, till it dawns on me: I’m
paying
this incompetent asshole to teach
me
golf.