A Decent Ride

  Lars is pretty excited. — What was happening? Was there a fight? Jens could –

  — Terry fixed everything, and fixed it good, I tell them.

  — Where is the whisky? Lars asks.

  — It’s here. Milroy looks at Mortimer, who picks up the duffel bag and opens it.

  I can instantly tell by Mortimer’s face that something is horrendously, fatally wrong. It’s like a wrenching hand, inside my fucking guts. I’m looking to the skies, sucking in air, trying to get some divine inspiration.

  Please God . . .

  — It’s gone! Mortimer squeals. — It can’t have, it’s been by my side all the time . . .

  PLEASE LORD GOD ALMIGHTY, INFINITE MASTER OF ALL, DO NOT LET THIS BE HAPPENING TO ME!!

  — Did you . . .? I look to the clubhouse . . .

  Please God . . .

  There’s no sign of those assholes . . .

  — When ah whacked that guy, or before, did youse see one ay them lift that bottle oot that bag? Terry asks, looking urgently at me, then Mortimer.

  — I don’t – I don’t think so. Mortimer’s squealing like some leather-clad faggot cruising New York City’s Meatpacking District!

  — I . . . I dunno . . . I can’t goddamn think straight, I’m telling him, — I had my face covered when he hit me, I didn’t –

  — What is this?! Lars booms out.

  — I’m sure they had a bag . . . it was similar . . . they might have picked up the wrong one. Mortimer’s throat bobs.

  — Listen, Terry shouts, looking at me, — I dinnae agree wi gettin the polis involved in anything, ever. But I’m kind ay thinkin now might be the time tae eat humble pie . . .

  — I’ll call them! Milroy the broker screeches.

  — You have . . . you lost our whisky! Lars gasps right in my face.

  But I’m looking at Mortimer. — You bastard . . . you inadequate, incompetent asshole! You and me, we are fucking finished! You are so yesterday’s news! Consider your ass fired!

  Mortimer looks at Milroy, then me. — But I didn’t . . . I couldn’t . . . what about the East Lothian deal?

  — FUCK THAT BULLSHIT!!! THOSE ASSHOLES HAVE MY WHISKY! DON’T YOU GET IT!? I DO NOT GIVE A FUCK ABOUT ANY LAND OR DEVELOPMENT DEALS! I DO NOT CARE ABOUT ANYTHING OTHER THAN MY SKATCH!!! FIRED! FIRED! FIRED! GET OUT OFF MY SIGHT!

  Mortimer takes a few paces back, blinking and swallowing, but he doesn’t go. Lars steps right in front of me. — It is our whisky, and if it is gone you have to put up your own bottle, he moans, — because half of that is now mine!

  — If you’ve . . . I spit out, looking him in the eye.

  He gives me a gunfighter stare back. — I have done nothing! This is your folly, or your games!

  — There are no games, I shout back at him, as I see Mortimer tremble, and Milroy is on the line to the cops, frantically giving them the details of the robbery.

  — Look, the polis’ll pill them up, Terry says. — Somebody might huv a description ay the car. Let’s go up tae the bar and wait to see what they say.

  Good thinking. I turn to Mortimer. — MORTIMER! FIND THAT GODDAMN SKATCH!

  — But . . . but you said I was fired –

  — You will be, I scowl at him, — but when you are I will be cold, concise and cruel; forensically cruel as in an exit interview. I shall gut you, splaying your myriad failings and flaws all over the room for you to examine as you simultaneously try to reorder the debris of your life. It’ll look like a psychic crime scene! But until I’ve composed myself enough to do this, you are still on the payroll, I explain. — Now find my Skatch!

  — Ron, I’ve a meeting back in town, with the Haddington developers.

  — CANCEL IT! DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT MOVING ON ANYTHING TILL I GET MY SCATCH BACK!

  I go to the restroom and kneel on the floor and pray for the safe return of my bottle of Bowcullen Trinity and the apprehension of all the twisted, deceitful and incompetent vermin who have contributed to the loss of the second bottle of this beautiful creation.

  Dear Lord, am I to infer that you do not consider me a worthy custodian of the Bowcullen Trinity? Have I been too selfish and vain? This was a personal thing, Holy Father. I wasn’t asking you to help me provide service jobs for local workers, or opportunities for investors from the business community. This one, just this one tiny little thing, was for Ron. Was I asking too much of you? Give me a sign, oh Father.

  When I return, there’s a cop present. He tells us that the assholes have been apprehended, but that there’s no sign of the whisky. — They do not have it their possession. They claim to know nothing about it.

  — So what in hell’s name are you guys doing about it?

  — Rest assured, we are looking for it.

  Rest assured. I am not fucking resting assured. It takes all the patience and strength the Lord blessed me with to keep my mouth shut. We get to the cab, Terry, Milroy the broker and myself. I’m loath to let Mortimer out my sight, but I don’t want that contemptible creature riding with us.

  We are heading back to the city, in a tense silence, which Terry breaks. — Listen, mate, he says, lookin at myself and Milroy in his mirror, — ah dinnae want tae be pointin fingers, it’s no ma style, but that Mortimer cunt, what dae ye ken aboot him?

  — Everything! He’s a senior employee in the company! I know a damned sight more about him than I do about you, I shout at him, — other than that you’re a goddamn drug dealer and a pornographer!

  — That’s ma point but. Terry stays calm. — Wi me, it’s aw oot thaire, what ye see is what ye git. That Mortimer cunt but; he’s the iceberg, maist ay it driftin away beneath the surface. He raises a hand, miming the action. — Wis he wi ye at yon Harvard Business School?

  — No, he’s a Yale man, but so what?

  — Big rivals, they two, or so ah hear, Terry says, both hands back on the wheel.

  — Yes, but – I try to explain as Milroy gasps ‘this isn’t good’ softly to himself.

  — You’re fae the south, right? Ah’m bettin he’s fae the north, aye?

  — Yeah . . .

  — So we’ve goat auld-school rivalry, the north–south divide; ah bet he’s fae auld money n aw.

  Lord, I can just see Mortimer’s bland face, his ludicrous, buttoned-down shirts; smell that sickening aftershave, all covering up the stench of treachery! — That obsequious asshole! I never thought that he could stoop so low . . .

  — Sounds tae me like he’s the boy, Terry shrugs. — He’s goat access tae yir private email account, aye? Ah’d change that, mate, jist tae be oan the safe side, likes.

  — I can’t believe that he . . .

  — It hus tae be said, the cunt’s nose hus been pit oot ay joint by the arrival ay Juice Terry oan the scene!

  And Terry is right on the goddamn money! — You know, he is obsessed with you! He’s made all sorts of hints at your untrustworthiness!

  — Hus eh now? Convenient, Terry quickly rubbernecks. — Seems tae me that he’s a breadhead that just husnae goat your vision, Ronnie. Aw obsessed wi his cut oan this Haddington deal. He’ll be on big bucks, ah’m bettin.

  — It’s a good commission, and there’s a finder’s fee, cause he set this motherfucker up, through contacts he’d made when we were over here for the Nairn project . . .

  — He doesnae like this whisky lark, mate. Terry looks at me in the mirror, whipping that mop of hair back. — He thinks it takes your eye oaf the ball. So ah widnae be surprised if eh’s trying tae scupper yir big whisky deal oot ay personal gain and, of course, pure spite.

  Terry may be a goddamn lowlife in many ways, but he sure has a good insight into the human condition. My phone rings again, and it’s Lars. He tells me that his broker is going to phone Milroy to engage a recovery agency to find the whisky. I’m happy about that; those useless cops won’t give a goddamn crap.

  Mortimer.

  If his hands are tainted with this treachery, I will smite that Judas asshole, so help me God.


  31

  GOING MCNUGGETS

  ‘PENICUIK IS AWFAY great, ah’ve goat muh ma, ah’ve goat ma mates.’ That wis a poem ah once wrote, back at the skill. It’s sort ay no true but, cause ah dinnae really huv that many mates in the Cuik, cause they ey took the pish. Aye sure, that they did. N Gorgie’s gittin the same. Even worse thin Penicuik, if the truth be telt. Thaire’s no a place as bad as that Pub Wi Nae Name in Penicuik. No sur, there is not!

  Cause at least here ah’ve goat muh ma n muh sister. Whereas in Gorgie thaire’s jist Hank, but he’s goat ehs ain faimlay now. Ah ken eh’s no goat any bairns, but ye huv tae count Morag. Aye sur, ain faimlay, that’s what ah sais tae Hank, ah sais, ‘Yuv goat yir ain faimlay now.’ Aye, ah’ve goat Karen n muh ma, even if thir baith gittin awfay fat.

  So ah’m back at the auld hoose, in the front room, n Karen’s sittin back in thon chair wi her cookies. She’s pit two sausage rolls in the microwave, aye she hus that. Thaire’s a smell in the hoose, the yin that ah like tae call the smell ay washin n soup. — Well, ah think she’s jist away n left ye for good, Jonty. Ye kent it wis gaunny happen sooner or later, wi a lassie like Jinty. Flighty. It wis ey bound tae happen.

  — Bound tae, ah goes.

  — Flighty, that’s Jinty. Ye deserve better, pal.

  Ah keep hur phone oan ays still. It goes oaf sometimes but ye kin see the names come up, like ANGIE n that, n ah ignores it. But this time it’s ma phone that’s gaun in ma poakit, no Jinty’s. It’s Raymond Gittings; ah kent it wis him cause ehs name came up. Aye, it’s barry how thair names come up now so ye ken whae it is, aye sur, ye dae that. Ah jist ignore thum aw oan Jinty’s phone; Maggie, April, Fiona B, Fiona C, Angie, ah jist lit thum aw run tae voicemail n leave thair message. Then ah play back the messages hudin the phone tae Jinty’s cauld ear, soas the guid Lord in the sky’ll ken thit ah’m no listenin intae hur business.

  But this time it’s ma phone thit’s ringin n it’s Raymond. — Raymond, ah kent it wis you, wi the caller ID, that ah did. Saw yir name n ah goes: that’ll be Raymond.

  — Aye, Jonty, yon caller ID it’s a barry thing right enough!

  — Is it no though, Raymond! Caller ID!

  — Listen, ah’ve goat a wee joab for ye. Couple ay housin association flats doon the Inch. Smoke damage, Jonty. Ah’m doon thaire right now, ma wee pal. Goat ledders, spare overalls, the lot. Ah really need a hand but, Jonty. Ah ken ye go by Shanks pony n Lothian Regional Transport, but when kin ye git yirsel doon here?

  — Ah kin be thaire in an ooir, sur! Ah sur, an ooir!

  — Kent ah could rely oan ye, Jonty boy! See ye in an ooir, 61 Inchview Gairdins.

  — Ye see, ah’m no in Gorgie but, eh no, ah’m at muh ma’s in Penicuik. Aye sur, that ah ah’m. One bus, just the one bus.

  — An ooir then, Jonty boy, Raymond goes, n eh pits the phone doon.

  Ah shouldnae go oan like, bit ah git aw stressed in the chist whin ah talk sometimes, aye sur, stressed in the chist, like the spiders ur crawlin around in thaire. Aye. Ah ken ah’m paintin The Pub Wi Nae Name, but ah huv tae be loyal tae Raymond, even if it means workin in The Pub Wi Nae Name at nights. — So ah huv tae go now, ah tell Karen, aye, aye.

  So Karen’s no happy, cause she’s been through tae the kitchen n brought the sausage rolls n goat they chocolate-chip cookies oan a plate, the yins that are aw American. It’s makin her aw fat, eatin American stuff. — Yuv jist goat here!

  — Work bit, aye, work, ye cannae turn it doon, Karen, no whin it’s jist the yin bus, aye sur, cause the Inch is usually two buses, aye sur, two buses. One intae the Bridges fae Gorgie, n the other aw the wey oot tae the Inch. Same road as Penicuik, sur, but no as far oot as the Cuik; naw sur, naw sur, naw sur.

  — Ah ken that, Jonty. Ah ken the Inch is jist the one bus away, she sais. One ay hur teeth is aw deid, like nearly black. Ah dinnae ken if they kin sort it. But that’s no as bad as eatin American food. It’s awright for Americans; they kin git aw fat cause they live in big hooses n sit in big cars, like oan the telly oan Fullum Station Fower. Aye sur, ye see thum aw oan thaire.

  Then ah’m thinkin thit ah’ve jist enough for ma fare so ah gits up. — Ah’m away!

  — No steyin fir yir sausage roll? Karen’s mooth sortay hings open, but her eyes are kinday half shut.

  — Nup. Huv tae nash. Aye sur.

  Karen isnae happy cause she’s walked intae toon earlier, tae git they sausage rolls, n by toon ah mean Penicuik, no Edinburgh, cause that’s way too far for Karen tae walk. But see if Karen did that, it wid git some fat oaffay her. Wid it no though! — But ah goat this aw special, fae Greggs!

  — Naw, huv tae nash, n ah’m headin oot.

  — But it’ll go tae waste!

  — Naw it willnae, no in this hoose, you ken that. Eat thum baith . . . Ah opens the door.

  — How kin ah eat thum baith?! she screams, but ye ken she will, aye sur, ye ken she will.

  — Gie it tae Ma, well!

  — She’s goat two already, Karen squeals.

  But ah gits ootside n nashes tae the bus stoap. Nae time tae waste! Barry, cause this is a bus comin, jist in time, headin fir toon. Aye sur, right intae toon, but it passes the Inch n that’s where ah’m gittin oaf. So ah gits intae the flat n Raymond Gittings is thaire. — Hi, Raymond, hiya, pal!

  — Jonty, ma wee mate! Mr Reliable! Kent ah could count on you, Raymond goes n takes me aroond.

  But ma hert’s gaun awfay bad cause Raymond just said what wee Jinty eywis said. That ah wis mair reliable than other laddies, that ah nivir did wrong, that she could ey count oan me.

  N look at how that ended up. Jinty aw cauld, n ah cannae say the word, especially no that word thit means yir no comin back, that ‘D’ word, cause ah keep waitin fir wee Jinty tae wake up but ah ken, ken in this bad hert, that she’s no really gaunny wake up, n now that smell, that awfay, awfay smell. Aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur.

  N Raymond is sayin that as soon as we git they flats done n painted, they kin git money fir the rent fae them, so we really huv tae go. It’s gaunny make it difficult wi The Pub Wi Nae Name but at least in the night ye kin avoid aw they mooths ay spite. Aye sur, ah cannae be daein wi mooths ay spite. Naw, ah cannot.

  N ah starts, n ah’m pittin oan the paint in smooth, even strokes, n ah’m thinkin thit if ah could git a nice colour ay paint ah wid paint Jinty a different colour tae that blue. Cause thaire wis a lassie in a James Bond fullum once thit goat painted gold, n that’s what Jinty deserves: tae be painted gold, cause maist ay the time, when she didnae go doon that Pub Wi Nae Name, or take that bad stuff in her nose, she wis as good as gold.

  N before ah ken it, Raymond Gittings is below me, cause ah’m quite high up oan this ledder, n eh’s gaun, — Wow . . . that’s incredible, Jonty. Ah cannae believe yuv done aw that. Amazin. There’s gonny be an extra fiver fir ye! Ye awright up thaire, Jonty? Hi! Yir no greetin ur ye?

  Ah climbs doon. — Naw sur, it’s just the fumes, ah goes but ah am sortay greetin, cause ah do greet in secret when somebody’s that nice tae me like Raymond eywis is. So ah cleans up n gits the buses, two buses, right ower tae Gorgie.

  Ah steys oan past ma hoose, past The Pub Wi Nae Name, past even the McDonald’s. Ah go tae the garage n gits the gold paint. It only comes in they spray cans but. The boy asks me what ah want it fir, n ah goes it’s tae paint a full-sized statue. The boy sais that ah’ll need half a dozen n that it’s no the best ay bargains, but ah’d huv tae go tae a trader or order gold paint. Ah goes, naw ah need it now but. It takes maist ay ma wages but it’s worth it.

  The good thing is that ah’ve still goat enough for a McNuggets fir ma tea. Ah nivir goat a lunch brek wi aw thon paintin, so ah gits it now. Ah counts the McNuggets, n thaire’s fourteen. Ah’m sittin thaire when ah looks up n sees ma cousin Malky standin in front ay ays. — Hello, Jonty! Was walking by and I looked in the window and saw you sitting there, n eh looks roond aw uncomfortable.

  — Hiya, Malky! Ye gaunny git something for yir tea?

/>   — Eh . . . no, I’m meeting a friend from the taxi trade for a quick pint over in the BMC club. Of course, it can get a wee bit coorse ower in that neck ay the woods, Jonty, so we won’t be staying for long. No, we’re heading for the Magnum, in the New Town. They serve a nice breaded chicken dish, eh looks at ma McNuggets, — proper chicken, and I expect tae find a decent haddock fillet on offer!

  — Haddock fullet . . .

  — We’re going to be joined by Derek Anstruther, he touches his nose, — a friend, who is, shall we say, privy to certain information about the goings-on over the road, n eh nods ootside.

  — In the BMC?

  — No! The stadium, Tynecastle!

  — Ryan Stevenson’s goat barry tattoos oan his neck.

  — Aw aye, they’re certainly colourful, ah’ll gie ye that!

  — Naw but it’s really sair tae git them done thaire so it shows that Ryan Stevenson must be tough. So if ah wis pickin a midfield player, ah’d pick Ryan Stevenson cause it means he’d be tough!

  — Sound logic, Jonty! What’s that in yir bag? Eh picks up one ay the tins ay spray can. — Ah hope you’re no one of these graffiti artists we hear aw aboot, Jonty! Jonts in the hood!

  — Naw sur, naw sur, naw ah’m not, n we fair huv a laugh at that yin, me n Malky, aye we do, n eh asks eftir muh ma n Karen n Hank, n then eh goes away tae the BMC. Aye, but we fair hud a laugh!

  But by the time ah finish ma tea n get doon the road n inside the flat, it feels aw cauld n lonely. Cause the laugh’s aw worn oaf. That’s what happens, ye git a laugh, then the laugh wears oaf n it’s no funny any mair. Cause it’s cauld.

  Jinty.

  Sorry, Jinty, sorry, darlin, but ah huv tae git ye oot ay the hoose now. Ah’m no wantin the jile, Jinty, cause ay the smell, aw naw sur, naw sur, naw sur, no the jile. Naw, naw, naw, no eftir what happened tae yir ain faither, Maurice, how funny he went.

  Ah’ve goat some mince in the fridge fae Morrisons, Jinty, aye sur, some mince sur. The morn ah’ll take oaf the grease n make it wi some peas n mash up some tatties. Hame-cooked meal! Ye cannae eat oot in McDonald’s restaurants aw the time, Jinty, cause yir no wantin people tae think yir aw snobby jist cause yuv goat a joab. N it’s barry tae eat real tatties sometimes. That wis one thing ah ey liked aboot ye Jinty: a loat ay lassies ur awfay lazy in the kitchen but you ey peeled a tattie. Aye, ye wirnae feart tae peel a tattie. If they said tae ays, ‘Is your Jinty a guid cook?’ Ah’d go, ‘Aye, she’s no feart tae peel a tattie, naw sur, she is not.’