A Decent Ride (32 page)

It’s startin tae git dark as ah go tae the car park n heads oaf, waving at Stumpy Jack whae’s dropped off a fare and is waitin tae pick up something comin fae arrivals. Eh’s fair glowerin at they private-hire cunts in thair rank! The Maybury Roundabout’s busy, n it really is cause ay fuckin tramworks this time. Ah fuckin need that new gowf partner. So ah gie that sweaty Iain Renwick gadge a bell, but it goes straight tae voicemail. Ah dinnae leave a message, cause ah’m no that taken by that cunt.

Corstorphine’s a write-off as some HGV’s broke doon on St John’s Road, so ah’m cuttin doon tae the auld haunts at Broomhoose n Saughton Mains. It’s sad tae think that ah hardly ken anybody roond they streets where ah grew up, they’ve aw moved on, ay. Nippin through Gorgie, the traffic’s bad here in aw, thaire’s obviously something happenin. We’re stoaped, so ah decide tae phone Jason, see if he’s intae gaun roond the links. — You? Golf! Ha ha ha . . . you playing golf? Fuck off!

— Aye, and ah’m gled ay it n aw. It’s the only thing that keeps aye thegither these days.

— I’m sorry, Ter— Dad, but you poisoned me against it. I’ll never hold a club in my hand. Call Donna, she’ll go roond with ye.

— Donna? You’re jokin!

— She was seeing this boy who’s this golf pro at some club in North Berwick. It didnae work out cause he was married. Older boy, strung her along a bit.

Dinnae fuckin tell ays . . .

— Awright . . .

— That boy that led at the Open one year. Renwick.

Ya fuckin dirty, sweaty auld cunt . . .

Ma breathin’s aw tae fuck here. — Ye dinnae think he’s the wee yin’s faith . . .

— Naw, the dates don’t tally . . .

Thank fuck for that
.

— Ah’ll mibbe gie her a shout, ah croaks doon the line. Or thank fuck for nowt – at least that cunt’s got some wedge. The CSA’ll git nowt oaffay some dippit wee cunt fae the scheme . . . fuck me, hear ays; poacher turned gamekeeper, right enough . . .

— She’d appreciate it. Give her my best.

— Will do. Cheers, Jase.

As ah’m thinkin that Jason, whae’s just her half-brother, has been there for Donna mair than me, I’m aware that the cab’s fuckin crawlin. Thaire’s a roadblock set up n it’s aw single-lane traffic. Ah kin see smoke billowin intae the air.

Fuckin hell . . .

Ah’m drivin slowly past The Pub Wi Nae Name n thaire’s a right commotion gaun oan. Thaire’s smoke billowin oot the windaes, n the fuckin polis ur settin up diversions, tryin tae re-route every cunt. It being the Edinburgh Polis, nae cunts goat a Scooby-Doo; there’s a lot ay shoutin n some ay thum are wadin into this group ay boys, some ay whae ah recognise fae the boozer . . . they’ve goat this grey-heided felly doon, n thir bootin the cunt ower the street . . . the poor gadge’s oot ay it, and the polis wade in tae save um . . . another meat wagon swings by, bringing mair polis oot . . . a couple ay the pub lads git huckled n the rest melt away.

Ah drives closer n stoaps the motor, n winds doon the windae. Some cunts behind me are tootin, so ah takes the cab up oantae the pavement. A cop comes ower n shouts, — Ye cannae stop here!

Ah points back, — Your colleague, officer, the sergeant, told me to pull up wherever I could, as I might be needed to take injured people to the hospital.

The cunt’s mooth opens like eh’s tryin tae catch flies, then a big blaring fire engine pushes through the crowd, nearly scrapin the edge ay the motor. The cop vanishes. Ah sees this gold thing glistenin in the road, so ah gits oot n picks it up. It’s a cigarette case, quite smart, so ah sticks it in ma tail. A boy sees ays at the poakil, starin at ays wi accusin eyes. Ah ken ehs face fae the boozer, the Barksie brother’s mate; Tony, ah think they call um. Ah decide it’s best eh tipples that ah’m the cunt askin the questions. — What’s up here, mate? It’s Tony, ay?

The felly’s breathless, lookin back aw wild-eyed. — Aye . . . this cunt in the canary-yellay fleece bombed the fuckin pub! We thoat it wis this Paki terrorist burd thit threw the bombs in the boozer, but somebody saw the cunt in a canary-yellay fleece dae it! He goat battered tae fuck!

No half! An ambulance has somehow shimmied through the chaos, n the paramedics are practically scrapin the poor cunt oaf the tarmac! The boy’s glesses are broke, n thaire’s claret everywhere, soakin intae that fleece.

The Tony boy nips away but ah sees Craig, Evan Barksie’s wee brar by eight minutes. Eh clocks the cab n comes ower. — What’s up, Craigy?

— That cunt in the canary-yellay fleece is a fuckin psycho! Chucked a couple ay fuckin petrol bombs intae the fuckin boozer! Burnt ma brar’s face! And some other boys! We’d huv fuckin killed um if the fuckin bizzies hudnae swung by!

— Fuck . . . wis the pub damaged bad?

— Ma brar’s face is aw burnt doon one side! Fuck the pub, eh shouts, n heads ower tae where the other boys huv gathered. N there’s Evan, a towel oan the left side ay his face, bein taken intae a second ambulance. It looks a sair yin, for sure. Ah sees Jake, his face a bit black, n coughin away, so ah sais, — Jakey boy . . . ye awright?

— Terry . . . aye . . . jist saw they two boatils, like petrol bombs, fly in the front door. Nivir seen nowt like it. Wi tried tae git tae the back door, but ah mustnae huv opened the cunt up yet! We hud tae go through the flames tae get oot the front!

— Is the pub damaged bad?

— The fire went right up the waw, fucked the jukebox n the pool table –

— What aboot the bar, aw the spirits behind the bar?

— Ah think that’s awright, Terry. The firemen are in now, eh goes, lookin at the firefighters standing in the doorway, pishing into the pub with thair hoses. — Polis cunt already asked ays aboot insurance, cheeky bastard. It’s ma fuckin livelihood, Terry!

— Standard polis procedure, Jakey boy, actin the cunt, ah goes, thinkin there’s nae point in stallin aroond here as they’ve blocked oaf Gorgie Road. So ah gets in the hackney n turns it oan a sixpence n slips up tae Polwarth, headin back intae toon. Ah’m jist at the Vietnam pub whin ah gits flagged doon by one ay they burds in they shite pillboax hood n dresses, thit they repressed camel-shagger cunts make thum wear, where ye cannae even git a deek at the coupon. Keep thum aw covered up, ay. Well, normally ah’d say, fuck that. But right now this is aboot the only type ay burd ah could huv in ma cab withoot wreckin ma fuckin health.

So ah stoaps n she climbs in n ah heads off. But it’s no a fuckin burd, cause the dress gits pilled oaf n fuck me . . . — Terry, Kind Terry, ah kent it wis you! Thank God!

It’s wee Jonty! — Jonty! What the fuck ur ye daein dressed like thon, ya dozy wee cunt? Naw, dinnae tell ays, mate, ah dinnae want tae ken. Jist tell ays whaire ye want tae go.

— Penicuik, sur, aye sur, the Cuik . . . but ah’ve no goat any money –

— Nivir mind aboot that – that’s the least ay oor worries. Lit’s just git ye oot ay here!

— Thanks, Terry, Kind Terry, yir like a true friend, Terry, aye sur, aye, a true friend –

— Jonty, goan shut the fuck up for a minute, pal, ay, ah tell um, n ah fuckin well floors it.

TERRY DROPS JONTY
off on the main road in Penicuik, declining to take him round the corner to his mother’s. Jonty is perplexed, as he’s removed the burka. It’s stuffed into one of the wee Lidl plastic bags Marjory gave him, the ones he used for Jinty. Climbing out the cab he again urges his new-found half-sibling: — Come in fir a cup ay tea, Terry, meet muh ma n oor Karen. That’s ma sister n Hank’s, n your half-sister n aw!

— Naw, you’re awright, pal, Terry says dejectedly, thinking:
probably another one I’ve fuckin rode
.

— But how no, Terry? How no?

— Look, ah really dinnae want tae ken whaire ye stey, Jonty. He sweeps two hands through his lustrous corkscrew mane and throws it back. — Jist like ah dinnae want tae ken what ye wir up tae in that Arab burd’s dress, headin away fae thon blaze in the pub.

Jonty’s head goes down. Then he looks up and says in a whimper, — But wir brothers like, Terry, n wi baith try tae be kind.

Terry is moved by Jonty’s high-pitched plea, and the swirling pathos in the dark pools of his eyes. He is again uncomfortable. Events and circumstances have ripped away his shell, and now everything seems to perturb him. — Ah ken that, mate, but wuv hud separate lives n we’ve never kent much aboot each other. Ah kent that auld cunt hud bairned tons ay radges n radgettes, Terry starts to reminisce, — Ah once met this burd, n it turned oot . . . well, wi’ll no go thaire. He looks at the open-mouthed Jonty. — But ah ken thit yir pretty desperate, mate, n thaire wis stuff gaun oan back thaire at The Pub Wi Nae Name.

— But how no –

Terry raises a dismissive hand. — So ah dinnae want tae ken whaire ye stay, nae details or any other shenanigans.

— But that wis cause ay –

— Naw, pal, Terry shakes his head with vigour, his corkscrew curls lashing against the edge of the window, making Jonty think of a lion, — dinnae tell ays anything else. Ah’m leavin ye here, he says glumly, looking at Jonty’s forlorn expression and curled-down lip.

Tears roll down Jonty’s cheeks and he starts to sob heavily. This distresses Terry, and he steps out the cab, awkwardly embracing Jonty. — Yir awright, pal, ah dinnae think anybody wis badly hurt in the fire.

— No badly hurt . . . Jonty grizzles into his chest.

— Evan Barksdale, Terry says, and Jonty, chafed at the mention of the name, pulls apart and takes a step away from Terry, — he got burnt on the side ay his puss.

— Ah’m no bothered, Terry, naw ah’m not, Jonty says, — n ah ken it sounds like ah’ve goat a bad hert, and now it’s Terry’s turn to cringe, — but eh’s a bully. Aw aye, an awfay bully. N Craig n aw, aye sur.

Two young mothers pushing go-karts walk past them. One, chewing gum, has keen eyes focused on Terry’s crotch. He doesn’t look at her. — Well, at least wi the burn oan ehs coupon it’ll be easier tae tell the cunts apart now, ay, he says to Jonty.

— Aye, tell thum apart . . .

— Aye, so thaire’s nowt tae greet aboot, ay.

Jonty looks up at Terry with violently shuttering eyes, full of pain and frustration. — But ma paintin, Terry, aw ma bonnie paintin . . .

Terry exhales, then looks sadly at Jonty. — But oan the bright side, ye’ll probably get mair work oot ay it!

— Mair work . . . Jonty snivels.

Suddenly inspired, Terry says, — But ah’m gaunny phone ye the morn, n take ye oot.

This instantly fills Jonty with cheer. — That wid be double barry, Terry! Aye it wid, sur!

Terry is touched. Neither Guillaume nor the Ginger Bastard, nor Jason or Donna when they were younger, had ever displayed that much enthusiasm at the prospect of an outing with him. — Ever played gowf, Jonty?

— Aw naw sur, no ah have not, naw, naw, naw, it’s no fir the likes ay me, and Jonty seems troubled by the prospect, — ah’m jist a simple country lad fae Penicuik. Aye sur.

— It’s a piece ay pish, yi’ll pick it up nae bother, Terry states emphatically. — N it’s no like England, whaire it’s jist for posh cunts, this is Scotland, Jonty, wir fightin tae become a real nation, no a fuckin poxy Fourth Reich ay the rich, like they’ve settled for doon south. Terry seems to gulp on his own words and the strange intoxication they confer. He’s never shown much of an interest in politics before; perhaps that is about not getting your hole too. — I’ll bell ye n we’ll go for a wee game ay gowf!

— Gowf . . . Jonty accepts this with a slightly confused bearing. But it only intensifies his burgeoning brotherly love for Terry, along with his belief in the cabbie’s goodness, and that he has Jonty’s best interests at heart. So he waves Terry off and sneaks down the lane, climbing over his own back fence so that no neighbours will observe his entry.

Karen, idly looking out the window as she washes the dishes, sees him and her eyes widen in recognition. — Jonty!

She lets him inside and they go into the living room. Jonty tells her everything, about Jinty, and her burial in the concrete pillar under the new tram bridge.

Karen is shocked at first, her blue eyes seeming to grow to tennis-ball size as Jonty recounts his grim tale, intervening with the odd, breathless ‘oh Jonty’. But Jonty keeps talking, like he wanted to do with Kind Terry, but reluctantly respecting that Terry didn’t want to listen.

Not Karen. Every fibre of her being is riveted. — It wid be the same thing that her ma died ay, that brain aneurysm. Must run in the faimlay. N aw that cocaine, well, that widnae help. But ye should’ve jist telt the polis, Jonty. They’d be able tae tell that ye widnae hurt a fly.

— Aye, but ah git nervous n shy n they’d jist think: ‘he’s awfay daft, like no aw right thaire in the heid’ n they’d say it wis me thit done it n pit ays away. Aw aye, they wid!

Karen thinks about this. She follows high-profile police investigations in the tabloids, and has become obsessed with wrongful arrests. The Colin Stagg case comes flooding back, reminding her of the lengths the police went to fit up a harmless oddball as a murderer. For all the complications, Karen reasons that her brother had quite probably made the correct, chillingly rational choice. Neighbours could have heard them arguing over cocaine, following Jinty staying out during Bawbag. The autopsy, of course, might have revealed the truth, but Jonty, well, she could see why he took the course of action he did. — Well, she’s buried in concrete now, Karen says, not without an edge of satisfaction that is discernible to Jonty. — If this ever gits oot tae anybody, you’ll get the jail for daein that, n for makin the trams run even later, cause they’d huv tae take doon that pillar!

— Take doon the pillar.

— They wid. N then ye ken what they’d say: wee Jonty MacKay, the man whae made the Edinburgh trams run even later!

Fear’s arrowhead strikes cleanly in Jonty’s chest. People were so upset about what was happening with the trams. If he made them any later . . . He sees in his mind’s eye a lynch mob, led by a mutilated Evan Barksie, carrying blazing torches, chasing him down the narrow, darkly lit tenemented section of Gorgie Road. — They wid hate ays . . .