A Decent Ride (36 page)

Rab runs ehs hand ower his ain salt-n-pepper crop. — Seems like a choice between that n jail time, Terry.

— You dinnae fuckin git it, but. It’s part ay whae ah am. Burds git attracted tae the locks before they git a deek ay Auld Faithful doon here. Ah grabs some long tresses. — It’s they Medusa-like tentacles thit pills thum in, like the screams ay the Sirens at sea, ah tell the cunt, then ah gie ma baws a slap. — These are jist the rocks they end up gittin dashed oan . . . or used tae.

— Dae ye want ays tae dae it or no, Terry?

— Aye, awright . . . but it’s odds-on it’s gaunny come oot grey. Ah’ll look like an auld cunt . . . nae offence tae you, ah goes, cause ay Rab bein a silverheid.

— Ah’m younger than you, ya cheeky cunt! Five year!

— Ah ken that, mate, but you’ve never been a shagger, ah goes, n Rab bristles at that yin. — Ah mean, you’ve goat yir burd, n faimlay n that; what ah’m tryin tae say is thit yir a steady sort ay gadge. But ah’m bangin everything in sight . . . ah feel a blow like ah punch in the guts as it hits ays, like it ey does, — . . . or rather, ah wis. The point is, ah cannae handle lookin grey. Ootside ay scud, it limits ma shaggin tae a certain age group, say thirty-five plus. Ah want twenty-five plus.

— If yir heart’s as bad as they say, it might no be a bad thing tae limit yir options, Terry.

AW YA FUCKIN BASTARD . . .

Ah’m sittin wi ma heid in ma hands, no kennin what tae dae. ‘Thaire’s nowt that cannae be made worse by gittin sent doon,’ Post Alec, God rest ays jakey soul, ey used tae say that. Ah looks up at Rab. — Aye, c’moan then.

So Rab starts shearin ays wi they barber clippers ay his. Ah swear ah kin feel my tadger shrink half an inch every time a big chunk ay hair faws oantae the flair. Like fuckin Samson in that Bible shite. Rab’s right, thaire’s nae need for it now.

Eftir borrowin another book fae him,
One Hundred Years ay Solitude
– ma fuckin new biography – ah’m oot n back in the cab. Ah look in the mirror at the grey stubble each time ah stoap at a light. Then a number comes up thit ah huv tae pick up oan. Ah’m getting fed up wi The Poof n ehs instructions. Ah’m meant tae be avoidin stress! Eh’s still in Spain, n eh’s still goat ays checkin oan the sauna. Kelvin fuckin hates ays, cause ah’ve warned that twisted wee Poof Apprentice cunt aboot fucking aroond wi the lassies eftir Saskia’s black eye. So ah finds masel spillin the beans, hopin that ah goat my side ay the story in before Kelvin. — Ah ken eh’s your brar-in-law, Vic, but eh’s gittin oan ma fuckin tits n eh’s gittin a right-hander in the puss. Ah’m tellin ye.

Of course ah jist gits the big fuckin silent treatment doon the line, as ah parks up in Hunter Square. Then his funny voice comes back oan. — So eh’s damagin ma merchandise. Ah telt um aboot leavin fuckin marks, eh sortay laughs. — But yir right, eh is ma brar-in-law. So you jist cool yir jets, Charlie Bronson, unless yuv goat a death wish . . . n the cunt laughs, — ah’ll sort him oot. You’ve heard nae word oan that wee Jinty, ah suppose? Nae mair rozzer activity?

— Naw, ah tells um, n ah would ken, hingin aboot wi her felly, takin the wee man oot for a coffee or a game ay gowf. Sometimes ah think that wee Jonty kens mair thin eh lits oan, but naw, that’s no his style. In fact the wee cunt generally lets on aboot a lot mair than he kens.

— Been months now. Ah dinnae ken why ah’m that bothered aboot a scabby wee hoor. Fair gits under yir skin, that yin, but ay. Funny how some burds kin jist dae that.

— Aye, ah goes. Ah dinnae want tae talk tae this cunt aboot burds, in fact no aboot
anything,
n ah’m gled when he hangs up.

A message fae Control comes up oan the screen. It’s Doughheid.

HOPE YOU DIDN’T DO ANYTHING DRASTIC WITH THE HAIRCUT! WAS ONLY WINDING YOU UP! THE BIZZIES NEVER SAW THAT, I TOOK IT MYSELF! PICK UP A FARE AT 18 BRANDON TERRACE.

Ah looks at ma shorn heid in the cab mirror. Then ah batters it oaf the dashboard: FUCKIN PRICK. Thuv done it now: that’s them taken everything oaffay me! They might as well take the fuckin cab n aw. Fuck his fare.

Ah’m drivin around aimlessly, can barely look at ma heid in the mirror, n ah cannae think ay anything else tae dae but head doon tae the sauna. Kelvin’s thaire, lookin at ays wi a nasty smirk oan ehs face. Ah’m bettin The Poof’s been oantae him, but eh doesnae say nowt aboot that cause thaire’s mair pressin stuff. — Polis wir doon here again, eh sneers, — askin aboot Jinty.

— Aye? What wir they sayin?

— Same shite. Officially reported missin, so thuv goat tae investigate. Ah wisnae here, ah jist goat in. He looks around at some ay the lassies. Andrea’s thaire, n this new lassie Kim, young, anxious-lookin. — They telt them aw they ken, which is basically nowt, ay.

— Hud Vic oan the phone a wee while ago.

Kelvin’s bottom lip trembles. — What are you tryin tae say?

— You should fuckin well cool it wi the lassies.

Eh sort ay swallays aw harsh. — What business is it ay yours?

— Vic made it ma fuckin business, ah tell the cunt, — ah’m fuckin watchin you. Take a fuckin tellin.

Eh goes tae say something, then stoaps, n pits that dopey smile back on ehs coupon again. — Nice haircut. New image?

Ah turns away fae him, fightin doon ma rage. The cunt’s lookin at that Kim burd n nods at her, takin her intae one ay the rooms. As they depart Andrea glares at ays like ah should stoap it. What the fuck can ah dae, but? Ah hing aboot fir a bit, but it’s torture, seein aw they lassies here, n aw they mingin johns, n kennin whit thir daein in they fuckin rooms. Ah’m at the end ay ma tether now. Ah kin understand, through the ridin, what Suicide Sal meant aboot her art: if somethin that important tae ye gits taken away, what’s the fuckin point ay gaun oan? It’s whae ye fuckin are. Fuck knows how long ah kin live withoot a ride. But fuck aw that toppin masel; if ah go doon, ah’m gaunny make sure thit Kelvin n The Poof ur fuckin well gaun doon wi ays. Ah’ve nowt tae fuckin well lose.

Ah’m just headin oot, gaun up the steps fae the basement tae the street, when they two wide-looking cunts come oot a Volvo. For a split second ah think they might be fae a rival mob, maybe Power’s boys, cause they look like they mean business. Ah try no tae make eye contact, but ah cannae really avoid them. Then ah realises that thir polis. One huds up his ID. — We’re looking for a Kelvin Whiteford.

— Eh’s in thaire, ah tell them, pointin tae the door. Ah opt tae stick aboot as the cops steam straight in, and in nae time they’re haulin Kelvin oot, intae the car at the top ay the steps. Kelvin’s in his tracky bottoms and vest, the cunt was caught oan the joab! He looks at me as if ah’ve fuckin grassed um up. Ah’m aboot tae git the fuck oot ay thaire, when one ay the detective boys goes, — And you are?

— Terry Lawson, ay.

— We’d be obliged if you could wait inside, Mr Lawson. We need tae speak to you.

— Ah dinnae really work here but, ah jist come in occasionally. Like as a sortay supervisor, no a punter. Never peyed fir it in ma –

— All the same, if you wouldn’t mind, the boy says, ehs voice insistent, as Kelvin gies ays an open-moothed stare, the coppers cartin him away.

Well, ah’m eywis tempted tae bolt when the polis come oan the scene, but in this case ah thought fae the off that it might be better tae cooperate n find oot what the fuck’s gaun oan. — Sound, ah goes, steppin back inside and sittin down in the waitin area, checkin ma emails oan the cheeky phone. Ah cannae bring masel tae check the Facebook page, and huvnae for months, as ma links tae the scud movies eywis bring in new, game rides.

They polis talk tae some ay the lassies first, settin up a kind ay interview room in one ay the knockin chambers. When it’s ma turn, ah tell them that aw ah kin dae is echo what some ay the girls had telt ays, that Kelvin was aggressive and ‘up tae nae good’ with some ay them. The boys ur daein the Edinburgh Polis version ay good cop–bad cop, which is shite cop–worse cunt, but as Ronnie might say: ‘This ain’t ma first rodeo.’

— Did his behaviour towards the women upset you? the cunt wi the implorin face asks. Shite Cop.

— Aye, ah pulled him up aboot it, n ah also let The P—Victor ken aboot it.

— Victor Syme, the proprietor of this fine establishment, Worse Cunt sneers. — So how do you get in touch with him?

— Ah dinnae, he gits in touch wi me.

Shite Cop nods. — Do you mind if I see the contacts list on your phone?

— Be my guest, n ah hand it ower, and he scrawls doon. Of course, there’s nae Vic Syme on the list amid literally thousands ay lassies.

He hands it tae Worse Cunt, who shakes ehs heid, then the baw-faced fucker says, — You have an interesting CV, Mr Lawson: football hooliganism, housebreaking, pornography – and now pimping.

Ah pits ma hands up in the surrender position. — Nae pimping. Supervision ay management staff only. N ah must stress that Vic isnae ma boss, just an old school pal ah’m helpin oot. He didnae trust Kelvin, and wanted ays tae keep an eye on him. Ah work for masel. The taxis, ay.

Worse Cunt snorts like a bull, flingin back his heid, that doubtful expression like a tattoo oan ehs coupon. Ah ken that the lassies will have already verified ma story, but ye huv tae stey vigilant roond these fuckers. Maist cops have nae real concept ay innocence. Part ay them believes that everybody they pull in is guilty, if no ay the particular crime under investigation, then ay
something
. It’s simply a matter ay, if no attitude, then training. If yir schooled tae detect crime, ye became totally fuckin useless at discerning its absence. — I sincerely doubt you’ll be seeing either of them again for a while, Shite Cop sais under his breath, a sort ay grudgin concession.

Ah tips a curt nod back, takin this tae mean that Kelvin could be charged with wee Jinty’s murder.

— The boyfriend, the wee fellow, John MacKay . . . Worse Cunt raises the eyebrows in his poker face.

— Hermless, ah goes, watchin Worse Cunt’s face pill intae something like bland agreement. — Doubt he had a Scooby what she wis up tae. For a living, likes. If ye ask me, he’s the real victim in aw ay this.

Now mibbe ah’m jist imagining it, but thaire’s even this wee fleck ay compassion in Worse Cunt’s tired grey eyes that sais ‘ain’t that the truth’. But eh shuts ehs notebook, signallin tae ays that the chat is ower.

So ah’m outside n aboot tae go intae the cab, when the elder Birrell calls; that’s Billy, no Rab, whae’s his younger brother. At first ah’m no gaunny pick up, but Billy’s connected wi Davie Power n that, n ah’ll need aw the fuckin help ah kin get if it starts kickin oaf wi The Poof. — Bilbo . . .

— Guess what ah’ve goat fir ye, Terry?

— What’s that, Billy?

— Exec club tickets fir the final! Me, you n Rab. Ewart’s comin ower fae Australia, but eh’s gaun tae the Hertz end wi Topsy n that.

— Right . . .

— Dinnae sound so cheerful then, Terry!

— Ah’m no that bothered, Billy.

— You’re fuckin brutal, Lawson. It’s a Cup final, all-Edinburgh, first time in oor lifetime!

Dinnae want tae tell the cunt that ma life’s awready fuckin well ower. — Aye, ah suppose it’ll be a laugh, ah goes.

— For fuck sake, Terry, dinnae dae me any favours!

Ah forces some cheer intae ma voice: — Sorry, Billy, just a wee bit doon but, ay. The auld girl’s no been sae well, ah lie.

— Sorry tae hear it, bro, n sorry tae hear aboot yir auld man bein seek. Ah ken you n him nivir saw eye tae eye, but in some weys that must make it worse.

— Ta, Billy, ah’ll try n pop intae the bar later, ay.

— Fine, Birrell goes, then starts aw the usual snidey shite. — But, Terry, dinnae be bringin ching along, n nae bams, n nae turnin up scruff order!

— Awright, bud, ah goes. Fuckin muppet. Ah’m jist settlin back intae the cab when Saskia comes on the line. — Awright, Sassy Pole, how’s it gaun? Ye booked up for hame yet?

— Yes, I am leaving tomorrow! Can we meet for a coffee?

— Aye, sure, ah goes.

So ah heads doon tae this gaff in Junction Street n she’s sittin thaire, lookin as fit as a butcher’s dug. At least till she turns face on, n ye kin still see the swellin and bruisin on her eye, inflicted by that wee prick. Hope he’s Peterheid-bound n lookin forward tae some tough love. Then ah think, fuck sake, she’s younger than Donna. That never bothered ays before, in fact it wis a result! But she looks sadly at me and goes, — What have you done with all your lovely curly hair?

— Dinnae ask, ah sighs, — it’s a long story.

Now she’s puttin her hand across the table n grabbin mine. — You are one of the kindest persons I have met. Before when people did something for me, they wanted . . . what I am trying to say is that I feel safe with you. You are not sleazy. You never try to fuck me, like the others.

Jesus Christ, talk aboot a slap in the puss! Feels fuckin safe? Wi me!? Juice Terry!?!? — Well, eh, ah dinnae like tae see people in bother but, ay, ah hears masel mumble.

— I have something for you. When Jinty vanished, I thought something bad might have happened. I go into her locker. There is just the cosmetics, tampons, other things, but also there is this.

She hands ays this notebook. It’s a diary, n it’s fill ay appointments. But ye kin hardly read the writin; it’s like a gypsy burd’s pubes in a bathtub.

— I think of handing it to the police, but I am so scared. I know I can trust you.

— Thanks.

— You are the only thing I will miss about this place, Terry, she goes, then says, — Tomorrow morning I am flying to Gdansk on Ryanair. I will never be back here!

Ah’m fuckin relieved, cause she’s a nice lassie n deserves better than being knocked aboot by they two creeps. They aw dae: ah’d pey fir them aw tae git back hame, but if thir in Liberty Leisure, hame might no be that great a place for some ay them. N ah’m thinkin aboot wee Jinty, how it might huv went further thin jist knockin aboot, ay. — Best thing tae dae, hen: git the fuck oot ay here. Dinnae ken how much yir makin in that game, but yir better oot ay it.

— My plan was to just do this for a short time. Now I go to college, she says aw cheery. — It is my wish to become a chartered accountant.