by Unknown
Terry looks slyly and says: — Tell ye what though, ye’d better cast Gina. She’ll have nae qualms aboot getting rode up the rectum.
— No way, Terry, she’s okay for stag, but she’s not got proper movie-star quality. Leave the casting to me. The other day I ran into this boy I know from way back, Mikey Forrester, he runs a sauna. There’s some lassies working for him that are tidy. The casting will be nae problem. We dinnae need Gina, Simon says, seeming to shiver as he mentions her name.
Terry shrugs. — Well, that’s up tae you, mate, but she says tae tell ye thit she’s gaunnae batter yir cunt in if she cannae be in the film, he informs Simon with a gleeful smirk.
Melanie nods and confirms this. — Aye, ah widnae mess wi her, cause she’s fuckin hard as fuck. She’ll dae it n aw.
Simon, Sick Boy, slaps his own forehead in exasperation. — Magnificent. I’m being stalked by a fucking boiler and my leading ladies don’t want to do anal. Well, you can just tell the Bride of Begbie to fuck off.
— You tell her, Terry grins.
As the meeting breaks up, I hang about and say to Simon: — The recruitment thing . . . I can maybe help. Ask a few friends if they’re interested. Girls who are in the know, so to speak.
Simon nods slowly.
— I have to go, but I’ll call you later, I say as I see Rab looking on as he waits for me and I’m sure that there’s a spark of jealousy in his eye.
30
Packages
Ah blootered it a wee bit oan the gear again, some stuff ah’d goat fae Seeker. Ali said tae me if yir ever fucked up, dinnae come back here, ah’m no huvin that roond Andy. Which is fair enough likes, so ah didnae. Maist ay the week wis a series ay couches; Monny’s, ma ma’s n perr Parkie’s, which isnae really oan wi him tryin hard tae turn things roond ehsel. Poor cat disnae need me twitchin n shiverin in ehs coupon. That’s the worse thing now, jist one wee relapse n ye pey so much. Ye really feel withdrawal now, even eftir jist the odd wee bang. It’s like the auld system minds ay everything you’ve done in the past n goes, ‘Sorry, gadgie, but take this.’
So ah creep hame fir the first time in days. Andy’ll be at the school n ah’m hopin Ali’s oot. Aye, the gaff’s empty, so ah sit doon in that big, battered armchair n pit oan ma Alabama 3 tape, singin along. Ah see ma mate Zappa the cat, the one boy whae never judges ays. Ah’m lookin at some stuff ah went and goat the other day fae Leith library n ah’ve taken some notes. Ah went in, jist tae git ootay the rain, but ah ended up note-takin oan the history. Ah wis thinkin that Leith’s motto is persevere, n ah’ve goat tae dae jist that. Ah switch oan the telly, wi the sound doon, n gie they plants a bit ay a water, hopin thit Zappa’s no been diggin oot the big yucca gadgie again.
But it’s destined tae be a mad, bad day. Cause the door goes n when ah answer it ah’m jist totally gobsmacked, man. It’s the feral cat himself, standing thaire in front ay ays. Ah’m thinkin when did eh git oot, then ma hert sinks in ma chist cavity n it’s uh-aw, what the fuck has Sick Boy been sayin. Ah kin barely speak fir a bit, then eh smiles at ays n ah finds ma tongue. — Franco, eh, good tae see ye, man. When did ye git oot?
— Been oot fir two fuckin weeks, eh goes, walkin past ays right intae the flat, n ah’m checkin that they segged heels urnae scrappin the varnish oan the wooden flair. Ali wid dae her nut, cause the landlord’s one stroppy gadge. — Didnae waste any fuckin time, sorted oot wi a bird within ooirs. Shaggin fir fuckin Scotland, ya cunt, eh tells me. — What the fuck are you up tae? eh goes, then ehs face goes aw sour. — Yir no oan fuckin smack, ur ye?
Well, when ye see the eye ay that tiger starin at ye, man, it’s best no tae bullshit too much.
— Eh, no really, man, but it’s eh, sortay one day at a time, sweet Jesus, ken? No touched it in ages, likes.
— Better fuckin no be, cause ah’ve hud ma fill ay junkies. Wantin a line ay coke?
— Eh . . . eh . . . ah didnae ken what tae say, man. Mind you, ah nivir ken.
Begbie takes that as an aye, and pills oot a wrap. Eh spills oot a good measure, n even though ah’m no a cokeheid, ah think thit ah’ve goat tae dae it oot ay pure protocol, man. It’s jist goat tae be observed but, eh. N one wee line willnae hurt.
Franco starts choppin. — They tell ays thit ye wir in Perth fir a bit, eh says. — Fuckin shitey nick. Missed ye, ya daft cunt, eh goes, wi a wee smile, which ah sort ay take as meanin that the cat missed ays as likesay me, rather thin missed ays in the nick.
So what can ye say? — Eh, ah missed you n aw, Franco man, but yir lookin well, fit n that, it’s goat tae be said, man.
Eh pats a rocky wall ay a stomach. — Aye, ah worked hard in the nick, no like some. It’s peyin dividends now but, fuckin suren it is, eh goes doon oan a huge line. — Ah’ve goat a young burd, wir oot at Wester Hailes, but wir gittin a flat in Lorne Street. Fuck steyin oot thair. But shi’s tidy n aw, eh sais, tracin oot the shape ay an hourgless kitten wi ehs hands. — Aye, she’s goat a bairn but, likes. She wis wi some cunt whae goat wide so ah burst the cunt’s fuckin mooth right open. Cunt wis fuckin lucky that wis aw eh fuckin well goat. Ah wis steyin at muh ma’s but fuck that, aw she fuckin does is go oan aboot oor Elspeth and this cunt she’s fuckin well gaun oot wi, Franco goes, well chinged n spittin oot syllables like an AK-47 assault rifle, man.
Ah hits the gear n snorts back. Ah stands up, rubbin ma nose. — Aye . . . how’s the bairns?
— Went tae see thum the other day, eh. Thir awright, but that June cunt gits oan ma fuckin nerves, eh. What the fuck did ah ivir git in wi that fir? Wisnae even a fuckin decent poke in it, ah must’ve needed ma fuckin heid examined, eh.
— Ye goat the, eh, jail oot the system yet?
The Begbie cat’s wired oan this ching n eh looks at ays like ehs gaunnae take ma fuckin heid oaf. — What the fuck’s that meant tae mean? Eh?
— Eh, it jist took ays a long time tae git back intae the swing ay things n ah wis only in fir five minutes compared tae you, man, ah tell um. But the Beggar Boy is in fill flight and eh’s talkin aboot prison now and it’s very, very disturbing man, cause ah’m sortay thinkin aboot the Rent Boy, n the cash ah goat back, n blabbin like that tae Sick Boy, n what if eh’s gaunnae tell Beggars?
Franco’s choppin up mair cocaine n ah’m jist reelin fae the first. Eh goes oan for a bit aboot aw the twisted cunts in the jail, then eh jist stares at me wi they bad, bad lamps n goes: — Hi, Spud, see whin ah wis in the jail . . . ah goat a package.
Renton must’ve sorted him oot n aw! — Aye, man. Ah goat yin tae! It wis fae Mark . . .
Begbie bangs tae a halt and stares right intae ma soul, man. — You goat a fuckin package fae Renton, addressed tae you?
Ah’m buzzin n ah dinnae ken what tae say so ah jist blurt it oot. — Well, eh, thing is, Franco, ah dinnae ken for sure that it wis fae Rent Boy, likes. Ah mean, it jist came through the door, anonymous, likesay. But eh, ah jist thought it wid be him, likes.
Totally ragin, Franco slams a fist intae the palm ay his hand n starts pacin up n doon. The warnin bells ur pure ringin now, man. How’s eh like this if ehs been sorted oot fir cash? — That’s right, Spud! That’s what ah fuckin well thought! Only that fuckin sick thievin junky cunt wid send packages wi fuckin poofs’ porn, wi fuckin buftie boys shaggin each other, n address it tae us! Eh’s rubbin oor fuckin faces in it, Spud! CUNT! Franco roars, n slams the table, knockin ower a gless ashtray, which thankfully disnae brek.
Gay porn . . . what the fuck . . . — Aye, that would be the Rent Boy’s crack, likesay, ah say, tryin tae work this oot, gled ah didnae blab aboot the poppy.
— Every one ay they sick cunts ah did in the jail, ah used tae imagine it wis fuckin Renton, this bad feral cat spits. Then eh racks up another two lines. Snortin one back, eh goes: — Ah saw Sick Boy, in ehs fuckin new pub, the fuckin Port Sunshine! Aye, that cunt really fuckin made it big, eh. Course, ye cannae fuckin well tell him nowt, eh’s heid’s fill ay the next big fuckin scam.
— Don’t ah ken it, man, ah nod, dr
oapin doon oantay yon line, even though ma hert’s still thrashin n ah’m still sweatin fae the first yin.
— Aye, n ah saw Second Prize up at Scrubbers Close, wi aw they homeless cunts.
— Heard the cat wis oaf the Christopher Reeve, likes, ah gasp, as the gear hits ehs like a train.
Begbie throws ehsel back in ma airmchair. — Aye, eh wis until ah fuckin well talked some sense intae the cunt. Dragged um ower tae the EH1 in the Mile. Widnae take a fuckin drink so ah slipped a couple ay voddies intae the cunt’s fuckin lemonade, eh says, in a sortay slow, mirthless cackle. — That’s him right back oan it now, eh goes. — Needs some fuckin enjoyment. Singing hymns tae fuckin jakeys aw day, readin the fuckin Bible? Fuck yon shite, so that wis me daein ma fuckin good Samaritan act n savin the cunt fae a life ay fuckin boredom. They fuckin well brainwash ye, they cunts up at that fuckin mission. Ah’ll gie they cunts fuckin Christianity . . .
Ah’m thinkin aboot this, n how Second Prize hud done really well tae git things back oan track. — But the doaktirs said thit eh wisnae meant tae drink, Franco, ah runs ma finger ower ma throat n makes a chokin noise, — or it’s kaput.
— Eh came oot wi aw that fuckin shite wi me n aw; ‘the doaktir this, the doaktir that’, but ah jist telt the cunt straight, it’s the fuckin quality ay life thit counts. Better one year bein able tae fuckin go fir it, instead ay fifty as a miserable cunt. Fuck gittin like aw they auld cunts in the Port Sunshine. Telt um tae git ehsel a fuckin liver transplant. Slate wiped fuckin clean.
So ah hus tae pit up wi aw this for ages, man, and ah’m relieved when the Beggar Boy goes cause aw that violence stuff ay his kin be a bit ay a drag tae listen tae. Ye eywis worry thit yir heid’s noddin whin it should be shakin, n aw that sort ay thing. Even though ah’m buzzin oan this charlie, ah hud ma hoarses n gie the cat time tae git away, then ah head oot intae the drizzle, settin the hoof-pad controls fir the Central Library at George IV Bridge. Persevere.
Ma heid’s still flyin a bit by the time ah gits up tae the Edinburgh Rooms, n ah watch a lassie gittin that microfiche oan. — Eh . . . excuse me, could you gie’s a hand wi this? Never done it before, likes, ah goes pointin tae a free machine.
She only looks at me for a second then goes: — Sure, n shows ays how tae load it. Thing is, it wis that simple man, ah felt a total dipstick. But ah’m away! Soon ah’m readin aboot the great betrayal ay 1920 when Leith wis sucked intae Edinburgh against the people’s will. That was when aw the problems pure started, man! Four-tae-one against, man, four-tae-one against.
Whin ah head back doon the toon, towards the fair port, the weather’s changed n it’s startin tae rain really heavy. Ah’ve nae cash fir the bus fare so it’s a collar-up and big-strides job. In St James’s Centre some youthful cats are hingin aroond n muh pal Curtis is one ay them. — Awright, buddy? Ah goes, the coke rush now quite run doon.
— Awright, Sp-Sp-Spud, eh goes. The wee gadge is jist a bit nervous wi that stutter but if ye stey cool n dinnae pit um under nae presh, the boy soon gits in the right rhythm n the auld communication jist flows like a stream, man. Wi spraff away fir a bit before ah take oaf n head through John Lewis’s n oot tae Picardy Place, hittin the Walk n keepin intae the side tae try n git some shelter fae the rain.
Crossing the Pilrig border into no-sae-Sunny Leith, ah see Sick Boy in the street, and eh seems in a better mood. Ah thought eh’d blank me, but naw, man, the cat sortay apologies, or comes as close as eh gits tae apologising. — Spud. Lit’s eh . . . forget aboot the other day, man, eh says.
Eh obviously nivir grassed ays tae Franco, even though the Generalissimo’s been in ehs pub, so ah feel better aboot the gadge. — Aye, ah’m likesay sorry aboot that, Simon. Thanks for, eh, no mentioning it tae Franco, likes.
— Fuck that cunt, he says, shaking his heid. — I’m afraid I’ve far too much to think about to worry aboot the likes of him. Then he beckons ays intae the pub, the Shrub Bar. — Let’s get a beer till that fuckin rain goes off, eh says.
— Sound, but . . . eh, yi’ll huv tae sub ays though, mate, ah’m skint, ah tell um, comin clean.
Sick Boy exhales powerfully, but goes in anywey, so ah follay. The first gadge ah see in thair is that Cousin Dode cat, standing at the bar and wi sort ay gits lumbered wi him. Dode’s giein it the Weedgie-in-Edinburgh thing: better fitba teams, better transport system, pubs, clubs, cheaper taxis, warmer people, aw the usual Weedgie stuff, man. N eh’s probably right n aw, but the cat is in Edinburgh.
When eh goes tae the bog, Sick Boy looks aw harshly at ehs back n says: — Who the fuck is that twat?
So ah’m telling um aw aboot the Cousin Felly, and ah’m sayin that ah wished ah kent Dode’s pin number cause see if ah did, ah’d huv dipped the cunt’s poakits for ehs caird, cause he’s goat big dosh in that account. — Aye, eh keeps gaun oan aboot how ye can choose yir ain yin in that Clydesdale Bank.
When Dode came back we gits another one in and sits doon. But then something pure radge happens! The gadge takes ehs jayket off, n Sick Boy and me jist look at each other. It’s pure thaire, man, right in front ay us! Ye could see Dode’s lion tattoo wi ‘Aye Ready’ on one airm, and his King Billy oan the hoarse oan the other. Aye, n jist below the hoarse oan a scroll wis that PIN number, tattooed so thit eh wid never forget it: 1690.
31
‘. . . one buttock cut off . . .’
It’s quite a little factory, our Tollcross flat. Joints of hash and cups of coffee are constantly on the go. Rab and I are up working on the script. Dianne’s close by us, into her dissertation notes, enjoying our giggles as we batter away side by side on the word processor. Taking the occasional glance at the screen, she proffers purrs of approval and the odd worthy suggestion. In the corner, Lauren, also working on an assignment, is trying to shame us into joining her in the coursework. Obviously intrigued, she, however, refuses to look at our script. Rab and I keep winding her up by whispering things like ‘blow job’ and ‘up the arse’ and giggling, while Lauren’s tinting red, muttering ‘Fellini’ or ‘Powell and Pressburger’. Dianne eventually gives up and gathers her stuff. — I’m off, I can’t stand it, she says.
Lauren looks over at us testily. — Are they disturbing you as well?
— No, Dianne says ruefully, — it’s just that every time I take a peek I get all horny. If you hear motor sounds and gasping noises coming from my room you’ll know what I’m doing.
Lauren pouts miserably, chewing on her bottom lip. If it’s bothering her that much why doesn’t she go to her room too? By the time we’ve finished a rough draft of about sixty pages and printed it out, her curiosity has got the better of her and she comes over. She looks at the title then pushes the page-down button, reading in mounting disbelief and distaste. — This is horrible . . . it’s disgusting . . . it’s obscene . . . and not even in a cool way. There’s no merit in it at all. It’s trash! I can’t believe you could write such degrading, exploitative filth . . . she bubbles. — And you’re planning to do these things with people, strangers, you’re going to let them do these things to you!
I almost feel obliged to tell her, everything except anal, but instead I come over all haughty, retorting with a quote I’ve memorised for such an occasion. — I would be glad to know which is worst: to be ravished a hundred times by pirates, to have one buttock cut off, to run the gauntlet among the Bulgarians, to be whipped and hanged at an auto-da-fé, to be dissected, to be chained to an oar in a galley; and in short, to experience all the miseries through which every one of us hath passed, I look at Rab and he joins in concert, — or to remain here doing nothing?
Lauren’s shaking her head. — What rubbish are you talking now?
Rab chips in. — That’s Voltaire, oot ay Candide, he explains. — Surprised you didnae ken that, Lauren, he says to our girl, who shakes nervously and lights up a cigarette. — What was it Candide said back? Rab raises one finger at me and again we declare together: — This is a grand question!
Lauren’s still writhing in the
seat, looking angry, as if we’re wilfully taking the piss out of her, but we’re just vibing on the script.
— Nice flooirs, Rab says, as if trying to lighten the mood, looking over at my roses. — I saw another set of fresh ones in the bucket. He smiles cheekily. — What’s the story there?
Lauren shoots him a look, but I sense the innocuousness of the remark, which immediately makes me think that it was Sick . . . Simon. We can certainly eliminate Rab from our line of enquiry.
We sit up until the shops open, going over the draft, making amendments. If Rab and I were tired and nervous about taking it down to Leith and showing it to the others, we left the flat highly encouraged by Lauren’s remarks. We went to a printer’s and got several copies xeroxed off and bound. As we settle into a café for breakfast, it only really hit me, through our elation at finishing and our fatigue, just how upset Lauren was. In a sudden surge of guilt, I ask: — Do you think we should go back up and see how she is?
— Naw, it’ll just make things worse. Gie her some time, Rab considers.
And that suits me; I certainly don’t want to go back. Because I’m enjoying myself here with Rab. Enjoying the strong black coffees, the orange juice, the bagels, enjoying the fact that we’re sitting here with a script on the table. A film script we’ve done, rejoicing that we’ve achieved something, Rab and I, we just sat down and did it. And I feel a great intimacy with him, and I think that I maybe want us to have more moments like this. But now it isn’t just a sex thing, like my mounting obsession with Simon, in fact it feels strangely asexual in a way. Not just fucking, but moments like this. It makes me think though. — Do you think your girlfriend would approve if she knew you’d been up all night writing porno with another woman?
Rab sees it for what it is. He emotionally stands back from me, shrugging off the question and pouring more coffee from the cafetière. There’s a silence for a bit, then he goes to say something, thinks better of it, and we square up and leave the café and jump on a Leith-bound bus.
