Authors: Irvine Welsh

Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Humorous

A Decent Ride (47 page)

BOOK: A Decent Ride

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Terry looks to the suited man, who, in contrast, juts his chin out defiantly, staring at the stumbling Moir, urging him to continue. — It seems that there are two Terence Lawsons . . .

Terry’s mouth flaps open. It is as if all the muscles in his face have just torn. — Ye mean . . .

— Yes, Moir says, his mouth set in a tight smile, but his eyes brimming with trepidation, — you don’t have a serious heart condition.

It feels to Terry as if he is coming up on the purest MDMA powder, yet at the same time being skewered by a broadsword. Shock, elation and resentment twist through him in conflicting, turbulent waves.

— You’re in very good health, Moir continues. — The cholesterol numbers could be a bit better, but generally speaking –

— AH’M FUCKIN AWRIGHT!! Terry declares, then gasps, — Ah . . . ah wis awright aw along!

Moir’s eyes start blinking involuntarily. — Indeed. It seems that there was a glitch in our database that resulted in the system’s confusion between the different Terence Lawsons.

Terry sits back in the chair, his head spinning. Then his eyes narrow into tight slits. — Ah’m fuckin suin the NHS! Emotional stress! Damages fir loss ay fuckin ridin time! Look at the fuckin weight ah’ve pit oan, and he grabs a fistful of gut. — Career in scud doon the fuckin swanny! AH WENT VER-NEAR FUCKIN MENTAL, TRIED TAE FUCKIN TOP MASEL!! he roars, as Moir cringes in his chair. Everything that has happened to Terry crashes around him. He sees the image of Alec’s empty eyeball sockets, teeming with writhing maggots. — Ah fuckin . . . he was going to say that he was driven to dig up his father’s grave to size his cock, but stops himself. He grips his hands tightly on the sides of the chair and tries to get control of his breathing. — Ronnie Checker’s one ay ma best mates! Ah’ll git the best fuckin lawyers money kin buy, n take aw youse cunts tae the fuckin cleaners!

Then the man in the brown suit cuts in. — You are perfectly entitled to do that, Mr Lawson. However, I’d advise you to listen very closely to what I have to say before you embark upon this course of action.

— Whae the fuck’s this? Terry looks at Dr Moir, thumbing dismissively at the speaker.

Moir wilts further in his chair, remaining silent, looking to the man, who smiles coldly at Terry. — I’m Alan Hartley, senior manager at this health board.

— Thaire’s nowt you kin say thit –

— Your father died recently in the Royal Infirmary.

Terry feels a hurdle of deflation, but his rage propels him not so much over it as through it. Henry Lawson was nothing to do with him. But he can’t let them know this. — Aye, so what?

— It was a very painful death. Yes, he was terminally ill, but he had also been poisoned. But of course, you are aware of that . . .

Terry is too distracted with shock and rage to put on his
expert lying face
. All he can do is try to maintain silence.

— Yes, Hartley continues, — his saline drip had been tampered with and his system was flooded with urine. Do you have any idea how painful a death that is?

Terry channels his anger. — Nup, but it’s your fault again! Sue yis fir that n aw, he snaps as the delicious thought,
five-one that, ya auld bastard
, pumps a surge of blood through his veins. Auld Faithful flexes through the medication like a superhero about to burst out of his chains.

— Yes . . . that would certainly be an interesting case. You see, we’ve taken DNA tests from all of our staff. But we were unable to match the sample of urine found in the saline drip. I dare say the next step will be to turn this over to the police for criminal investigation, Hartley looks smugly at Terry, who is trying not to crumble. — I should imagine that having cleared our staff from their inquiries, they would then proceed to take DNA samples from all those who came into contact with Mr Henry Lawson before his death, including his visitors. I understand you were the last person to visit your father . . .

Through the bubbling stew of emotions, Terry has only a vague sense of where this is going, but grasps that he is no longer holding the winning hand. He can only cough out, — So what ur ye tryin tae say?

Hartley gives a coffin-plate half-smile: minimal, but dazzling. — I don’t think we need a police investigation into your father’s death, and I don’t think you need to go down the legal route, in regard to our regrettable administrative error, do you, Mr Lawson? I mean, that could be incredibly damaging to the reputation of the health board. If it jeopardised staff morale, then patient care would undoubtedly suffer. It really wouldn’t help anyone, would it?

Terry is ready to grasp at this deal with both hands. After getting the all-clear to start riding again, there is no way under the sun he is doing
one second
of jail time. — Aye, ah suppose yir right, mate, and he smiles slyly, as a database of who was
fucking getting it
cascades through his fevered mind. — Besides, why bother makin fuckin lawyers richer, ay? What’s aw that aboot? You tell me.

— That’s the spirit. Hartley rises and extends his hand. Terry steps up and gratefully shakes it.

Heading off, he immediately slips back on to Henry’s old ward and approaches the duty nurse. — Listen, ah wanted tae ask ye oot. Fir aw ye did fir the auld cu— he checks himself, — the auld felly . . . Henry Law—

— I’m married, she smiles, before he can finish.

— Too bad.

The nurse shrugs and makes off down the corridor. Terry watches her walk, the movement of her buttocks, the seamed stockings on her legs. He goes straight to the toilet and batters one off. The deft contact of hand on foreskin and the slow, deliberate tugging movement cuts through the chemical permafrost, as his cock rises impressively and gratefully blasts the toilet walls. He shouts at the top of his voice in the cubicle, — AH’M FUCKIN BACK! JUICE FUCKIN TEH-RAAAAY!

Terry surveys the mess with satisfaction, feeling human for the first time in months. He’s already broken one of his own rules: never chat up a lassie when your tank is overflowing.
Goat tae git rid ay the ring rust, or mibbe git some new ring rust!

Back in the cab, he’s scrolling through his phone lists. He thinks about contacting several parties but decides against it. Instead he speeds towards a certain destination, but inspiration hits and he pulls over and parks in a backstreet, where he goes online with his smartphone and makes a booking.

Then another thought burns him and he calls Sick Boy. — Ah’m game tae git back intae the Roy Hudd. That movie.

— Sorry, Terry, I’ve already cast your wee pal Jonty, Sick Boy tells him with glee. — He’s doing a great job, a terrific performer. He did refuse to do anal for a bit till I assured him that it wasn’t his coal hole that was getting the pummelling. And the lassies have really taken to him. He’s staying with Camilla and Lisette in Tufnell Park.

Ma London doss,
Terry thinks with envy. Yet he couldn’t begrudge wee Jonty. — Gled it seems tae be working oot.

— He’s actually in the office with me. Would you like a word?

— Aye, great, pit him oan.

— Hi, Terry! Hiya, pal! London’s barry, ay, Terry, ay it’s barry. Didnae like it at first, too big, me bein jist a simple country lad fae Penicuik, but ye git used tae it, aye sur, ye do.

— Ye find a local McDonald’s?

— Aye, but Camilla n Lisette make that guid hame cookin that’s aw healthy, n ah cannae even be bothered wi McDonald’s any mair! Only hud yin aw week!

— Sound. Cannae talk right now, pal, cause ah’m drivin, but gie the lassies one fae me.

— Ah will, Terry, aye sur, nice lassies but, Terry, aye sur, aye sur . . .

Terry clicks off the phone and drives on. He parks outside his intended destination, when another call comes in. It’s Donna. — Simon phoned last week. He’s no lettin ays dae the scud. Sais you telt um naw, she informs him, but without hostility.

— Mibbe ah wis a bit hasty; it’s your life, your decision, ay, Terry says, watching a young mother pushing a baby in a buggy down the pavement. — Ah’ve nae right tae interfere. Oot ay order really, but ay.

Fuckin cowp yon . . .

— Aw . . .

Down, boy . . .

— How’s Kasey . . . Lucozade . . . syphilis . . .? Terry says as the woman bends over the kid in the buggy, her breasts straining against her bra and blouse.

— Kasey Linn! Yir granddaughter’s name is Kasey Linn!

— Aye . . . some name but, ay, Terry considers, as the woman vanishes from his sight. — Did ah ever tell ye how you goat your name? Whin yir ma wis in hoaspital huvin you, ah wis shitein it, cause when ah’d went in wi Jason n his ma, it wis like gaun intae a butcher’s shoap. Pit ays oaf shaggin for aboot three minutes –

— Dad . . .

— Wait the now, where wis ah . . .? Aye! Terry recalls. — So ah wis that nervous aboot gaun back tae a maternity ward that ah went oot n goat pished. Woke up still fuckin rat-arsed oan the couch wi a kebab stuck tae ma coupon. Message sayin tae come quick cause yir ma hud gaun intae labour. Ah looked at the kebab n thoat: if it’s a lassie it’s gittin called Donna. Ah’ve telt ye that story but, ay?

— Aye. Plenty times. So ah take it ye got the all-clear fae the doaktirs.

— That obvious, ay? Well, if ye ken that, yi’ll ken that ah’ve a fucker ay a backlog tae sort oot! Ah wis solidly booked before this hoaspital shite! Catch ye later, Terry sings, clickin off the phone.

It immediately rings again. It’s Sara-Ann. He knows she’s been seeing Ronnie, but that he’s been in America for some time. He clicks green to take it.

— Terry . . . He hears her desperate breathing followed by stunned silence.

— How ye daein, doll?

— I’m having a fucking hard time! I fucking mean it, Terry . . . I’m fucking stressed over the play. The bastards are changing everything . . . Ronnie doesn’t care, he’s in New fucking York, he seems to feel his responsibility for it stops at writing the cheques! I’m taking all these pills if you don’t . . . if you don’t . . . come and see me . . .

Terry ignores her, knocking solidly at the door in front of him. He hears scrambling.

The door opens and Sara-Ann is standing with her phone in her hand.

Terry clicks off his phone. — What ye waitin oan? Git thum oaf!

— Terry . . . you came . . .

— Soon fuckin will, and he steps forwards and slips his hand inside her leggings and panties. — Tell ays you’re no double wide. N gushing n aw, he whispers in her ear, as her head turns, and her tongue darts, lizard-like, into his mouth. Sara-Ann slams the door shut, and is pulling off her T-shirt and unbuckling Terry’s belt while rubbing against his busy hand. — Terry . . . fuck me . . .

As she drags him up to the bedroom, Terry, enjoying a mild teasing tug of resistance, then giving in, says, — Too right. You’re gittin it good style . . .

As his keks drop and Auld Faithful springs from his pants like the one o’clock gun, he’s happy to endorse the playwright’s plea: — Give it to me . . .

— For sure, Terry says, easing home. He’s thinking it’s not about Henry Lawson or Post Alec, reflecting that this is the only identity he ever really needed, as Juice Terry. His phone spills out of his jeans pocket and it goes off. He sees the name on the screen: RONNIE CHECKER. It’ll be about the flight bookings to New York and the golf tournament. It’s a pity he’s already just made a booking on to a Ryanair flight to Gdansk. Yes, there would be stacks of minge in New York, but it was a seven-hour flight. In just over three, he would be baw-deep in a sassy Pole. There was no contest.

But now there is immediate business to take care of, as Sal gasps, — I want this so fucking bad, her legs closing round him, forcing him deeper inside her, as she bucks and twists.

— Yuv goat tae but, eh, Terry grins, thrusting, humping and deftly swivelling his way to paradise, man and cock reunited in woman, — it’s the spice ay life!

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Epub ISBN: 9781473520974

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Acknowledgements

Thank you to Jimmy Anderson, Katherine Fry, Maria Garbutt-Lucero, Trevor Engleson, John Niven and Elizabeth Quinn.