A Decent Ride (8 page)

Wee Jonty’s voice is that high, it’s like somebody’s cut his perr wee baws oaf! — Ah kin see another pair ay feet in there! Under that door! Aye sur, aye ah kin, aye. Ah ken it’s you, Barksie! What ur yis daein? What ur yis daein in thaire?

— JONTY, GIT TAE FUCK! Evan shouts. Ah shakes ma heid n starts laughin.

— What ye daein . . .? What yis daein in thaire? Come oot! JINTY!

— Wir jist powderin our noses, Jonty, ah goes. — Ah ken you dinnae like it whin ah dae that, so you go ben that bar n git ays a Bicardi n Coke, n we’ll be oot in a minute . . . ah goes, n ah starts shuttin up ma blouse.

— Nup! Come oot! JINTY! PLEASE! Please come oot, Jinty darlin, aw please, aye, aye, aye . . .

Evan Barksie’s face screws up again. — JONTY, AH’M FUCKIN WARNIN YE! SHUT IT!

— AYE, ah goes, cause eh’s startin tae git oan ma nerves, embarrassin ays like that, — GIT HAME OR GIT UP TAE THE FUCKIN BAR! A FUCKIN BICARDI N COKE, WELL!

Then thaire’s a bang, then another, n the door comes flyin in! Eh’s burst the lock! Ah’ve goat ma wrists in front ay ma tits tryin tae cover masel. — JONTY!

— YOU . . . Eh looks at me, then at Barksie, then back tae me. — Jinty, come hame! COME HAME WI US NOW!

Evan Barksie steps forward n pushes Jonty back oot. — Git tae fuck, Jonty, ah’m telling ye!

— This isnae right, Jonty’s gaun, n eh looks at us, then looks at the flair. Eh’s shakin his heid gaun, — Naw, naw, naw . . . n eh turns n runs oot the bogs.

Ah’ve goat ma blouse back oan, n ah’m gaun eftir him. Evan Barksie grabs ays by the wrist n goes, — Leave the fuckin wee muppet, n eh tries tae kiss us, but ah pushes him away.

— Git tae fuck, n ah goes outside intae the bar, but it’s mobbed, n ah sees Jake opening the doors n Jonty gaun ootside. N ah gits thaire n Jake goes, — ANYBODY WANT OOT GIT OOT NOW! AH’M LOCKIN US IN TILL IT STOAPS!

— YA FUCKIN BEAUTY! somebody shouts.

A chant goes up: — BAWBAG, BAWBAG, BAWBAG, BAWBAG! BAW-HAW-BAG, BAW-AW-BAG . . .

Ah dinnae ken what tae dae, but whin ah turns roond n sees Evan Barksie wavin a big bag ay ching n shoutin, — Perty time, ah ken ah’m gaun naewhaire fir a bit, ay.

TALK ABOOT FUCKIN
warnin bells! It’s pishin wet wi they gales, n thaire’s this lassie oot, walkin doon Queensferry Road, which is fuckin deserted. She’s headin taewards the Forth Road Bridge! At this time, and in this fuckin weather! A fare’s a fare but, ay, n besides, the jumpers are usually gadges: very seldom dae ye git fanny tryin tae top itsel that wey. Aye, sent us oan a fuckin course, soas we could spot the hari-kari crew. They telt ye aw the things ye need tae say tae try n stoap thum. Like counsellin n that. No that ah ever fuckin well bother; cunt wants tae jump, lit thum fuckin well jump, ay. Fuck aw that nanny state George Bernard’s; some cunt’s made thair mind up aboot it, they must huv good fuckin reasons. It’s no fir the likes ay a total stranger tae say any different. Wouldnae be me anyway! Jump oaf a cliff, then some burd phones ye up the next day deciding she’s gaunny gie ye yir hole eftir aw? Naw, fuck that! Too much tae live for, me but, ay. Mind you, ah kin understand how some gadges that urnae gittin a ride wid want tae jump: fuck that fir a game ay sodjirs!

But wi a burd it’s different. Naebody in thair right mind wants tae see good fanny gaun tae waste. A burd’s minge is meant tae be hot for the rumpy-pumpy, no aw cauld, stretched oot oan a slab, though thaire’s some dirty cunts thit wid go fir that. Ah blame that fuckin Internet, littin bairns watch extreme porn, whin thuv no even hud a proper wank. That shite would fuck any cunt’s heid up. Too right! Ah mean, ah’ve made the odd scud flick, aye, but it’s ey been consenting adults, nae dodgy stuff.

So ah stoaps, n the lassie gits in the cab. Her black hair’s plastered tae her heid by the rain, her long black coat’s heavy wi it, n her eyes ur aw fogged ower. — Awright, doll? A bit blustery tae be oot the night but, ay. Nivir heard ay Bawbag?

But this burd, she’s jist sittin thaire, starin oaf intae space wi they dark eyes, probably broon, set in a roundish face. The lights ur oan but thaire’s nae cunt hame. — The bridge, she sais in this accent that’s either posh Scottish or English.

— So what’s happenin oot at the bridge?

She suddenly looks at ays aw offended. Like it’s nane ay ma business.

— Dinnae look at ays like that, ah’m gaun, — wi that moosey face oan. See, if you jump oaf that bridge, it’s ma case the polis git oan! Ah’ve goat tae ask they questions!

She’s lookin right at ays in that wide-eyed horror, like the burds they huv in the movies like
Scream
, but, kinday no like
Scream
n aw, cause her mooth’s gaun aw tight, like ah’ve rumbled her.

— But that’s up tae you, ah shrugs. — It’s your business. Jist tell ays if ye are, so ah kin gie the bizzies some story, like ye telt ays ye wir gaun tae yir sister’s in Inverkeithing, then sais ye wir sick n hud tae git oot n puke, n the next thing ye’d cowped yirsel ower the rail, that sort ay shite. Goat tae cover ma erse but, ay.

She puts her heid in her hands and mumbles something ah dinnae catch, then jerks up and goes, — I can get out here.

— Naw, ah’ll take ye tae the bridge. Ah shakes ma heid. — Wey ah see it, if yir determined tae dae it, ye will. N it’s fuckin kickin up big time ootside. Ye might as well go thaire in comfort, n she disnae even flinch at that. — Tell ye one thing but, ah pits her in the picture, — yir no gittin oot this cab withoot peyin the fare first.

— I wasn’t – I’ve got money . . . She reaches intae her purse.

— How much?

— Seventy pounds and some change . . .

— No bein wide, ah goes, glancin in the mirror, — but ye might as well jist hand it aw ower . . . if yir sure, like. Jist that it would be a waste ay dosh, ay, jumpin wi aw that in yir poakits. No being wide, likes.

The burd looks angry, starin at ays for the first time, then sortay shrugs n settles back in the seat. — If I was ever in any doubt that this was the right time to leave this fucking place, you would have convinced me, and she reaches forward again n shows the contents ay the purse.

Ah stoaps at the rid light, turns n reaches through the Judas Hole tae take the poppy, n crams it intae ma poakit. The road’s empty, thank fuck. — Ah’m no bein funny like, ah’m no tryin tae stop ye, gen up, but ah’ve goat tae ask: what’s a good-lookin young lassie like you wantin tae dae this fir?

— You wouldn’t understand. She shakes her head. — Nobody does.

— Well, explain tae us, ah goes. Cause they sais oan that course tae try n git thum talkin. — What’s yir name? Ah’m Terry, by the by. Ah git kent as ‘Juice’ Terry cause ah worked oan the juice lorries way back. Sometimes ‘Scud’ Terry cause . . . well, ah’ll no bore ye wi the details.

— My name is Sara-Ann Lamont, she says, like she’s a robot. — I get called Sal. S-A-L. Sara. Ann. Lamont.

— You fae up here, Sal?

— Yes, Portobello originally. But I’ve lived in London for years.

— Lamont, ye said, aye?

— Yeah . . .

At least it isnae Lawson: thank fuck. Yuv goat tae check, wi that cunt ay an auld man ay mine huvin chucked ays spunk around toon like a lunatic sprayin asylum waws. — What’s it ye dae doon thaire, like, what line ay work ur ye in?

Another bitter wee shrug, then she pushes the wet tresses ay hair oot her eyes. — I write plays. Though the rest of the world seems to disagree.

— Nae felly doon thaire, somebody who’ll be worried aboot ye?

— Ha! She laughs, aw sort ay cynical. — I’m fleeing an emotionally abusive relationship. I’m back in my home city with a specially commissioned play at the Traverse. It was supposed to be the return of the prodigal daughter. But the critics have not been kind and I’ve had enough. Does that answer your questions?

— So yir gaunny kill yirsel ower a felly n a play?

— You don’t understand –

— Find another felly. Write another play, if that yin wis shite. Shot this prisoner-ay-war scud flick once,
They Do Like It Up ’Em
; wisnae that great, but it didnae deter –

— It wasn’t shite! she goes, now aw angry fir the first time. — You just don’t get it! But I’m not surprised.

Awright, so the burd’s gaunny be fish food in twenty minutes, but ah’m no that struck oan her patter, ay. — Aw ah see, ah dinnae understand cause ah jist drive a cab, is that it? Cause ah drive a taxi ah cannae be expected tae understand the complex mind ay an
artiste
?

— I didn’t say that!

— Ah’ve done a fair bit ay actin, no stage, but screen, n ah understand the process, ah’ll huv ye ken, ah tell her. People think scud’s jist aboot bangin away, but as ma mate Sick Boy ey says, ‘Wir telling a story here,’ so yuv goat tae ken yir lines n hit yir mark. No sayin ah’m fuckin Brad Pitt, but then again ah’m no sayin that cunt’s Juice Terry! Last year whin we wir shootin
Doctor Scheme: A Thorough Examination
ah hud tae stick one thermometer up this burd’s fanny, n the other up her erse, n say, ‘The hottest hole is the one that gets this fat dick, baby.’ Sounds fuckin straightforward enough but it’s no that easy whin thaire’s cameras on ye, lights shinin in yir coupon, n a boom mike overheid n Sick Boy fuckin prancin aboot shoutin orders at ye!

But she’s oaf oan one but, ay. Aw good: lit thum talk, the boy oan the course says. — All I ever wanted to do was write, she shouts. — Four years of my life went into that play, and they didn’t get it! They didn’t get
me
! Those sneering men I could understand, that cabal of sad old queens, but when the jealous fucking so-called sisters turned on me . . . She shakes her heid, lettin they wet locks fly. — No, I’ve had enough . . .

Thaire’s no a loat ye kin say tae that. Ah look at her in the mirror. She reminds me a bit ay that burd fae Liverpool ah made
Anal Torpedo 3
wi. That was when ah played the captain oan the whalin ship crewed by burds, aw wearin fishnet tights. Catchphrase: ‘Thar she blows!’

She’s gaun aw quiet as we’re passin the Barnton roondabout, her hands clasped thegither oan her lap, heid bowed, starin at them. So ah thinks, fuck it, ah’ll make a wee move. — Listen, this might seem a wee bit cheeky, Sal, but kin ah ask you a favour?

She looks up ay ays like ah’m fuckin tapped. — What . . .
you
want a favour? From
me
? What favour can I do for
anyone
now?

— Well, ah wis jist wonderin, see if ye wirnae in any big hurry, ah shrugs, giein her a cheeky wee smile, — any chance ay a ride before ye jump?

— What? Her face sortay twists, and then she’s silent again. Suits me! She’s no sayin aye, but she’s no sayin naw!

— Ah wis jist wonderin, Sal, n ah ken it’s a wee bit cheeky, but the quiet bairn gits nowt, ay. Mibbe jist go oot wi a bang, last night oan Earth, ah goes. — Tell ye what, ah’d gie ye a guid fuckin cowp, pardon ma French.

— You want to have sex with me? Ha ha, Suicide Sal laughs, her voice gaun aw high, like she cannae believe what she’s hearin. N fuck, she’s gittin oot her coat, n pillin oaf her jumper! She’s sittin thaire in a black bra. — Go ahead, pull up, do what the fuck you like!

N ah does that awright, headin oaf that slip road jist before the bridge tollbooth comes intae view. The howlin wind is that strong that ah kin barely move the door at first, but wi a ride in the back, it could be oan its side, n buried in an avalanche, n ah’d still be able tae fuckin well open it. — Fasten yir seat belt, hen, ah shouts tae her, — cause we could be in for some awfay bumpy rumpy-pumpy!

GRACIOUS LORD, ETERNAL
saviour, I am so, so sorry, for I know I have sinned against your profligate wastrels! Lord, I accept that in your infinite wisdom you saw fit to create those beings too, just as you did the cockroach and house fly. As your servant it is not for me to question your unfathomable mysteries. But my comments in
Time
magazine about those unfortunate Negroes were twisted and taken out of context by the liberal media! I was asked a question about government spending and I simply said that the citizens of New Orleans were feeling your wrath, and that President George Bush was correct to butt out of this one, and let your judgement hold sway.

Was that not the right thing to say?

I now worry that perhaps I’ve wronged you, and now you’ve brought this hurricane, here to Scotland, to punish me for my mortal folly in daring to interpret your mysterious ways!

Spare me, Lord!

I drop the Bible back on to the nightstand, hoping to hell that He’s listening to me. Sometimes He does, as in the Broward County development in Florida, while other times my pleas seem to fall on deaf ears, the Sacramento mall debacle being a case in point.

I feel my spine shake as I raise myself up out of this bed, on to my elbows, to get another shot of Skatch. Mindful of that physician prick in New York’s words, I’m sitting up to minimise the reflux reaction, and feel that golden elixir sliding down, slowly fusing through me and warming up my core. But even with its comfort, I can’t stay in this goddamn hotel room, listening to those howling winds rattling the windows. It’s like freakin 9/11, you expect a terrorist plane to come crashing in here, maybe to take out the railroad station! But this is Skatlin, so who damn well cares?

No, sorry, almighty Father, they are human beings too.

The window rattles again, and this time I swear I can see it bellying in. Those cheap-ass wooden frames! I grab the phone and call the desk. — This motherfucker is gonna blow! What are the evacuation plans? How the hell do we get outta here?!

— Please calm down, sir, and try to relax. Would you care for anything from room service?

— Fuck your room service in the ass! We got ourselves an emergency situation here! How the hell can you guys be so goddamn complacent?!

— Sir, please try to calm yourself!

— Fuck you! Asshole! I slam the phone down on the cradle.

I pick up the bottle of Skatch and refill my glass. That Highland Park eighteen-year-old malt sure goes down smooth. The hotel staff don’t give a goddamn shit . . . I pick up my cell, but I still can’t get a signal for Mortimer. That asshole is
so
fucking fired! But God willing, if I’m spared to survive this ordeal, I will tell him straight to his face just
how
fucking fired he is!