— Ye did that, Jonty, ye did that! Hank goes.
— The Jont’s called it right! Malky slaps ma back.
Donald the lawyer boy bends forward in between me n Malky. — Malcolm, your cousin Jonty appears to be a modern-day Nostradamus!
N ah keep ma mooth shut cause that wis the boy in the village wi the humpy back, n cause eh wis a bit slow the villagers hounded the boy, like they did wi me in that Pub Wi Nae Name, aye sur, they did. N that posh lawyer wi his education, he sees aw that, cause eh’s used tae investigatin guilt, n ah dinnae want tae think aboot The Pub Wi Nae Name again, naw sur, naw ah do maist certainly not. Nup.
So ah keep quiet for the rest ay the game. That ah do, sur. Aye. Aye. Aye.
26
THE HEART OF THE MATTER
HUD A PRETTY bad night eftir ah got back fae the hozzy, couldnae kip right n felt totally fuckin Zorba. The hert wis thrashin away, n ah wis thinkin thit ah must’ve goat an awfay dodgy batch ay ching, like either the worst or the fuckin best. Aw they tests they done: fuckin blood, pish, shite, X-rays – the cunts took the fuckin loat.
Now ah’m gittin aw stressed aboot the results.
So the next day ah’m roond tae the fuckin hozzy tae find oot the Hampden Roar. Ah’m waitin for a fair bit, distractin masel by checkin oot this lassie working oan the reception. An aulder burd (well, probably a good bit younger than me if the truth be telt, but ah’ve ey been a timeless sort ay cunt) goes n gies ays a wee smile. She’s got that shagger’s glint in the eye, n a tight set tae the mooth, which spells: G-A-M-E. Ah’m checkin fir a wedding ring, no that that rules anything oot. Jist useful tae dae a bit ay profilin, like fuckin CSI: Saughton Mains, or mair like FSI – Fanny Scene Investigation: Saughton Mains!
Ah’m aboot tae make a move when a boy pokes ehs heid oot an office. It’s the same cunt that wis aboot last night, when ah barely kent whaire ah wis; him that gied ays aw the tests. Practically aw ah mind is the boy ramming ehs finger up ma erse tae check the prostate gland, n ma eyes waterin cause ay the Dukes ay Hazzard. Ah sais tae the cunt, ‘You eywis like this oan a first date? What aboot the music n soft lights first, ay?’
Cunt didnae like it; hud the serious face oan, jist like eh hus now. — Mr Lawson? Please come in.
Well, ah think yuv goat tae huv a laugh at work. But right away ah dinnae like the coupon oan this cunt. No one bit.
— Please, take a seat.
— What’s the story then, Doc? Or should ah say, ‘Who’s the story then, Doc?’ That’s an auld yin, ay. Ah hud tae go back in time tae git it! Back in time? Tardis? Naw?
The cunt jist shakes ehs heid. Ah’m no happy here.
— I’m sorry, Mr Lawson. I have to inform you that the initial results of our tests yesterday detected an irregular heartbeat. It’s quite a common thing.
— What? What is?
Cunt seems no tae hear ays. Eh hands ays this prescription fae two sets ay pills. — So it’s important that you take these medicines and refrain from everything that could cause stress. No alcohol, and particularly no sexual activity.
WHAT?
Ah cannae believe what ah’m fuckin hearin here. — But . . . it’s the spi—
— I stress that any form of sexual arousal could be fatal, eh goes.
— EH? YIR FUCKIN JOKIN!
— I’m afraid not, Mr Lawson. In any case, those anticoagulants will thin your blood, making erection very difficult to achieve. And, to be doubly sure, the second set contains a compound that suppresses the libido.
— What the fuck –
— I know this is a shock, but you have a very serious heart condition. You must start taking these medicines immediately, and we’ll monitor what effect they’ve had when you come back in a week’s time. I stress that they are essential, and they will help to prevent heart attacks, but they will not reverse the damage you’ve already sustained to your heart.
— What damage?
— You’ve had a minor heart attack, Mr Lawson. Unfortunately, it’s not unusual for an attack of this kind to be followed up by a more severe one. The cunt’s lookin ower they specs at ays like a fuckin gunfighter. — And by that I mean a potentially fatal one. So get on this medication immediately and give it a chance to work.
JESUS FUCK.
Ah goes tae speak but ah cannae. Thaire’s nowt tae be said.
— In the meantime, we need to do more detailed tests. So if you take this form, n eh hands ays a sheet, — and go to Radiology at the end of the corridor, they’ll set the wheels in motion.
So ah jist walks ootside in a daze, n goes through aw they fuckin tests, n some ay them seem tae be the same yins ah awready did n aw.
Eftir it ah’m shattered, n ah gits back intae the cab n sits doon, n looks at they fuckin pills in the two different boatils. Ah cannae believe how yir life kin jist change like that, n mine’s fuckin ower.
The phone goes. It’s Suicide Sal. Ah switches it oaf.
27
IN GOD WE TRUST – PART 2
GOLF. THE GREATEST personal freedom a man can enjoy is going around the golf course with a friend or business associate. Of course, I have to beat this asshole Lars, and he’s pretty good. I invited Terry to caddy for me, but he’s opted to sit in the car and be goddamn miserable, which sure ain’t like him. I guess that sweet lil’ Ms Occupy must be bustin his nuts.
I realise I gotta get into training for the whisky play-off against that Swede asshole, so I’ve hired a specialist, the pro at the local club. This Iain Renwick guy is a non-event, who once led the British Open on day two before crumbling and barely scraping into the top ten. But that makes him a hero for ever here. Those people and their celebration of mediocrity, hell, it’s almost quaint, and they seem happy enough. That’s why we gotta help them all, we gotta make them striving and, yes, unhappy, because that’s the only way they’ll achieve. We are here to help them.
We are to here to help them, oh Lord.
Myself and this out-of-shape Renwick guy, fifty pounds overweight, ruddy face, sweating, are both three over par, struggling in the sudden gusts of wind that burst from over the North Sea. They make a game of golf into a frustrating fucking lottery. The prick of a coach is saying that my posture is too tense and that I need to ‘open up my shoulders’ on my swing. I feel like telling the cocksucker that he’d be stiff too, if he was playing for the stakes I am!
I’m relieved when a call comes in on my phone and it’s the motherfucking Viking. — Lars.
— Ronald . . . so all is good with regard to the whisky? You have it, yes?
— The sale has been concluded.
— Obviously, you understand that I would like to see it.
— You are goddamn suspicious. But I guess I would be too. My guy Mortimer is picking it up and plans to take it to a safe-deposit box at the Royal Bank of Skatlin.
— My people must first examine it to establish that it is the genuine article and not a forgery. We both want to enjoy the best, Mr Checker, this we have in common.
— Sure. So it’s no problem for you to see the whisky. I’ll give Mortimer a call – it should be with us very shortly.
There’s a cold laugh down the line. — Good. And you and I both know that there is a third bottle, which has been purchased by a private collector, and it is here in Scotland.
— The blue blood . . . I heard he was in the Carribbean, I say, too quickly. I’m watching Renwick tee off at the fifth. The fat, red-faced asshole looks uncomfortable in the wind, like it’s shoving the air back into his crappy lungs.
Lars smirks at me down the phone. — Do not insult us both, Ronald. I know you know where he is and that your people have been in touch with him. As have mine. I have a broker who is –
— Okay . . . what are you suggesting?
— The same arrangement. We pool our resources and approach this buyer, then make a joint purchase and play another game for the third bottle.
This Norwegian may be a goddamn cocksucker, but he sure likes a sporting
wager. — Hell, yeah, we will! We’re gonna have ourselves a little series here! I’ll call you when the second bottle is in my hands!
I ring off, catching a sly glance from Renwick, as I get Mortimer on the phone. He’s still dragging his feet and going on about the land deal for the goddamn hotel and the apartments. I tell him straight: fuck the hotel deal, this takes precedence. The two-bit deal is only a cover for my acquisition of that sweet, sweet Bowcullen Trinity. The holiest Trinity outside of Father, Son and Holy Ghost!
I catch another glance at that Renwick douchebag; sonofabee has that slimy grin on his smug-but-dumb-ass peasant face, like he knows something you don’t. Well, ain’t about fucking golf, that’s for sure!
We’re tied on 74 going into the last hole, a five par and the longest on the course at 490 yards, and I pray for a victory against the wheezing Skatch charlatan.
If you are busy, oh Lord, please ignore me for seeking counsel on what seems such a manifestly frivolous matter. I only raise this safe in the knowledge that your energy and vision is boundless. As I said in Leadership 2: The Business Paradigm, ‘Strive for the eye of God in the pursuit of business, to see and to know all. Obviously you will never get to that point of perfection, but He loves the aspirational.’ (This was not an insinuation that you are susceptible to flattery; hell, that sickly offspring of vanity is a Mortal sin.) But please give me the power and eye to take out both this alcoholic Scot and the non-believing, cold-hearted socialist-materialist Scandinavian. For you are the power, the kingdom and glory, for ever, Amen.
And in this dark land, with its dull, bruised skies, He answers my prayer! A gargantuan drive down the fairway, a slick, hard pitch on to the green off the six iron, and a short putt against a brutish wind into the hole! A shit-kicking eagle on the last! That goddamn cocksucker Renwick comes in at one over! I feel a tumult of divine glory rise in my breast, till it dawns on me: I’m paying this incompetent asshole to teach me golf.
— Aye . . . good game, the treacherous creature in the Pringle sweater reluctantly wheezes, as I turn to find Terry.
I see him, bunched against the clubhouse with his hands in his pockets, his brow furrowed and his eyes vapid and empty. He doesn’t even react when this woman in the parking lot is bending into the back seat of her car to get something, displaying a fine ass to the world. Worse, he bristles all indignantly when Renwick, looking like a sex offender, makes some lascivious comment. That ain’t like Terry! To look at his face you’d think the world was coming to a goddamn end!
28
COLD COMFORTS
JONTY KNOWS THAT it will now be impossible for him to take Jinty down to The Pub With No Name. Or even Campbell’s. No, not with the way she smells. He is moved to lament on the unfairness of it all, because Jinty was usually so clean. She was always showering, and not just in the morning, but also when she got home from work, from those dirty and dusty offices; it was the first thing she did. And the way she washed, that stuff she put on, not soap but this lotion from a tube that had gritty bits in it. Jonty sometimes tried it, but they always scraped him. All those creams and perfumes though, they made Jinty smell so nice and her skin so soft. Not like now: it is cold to the touch, and a fetid odour is rising from her.
And she isn’t waking up; just lying there on that bed. Jonty has tried to take most of the blood off her mouth and chin with the sponge. But she is starting to smell bad. They would be complaining in this stair soon, like people did. He worries about what they might say: That Jonty, eh shouldnae even be in the toon, eh’s jist a simple country lad fae Penicuik, he cannae take care ay himself.
But he still loves her so much, even after the terrible argument. It is so cold and damp, and wee Jinty has drastically changed, he can see that, but when he looks at her he finds that he is as stiff as ever. Yes, he still loves her. But he would have to put something on for them both. There is gel in the bedside cabinet. And then he is looking at her and touching his hardness and greasing it.
The flat is a mess. The bedclothes stink of Jinty; not how she was really, but how she is now. Jonty pulls the duvet aside, and looks at her lying there, all cold and different. He shuffles on to the bed beside her and fixes her fringe so that it falls into her eyes, like it sometimes did.
It’s easy to slide off her jeans, then remove her blouse and silky underpants. He keeps her bra on, not wanting to reach round her cold back to fiddle with the catch, not until he warms her up. — Aw, Jinty, it’s awright, Jinty, dinnae worry, Jinty, you’ll no be alone, ah’m comin, ah’ll be wi ye, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur . . .
As Jonty’s weight falls on her, gas suddenly belches out from Jinty’s mouth. The rank air reeked even more. — Aw, Jinty . . .
Jonty pushes and pokes at her opening with his greasy cock. Why did she do this to them? Why did she go to The Pub With No Name?
— Aw, Jinty . . .
It seems like she is closed to him, but suddenly, a stinging, icy rush grips his dick as he slides into her. It is not an altogether unfamiliar sensation. When Jinty came in and her hands were cold (she always used to say ‘Cold hands, warm heart’) and she grabbed his cock, it was like a game they played: it was like that. She would say ‘Sorry, Jonty, my hands are really cauld’ and he would tell her ‘It doesnae matter cause ma cock’s still hot!’ But she is cold down there. — The wey ye like it but, Jinty, the wey ye like it, but ye huv tae wake up now. Ye huv tae wake up n move, Jonty grunts, as he thrusts. This will wake her up, it was like Sleeping Beauty . . . if somebody could wake up through a kiss, how much more likely were they to do it with a ride? And Sting had done that. Sting had. Yes, he had. Jonty had seen it once in a play on the telly, which he’d only watched cause Sting was in it. Sting had rode a lassie into life.
WAKE UP, JINTY . . .
WAKE UP . . .
He almost stops when a fly pops out of her open mouth. It spins around in the air slowly, then lands on her face, crawling over it, before vanishing from his sight. They were like helicopters, flies, when they got tired. So Jonty grits his teeth and pumps. He will pump her back into life. But nothing is happening. He keeps thrusting. — Ah did it wi Karen, Jinty, ah ken it wisnae right, but ah wis feart, Jinty, ah wis feart ye’d nivir talk tae ays again . . . talk tae ays, well!
For a spell it even looks like Jinty is enjoying it, like she used to. The hair falls back, and her face almost has a twisted smirk. Jonty’s fingers go up and he has to push his mouth hard on her frozen lips to be able to stand her cold, glassy eyes. That’s better. The way he could batter into her and she would always want more. But it isn’t the same, not now that she’s so cold and stiff, her lips all hard and blue, not the soft way she used to be. It is hardly like Jinty at all. But he loves her still and at least he can still make love to his beloved Jinty, not like that Barksie down The Pub With No Name. He wouldn’t look at Jinty now, he would turn his nose up, because people like that know nothing about love, and Jonty will never let his Jinty go because he loves her so.
But it isn’t the same.
And he knows: it isn’t right.
He keeps pushing, but it isn’t right as she’s that cold and it is all sore and tight, but he inches further in but it’s so cold, and her weight shifts under him, and her mouth, it hangs open again and that smell comes up like sulphur from deep inside of her and Jonty thrusts in further to try to bring her back, but that smell from her mouth . . . shut yir mooth . . . shut yir mooth . . .
PART FOUR
POST-BAWBAG RECONSTRUCTION
29
SAUNA SOJOURN
TERRY HAS BEEN thrust into a new universe, a gelid, brutish space, where the hostile incursions of others are laid bare. He drives around Edinburgh’s rain-blackened streets, wilfully distracting himself from everything bar the automated movements of driving the taxi. The road signs, the brake lights of the car in front, the lane changers, he gives them all the novice driver’s grinding attention. He tries not to think of sex, nor of his condition, but those two contradictory to
pics surface intermittently in his fevered mind. He fights their intrusion, driving around town, ignoring instructions from Control, sex texts from Big Liz, and blind to threats of being taken off satellite, as he carries on past the outstretched hands of fares he can normally smell streets away. And when Connor calls him up to do business, he is lukewarm.
Sometimes he forgets when the cab is occupied. Only a glance at her small figure in the rear-view mirror, sitting back in the seat, reminds Terry that he’s dropping Alice off at the hospital again. He sadly laments how women like his mother were always hoodwinked by wasters like Henry. At the Royal Infirmary he waits downstairs in the coffee bar, a call purring in on his mobile. The number is a long one, conjuring up exotic images of foreign women bagged at Edinburgh Festivals past. Despite his medical issues and the pills that he’s started taking, Terry instinctively hits the green. To his chagrin, it’s The Poof. — Vic . . . didnae recognise yir number thaire, mate.
— Aye, ah got a Spanish mobby cause ah might be here a wee while longer. Nae bizzies been hingin aboot the sauna?
— No that ah kin tell, Vic. Terry rises and moves towards the exit doors. — But ah ken that some ay them use the place. Ah’ll ask the lassies . . . subtly, likes.
— Good man, Terry, The Poof says gruffly, then his voice dips. — Ah cannae say this tae Kelvin, cause the lassies tell him nowt. They dinnae like him.