is the men.
Clients come in at all hours. He is most surprised by the office employees who arrive early for a session with the girl of their choice before work. Many are young, their sex lives wrecked by small children or post-natally depressed partners, but who seek to avoid the complications of an office affair. He tries to understand them as he watches them come and go, some in sneaky guilt, others with a swaggering arrogance. It isn’t good for business though, Terry reflects, to display overt disdain for clients, and it might get back to The Poof. They never seem to bother Kelvin though; it is Terry who cops most of his hostile vibes.
Terry considers how this is pretty much inevitable, given the unspecified but vaguely supervisory role in which The Poof has cast him, thereby building conflict and distrust into the relationship. The girls, once they figured out that he was there to monitor the detested Kelvin, are generally sound with Terry, enjoying a mug of tea and a laugh with him.
Kelvin is particularly edgy today, responding to Terry’s overtures in gruff monosyllables, so despite enjoying the girls’ company, he is glad to leave and return to the cab.
It’s a cold, blustery day, and Edinburgh is bracing itself for its first officially designated hurricane in living memory, which is to hit the town later this evening. Many people prepare by selecting the pub most expedient to get stuck in, and the town is already empty. Terry picks up a couple of fares, then some messages from his supplier, Rehab Connor, down in Inverleith, and drops them off to clients in Marchmont and Sighthill.
It is the afternoon by the time he gets back into the city centre. Locating the backstreet New Town hostelry of his choice, the Bar Cissism, Terry parks the cab outside on the cobbled road. It is a darkly lit spot, full of busy-looking professionals. Terry takes a number, B37, like the ones issued in government offices. Moving to a vantage point at the bar, he nurses a fresh orange juice, scrutinising a sea of occupied tables. When his number comes up, Terry saunters towards a wholesome-looking brunette, sitting down in front of her. He knows how he will play this one.
— Hi, I’m Valda, she says with a big smile.
— Terry. Pleasure to meet you, Valda. Listen, ah’m gaunny pit ma cairds right on the table here, he smiles, arching a roguish brow. Valda regards him in studied neutrality, though Terry fancies he can see a slight shiver in her left eye. — An important part ay any relationship is sex, n that’s primarily what ah’m interested in right now. Ah’m hung like a pit pony that wisnae shy in foalhood when the carrots wir gittin dished oot, n wi this tongue ye dinnae need a fuckin straw tae git tae the boatum ay a milkshake, if ye catch ma drift. Ah’ve goat a flat roond the corner. What d’ye say we jist git oot ay here right now? The apocalypse thit they news cunts call Bawbag, well, it’s gaunny hit the toon later!
Valda Harkins feels insulted. She is preparing her response, but by the time she is ready to sound off, Terry, who has read the signs, is already at the next table, giving another woman, Kate Ormond, exactly the same pitch. Kate is startled. — Wow . . . you’re moving a wee bit too fast –
Terry cuts her off with, — Sound, easing out of his seat, and moving on to Carly Robson.
They leave together two minutes later. Terry is thinking how long it will take to ensconce her in his South Side flat, close the social transaction, and then get back out to catch some fares trying to get to where they need to go before Hurricane Bawbag beds in.
On the journey to his flat, the winds have kicked up and the phone reception is bad. Terry sees several missed calls – two from Ronnie Checker. He tries to call him back, but the bars of the signal fade.
7
JINTY NAGGED
‘MAKE SURE YE git hame early, mind, git hame early, we cannae go oot the night . . .’ Wee Jonty’s like a fuckin parrot. Well, ah’m
Clients come in at all hours. He is most surprised by the office employees who arrive early for a session with the girl of their choice before work. Many are young, their sex lives wrecked by small children or post-natally depressed partners, but who seek to avoid the complications of an office affair. He tries to understand them as he watches them come and go, some in sneaky guilt, others with a swaggering arrogance. It isn’t good for business though, Terry reflects, to display overt disdain for clients, and it might get back to The Poof. They never seem to bother Kelvin though; it is Terry who cops most of his hostile vibes.
Terry considers how this is pretty much inevitable, given the unspecified but vaguely supervisory role in which The Poof has cast him, thereby building conflict and distrust into the relationship. The girls, once they figured out that he was there to monitor the detested Kelvin, are generally sound with Terry, enjoying a mug of tea and a laugh with him.
Kelvin is particularly edgy today, responding to Terry’s overtures in gruff monosyllables, so despite enjoying the girls’ company, he is glad to leave and return to the cab.
It’s a cold, blustery day, and Edinburgh is bracing itself for its first officially designated hurricane in living memory, which is to hit the town later this evening. Many people prepare by selecting the pub most expedient to get stuck in, and the town is already empty. Terry picks up a couple of fares, then some messages from his supplier, Rehab Connor, down in Inverleith, and drops them off to clients in Marchmont and Sighthill.
It is the afternoon by the time he gets back into the city centre. Locating the backstreet New Town hostelry of his choice, the Bar Cissism, Terry parks the cab outside on the cobbled road. It is a darkly lit spot, full of busy-looking professionals. Terry takes a number, B37, like the ones issued in government offices. Moving to a vantage point at the bar, he nurses a fresh orange juice, scrutinising a sea of occupied tables. When his number comes up, Terry saunters towards a wholesome-looking brunette, sitting down in front of her. He knows how he will play this one.
— Hi, I’m Valda, she says with a big smile.
— Terry. Pleasure to meet you, Valda. Listen, ah’m gaunny pit ma cairds right on the table here, he smiles, arching a roguish brow. Valda regards him in studied neutrality, though Terry fancies he can see a slight shiver in her left eye. — An important part ay any relationship is sex, n that’s primarily what ah’m interested in right now. Ah’m hung like a pit pony that wisnae shy in foalhood when the carrots wir gittin dished oot, n wi this tongue ye dinnae need a fuckin straw tae git tae the boatum ay a milkshake, if ye catch ma drift. Ah’ve goat a flat roond the corner. What d’ye say we jist git oot ay here right now? The apocalypse thit they news cunts call Bawbag, well, it’s gaunny hit the toon later!
Valda Harkins feels insulted. She is preparing her response, but by the time she is ready to sound off, Terry, who has read the signs, is already at the next table, giving another woman, Kate Ormond, exactly the same pitch. Kate is startled. — Wow . . . you’re moving a wee bit too fast –
Terry cuts her off with, — Sound, easing out of his seat, and moving on to Carly Robson.
They leave together two minutes later. Terry is thinking how long it will take to ensconce her in his South Side flat, close the social transaction, and then get back out to catch some fares trying to get to where they need to go before Hurricane Bawbag beds in.
On the journey to his flat, the winds have kicked up and the phone reception is bad. Terry sees several missed calls – two from Ronnie Checker. He tries to call him back, but the bars of the signal fade.
7
JINTY NAGGED
‘MAKE SURE YE git hame early, mind, git hame early, we cannae go oot the night . . .’ Wee Jonty’s like a fuckin parrot. Well, ah’m
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