by Unknown
Paula’s anticipated all objections, not that I would be enough of a killjoy to try and raise any. Her belief in me is touching: my lies of London leisure-industry success have impressed. She wants me to take over the Port Sunshine. The problem of her wanting twenty grand for the hovel is resolved surprisingly easily as she suggests that I pay it off as the bar earns. Until then, she’ll be my sleeping partner.
The place is a potential gold mine, just waiting for a makeover job. You can feel the gentrification creeping up from the Shore and forcing house prices up and I can hear the tills ringing as I give the Port Sunshine a tart-up from Jakey Central to New Leith café society. It’s got the lot, the big function room at the back, and the old bar up the stairs, long since shut and used as storage.
I need to apply for a licence, so as soon as I leave Paula, I’m up to the City Chambers to get the forms. Afterwards, I treat myself to a cappuccino (done surprisingly well for Scotland) and an oatmeal biscuit, in the patisserie round the corner. I examine the council paperwork and, thinking of the Hackney bedsit, start work on the documentation. Leith is on the up. It’ll be on the Tube line before Hackney.
Later, I head up to my parents’ house on the South Side. My mother is delighted to see me, grabbing me in a rib-cracking embrace and breaking into a sob. — Look, Davie, she says to the old boy, who can barely tear himself from the telly, — my laddie is-a back! Oh, son, I love ye!
— C’mon, Ma . . . Mama, I say, mildly embarrassed.
— Wait till Carlotta sees you! And Louisa!
— Thing is, I have tae go back soon . . .
— Aw, son, son, son . . . no . . .
— Aye but, the thing is, Ma, I’ll be back up soon. For good!
My mother bursts into tears. — Davie! Dae ye hear-a that? I’m going to have my laddie back!
— Aye, Paula’s said I could take over the Port Sunshine.
My old man swivels round in the chair and raises a doubtful eye.
— What’s up-a with your face! my mother says.
— The Port Sunshine? Widnae be seen died in thair. Fill ay hoors n comic singers, my father scoffs. The old bastard looks tired, sitting there with his weather-beaten tan. It’s as if he’s now admitted to himself that he can no longer fuck my mother about or she’ll throw the semi-jakey out on his arse and he’s now too enfeebled to find another daft cow to run after him, particularly one that makes pasta like her.
Conceding to her wishes for a family get-together, I decide to stay an extra night. My wee sister Carlotta comes in and squeals excitedly, planting a heavy kiss on each cheek, and calls Louisa on the mobile. I sit there with a sister on either side, fussing all over me, as the old man grunts and raises a bitter eye. Every so often my mother pulls Carlotta or Louisa from the couch and shouts: — Up-a the now. I want tae get-a proper hug ay that-a laddie of mine. Ah widnae believe it, ma wee laddie back here! For good as well!
Content with the way things are going, I head downhill to Sun City. I’m bouncing down the Walk, breathing in the sea air as scummy Edinburgh makes way to my beautiful home port. Then I go down to the bar with Paula behind it, and instantly suffer a massive comedown. The bar itself is shambolic enough: old red floor tiles, formica-topped tables, nicotine-tanned walls and ceiling, but it’s the punters that get me. It’s like a crowd of zombies in a George A. Romero movie, decaying away under the harsh strip lighting, which magnifies the multitude of sins. I’ve seen crack dens on estates in Hackney and Islington which are like fucking palaces compared to this shithouse.
Leith? I spent so many years trying to get out of here. How could I set foot in this place again? Now that the old girl’s moved to the South Side, there is absolutely no need. I’m up at the bar drinking a Scotch, watching Paula and her pal Morag, who’s a total Paula clone, serve up meals to these whining toothless old cunts like it’s a soup kitchen. On the other side of the bar incongruously loud dance music blares from the jukebox and several skeletal young men sniff and twitch and stare. Already I find myself anxious to get away from the pub, Paula and Leith. The London train is calling.
I make my excuses and I’m walking further down into the new Leith: the Royal Yacht Britannia, the Scottish Office, renovated docks, wine bars, restaurants, yuppie pads. This is the future, and it’s only two blocks away. The next year, the year after maybe, just one block away. Then bingo!
All I need to do is to swallow my pride and sit pretty for a bit. In the meantime, there will be some top scamming going on; the natives are far too much like backwoodsmen to be able to keep up to pace with a metropolitan swashbuckler like Simon David Williamson.
8
‘. . . just the solitary lens . . .’
Rab seems nervous. He’s picking the skin around his fingers. When I challenge him he says something about giving up smoking, muttering about a baby being on the way. It’s his first ever hint to me, apart from this mysterious Terry guy, about a life outside the student world. It’s strange to think that some people actually do have them; whole, self-contained arenas, broken off into little compartments. Like me. And now we’re going right into at least a part of his hidden world.
Our taxi clicks and lurches its way from one set of lights to the next, the meter rolling by as relentlessly as a Scottish summer. It halts outside this small pub, but although the sinal yellow light spills out onto the grey-blue pavement and you can hear smoked throats bellowing laughter, we don’t go in. No, we’re down a piss-and-gravel side lane and to a black-painted back door on which Rab beats out a tattoo. Di-di, di-di-di, di-di-di-di, di-di.
You hear the noise of somebody cascading down a set of stairs. Then silence.
— S’Rab, he slurs, rapping again, another football rhythm.
A bolt slides, a chain rattles and a frizzy-topped head pops out from behind the door like a jack-in-the-box. A pair of hungry, slitty eyes briefly acknowledge Rab, then scan my body with such a casual intensity that I almost want to scream for the police. Then any sense of threat or discomfort evaporates in the heat of a white-hot smile, which seems to reach out to my own face like a sculptor’s fingers, moulding it into its own image. The grin is amazing, turning his face from that of a belligerent, hostile fool to some kind of feral genius with the secrets of the world at his disposal. The head twists one way, then the other, scanning the alley for any further activity.
— This is Nikki, Rab explains.
— Come in, come in, the guy nods.
Rab shoots me a quick ‘are you sure’ look and explains: — This is Terry, as I answer him by way of stepping over the door.
— Juice Terry, this big, curly-haired guy smiles, stepping aside to let me go up the narrow staircase first. He follows in silence, so that he can look at my bum, I expect. I take my time, showing him that I won’t be fazed by this. Let him be fazed.
— You’ve got an amazing arse, Nikki, I’ll tell ye that for nowt, he says with cheerful enthusiasm. I’m starting to really like him already. That’s my weakness; too easily impressed by the wrong type of person. They always said that; parents, teachers, coaches, even peers.
— Thank you, Terry, I say coolly, turning as I get to the top of the stair. His eyes are glowing and I look straight at him, holding the gaze. That grin expands further and he nods to the door and I open it and step in.
Sometimes the otherness of a place really hits you. When the summer fades and the term starts and everything is blue, grey and purple. The cleansing air in your lungs, the purity of it, then turning to cold until you huddle together for warmth in the dimly lit bars away from the bland could-be-anywhere Witherspoons/Falcon and Firkin/All Bar One/O’Neill’s-land that’s the corporate, colonised social hub of every urban centre of the UK. Go a bit out though, and you find the real places. Usually just a brisk walk, maybe a few stops on the bus, it never takes too long. This is one of those places, so overwhelmingly like stepping back into another age that its tawdriness dazzles. I head to the toilet in order to take stock. The Ladies is like a small cof
fin standing up Egyptian-style, barely big enough to sit down in, with a broken toilet, no bog paper, chipped tiles, a wash-hand basin with no hot water and a cracked mirror above it. I look into it, cheered that the spot I feared erupting seems to have gone into remission. There’s a blotch on my cheek but it’s fading. Red wine. Avoid red wine. That shouldn’t be difficult in here. I apply some eyeliner and more of that purple-red lipstick, and quickly brush my hair. Then I take a deep breath and walk out, ready for this new world.
A lot of eyes are on me; eyes I was vaguely aware of but had blanked out on my way to the toilet. One hard-looking girl with black hair, cut short, has an overtly hostile gaze. I see Terry raise his eyes in my peripheral vision and he signals to a woman behind the bar. The place is half empty but I’m keeping Terry in my sights.
— Get them in then, Birrell ya cunt, he says to Rab, but not averting his eyes from me. — So, Nikki, you’re at college wi Rab. That must be . . . Terry gropes for a word, seems to select then spit one out, then another, before concluding, — Naw, some things are jist better no thinkin aboot.
I laugh at his performance. He’s fun. There’s no need to burst his balls straight away, that can be done later on. — Yeah, I’m at uni. We’re on the same film studies course.
— Ah’ll show ye some film tae study awright! C’mon, sit beside me, he says, pointing at a seat in the corner, like an eager primary-age pupil anxious to show off what he’s done at school. — They goat any mair like you up at that college? he asks, though it seems as if it’s for Rab’s benefit. I’ve already found that Terry and myself both enjoy making Rab feel uncomfortable. Something shared.
We sit in a corner near two youngish women, a couple and the barmaid.
Terry is wearing an old Paul and Shark black zipper fleece over a V-necked T-shirt. He has a pair of Levi’s and some Adidas trainers. On his finger he has a gold ring and a chain hangs from his neck. — So you’re the famous Terry then, I enquire, hoping to get a reaction.
— Aye, Terry says matter-of-factly, as if this éclat is both widely known and uncontentious, — Juice Terry, he repeats. — We’re just aboot tae show the yin we did the other night thaire.
A gang of old guys and not so old guys come in and sit down, many of them on seats pulled out and lined up under the screen. It has the atmosphere of a football match. There’s acknowledgement and jokes and drinks, and that hostile-looking girl is collecting money from them. Terry shouts to this stocky, vaguely threatening presence: — Gina, goan draw they curtains, hen.
She looks quite sourly at him, goes to say something and thinks better of it.
The show starts up, and the picture was obviously shot on a cheap digital video; one camera, no edit, just the solitary lens pulling out and in. It’s from a tripod cause the image is steady, but it’s a one-take of people shagging, rather than any real attempt to craft a film. The quality of picture’s okay, you can tell that Terry is shagging that Gina across the very bar that they’re serving the drinks from.
— Aye, ah’ve loast a bit ay weight this last year, he whispers to me, evidently quite pleased about it, patting his sides to show what must be his now-diminished love handles. I turn to look, but I can hardly keep my eyes from the screen, as a young girl, — Melanie, Terry whispers, comes into the picture. He nods to the bar and I recognise her now as the same girl that was standing there earlier. She looks different, really sexy on the screen. Now Gina is performing cunnilingus on her. Somebody makes a comment and there’s a bit of laughter and the Melanie girl smiles in coy embarrassment, but it’s followed by silencing shushes. There’s barely any sound quality now, I can just about make out a few gasps and comments and Terry faintly saying things like ‘come on’, ‘yes’ and ‘that’s the game, doll’. On the picture a blonde girl comes in and he’s frigging her and she’s sucking him off. Then he bends her over a couch and starts fucking her from behind. Her face looks right into the camera and her large breasts dangle. Then we see Terry’s head over her shoulder, looking right into the lens, winking at us, and saying something which sounds like ‘spice of life’. — Ursula, Swedish lassie, he explains to me in a stage whisper, — or is it Danish . . . anywey, au pair girl, hings aroond the Grassmarket. Game as fuck, he explains. As the other players enter the fray, Terry’s occasional commentary flits into my head: — . . . Craig . . . good mate ay mine. Top shagger. No exactly well-hung, bit a total sex case. Kin eh find wid but . . . Ronnie . . . could pump fir Scotland that boy . . .
The show ends up in a free-for-all and the camera work deteriorates. At times all you can see is a pink blur. Then it pulls out and in the background you see the Gina girl chopping out some lines of coke, as if bored by the sex. It badly needs editing and I’m tempted to share this thought with Terry, but he senses the audience’s growing boredom and switches it off from the handset. — That’s aboot us, folks, he smiles.
After the show, I’m having a chat at the bar with Rab, asking him how long this has been going on for. He’s about to reply, when Terry sidles up to me and asks: — What did ye think ay that then?
— Amateurs, I reply, more loudly and pompously in drink than I intended, as I whisk my hair back. My blood chills a little, because I think that Gina girl heard me and I caught a cold, razor glint in her eye.
— N you could dae better? he asks, his eyes hooding and brows arching.
I look him steadily in the eye. — Yeah, I tell him.
He rolls his eyes and eagerly scribbles a number down on a beer mat. — Any time, doll. Any time, he says softly.
— I’ll hold you to that, I say, to the distaste of Rab.
I notice for the first time the two other guys in the film, Craig and Ronnie. Craig is a thin, nervous-looking, chain-smoker with a modish mop of light-brown hair, Ronnie a relaxed guy with thin fair hair and the same idiot grin that he wears on the screen, although he seems podgier in the flesh.
Shortly afterwards, the Scandinavian girl, Ursula, comes in, and Terry introduces us. Her initial glance at me is polar, though she greets me with over-the-top warmth. Ursula doesn’t look as good in the flesh as she does on screen; her features are slightly pudgy, troll-like even. She offers to get me a drink and the party looks like it’s going to continue but I make my apologies and head home. Something interesting might be about to happen but that look in Terry’s eye tells me that it’s wrong to play all my cards at once. He’ll wait. They all will. And besides, I’ve an essay to finish.
When I get back home I find that Lauren’s still up, and she’s with Dianne, who’s moved her stuff in. Lauren seems to be really in the huff with me for going out, for not being here to help, or to welcome Dianne or whatever. The fact is, though, that she’s pissed off with me for going along to this stag-video show, but you can also tell that she’s desperate to ask me about it.
— Hi, Dianne! Sorry, I had to go out, I tell her.
Dianne doesn’t seem to mind. She’s a very cool, pretty woman, who must be ages with me; she has thick, luxuriant, black shoulder-length hair, in which she wears a blue band. Her eyes are busy and full of life and she has quite thin, rather sly lips which pull open to expose large, white teeth, completely changing her expression. She’s wearing a blue sweatshirt, blue jeans and trainers. — Anywhere fun? she asks in a local accent.
— I went to a stag-video show in a pub, I tell her.
I watch Lauren redden with embarrassment, and when she says, — That’s a little more information than we needed, Nikki, it sounds pathetic, like an adolescent trying to be grown up but only making herself seem more childlike in the process.
— Any good? Dianne asks, and to Lauren’s horror, totally unfazed.
— Not bad. It was Lauren’s friend I went along with, I tell her.
— No he’s not! He’s your friend as well! she says too loudly, then realising this, trails off. — It’s just a guy on the course.
— That’s very interesting, Dianne says, — because I’m doing research for my MPhil in psychology on worke
rs in the sex industry. You know, prostitutes, lap dancers, strippers, call-centre operators, massage-parlour people, escort girls, all that stuff.
— How’s it going?
— It’s hard to find people who want to talk about it, she tells me.
I smile at her. — I just might be able to help you there.
— Brilliant, she says and we make an arrangement to have a natter about my work in the sauna, the next shift of which starts tomorrow evening. I go to my room, half drunk, and try to read my essay for McClymont on the word processor. After a couple of pages my eyes nip and I laugh at the stupid sentence: ‘It is impossible to escape the contention that migratory Scots enriched every society they came into contact with.’ This is for McClymont’s benefit. Of course, I won’t mention their role in slavery, racism or the formation of the Ku Klux Klan. After a while my eyes grow heavy and I feel myself drifting back onto my bed and easing slowly into a hot, nomadic trek and then I’m somewhere else . . .
. . . he’s holding onto me . . . that smell . . . and her face in the background, her twisted and eager smiles as he bends me round the bar like I’m made of rubber . . . that voice, commanding, urging . . . and I see the faces of Mum and Dad and my brother Will in the crowd and I’m trying to shout . . . please stop this . . . please . . . but it’s like they can’t see me and I’m being groped and tickled . . .
It was a bruising, unsatisfactory, alcoholic sleep. I sit up and my head pounds, and an urge to vomit grips me, then passes, leaving me with a thumping heart and a toxic sweat on my face and under my armpits.
The computer was left on dozing, and as I brush the mouse, the power surge kicks McClymont’s essay back onto the screen, like it was issuing a challenge. I have to get it in. Noting that Dianne and Lauren have gone, I make a quick coffee, then read the essay, tinker a bit, check the word count, put it through the spell check and click ‘Print’. I need to get this essay in at the uni by noon; as it raps out the three thousand required words I head to the bathroom and shower away yesterday’s alcohol, sweat and grimy cigarette smoke, giving my hair a good wash.
