by Unknown
So I’m sitting at the bar with this dirty old git, and before I can establish the upper hand in asking him what he’s doing here, he asks me the same question first. — I was waiting on my boyfriend, I tell him, raising a glass of malt whisky to my lips. This is Simon’s doing, and McClymont obviously approves of the choice of drink. — But he called me on my mobile to say that he’d been delayed.
— Oh, how sad, McClymont says.
— What about yourself? Is this a haunt of yours? I ask.
McClymont goes a bit stiff, he obviously feels that I’m either his student, or a woman, or younger than him, or all three, and therefore he should be the one asking the questions. — I was at a Caledonian Society meeting, he says pompously, — and on my way home I got caught in a shower and decided to stop here for a drink. — Do you live near here? he asks.
— No, up Tollcross, I . . . eh . . . I shudder as out of the corner of my eye I see Severiano the Basque man coming down into the bar, with another guy in a suit. I turn away, but the guy in the suit, not the Basque, comes straight over to us. — Angus! he shouts, and McClymont turns round and grins in recognition. Then he notices me and raises his eyebrows. — And who is this lovely young lady?
— This is Miss Nicola Fuller-Smith, Rory, a student at the university. Nicola, this is Rory McMaster, MSP.
I shake hands with this mid-forties rugby-bore type.
— Why not come and join us? he says, pointing over at the Basque, who looks across at me with a twisted grimace.
I try to protest, but McClymont’s grabbed our drinks from the bar and he’s taking them across to the table. I try to flash a tense ‘I’m sorry’ grin at the Basque, who looks harshly at me, as if he’s being set up. I sit down in as chaste a position as this dress allows. I feel more powerless and objectified here than I ever could fucking some stranger in front of a DVC lens. — This is Señor Enrico De Silva, from the Basque regional parliament in Bilbao, McMaster says. Angus McClymont and Nicola . . . ehm, Fuller-Smith, is that right?
— Yes, I smile meekly, feeling myself shrinking into the chair. Enrico; he told me that his name was Severiano. He glances at me in mournful connivance. — Thees young laydee is your partner, no? he asks McClymont, in some trepidation.
McClymont flushes a little, then lets a smile crinkle his face before laughing: — No, no, Miss Fuller-Smith is a student of mine.
— What ees eet she is studying? Enrico, or Severiano, or ‘the Basque’ asks.
I feel something rise inside me. I am fucking here, you know. I cut in. — My major is film. But I do Scottish studies as an option. It’s very interesting, you know, I smile in pain, thinking about how I had that man’s penis in my mouth only a few minutes ago.
I excuse myself and get up to go to the toilet, aware that their eyes are on my arse as I depart, that they’ll be talking about me, but I can’t help it, I need space to think. I feel helpless and I don’t know who to call on my mobile. I almost phone Colin at his home, that’s how desperate and irrational I am, but I decide on Simon. — I’m in a bit of an embarrassing jam, Simon, I’m at the Royal Stuart Hotel in the New Town. Could you please help me?
Simon seems quite cold and tetchy, and there’s silence for a while, but he eventually says: — I suppose Mo can handle things for a bit. I’ll be there presently, he coughs out and hangs up.
Presently? What the fuck does that mean? I retouch my make-up and brush my hair and go back out.
When I return to the table, the three men are sitting in lecherous complicity. They’ve been talking about me, I know that they have. McClymont, in particular, is pretty drunk. He makes a long-winded rambling statement about something, I think it’s about Scotland’s prominence within the Union, finishing up with: — . . . and that’s exactly what our English friends fail to take into account.
It’s not so much his comment but his intense waspish gaze on me that riles. — I don’t follow you. Are you making a nationalist or a Unionist point there?
— Just a general one, he says, eyes crinkling.
I reach for my glass of Scotch. — It’s funny, but I always thought that ‘North Britons’ was a term used in irony, in sarcasm, by nationalists in Scotland. I was surprised to find out that it was coined by Unionists who wanted to be accepted as part of the UK, I look across at my Basque and the MSP. — So it was an aspirational term, as no English person has or probably ever will refer to themselves as ‘South Britons’. In much the same way as ‘Rule Britannia’ was written by a Scotsman. It was a plea for an inclusion you can never have, I shake my head sadly.
— Exactly, the MSP says, — that’s why we believe . . .
I’m still looking at McClymont as I talk over the politician. — But on the other hand, it’s a bit sad that Scotland still hasn’t been able to obtain its freedom from the Union. It’s been a long time. I mean, look at what the Irish have achieved.
McClymont looks very angry and starts to say something but I catch Simon coming into the hotel foyer and wave in his direction. He’s looking smart in his casual jacket and crew-neck top, but somehow darker than before. Yes, it’s obvious that he’s been on the sunbed. — Ah, Nikki, baby . . . sorry to be late, darling, he says, bending over and kissing me. — Ready to trip the light fantastic? he asks, then he looks at the other men for the first time. His expression is like a spoilt cat that’s offered the leftovers, grudging but scalpel-sharp, and he briskly shakes hands with each of them. He’s full of commanding bombast, completely in charge of the situation. — Simon Williamson, he spits abruptly, then, softening a little, enquires, — I trust my girlfriend’s been in good hands?
The others look at the Basque and break into guilty, nervous smiles. They feel ill at ease in his presence, he’s effortlessly intimidated them. But I feel horrible, humiliated and for the first time in a long time, for the first time since that first handjob, just like a whore. Simon helps me on with my coat and I’m so glad to get out of there.
We get into the car and I realise that I’m crying, but the prostituted feeling was fleeting and it’s now gone. I know my tears are insincere because I want Simon to take me home, to take me to bed. I want him to think that he’s preying on me, when I want him, and I want him tonight. But Simon’s unimpressed with the waterworks. — What is it? he asks evenly as he eases the car up Lothian Road.
— I got myself into a situation that freaked me out a bit, I tell him.
Simon contemplates this, then says wearily: — It happens, though, by the tone of his voice, obviously not to him. We pull up outside my place and look up at the sky. It’s clear and there are loads of stars. I’ve never seen that many, not here in the city. Colin once took me down the east coast, to a cottage near Coldingham and the whole sky was a rash of them. Simon looks upwards and says: — The starry heavens above me and the moral law within me.
— Kant . . . I say in a mixture of admiration and consternation, wondering what he’s getting at with the moral-law stuff. Does he know what I’ve been doing? But he just turns around quickly and he looks vaguely insulted. He says nothing but there’s an urging look in his eyes. — You used my favourite quote from my favourite philosopher, I explain, — Kant.
— Oh . . . it’s a favourite of mine as well, he says, his face breaking into a smile.
— Did you study philosophy? Did you study Kant? I ask him.
— A little, he nods. Then he explains: — It’s the old Scottish lad o’pairts tradition. One goes from Smith to Hume to Euro thinkers like Kant, you know, that old Jock Central route.
There’s a smugness in his tone that makes me cringe a little as it reminds me of McClymont. I so not want to think of him that way, so I venture: — Come upstairs for a coffee, or we could drink some wine together.
Simon glances at his watch. — A coffee would suit best, he says.
We get up the stairs and I’m thanking him again for his intervention, hoping that he’ll ask me about it, but he’s making light of it. Inside the hallway my heart stops as
there’s a crack of light from under the door of the living room. — Dianne or Lauren must be up burning the midnight oil, I explain in a whisper, ushering him into my room. He sits down in the chair, then, seeing my CD rack stands up and goes through the collection, his face still inscrutable.
I go and make some coffee and bring two steaming mugs back to the bedroom. When I get back he’s sitting on the bed, reading a book of Modern Scottish Poetry, one of the course texts for McClymont’s class. I set the cups down on the carpet and sit beside him. He lowers the book and smiles at me.
I want to devour him, but there’s something granite-cold in those eyes, it makes me hold off. They are looking through me, into me. Then suddenly they fill with an incredible warmth which would have been inconceivable only a second ago. The glow from them is so strong I’m mesmerised, feeling myself to be formless, of no magnitude or density. All I’m aware of from within me is my hunger for him. Then I hear him say something, a foreign phrase, before both his hands clasp softly onto the sides of my face. He stalls for a while, his abundant, ebony eyes drinking me and then he kisses me: on the forehead, then both cheeks, each kiss strong and soft, exploding with precision, sending thrilling data to the now nebulous core of me.
I’m aware of my body and mind separating, I can feel the force of it seeming to rattle in concert with the central-heating radiator by the side of us. As he strokes my back I think of the red roses, the closed petals opening up, and I fall back onto the bed. It’s at this moment that a sudden force of will enters me, and I’m thinking, he’s changing me, I have to alter him too, and my arm goes around his head and I’m pulling him onto me and opening my mouth. My hand’s clamped around his neck and I’m kissing him so hard our teeth crash together. Then I’m kissing, licking at his eyes, his nose; tasting the salt track from nostril to top lip, then on his cheeks and his mouth again. My hands let go of his head to move to his torso and I’m pulling up his top but he’s not raising his arms to assist me, he’s sliding the dress off my shoulders. But I’m not moving my arms, because my nails are now digging softly into the muscular flesh of his back, so there’s an impasse, he can’t get the dress off me either. Then somehow through the back of the dress he’s managed, like a master pickpocket, to unhook my bra strap. Moving to the front of me, he pulls the frock and bra away with a violence that makes me let go of his back, because if I don’t my dress straps will tear. Then he frees my breasts and everything slows down as he strokes them, handling them with a careful awe, like a kid who’s been entrusted with the care of a soft, furry pet.
Once again he’s looking deep into my eyes, and with an earnest, almost sad, disappointed look on his face he says: — Looks like it has to be now.
Then he stands up and pulls off his top as I swing my legs off the bed, push up and pull my dress off, then my pants. There’s such a throbbing heat between my legs that I almost expect my pubic hair to be aflame. I look up and Simon’s stepped out of his trousers and white Calvin Klein underpants and for a split second I’m shocked because it’s like he has no penis. It’s gone! For that brief moment I almost think he’s been emasculated, insanely considering that would explain his reticence in making love, he’s no cock! Then I realise that he does have one, oh yes, he most certainly does, it’s just that from my angle of vision his cock is pointed, like a loaded gun, straight at me. And I want it. I want it in me now. I don’t want to have to say to him we can make love later; later I can suck you off, you can lick me, frig me, explore me any way you want, but please let’s just get this out of the way, just fuck me right now, right this second, because I am on fire. But he just looks into my eyes and nods, this man fucking well nods at me, like he’s read everything I’ve thought. Then he’s on me and in me, filling me, extending me, pushing right up into the centre of me. I gasp then adjust and he grows harder, but I roll us over and we’re a twisting, buckling, thrashing mass and I don’t know who slows it down but we’re savouring it again, and then the velocity of our love pumps up like a force of its own accord and we’re pummelling each other in this fucking war of one against one which feels like all against all. For a second I feel like I’ve defeated us both, me and him; that I want more, more than he can ever give, more than anyone can ever give. Then the force wells up like something inside me that seems to have escaped and is running away before it grabs and drags me along with it. I climax in explosive, angry bursts, aware only as my orgasm subsides that I’ve been shrieking loudly, and I’m thinking that I hope neither Lauren nor Dianne are in as it seems show-offy, ridiculously performative. Simon takes this as permission to do what he needs to do, sweeping back my hair and holding my face to his, forcing me to look into his eyes as he comes so intensely that his orgasm prolongs mine. Then he pulls me into his chest and as I briefly catch his eye I’m almost sure I see a tear. He won’t let me move to check and confirm this though, his grip is hard, and anyway, I’m totally spent. We lie in the wreckage of the sweat-drenched bed and all I’m thinking, as I drift off to sleep with his sweat, scent and the musty fried-breakfast smell of our sex in my nostrils, is just how good it feels to get fucked properly.
38
Scam # 18,744
That was a pleasant surprise, as a phone call on the white mobile generally is. Of course, having sex with Nikki was excellent but it was that first-shag syndrome: no matter how good it is there’s always a perfunctory element which you can’t help but find distasteful. Later, when I got ready to go, she asked me if I was playing mind games. As a comment it was playful rather than heavy, or perhaps the brevitas was designed to conceal something weightier at the same time as it flagged it up. No matter, cause it’s like any sport: the most gifted know you always concentrate on your own game rather than the opposition’s. So I grinned enigmatically without answering. Fuck liberals wittering on about ‘honesty’ in relationships: what a colossal bore that would be. Nope, relationships are all about power and now is the time to cool it with her. She’ll crack before me, I know she will, and it’ll be a sweet moment. I tell her that I’ve changed my number and give her the one for the red phone. The best part is erasing the number from the white mobile and sticking it onto the red.
That was a strange one outside hers when she caught me looking up at the stars. I gave that quote from a Nick Cave song and I thought she called me a cunt. I didn’t realise that she was referring to Kant the philosopher. I even called Renton up about it. He reckons that Cave lifted that line verbatim from a Kant book. What the fuck is the world coming to when your favourite lyricists let you down with such shoddy plagiarism?
Yes, the sex was excellent. Her level of fitness, power and suppleness impresses and means that I’ll need to watch the weight and keep those gym visits up. But the buzz I got from it is nothing like the one I get when I nip into Barr’s Newsagent at the fit ay the Walk and pick an early edition of the News. The story is on page six, with a picture of yours truly and an insert of Chief Constable Roy Lester, a surprisingly youngish guy with a mowser who looks a bit like a Village People extra. I nip next door to Mac’s Bar and have a bottle of Beck’s as I read eagerly:
LEITH PUBLICAN IN ANTI-DRUGS CRUSADE
Barry Day
One Edinburgh publican has declared war on the ruthless dealers of killer drugs such as Ecstasy, speed, marijuana and heroin. Local man Simon Williamson, the newly installed proprietor of the Port Sunshine Tavern in Leith was disgusted when he caught two young men taking pills in his bar. ‘I thought I’d seen everything, but I was shocked. What got me was the openness and audacity of it. This so-called drugs culture is everywhere. It has to be stopped. I’ve seen what it can do to wreck people’s lives. What I’m proposing is more than a campaign, it’s a moral crusade. It’s about time we businessmen put our money where our mouth is.’
Mr Williamson recently returned to his native Leith after a spell in London. ‘Yes, I feel sorry for a lot of youngsters today who haven’t got any opportunities outside a life of lawlessness. After all, I’m only human. But ther
e comes a time when you have to say that enough is enough, and take off the kid gloves. Too many people sit around in darkened rooms feeling sorry for themselves . . .’
This is excellent news for one Simon David Williamson. The picture has a grimly serious Williamson at the bar, with the sub-heading: Drugs menace: Simon Williamson’s fears for Edinburgh’s youth. But best of all is the editorial the newspaper carries:
Leith can be proud of principled local businessman, Simon Williamson, whose new initiative signals the start of a grassroots fightback against the scourge that has infected our communities. Though such problems are international and by no means confined to Edinburgh, local people have a crucial role to play in eradicating them. Mr Williamson typifies the new Leith, progressive and forward-looking but at the same time having a sense of responsibility towards his ‘ain folk’, particularly the young kids who are prey to the evil dealers whose sole aim is to wreck and destroy young lives. The ne’er-do-wells should remember, though, that Leith’s motto is ‘persevere’ and Simon Williamson is doing just that. The News unswervingly supports his campaign.
Wonderful. I down the drink and go back to the flat and chop out a huge line to celebrate. My campaign. They love a trier. I think back to Malcolm McLaren and the Pistols. Well, Malcolm, that worn-out old manual of yours is about to be updated.
I decide to take a cab up to my mother’s. When I get there, she’s absolutely delighted. — Ah’ma so proud of you! Ma Simon! In-a the Evening-a News! After all ah went through with they-sa drugs!
— It’s payback time, Ma, I explain, — I know I was far from an angel in the past, but it’s time to make amends.
Casting glances of obstinate smugness at my old boy, she quotes from the paper. — All for the young-ah people! Ah knew he’d turn out alright! Ah knew it! She sings in triumph at my father, who looks completely unconvinced by her enthusiasm as he sits impassively watching the racing. He has it on all the time, although nowadays he never bets.
