Free A Decent Ride by Irvine Welsh Page A

thank fuck. Yuv goat tae check, wi that cunt ay an auld man ay mine huvin chucked ays spunk around toon like a lunatic sprayin asylum waws. — What’s it ye dae doon thaire, like, what line ay work ur ye in?
    Another bitter wee shrug, then she pushes the wet tresses ay hair oot her eyes. — I write plays. Though the rest of the world seems to disagree.
    — Nae felly doon thaire, somebody who’ll be worried aboot ye?
    — Ha! She laughs, aw sort ay cynical. — I’m fleeing an emotionally abusive relationship. I’m back in my home city with a specially commissioned play at the Traverse. It was supposed to be the return of the prodigal daughter. But the critics have not been kind and I’ve had enough. Does that answer your questions?
    — So yir gaunny kill yirsel ower a felly n a play?
    — You don’t understand –
    — Find another felly. Write another play, if that yin wis shite. Shot this prisoner-ay-war scud flick once,
They Do Like It Up ’Em
; wisnae that great, but it didnae deter –
    — It wasn’t shite! she goes, now aw angry fir the first time. — You just don’t get it! But I’m not surprised.
    Awright, so the burd’s gaunny be fish food in twenty minutes, but ah’m no that struck oan her patter, ay. — Aw ah see, ah dinnae understand cause ah jist drive a cab, is that it? Cause ah drive a taxi ah cannae be expected tae understand the complex mind ay an
artiste
?
    — I didn’t say that!
    — Ah’ve done a fair bit ay actin, no stage, but screen, n ah understand the process, ah’ll huv ye ken, ah tell her. People think scud’s jist aboot bangin away, but as ma mate Sick Boy ey says, ‘Wir telling a story here,’ so yuv goat tae ken yir lines n hit yir mark. No sayin ah’m fuckin Brad Pitt, but then again ah’m no sayin that cunt’s Juice Terry! Last year whin we wir shootin
Doctor Scheme: A Thorough Examination
ah hud tae stick one thermometer up this burd’s fanny, n the other up her erse, n say, ‘The hottest hole is the one that gets this fat dick, baby.’ Sounds fuckin straightforward enough but it’s no that easy whin thaire’s cameras on ye, lights shinin in yir coupon, n a boom mike overheid n Sick Boy fuckin prancin aboot shoutin orders at ye!
    But she’s oaf oan one but, ay. Aw good: lit thum talk, the boy oan the course says. — All I ever wanted to do was write, she shouts. — Four years of my life went into that play, and they didn’t get it! They didn’t get
me
! Those sneering men I could understand, that cabal of sad old queens, but when the jealous fucking so-called sisters turned on me . . . She shakes her heid, lettin they wet locks fly. — No, I’ve had enough . . .
    Thaire’s no a loat ye kin say tae that. Ah look at her in the mirror. She reminds me a bit ay that burd fae Liverpool ah made
Anal Torpedo 3
wi. That was when ah played the captain oan the whalin ship crewed by burds, aw wearin fishnet tights. Catchphrase: ‘Thar she blows!’
    She’s gaun aw quiet as we’re passin the Barnton roondabout, her hands clasped thegither oan her lap, heid bowed, starin at them. So ah thinks, fuck it, ah’ll make a wee move. — Listen, this might seem a wee bit cheeky, Sal, but kin ah ask you a favour?
    She looks up ay ays like ah’m fuckin tapped. — What . . .
you
want a favour? From
me
? What favour can I do for
anyone
now?
    — Well, ah wis jist wonderin, see if ye wirnae in any big hurry, ah shrugs, giein her a cheeky wee smile, — any chance ay a ride before ye jump?
    — What? Her face sortay twists, and then she’s silent again. Suits me! She’s no sayin aye, but she’s no sayin naw!
    — Ah wis jist wonderin, Sal, n ah ken it’s a wee bit cheeky, but the quiet bairn gits nowt, ay. Mibbe jist go oot wi a bang, last night oan Earth, ah goes. — Tell ye what, ah’d gie ye a guid fuckin cowp, pardon ma French.
    — You want to have sex with me? Ha ha, Suicide Sal laughs, her voice gaun aw high, like she cannae believe what she’s hearin. N fuck,