A Decent Ride by Irvine Welsh Read Free Book Online Page B

this fuckin bitch.
    — . . . but ah’m jist gaun by what you sais, Jinty, Fiona C’s nearly beggin now, the fuckin hoor, kens she’s
that
close tae gittin her fuckin cunt kicked right in, — like you huv tae dae everything, n Jonty’s useless! Like ma Phillip! N aw ah’m sayin, Jinty, aw ah’m sayin is, ye widnae want a handicapped bairn tae deal wi n aw.
    The fuckin bitch hus begged enough: ah’ll lit it go. Cowbag! — One ay thaim came oot ay ma snatch ah’d be sayin tae the midwife, dinnae bother batterin its back soas it kin breathe, it’s no fuckin well comin hame wi me!
    Thaire’s two laddies up at the bar. One’s goat a barry erse.
    — It’s different if yuv carried it tae term but, Jinty, felt it grow inside ay ye, Angie sais.
    — Suppose.
    — Trust ays oan this yin, Jinty. Whin you’ve hud a bairn ay yir ain . . . Her voice goes aw that low wey. — . . . Nae plans fir you n Jonty tae git busy then?
    — Busy aw the time, but ah’m no wantin a bairn yit, ay.
    — Yir thirty-four but, Jinty, Fiona C goes. — Yuv goat tae think aboot Sandra. She’s forty-three, ah ken, but if ye lit it drift yi’ll be movin intae that zone whin bad things kin happen. Think ay Miscarriage Moira.
    She wis right. Moira had miscarriaged eight times – n that wis jist the yins we kent aboot.
    Angie sits back, takes a drink, screws her eyes up n looks ootside through the windae. — They tell ays thaire’s gaunny be a proper hurricane.
    Fiona C goes, — Like one thit picks up motors n aw that?
    — That’s a fuckin tornado, ya dozy hoor, Angie goes.
    Hud tae laugh oot loud at that yin, cause Angie’s no far wrong. — What does a fuckin hurricane dae? ah asks thum. — It’s jist strong winds blawin in yir face. Means nowt unless yir by the coast. What’s it thit Evan Barksdale sais the other day? – aw it does is cause flood damage. It’ll be aw they pikey Hobos doon in Leith n Granton thit’ll git it. Proves thit God’s a Jambo!
    Fiona C laughs but Angie sais nowt, cause she’s a fuckin Hibee hoor.
    Oan that note it’s time tae say farewell but, ay, so ah leaves tae git doon the road tae ma wee felly. It’s blustery ootside. A posh sort ay Jenners cow gits her hat blown off and goes eftir it, but in that slow, auld wey, where ye jist make a total cunt ay yirsel. Hope ah die before ah git that auld.

5
JONTY AND STORMY WEATHER
    SEVERAL YEARS BACK, whilst idly twiddling the radio dial, Jonty MacKay had accidentally stumbled across the shipping reports. He found that listening to them, with their lashing rain and wind FX, made him sleepy. Thus Jonty loved to doze off with the headphones on, curled around Jinty, imagining that he was on a boat that was being tossed on the high seas and lashed at by stinging winds.
    Jonty’s instinctive awestruck expression had been curtailed by repeated skelpings across the head by his father, Henry. This punishment was administered every time he caught the boy standing with a fly-catching mouth hanging open. This tuition was so complete that when Henry moved out and was replaced by a stepfather, Billy MacKay, there was no need for the new man to mete out the same punishment, had he been inclined to do so. Those systematic beatings had conditioned Jonty into tightly pursing his lips together. His hair had started to thin and recede at the temples and crown when he was still in his early twenties. In combo with the tight mouth and bug eyes, it gave him a bewildered, but intense, almost slightly professorial bearing. People often initially engaged with Jonty as an eccentric, seerlike man of wisdom.
    Jonty had heard news of a storm that was approaching the east coast of Scotland. Then it was suddenly upgraded to hurricane status. This was bad. You didn’t get hurricanes in Scotland. Maybe they would help us down in England, he fretfully considered. Surely the English wouldn’t let anything bad happen to us. Then he’d gone online to research further, but his findings only