A Decent Ride

  — Wir jist daein it fir a wee minute, Terry’s noddin at ays. — Thaire’s something inside it that ah want tae see. Jist a quick peek.

  — A quick peek, ah goes. — Bit we cannae dae that, it’s wrong, sur, aye it is –

  — Listen, Jonty, ah really need ye tae trust me here, mate. Ah’m no gaunny dae nowt wrong, ah’m no gaunny interfere wi the body. It’s an auld pa . . . thaire’s jist something ah need tae see, n something ah need tae leave for um. Eh shakes the Adidas bag. — It’s awright if ye dinnae touch anything, Jonty. Ah’m no touchin nowt, no stealin nowt. Ah jist need tae see something. Will ye help ays, ma wee pal?

  Ah jist nods cause Kind Terry’s different fae the rest. Eh doesnae laugh at ays. Naw sur, eh does not. — Is it something eh wis buried wi? ah goes, thinkin aboot a watch, or a ring.

  — Aye, that’s it, mate, Terry sais.

  — N yir no gaunny take it?

  — Ah promise ye, ah certainly am not!

  Kind Terry’s ey good tae me. So ah jist smiles n goes, — Barry! Lit’s dae it!

  — Good man, Jonty, yir a good mate, pal, n eh grips ma shoodir. — A real brother, eh sais, aw sortay upset n sad, but happy tae, n ah still sortay want tae tell um aboot Jinty, but it’s no really the time. Naw it is not.

  So ah feel aw warm in ma hert, like the other wey whaire it’s aw different fae a bad hert. N wir workin away, aye sur, we surely are! Wi take oaf the turf first, bein awfay careful, cuttin it away in neat sections, then wir baith diggin at the soil underneath. It comes away easy at first but then it’s harder, n even though it’s cauld, wir sweatin away in this ditch. Terry lights up a fag. — Should’ve brought a wee flask ay tea, ah goes. — If ah’d kent it wis gaunny be aw this work, ah’d’ve goat oor Karen tae make a wee flask ay tea. Aye sur, flask ay tea.

  — Ah really appreciate this, Jonty, Terry sais. — Yir a true friend. Ma life’s been turned upside doon, pal. Ah’ve got this hert problem . . . ah shouldnae really be daein this diggin . . . ah cannae afford the luxury ay stress. No wi this hert.

  — Lit me, Terry, lit me finish . . .

  — Yir a true friend, wee man . . .

  N ah’m daein it, aye, scoopin up the earth n jist diggin, diggin, diggin . . .

  Terry’s watchin me, gaun, — Yir a good lad, Jonty . . . everything’s crazy, ken? Ah dinnae ken who ah am any mair. Ye ken that feelin?

  — Aye sur, aye sur, ah goes, still diggin, cause ah do n aw.

  — This no gittin a ride . . . it sends ye crazy . . . ah’m jist no masel, mate . . . ah dinnae ken whae ah am. Ah’m huvin what ma mate Rab Birrell calls an ‘existential crisis’, Jonty. Ah used tae think it wis just snobby student pish but thaire’s nae other words fir ma predicament . . . cunt, ah’m fuckin well even soundin like um now . . .

  — Soundin like um, aye sur, aye sur . . . ah goes, still diggin, diggin n diggin . . .

  — Thaire wis this one book, Jonty, by this boy that reckoned wi wir aw jist matter in motion, like protons, neutrons n electrons, but wi a consciousness, Terry’s gaun oan, aye eh is sur, but then ma spade hits something solid. He hears it and jumps intae the ditch wi us n wir diggin the earth offay yon coffin. Much wee-er thin muh ma’s, aye it’s that awright, sur, much wee-er.

  Terry’s goat a screwdriver in eh’s hand n ehs openin the screws oan the coffin. Ah dinnae like this cause ah kin feel rustlin. It’s like the sound ye make standin oan deid autumn leaves n it’s comin fae inside the coffin. Worse thin that, the coffin lid’s aw hoat . . . — Terry, ah’m feart . . . it’s like thaire’s something alive in thaire . . . it’s aw warm . . .

  — Aye, ah kin feel the heat oaf this coffin, Terry goes, — but dinnae worry, pal, it’s wi him decomposin, it’s the energy wi him breakin doon, nowt tae worry aboot but, ay.

  — Nowt tae worry aboot . . .

  — Ah jist hope thaire’s something left, eh sais, n eh’s prisin at they brass snibs at the side.

  It snaps open, and eh slides the lid aside a bit and the smell . . . naw sur, ah dinnae like this . . . worse thin Jinty, much worse thin ma wee Jinty . . . Ah huds ma nose but it’s like it goes intae yir mooth n poisons ye aw ower, still, aye sur . . . aw sur, aw naw, ah dinnae like this. Terry’s goat they gauze masks that cyclists sometimes wear in toon, n eh’s gied me one tae pit oan, so ah does n it’s better. Thaire’s still that creepin, rustling sound comin fae the boax but. Terry pills the lid oaf n aw they flies swarm oot. Ma eyes ur waterin, n whin they clear ah sees thaire’s an auld man in a suit wi a face thit’s grey n rid n blue.

  — Jesus fuck . . . Terry says, lookin at the boy’s eyes. — Ehs blue eyes . . . thir away . . .

  Terry’s right . . . thaire’s nae eyes. It’s like thuv eaten ehs eyebaws oot! Thaire like they things wi hatched at skill. — The lava goat um . . .

  — Larvae . . . fly larvae . . . Terry says. — Shine the torch here, eh goes tae ays, n thir aw white n slitherin where thuv eaten ehs eyebaws oot, n thir comin oot ay his mooth n ears n nose n aw! Aw sur, ah dinnae like this, naw sur, naw sur.

  Then Terry bends ower um, n eh’s unzippin the boy’s flies on ehs troosers! — What ur ye daein, Terry? ah sais, sortay through the mask, but eh kin hear ays.

  — It’s awright, buddy, eh sais, ehs eyes aw blazin ower the toap ay the mask, n eh unbuckles the belt . . . aw the smell, even through the mask. Ah tries tae turn away, ah does that, sur, but it aw comes up, the frozen pizza Karen made, pushin the mask aside, aw ower ays.

  — Jonty, watch, ya dirty wee cunt, yir gittin it oan ehs suit, Terry shouts at ays. — Respect fir the fuckin deid but, mate! N eh’s taken the deid boy’s troosers doon n eh’s pillin oot the boy’s wee man . . . ah big wee man . . . n eh goes, aw happy, — That’s a fuckin welt! That’s ma dad, Jonty! That man wis ma faither, n eh pills a hud ay me n lifts up ehs mask n kisses ays oan the heid. Ah cringes, cause ah sees thum comin oot ay the boy’s cherry at the end ay his cock, mair ay they wrigglin fly maggots . . . — Look . . .

  — Aye . . . we’d better git ma faither boxed back up, Terry grins.

  — But what aboot Henry Lawson?

  — That fuckin imposter . . . nivir ma faither. Eh’s yours but, Jonty, so ah’m no sayin nowt aboot um. But ah feel a huge fuckin weight oaf ma shoodirs . . . help ays wi this lid . . .

  — Ye no gaunny pit ehs thing back in?

  — Naw, that boy should be swingin free, plenty fir the maggots n worms tae feed oan whin they work thair wey through yon casket! Buryin cunts in this day n age . . . fuckin mingin . . . mind you, your ma wis cremated n that dinnae work oot sae good . . .

  — Aye, eh’s smellin awfay bad, Terry, aye sur.

  — Aye, but Alec eywis did, ay. The peeve does that. Ah mind whin we went for a pish, he eywis used the shitehoose. Ah thought it wis cause eh wis a sexless jakey, n felt shown up standin next tae ma swingin beauty, but ah kin see now ah wis wrong. He probably suffered fae peever’s erse, n went intae the traps tae sort oot the follay-thru.

  N wi pits the lid back oan n Terry secures the clips. Ah’m suddenly awfay sad. Terry looks at me. — Jonty, yir greetin, what is it, pal?

  — You n me’s no brars any mair, ah sais, but ah’m really thinkin aboot Jinty, surely the flies’ bairn maggots widnae git at her in solid concrete . . .

  Eh pits ehs airm roond ma shoodirs. — We’re better thin brars, Jonty. We’re mates. Best mates. Nivir forget that. Brothers ye cannae choose, mates ye kin, n you’re the best, ya wee cunt! N dinnae worry, yuv goat a big fuckin tadger anywey, but it wis yir ma’s side ye goat that oaffay! Guaranteed!

  — But muh ma’s nivir hud a tadger . . .

  — Oan her faither n her brother’s side but, Jonty, that’s whaire the heat thit yir packin comes fae!

  — Aye . . . Jinty ey used tae say . . . but, but how dae you ken that, Terry, how dae ye ken ah’ve goat a big wee boaby man?

  Terry looks a bit pit oot, then sais, — Ah kin size a man a mile away. They could be wearin a suit ay armour n ah’d ken. It’s no the b
ulge, that kin jist be aw the George Bernard Shaws or the cut ay the trooser. It’s no the feet or the hands or the nose. It’s aw in the walk, eh goes, then laughs. — N the boys at that Pub Wi Nae Name wir talkin aboot it!

  — Talkin aboot it, ah goes. Ah’ll bet they wir makin fun ay ma boaby again. Well, serves thum right fir thair burnt faces! Aye it does!

  — Too right! Now lit’s git this earth shovelled back!

  N wi dae, aye sur, dae wi no but! Wir kickin the piles doon, then shovellin, n shovellin n shovellin, n it’s gaun back a loat easier thin it came up! Ah sais that tae Terry, ah goes, — It’s gaun doon quicker thin it came up!

  Terry goes back, — It’s eywis the wey, pal, n eh isnae wrong. Naw sur, eh is not. Bit ah dinnae tell um that, cause ah ken ah kin go oan a bit sometimes, like Terry sais. Aye sur: oan a bit. Aye. Aye.

  Then ah starts thinkin aboot Jinty again, n aw the bugs that goat Terry’s real faither Alec. Ah goes, — See, if yir real faither Alec wis pit in concrete, Terry, aw the bugs couldnae eat him like that, no if eh wis cased in concrete but, ay-no, Terry?

  — Depends, if ye pit um in the concrete right away he’d be awright, but if ye left um oot, for even an ooir or so, the flies wid lay thair eggs . . .

  N ah’m greetin, thinkin aboot that fly gaun in n oot ay Jinty’s mooth n thinkin aboot Jinty wi nae eyes, aw sur, naw sur, naw sur . . .

  — What’s wrong, pal?

  Ah want tae tell um, but ah cannae, ah cannae, cause it wisnae ma fault, she jist fell back. It wis like what happened tae her ma, like Karen sais, it wis what Maurice said when eh found her ma in bed. The name whin something bad happens tae the brain. A brain haemorrhoid. It wis like a light switch gaun oaf, Maurice ey used tae say, she didnae suffer. Jinty wis the same wey. Ah cannae tell anybody but, cause they wid find oot she took that bad stuff and ah ken they wid blame me, aye sur, they wid cause they eywis huv, fae way back tae the skill n real faither Henry hittin ays. But ah cannae tell Terry how it is ah’m greetin so ah jist goes, — It’s awfay sad, the bugs daein that tae yir faither, Terry . . . it’s no right . . .

  — Aye, yir much better oaf cremated, mate. But that’s jist his remains, Jonty. He’s away, at peace now. So dinnae distress yirsel.

  — Like heaven?

  — Aye, ah suppose so, Terry sais, sortay thinkin, then goes, — If thaire’s endless rivers ay peeve n loads ay big hooses wi nae security cameras in heaven, eh sortay chuckles.

  — Will ma Jinty be in heaven n aw, Terry?

  — Ah dunno, pal, Terry goes, n eh looks right at ays, — if she’s broon breid, aye. But dinnae upset yirsel, she’s maist likely jist taken off.

  — Aye . . . aye . . . aye . . . aye . . . went oan a wee trip . . . ah sais, thinkin aboot Jinty gittin oan a tram but yin thit’s like that train in Harry Potter. But instead ay gaun tae a posh school for wizards, Jinty wid be ridin yon tram right tae the gates ay heaven. In a white dress, likes, cause she sortay deserves a white dress. Aye sur. Then wir ower thon waw, much easier fae this side, n wir ootay that graveyard, aye wi are, n back in the cab n oot tae Penicuik. Ah’m still thinkin ay Jinty n goes, — Bawbag did aw this, Terry, it wis Bawbag thit took ma Jinty away . . .

  Terry’s jist drivin oan but, no even turnin roond. — Aye, it wis eftir that she went, right enough . . .

  — Bawbag n they trams . . . they took hur . . .

  — Ye cannae blame that yin oan the trams, Terry goes, — ah ken they get it for everything, Jonty, but ye cannae blame the trams fir Jinty vanishin!

  — But thi’ll take hur, aye they will, aw the wey up tae heaven, ah tell um.

  — Aye, mibbe they will, ma wee pal. Mibbe thi’ll take aw ay us thaire in a big magic tram.

  — It’ll be like heaven at Hampden the morn, Terry, whin Herts win the Cup!

  — Aye, in yir dreams, wee man, eh laughs n pills up ootside the hoose. Terry’s a good lad for a Hibby; it proves thit thir no aw mingin tramps that live in caravans. Ah kent yins at the skill thit wirnae bad, when muh ma lit ays go tae the skill. Aye sur: the skill.

  So ah gits hame intae the hoose n it’s the big game the morn, aye sur, oan the radio, the telly, aw the papers. Aye. Ah’m too excited tae sleep so ah reads back through the auld Herts programmes, n some Hibs yins. Ah’ve got twinty-two ay thum binded thegither in this book, aye sur, fir the run ay unbeaten games. Gary MacKay. Hank goat it done n gied it tae ays fir ma birthday a while back. N ah pray tae God wi the book n ma hands tae beat the dirty Hobos, cause thir intruders, like Hank sais, thir no really fae here, n it should be Herts n Spartans, like two Prawstint Edinburgh teams, tae make it mair like Scotland. No a bunch ay Irish gypsies . . . but it’s awfay wrong tae say that, cause it’s what Barksie n that sais n aw. Cause Kind Terry n me help each other. N Jim at the skill, before ah stoaped gaun, he wis good n aw. So some Hibbies are kind. So ah prays again fir God tae cancel the last prayer then ah prays again fir Herts tae win. That’s another two prayers makin three prayers awthegither; ah’m thinkin it’s a waste cause ah could huv done it aw in one, but ah’m takin oot the bits that mean yuv goat a bad hert.

  Cause ah’ve no goat a bad hert. Naw sur, cause ah ken what’s inside ma ain hert. Aye ah dae.

  Ah’m in the hoose but ah cannae stey in the hoose, n ah sais that tae Karen, ah sais ah cannae stey in the hoose, no wi the Cup final oan! She sais ah’ve goat tae watch it oan the telly. — But Hank’s goat me a ticket n a seat oan the Penicuik bus, ah tell hur, — Aye, the Penicuik bus.

  — Bit ah’m worried thit thi’ll pit ye away! Fir hur! That Jinty!

  — Ah’ve been oot but, Karen, oot since then. Aye, ah’ve been oot a few times, since muh ma’s funeral, ah sais tae her.

  — But that’s jist been tae paintin joabs, that n the hoaspital, n the gowf wi Terry, she sais. — No in a public place! It’s different in a public place, wi polis n cameras! Watch it oan the telly but, Jonty, Karen sort ay begs, — We’ve goat too much tae lose!

  — Only you kens but, Karen, ah tell hur. — Ye see, Hank phoned n ah picked it up n eh kens ah’m back hame, n eh sais eh’s goat a ticket for ays. Aye, a ticket. Wi Malky n that. Oan the Penicuik bus, but no they yins fae The Pub Wi Nae Name, ah’ll no see thaim thaire!

  Karen’s mooth turns doon n she stares at the fireplace. — Okay, Jonty, jist this once, but you watch it at that match. Dinnae git mixed up wi nae Hibs casuals. That Juice Terry, eh’s a guid laugh but ah’ve heard things aboot um in the toon, she goes.

  — Naw naw naw, ah will not, naw sur, naw naw naw, but Terry’s no a Hibs casual. Eh’s a Hibs supporter, aye, but eh widnae dae anything bad like the Hibs casuals.

  — Ah hear things, she goes, then heads away ben the kitchen.

  So ah’m aw excited but ah surprise masel by sleepin barry-barry. Aye ah did. Fair play tae Karen, she makes ays an egg roll, n a bacon yin, but no a black puddin yin like Jinty used tae dae for ays, naw sur, she did not. But it’s Penicuik n it’s different fae the city, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, Penicuik, aye sur. Aye. So ah goes doon tae the main street n gits oan the Penicuik bus. N it’s barry-barry whin we passes the Hibs bus oan the other side ay the road. Ah stick the vees up but ah sees Jim McAllan oan the bus, so ah jist turns it intae a wave.

  Eh laughs back at ays. Aye. Jim McAllan. Penicuik. Aye sur.

  It takes an awfay long time tae git there, even leavin early, aye sur, cause thaire’s that much traffic, but wi gits tae this pub near the ground thit thuv booked up. Aye, booked it aw up. Wir drinkin beer n singin ‘Hearts, Glorious Hearts’, ‘We’ll Support You Ever More’, ‘Hello, Hello, We Are the Gorgie Boys’ n ‘My Way’, but the Herts version, which is barry, but ah dinnae ken aw the words tae it, naw sur. N ‘Rudi Skacel’s a Fuckin Goal Machine’, ‘Oh the Hibees Are Gay’ n ‘Na Na Na Na Na Na Na Na Na Na Na Paulo Sergio, Sergio, Paulo Sergio’. Aye, we sing aw that.

  The game’s barry, it’s like jist the best day ay ma life! Well, mibbe the time ah first went hame wi Jinty that night n split hur right up the middle, bu
t Herts score five! The Hobos only git yin, n they got a man sent oaf! N the referee even gies us a penalty ootside the boax! Hank’s huggin me, n wir in tears ay joy as the cup’s bein lifted up, n it’s aw good till we’re comin oot n ah sees some boys fae The Pub Wi Nae Name. Evan Barksie sees me, face aw burnt like ehs brar Craig, n looks intae ma eye, but disnae say nowt. Aye, ehs face, aw burnt doon one side, like this plastic Action Man ah hud that ah once left by the electric fire. Real faither Henry belted ays fir that, eh said, ‘Dinnae leave plastic sodjirs beside the fire, d’ye ken how much they things cost?!’ Funny but, it being me that burnt one Barksie twin’s puss, n muh ma that burnt the other yin! Aye sur, aye aye aye!

  A couple ay boys ah sortay recognise nudge Evan Barksie, but ah’m no feart ay thaim cause ah’m wi the boys fae the Cuik! Even if ah steyed in Gorgie at one time n miss the McDonald’s. Ye kin stuff Gorgie!

  We’re aw too happy tae start fightin now anywey, cause ye couldnae start fightin now, well, mibbe the Hobos could, but thir aw away hame! Ah sais that tae Hank, ah goes, — The Hobos’ll aw be hame by now, Hank!

  — Aye, they surely will, Jonty, he goes back. — Aw hame n greetin thair eyes oot!

  So it’s an awfay guid laugh back tae the bus, but then ah thinks ay Jinty n how ah hope the maggots didnae eat hur eyes oot cause she widnae be able tae look doon fae heaven n see us hudin up the cup. Ah’m greetin back oan the bus thinkin aboot it. Hank pits ehs airm roond ma shoodir n goes, — Aye, it’s an emotional occasion awright, Jonty.

  46

  THE SNARLING FUDS OF MAY

  WHENEVER AH WALK down they old closes ay the Royal Mile and the Grassmarket, ah git aw caught up in the romance ay the history ay it aw. Ah think ay the generations ay knee-tremblers that must have took place in this labyrinth. The swaggerin hard men n the screamin lassies, the spilled claret n cracked bones: aw that pish, spunk, snotter and shite. Aw that DNA lost and half-forgotten names washed away by the relentless cauld rain that sprays this fuckin city. But those fuckin steps, oh how they still glisten like cum-soaked nipples . . . naw, no that, like . . .