A Decent Ride
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43
AVOIDING STRESS
— THAT WIS THE fuckin worst dream ever! Ma fuckin cock . . . eh, ma penis, lookin up at ays, screamin at me, then rippin oaf ma boady n flyin aroond the fuckin room. Then it goes and circles behind ays like a heat-seekin missile and flies straight up ma erse!
— Interesting . . . this psychotherapist gadge says. Foreign accent: Danish, like Lars and Jens. Eh’s a chunky boy, thinnin blond hair, grey at the sides, cauld green eyes, like they sortay came ootay something else. Ya cunt, nae wonder ah’m huvin weird dreams eftir that fuckin shite at that funeral yesterday! Ah didnae want tae go tae any fuckin nut doaktir but ah hud tae. Cause this just isnae fuckin real: the lack ay shaggin n that. Ah’m gaun fuckin mental here, literally losin ma fuckin mind!
And this cunt’s just sittin back withoot a fuckin care in the world. — This is essentially a typical desexualisation anxiety dream, and it’s very common to people in your circumstance. It’s nothing to worry about, all fairly classic stuff; the removal of the penis, the sealing of the anus, by the penis, the anus of course, also being highly sexual –
— Tell ays aboot it. Ah’ve whapped it up a few choc-boxes in ma time . . . jist burds, mind –
— Mr Lawson, you have to stop this –
— Stop what? You sais ah’ve got tae talk aboot ma personal feelins –
— Yes, but these sessions have become a constant stream of details about your sexual life –
— Former sexual life, n that’s the fuckin problem, mate! N that is ma personal feelins. Ah shakes ma heid, n looks up tae the ceiling. — What fuckin good does aw this dae? ah sort ay sais tae masel, but oot loud, then ah looks um right in the eye. — The only thing that’ll help me is a decent ride, n ye cannae sort that oot for ays. Aw youse dae is keep tellin me tae take aw they pills. Ah keep daein it, but ma life is shite n it’s gittin fuckin shiter by the day!
So ah’m gaun oan, but the boy kens the score. Eh’s aboot ma age, wi a face thit looks like eh’s seen a bit ay life, like eh’s no jist a college gadge. It’s jist the same as me in the taxi, like aw self-employed cunts in the service industry: he’s punchin the fuckin cloak, jist sittin back thaire listenin tae every cunt’s shite. — You seem fixated on your penis, and your sex life.
Thaire’s nowt tae say aboot that. Cannae very well fuckin argue, kin ye? — Which guy isnae but, if the truth be telt, ay, ah goes.
The gadge seems tae ponder this, n raises ehs eyebrows. — It’s a huge part of our humanity, our sexuality. And you do seem to have led a very active sex life. But it’s by no means everything. People do readjust to a life without sex.
— Ah’m no people!
The guy sort ay shrugs. Ah bet that cunt’s shaggin somethin. Probably plenty n aw. High-class credit-caird hookers at aw they medical conferences. Cunt disnae ken that ah played a psychiatrist once in Paging Doctor Scud. Aye, ah wis Professor Edmund Scud. Catchphrase tae burd oan the couch: ‘It is my considered professional opinion that ze root of your problem is sexual.’ Aye, it’s easy tae talk whin you’re gittin yir hole. The boy stares at ays like eh’s been readin ma thoats. — But surely the medication you’re on, it must be having some effect?
— Nup! Nane at aw. Ah’m still gantin on ma hole! Ah’m gittin twinges doonstairs aw the time, n ah feels ma eyes gaun south tae Auld Faithful.
The boy shakes ehs heid aw sternly. — Mr Lawson, that’s just not possible. This is such a high dosage that it’s tantamount to chemical castration. Regarding those sexual twinges that you speak off, well, you should be feeling nothing whatsoever.
— Aye, but ah’m no! Especially at night!
— I can only hypothesise that you’re also suffering from some general anxiety disorder that you are sublimating into your unfortunate sexual issues.
Wir gaun roond in circles here: cunt disnae fuckin get it at aw. — Aye, but that anxiety is caused by no fuckin well bein able tae git ma hole!
The boy shakes his heid. — There must be something that helps you.
— Aye, thaire is, n ah’m oaf thaire right now, ah tell the cunt. N ah am fuckin well offski, getting oot ay thaire n intae the cab n drivin doon taewards Silverknowes. Ah gits thaire n the boy in the starter’s box goes, — Nae gowf the day, mate, coorse is floodit. Same wi aw the council courses.
FUCK MA BAWS!
Back in the cab, ah cannae help thinkin aboot ma lot in life. Ah’m gaun mental, it’s like ah’m leadin some twilight existence. Thaire’s aw they nutty burds huntin ays doon oan the phone n by text, no fuckin well believin ays whin ah say tae thum ah cannae see ye. It jist makes thum keep tryin even mair; they think ah’m playin fuckin hard tae git! Me! That’ll be the day: nivir played that fuckin game in ma puff! Try tae fuckin tell thum thit ah’m fuckin well ill, ay, but they jist think ah’m solidly booked. Especially Big Liz fae Control, she’s gaun fae wantin tae tan ma erse tae threatenin tae kick ma cunt in!
The only thing ah’m solidly booked up wi is aw the fuckin bams in ma life.
Ah nips doon the Southern Bar tae git oan the Wi-Fi, but Doughheid comes in wi that dozy look on his face. They gied um a job in Control eftir eh lost ehs licence. That’s the cunt’s mentality, game turned predator. — Awright? ah goes. Ah’m wonderin what eh’s wantin.
— Tez, ah’m giein ye a heads-up here, mate. It’s bad news. Eh turns ehs mooth doon. — Ah’m only sayin this cause we’re buddies n ah ken you n Big Liz . . . well, yis urnae exactly cookin right now.
— Right. Ah fires up the laptop. — What’s the story?
— The bizzies’ cameras caught ye in the cab, giein some boy a couple ay wraps. Goat it fae Rab Ness’s lassie, wee Eleanor, she works for them oan the clerical side, ay. Jist giein ye the heads-up, mate.
JESUS FUCK ALMIGHTY . . .
That’s aw ah fuckin need. — Fuck . . . the baws oan the fuckin slates then, ay . . .
— No necessarily, Terry. Doughheid pills a cheeky wee grin. — Ellie says that they didnae git the licence plate. They jist goat you, n thuv issued the description. He hands ays the picture.
Result! Ye kin jist see the mop ay hair, n ma beak, n they Ian Hunter oot ay Mott the Hoople shades. — Ye cannae make it oot tae be me though, ay, it’s jist the hair.
— Aye, but which other taxi driver in Embra’s goat a fuckin barnet like that?
— Right enough . . .
— Git tae the barber’s wid be ma advice, Terry, Doughheid shrugs. — Nae cunt’s gaunny grass ye up, but git rid ay that mop or yi’ll dae time. Seriously.
Ah clicks oaf the laptop n ah leaves Doughheid in the boozer, no kennin what the fuck tae dae. Back in the cab, ah starts thinkin it through. The cunt’s right. Ah phones Rab Birrell. — Rab, mind you used tae huv they cutters ye ey used fir number ones? Ye still goat thum?
— Aye.
So ah’m doon at Rab’s at Colinton n ah’ve telt um the tale ower cans ay cauld Guinness. — Ah dinnae ken whit tae dae. Ma hair is Juice Terry. Even mair thin ma cock. Ah’d gie
a couple ay inches ay this tadger, jist tae keep the mane intact. Especially now. It’s aw uv fuckin goat wi these pills n this hert thing!
Rab runs ehs hand ower his ain salt-n-pepper crop. — Seems like a choice between that n jail time, Terry.
— You dinnae fuckin git it, but. It’s part ay whae ah am. Burds git attracted tae the locks before they git a deek ay Auld Faithful doon here. Ah grabs some long tresses. — It’s they Medusa-like tentacles thit pills thum in, like the screams ay the Sirens at sea, ah tell the cunt, then ah gie ma baws a slap. — These are jist the rocks they end up gittin dashed oan . . . or used tae.
— Dae ye want ays tae dae it or no, Terry?
— Aye, awright . . . but it’s odds-on it’s gaunny come oot grey. Ah’ll look like an auld cunt . . . nae offence tae you, ah goes, cause ay Rab bein a silverheid.
— Ah’m younger than you, ya cheeky cunt! Five year!
— Ah ken that, mate, but you’ve never been a shagger, ah goes, n Rab bristles at that yin. — Ah mean, you’ve goat yir burd, n faimlay n that; what ah’m tryin tae say is thit yir a steady sort ay gadge. But ah’m bangin everything in sight . . . ah feel a blow like ah punch in the guts as it hits ays, like it ey does, — . . . or rather, ah wis. The point is, ah cannae handle lookin grey. Ootside ay scud, it limits ma shaggin tae a certain age group, say thirty-five plus. Ah want twenty-five plus.
— If yir heart’s as bad as they say, it might no be a bad thing tae limit yir options, Terry.
AW YA FUCKIN BASTARD . . .
Ah’m sittin wi ma heid in ma hands, no kennin what tae dae. ‘Thaire’s nowt that cannae be made worse by gittin sent doon,’ Post Alec, God rest ays jakey soul, ey used tae say that. Ah looks up at Rab. — Aye, c’moan then.
So Rab starts shearin ays wi they barber clippers ay his. Ah swear ah kin feel my tadger shrink half an inch every time a big chunk ay hair faws oantae the flair. Like fuckin Samson in that Bible shite. Rab’s right, thaire’s nae need for it now.
Eftir borrowin another book fae him, One Hundred Years ay Solitude – ma fuckin new biography – ah’m oot n back in the cab. Ah look in the mirror at the grey stubble each time ah stoap at a light. Then a number comes up thit ah huv tae pick up oan. Ah’m getting fed up wi The Poof n ehs instructions. Ah’m meant tae be avoidin stress! Eh’s still in Spain, n eh’s still goat ays checkin oan the sauna. Kelvin fuckin hates ays, cause ah’ve warned that twisted wee Poof Apprentice cunt aboot fucking aroond wi the lassies eftir Saskia’s black eye. So ah finds masel spillin the beans, hopin that ah goat my side ay the story in before Kelvin. — Ah ken eh’s your brar-in-law, Vic, but eh’s gittin oan ma fuckin tits n eh’s gittin a right-hander in the puss. Ah’m tellin ye.
Of course ah jist gits the big fuckin silent treatment doon the line, as ah parks up in Hunter Square. Then his funny voice comes back oan. — So eh’s damagin ma merchandise. Ah telt um aboot leavin fuckin marks, eh sortay laughs. — But yir right, eh is ma brar-in-law. So you jist cool yir jets, Charlie Bronson, unless yuv goat a death wish . . . n the cunt laughs, — ah’ll sort him oot. You’ve heard nae word oan that wee Jinty, ah suppose? Nae mair rozzer activity?
— Naw, ah tells um, n ah would ken, hingin aboot wi her felly, takin the wee man oot for a coffee or a game ay gowf. Sometimes ah think that wee Jonty kens mair thin eh lits oan, but naw, that’s no his style. In fact the wee cunt generally lets on aboot a lot mair than he kens.
— Been months now. Ah dinnae ken why ah’m that bothered aboot a scabby wee hoor. Fair gits under yir skin, that yin, but ay. Funny how some burds kin jist dae that.
— Aye, ah goes. Ah dinnae want tae talk tae this cunt aboot burds, in fact no aboot anything, n ah’m gled when he hangs up.
A message fae Control comes up oan the screen. It’s Doughheid.
HOPE YOU DIDN’T DO ANYTHING DRASTIC WITH THE HAIRCUT! WAS ONLY WINDING YOU UP! THE BIZZIES NEVER SAW THAT, I TOOK IT MYSELF! PICK UP A FARE AT 18 BRANDON TERRACE.
Ah looks at ma shorn heid in the cab mirror. Then ah batters it oaf the dashboard: FUCKIN PRICK. Thuv done it now: that’s them taken everything oaffay me! They might as well take the fuckin cab n aw. Fuck his fare.
Ah’m drivin around aimlessly, can barely look at ma heid in the mirror, n ah cannae think ay anything else tae dae but head doon tae the sauna. Kelvin’s thaire, lookin at ays wi a nasty smirk oan ehs face. Ah’m bettin The Poof’s been oantae him, but eh doesnae say nowt aboot that cause thaire’s mair pressin stuff. — Polis wir doon here again, eh sneers, — askin aboot Jinty.
— Aye? What wir they sayin?
— Same shite. Officially reported missin, so thuv goat tae investigate. Ah wisnae here, ah jist goat in. He looks around at some ay the lassies. Andrea’s thaire, n this new lassie Kim, young, anxious-lookin. — They telt them aw they ken, which is basically nowt, ay.
— Hud Vic oan the phone a wee while ago.
Kelvin’s bottom lip trembles. — What are you tryin tae say?
— You should fuckin well cool it wi the lassies.
Eh sort ay swallays aw harsh. — What business is it ay yours?
— Vic made it ma fuckin business, ah tell the cunt, — ah’m fuckin watchin you. Take a fuckin tellin.
Eh goes tae say something, then stoaps, n pits that dopey smile back on ehs coupon again. — Nice haircut. New image?
Ah turns away fae him, fightin doon ma rage. The cunt’s lookin at that Kim burd n nods at her, takin her intae one ay the rooms. As they depart Andrea glares at ays like ah should stoap it. What the fuck can ah dae, but? Ah hing aboot fir a bit, but it’s torture, seein aw they lassies here, n aw they mingin johns, n kennin whit thir daein in they fuckin rooms. Ah’m at the end ay ma tether now. Ah kin understand, through the ridin, what Suicide Sal meant aboot her art: if somethin that important tae ye gits taken away, what’s the fuckin point ay gaun oan? It’s whae ye fuckin are. Fuck knows how long ah kin live withoot a ride. But fuck aw that toppin masel; if ah go doon, ah’m gaunny make sure thit Kelvin n The Poof ur fuckin well gaun doon wi ays. Ah’ve nowt tae fuckin well lose.
Ah’m just headin oot, gaun up the steps fae the basement tae the street, when they two wide-looking cunts come oot a Volvo. For a split second ah think they might be fae a rival mob, maybe Power’s boys, cause they look like they mean business. Ah try no tae make eye contact, but ah cannae really avoid them. Then ah realises that thir polis. One huds up his ID. — We’re looking for a Kelvin Whiteford.
— Eh’s in thaire, ah tell them, pointin tae the door. Ah opt tae stick aboot as the cops steam straight in, and in nae time they’re haulin Kelvin oot, intae the car at the top ay the steps. Kelvin’s in his tracky bottoms and vest, the cunt was caught oan the joab! He looks at me as if ah’ve fuckin grassed um up. Ah’m aboot tae git the fuck oot ay thaire, when one ay the detective boys goes, — And you are?
— Terry Lawson, ay.
— We’d be obliged if you could wait inside, Mr Lawson. We need tae speak to you.
— Ah dinnae really work here but, ah jist come in occasionally. Like as a sortay supervisor, no a punter. Never peyed fir it in ma –
— All the same, if you wouldn’t mind, the boy says, ehs voice insistent, as Kelvin gies ays an open-moothed stare, the coppers cartin him away.
Well, ah’m eywis tempted tae bolt when the polis come oan the scene, but in this case ah thought fae the off that it might be better tae cooperate n find oot what the fuck’s gaun oan. — Sound, ah goes, steppin back inside and sittin down in the waitin area, checkin ma emails oan the cheeky phone. Ah cannae bring masel tae check the Facebook page, and huvnae for months, as ma links tae the scud movies eywis bring in new, game rides.
They polis talk tae some ay the lassies first, settin up a kind ay interview room in one ay the knockin chambers. When it’s ma turn, ah tell them that aw ah kin dae is echo what some ay the girls had telt ays, that Kelvin was aggressive and ‘up tae nae good’ with some ay them. The boys ur daein the Edinburgh Polis version ay good cop–bad cop, which
is shite cop–worse cunt, but as Ronnie might say: ‘This ain’t ma first rodeo.’
— Did his behaviour towards the women upset you? the cunt wi the implorin face asks. Shite Cop.
— Aye, ah pulled him up aboot it, n ah also let The P—Victor ken aboot it.
— Victor Syme, the proprietor of this fine establishment, Worse Cunt sneers. — So how do you get in touch with him?
— Ah dinnae, he gits in touch wi me.
Shite Cop nods. — Do you mind if I see the contacts list on your phone?
— Be my guest, n ah hand it ower, and he scrawls doon. Of course, there’s nae Vic Syme on the list amid literally thousands ay lassies.
He hands it tae Worse Cunt, who shakes ehs heid, then the baw-faced fucker says, — You have an interesting CV, Mr Lawson: football hooliganism, housebreaking, pornography – and now pimping.
Ah pits ma hands up in the surrender position. — Nae pimping. Supervision ay management staff only. N ah must stress that Vic isnae ma boss, just an old school pal ah’m helpin oot. He didnae trust Kelvin, and wanted ays tae keep an eye on him. Ah work for masel. The taxis, ay.
Worse Cunt snorts like a bull, flingin back his heid, that doubtful expression like a tattoo oan ehs coupon. Ah ken that the lassies will have already verified ma story, but ye huv tae stey vigilant roond these fuckers. Maist cops have nae real concept ay innocence. Part ay them believes that everybody they pull in is guilty, if no ay the particular crime under investigation, then ay something. It’s simply a matter ay, if no attitude, then training. If yir schooled tae detect crime, ye became totally fuckin useless at discerning its absence. — I sincerely doubt you’ll be seeing either of them again for a while, Shite Cop sais under his breath, a sort ay grudgin concession.
Ah tips a curt nod back, takin this tae mean that Kelvin could be charged with wee Jinty’s murder.
— The boyfriend, the wee fellow, John MacKay . . . Worse Cunt raises the eyebrows in his poker face.
— Hermless, ah goes, watchin Worse Cunt’s face pill intae something like bland agreement. — Doubt he had a Scooby what she wis up tae. For a living, likes. If ye ask me, he’s the real victim in aw ay this.