A Decent Ride (29 page)

And all he can think of is that he deserves this, whatever is coming, because Maurice’s daughter is dead and it’s all Jonty’s fault.
The least ah kin dae is lit him git a decent ride oot ay ays.

He hears a violent spit and feels a running wetness in the crack of his arse. It’s followed by a touch, gentler than he expected, and an invasive sensation, that Jonty guesses is a finger working itself into his anus. He giggles nervously. — Ha ha ha . . . Maurice . . .

Then comes a vice-like grasp on his shoulder, followed by a violent thrust and a sharper penetration; breaching, unremitting and searingly painful. — Try tae relax, Maurice coos into his ear, — makes it less sair . . .

Jonty wants to tell Maurice that there is gel in the bedside table cause sometimes Jinty was prone to being sore down there and liked him to use it. But Maurice grunts and thrusts again, and Jonty grits his teeth in a scorching ache he feels is only his due. — Aye . . . Maurice . . . aye . . . he gasps.

Maurice lets out a string of instructions and encouragements, all of which are lost on Jonty. Despite his fissuring insistence, Jonty thinks not of the father, but the daughter and the strange row that led to this bizarre place. Then Maurice rasps bitterly, in a different sound of triumph, — Remember the Alamo, and suddenly it’s all over. Almost immediately, Maurice is out of the bed and quickly getting dressed.

Jonty rises too, heading for the front room, picking up his discarded trail of clothes and dressing as he goes. His arse is sore and itchy, and his piles are irritated, like when he does a jaggy shite. Only, as Dr Spiers who prescribed the haemorrhoid cream explained, it wasn’t the shite itself that was barbed but the distended piles. So Jonty stands up at the window, looking outside across the street to The Pub With No Name, willing Maurice to leave the flat.

But Maurice seems in no hurry to depart. — Ah dinnae want ye tae git the wrong idea aboot me, Jonty, he says, stepping into the front room, zipping up his trousers as Jonty watches a bus pass by, — Cause ah nivir learnt that in the jail. It wis the sites, Jonty, the big building sites, he seems at pain to stress. — Aw aye, thaire wis wimmin back then n aw, sometimes tons ay thum. But in case ay emergency, ay, Jonty. Ye need tae learn aboot they things, just in case ay emergency!

For the first time Maurice seems to experience guilt as Jonty remains silent, his look far away, but focused on the wooden blinds in the window of the tenement opposite. The seasoned convict and construction veteran feels moved to leave the canary-yellow fleece that Jonty has expressed admiration for. — Take that fir yirsel, Jonty son, ah kin easy git another, Maurice nods sombrely, thinking he can perhaps see some ignition spark in Jonty’s eye in response to this gift. — Ah ken a boy oot at Ingliston. Same as that, but wi Detroit Tigers oan it.

Jonty watches him go, anxious as Maurice departs, fearful that he’ll change his mind and return to reclaim the fleece. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding when he hears the door slam. Listens to Maurice’s tuneful whistling of the ‘Camptown Races’, and the fading slap of his shoes on the stair. But then Jonty starts crying for Jinty, and he heads to the shower and tears off his clothes. He wants to wash everything away, but there’s no hot water and the shower seems to be broken so he wipes his bum instead. Then he heats up the kettle and pours hot water into a basin, lowering himself into it.

Jonty n Jinty . . . naw you kin go first, Jinty; Jinty n Jonty, Jinty n Jonty, Jinty n Jonty, Jinty n Jonty . . .

He sits there for a bit till the water turns tepid, shrivelling his balls. He shivers, decides to get up and go out, delighted that he has enough for a McDonald’s.

FUCKIN TOON HOTCHIN
wi minge. Thir aw stoatin aboot blind fuckin drunk, in n oot ay ma fuckin cab, tae and fae thair office perties. N here’s me, totally fucked n no able tae dae anything aboot it. Jist drivin aboot, no really bothered if the meter’s switched oan or oaf. The next cunt ah take oot tae that bridge in the wee small hours ay the morning, ah’m fuckin well gaun ower wi thum. Cause ah cannae fuckin well live withoot a ride.

Ah’m still in a daze eftir what they sais at the hoaspital, that specialist cunt, Doaktir Stuart Moir, wi the follow-up results.

— Mr Lawson, I’m afraid it isn’t very good news. Your heart is not in a good condition and unfortunately there is no viable surgical solution to the problem. This means that you’re going to be on this medication for the rest of your life.

— What . . .? But ah’m feelin much better, ah lied.

— Well, that’s good. But sadly your heart is a fragile vessel and cannot stand much excitement. If you look here . . .

N this Doaktir Stuart Moir cunt started shown ays this diagram ay a hert, n gaun oan aboot tubes n ventricles n blood supply, n ah goes, — So nae shaggin? Nae shaggin
ever
?

— It’s not going to get any better, Mr Lawson. You are literally fighting for your life here.

— Jesus fuck . . . ye mean ah could peg oot any time?

— Not if you stick to the medication, and avoid stress and strenuous activity . . . and sexual arousal.

— Ye mean ah cannae huv a fuckin ride? Ever?! In ma puff?!

The cunt’s just sittin thaire like ah wis talkin aboot needin an oil change in the cab. — I understand that there are huge psychological ramifications in this adjustment –

— Naw. You understand fuck all —

— so I’m going to refer you to Dr Mikel Christenson, who is an excellent psychotherapist, that rude cunt jist fuckin talked over ays, — and I strongly recommend that you make an appointment to see him, and eh handed ays this caird.

— A nut doctor? What good’s that gaunny fuckin well dae? It’s a hert doctor ah need!

This Doaktir Stuart Moir wanker jist takes oaf eh’s specs n dusts them oan this cloth, n ehs starin at ays wi they rid marks oan the side ay his beak. — Regrettably, the situation now is all about management of the problem, rather than treatment of it.

So ah’m walkin oot ay the office, oot the building, headin for the car park n the motor. Ah’m drivin around aimlessly, ignorin Big Liz on the computer, n ah cannae even look oot the windaes at aw this fanny aboot toon . . .

Suicide Sal phones ays up. She’s left tons ay messages n she isnae gaunny stoap, so ah picks up. — Terry, where have you been? Why are you avoiding me?

Aw ah kin think ay saying is, — Listen, Ronnie wants your number.

— What?! Don’t you dare give that crazy creep my number! I loathe everything he stands for!

— It’s maybe tae your advantage, ah goes, pillin up in a lane oaffay Thistle Street. — He telt ays he read one ay your plays, n liked it. Sponsorship wis mentioned. Eh does a fair bit ay that, ower in America, ay.

A wee silence, then, — You’re fuckin kidding me!

— Nup.

Another hush oan the line. Ah’m thinkin it’s gone deid till she goes, — Well, I suppose it can’t hurt to talk, right?

— Sound, n ah pass his digits oantae her, — gie um a phone. Could be worth yir while. Catch ye later, ah goes, hingin up. At least that’s one problem solved.

So ah starts up the motor, lookin for some fares before picking up Ronnie later. The last thing ah want tae dae is play fuckin gowf wi a Septic, but anything tae git ma mind oaf this hert n sex. Ah drives past they two fit burds wi thair airms outstretched, already half pished n office-perty slutty. They kin git tae fuck. Ah sees this boy up the Bridges tryin tae flag ays doon. — Awright, mate? Whaire tae?

— The council chambers, the cunt booms in ehs posh voice.

Ah’ll show this fucker. Ah turns doon the Mile taewards the Palace.

— Why are we going this way?

— Trams . . . one-wey system . . . re-routed . . . council . . . ah goes, checkin oot the cunt’s puss in the mirror. — So what’s it you dae, mate?

— I actually work for the City of Edinburgh. Economic development department!

Well, ah fucked that yin up. But attack is the best form ay defence. — Aye? Well, ye want tae git they trams sorted oot. Affectin ma livelihood! Should be suin you cunts for damages. Typical ay a Jambo council but; yis trash Leith but ah notice that yuv left Gorgie awright, ay? Funny that, ay? Mind you, thaire’s no much mair ye kin dae tae fuck that shitehoose up, goat tae be said, mate.

— I’m a transport economist and I don’t see –

— You’ve maist likely been studyin official council documentation but, mate. Wee word ay advice:
dinnae study official documentation
. Aw fuckin lies. Try talkin tae the boys oan the groond, like muggins here. Ya cunt, ah’m fightin the fuckin power every day, these cunts at Control, ah’m tellin the fucker as wir gaun through the Queen’s Park taewards the South Side, — ma whole life is one big rage against the machine, against the fadin ay the light. A fuckin thity-five-year square-go wi City Hall, mate. See whin yuv goat that oan yir CV, then come back here n geez yir patter. Till then, compadre, it’s Juice T’s wey or Shank’s pony, the choice is yours . . .

The boy sais nowt.

The phone goes again n it’s Sick Boy. — Terry, I’ll come to the point. I need you in London next week, to shoot
Shagger 3
.

— Ah thoat ye had Curtis lined up for that?

— We’ve changed it. I rewrote the part for you as Shagger’s older brother. A sweaty pounder when aroused, but bespectacled intellectual in real life. Think Hulk-Banner.

— What happened tae Curtis?

In the pause that follays, ah kin hear the air blawin oot ay his lungs. — He’s jumped ship to the San Fernando Valley and signed up to a big porn producer. Treacherous little cunt. Yes, I know he has to take opportunities, but he’s left me in the lurch.

— I cannae dae it.

— You what? Why?

— I just cannae. I’ve goat stuff gaun oan. I’ll tell ye later.

— I see, the cunt snaps. — Don’t call me, and I certainly won’t call you. All the best,
mate
, eh hisses like a snake n snaps oaf the phone.

Ah pills up intae the cobblestoned courtyard outside the chambers. The mumpy cunt in the back gits oot n squares up. — That was a
very
roundabout way. Your tip is on the meter, the smart cunt goes. Did um a favour n aw the fucker. Some cunts ye cannae dae a fuckin favour tae, they just dinnae fuckin well git it. But this other boy’s climbin in right away. A coloured felly, likes.

— National Library, the boy goes, but sort ay English, ay. Like the cunt oot ay
Rising Damp
. — Is it far?

Didnae want tae tell the boy it’s jist roond the corner, so ah decide ah’ll take um back doon the Bridges, then roond tae Chambers Street, tae cut through tae George VI Bridge. — As the crow flies, mate, naw, but no now wi these trams . . . dinnae git me started! The National Library . . . so, a man ay letters, ur ye, mate?

The boy gies a wee shrug. — Well, I’m doing a presentation for Edinburgh’s Hogmanay. I was here last summer at the book festival in Charlotte Square.

— You must be a big-noise writer but, ay, mate?

— Well, I wouldn’t say that, but I’ve published three novels.

— Would ah ken any ay thum?

— I’m not sure. Are you a reader?

— Ah wisnae, buddy, ay-no, no till recently, but ah’ve goat much mair intae books now, ah goes, gittin aw fuckin depressed thinkin aboot it, — as long as thaire’s nae smut, like. Proper writin but, ay. So whaire’s it yir fae?

— Well, I live in Cambridge, but my family comes from Sierra Leone.

— Humphrey Bogart, barry film.

— No . . . it’s –

— Ah’m only windin ye up, mate, ay ken where it is! Africa, ay. Bet ye wish ye wir thaire now but, ay, mate? This fuckin weather! Too right! Eh?

— Well, I don’t know about that . . .

— So ye were at that book festival in Charlotte Square last summer?

— Yes.

— Bet thaire wis plenty shaggin thaire but, mate? Aw they visitin authors, n aw they burds gantin oan it. Ya cunt, ah should be writin ma fuckin life story. Shaggin n chorin n gittin fucked up, wi wee bits ay work stuck in between jist tae break up the monotony. Aw done now but, mate, ay. But that’s me but, ay, ah goes, — No you but, ay, mate! Bet ye wir shagging like fuck thaire! Some ay they artsy burds n aw: game as fuck, ah’ll tell ye.

— Well, writers often get a reputation for being stuffed shirts, the boy smiles, — but some of us know how to have a good time!

Lucky fuckin bastard. — Ah’ll bet! Git fired in, mate!

— I’ll do that!

Bein a darkie, the boy’ll huv a welt oan um n aw. No as big as mine, but that’s nae use tae ays now. Ye dinnae want tae make racist assumptions but: boy’s cock might be like a badger’s toenail for aw ah ken. — Ah’m no racist but, ay-no, mate.

— I don’t recall suggesting that you were.

— Naw, but ah’m jist sayin, ken, cause some cunts ur. Ah eywis defend black punters against thum. Best fuckin ride ah ivir hud in ma puff wis a darkie burd, here at the festival a few years back. Nigerian. Nowt ay the lassie, a dancer likes, but a fanny like a fuckin vice. It fair wrapped around Auld Faithful like a packet ay bacon roond a German jumbo sausage!

The boy starts laughin at that. — You really should write a book.

— Mibbe ah should but, mate, ah goes, — but ah’d jist depress masel mair, or even worse, turn masel oan. Tell ye what, ah kin dictate it n you kin write it doon!

The boy jist laughs but ye kin tell eh’s no fuckin interested but, ay.

— Aye, this lassie, fanny that tight ah wisnae even bothered thit she didnae like it up the erse . . . that’s me but mate, ah used tae like it aw weys, ye ken what they say aboot variety . . .

— It’s the spice of life.

— You said it, chief, you fuckin well said it. Listen, if yir lookin for anything, tae git sorted or that, ah’m yir man. Here’s ma caird, n ah slips it through the Judas Hole and parks up outside the library. — This is you . . . aw wait . . . aye, ah wis tellin ye aboot this Nigerian burd. Aye –

— Listen, I wouldn’t mind a gram of coke, the boy cuts in.

— Sound. Ah droaps ma voice tae a whisper, even though it’s jist us in the cab. It’s a guid habit tae stey in whin talkin aboot collies. — Bell ays in an hour n ah’ll bring it tae ye. Ah dinnae keep it in the motor but, ay. No eftir ma mate Doughheid goat huckled; too many bizzies n grasses, ay, n this whole fuckin toon’s cameraed up.