A Decent Ride

  — Jesus fuck . . .

  — Of course, eh didnae recognise me, it wis that long ago, n he wis in a right mess. Ah didnae say nowt, cause ah wis shocked tae see um in ma hoose, n my Walter wis still thaire. N yis wir only in for a minute, baith ay yis as drunk as lords, wi nae word ay sense fae yir mooths. Aye, eh looked a mess, but ah’d never forget they blue eyes. Ah’d mind ay thaim anywhere, n her bottom lip quivers, like she’s been visited by a fuckin phantom orgasm fae half a century ago!

  — Naw . . . no Post Alec. No ma auld mate . . . naw . . .

  — Aye, son. Ah realised that you n him wir close mates, n eh wis a total alkie, so ah thoat, just let sleepin dugs lie.

  — No fuckin way! Ye let that auld jakey cunt ride ye! A schoolgirl! That fuckin auld . . . eh eywis said ma faither – that cunt Henry – wis aulder than him . . . cunt . . . fuckin auld lyin jakey cunt!

  — Dinnae be crude, son, thaire’s nae need! Eh wis jist a young laddie, n eh wis soakin wet. So ah asked um in for a cup ay tea, ay. Tae dry oaf some ay his wet clathes by the fire. Well, we goat talkin, n one thing led tae another . . .

  — What . . . naw . . . this is fucked . . . this is totally fucked, ah goes, ma phone’s burnin in ma poakit, the photaes ah took ay Alec in the hoose, ehs rid coupon, frozen bluey-purple in thon block ay ice . . .

  — When eh goat up oot the bed eftir, ah thought eh wis just going tae the toilet. Then ah thought eh’d sneaked oot ay the hoose. So ah goat up masel n ah caught um gaun through some stuff in my ma and dad’s room. I was scared I’d get intae trouble, so I shouted at him tae get oot. Even threw his mailbag oot intae the stair!

  — That’s the fuckin pocklin, chorryin auld cunt awright . . .

  Muh ma’s face seems tae cave intae her neck, like somebody’s jist whipped oot her boatum jaw. — Ye kin imagine how it wis whin ah fell pregnant wi you. Ah kent nearly right way, or at least ah thoat it wis a possibility, she says, now soundin aw strong and defiant, her shoodirs back n spine straight, like the confession’s instantly lifted years oaf her. — It wis ma very first time. Well, ah thoat, ah’d better be gie Henry his rations, so ah did that night. Eh’d probably been tellin everybody eh’d been daein it for long enough, so whin ah telt um ah hud fell pregnant, eh hud nae reason tae suspect. N thaire wis nae need tae throw everybody’s life intae a turmoil. For me, it wid huv meant bringin a bairn up oan ma ain!

  — Instead ay two, cause the cunt banged ye up wi oor Yvonne, then shot the fuckin craw!

  She looks aw sad. — But at least ah found ma Walter though. That wis mair ay a man thin aw they wasters pit thegither, she says aw wistfully. Then she turns back tae me, she’s gabbin away but ah cannae make it oot cause ma heid’s fuckin swimmin . . . that mean’s that Stevie n me . . . that Maggie n me . . .

  — But ah think part ay Henry eywis suspected deep doon thit you wirnae his. He used tae eywis be oan at ye, yir hair n that, which ye git fae ma side anyway. He nivir treated ye like a first-born son.

  — This is a fuckin mess! Fuckin liar! ah shouts, risin, n ah storms oot, ignorin her beggin n shoutin oan ays tae come back.

  Ah gits in the motor n ah’m drivin around, ma hand shakin oan the wheel, no kennin what the fuck ah’m daein. Eventually, aw ah kin think ay is gaun roond tae see Maggie. Ah need tae be fuckin well sure. So ah gits up tae her place at Ravy Dykes. Ah’m tellin her nowt, jist askin her, — Huv ye goat any ay Alec’s auld stuff? ah asks, thinkin aboot DNA.

  — Aye, she goes. — Want tae come in for a wee cup ay tea? She’s back at the uni . . .

  — Naw, yir awright, ah goes. N ah looks at hur n feels the tears well up in ma eyes, so ah huds her in an embrace. — Look, Maggie, it disnae feel right us daein aw that stuff. Alec wis like . . . an uncle tae me as much as you. Lit’s jist be friends.

  — Friends is it now? She arches her brow as she pills away. — Aw aye, that’s a good yin.

  Jesus Christ, she’s a fuckin blood cousin! Now she’s gaun oan aboot how lonely she is, and how things urnae easy.

  — Ah git that, ah tell hur, — but ah need a wee favour. Ye got any pictures ay Alec?

  — Funny, but I’ve had some photographs scanned and digitalised. I’ll email you some.

  Ah’m delighted wi that, n ah leaves her disappointed, like ah seem tae dae wi every fucker, just in a different wey now. But ah’m gled tae be back in the motor. It’s been no bad a day, but all of a sudden it’s pishin doon, so ah stoaps for these two youngish cunts. They climbs in the back. — Wester Hailes, mate.

  They start talkin, aw loud, n it’s startin tae dae ma fuckin nut in. — That yin’s a dirty hoor, takes it fuckin aw weys. Mark rode her –

  — The Rohypnol Kid. Calm thum n ram thum!

  — Stun thum n bum thum!

  Ah’m just aboot tae switch oaf the speakerphone when ma blood runs cauld.

  — . . . tell ye what but, she’s no as bad as that Donna Lawson, ken her wi the curly mop?

  — Course ah ken her, wuv aw been up her!

  Fuckin . . .

  — That’s a total pump, a fuckin cow ay the highest order. She telt that six-a-side team that they hud tae aw go through her twice, cause they wirnae proper fitba team numbers . . . ya cunt . . .

  N ah’m thinkin aboot the time when Vivian held that wee lassie oot tae me, n ah took her in my airms n kissed her wee heid . . . the declarations ah made aboot what she wid become, how she’d ey be loved n looked eftir . . . the empty fuckin bullshit declarations . . .

  . . . n ah screeches tae a halt, cowpin the cunts forward in their seats, speedin away, before turnin oaf at Sighthill intae the deserted industrial estate.

  — What the fuck, man!

  — Hi! Driver! Whaire the fuck ye gaun?

  — Trams. Depot construction. Re-routing, ah sais, no lookin back.

  — That’s shite . . . the depot’s at the Maybury . . . what’s the fuckin score?!

  Ah pills the baseball bat oot fae under the seat. N ah only dae that tae stoap maself fae pickin up the knife that’s thaire an aw. Huds it in ma fist and shakes it. — This is the fuckin score. Ye insulted the wrong person, in the wrong cab.

  — What? Mate, look –

  — Ah’m no yir fuckin mate.

  Ah floors it, zooms fifty yards n breks. Again. Again. Again. Ah kin hear thair cries, hear thum thumpin in the cab like peas in a whistle. Then ah jumps oot, bat in hand, opens the cab passenger door n gits a hud ay the first yin. Yanks him oot n leathers the cunt oan the wrist as eh raises it tae defend ehsel. Eh screams oot, a high-pitched animal sound, n ah hits him again, acroass the side ay the puss, n eh faws tae the asphalt like a sack ay tatties. Eh’s no movin either. Ah shites it for seconds, then eh groans as claret spills oot ehs heid, but ah’m relieved that eh’s alive.

  The other boy’s screamin, — Naw, man! Ah’m sorry! Please!

  Ah tells um tae git oot, n thit ah’m no gaunny touch um. Eh looks at ays n climbs slowly oot, shakin, his face white. As eh steps oot, ah swings the bat at ehs kneecap, n eh crumples oantae the tarmac in a loud squeal. Eh looks up at ays wi betrayal oan ehs coupon. — It’s called fuckin lyin, ah tell um. Then ah looks tae ehs mate, groanin, tryin tae push ehsel tae ehs feet. — AH’M MEANT TAE BE AVOIDIN STRESS!

  Jumpin in the cab, ah reverses, tae avoid crushin the cunts oan the deck, then pits the cab intae a full-circle turn. As ah drive oot the estate, ah kin see the first boy’s hobbled ower tae his mate n is helpin um up. Tryin tae git ma breathin in order n ma hert rate doon, ah stoaps in a lay-by oan the bypass, lookin at the diary Saskia hud left ays.

  Jinty’s diary.

  It’s maistly jist daft lists but thaire’s some stuff aboot clients, which ah’d laugh aboot if ah wisnae sae tense and moosey-faced. Suppose it gied her a sense ay control, gittin back at thum in that wey. Thaire’s a couple ay pretty nasty entries though: they certainly dinnae show those cunts The Poof n Kelvin in a very good light. Might make interestin readin for some fucker.

  They coppers thit came doon, Sh
ite Cop n Worse Cunt, if ah sent it tae them, they’d jist go through every cunt n ken it wis me whae passed it oan. Then ah mind ay one time me n that cunt Alec goat pilled in fir some questionin aboot a hoosebrekin. Genuinely wisnae even us, kent nowt aboot it. Ah wis shiteing it, like ye always dae when yir totally innocent. Like ye feel it wid be some sort ay karma tae git banged up for yonks fae something ye didnae dae.

  It wis a really fuckin hoat summer’s day. This polis boy wis askin us whaire wi wir n what we’d been up tae. Alec wis relaxed, he hud the alibi n he’s spraffin away wi the boy. Meantime, ah’m lookin ower ma shoodir at this lassie cop sittin at hur desk. Short broon hair page-cut, nowt special tae look at, but wi that white blouse n tight blue skirt, Auld Faithful wis fuckin stirrin. It wis roastin in that cop shop, like the air conditioning wisnae workin, and she pills oot this hanky n mops hur sweaty brow. Felt like a reverse Incredible Hulk. Ken how the boy eywis breks ehs jaykits n T-shirts, but the fuckin troosers ey stey intact? Well, the wey Auld Faithful wis shapin up it wid’ve been the fuckin opposite wi me, the fuckin breks wid huv goat trashed. Ah looked at the gold desk plate: DETECTIVE SERGEANT AMANDA DRUMMOND. Since then ah’ve seen her photae in the news tons ay times, workin a lot wi lassies, victims ay domestic abuse n the like. She’s nae connection tae me, so she’s the yin gittin Jinty’s fuckin diary!

  So ah’m doon the post office, gittin it sent oot tae her, though ah rips oot a couple ay compromisin pages, and that should be another wee nail in that cunt Kelvin’s coffin. That polis burd will show a bit mair empathy wi the lassies than Shite Cop and Worse Cunt, she’ll no be hassling them tae find oot whae sent it anonymously, and anyway, Saskia’ll be well oot the road by then.

  Ah think a wee celebration is called for, n ah heads doon tae The Pub Wi Nae Name. The fire damage hus been pit right by the insurance company; thaire’s a new pool table n jukey. The Barksdale twins are in wi Tony, and thir mair like twins again, cause thuv goat matchin burns on the left-hand side ay thair coupons. Ah git up a pint fae Jake behind the bar, happy tae clock what ah see oan the spirits gantry.

  — You’ve no been in here for a while, stranger, Evan Barksie says in that wide-cunt, accusin wey.

  As if ah’m bothered aboot this fuckin mingin toilet. — Ah’ve popped ma heid in a couple ay times, ay.

  — Well, ah’m gled yir here now, eh goes, — cause we’re needin sorted big time. Wanting 20 Gs, ay.

  — No wey. Ah nivir cairry or deal jailbait amounts.

  — C’moan, Terry, we’re off tae Magaloof, or Shagaloof as it should be fuckin called, for a month at the end ay the week. Ma compo for this came through, n eh pats ehs buckled cheek.

  — Awright, that gies ays a bit ay time. Leave it wi ays, ah’ll see what ah kin dae.

  — Sound.

  Ah kills the Beck’s n goes up tae the bar. Jake’s daein the Sun crossword. — Listen, Jake, ah’m off tae a perty at ma mate’s hoose. Ah’m needin tae buy a boatil ay whisky n ah fell oot wi that cunt at the offie. Widnae gie the fucker the steam oaf ma pish. What ye goat? n ah looks up at the gantry. It’s the usual pub blends ay Bell’s, Teacher’s, Grouse n Johnnie Walker, wi a couple ay shitey malts, they yins that start wi the word ‘Glen’, and a pair ay decent yins in Macallan and Highland Park. And right in between thum, that distinctive Gherkin-shaped boatil.

  Jake’s screwin up ays eyes, n reelin oaf the list.

  — What’s that yin in the funny boatil?

  Jake takes it doon oaf the shelf, n huds it up tae the light. — Bowcullen Trinity . . . nivir heard ay it, n didnae order it. Cunts must huv sent it by mistake. Naebody wants it, the seal’s no even been broke. Probably no worth a sook. Look at that colour, disnae even look like whisky! Should send it back tae the merchants.

  — Ah’ll take it oaf yir hands, ah goes, aw casual, — it’ll be good tae see ma buddy’s coupon, that sort ay ‘what the fuck is this’ look!

  Jake grins, then says, — Thaire’s nae price oan it, n thaire’s nowt oan ma list for it, then eh looks aw hopeful. — What aboot a double score?

  — Forty bar?! Yir huvin a laugh, ya cunt!

  — Thirty?

  — Awright, ah goes, handin ower the thirty sheets n droppin the Gherkin-shaped felly intae ma bag. Ah swaggers oot the pub n intae the cab. Sometimes it really is best tae hide things in plain sight.

  Ah’m sittin wonderin aboot wee Jinty again, whaire is she hidin? Ah looks at one ay the pages ah ripped oot.

  44

  JINTY’S DIARY EXCERPT 1

  I’M USUALLY NOT scared of ANYBODY but that Vic and Kelvin give me the creeps. The other lassies feel the same. I know that Saskia does. They hate it when Vic, and especially Kelvin, want to have sex with us. You really have to pretend that you’re into it with them, otherwise they get all twisted with you. Kelvin put fag burn marks on Saskia’s arm. He’s not tried that with me, but I think that’s cause he knows I’m no single. But you can tell he’s working up to doing something. You can see it in his ferrety wee eyes, hear it from his filthy piglet mouth.

  And Vic put aw his fingers in me the other week. With those rings he wears. I was so sore that I had to tell my wee Jonty that I was feeling a bit sick with a bug I’d picked up at the cleaning. I look at my wee Jonty, sleeping, innocent, like a baby, and I sometimes wonder what I’ve got the both of us into.

  Cause Vic thinks he owns me. He told me yesterday that if I tried to leave he’d have my face messed up so that no other guy would ever want to touch me. And he pulled the razor against my cheek, the flat side. I was fucking shaking all day, and couldn’t sleep that night, thinking about it. My dad knows a lot of people. He was in jail all the time when I was growing up. I feel like telling him, but I’ve heard so many stories about Victor. It’s scary. And worst of all is Kelvin. He’s going to turn out an even bigger bastard than Victor.

  45

  POST PERISHABLES

  KIND TERRY PHONED ays; aye sur, sure eh did. Ah thoat wi wir gaun tae play the gowf again n ah wis fair lookin forward tae it. But naw, eh telt ays thit eh needed ma help wi something eh hud tae dae at night, something secret, aye, he did that, sur. Ah wis gittin ready tae go n Karen sais no tae go oot the hoose, but ah telt ur it wis a wee joab at night. At night jist, Karen, ah goes, wi Kind Terry. Cause Karen likes Kind Terry, when eh comes doon tae take ays oot tae the gowf, he’s the only yin she’ll let intae the hoose. Terry’s no bothered aboot her but!

  Cause ah owe Kind Terry but, aye ah do. Cause when somebody hus been kind tae you, yuv goat tae be kind back tae thaim. N Terry never asks ays any questions aboot Jinty; tell ays nowt, eh eywis sais tae me. Even though ah’d tell um it aw, if it wis up tae me. Aye sur, ah wid that.

  So Terry comes roond tae pick ays up. Ah sees Karen lookin at him. He goes up tae the lavvy n she whispers, — Ah like that Terry, ur you sure eh’s gaun oot wi somebody?

  — Aye eh is, ah sais back.

  Ah ken it’s wrong but Terry’s ma pal, n she did wrong by me but ah’m no littin her dae bad by him, no wi them baith bein fae the spunk that’s in real faither Henry’s auld baws, naw sur. But ye kin tell that Terry’s no interested in that, cause Terry’s good. Ah wish ah could be mair like him.

  Wi leaves tae go intae the motor, aye sur, the big black taxi. Thaire’s two big spades thaire, still in thair Sainsbury’s Homebase wrappin. — Wir gaun diggin, Terry sais.

  Ye kin tell Terry’s no feelin right but, cause eh usually jokes aw the time, but eh’s no jokin aboot, aw serious wi ehs eyes oan the road.

  Ah cannae believe it whin we parks outside the auld graveyard in Pilrig, yon Rosebank Cemetery. Aye. Terry’s goat the spades n eh’s goat this Adidas bag. Aye, a bag meant fir tae play sport wi. The waw beside the cemetery gates is awfay high. Terry pits ehs hands thegither tae boost ays ower the waw, but ah goes, — The waw isnae sae high roond the corner. Naw sur, it is not.

  Terry looks at ays, then moves doon the street n ah follays. Thaire’s naebody aboot, jist yin car thit passes. On Bonnington Road th
e waw is much wee-er than oan Pilrig Street, n Terry nods n ah scurry up, then Terry throws the spades eftir me n climbs ower ehsel. Eh’s bein awfay careful no tae batter the Adidas bag. It’s tricky fir Terry but eh’s sort ay found a bit near the bus stoap wi this wee metal step n eh pushes ehsel up n ah’m helpin um ower. — Thanks, Jonty pal, good spot oan that waw, he goes, dreepin doon tae ooir side. — Thaire’s nae security cameras in here as far as ah ken, ah gied it a good casin fae the inside, but wuv goat tae be quiet.

  So ah whispers, as we walks through the dark graveyard, — Funny fir somebody tae be buried n this day n age, Terry. Aye, funny. Aye sur.

  — It’s some family plot. Ye couldnae cremate this auld cunt, he’d blaw the fuckin place up! Worse thin your ma, Terry goes, then says, — Sorry, ma wee pal.

  — Aye, dinnae worry, ah sais tae Terry, cause yuv goat tae huv a laugh n no be aw serious aw the time. — Thank God for that moonlight or we’d no be able tae see whaire wir gaun, ah goes, but ah still nearly faw oan the uneven path n Terry huds ays up.

  — Watch, mate!

  Terry gits a torch oot ay the Adidas bag, n shines it oan the path. Then wir lookin at aw the graves, n eh shines the light on this stane, wi the boy’s name oan it:

  ALEC RANDOLPH CONNOLLY

  21 August 1943–3 December

  Beloved husband of Theresa May Connolly

  and loving father of Stephen Alec Connolly

  Gaun by the date on the stane the boy’s no long deid. Aye, no long deid at aw. — Did ye bring flooirs? ah goes.

  — Naw, Terry says, then looks at ays aw serious. — Listen, Jonty, ah’m tellin ye the score here, in strict confidence cause ah dinnae want ye freakin oot oan ays. We’re gaunny dig up that coffin and open it up.

  Ah cannae believe ma ears. But Terry isnae jokin! — But, Terry, that’s no right! Naw sur . . .