Free A Decent Ride by Irvine Welsh

want tae jump: fuck that fir a game ay sodjirs!
    But wi a burd it’s different. Naebody in thair right mind wants tae see good fanny gaun tae waste. A burd’s minge is meant tae be hot for the rumpy-pumpy, no aw cauld, stretched oot oan a slab, though thaire’s some dirty cunts thit wid go fir that. Ah blame that fuckin Internet, littin bairns watch extreme porn, whin thuv no even hud a proper wank. That shite would fuck any cunt’s heid up. Too right! Ah mean, ah’ve made the odd scud flick, aye, but it’s ey been consenting adults, nae dodgy stuff.
    So ah stoaps, n the lassie gits in the cab. Her black hair’s plastered tae her heid by the rain, her long black coat’s heavy wi it, n her eyes ur aw fogged ower. — Awright, doll? A bit blustery tae be oot the night but, ay. Nivir heard ay Bawbag?
    But this burd, she’s jist sittin thaire, starin oaf intae space wi they dark eyes, probably broon, set in a roundish face. The lights ur oan but thaire’s nae cunt hame. — The bridge, she sais in this accent that’s either posh Scottish or English.
    — So what’s happenin oot at the bridge?
    She suddenly looks at ays aw offended. Like it’s nane ay ma business.
    — Dinnae look at ays like that, ah’m gaun, — wi that moosey face oan. See, if you jump oaf that bridge, it’s ma case the polis git oan! Ah’ve goat tae ask they questions!
    She’s lookin right at ays in that wide-eyed horror, like the burds they huv in the movies like
Scream
, but, kinday no like
Scream
n aw, cause her mooth’s gaun aw tight, like ah’ve rumbled her.
    — But that’s up tae you, ah shrugs. — It’s your business. Jist tell ays if ye are, so ah kin gie the bizzies some story, like ye telt ays ye wir gaun tae yir sister’s in Inverkeithing, then sais ye wir sick n hud tae git oot n puke, n the next thing ye’d cowped yirsel ower the rail, that sort ay shite. Goat tae cover ma erse but, ay.
    She puts her heid in her hands and mumbles something ah dinnae catch, then jerks up and goes, — I can get out here.
    — Naw, ah’ll take ye tae the bridge. Ah shakes ma heid. — Wey ah see it, if yir determined tae dae it, ye will. N it’s fuckin kickin up big time ootside. Ye might as well go thaire in comfort, n she disnae even flinch at that. — Tell ye one thing but, ah pits her in the picture, — yir no gittin oot this cab withoot peyin the fare first.
    — I wasn’t – I’ve got money . . . She reaches intae her purse.
    — How much?
    — Seventy pounds and some change . . .
    — No bein wide, ah goes, glancin in the mirror, — but ye might as well jist hand it aw ower . . . if yir sure, like. Jist that it would be a waste ay dosh, ay, jumpin wi aw that in yir poakits. No being wide, likes.
    The burd looks angry, starin at ays for the first time, then sortay shrugs n settles back in the seat. — If I was ever in any doubt that this was the right time to leave this fucking place, you would have convinced me, and she reaches forward again n shows the contents ay the purse.
    Ah stoaps at the rid light, turns n reaches through the Judas Hole tae take the poppy, n crams it intae ma poakit. The road’s empty, thank fuck. — Ah’m no bein funny like, ah’m no tryin tae stop ye, gen up, but ah’ve goat tae ask: what’s a good-lookin young lassie like you wantin tae dae this fir?
    — You wouldn’t understand. She shakes her head. — Nobody does.
    — Well, explain tae us, ah goes. Cause they sais oan that course tae try n git thum talkin. — What’s yir name? Ah’m Terry, by the by. Ah git kent as ‘Juice’ Terry cause ah worked oan the juice lorries way back. Sometimes ‘Scud’ Terry cause . . . well, ah’ll no bore ye wi the details.
    — My name is Sara-Ann Lamont, she says, like she’s a robot. — I get called Sal. S-A-L. Sara. Ann. Lamont.
    — You fae up here, Sal?
    — Yes, Portobello originally. But I’ve lived in London for years.
    — Lamont, ye said, aye?
    — Yeah . . .
    At least it isnae Lawson: