A Decent Ride (25 page)

— Naw sur, naw sur, naw ah’m not, n we fair huv a laugh at that yin, me n Malky, aye we do, n eh asks eftir muh ma n Karen n Hank, n then eh goes away tae the BMC. Aye, but we fair hud a laugh!

But by the time ah finish ma tea n get doon the road n inside the flat, it feels aw cauld n lonely. Cause the laugh’s aw worn oaf. That’s what happens, ye git a laugh, then the laugh wears oaf n it’s no funny any mair. Cause it’s cauld.

Jinty.

Sorry, Jinty, sorry, darlin, but ah huv tae git ye oot ay the hoose now. Ah’m no wantin the jile, Jinty, cause ay the smell, aw naw sur, naw sur, naw sur, no the jile. Naw, naw, naw, no eftir what happened tae yir ain faither, Maurice, how funny he went.

Ah’ve goat some mince in the fridge fae Morrisons, Jinty, aye sur, some mince sur. The morn ah’ll take oaf the grease n make it wi some peas n mash up some tatties. Hame-cooked meal! Ye cannae eat oot in McDonald’s restaurants aw the time, Jinty, cause yir no wantin people tae think yir aw snobby jist cause yuv goat a joab. N it’s barry tae eat real tatties sometimes. That wis one thing ah ey liked aboot ye Jinty: a loat ay lassies ur awfay lazy in the kitchen but you ey peeled a tattie. Aye, ye wirnae feart tae peel a tattie. If they said tae ays, ‘Is your Jinty a guid cook?’ Ah’d go, ‘Aye, she’s no feart tae peel a tattie, naw sur, she is not.’

Aye, Jinty wis as good as gold, maist ay the time, so she needs tae
be
gold. So ah pits aw the auld newspapers n they plastic bags Ma gied ays, n pit thum doon oan the flair. N then ah lifts Jinty oot the bed n lowers her gently oantae them. Ah goes through n gits the shower cap she ey wore, n pits Jinty’s hair in it soas no as tae git paint oan it. Jinty wis ey fussy aboot her hair. Then ah starts sprayin slowly. First her heid in the shower cap, then ower her face, her neck, her airms, tits, belly, then another can, her thighs, knees, shins n feet. Ah does as much ay the sides as ah kin git. Then ah brings the heater through n switches it oan fill, so that the paint’ll dry.

Ah goes n watches ma DVD ay
Heathers
, cause thaire’s barry lassies in it. Sort ay barry lassies that wear black. But ah saw yin ay thum that wis aw aulder now, but in another fullum. Still wearin black, but. Then ah watches
Close Encounters
. We ey used tae say: di-di-di-di-di, me n Jinty, at the end. When ah goes back through, Jinty’s dry n looks barry. Ah turns hur ower n does the other side ay hur. Ah watches
Born on the 4th of July
then
Platoon.
It’s guid that people watch war fullums. If everybody watched war fullums they’d aw see thit war wis wrong n no fight any mair. That’s what’s wrong: too many fullums aboot peace. It disnae gie folk enough chances tae see wi thair ain eyes how wrong war is. Naw sur, it does not.

When ah gits back tae the bedroom Jinty’s nice n dry. She looks barry aw gold. Like a statue, but like Jinty still. But it’s still too early, so ah goes through aw ma Bond movies but ah cannae find the yin whaire the lassie’s gold, so ah jist watches
Thunderball
, which is awfay auld but good still.

Eftir it’s finished it’s aw late n ah looks oot the windae. Thaire’s naebody oot oan the street n hardly even a motor passin. So ah wraps her gold body up inside the Herts duvet cover, the yin we goat fae the Herts shoap last Christmas, n takes her doon the stair. Goat her by the ankles n jist pillin her behind ays. If anybody comes now ah’m done fur! Even if it is four in the morning thaire must be boys oan shifts n that. But she’s smellin bad, ah huv tae git rid ay hur. Ah cannae look roond cause ah ken her heid’s bumpin, n ah dinnae like that, nae sur, ah dinnae, but ah’ve goat tae git her oot ay the hoose n make it aw like she nivir came back eftir Bawbag.

We git tae the bottom ay the stair n ah goes tae the back green n gits that wheelbarry. Ah eases her doon intae it n takes hur doon the road. The rain is like needles. Ah’m pushin the barry n it’s aw cauld, frozen rain lashin at ma face n stingin ma hands oan the grip ay the barry. It gits the Herts duvet aw wet n ye kin see the outline ay Jinty’s boady mair. Ah’m no sayin ah’m no bothered aboot that, but ah’m mair bothered aboot ma hands, cause ah wish ah’d pit gloves oan. It’s awfay cauld n the rains like aw sleety n it’s nippin ays, aye sur, nippin ays like hell. The streets are empty, then a car goes past, n ah git
extreme spiders in the chist
, but it disnae stoap.

It’s deserted but thi’ll be folk hingin aboot at Haymarket n ah cannae risk gaun yon wey, naw sur, ah cannot. So ah’m gaun the back wey, hur in the Herts duvet cover, aw curled up. It’s hard work n aw, but ah gits roond tae the back ay the station n tae whaire they tramlines are. Thaire’s a fence but it’s goat a gap, so ah gits through first, then ah sort ay drags Jinty through behind ays. It gits hard but ah realise it’s cause ay the Herts duvet gittin caught oan the fence. Ah’m lookin aroond fir the best place tae leave hur, n ah drags hur acroass this ground wi lumps ay concrete n bricks.

We gits tae the bridge bit, n ah looks right doon thaire n that’s whaire Jinty’s gaun. So ah cowps her intae the big hole wi the widden boax sides n they steel poles inside it. As she faws it’s like ma hert stoaps beatin but whin ah looks she’s went right doon tae the bottom ay the boax, n missed aw they metal spikes. Aw sur, that fair makes ays gled cause it wid huv been awfay, awfay biscuits if she’d landed on they spears. Thir dug oot deep doon, ye kin hardly see her, jist a bit ay gold oan her airm thit’s come oot fae under the Herts duvet. So ah gits back doon tae the boatum ay the bridge n looks intae the hole the spikes came oot ay. Then ah starts fillin it wi rubble, kickin piles ay it doon oan toap ay hur, coverin her up. Then ah sais ‘Cheerio, hen’ n ah goes hame.

Ah’m hopin thi’ll jist tip the concete right ower her, but ah ken thi’ll probably find her.

Ah’m circlin roond tae go back the other way, oan that big wide road, n ah come oot at Haymarket n then this taxi stoaps.

CUNT, THIS NO
gittin a ride is fuckin well drivin me nuts. Real fuckin nuts, but: voices-in-the-heid nuts, dark-fuckin-thoughts nuts – the whole-fuckin-loat nuts. So ah’m daein as much backshift as ah kin, drinkin they poofy caffeinated teas tae keep awake n tae distract masel. There’s fuck all at this time ay the night and year, it’s mair shift workers n no sae many scantily dressed burds aroond tae torture ye. Except probably Standard Life staff: they can strike any time.

Yisterday wis bad enough, huvin tae make a statement tae the polis aboot the whisky. Then they asked ays tae come doon tae the station at the South Side, n go ower it. — When was the last time you actually saw the bottle of whisky, Mr Lawson?

Ah telt the copper – an aulder boy wi a big sack ay flesh like a huge bawbag under his chin – that ah’d only set eyes oan it once, wi Ronnie, n that wis at the Bowcullen Distillery, when it wis still in its display case. Ah never actually saw it that day on the links, just Morty comin along wi the bag. Cunt could’ve hud a boatil ay Tesco’s shite or fuck all in that bag for aw ah kent, ay. Boy seemed satisfied wi that, or as much as any polis cunt could ever be.

Eftir ah had a wee rundoon tae Liberty Leisure. Nae word aboot Jinty, n they seem tae huv gied up oan her. Went fir a coffee wi Saskia, then back tae ma kip (oan ma ain, torture but, eftir spendin aw that time wi a fit burd), tryin tae git some Zs in before gaun oot at night. Ah goat a phone call, didnae recognise the number, probably a call boax, but ah kent the voice right away. — Get rid, was aw it said, before the line went deid.

Ah’m headin doon Balgreen Road n ah sees this wee cunt up ahead pushin a big aluminium wheelbarry, turnin oantae Gorgie Road. Fuck sakes, it’s that dippit wee Jonty! Ah pills up alongside um. Eh looks up at ays, sort ay worried at first, then eh’s aw smiles whin eh sees it’s me. — Jonty! What’s up wi the barry, mate?

— Ah’m takin it back, back tae ma bit, aye sur, that ah am.

— Awright? ah goes. The perr wee cunt’s wearin a T-shirt n a thin wee jaykit n eh’s soaked n shiverin. — Ye look freezin, mate. Jump in. Ah’ve goat the meter oaf! C’moan. Where ur we gaun?

— Jist doon the road, Terry sur, then eh points to the big barry. — Ye dinnae mind a wheelbarry in yir taxi?

— Hud a few wheelbarries back thaire, mate, ah laughs, but the wee cunt disnae git it. Eh stands lookin at ays. — Aye, ye look frozen, pal. Ah’d git masel hame if ah wis you, n ah gies um a wink, then thinkin ay Jinty n seein if ah kin catch um oot, — git tucked up beside the missus, eh!

The wee fucker jist stares at ays. Then eh goes, — She’s away, aye sur, ah dinnae ken whaire she went, naw sur . . .

Perr wee cunt. Aye, eh’s bit fuckin simple, but ah kin tell eh’s no spinnin porkies. She’s shot the fuckin craw. Probably kipped up wi another felly right now. — C’moan, mate, hop in.

— But ah’ve goat a barry, Terry, a wheelbarry.

— Nivir mind that, jist load it in thaire, mate . . .

So ah gies um a hand n we gits it in n ah takes um roond tae the all-night coffee place oan the industrial estate. Ah buys um a black coffee n gits a tea fir me. — Thanks, Terry, Jonty goes, — yir awfay kind.

— Cheers, buddy.

— Terry the kind cab driver, this dippit wee cunt goes. — Kind Terry. Yir kind but, ay, Terry? Ay yir kind? No a loat ay people in this world ur kind, Terry, but you are. Kind Terry. Ay, Terry? Ay yir kind?

Kind ay fed up wi this doolally wee cunt, if the truth be telt. But the wee radge’s certainly goat something gaun fir um: pillin a burd like Jinty. N accordin tae they cunts in The Pub Wi Nae Name, that something is located in the trooser department, wi nae bad-hert issues tae fuck things up . . .

Ah’m thinkin aboot what else goat handed doon fae the auld cunt n ah wonder how the wee gadge goat tae be that simple. Ah mean the auld cunt’s nae rocket scientist, but Jonty’s auld girl must be a real fuckin dopester; either that or she droaped the perr wee bastard oan ehs heid at birth. Wee Lucy, ma first ex, she wis quite fuckin smart and oor Jason’s turned oot a lawyer. Viv, oor Donna’s ma, she wis nae mug either, but perr Donna’s mair like me: it’s a brains-in-the-underwear job. Neither wee Guillaume nor, tae be fair, the Ginger Bastard, seem like dummies but. Thank fuck ma auld lady wis the dux ay her class at DK, as she keeps tellin ays. No thit that’s sayin much, mind you, a bit like bein the best-lookin sex offender in Peterheid.

Aye, whin they shut that school doon aw the feral scum fae the tenements goat tae go tae Leith Academy wi the snobby bairns fae ower the links. Even as a fuckin sprog in Saughton Mains ah mind ay muh ma’s kid sister, Aunt Florence, greetin her eyes oot n gaun, ‘Oh God . . . thir comin fir us . . . they clarts fae Daft Kids ur comin fir us . . .’

Course, the auld cunt wis one ay thum, that’s how eh goat muh ma. Goat her up the duff wi me, n they moved oot tae a new hoose in Saughton Mains. Steyed around long enough tae gie her Yvonne as well, then he fucked oaf, the dirty auld cunt. Rode his wey through toon eftir that, droapin bairns aw ower the place. Pre-Aids n CSA, the cunt wis laughin Twixes n Mars bars!

So ah takes the wee Jonty felly hame n watches him draggin the wheelbarry intae the stair. — Ye off tae yir kip now, Jonty?

— Naw, Terry, ah’m workin, no through the books but, sur. Ower thaire, aye, ah’m paintin The Pub Wi Nae Name, n eh pills oot a big key. — Ah’m supposed tae be daein it in the mornins, so dinnae tell naebody! It’s jist thit ah’ve goat mair work oan wi Raymond. Raymond Gittings. The Inch, aye sur, the Inch.

— Sound, yir secret’s safe wi me, bud. Ah’ll help ye sheet up ower thaire. Business is a wee bit slow, n ah gits oot the cab.

— Eh, ah cannae ask ye up, Terry, cause it’s gaunny make ays shy cause the flat’s minging, ken. But you wait here, ah’ll be right doon, aye sur, n the wee bastard vanishes. Ah gits back in the cab, n thaire’s a message fae Control, obviously Big Liz.

YOU’VE BEEN OFF THE SATELLITE AY LOVE TOO LONG, YOU BAD BOY! I THINK YOU NEED A WEE BIT AY DISCIPLINE!

Ah cannae bring masel tae type anything back. Then Ronnie’s on the phone, that cunt calls at aw ooirs.

— Terry . . . good, I reckoned you might be on shifts, so I thought I’d try you.

— Ronnie, how goes?

— The goddamn whisky’s still missing. The police don’t give a shit, and Lars is busting my ass. Listen . . . could I meet you at your place in an hour?

This is settin the warnin bells oaf. — Aye, fine, mate, ah goes, n gies um the address.

Sure enough, Jonty’s doon just a couple ay minutes later, n wi heads ower the street tae the pub. Eh pits the big key in the lock n opens the boozer.

We’re sheetin up in the gantry area behind the bar, n ah suddenly see a perfect opportunity for me. Ah’m lookin at the whiskies on offer, the Macallan’s aboot the best, n there’s a Highland Park, as well as they shitey Glenlivets and Glenmorangies that mugs whae ken nowt aboot whisky and think thir treatin themselves end up drinkin, n the usual blends: Bell’s, Grouse, Dewar’s, Teacher’s.

— What ye daein back thaire, Terry? Jonty laughs. — Ah hope yir no stealin drinks, cause yi’ll git me intae bother, aye ye will.

— Naw, mate, nowt here worth drinkin, ah’m a connoisseur these days but, ay, so ah helps him for a bit, then ah leaves the dippit wee cunt n heads back tae the South Side.

When ah arrive at ma flat, Ronnie’s thaire wi Jens n Lars, that ghoulish-lookin broker cunt n two fuckin slimy paedo bodybuilder types in suits. Straight away ye ken that these cunts are trouble, no that they wid dae much. It’s aw that pumped-up muscle; useless in a proper pager, nae functional strength in it.

— Listen, Terry . . . Ronnie goes, takin me tae the side n lowerin ehs voice, — this is goddamn embarrassing, but the police won’t move quickly, so the brokers and the insurance company are investigating everybody who was around when the whisky went missing. This is at the insistence of Mr Simonsen. Eh nods ower at the Lars cunt. — I can’t force you to agree to this, I can only request. But we need to search your apartment. We’ve already done Mortimer and the golf club, and we, ehm, managed to convince the two guys to cooperate, Ronnie explains, and eh raises ehs hands. — Even my own hotel room has been gone over. Drew a blank each time.