A Decent Ride

  — Yes, yes, very bad. Every time I pass with the baby they are saying bad things and I am so frightened! Quick, come, she says n grabs ma airm n takes me intae the hoose wi the bairn.

  Ah peeks oot the windae fae behind the curtains. The fire engines ur wailin ootside. — Ah’m gaunny git the jail . . . Ah looks at Mrs Iqbal, she’s jist goat a half-mask oan the day, n her eyes ur awfay kind. She’s lookin oot wi me; the front doors ay the pub huv opened, n people come out aw chokin n coughin n ah’m really feart. — Ah should nash away, ah tells Mrs Iqbal, thi’ll come lookin fir ays!

  — There are bad people there, but you are a good man.

  — Aye, but ah’ll git huckled now, ah tells her, — aye ah will. Thi’ll ken it wis me, aye sur, they will.

  — Yes, you must go away. You must hurry! But you cannot go dressed like that!

  She takes ays through n makes me pit oan one ay they dresses that she goes oot in. She says it’s a burka. Ah’m gaunny say ah dinnae like that cause they used tae sponsor Hibs, cause ah seen an auld photae ay George Best in a Hibs strip wi that oan it. Mind you but it’s aw changed, n ye widnae see George Best, if eh wis still here, wearin one ay these. So ah pits it oan.

  Aye, it’s goat a barry grille oan it. Ye kin barely hear or see or nowt like that. So ah take the canary-yellaw fleece under ma juke cause it’s Maurice’s n ah’m no a bad person thit does that sort ay thing for money or clathes. Naw sur. It’s awkward gaun doon they stairs but ah say cheerio tae Mrs Iqbal n ah’m walkin oot, gaun past the fire engines.

  Aye, ye cannae see much but, n it’s aw blurred even mair cause ay the smoke comin oot ay the pub.

  Thaire’s bad Evan Barksie gittin takin intae an ambulance, face aw roasted doon one side. His brar Craig Barksie looks at me, right intae ma eyes like eh kin tell it’s me, n ah’m lookin back as eh goes, — What ur lookin at, ya fuckin Paki slag, that’s ma brar! N thaire’s polis lookin, n ah want tae say, ‘it wis me, ah did this tae make up fir wee Jinty . . .’ but ah jist walk on. A big crowd hus gathered, funny whaire they aw come fae cause thaire’s nae game oan, nae Ryan Stevenson, n the polis try tae divert thum, bit thir still takin bodies oot the pub, so ah walk oan.

  Aw ah dinnae like this at aw, naw sur, ah do not. Goat tae git away fae here, aye sur, aye, aye . . .

  — Paki slag!

  Aw naw sur . . . naw . . . naw . . .

  — Dinnae fancy yours much!

  Ah keep walkin, aye, aye ah do, sur . . .

  — Thoat youse wirnae allowed oot oan yir ain! Ah bet it wis hur! Terrorist hoor’s probably goat another fuckin bomb under thaire!

  — Leave ur – it wis a cunt in a canary-yellay fleece, saw um oan camera!

  Aw this isnae right, no sur, it isnae. Ah jist keep gaun till ah gits tae Maurice’s stair. Ah gits inside cause ay the entryphone n lock bein aw broke, n ah tiptoe up tae ehs landin and an awfay smell ay cat pish, aye sur, n pills oot the canary-yellay fleece n hings it oan ehs doorknob. Ah hears somebody comin oot but ah’m nashin back doon the stairs, pillin up the skirt soas ah kin hurry. But outside it’s still aw crazy, thaire’s another ambulance n mair polis.

  Then ah slips doon a side street n nashes up towards Polwarth. Ah’m walkin, aye sur, ah’m walkin aw the wey doon the street. Ah keeps gaun n it’s funny in the burka but ah’d no say nowt cause it’s nice ay Mrs Iqbal tae help ays like that, n ah’m thinkin it’s gaunny be a long walk oot tay Penicuik, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur . . .

  39

  THE BOY IN THE CANARY-YELLAY FLEECE

  THANK FUCK FOR the gowf! Ronnie n me wir oot early oan posh St Andrews before ah droaped the cunt oaf at the airport. Eh boat ays a barry new set ay clubs n they goat used awright: ah beat the cunt by two shots, 75 tae 77! The cunt couldnae believe it, goat aw stroppy at first, said it isnae possible as he’s a five-handicap player. Telt the cunt that ah kent aw thaire wis tae ken aboot handicaps, cause the ultimate fuckin handicap is no gittin a ride. Eh’s away tae New York for a while oan business n ah’m gaunny miss the fucker, so ah need tae find a new gowf partner quick style. The gowf is just aboot the only thing that stoaps me fae obsessin aboot fanny. It’s that fuckin swing! It seems simple enough, but thaire’s a loat gaun oan: stance, follay-through, backswing, like bein oan set tryin tae work it intae a burd’s erse when yir bangin baws wi Curtis, whae’s up her fanny, n Sick Boy’s elbayin ye n shoutin at ye, tryin tae git ehs fuckin camera in.

  Ronnie’s goat a cheerful look on ehs coupon, n ah’m sayin nowt but ah ken how. It’s aw tae dae wi gittin laid, n ah ken the particular Porty playwright n failed high-diver whae’s daein the pipe cleanin. Wish they widnae dart around behind ma back like fuckin bairns: it disnae matter tae me whae’s shagging whae. Never been jealous ay any cunt in that department, but mind you, ah suppose ah’m jealous ay every cunt now. So we’re at departures n eh goes, — I want you to practise every day. We are going to have to be at the top of our game to take down those Swede assholes.

  — Danes.

  — Whatever, it’s all Viking shit. Make sure you call that fat, lazy Iain Renwick asshole, and that he jumps when you shout. He’s being well paid to coach you!

  — Sound, ah goes, n ah tell um, — It really is helpin ays take ma mind oaf the hootenanny, this gowf.

  — Hootenanny . . . that’s another of your names for pussy, right? I’m picking up all your crazy shit.

  — Yir daein no bad, mate.

  Ronnie chuckles at the thought. — Well, I gave you the golf, so fair exchange. I needed it so bad after Sapphire left me, he says. — It was a fucking nervy time. If I was snapped by the paparazzi, then my divorce settlement . . . well, I guess you know the story.

  — Tell ays aboot it. Till yuv hud the fuckin CSA oan yir back, ye dinnae ken the half ay it, gadge, ah goes, then ah sais, — So Suicide Sal’s no gied ye a bell, then?

  Ronnie shrugs, n goes, — Nope. I guess that ole Occupy n I ain’t meant to be, he smiles. Eh’s no bad at the poker face n clear eyes, but ah kin see the kip gittin slightly ridder, a telltale sign. As if ah fuckin care that they’re gittin it oan – ah fuckin well set the cunts up. It’s funny how the maist unlikely cunts kin git aw school playgroond when it comes tae the Ian McLagan.

  — Okay, Terry, be safe, and try to remember, think golf, not puss . . . hootenanny! Ronnie punches ma shoodir n turns away tae git the plane.

  Easy for that cunt tae say, when eh’s knobbin ma fuckin burd! But ah feel lonely, watchin um go. If any cunt telt ays that some rich American radge oaf the telly wid be the only fucker that understood ays, ah’d huv said that they wir fuckin mental.

  It’s startin tae git dark as ah go tae the car park n heads oaf, waving at Stumpy Jack whae’s dropped off a fare and is waitin tae pick up something comin fae arrivals. Eh’s fair glowerin at they private-hire cunts in thair rank! The Maybury Roundabout’s busy, n it really is cause ay fuckin tramworks this time. Ah fuckin need that new gowf partner. So ah gie that sweaty Iain Renwick gadge a bell, but it goes straight tae voicemail. Ah dinnae leave a message, cause ah’m no that taken by that cunt.

  Corstorphine’s a write-off as some HGV’s broke doon on St John’s Road, so ah’m cuttin doon tae the auld haunts at Broomhoose n Saughton Mains. It’s sad tae think that ah hardly ken anybody roond they streets where ah grew up, they’ve aw moved on, ay. Nippin through Gorgie, the traffic’s bad here in aw, thaire’s obviously something happenin. We’re stoaped, so ah decide tae phone Jason, see if he’s intae gaun roond the links. — You? Golf! Ha ha ha . . . you playing golf? Fuck off!

  — Aye, and ah’m gled ay it n aw. It’s the only thing that keeps aye thegither these days.

  — I’m sorry, Ter— Dad, but you poisoned me against it. I’ll never hold a club in my hand. Call Donna, she’ll go roond with ye.

  — Donna? You’re jokin!

  — She was seeing this boy who’s this golf pro at some club in North Berwick. It didnae work out cause he was married. Older boy, strung her
along a bit.

  Dinnae fuckin tell ays . . .

  — Awright . . .

  — That boy that led at the Open one year. Renwick.

  Ya fuckin dirty, sweaty auld cunt . . .

  Ma breathin’s aw tae fuck here. — Ye dinnae think he’s the wee yin’s faith . . .

  — Naw, the dates don’t tally . . .

  Thank fuck for that.

  — Ah’ll mibbe gie her a shout, ah croaks doon the line. Or thank fuck for nowt – at least that cunt’s got some wedge. The CSA’ll git nowt oaffay some dippit wee cunt fae the scheme . . . fuck me, hear ays; poacher turned gamekeeper, right enough . . .

  — She’d appreciate it. Give her my best.

  — Will do. Cheers, Jase.

  As ah’m thinkin that Jason, whae’s just her half-brother, has been there for Donna mair than me, I’m aware that the cab’s fuckin crawlin. Thaire’s a roadblock set up n it’s aw single-lane traffic. Ah kin see smoke billowin intae the air.

  Fuckin hell . . .

  Ah’m drivin slowly past The Pub Wi Nae Name n thaire’s a right commotion gaun oan. Thaire’s smoke billowin oot the windaes, n the fuckin polis ur settin up diversions, tryin tae re-route every cunt. It being the Edinburgh Polis, nae cunts goat a Scooby-Doo; there’s a lot ay shoutin n some ay thum are wadin into this group ay boys, some ay whae ah recognise fae the boozer . . . they’ve goat this grey-heided felly doon, n thir bootin the cunt ower the street . . . the poor gadge’s oot ay it, and the polis wade in tae save um . . . another meat wagon swings by, bringing mair polis oot . . . a couple ay the pub lads git huckled n the rest melt away.

  Ah drives closer n stoaps the motor, n winds doon the windae. Some cunts behind me are tootin, so ah takes the cab up oantae the pavement. A cop comes ower n shouts, — Ye cannae stop here!

  Ah points back, — Your colleague, officer, the sergeant, told me to pull up wherever I could, as I might be needed to take injured people to the hospital.

  The cunt’s mooth opens like eh’s tryin tae catch flies, then a big blaring fire engine pushes through the crowd, nearly scrapin the edge ay the motor. The cop vanishes. Ah sees this gold thing glistenin in the road, so ah gits oot n picks it up. It’s a cigarette case, quite smart, so ah sticks it in ma tail. A boy sees ays at the poakil, starin at ays wi accusin eyes. Ah ken ehs face fae the boozer, the Barksie brother’s mate; Tony, ah think they call um. Ah decide it’s best eh tipples that ah’m the cunt askin the questions. — What’s up here, mate? It’s Tony, ay?

  The felly’s breathless, lookin back aw wild-eyed. — Aye . . . this cunt in the canary-yellay fleece bombed the fuckin pub! We thoat it wis this Paki terrorist burd thit threw the bombs in the boozer, but somebody saw the cunt in a canary-yellay fleece dae it! He goat battered tae fuck!

  No half! An ambulance has somehow shimmied through the chaos, n the paramedics are practically scrapin the poor cunt oaf the tarmac! The boy’s glesses are broke, n thaire’s claret everywhere, soakin intae that fleece.

  The Tony boy nips away but ah sees Craig, Evan Barksie’s wee brar by eight minutes. Eh clocks the cab n comes ower. — What’s up, Craigy?

  — That cunt in the canary-yellay fleece is a fuckin psycho! Chucked a couple ay fuckin petrol bombs intae the fuckin boozer! Burnt ma brar’s face! And some other boys! We’d huv fuckin killed um if the fuckin bizzies hudnae swung by!

  — Fuck . . . wis the pub damaged bad?

  — Ma brar’s face is aw burnt doon one side! Fuck the pub, eh shouts, n heads ower tae where the other boys huv gathered. N there’s Evan, a towel oan the left side ay his face, bein taken intae a second ambulance. It looks a sair yin, for sure. Ah sees Jake, his face a bit black, n coughin away, so ah sais, — Jakey boy . . . ye awright?

  — Terry . . . aye . . . jist saw they two boatils, like petrol bombs, fly in the front door. Nivir seen nowt like it. Wi tried tae git tae the back door, but ah mustnae huv opened the cunt up yet! We hud tae go through the flames tae get oot the front!

  — Is the pub damaged bad?

  — The fire went right up the waw, fucked the jukebox n the pool table –

  — What aboot the bar, aw the spirits behind the bar?

  — Ah think that’s awright, Terry. The firemen are in now, eh goes, lookin at the firefighters standing in the doorway, pishing into the pub with thair hoses. — Polis cunt already asked ays aboot insurance, cheeky bastard. It’s ma fuckin livelihood, Terry!

  — Standard polis procedure, Jakey boy, actin the cunt, ah goes, thinkin there’s nae point in stallin aroond here as they’ve blocked oaf Gorgie Road. So ah gets in the hackney n turns it oan a sixpence n slips up tae Polwarth, headin back intae toon. Ah’m jist at the Vietnam pub whin ah gits flagged doon by one ay they burds in they shite pillboax hood n dresses, thit they repressed camel-shagger cunts make thum wear, where ye cannae even git a deek at the coupon. Keep thum aw covered up, ay. Well, normally ah’d say, fuck that. But right now this is aboot the only type ay burd ah could huv in ma cab withoot wreckin ma fuckin health.

  So ah stoaps n she climbs in n ah heads off. But it’s no a fuckin burd, cause the dress gits pilled oaf n fuck me . . . — Terry, Kind Terry, ah kent it wis you! Thank God!

  It’s wee Jonty! — Jonty! What the fuck ur ye daein dressed like thon, ya dozy wee cunt? Naw, dinnae tell ays, mate, ah dinnae want tae ken. Jist tell ays whaire ye want tae go.

  — Penicuik, sur, aye sur, the Cuik . . . but ah’ve no goat any money –

  — Nivir mind aboot that – that’s the least ay oor worries. Lit’s just git ye oot ay here!

  — Thanks, Terry, Kind Terry, yir like a true friend, Terry, aye sur, aye, a true friend –

  — Jonty, goan shut the fuck up for a minute, pal, ay, ah tell um, n ah fuckin well floors it.

  40

  ESCAPE TO PENICUIK

  TERRY DROPS JONTY off on the main road in Penicuik, declining to take him round the corner to his mother’s. Jonty is perplexed, as he’s removed the burka. It’s stuffed into one of the wee Lidl plastic bags Marjory gave him, the ones he used for Jinty. Climbing out the cab he again urges his new-found half-sibling: — Come in fir a cup ay tea, Terry, meet muh ma n oor Karen. That’s ma sister n Hank’s, n your half-sister n aw!

  — Naw, you’re awright, pal, Terry says dejectedly, thinking: probably another one I’ve fuckin rode.

  — But how no, Terry? How no?

  — Look, ah really dinnae want tae ken whaire ye stey, Jonty. He sweeps two hands through his lustrous corkscrew mane and throws it back. — Jist like ah dinnae want tae ken what ye wir up tae in that Arab burd’s dress, headin away fae thon blaze in the pub.

  Jonty’s head goes down. Then he looks up and says in a whimper, — But wir brothers like, Terry, n wi baith try tae be kind.

  Terry is moved by Jonty’s high-pitched plea, and the swirling pathos in the dark pools of his eyes. He is again uncomfortable. Events and circumstances have ripped away his shell, and now everything seems to perturb him. — Ah ken that, mate, but wuv hud separate lives n we’ve never kent much aboot each other. Ah kent that auld cunt hud bairned tons ay radges n radgettes, Terry starts to reminisce, — Ah once met this burd, n it turned oot . . . well, wi’ll no go thaire. He looks at the open-mouthed Jonty. — But ah ken thit yir pretty desperate, mate, n thaire wis stuff gaun oan back thaire at The Pub Wi Nae Name.

  — But how no –

  Terry raises a dismissive hand. — So ah dinnae want tae ken whaire ye stay, nae details or any other shenanigans.

  — But that wis cause ay –

  — Naw, pal, Terry shakes his head with vigour, his corkscrew curls lashing against the edge of the window, making Jonty think of a lion, — dinnae tell ays anything else. Ah’m leavin ye here, he says glumly, looking at Jonty’s forlorn expression and curled-down lip.

  Tears roll down Jonty’s cheeks and he starts to sob heavily. This distresses Terry, and he steps out the cab, awkwardly embracing Jonty. — Yir awright, pal, ah dinnae think anybody wis badly hurt in the fi
re.

  — No badly hurt . . . Jonty grizzles into his chest.

  — Evan Barksdale, Terry says, and Jonty, chafed at the mention of the name, pulls apart and takes a step away from Terry, — he got burnt on the side ay his puss.

  — Ah’m no bothered, Terry, naw ah’m not, Jonty says, — n ah ken it sounds like ah’ve goat a bad hert, and now it’s Terry’s turn to cringe, — but eh’s a bully. Aw aye, an awfay bully. N Craig n aw, aye sur.

  Two young mothers pushing go-karts walk past them. One, chewing gum, has keen eyes focused on Terry’s crotch. He doesn’t look at her. — Well, at least wi the burn oan ehs coupon it’ll be easier tae tell the cunts apart now, ay, he says to Jonty.

  — Aye, tell thum apart . . .

  — Aye, so thaire’s nowt tae greet aboot, ay.

  Jonty looks up at Terry with violently shuttering eyes, full of pain and frustration. — But ma paintin, Terry, aw ma bonnie paintin . . .

  Terry exhales, then looks sadly at Jonty. — But oan the bright side, ye’ll probably get mair work oot ay it!

  — Mair work . . . Jonty snivels.

  Suddenly inspired, Terry says, — But ah’m gaunny phone ye the morn, n take ye oot.

  This instantly fills Jonty with cheer. — That wid be double barry, Terry! Aye it wid, sur!

  Terry is touched. Neither Guillaume nor the Ginger Bastard, nor Jason or Donna when they were younger, had ever displayed that much enthusiasm at the prospect of an outing with him. — Ever played gowf, Jonty?

  — Aw naw sur, no ah have not, naw, naw, naw, it’s no fir the likes ay me, and Jonty seems troubled by the prospect, — ah’m jist a simple country lad fae Penicuik. Aye sur.

  — It’s a piece ay pish, yi’ll pick it up nae bother, Terry states emphatically. — N it’s no like England, whaire it’s jist for posh cunts, this is Scotland, Jonty, wir fightin tae become a real nation, no a fuckin poxy Fourth Reich ay the rich, like they’ve settled for doon south. Terry seems to gulp on his own words and the strange intoxication they confer. He’s never shown much of an interest in politics before; perhaps that is about not getting your hole too. — I’ll bell ye n we’ll go for a wee game ay gowf!