A Decent Ride (40 page)

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, but 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.

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 . . .

Ma heid’s fucked. Aw ah dae is read. Even started writin a poem the other night. Ya cunt, ah’m turnin intae Rab Birrell. The kind ay radge that might say ‘
Presence
is Led Zeppelin’s best album’ when they ken
is it fuck Led Zeppelin’s best album
, but just tae show oaf their poxy debatin skills.

Fair lookin forward tae this game now, distract ays fae the shaggin thoughts. Ah’m aw set tae meet up wi the Birrells n that, but ah didnae want distracted fae ma readin so ah switched off the cheeky phone last night. Now thaire’s a stack ay calls, maist ay them fae Yvette, the Ginger Bastard’s ma, whae’s gaun crazy, insistin that ah meet her first thing this morning.

Ah makes some porridge, cuttin back oan the salt for this ticker, watchin the early-morning Scottish news. Ah recognise the building the cameras ur at, so ah turns it up n it’s a feature oan the missin Bowcullen Trinity whisky, and how an anonymous party is offerin a reward ay twenty grand for information leadin tae its return.
Ronnie.
Well, ah suppose when you’ve flung that much dosh away on it, a wee bit mair means fuck all. Good tae ken but; money in the fuckin bank. But ah’ve got other things tae think aboot, so ah gits Yvette on the blower. — It’ll huv tae wait, ah’m gaun oot tae Hampden but, ay. Cup final.

— I know what’s going on, Terry, but we have to meet first, n she sounds awfay upset.

So we meets in this place up the Old Town, the posh studenty gaff oan George IV Bridge whaire they say that Harry Potter burd jist sat doon in a corner n wrote aw they books. N ah ken ah’m no gaunny like this particular fuckin story cause Yvette’s look reminds ays ay the one she gied ays aw they years back. When she telt ays she wis up the stick. Ah wisnae fuckin well chuffed. Ah mind ay sayin: ‘A bit ay ma spunk takin root in ye might say that ah’m good faither material tae you. Tae me it says thit you’re nae good at swallayin pills.’

But she tells ays what the fuck’s been gaun oan wi the Ginger Bastard n ah cannae believe ma ears. — Eh wis what?

— He was caught with his hand up a girl’s skirt.

— What? How? Ah mean, whaire?

— At school.

So ah’m sortay thinkin aboot him, n ah goes, — Well . . . it could be worse –

— How could it be worse! He’s fucking nine years old!

Ah cannae help it, n even though ah ken it’s wrong n spells big trouble, part ay me is thinkin: ah’ve nivir been sae proud ay any cunt in ma life as ah am ay the Ginger Bast—wee Harry right now. Even Jason, when eh graduated fae that uni in law.

She’s far fae chuffed but. — He’s been harassing several girls on the phone and on Facebook, asking them to send him pictures of them naked. Apparently all the boys are at it now. It’s one of those sickening developments that needs to be stopped right now, and I’m not having my son,
our
son –

That sets ma warnin bells oaf. — How is it that he’s the yin gittin singled oot but? Sounds like victimisation tae me.

— What?

— Ginger-heided bairns stand oot. Thaire’s some cunts thit think thir fair game tae discriminate against, n it’s no right!

— It’s nothing to do with that! It’s because he’s the one who’s been approaching the girls directly!

Ya cunt, that wis me that telt him tae dae that!
Be a fuckin man n dae it tae thair face
, ah sais tae um. Then ah’m thinkin aboot Donna, and what they cunts ah did ower oan the estate wir sayin aboot her. Whae telt them tae act like that tae lassies? Life is fuckin complicated these days. — Laddies are different – ah read aw aboot it. Science. We’re prone tae hormonal surges fae an early age. Bursts ay testosterone in the napper. Youse jist git emotional wi hormones once a month, we have tae suffer it constantly. It’s bound tae make him a bit radge.

— Don’t turn your feeble life-excuses into his ones! And since when did you become interested in science?

— You’d be surprised, ah goes. — But yir right; this isnae aboot me, it’s aboot our son’s future. So ah’ll talk tae um: faither tae son.

She looks totally stunned at that response. Fuck sakes, ah cannae be that much ay a useless, selfish cunt, surely tae fuck?! But then she recovers her composure, that wey that posh cunts are trained tae. — And let him know what, precisely?

— And let him know that it isnae acceptable behaviour!

— Good!

Well, she’s still no that happy, but we finish oor tea in a strained civility. Across at the next table thaire’s a couple ay muck-buckets, but thir settin up a near root, even in the medicated Auld Faithful. Ah’m glad tae get away, but ootside it’s as bad. In fact, now thit the better weather’s kicked in it’s fuckin torture. The toon’s full ay fanny. Ah huv tae try n think aboot the likes ay Doughheid or Bladesey suckin my tadger, jist tae stave oaf the erection, even wi they useless fuckin pills. Tae think thit whin ah wis wi a burd n gittin excited, ah used tae think aboot a gam fae ma auld rid-couponed mate Post Alec, tae hud back the moment, but that’s well fucked up now! Ya cunt, Freud wid be able tae fuckin well retire wi me oan ehs books!

Perr Alec, bein eatin by maggots; n that auld cunt Henry, hingin oan like the fuckin cunt eh is till the fuckin Cup final’s over. Well, ah gits doon the Business Bar n Billy n Rab are ootside and Sick Boy’s thaire n aw! — Was going to watch it on the box, but jumped on a last-minute flight. It’s not every day we get to fuck those retards in a Scottish Cup final.

— It’s no been any day we got to fuck anybody in a Scottish Cup final since 1902, Billy goes.

— Don’t be such a pessimist, Sick Boy says. — They are gambling with other people’s money and they are going tits up, history. It’s fate that we come along with a shite, struggling team on a quarter of their stolen wage bill, and hammer them into the dust. Terry?

— No really been takin that much notice.

Rab Birrell looks at ays like ah’m a bam. — Whaire huv you been: Mars?

— Might as well huv been, ah goes.

— Speaking of fucking, Sick Boy whispers, — when are you going to send this boy down? I need to audition him, as it looks like this cheque that a partner in the Ukraine sent me has miraculously cleared. I’ve rewritten the
Shagger
3 script, calling it
Humper
, with a new protagonist who is Shagger’s brother. Didnae want to wreck the franchise and shut the door on Curtis in case it doesn’t work out for the little ingrate in the San Fernando Valley.

— I’ll get him down. But ye no want to see him up here?

— I’m on
holiday
, Sick Boy sais, aw pompous, — I need to spend time with my
family
.

Well, we gits intae the stretchy n eases oot tae Hampden. Plenty ay fuckin champers n charlie, wi nae bizzy eyes gittin through the tinted gless. It’s the only wey tae dae it. Ah hus a nice wee literary discussion aboot William Faulkner wi Rab, which hacks off Billy, n hus Sick Boy shakin ehs heid. But ah wish we’d jist steyed in the limo drivin around, cause the day goes doonhill quick eftir that.

Hibs are fuckin shite; whatever happened oot there we were gaunny lose. But we might have had a classic Cup final, a two-three or a three-four. Instead the referee fucks it right up. We’re talkin aboot it in the motor gaun back, aboot ten minutes intae the second half.