A Decent Ride by Irvine Welsh

practically feel the breath of Satan on the back of my neck! Forgive me, Lord!
    Our father, which art in heaven . . .
    — Lothian and Borders police –
    — Is that the Edinboro police?
    — Yes . . .
    — You said something different! Why? Why did you say that?
    — We call it Lothian and Borders Police . . . but we cover Edinburgh.
    — Well, I’m trapped in room 638 of the Balmoral Hotel, here in Princes Street, Edinboro, right in the middle of this goddamn hurricane! The asshole on the line actually chuckles, like this life-and-death scenario is one big fucking gag! Do these people value human life so cheaply? — What’s so funny?
    — Nothing.
You
might think it’s very funny, but you’re blocking up emergency services lines –
    — I’m
blocking up
emergency services lines cause this is a fucking emergency, you asshole! I’m Ronald Checker! I am a businessman and an American citizen!
    A tired sigh comes down the line, like this asshole, this duty cop, is
yawning
at me! — Aye, I read in the paper that you were in town, Mr Checker. Love
The Prodigal
, by the way. Well, just you relax and calm down.
    — Relax?! How can I goddamn relax –
    — Mr Checker, you’re in the best possible place. I’d stay right where I was if I were you!
    — No way! This crumbling tip is a death trap! We have a situation here. I want a police escort to take me to Edinboro Castle!
    — I don’t understand. Why would you want to go out to Edinburgh Castle? There’s a hurricane on and we’re strongly advising people to stay indoors.
    — No,
you
don’t fucking understand! There is a hurricane situation! That’s why I’m calling: you assholes have obviously never seen a goddamn hurricane before! You have no levee, no emergency services, and you do not give a rat’s ass! Well, I do! And if you can’t see the shit that’s going down, then damn you all to hell!
    I smash the phone onto its cradle, and get down on my belly and crawl under the bed. I’ve got Mahler’s soothing strings on my headphones.
Spare me this torment. Spare me, Lord.
    That cab driver, Terry, he said he can fix anything! He’ll be able to see me through this panic attack . . . I find his number on my cell . . . the signal bars are coming up . . . it’s ringing . . .
    — Ronnie boy!
    — Terry . . . thank God! You gotta help me. I’m caught up in this hurricane!
    — Got caught up in yin masel, Ronnie. Inside the cab, if ye git ma drift . . .
    — What?
    — Nivir mind. Whaire are ye?
    — I’m in my room at the Balmoral.
    — Yir fine thaire, mate, try being caught baw-deep in –
    — I’M NOT FINE! EVERYBODY KEEPS TELLING ME THAT I’M FINE! YOU DON’T KNOW ABOUT NEW ORLEANS!
    — Okay, buddy, you hang on in there. Sounds like you’re huvin a wee panic attack . . . you’ve no been takin anything naughty, huv ye?
    — No! I don’t touch drugs! Well, just a few whiskies and some Ambien . . .
    — Whisky and prescriptions disnae count as drugs, Terry says, which I like,
know
. — Okay, well, hing loose, wir oan oor wey!
    — Terry, thank you, you are a godsend . . . but please hurry!
    I’ve built over two hundred tower blocks, trying to get closer to the Lord with every development, but my vertigo means that I’ve never been anywhere near the top of any of them.
    I put on the TV, there’s still a signal, but you can’t get Fox News on any of those Limey channels. It’s all godless commie liberal shit, full of assholes talking funny and parading around in strange clothes. I’m relieved when I find some repeats of
Magnum P.I.
I swallow two more Ambien with my Skatch. I pick up the phone and call room service again. It rings once, twice . . . they’ve fucking deserted me! Left me in this Gothic ghost hotel, which is gonna crumble around me as the hurricane rips it to pieces and –
    — Room service! Hello, sir! Can I help you?
    — Send up two bottles of your most expensive Skatch!
    — Our most expensive is a 1954 single-malt Macallan, but