A Decent Ride
Saskia puts her hand across her chest, a gesture Jonty reads as indicating shame. — I am sorry, I know it isnae good but I needed to get money . . .
— Cause it’s wrong what happens in that place!
And Saskia hangs her head and slopes away, thinking of her family in Gdansk, how it would destroy them if they knew the source of the money she sent home every week by Western Union wire transfer, as Jonty considers Barksie and that evil cocaine and what it has done to them all. A rage bubbles inside him. To calm himself, he picks up the free newspaper and reads slowly.
Scotland’s smokers have been praised for their heroism, standing up to extremely inhospitable elements in the form of the devastating hurricane known dismissively as ‘Bawbag’ by locals. As the storm raged to its height around 1am, clusters of smokers spontaneously left the bars of Edinburgh’s Grassmarket, where they struck up a rousing, defiant rendition of ‘Flower of Scotland’. But instead of standing against ‘proud Edward’s Army’, as in Roy Williamson’s famed lyric, they subsistuted this with ‘Hurricane Bawbag’. Plasterer Hugh Middleton, 58, said, ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. We just roared our song out into the night. Amazingly, the hurricane seemed to die out after that. So we really did send Bawbag “homewards tae think again”. I suppose the message is that if you come to Scotland, behave yourself and you’ll be looked after. But if you step out of line . . .’
Politicians have been quick to heap praise on the courageous puffers. Local MSP George McAlpine said, ‘Scotland’s smokers have had a rough time of it lately, but they showed great fortitude and inspirational courage.’
Jonty feels himself bursting with pride, silver tears trickling down his cheeks, and wishes that, despite the health risks, he was a smoker.
It has started to rain heavily again. Sheets of icy water lash down. Saskia turns up her collar, wincing in despair, as cold water runs down the back of her neck. As she approaches Haymarket, a horn toots and a taxi rolls up alongside her.
— Hop in, doll!
Saskia looks at the beaming smile and mop of corkscrew curls.
— I do not have money –
— Hi! This is me yir talkin tae! Hop in!
She doesn’t need to be asked a third time.
As they drive through town, Terry considers the saying ‘a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush’. He concludes that your hand in a bird’s bush, though, is something you can’t put a price on . . . unless you were down in Liberty Leisure. Then it was about fifty bar. This is the direction he’s heading off in with Saskia, who says to him, — I go and see Jinty, but she is not in and her boyfriend says she isnae coming back. I think he knows what she was doing here and has stopped it.
— Well, that’s a shame, Terry says, enjoying the Edinburgh affectations of Saskia’s Eastern European accent, — ah liked that lassie. Rough as fuck and a wee bit mental, but she was sound. Where did she go?
— He did not say. Her boyfriend, he was a strange man.
— We aw are, hen, and so are youse. Terry gives her a smile, elicting one back from Saskia which strips away her worries, changing her face to reveal an intense, paralysing beauty, which lights Terry up from the inside.
Ya fucker . . .
In moments of self-candour, Terry conceded he actually thrived on damaged girls. Somebody with her own career, place, money in the bank, no mental health issues . . . that was fine for a while, but they soon tended to suss him out, once they’d had their rations of Auld Faithful. The nutters are hard work, yes, but they certainly keep coming back for more.
— When are you for finishing your shift?
— Once ah’ve droaped you oaf tae start yours, that’s me done. Goat tae meet a buddy.
— I can get out here if it is easier for you . . .
— Nae worries, wir aw good. Terry checks the time on his dashboard. Ten minutes later, he feels a little sad as he watches her step out the cab, a discreet distance from Liberty. No formal pact is made, but both know it would do neither any good to be seen together by Kelvin.
So now he is off to meet Ronald Checker at the Balmoral. Terry notices that Ronnie is sporting a sheepish coupon. Nice tae see such a boastful rich fucker oan the telly looking like he kens he’s made a complete twat of himself!
— Where to, Ronnie?
— That Haddington place.
— So ye survived Bawbag then, Terry teases.
— Yes . . . sorry about that. I guess I overreacted. See, I was there at Katrina, Ronnie lies, — as part of a government-backed task force. These people didn’t want our help, our leadership. It wasn’t the administration’s fault; the liberal media distorted it. But I saw a lot of shit. I guess I expected something on the same scale here.
— Aye, wisnae much ay a hurricane, or no that ah noticed. Terry pats his groin. — Ah wis involved in ma ain wee tornado at the time.
— Hell, I’ll bet you were! That gal was a feisty one, Terry, Ronnie declares, then his voice drops as his features seem to rush to the middle of his face. — You know, it’s always been a fantasy of mine to hate-fuck with one of those Occupy bitches! She ain’t got any buddies, huh?
Terry isn’t totally sure what Ronnie means, but is moved to consider the sexual encounters he’s enjoyed with posh fanny. Yes, opposites can attract, especially in the bedroom. At least in the short term. — No sure, but ah’ll ask her, mate.
They head out to East Lothian, which seems remarkably unscathed by Bawbag. At a stretch of woods that lead to the beach, they get out and look around. Ronnie is animated, the wind slapping the Mohawk across his skull like a comb-over. — Imagine if this place was a state-of-the-art golf course . . . cut down those trees, level and landscape the area around it, some luxury apartments . . . hell, we could revitalise this shithole!
Terry thinks it looks just fine as it is but keeps his counsel. In this game it is prudent to keep the customer sweet. Let them obsess over whatever shite they want. After all, everybody has their obsessions; yes, he concedes, even him.
— Whaddya think? Ronnie asks, crushing some wet bracken under the heel of his shoe.
— Cunts huv nae vision but, mate, Terry replies, trying to work out if this is a ‘we need to free ourselves from Westminster’s shackles’ or a ‘we’re muppets who couldn’t possibly run the place on our own’ number. Undecided, he ventures, — But ah’m no sayin nowt against nae cunt, mind. Huv tae say but, ah like the woods. Ye cannae compromise too many outside-shaggin sites.
This scarcely seems to register with Ronnie, who is breathing in deeply, filling his lungs. — Air sure is so sweet and fresh here, he concedes.
The next port of call is the council chambers in Haddington. Terry has fond memories of this town, with images of a girl from here dancing in his mind. As he parks outside the building, a man emerges to meet and greet Ronnie and usher him inside. Terry watches them depart into the old council building, and stretches out and yawns.
The rain has stopped, with the sky clearing up as dark clouds charge west with menacing intent, opening up a pallid blue. Terry exits the cab, then sees Ronnie’s Apple Mac on the back seat, and gets in, idly opening it. It’s still powered up. He goes online, looking for his favourite gaming site, and is tempted by a long shot at Haydock. He resists, moving on to Sick Boy’s pornographic website, X-tra Perversevere, and has an exhibitionist’s desire to show Ronnie The Fuck Locker: The Exploding Sex Bomb, which he regards as the best of his recent work. It culminates in him trying to bring off the frigid al-Qaeda operative, played by his friend Lisette, who is wired by remote control to a set of explosives in the Bora Bora caves (filmed near Dover), whereby her orgasm will detonate them and bring the entire terrorist network down. He thinks that it will chime with Ronnie’s politics. Then he is delighted to see that Sick Boy has finally put up the porn-football-hooligan film they did last year. The Biggest Hardest Mob is about a group of football-thug studs who learn that their main opposition mob have taken their girlfriends to Majorca. They drug the oppositio
n mob, then film a full-on orgy with their rivals’ partners, which they later play back on the big stadium screens at the next meeting between the two teams. This is one you have to take your time with though, and Terry is pleased to see from the trailer that his love handles look tight.
He decides it might not be good to let Ronnie know he’s been browsing on his computer, so goes into the history to clear it. After completing this procedure, he realises that the window on Ronnie’s email account is still open. He reads a few; they are fairly dull and innocuous, though one, obviously from an ex-wife’s lawyer, seems a little ominous. The one that gets Terry, however, is from this morning:
Dear Mr Checker
I confirm that your recent offer of $100,000, for the remaining bottle of Bowcullen Trinity in our possession, is of interest to us. However, I feel duty-bound to inform you that we have had interest from another party, based in Europe.
With that in mind, might I suggest that you come and visit us at the Bowcullen Distillery, where you can enjoy lunch and our famous Highland hospitality, and you can examine this rare and highly prized collector’s item?
Yours sincerely
Eric Leadbitter-Cullen
President, Bowcullen Distillery
— A hundred grand for a fuckin boatil ay whisky . . .? Terry gasps out loud, shutting the laptop, as Ronnie emerges, distracted in animated conversation with a portly man who is dressed in tweeds.
Terry gets out and walks towards them, as the man shakes hands with Ronnie and departs back into the chambers. — Awright, mate?
— Hell yeah, Terry, Ronnie grins. — Our next little trip is gonna be up to the Highlands. Do you know the Bowcullen Distillery in Inverness-shire?
— Naw, but ah soon will, mate, Terry smiles, thinking about how any bottle of whisky could be worth a hundred thousand dollars, even if it was American toytown money.
18
THE LESSONS OF BAWBAG
IT’S AW CAULD n draughty when ah rise fae the couch. An awfay lumpy sleep, awfay lumpy, aye, it is that. But ah cannae go intae the bedroom, cause ay Jinty no speakin tae ays. Naw sur, ah cannot. So ah shuts the bedroom door withoot looking in. Thaire’s nae sounds, jist an awfay bad smell.
This cauld is like a shirt oan yir back; a cauld white shirt thit ye cannae take oaf but, no ye cannot. Ah mind yin time, as a wee laddie, whin ah fell intae Newhaven Harbour. Ma faither, real faither Henry, went doon the iron ledders n grabbed ays n pilled ays oot or ah wid’ve drooned. Ah couldnae git that freezin cauld shirt oaffay ma back. Muh ma, whae wisnae that fat then, wis undaein the buttons n ah wis screamin at her tae hurry up, aye sur, screamin. It wis that cauld. Jist like now, sur, jist like now. Aye. Ma feet ur awright, no sur, ah’m no bothered aboot ma feet, but ma back n ma hands . . .
Ah turns up the cushions oan the couch n thaire’s a poond coin, a fifty pee a five pence n some coppers! Ah ken whaire ah’m gaun! Aw aye sur, that ah do, that ah do.
So ah goes tae Campbell’s for a heat. Better thin yon Pub Wi Nae Name anyway! Ye git a rerr heat in thaire, sur, aye ye do, a rerr heat. Thaire’s a paper opened, a posh Scotsman, n it’s aw aboot yon Bawbag. Aye.
It’s fair to say that life, post-Bawbag, will never be the same. The lessons of Bawbag were that Scots, once again, realised that they were back at the centre of the world, which would look to us to provide the appropriate behavioural response to this sort of natural calamity, though within the context of a strong, free Britain, and with a powerful military presence to assist our American allies in their selfless quest in maintaining peace throughout the globe.
Thir no wrong n aw sur, they are not wrong. Life is nivir gaunny be the same again. Mair thin the cocaine n the Barksie twin, n them acroass the road in that Pub Wi Nae Name even, it wis Bawbag thit did aw this!
Aw God. Aw God.
Ah sees Maurice, Jinty’s faither, come in, n ah turns away as eh sortay perches at the bar. Eh’s wearin a smert yellay fleece. It makes um look like a giant canary thit’s come intae the pub, n the bar bein ehs perch. But eh’s seen ays. Aw God, eh’s seen ays, eh hus that.
— Jonty!
So thaire’s nowt ah kin dae but leave ma posh paper n head ower wi ma pint. — Mo. Nice fleece ye goat there, Maurice, sort ay canary-yellay, aye sur. Looks awfay comfy, sur, sure it does, Maurice. Canary-yellay fleece. Aye. Canary-yellay.
Maurice rubs ehs sleeve ay ehs fleece between ehs thumb n forefinger. — Ye dinnae see many like these, Jonty.
— Yir no gaunny git knocked doon oan the dark mornins wearin that, the barman goes.
Maurice looks like eh’s gaunny take it the wrong wey, ken, pittin oan that face, then eh smiles n goes, — Naw, that’s no gaunny happen right enough! Eh turns tae me. — Ay, Jonty! Ah’m no gaunny git knocked doon croassin the road wearin this!
Ah jist laughs at that yin. — Nae yir no, ye urnae, naw sur, naw sur, naw sur, yi’ll no git knocked doon wearin that yin! Naw yi’ll no, Maurice, that’s for sure, aye sur, it is.
Then this boy standin at the other corner ay the bar, eh looks a wee bit drunk n goes, — No unless it’s a summary execution for crimes against fashion.
Maurice’s grippin the bar, ehs knuckles aw white. — Always jealous ignorant people, ye notice that, Jonty? Ye notice that?
The boy’s jist smilin, like eh’s no bothered at aw.
— Aye, bit dinnae rise tae the bait but, Maurice, dinnae rise tae the bait, nae sur, naw sur. Nup. The bait.
Thank the guid Lord that the boy’s turned away tae ehs mate, n Maurice lits it go. — Ah’m no wantin back in the chokie, Jonty, no at ma age, n ehs face, cheery a minute ago, goes aw miserable. — Ah’m no a young man any mair, Jonty. Ah couldnae dae mair jail time now, n eh looks back ower at the boy, talkin tae his mate, a younger sort ay felly, — no for jealous bastirts like yon!
— Jealousy, Maurice.
— Aye n they aw sit in that toilet n dae thair funny snuff, n eh makes a sniff up ehs nose, n ah sortay cringe, thinkin aboot Jinty, — but Scotland’s smokers urnae extended the same rights! Naw, we huv tae go ootside in the rain, while drug addicts, jealous drug addicts, are free tae brek the law any time they like in the toilets!
— Aye sur, aye sur, jealousy is what it is, ah goes, — cause it’s a fine-lookin toap, Maurice. Warm n aw, ah’m bettin!
— Ye widnae believe it, Jonty! Maurice sais, now aw cheered up again. — Ah wis oot last night whin that hurricane, that fuckin Bawbag or whatever they call the cunt, it wis fair blazin doon Gorgie Road, n ah nivir felt a thing! Nowt!
— Aye? Ah’ll bet ye didnae! That’s a barry fleece, right enough! That wid stand up tae Bawbag n pit um in ehs place! Ah bet ye it wid!
— Yir no wrong, Jonty, Maurice laughs, then eh sais, — The only thing wi it, eh goes, dippin ehs cuff in his pint ay Tennent’s n rubbin at a mark oan the sleeve, — is that it picks up stains awfay easy. This wis some broon sauce thit came ootay ma bacon roll ower in the cafe. Ma ain fault, eh shrugs, — ah pit too much oan.
— Too much.
— Aye, too much, Jonty, easy done, eh goes, eyes aw sad again.
— Easy done though, Maurice, cause ye cannae beat broon sauce oan a bacon roll, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, broon sauce, sur, bacon roll, sur.
— Aye, you’ve goat ma wee Jinty fir aw that. Wee Jinty ey made a good bacon roll, ah’ll say that fir her. The square sausage n aw! The English huvnae goat that! Naw thuv no!
— The English dinnae huv that?
— Dae they fuck! Ah’ve worked aw ower England, Jonty – Cambridge, Doncaster, Luton – n ah’ve hud fill English breakfasts everywhaire. Nane ay thum ken aboot the square sausage. Git fuckin genned up, ah’d say tae they landladies servin the brekkies at they B&Bs, the square fuckin sausage! Made fir rolls!
— Ah sur, they ur that!
— Ma Jinty; one bacon roll, one egg roll, n yin oan the square sausage, eh, Jonty! Her ma taught her that!
— Aye sur, ah’ll bet she did!
Maurice takes a gulp ay lager
. — How’s she daein? Jinty? She’s no been roond lately. Come intae some money, ah bet!
Aw naw, it pits a pain in ma hert whin eh asks yon. — Naw sur, jist daein away quietly, aye sur, daein away quietly, ah tells um, but ah didnae want tae hear Maurice tell tales ay his deid wife, Jinty’s ma.
— Jist like hur ma, that yin, Maurice sais, aw glassy-eyed like eh’s aboot tae greet.
— Aye sur, aye, she wid be . . .
— Jist like hur ma, n no like hur ma, if ye catch ma drift.
— Aye sur . . . aye . . . aye . . . aye.
— Her ma wis a great wummin. Never a day goes by whin ah dinnae think ay her.
Aye, the memories make ye sad, but ah’ve goat ma ain yins tae make ays sad, so ah drink up n leave, sure ah do, sur. Tell Mo ah huv tae go. Nice canary-yellay fleece though.
19
SEX ADDICTS’ MEETING
IT’S A SCABBY wee fuckin room wi a faint smell ay seek; they must’ve hud a weddin in here the other night. Chairs arranged in a semicircle wi one cunt at the front, whae introduces ehsel as Glen. Thaire’s aboot twenty people here, n roond aboot fifteen are guys. That’s nae fuckin use tae me! N bein the new sheriff in toon, aw eyes ur oan me, especially this Glen cunt. A podgy-faced fucker wi a blond fringe, n they earnest eyes like some Americans uv goat; yins thit sort ay implore. So ah stands up, soas the burds can sketch the outline ay Auld Faithful (eywis oan permanent semi-alert through the tight nylon tracky bottums ah’m wearin), n jist spits it oot, wi a big ah’ve-jist-fell-intae-a-barrel-ay-fannies grin acroass ma coupon. — My name is Terry, n ah’m a sex addict.
They start giein ays aw they sincere welcomes: ‘Hi, Terry. Hello, Terry’ . . . aw that shite. Ah kin tell one wee burd’s clocked whit’s fir muncho-luncho but! Wee dark-heided thing wi thin, tight lips n a shagger’s glint in her eye. She crosses they nylon pins tae gie that pussy a cheeky wee squash. Jist tae wake it up, soas it kens thit jumbo-sized hot dogs ur oan the menu fir later! Fuck me, ah kin feel Auld Faithful shuffling forward an inch. She’ll dae!