by Unknown
Then I call Leith’s finest. — Hello. My name’s Simon Williamson, I’m the proprietor of the Port Sunshine. I want to get the test results on the confiscated pills, I explain, pulling from my pocket a slip of paper Kebab Cop gave me. — My reference number is zero seven six two . . .
After a long wait, there’s an apologetic voice on the other end. — I’m sorry, sir, the lab has a bit of a backlog . . .
— Fine, I snap, impatient, unsatisfied taxpayer-style, putting the phone down. When I get back the first thing I’m going to do is to write to the Chief Constable and complain like fuck about this.
29
‘. . . a dozen roses . . .’
Lauren and I get a shock delivery; a dozen roses each, blood red, on dark-green stalks, sent to us anonymously, with just our names on the card. Lauren’s totally freaked out, she thinks it’s somebody from college. We’re a bit hung-over, we went out drinking last night as she had come back from the bosom of her family in Stirling.
Dianne comes through and she’s impressed with our bouquets. — You lucky girls, she said, putting on a fake cry-baby face and moaning: — Where’s mine! Where’s my fuckin prince!
My co-recipient has a pinched face and bared teeth as she examines the flowers as if there’s an explosive device concealed in them. — The shop must know who sent them! I’m going to phone up and find out, Lauren bleats. — This is harassment!
— Get away, Dianne says, — that jakey in the Pear Tree last week, now that was harassment. This is romance! Think yourself lucky, hen.
It fills the rest of the day with an intrigue, which gets me through a couple of boring lectures, before I get home and changed again for my sauna shift. I want to swap a shift with Jayne and she’s agreed, but I can’t find Bobby to confirm this. No doubt he’s in one of the steam rooms, sweating away with his cronies. It’s Thursday night, which for some reason is gangster night. There’s as much gold as sweat dripping from the numerous solid, slightly overweight bodies. It’s funny, but Monday to Wednesday nights tend to be businessmen, Friday’s mainly lads treating themselves, and Saturday it’s footballers, but tonight it’s the criminal element.
At the end of my shift I notice I’m out of towels and I head into the massage room next door. Jayne is pummelling a huge pile of flesh on the table, it’s lobster pink from steam-room excess rendered a lime green by the lights in the pine floor. Jayne’s face is bottom-lit and I can see the smile in her mouth but not her eyes as I nod over to the stack of white towels, always virgin white, before grabbing a few and retreating as the wobbling mass groans under a chopping assault. As I exit I hear what sounds like, ‘Harder . . . dinnae be feart tae go harder . . . never be feart tae go harder . . .’ I’m mildly put out as I realise that it’s a guy who normally asks for me. Not to worry. I eventually see Bobby and make the shift switch. Bobby’s with a guy called Jimmy, a client whose full name I don’t know and who asks if I’ve ever thought about doing some escort work. I look doubtful, but he says: — No, it’s just that you’d be excellent for a colleague of mine. It’s good money, and you get wined and dined . . . he smiles.
— It’s the afters that worry me, I grin back, — the sixty-nined part of it.
Jimmy shakes his head briskly. — No, it’s nothing like that. This guy just likes company, that’s all, just likes to go out with a beautiful girl on his arm. That’s the deal. Anything you negotiate separately . . . well, that’s between you two. He’s a politician, from overseas.
— Why are you asking me?
He gives a hearty, dental-filling-exposing laugh. — Well, one, you’re his type, and two, you’re always well turned out, clothes-wise. I’ll bet you’re the sort of lassie who’s got a few knockout dresses in her wardrobe, he says, shifting into a donkey-like grin. — Think about it.
— Okay, I will, I tell him, and head home, without a drink for the first time in a while. I go to my room and do a few intensive stretching, bending and breathing exercises. Then I go to bed and get the best night’s sleep I’ve had in months.
I rise in the morning in some eagerness, unusually beating both Lauren and Dianne into the shower, before spending an age deciding what to wear. Why the excitement? Well, I’m off to Leith, and I’m more than pleased that the boys are back. It’s strange, but there definitely was something missing over the last few days. When I get down to the pub, I realise what it is. Sick Boy, or Simon, as I should call him, in the short time following his departure to Amsterdam, has gone from being a distraction for me to the main dish. I half thought that I was anticipating Rab, but when I saw Simon wearing polished black shoes, black pants and a green sweatshirt, I just thought: hold on, something’s up here. He sported a few days’ growth and that severe slicked-back Steven Seagal hair had gone, replaced by a bouncy, almost fluffy cut which softened him. His eyes sparkled and danced over every member of the assembled company, seeming to linger on me.
He looked so gorgeous I instantly had doubts about my own appearance. After the long debate with myself, I had settled on some white cotton slacks, black-and-white trainers and a short blue jacket which, when I buttoned the bottom tags in, accentuated my cleavage in the lighter blue V-neck top.
I’m looking at Rab and now all I see is a conventionally handsome man, but one devoid of any charisma. That quality, in contrast, just leaks out of Simon. The way he rests his elbow on the long, stained bar and his chin on the joint of his hand and wrist, then idly lets his fingers rub the growth on his neck. I’m thinking, I want my fingers doing what his are.
Something’s been going on. Simon is lording it over everyone, Terry’s amused and Rab seems pensive. His wedding’s a couple of months away, but he decided to get the stag in early in case they drugged him and put him on a goods train to Warsaw or somewhere like that. I’m keeping my eye on Simon, but he doesn’t give me any indication that he’s the roses man.
Melanie arrives a bit late and sits beside me. I catch Simon glancing tetchily at his watch. Rab and him seem to be arguing constantly about the film. There’s another name that keeps cropping up now, this mysterious character called Rents from Amsterdam.
Simon’s throwing his hands up at Rab in a gesture of mock surrender. — Okay, okay, the movie has to be shot in Amsterdam, for legal purposes, or rather, look as if it’s been shot in the Dam. Surely, though, we can do the interiors in the pub, he argues. — I mean, all we need are a few external establishing shots of trams and canals and shit. Nobody’s going to know.
— Aye, I suppose, Rab concedes, sounding constipated with concern.
— Good, now let’s put that one to bed, Simon says pompously, then looks right at me, and I feel my chest open and my bowels shrink in response to his lighthouse-like smile. I pull a tight grin back. Simon idly rubs his stubble again. I decide that I want to shave him with an open razor, soap him up and watch all the emotions in his big, dark eyes as I drag the blade slowly across his face . . .
My thoughts are breaking up as it’s hard not to concentrate solely on Simon, but now he’s saying: — Terry, you were meant to be writing the script, how’s it coming along?
All I’m thinking of is how I’d like to fuck you, Mr Simon Sick Boy Williamson, to enclose myself around you and squeeze every fucking drop of you into me, to use you, spend you and exhaust you so that you’ll never want any other woman ever again . . .
— Fuckin brilliant, but I’ve no written anything doon. It’s aw in here, Terry grins widely, tapping his head and smiling at me, as if it’s me that asked the question, as if the others aren’t even in the room. Terry. The sort of guy who’s not really that fanciable, but you’d shag, just because he’s so enthusiastic about things. Maybe he’s the phantom florist. — Terry, sex is in your head, we know that. What we need is it in a script.
— Ah ken what yir sayin, gorgeous, he smiles, running his hand through his curly hair, — but ah’m no really yin for writin things doon. What ah might dae is talk intae a tape n somebody kin type it oot, he adds, looking hopefully
at me.
— So what you’re saying is that you’ve done fuck all, Rab challenges, looking round at everybody.
I glance at Melanie who shrugs, unconcerned. Ronnie grins, Ursula’s eating a Pot Noodle and Craig’s looking like he has a stomach ulcer. Then Terry sheepishly produces a couple of sheets of A4. I would describe the handwriting as not so much spidery as scorpion-like.
— What did ye say that ye hud done nowt for but? Rab asks, taking the papers and scanning them.
— Writin’s no ma thing, Birrell, Terry shrugs, but he’s quite embarrassed. Rab’s shaking his head as he passes them over to me.
I read a bit and it’s so hilariously inept that I have to share it. — Terry, this is nonsense! Listen to this: ‘The boy fucks the bird up the arse. The bird licks the other bird out.’ It’s awful!
Terry’s shoulders bunch up and once again he rubs a hand through that curly mop.
— A tad minimalist, Mr Lawson, Rab snorts, as he takes back the papers from me and waves them in his face. — This is shite, Terry. It’s no a script. There’s nae story here. It’s just shaggin, he laughs, passing them to Simon, who studies them impassively.
— That’s what we want, Birrell; it’s a porn film, Terry says defensively.
Rab screws his face up and sits back in the chair. — Aye, that’s what aw the jakeys want, the ones you show yir stag clippings tae. Ah thoat we were meant tae be daein a real film here. Ah mean, it’s no even written like a film script, he flicks his hand through the air.
— It might no seem like that now, Birrell, but ye git the actors tae bring it tae life . . . like that Jason King boy oan the telly used tae dae, Terry says, suddenly inspired. — Loads ay innuendo n aw that. The Swingin Sixties stuff’s big now, gie it that kind ay feel.
During this exchange, the others, looking bored and distracted, have said absolutely nothing. Simon sets Terry’s papers down on the table in front of him, reclines in his chair and starts tapping his fingers on the armrest. — As someone with experience in the industry, let me intervene, he says in that grandiose manner of his where you don’t know whether he’s being pompous or ironic. — Rab, why don’t you take Terry’s script and weave a storyline into it.
— Fuckin needs it, Rab says.
— Aye, well, it’s no meant tae be a college dissertation, Birrell, Terry asserts loudly.
— Right, says Simon, yawning and stretching like a cat, his eyes glinting in the weak light, — I think you need a bit of help here, Terry. Turning to the rest of us, he proposes: — I think the best move would be if Rab and Nikki could take Terry’s basic ideas and put them into a script format. Very basic, just break it down into scenes, locations . . . what am I telling you this for, you’re the students of film, you’ve seen a screenplay, he smiles at us both so lavishly that I fancy even Rab’s flattered.
But it’s not Rab who I want to work with, Simon, it’s you.
Terry cuts in at this point. — We’re, eh no wantin too many . . . nae offence, but eh, students involved. What aboot if me n you worked oan it, Nikki? he says hopefully, then adding: — Ah mean, we could try oot some ay the positions n that. Make sure that it aw actually worked.
— Oh, I think we’ll be alright on the night, Terry, I tell him hastily. I look over to Simon, thinking that we could try out some of the positions, but he’s saying something in Mel’s ear and she’s grinning. If only he’d look this way.
— I think it would be easier for me and Nikki to dae it, with us seeing each other anyway, at the university n that, Rab says, looking at me.
I really would rather it was Simon and I’m tempted to play games, but I nod in agreement, because I’m thinking: did Rab send the flowers after all? But why Lauren? — Okay, I say softly, — that makes sense.
Terry’s a bit huffy at this, and looks away over towards the bar.
— That’s fine. As long as it’s got our pornographic narrative in sequence; blow jobs, straight, girl-on-girl, anal and cum shots, Simon expounds, adding, — also plenty of bondage and as many inventive set pieces as you can dream up.
Terry brightens up a bit, re-engaging as Simon gets down to the brass tacks of sex. — The big problem we have is anal. Simon turns to Mel and me. — Or rather, the big problem you lassies have.
His cold look, accompanied by that word, makes my innards freeze. — I don’t do that, I tell him.
Mel’s shaking her head as well and speaks up for the first time today. — No way will ah dae that. She catches Terry looking at her, and she goes a bit bashful and kicks his foot. — No oan the camera but, Terry!
Simon’s face is screwed up. — Mmm . . . we need to talk about this. You see, I think it’s essential these days. I mean, personally, it doesn’t really do much for me, but the thing is, we live in an anal society.
Rab rolls his eyes and Terry nods in emphatic support.
— I mean, think about it, Simon waxes on, — you have rednecks in hick towns, telling us aliens have come all the way from another galaxy just to stick a probe up their sweaty arseholes . . . modern porn, the Zanes, the Blacks, it’s got all that triple-penetration circus stuff in it now. Look at Ben Dover’s videos. Fit young birds always get it up the arse these days.
— Fuckin brilliant videos, Terry adds sagely.
Simon nods in impatient compliance. — The point is that in the old days if a bird got fucked up the arse in a video, it was odds-on that she was a stretch-marked old boiler, dripping with cellulite and fit for the knacker’s yard. Now that’s all changed. For any young lassie serious about being a porn star, taking it up the shitter is almost obligatory.
— Not for me, I say quietly, and only Simon’s heard this but he chooses not to acknowledge it. So I amplify my voice and my concerns. — A lot of women don’t do anal. Some only do girl-on-girl. We’re not making a mucky men’s porn movie. I thought we were going to try and be innovative with non-sexist dialogues and themes. What happened to that? Was it all destroyed by one sniggering, smutty little boys’ weekend in Amsterdam?
— No. We are being innovative, Simon insists, — but we have to cover all bases and that includes anal. It’s not real, Nikki, it’s only acting.
No, it is real. It has to be real. Getting fucked is getting fucked, and it’s one of the few things left in our lives that is real, that is unconstructed.
— Aye, Rab says, unwittingly being Simon’s stooge, — we have to remember that it’s the performance of sex, not real sex, and it’s just freak-show stuff. I mean, who really has triple penetration in their sex life?
— Jist you n yir poofy mates fae the college, Terry says.
Rab ignores him and continues, anxious that he’s not being misconstrued. — Let’s get a real story, with real people, acting like they’re having real sex. The anal stuff’s a red herring, if the girls dinnae want tae dae it, then that’s cool.
— No, Simon shakes his head. — Ye see, Rab, it’s due to the way we feel about our arseholes. We now believe, as a species, if our soul is located anywhere in our bodies, it’s up our arses. That’s where it all goes. It makes sense. That’s why we’re obsessed with anal jokes, anal sex, anal hobbies . . . the arsehole – not the brain, not space – is the last frontier. That’s what makes us revolutionaries.
But I don’t want to do it, so I raise my eyebrows and look at Mel and Ursula for support. — I’m telling you again, I don’t like it. I’ve tried it once before. I find it sore, remote, cold and uncomfortable. I like to fuck, not to sit back gasping like a circus freak tensed up and waiting to see how much of a guy I can take up my arsehole.
— Mibee ye jist need broken in. Some birds that are experienced in it really go for it, Terry says.
— I don’t want a fucking arsehole like the Channel Tunnel, Terry. I’m not being a party-pooper, Terry gives me a big wink, — it’s just not my thing. I’ve nothing against it, I just don’t want to do it.
— Wi me, ah’m no that bothered aboot daein it, it’s jist thit ah dinnae want people k
ennin aboot it, Melanie says. — Ah mean, some things ye dinnae want tae show everybody. Ye need some privacy.
— I’m no-that-sortay-a-girl type ay thing, Terry laughs.
— Well, Terry, it’s awright fir you, it’s different for lassies.
— It shouldnae be, no in this age ay feminism n that. Then he turns to Rab. — Or post-feminism, ah should say. See, Birrell, ah do listen tae yir shite sometimes.
— Glad to hear it.
Simon claps his hands together. — Think Baccarra. Nobody likes a chick who sings ‘Sorry I’m a Lady’ in this business. We want to hear ‘Yes Sir I Can Boogie’.
— Fair enough, Simon, I smile, — but we need a certain song.
He pulls open his wallet. — This is the song, he tells me, exposing a wad of notes. Then he grabs a film poster. — And this. We’re at the front line of everything here. Let’s think about it. I mean, where did all this anal obsession come from?
— Oh yes, it’s perfect for the type of society we live in, self-absorbed, going right up our own arses, I remark.
— No, sweetheart, it all came from porn. These cunts are the real pioneers. Pornography sneezes and popular culture catches cold. People want sex, violence, food, pets, DIY and humiliation. Let’s give them the fuckin lot. Look at humilation television, look at the papers and the mags, look at the class system, the jealousy, the bitterness that oozes out of our culture: in Britain we want to see people get fucked, he says, looking briefly like an alien in Close Encounters caught, as he is, in a shaft of sunlight which slips out into a gap between the tenements opposite. — Anyway, let’s continue this discussion later.
