by Unknown
I couldn’t agree more, Alex. We both know talent when we see it.
This fuckin hangover is doing me in though; I’m shaking as the brewery boys sing cheerfully and Morag’s shouting at me: — We’re needin some Beck’s up!
This is not the life I had planned. I struggle, shivering up the stairs with one case, then two, and start methodically stocking the bar fridges. Later, I submit to nerves, lighting up a cigarette in the office. It’s easier to give up smack than fags. Still, the post arrives, bringing better news in the shape of a letter, and it’s from the Chief Constable’s office!
Lothian Police
Serving the Community
12 March
Your ref: SDW
Our Ref: RL/CC
Dear Mr Williamson,
Re: Leith Business Against Drugs
Many thanks for your letter dated the 4th of this month.
I have long maintained that the war against drugs can only be won with the support of the law-abiding public. As much of the dealing of drugs takes place in public houses and clubs, vigilant publicans like yourself are in the front line of this battle and I’m delighted to see someone standing up and being counted and declaring their licensed premises a drug-free zone.
Yours sincerely,
R.K. Lester
Chief Constable, Lothian Police
Still a good hour before opening time and I take the letter up the Walk to the frame shop, and get it encased in a smart, gold-rimmed number. Then I head back and stick it, in pride of place, behind the bar. Effectively, it serves as a certificate to deal drugs as no vigilant plod is going to bust me and embarrass the main man. Now I’ll be left alone, and that’s all you want, all you crave out of life: to be left alone while you get on with the business of interfering with others. In other words, to be a bona fide, fully certified member of the capitalist classes.
The sunbed I ordered finally arrives. I don’t want milk-bottled bodies on the set. I get under for half an hour’s try-out.
Fired up, literally, I go outside to a call box, from where I bell the Evening News, and hold my nostrils shut as I talk. — There’s a boy doon in Leith, eh, at that Port Sunshine Tavern, eh, tryin tae start this Leith Business Says No Tae Drugs campaign, eh. Eh’s goat a letter fae the Chief Constable backing him up, eh.
How hot they get at the mention of the Chief’s name! Within the hour, they’ve sent some spotty, feeble-minded twat round with a photographer in tow, just as my first customers, old Ed and his mob are filing in, checking the blackboard for the dish of the day (shepherd’s pie). The newsmen take some snaps and ask a few questions, me sitting back and giving it the big one. I tell the boy that Mo’s stovies are as famous in Leith as Betty Turpin’s hotpot used to be in Weatherfield. The wee guy looks stupefied, but seems happy enough with what he’s got.
It’s not been too bad a start to the day, and I’m five hundred quid richer. Of course, this is still small beer for what we need to make a proper, high-production-values fuck-movie, but now I’ve got a bigger scam on the horizon. Pornography is the genre of film I’ve chosen to work in, but I won’t be sticking around in it for too long. I’ll show the Zionist family big beak. I triumphantly rack up a huge line of posh and it hits the spot, though I have to run for the Kleenex to shore up a surge of snotter-water.
It’s weird that a drinking session with Spud Murphy and some fucking daft Weedgie Hun can be so inspiring. That charlie’s top gear, it fair knocks the old hangover for six. The phone goes and Morag answers it, holding it up at the other end of the bar. Worth her substantial lard in gold, yon auld yin. Yes, I could get a fuckable young student, maybe like Nikki, for some eye and cock relief, but no way would she be able to run the place like this old boiler. — For you, she goes.
I’m expecting it to be some top fanny, even hoping it’s that Nikki, but no, it’s fucking Spud, wanting to go out to a club and spend poor soapy Dode’s cash, as if me and him are big mates again.
— Sorry, mate, too busy at present, I swiftly inform him.
— Eh, what aboot Thursday likesay?
— Thursday’s out. How about never? Is never any good for you? I ask curtly, then snap, — Excellent! at the stunned silence on the other end of the line before slamming down the phone. Then I pick it up and dial someone who can be of use, namely my old mate Skreel in Possil and ask him to check out somebody for me.
At an early age I decided that other people were objects to move around, to position, as it were, to obtain the outcome from which I’d derive the optimum satisfaction. I also found that it was better to use charm rather than threats, and that love and affection worked easier than violence. With the former, all you had to do was withdraw it, or threaten to. Of course, some people fuck up your masterplan. Usually it’s friends and lovers. My best mate ran away with my money. Renton. A second person who fucked me up was my wife’s old man.
I shall get both of the cunts. But right now, it’s Skreel I want to speak to, my old Weedgie pal. Yes, it’s time we caught up, now that I’m back North of the Border permanently. I give the greetings, go through the banter, then get down to business, and Skreel can’t quite believe the request. — Ye wahnt me tae find you a lassie that works whaire?
— In the ticket office at Ibrox Stadium, I repeat, patiently. — Preferably a shy lassie, vulnerable, quite innocent, maybe who lives at home with her folks. Doesnae matter what she looks like.
The last part makes him even more suspicious. — What the fuck are you up tae, Williamson?
— Can ye dae it?
— Leave it tae me, he snaps emphatically. — Onything else?
— A specky cunt who lives with his ma . . .
— That’s easy!
— . . . but who works in a central Glasgow branch of the Clydesdale Bank.
Skreel again asks me to repeat the request, and starts laughing down the blower. — Are you matchmakin?
— In a manner of speaking, I tell him. — Just call me Cupid, I quip, before signing off and digging into my pocket to feel that reassuring wrap of ching.
37
‘. . . a politically correct fuck . . .’
Lauren has taken the strop with me big time and I can’t find her anywhere. She may have gone back to Stirling. On the plus side, this shows she cares, yes she does. Dianne’s relaxed about it, working on her project. Drumming her pencil on her teeth, she considers: — Lauren’s an intense wee lassie, but she’s still quite young and she’ll lighten up soon.
— The day can’t come quick enough, I tell her. — She makes me feel like a fucking whore . . . I get the word out and it cuts me in half: I’m thinking about what I agreed with Bobby and his mate Jimmy yesterday. About where I’m going tonight. It’s different in the sauna, the extras are up to you, although it’s expected that you’ll perform at least handjobs, which is as far as I go – my clumsy, unskilled extensions of my poor massage technique. I need the job and I need the money, especially with the Easter break coming up. But going out, up to somebody’s hotel room, it’s crossing another line I said I wouldn’t cross. It’s just a drink and a meal, Jimmy said. Anything you negotiate separately . . . well, that’s between you two.
I head out, done up to the nines, my red-and-black dress under my black Versace overcoat. I’m trying to get out before Dianne sees me, but she does and wolf-whistles. — Hot date, eh?
I smile as enigmatically as I can.
— Dirty, lucky cow, Dianne laughs.
I head out into the street, unused to making progress on heels, and flag down a taxi. I stop about fifty yards away from the plush New Town hotel, I don’t like arriving abruptly in a place, I like to savour my arrival, take everything in. It has a grand old Georgian façade but inside it’s been gutted and everything is ultra modern. The reception area has huge windows, almost down to the floor. The automatic doors swish open and a doorman in tails nods at me. I can feel my heels clicking across the marble floor as I head to the bar.
I don’t want to give awa
y that I’m looking for someone, which I am, in case they ask me who, because I don’t know. What does a Basque politician look like? I can never keep cool in situations like these. The barman in this hotel has seen me before, I know it, at the sauna maybe, and he gives me a tense nod. I smile warmly back at him, feeling a flush rising in me, like I’ve downed a double Scotch too quickly. No, it’s much worse than that, I feel totally naked, or like a hustling street-corner tart with a bum-hugging mini and a big pair of thigh-length boots. The escort thing works well though; they don’t want their clients upset, the men who use this hotel. If I was just some freelance strumpet I’d be out on my ear by now, probably with a couple of cops standing around.
My client is a prominent Basque nationalist politician who is, ostensibly at any rate, over here to see how the Scottish Parliament works. I was told he would be wearing a blue suit. There are two men at the bar in blue suits, and both of them are looking at me. One has white hair and a good tan, the other dark hair and olive skin. I’m hoping it’s the dark-haired, younger one, but I’m expecting that it’s the other.
Then, suddenly, I feel a tap on my arm. I turn round and there is this almost stereotypical Spaniard in a blue suit, light blue, which matches his eyes. He’s in his fifties, but well preserved. — You are Neekey? he asks hopefully.
— Yes, I say as he kisses my face on each side. — You must be Severiano.
— We have a mutual friend, he smiles, exposing a row of capped teeth.
— And what would his name be? I ask, feeling as if I’m on the set of a Bond movie.
— Jeem, you know Jeem . . .
— Ah yes, Jim.
I was worried that he’d try to take me upstairs there and then, but he orders drinks and says confidentially: — You are very beautiful. A beautiful Scottish girl . . .
— Actually, I’m English? I tell him.
— Oh, he says, obviously disappointed.
Of course, he’s a Basque. I have to be a politically correct fuck now. — Although I am of Scottish and Irish descent?
— Yes, you have Celtic bones, he says approvingly. So much for Miss Argentina. We make some small talk and finish our drink then head outside into a waiting cab, travelling the short distance to the other side of the New Town, which is no more than a fifteen-minute walk, maybe twenty in my heels. I preserve a saccharine smile in face of an unbridled commentary of approbation. — Beautiful Neekey . . . so beautiful . . .
We have dinner in a restaurant which is rated the current place to go. I have a seafood platter to start, which includes squid, crab, lobster and prawn and is garnished by an imaginative herby lemon sauce. The main course is a nouvelle-cuisine-style roast lamb with spinach and assorted vegetables and for the dessert I enjoy a caramelised orange with rich ice-cream topping. This is washed down with a bottle of Dom Perignon, a fruity, but quite heavy Chardonnay, and two large brandies. Excusing myself, I vomit everything up in the toilets and then brush my teeth, swallow some Milk of Magnesia and gargle with Listerine. The food was excellent, but I never digest anything after seven. Then Severiano calls a taxi and we head back to the hotel.
I’m a bit nervous and rather tipsy with the drink when we get to the room, so I switch on the television where a news programme or documentary shows clichéd scenes of famine in Africa. Severiano takes the complimentary wine from the ice bucket and pours two glasses. He slides off his shoes and eases himself onto the bed, resting on the puffed-up pillows, and grins at me, the smile pitched halfway between endearing little boy and sleazy old pervert. In it, you can see what he’s been, and what he will shortly become. — Seet beside me, Neekey, he says patting the space next to him.
For a split second I’m almost tempted to obey, but I click into business mode. — I’ll give you a massage and some hand relief. That’s as much as I do.
He looks at me sadly, his big Latin eyes almost seem to be welling with tears. — If thees ees how eet ees to be . . . he says and then starts to unzip. His cock bounces out like an enthusiastic puppy. And what happens to enthusiastic pups?
Well, I get started stroking alright, but then that old problem presents itself: I’m simply not very good at handjobs. I’m eating him with my eyes, loving my power over him. His burning eyes contrast with the ice in Simon’s, the ice, as they say in that advert, that I’d love to melt, but I feel my wrist going tired with the repetition and it’s just not stimulating enough for me. No, it fucking bores me. This transmits and he’s looking frustrated, upset and even irritated. However, I like the way that fruit pops up through the implausibly long foreskin and decide that I want to feast on it. I look at him and lick my lips and tell him: — I don’t normally do this, but . . .
This Basque man is delighted at the bonus on offer. — Oh, Neekey . . . Neekey, babee . . .
I quickly negotiate a very good price, capitalising on my high-bargaining power right now, and I take him in my mouth, making sure that I generate enough saliva first, to act as a barrier against any acridness. He does have a big foreskin so the chances of his cock tasting foul on the first few licks are high. However, on my initial contact he has a fresh, sharp taste, which makes me think of Spanish onions, but that could just be the ethnocentric association. I might be clumsy at handjobs but I know how to give a blow job alright: even as a child I was always an oral, suck-it-and-see type.
I can tell when he’s about to blow, so I pull his reluctant prick from me and he’s moaning and begs and pleads but I’m not taking his cum. He’s deranged now and my body freezes in a spasm of fear as he gets a grip on me and I’m coldly thinking for a couple of seconds that I’m going to be raped and trying to work out what defensive violence I could employ. Then I realise that all he’s doing is rubbing up against me like a dog, his hot breath in my ear muttering something frenzied in Spanish as he shoots his load against my dress.
It wasn’t rape, but it wasn’t consensual either, and it felt demeaning. I push him away in anger and he’s crumbled back onto the bed, full of regret now, apologising profusely. — Oh, Neekey, I am so sorree . . . please forgive me . . . and he’s rolling over to his jacket to produce the notes in order to make sure I do exactly that, while I’m heading through to the mirror-walled bathroom, and I’m finding a towel, wetting it and removing his discharge.
Afterwards he’s quite charming, still full of apologies, and I calm down and we finish the wine. I’m getting a bit drunk and he asks me if he can take some Polaroids of me in my bra and knickers. I give him the poor-student routine and he produces more cash. I take off the dress and dry the wet patch with the built-in hairdryer, while he gets the camera ready.
He gets me to pose, and I’m glad I’ve got on the wonderbra, as he takes a couple of snaps. I notice that I look quite cruel and disapproving in the first one, so I try a cheesy smile for the second. I worry about my bony knees in the pictures, and I’m sure I’m getting the start of a pot belly. Warming to his enthusiasm and my own going-to-seed paranoia, I put on a show, demonstrating some supple gymnastics. Big mistake, because Severiano is getting amorous again, and he leaps off the bed and tries to kiss me. I’m worried now, conscious of being semi-naked and thus more vulnerable. Backing away, I raise a palm, which, accompanied by a glacial stare, seems to cool his ardour. — Forgeeve me, Neekey, he pleads, — I am a peeg . . .
I get back into the dress, put the money in my handbag and say a cool, sweet goodbye, leaving him in the room.
I go down the hall to the lifts, experiencing a crazy blend of debasement and elation, both emotions seeming to vie for supremacy. I consciously force myself to think of the money, and the ease of the work, which makes me feel better.
The lift arrrives and inside is a young porter with bad skin and a trolley full of luggage. He nods curtly, and I squeeze in, noting the rash that spreads along his jawline. It’s not acne though, as it’s only on one side of his face. I realise it’s like he’s been in a fight, or drunkenly scraped his face against the wall or the pavement. As we descend he looks at me
with a guilty smile and I give him what I imagine to be a similar one back. The doors of the lift click open and I’m out, head still racing, confused. I just want to be out of the hotel, extricated from the scene of the crime.
So I’m heading out across the lobby and I can make out, through the glass door ahead, the pavement outside glistening with the street lights and the rain. Then it opens suddenly and a horrible recognition jolts me as in discomfort I see who’s coming into the hotel. It’s my fucking tutor, McClymont, and he’s walking right towards me, his face moulding into a grin in recognition.
Oh my God.
That face crumples up like a crushed newspaper and a look of sleazy contempt fills his eyes. — Miss Fuller-Smith . . . that voice, harsh yet soft, rasps into my consciousness.
Oh my God. I feel my heartbeat rising and the sound of my soles clicking on the floor seems deafening. An overwhelming sense takes over; it’s like every eye in the hotel foyer is on McClymont and me, like we’re being framed at the centre of a picture. — Hello, I . . . I try to start, but he’s giving me a strange look, like he knows all the secrets of my soul. He looks me up and down and there’s a steely glint in the eye of this most decidedly lecherous lecturer. — Join me for a drink, he nods over to the bar, more by way of a command than a request.
I just don’t know what to say here. — I can’t . . . I ehm . . .
McClymont shakes his head slowly. — I’d be very disappointed if you didn’t, Nicola, he says rolling his eyes, and I get the message. Of course, I’ve handed in my last piece of work, but something still compels me to obey. My attendance record has been poor and he could still fail me on that. If I don’t stick it, my dad will cut off my allowance and that’ll be me. I make the humiliating U-turn and start to regain my composure and follow him over to the bar, the barman looking coldly at me as McClymont asks what I want to drink.
