Ah looks ahead, thinking aboot Kelvin’s snidey face concentrated doon intae that wee baw. Looks up the fairway. Looks back n takes a swing at the cunt. The baw fairly fuckin flies: long and straight. It bounces oantae the green, rolls quite near the hole.
Ronnie lets oot a gasp n ehs eyes ur bulgin oot his heid. — Wow! Well done, Terry! I dunno if it’s beginner’s luck, or maybe you’re just a natural!
We walks doon n ah’m close tae the hole, much closer than Ronnie. But ah fucks up wi the putting, n takes four instead ay two. Ronnie makes it in par.
It’s the same fuckin story at the next couple ay holes. Ah’m awright at the drivin but this fuckin putting is a fuckin heid-nip! Then something hits ays like a ton ay bricks n ah suddenly understand it now; how aw life’s frustrations are aboot no gittin yir hole! This is what gowf’s aw aboot, that n overcomin aw the obstacles oan yir wey! At the end ay the game ah sais this tae Ronnie, n eh goes, — You were very good, Terry, you’ve got the swing of a natural and that is the most important asset a golfer can have. You just have to concentrate more when you’re putting.
We go tae the clubhouse for a drink. Then Lars comes in wi Jens, n the broker guy. Lars is aw frosty-faced and says, — They want one hundred and eighty grand for the third bottle.
— We oughtta bite their goddamn hands off!
— Pounds, not dollars.
— Motherfuckers! Did you tell him that there are only two of the Trinty around, and that it’s worth less?
— It is not worth less to us. It’s worth more, and he knows it.
Ronnie shrugs. — Okay, let’s do the deal. I’ll call my guys – not fucking Mortimer – and ask them to make the bank transfer to your account.
The Lars felly nods, aw slow like a Bond villain. — Obviously, once the deal is completed, this bottle will remain in my possession until we have played the golf, he sais, looking at the dippit wee broker boy. — It’s only fair, given your custody of the previous bottle.
Ronnie puffs ehsel up, like eh’s aboot tae contest this, but thinks better ay it n slumps back intae the chair. — I guess I can’t really argue with that, eh goes. Ah’ve gotten fond ay Ronnie, but that cunt would have been a shiny-ersed fillin clerk in the civil service if eh nivir hud ehs auld man’s money n Ivy League contacts.
— I believe that you do not have the bottle, but it did vanish while in your custody, auld Venus n Mars goes. — Therefore, there must be a punitive element in our challenge. My assistant, Jens, is a decent golfer, and then he glances at me, — we shall pair up in the game for the new bottle. Your partner will be your man, and he looks at ays again.
— Ah’m no a gowfer, mate, ah goes.
— Terry’s just had a club in his hand for the first time today! Ronnie sais.
— I’ve not been quite transparent with you, this Lars boy smiles. — I’ve already procured bottle number three with my own cash. Now we have one bottle each.
— We agreed the other two bottles would be jointly purchased and played for –
— That was before you lost one. Now we have one each. He nods to Jens whae opens up a case, n there’s the Gherkin-shaped gless boatil. — We play for the two bottles, yours and mine, and we play with partners, which will be these two.
Well, Ronnie’s fuckin speechless, and says he’ll think aboot it. Lars tells him no tae think too long.
So we’re headin back tae Edinburgh in the cab. — What ye gaunny dae?
— He knows how much I want those bottles. It’s high stakes, winner takes all. Two bottles or none.
— Ye cannae be –
— I think we can beat those assholes, Terry!
— No way . . . ye cannae trust me tae win ye that bottle ay whisky, Ronnie, ah ken how much it means tae ye, ah goes, cause ah cannae believe this. This cunt off the telly, this billionaire boy whae’s faced aw they Ivy League posh cunts in The Prodigal, this wanker fuckin believes in ays! As eh should. But it’s that cunt whae needs tae make me, Juice Terry, believe in him.
— I want them all, he’s fuckin haverin, — and that asshole has me over a barrel. I’m even betting he’s in on the disappearance of bottle number two, perhaps with Mortimer . . .
— Ah’m game, Ronnie, but ah’ll really need practice time.
— I’ll get you that! We’ll be out every day, Terry, and when I leave town, I’ll have you working with that golf pro asshole!
Cause ah’m fuckin well thinkin: it jist might fuckin work. Ronnie’s better than Lars, n even if Jens’s better than me, we’ve still goat a fuckin shot!
So it turns oot no a bad day at aw. That evening ah’m sittin at hame reading that Moby-Dick when the door goes. Ah’m gled ah dinnae answer it, cause it’s Suicide Sal. Fuck, ah hope her plays are as good as her lays, n that Ronnie’ll take her oaf ma hands. Ah look oot fae behind the curtains n see her walkin doon the street. When the coast’s clear ah go oot for a pint ay milk, roond tae the Hamilton’s. Whin ah gits back, the door goes again n ah’m shitin it. Then a text wi Jason on caller ID: C’mon, Terry, let me in. I’m outside.
Ah opens up. It’s great tae see him and ah grab um in an embrace. Eh feels stiff and tense, as eh gies ays these wee pats oan the back. When ah lit go eh sais, — What’s up?
Eh looks like ehs filled oot a bit, like muscle, as if eh’s been daein weights. Eh’s goat a number-one cut. Ah see a lot mair ay Lucy, ehs ma, aboot um, especially roond the eyes, no sae much ay me. — It’s that good tae see ye!
— It’s great tae see you as well! I’m up visiting Mum and I thought –
— I’m proud ay ye, ye ken that, ah just blurt oot.
— Terry, this isn’t like you –
— Call me Dad, son.
— Now you’re really scaring me. Is everything okay?
So ah tells um the fuckin lot.
After ma spiel, Jason just looks at me and says, — I’m really sorry. I know that you’ve always been sexually active, that it’s a big part of your life, and you like to do the . . . you know, videos.
For some reason, ah’m feelin masel shiver. It’s like the eyes ay the world ur oan ays. Normally ah lap that up, but no now. Ah kin barely look him in the eye. — Ah bet ye ah embarrassed ye, me daein the scud n that, wi you bein at college.
Jason jist goes n gies ays that wee half-smile ay his. He wis ey a happy laddie; nowt seemed tae bother him. But deep n aw. Enigmatic, as Rab Birrell might say, oan one ay his intellectual casual websites. Cunt thinks it wis some kind ay postmodern statement tae punch a cunt in the mooth last century, but it’s apparently ‘reactionary’ now. — I always tried to respect that the porn stuff was your thing.
— Ye did, ah tell um. — You were always a great wee guy, and you’ve ey made ays proud.
— Well, thanks . . . Jason goes, — but you’ve never really opened up like this before . . .
— Mibbe ah should’ve. Mibbe that’s what wis wrong! What kind ay faither was I?
Jason shakes his heid n shrugs. — We don’t need to get into this. I mean, you are what you are, and I love you. You know that, right?
Ah feel a tennis baw stuck in ma throat n ma eyes tear up. It dawns oan ays for the first time that eh really does. Eh loves ays, in spite ay . . . nowt. Eh wis eywis jist happy tae hing oot wi me. Ah wish ah could’ve gied him mair. — Ah love you . . . son. Ye ken that, surely?
— Of course I do. I always have.
— But I was never a faither. Was ah?
— They come in all shapes and sizes. I’m not going to bullshit you, Ter— Dad. Grandad, he was my traditional father. Mum was as well. Between them, they gave me everything I needed as a kid, Jason goes, and ah glance up tae see how worried he is tae see me so down, ma heid bowed. — But . . .
Ah force masel tae look up.
— You came into your own when I got to my teens. You were my best friend and the best big brother I could have wished for. And believe you me, that was exactly what I needed right then.
We sits up wi a couple ay beers n pi
t the world tae rights. I realise that it’s great havin him here. He looks at the books on the shelf and shakes his head.
— What? ah goes.
Then we look at each other n burst oot laughin uncontrollably.
When Jason leaves ah cannae settle n ah decide tae have a wee bit ching, but ah mind that ah shouldnae touch it. Ah flushes it doon the toilet soas no tae be tempted. Ah realise that ah’ve goat three great sons n a barry daughter, n that’s only the yins the CSA would ever be able tae pin oan ays, so ah’ve plenty tae live fir. Ye kin live without a ride. Ah pick up Rab Birrell’s copy ay Moby-Dick.
Ah’m readin the book, thinkin aboot the round ay gowf Ronnie n me are gaunny fit in the morn, ah’m fair lookin forward tae it! So ah reads till ah’m exhausted, then practically crawl through tae bed n huv a deep sleep.
Ah wakes up feelin mair rested than ah’ve done in yonks, n lookin forward tae gettin on the links wi Ronnie. This time we’re headin doon tae Peebles, and the Macdonald Cardrona Golf and Country Club. These pills are making me much calmer, and ah enjoy the drive tae the Borders in the weak morning sun.
One thing aboot gowf clubs is that it’s maistly middle-aged fuckers n auld cunts. Any fanny thaire tends tae be strictly boilerhoose material, so thaire’s fewer temptations. A bit ay wholesome fresh air, n a few fuckin peeves eftir, what mair dae ye want?
Ronnie’s chuffed wi ma progress, but the puttin is still away tae fuck. Ah’m relaxed enough, but ah keep missin shots oan the green that look easy. — Concentrate, Terry, he goes, as we get oan the rough at the seventh, — try and empty your mind of everything except that hole . . .
N ah’m realisin that ye do huv tae concentrate. Focus on that hole. On gittin it intae that fuckin hole. That dark fuckin hole. Black everything else oot. Jist a smooth, easy stroke . . . it rolls off the roughage oantae the green n curves slightly in n . . . bang! Right intae that fuckin hole! — Ya fucker!
— Wow! What a putt, Terry. You’ve got it! You really are a goddamn natural at this!
Ah think ah’ve cracked this gowf shite. Ma game’s gittin better! Aw through watchin n listenin tae Ronnie, the voice ay experience. It’s jist like when ah started hingin oot at the Tivoli Bingo Hoose tae bag aw the auld burds. Ye kin only learn so much fae schoolies, before ye start gaun fir thair mas. When ah wis in ma teens n pittin aw they wee burds through thair paces, n they went ‘Whae showed ye how tae dae that?’, ah’d eywis think: probably your fuckin ma. Either that, or the Classic cinema in Nicolson Street. Guaranteed! This gowf’s the same: if yuv goat game, yuv goat game, ay, ye jist need the experienced heid tae help bring it oot. But thaire’s something else gaun oan n aw. Ye huv tae be thaire in the moment, soas yir focused oan the job at hand, but also outside the moment, so that other stuff gaun oan aroond ye disnae pit ye oaf. It hit me that gowf is exactly like scud for that. You’ve goat tae be able tae swing that big fuckin club oan demand, n let nowt distract ye fae gettin that hole.
Things are gaun well, and Ronnie’s aw chuffed later oan in Spikes clubhouse bar. The peeves are gaun doon nicely. Then eh looks at me a bit hangdog and says, — I’m meeting a lady tonight. We’re going out to dinner. The woman from the speed-dating club you took me to.
— Sound. Good on ye.
So ah drives um back intae toon n the hotel. Something aboot what eh sais didnae chime, so as eh vanishes intae the Balmoral, ah stalls for a bit. Sure enough, ah sees her comin ower the road. Of course, it’s no the burd fae the quick hookup club at aw, it’s Sal. She looks different, posher, mair sophisticated, aw dolled up as she steps into the hotel. Ah takes off n heads back tae ma fuckin lonely flat.
Ah gits hame n ah dozes oaf reading Moby-Dick, aboot the cunt chasing the whale. Ah’m thinking: nivir mind Moby-Dick, what aboot perr Terry’s fuckin dick?
37
AULD FAITHFUL 2
RIGHT, LAWSON, THAT’S it finito
wi us, cuntface, time tae cast
aside the yoke ay oppression
n go full oot fir independence!
Aye, ah’m separatin masel fae
ye! You hud yir chance wi this
union n ye fucked it up! N lit ays
tell ye, before ye start makin
jokes aboot separatist pricks,
mind yir jist a big, useless fanny
withoot me! So it’s adios, bawbag
(cause it’s aw ye are withoot me),
n ah’ll be seein ye in the next life!
Ye see, Terry, if you’re no daein any
ridin, dinnae expect me tae sit in
scabby keks sweatin like an auld
piece ay cheese, while you pump
ays wi blood-thinnin chemicals jist
tae try n stoap ays fae standin tae
attention in the presence ay a lady.
Cause it’s no happenin, mate, it’s no
fuckin well happenin. You mind ay
thum, Terry, aw they tunnels ay love
ye poked ays intae ower the years.
A long wey fae thon tight fanny ay
thon wee Rachel Muir whae wis
jist thirteen whin ye forced ays up
her n ah wis jist eleven fuckin year
auld, ya filthy wee cunt, but did ah
complain? Did ah fuck! Aye ah did!
Nae wee-boy fear-wilt, ah wis right
in thaire, you poundin me intae her
in that dirty stair, n yersel intae a
fuckin ecstatic state! N fast-forward
through aw they rides tae now, n nae
wey the Suicide Sara-Ann burd’s gaunny
be the last hole this dirty auld tadger
kens, not a chance ay that! But you
broke the contract, mate, so it’s numero
uno fae now on in . . . independence . . .
independence . . . freedom . . . freedom . . .
freedom . . . freedom . . . freedom . . . freedom . . .
freedom . . . freedom . . . freedom . . . freedom . . .
freedom . . . freedom . . . freedom . . . freedom . . .
freedom . . . freedom . . . freedom . . . freedom . . .
freedom . . . freedom . . . freedom . . . freedom . . .
freedom . . . freedom . . . freedom . . . freedom . . .
38
ANOTHER BLOW FOR SCOTLAND’S SMOKERS
AH’M NO HAPPY at aw, cause ah’m no a lassie n ah didnae like tae be treated like a lassie or a poof. Maurice daein that: it wisnae right, naw sur, naw sur, naw sur, it wisnae right. Cause the bad stuff is meant tae go oot thaire n thaire’s nae bad things ur meant tae go in thaire. Mibbe sometimes wi a laddie n a lassie, fir a wee chynge, but no two men! Naw sur, that’s no right. N wi Maurice bein a Prawstint as well, n no a Catholic priest or a public-skill Tory at the BBC, that it makes it even mair wrong. Aye sur, aye it does.
Felt awfay funny up the erse, aw squeamish n seek in ma stomach. Maurice jist gruntin n sayin ‘it’s awright, Jonty son, it’s jist a wee ride, nowt tae git aw worked up aboot’, n then shoutin aboot the Alamo, but naw sur, it wisnae right. N it’s jist yin mair bad thing tae play oan ma mind.
But ah think ay perr wee Jinty aw cauld in yon concrete pillar under the new tram brig, n ah ken ah’ve done some awfay bad things. Ah start tae think aboot God, n how He’ll punish me fir aw that. N that priest: if only that dirty Fenian bastard would have let me confess ma sins! Shouldnae be one set ay rules for one n a different set fir the others. No right that, naw sur.
Ye see aw daft things oan that Internet. They tell ye how tae git a boatil, a rag n some turpentine. Then ye light the rag n fling it n yuv goat a bomb. Easy-peasy. That’s what ah’m gaunny be daein. Makin bombs. Cause ye cannae lit thum away wi it, naw sur, naw ye cannot. Ye kin see how a Molotov cocktail’s easy-peasy tae make, jist by gaun oan that Internet. Jinty ey gied ays a row for spendin too much time oan it. ‘Yi’ll git square eyes, Jonty MacKay,’ she wid go. N ah’d say, ‘Naw ah’ll no, cause ah heard thit the Chinese use the Internet mair than anybody, n ye ni
vir see a Chinaman wi square eyes, naw ye do not.’ N Jinty wid jist say, ‘Aye, yuv goat me thaire, Jonty, right enough.’
But tae make a Molotov, aw ye dae is get a boatil, n fill it half fill ay petrol, ay. Jist ordinary petrol, aye sur. Ye kin add a wee bit motor oil, like yon Castrol GTX. Liquid engineerin. Aye sur, aye sur, aye sur. Ye soak a rag, then ye stick it in the neck ay the boatil n hud it in wi a rubber stoaper, leavin a wee bit oot. Then ye light it, n chuck it, but hard, soas it breks against a waw or a flair.
Then bang!
Easy!
So ah goes doon tae the garage n gits aw the stuff, but tae git the rubber stoapers ah hus tae go tae a posh wine shop in the toon. — Rubber stoapers, ah goes tae this lassie in a nice blouse.
— We have a selection.
— That pack ay fower, ah sais tae the lassie, — jist the fower.
— Anything else I can help you with? We have excellent Chilean reds, Cabernets, just in today . . .
— Jist the fower rubber stoapers, aye, aye, aye.
N she takes the money n rings it up. Awfay dear, they rubber stoapers, but the shop wis posh but. Aye sur, it wis that!
So ah gits hame n pits the bombs thegither. Then ah goes outside, wearin the canary-yellay fleece n a balaclava. It’s cauld still, n it’s started tae git dark n ah’m walkin under the bridge. A few cars go past, then a 22 bus. Well, ah goes roond the back where they sometimes go oot fir a fag. Ah kin hear thum aw inside the pub. So ah nip roond tae the side door, ah’ve goat a spare key made, n ah loaks it. Sometimes Jake forgets tae open it, cause the boys ey moan whin they want oot fir a fag. Then ah goes doon the alley tae the front n lights the two up, boots open the doors n flings ma cocktail bombs inside n shuts the doors! Ah see a boy ah dinnae recognise looking at me before the crash n the flames n the shoutin n screamin. Ah’ve turned roond n ah rushes back taewards the hoose.
That’ll gie thum an awfay fright!
When ah gits in the stair, ah’m thinkin ah mibbe did too much, aye ah am, n thit it might’ve goat oot ay control. Ah kin hear noises fae ootside the stair, like screamin n aw that. Ah goes up n sees the Paki lassie Mrs Iqbal n her broon bairn comin oot intae the stair n ah tells hur, — Dinnae go oot! Thaire’s a fire in the pub acroass the road. It wis aw ma fault. Ah shidnae huv done it but thaire’s bad people in thaire.