A Decent Ride (7 page)

— Hi, I’m Valda, she says with a big smile.

— Terry. Pleasure to meet you, Valda. Listen, ah’m gaunny pit ma cairds right on the table here, he smiles, arching a roguish brow. Valda regards him in studied neutrality, though Terry fancies he can see a slight shiver in her left eye. — An important part ay any relationship is sex, n that’s primarily what ah’m interested in right now. Ah’m hung like a pit pony that wisnae shy in foalhood when the carrots wir gittin dished oot, n wi this tongue ye dinnae need a fuckin straw tae git tae the boatum ay a milkshake, if ye catch ma drift. Ah’ve goat a flat roond the corner. What d’ye say we jist git oot ay here right now? The apocalypse thit they news cunts call Bawbag, well, it’s gaunny hit the toon later!

Valda Harkins feels insulted. She is preparing her response, but by the time she is ready to sound off, Terry, who has read the signs, is already at the next table, giving another woman, Kate Ormond, exactly the same pitch. Kate is startled. — Wow . . . you’re moving a wee bit too fast –

Terry cuts her off with, — Sound, easing out of his seat, and moving on to Carly Robson.

They leave together two minutes later. Terry is thinking how long it will take to ensconce her in his South Side flat, close the social transaction, and then get back out to catch some fares trying to get to where they need to go before Hurricane Bawbag beds in.

On the journey to his flat, the winds have kicked up and the phone reception is bad. Terry sees several missed calls – two from Ronnie Checker. He tries to call him back, but the bars of the signal fade.

‘MAKE SURE YE
git hame early, mind, git hame early, we cannae go oot the night . . .’ Wee Jonty’s like a fuckin parrot. Well, ah’m no bein stuck inside jist cause ay a load ay fuckin gales. That wis what ah sais tae um: ah’m no bein stuck in here just cause ay strong winds, Jonty.

Then eh turns roond n hands ays this sortay tube thing for ays tae take oot. Ah asks um what it wis n eh tells ays it’s a distress flare eh made, fae some site oan that Internet. — Distress flare, aye, eh goes, — if ye huv tae go oot in that Bawbag!

Ah telt um thaire wis nae wey ah wis gaun oot wi that in ma bag! Blaw masel up! So ah jist went oot n left him, wi him still beggin ays tae take the daft flare. — Beat it, Jonty, ah goes, — yir really startin tae annoy me, ah telt um, n ah went n left um.

How many times have we heard that aw nonsense aboot weather before? Winds. Load ay shite. It’s eywis fuckin windy here!

Ah gits the bus doon tae Leith, the 22. The sauna’s busy. Some familiar clients. There’s a wee guy who comes in and eywis jist wants gammed. Thaire’s another regular, a bodybuilder, but wi an awfay wee cock, mibbe it’s the steroids but that’s meant tae jist shrivel the baws. He eywis wants a ride, n ye really huv tae act for him, eh looks intae yir eyes aw tense and freaky, as bad as that cunt Kelvin. An easy shift otherwise, but.

Then ah’m jist gittin washed oot when Kelvin comes in and goes, — Ah’m up next.

Thaire’s nowt ah kin dae. The mair ye dinnae want tae be wi him, the mair he gits turned on n wants tae ride ye. Then when eh starts, ye really got tae make oot like yir intae it. He can turn a sick fucker if he thinks yir repulsed by him. He wisnae that bad this time roond, though ma nipple’s really sair where eh pinched it hard. The worst is the stuff that comes oot ay his mooth. Ah hate huvin tae dae it wi um, but the money’s good here.

So ah’m gled when that’s ower, n ah put ma stuff in ma locker. Then ah goes oot intae the lounge then through reception and ootside. Ah’m heading ontae Leith Walk bound for the toon. A taxi pills up – ah nivir waved it doon – n ah see that that Terry’s in it. — Fancy a lift?

— Whaire ye gaun?

— Sighthill.

— Ah’m gaun tae Gorgie.

— It’s oan ma wey. Hop in, eh sais, then sortay smiles. — C’moan! Ah’ve no goat the meter oan!

So ah does, n wir off up intae toon.

— Listen, Terry goes, — jist say if ye think ah’m bein too forward or that, but d’ye fancy a ride?

Ah jist rolls ma eyes. — Been oan ma back aw day.

— Aye, but surely it’s different if yir intae it yirsel.

Ah dinnae ken why he didnae ask earlier. — Ye could ride us any time, back in the sauna. Ah’m sure yir oan freebies like Vic . . . n that fuckin Kelvin.

— No ma scene but, ay, he goes. — A lassie’s goat tae want it for me tae be bothered.

N as funny as it seems, ah do fancy a ride. For one thing, ah dinnae want tae huv in ma heid aw night that the last person up ays was that cunt Kelvin, even if ah wis miles away. Bit it’s funny daein this work, cause yir oan yir back right enough, but ye dinnae git intae it. In fact it kin git frustratin, cause even though yir thinkin aboot other things, ye kin sometimes end up, eftir a shift, actually wishin thit ye could git a proper ride. Cause workin disnae feel like a proper ride, but it sometimes pits ye in mind ay yin.

So ah’m lookin at this Terry, that wild, corkscrew heid. Eh’s goat that glint in ehs eye that aw shaggers huv. — Ah hear thit yir nae slouch. Well equipped in the boaby department.

— Satisfaction guaranteed, eh goes, then eh’s pullin doon a side street oaf the Gorgie Road n parks the motor up this alley.

RUNNIN ABOOT DAFT
worried aboot wee Jinty, doon the stair twice, sur, aye sur, twice. Dinnae ken whaire she is. Keep tryin tae gie her a phone oan the mobile n aw, aye sur, oan the mobile.

Mobile.

Awfay feart ay the idea ay her bein stuck in this hurricane; yon Bawbag. Dinnae like hurricanes sneakin up here anywey, should be stickin tae thair ain bit, like the tropics n that, aye! Away ye go, hurricanes, back tae whaire ye came fae! Wi dinnae want ye in Scotland! Aye, ah fine well mind ay Hank sayin whin they went tae Florida, Orlando, sur, thit thaire wis an awfay hurricane. The trees wir bent right back. Ah’d said, ‘Bent back, Hank?’ N Hank hud went, ‘Aye, Jonty, they wir bent back right enough.’

Bit it wis jist palm trees, no real trees but. Real Scottish trees widnae pit up wi that, hurricane or nae hurricane. Aye, they widnae try that wi real trees!

So ah pit oan
Coronation Street
, wi that nice-lookin lassie, the yin thit looks a bit like wee Jinty, n ah’m sayin tae masel in ma heid: come hame, Jinty, jist come hame or geez a phone tae tell ays yir safe, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur . . .

AH’M SITTIN IN
the back ay that cab, a satisfyin throb between my legs, nicely in tune wi the vibration ay the motor oan the seat. Wir rumbling doon Daly Road, n it’s fair pishin doon wi fierce gales startin up. — You jist lit ays oaf here, ah sais tae that Terry.

— Strong winds but, he goes. Christ, even wee Jonty, whae could be a fuckin machine, nivir cowped ays like that animal! But ah’m no sayin nowt tae Terry cause he’s goat a big enough heid as it is, n eh really fancies ehsel.

Ah look back at him. — What’s it tae you, son?

Terry looks a wee bit stung at that. — Thing is, you’re obviously gaun intae The Pub Wi Nae Name. Eh points acroass the street tae the boozer. Ah kin see Deek McGregor outside, huvin a fag. — Well ah am n aw. Ah’ve a wee message tae droap oaf.

— Whae fir?

— You’ll no ken thum.

— Bet it’s one ay the Barksies! Evan!

Terry rolls his eyes like ah’ve goat um thaire, n goes, — Amongst others.

— Ye goat ching?

— Aye . . .

— Ah pure want tae dae a line.

— No here. Terry looks oot through the windaes at the deserted streets, hardly even any motors oot. — It’s ma livelihood . . . or one ay thum.

He drives the car doon an unpaved side alley acroas fae the pub. — You ken a loat ay they secluded spots, ay, son, ah goes, cause ye kin tell eh does the shaggin n drugs big time.

Eh jist smiles n gits oot the cab, n comes through the back again, ehs hair aw whipped up wi the wind. — Christ, that’s a fuckin wind awright, eh goes. — Here . . . Eh hands us a wrap. — That’s yours.

Ah fuckin well gies um a look like ah’m no happy, cause ah umnae. — Ah might be oan the game but ah wisnae workin whin we wir daein it, son!

— Hi, Terry goes, — chill oot, Jinty. Ah ken that. It’s a present. Huv a white Christmas. N listen, eh leans in close, — mind what ah sais aboot makin a wee scud movie if ye fancy it. Decent dosh.

— Think ah could?

— Easy. Ye’d huv tae git rid ay that wee pot. Eh pokes ays in the stomach wi ehs finger, but gently. — Ah like it, ah think it’s sexy, but fir the video ye’d need tae cut the carbs oot for a month n git tae that new gym at the Commie. Ye’d be ripped in nae time at aw, then the cameras would roll . . . n eh bats ehs eyes. — Here. Eh looks around. Then eh pits a bit ay ching fae a placky bag oantae the edge ay his credit caird n nods tae me tae git doon oan it. Dinnae need tae be asked twice!

Yessss.

Then Terry takes a hit for ehsel. — Gittin another fuckin root oan awready . . . could gie you another fuckin seein-tae right now . . . His hand faws oan ma thigh.

— Aye, right, cool yir jets, son. Ah brushes it oaf. Ah could go mair boaby, fuckin surein ah could, but wee Jonty could come by any minute. N besides, laddies like Terry, ye keep thum keen. If ye gie thum thair hole oan demand, they start takin the fuckin pish. Been thaire, done that, boat the fuckin T-shirt.

— Moantay fuck! Eh laughs.

— Hud yir hoarses. You jist git in thaire. Ah points taewards the boozer.

Terry grins, cause eh’s a rerr-natured felly under it aw, n eh kin take a tellin, no like some. That fuckin Victor and Kelvin. But wi kin barely git the car door open wi that fuckin gale blawin doon the alley. We finally makes it n struggles oot n wir vernear carryin each other intae the boozer!

A fuckin relief tae git inside! It’s mobbed. Terry disnae drink in The Pub With No Name, at least ah’ve no seen um in here, bit he seems tae ken a few regulars. Ah’m hopin eh steys, at least till wee Jonty comes doon, then ah’m thinkin, naw, mibbe no.

Terry sees Evan Barksdale, whae’s goat the meatier build ay the beer drinker, compared tae ehs twin Craig’s mair voddy physique. They disappear tae the bogs, obviously for a line n tae dae business. Ah’m talkin tae Jake, whae runs the pub, then ah gits oot ma phone n ah sees aw they missed caws fae Jonty, n ah’m tryin tae git a hud ay him. — Better tell Jonty tae git roond here before Bawbag kicks in! Dinnae want him stuck in the hoose, ah sais tae Jake, but ah cannae git a signal.

— Aye, Bawbag, Jake sais.

Eftir a bit Terry n Evan Barksie come oot the bog. — Right, gaunny huv tae leave yis, Terry smiles. — Duty calls.

— Stey, Tez, ya fuckin tight-ersed Hibby cunt, yir no gaunny dae any business the night! Evan Barksie goes.

— Git tae fuck, a scabby wee hurricane’s no gaunny stoap me daein ma thing. Money never sleeps, mate, Terry laughs. — Right, ya fuckin Jambo paedos, catch yis whin ye smell better, eh sais, then eh heads away. Craig Barksie, Tony Graham, Lethal Stuart n Deek McGregor are aw roond the pool table, n they watch Terry go.

— Fuckin wide cunt, Evan Barksie sais, turnin tae me. — How dae ye ken that fuckin Hobo tramp?

Ah nivir kent eh wis a fuckin Hobo! Wid’ve thoat twice aboot giein um ehs hole if ah kent that! It’s nane ay Evan’s fuckin business but. — Eh wis seein a mate ay mine, ah goes.

— Aye, eh’s good at daein that, Barksie sais, n ehs mooth goes aw tight n ehs eyes aw slitty. — Wisnae seein you n aw, wis eh?

Ah’m lookin right n ehs wee eyes. — What’s it tae you?

Evan Barksie shuffles n ehs voice droaps, n eh’s tryin tae force cheer intae it. — Wee Jonty widnae be too chuffed.

— Ah dae what ah like.

— Aw aye? Prove it!

— How?

— Come for a line wi me. Eh nods tae the lavvy.

— Awright.

Well, we goes intae the laddies’ bogs n thaire’s two traps. We gits in one n Evan Barksie starts cuttin oot a huge line. Wi takes half each. Ma eyes ur waterin n my hert’s thumpin. — Ye awright? he goes.

— Aye . . .

— A loat ay folk here, eh gies a wee smile showin oaf mingin yellay teeth, — they think wee Jonty’s punchin above ehs weight.

— Aye . . . is that what you think as well? ah goes. Fuck, ah’m strugglin here, sweatin, n ma hert’s poundin away like the clappers.

— Jist sayin likes.

This isnae real! It’s no good fir ye tae snort that much coke: ye kin peg right oot. Ah’m mad fir it but. — My hert . . . whoa . . .

— Lit’s see, Evan goes, n eh pits ehs hand oan ma chist. It feels good huvin it thaire, lookin at his daft wee smile as eh stares at ma tits. So ah dinnae dae nowt when eh undoes the two toap buttons oan ma blouse n spreads his palm oot. — Barry tits, by the way, eh goes. Then eh sais, — Get them oot then!

— Chop oot another fuckin line first, ah sais, though the sweat’s still rippin oaf ays n ma hert’s bangin like a drum machine. Ah’m fuckin mad fir this ching but!

So eh does, n wi git oan it again n wir baith fuckin rattlin big time. Then Evan unbuttons ma blouse n lits it faw doon ma shoodirs. — A fuckin waste . . . eh goes, n eh unfastens ma bra. Eh’s goat baith ma tits n ehs hands n eh’s right beside me, rubbin up against us. — Lawson rode ye, eh?

— Aye . . . ah tells um, gittin intae it, — eh rode ays wi ehs big cock . . . so you fuckin gaunny well dae it then . . .?

— Aye . . . Evan’s gaun fir ehs zip. And then, fae outside, thir’s a knock oan the door.

— Jinty! Ur you in thaire? Eh! What ur ye daein? Jinty? Aye, yer in thaire! Aye sur! Aye!

It’s wee Jonty. Oor eyes ur poppin oot oor heids n Barksie pits one hand ower ma mooth, n a finger acroass ehs ain lips.

— Ah ken yir in thaire, Jake n Sandra fae behind the bar telt us, aye they telt us likes, aye, aye, aye . . . in thaire, Jinty . . .

— Jonty, ah’m jist huvin a wee bit ay a livener . . . ah tells um. Ah cannae even be bothered tryin tae pit ma blouse back oan, ah’m fuckin melted.

— Jinty! Come oot! Come oot! Dinnae touch thon bad stuff, please dinnae, Jinty . . . n ehs wee voice is brekin up.

— Ah’ll be oot n a minute, dinnae trouble yersel, Jonty! N ah’m lookin at Evan n wuv both goat oor hands ower oor mooths now, tryin no tae laugh oot loud!