by Unknown
Nikki’s gorgeous arse fills the screen and we pull away to watch her sucking Terry’s knob, as he’s lying back licking Mel’s fanny, her crouched over him. The corkscrew hair seems to merge with her pubes at one point as she leans back across him. — This is incredible . . . Paul gasps, — you do this here?
— Yeah, we’re making a full-length film, I say, as the camera cuts to Nikki going down on Terry’s knob in close-up, her hungry eyes devouring the viewer’s soul, as surely as her mouth does his knob. She’s a fucking total pro, a real star. That was a good shot. — That bird is tidy, eh?
Paul sips at his nip, his eyes bulging out like he’s a papillon getting shagged by a Rottweiler. His voice goes thin and wispy. — Yeah . . . who is she? he croaks.
— Her name’s Nikki. You’ll meet her. She’s a good friend, a nice girl, educated, like. A student at the uni, the proper uni, Edinburgh Uni, not Hairy Twat or one of the basket-weaving colleges that got made up back in the eighties.
His eyes hood and a little grin creases over his face. — Does she eh . . . is she . . . I mean, does she do other things?
— I’m sure I could talk her into something, for you.
— That would be appreciated, he says, an eyebrow rolling heavenwards.
I start racking out the lines of posh, just to see what this cunt says. — Ching time!
Paul looks at me in that startled, uncomfortable manner like a young bird in one of those gonzo porn movies, just at the point they suddenly realise that they’re getting it up the shitter for the first time and the world is potentially watching via the digital video camera and the Internet and it wasn’t quite what they had in mind. — Do you think we should, eh . . . it, eh, might not be what you’d call appropriate in the circumstances . . . ?
And here’s me giving him the ‘you love it’ routine. If this cunt’s not a chinger then I’m Mister Daniel Murphy’s fashion consultant. — C’mon, Paul, I smile as I chop up, — dinnae start playin funny fucks. We’re businessmen, educated guys. It’s not like we’re schemies. We know the score, we know where to draw the line, and yes, pun intended, I smile.
— Well . . . I suppose, a discreet little one, he grins, and raises a pensive eyebrow.
— Too right, Paul. As I said, we’re not like the underclass, I see some of them in here, mate, I can tell you. We know when to ca’ canny. It’s just a wee tickle, for Christ’s sake.
I snort down a beauty, then Paul shrugs and follows suit. And they are big lines, more lamb’s torsos than poodle’s legs. I thought the onanist would see the security camera filming him, but obviously not. — Oh . . . that’s good gear . . . Paul goes, and his hands are all over the shop and he’s gabbing away like fuck, — my boss at the agency, he gets his stuff off the rock. A guy flies out from Botafogo to Madrid then over here. Straight out the guy’s arse in a wax seal. I’ve never had anything like it . . . but this is excellent . . .
It certainly is, old chum. Now, mission accomplished, I decide to draw the night to a close in almost indecent haste. — Righto then, Paul, you’ll have to excuse me, buddy, I say, showing him the door. I’ve got certain things I need to do.
— I fancy carrying on a bit . . . I’m buzzing . . .
— Have to be on your own, Paul, I’m meeting a lady friend, I smile, and Paul nods back with a grin but he can’t hide his disappointment that he’s been left a bit high and dry. I escort him outside and shake his hand, this poor bastard is wired tae fuck. He waves down a taxi and heads off. I would have let Paul stay but he played his hand too soon. My old man used to habitually use that old line from a Cagney movie, ‘never give a sucker an even break’, and it turned out to be the best bit of advice he gave me. It’s positively cruel to do so. If you let them get away with it, they won’t learn. Therefore, in the future, they’ll be even more comprehensively done, and by someone more ruthless. Cruel to be kind, as Shaky said. Or was it Nick Lowe?
Paul. What a fool. Introduce that to Nikki, to my Nikki? You have to be kidding. Minge like that comes at a premium price and it’s too rich for a sad case like that.
I’ve been thinking about her all day. Some lassies get inside you because it’s so hard to nail down exactly what it is about them that ignites you. She’s like that; beautiful yes, but capable of showing you something different every time. Contacts or reading glasses. Hair loose and flowing or ponytailed or pigtailed or tied-up. Clothes vampishly designer expensive or sporty casual. Stance and body language warm, then distant. Knows exactly what buttons to push in men, does it without even thinking about it. Yes, she’s my girl.
41
Leith Will Never Die
Saturday morning, man, n Ali’s still asleep so ah heads up tae the library. Ah’ve been better wi the collies cause ah’m right intae this book, but it still isnae lookin that good, wi me n hur, likes. Ah’m sure somebody’s been pittin poison in hur ear. Dinnae ken whether it’s her sis or, mair likely, Sick Boy, wi hur workin at that pub now. That sneaky cat jist used ays tae work that scam wi Cousin Dode. Didnae want tae ken eftir that. At least ehs no blabbed tae Franco about Renton’s cash but, and probably willnae now cause we’ve goat stuff oan each other.
At least huvin nae mates hus pure geid ays the chance tae git oan wi ma Leith book. Saturday’s a bad day for temptation, wi loads ay cats n drugs around the streets, so ah gits up toon n heads tae the Edinburgh Rooms. That microfiche stuff is weird. Aw that info, aw that history, even if it’s selectively written by the top cats tae tell their tales, on one roll ay film. But ah reckon thit thir’s other stories thit kin be teased oot.
Leith, 1926, the General Strike. Ye read aw that n what they aw said then, n ye pure see what the Labour Party used tae believe in. Freedom for the ordinary cat. Now it’s like ‘get the Tories oot’ or ‘keep the Tories oot’, which is jist a nice way ay sayin ‘keep us in, man, keep us in, cause we like it here’. Ah takes tons ay notes but, n the time jist whizzes past.
When ah gits back doon the road tae the Port, something’s up. Ah bounces intae the flat wi ma notes, aw fill ay cheer. Andy’s goat ehs Cabs-away strip oan, and then ah look at Ali, standin thair wi a couple ay bags packed. N aye, it looks like thir playin away awright. — Whaire ye been? she asks.
— Eh, ah wis jist up the library likes, man, this history ay Leith book, research, ken?
She looks at me like she doesnae believe me and ah want tae sit her doon n likesay pure show her the stuff, but her face is aw sortay strained n guilty. — We’re gaun tae ma sister’s. Things have been . . . she looks ower at Andy who’s got a plastic Luke Skywalker battering a Darth Vader, n she droaps her voice — . . . you know what I’m saying, Danny. Ah wis gaunnae leave ye a note. Ah jist need a bit ay space tae think.
Aw naw, naw, naw, naw, naw. — For how long likes? How long?
— Ah dunno. A few days, she shrugs, takin a drag oan a ciggy. She usually never smokes aroond Andy. She’s goat big hooped gold earrings oan n a white jaykit n she looks so good, man, jist so good.
— Ah’ve no been huvin nowt, ah tell her. — Thir’s nowt in muh pockits, ah say, makin a show ay turning them oot. — Ah mean, ah’ve hud nowt fir yonks, ah’m jist intae ma book.
She just sort ay shakes her heid slowly n picks up the bag. Ah’m gittin nowt fae her, she willnae talk.
— What is it ye need tae think aboot? ah ask. Then ah goes: — It’s tae think about him, eh? That’s it, eh? Ah sort ay raises ma voice a bit, then ah calms doon cause ah’m no wantin a scene in front ay the wee man. Eh disnae deserve that.
— There is no him, Danny, whatever ye think. The problem is you n me. There isnae much you n me either, is there? Yir mates, yir group, now yir book.
It’s ma turn tae say nowt now. The wee man looks up at me and ah force a smile.
— You know where I am if ye need me, she says and steps forward n kisses ays oan the cheek. Ah want tae grab her in ma airms n tell her dinnae go, tell her that ah love her n want her tae stay for ever.
But ah say nowt, c
ause ah jist cannae, ah jist pure cannae. Hell would freeze ower before ah could drag they words oot ay ma mooth n ah want tae say thum so much. It’s like . . . it’s like ah’m jist physically incapable ah daein it, man.
— Show me you can cope on your own, Danny, she whispers, squeezing my hand, — show me you can keep it together.
And wee Andy looks back n smiles n says: — Cheerio, Dad.
N thir away, man, pure gone.
Ah looks oot the windae n sees thum gaun doon the road towards Junction Street. Ah slumps doon in the chair. Zappa, the cat, suddenly jumps up oan the armrest, shittin ays up. Ah stroke ehs fur n ah starts greetin, in dry, tearless sobs, like ah’m huvin some kind ay fit. At one point ah kin hardly breathe. Then ah gits it thegither a bit. — Jist you n me now, gadge, ah tells the cat. — It’s easier fir you, Zappa, man, youse cats dinnae git emotionally involved. It’s jist yin oan the roof, n that’s it, wham bam thank you mam, ah sais tae the boy, then looks intae ehs slitty green eyes. — You’re well oot ay it but, man, ah goes, then ah laughs, — ah mean, sorry aboot the nuts n that, out ay order really, but it’s fir yir ain good, man, ken. Ah did feel bad but whin ah took ye tae git done but.
The cat opens ehs gob n mews, so ah gits up tae see what’s fir nosh. No much fir either Homo sapiens or feline, the cupboard’s pretty bare. The auld shit tray is minging n aw, and wir oot ay cat litter. — Thanks, man, ah say tae Zappa, — you’ve helped ays. Instead ay sitting here feelin sorry for masel, cause ay you ah’m forced tae git oot fir cat grub n cat litter. Engage wi the world n that. Ah’ll head doon the Kirkgate n mibee git some ay that catnip shit n aw for ye, man, git ye stoned.
Aye, the wee ants are pure diggin in, so ah cannae settle. Ah gits doon the road n hits the Kirkgate n does ma shoap at Kwik Save, comin oot at Queen Vic’s statue at the fit ay the Walk. It’s busy doon here cause it’s a surprisingly mild day fir March. Wee guys hing aboot, playin hip hop oan beat boxes. Wifies and kids munch at sweeties. Loads ay they political cats huv stalls set up, urgin ye tae buy revolutionary papers n that. It’s funny though, man, but they political gadges aw seem like they come fae posh hames, students n that. No thit ah’m knockin it, but ah think, it should be the likes ay us that agitate for change, but aw we dae is drugs. No like in the General Strike n that. What happened tae us?
Joey Parke’s comin doon the road, n ah catches ehs attention. — Awright, Spud? How goes it? Ye gaun tae the group oan Monday?
— Aye . . . ah tell um. Ah didnae ken wi wir meetin oan Monday.
N poor Parkie gits it aw, man, ah tell um that Ali’s away, shi’s taken Andy tae her sister’s.
— Too bad, mate. But she’ll be back, eh?
— Says that it’s jist fir a few days, she needs tae sort her heid oot. Wants tae see if ah kin cope oan ma ain. That put ays on a right downer, man, ken? She’s working at the pub, Sick Boy’s pub n aw. The thing is, man, if ah cope well oan ma ain, then she’ll say, ‘eh’s awright’, n leave ays. If ah fuck up, then she’ll say, ‘look at the state ay that waster’, n leave ays. It’s lookin pure grim, likesay.
The Parke boy’s goat things tae dae so ah gits the litter up tae the Zappa felly and sorts the boy oot wi some grub and a fresh bog. Ah wraps the cat shit n pish n a newspaper n sticks it in a placky bag. Ah sorts um oot wi the catgear, watchin um scratchin that patch ay it oan the flair, then runnin roond in circles n rollin ower, n ah’m thinkin, ah could dae wi some ay thon action, man.
So ah’m oan ma ain in the hoose n totally desperate fir company. Ah starts thinkin thit mibee art kin save the day, so ah git oot the notes ah’ve taken oan the history book, n read through thum again. My handwritin’s no really aw that hoat, ken, so it takes ays a while tae read it aw. Then the door goes n ah think it might be her, come back, thinkin, ‘naw, it’s silly, Danny Boy, ah cannae go through wi it, ah love ye’, so ah open it up aw excited n nup, it’s no Ali.
It’s as far fae Ali as it’s possible tae git.
It’s Franco.
— Awright, Spud? Jist came roond fir a fuckin blether, eh.
Ah thoat ah wanted company, any company, but it was really, likesay, almost any company ah meant. Ah wis nivir really that keen oan jail tales whin ah wis inside masel. In the hoose, thir a total nightmare. So ah’m tryin, n it’s hard wi Franco, tae keep the subject oan other things, like ma history ay Leith book. So ah’m tellin um aboot it. Ah sais tae um that ah should interview the likes ay him aboot Leith. But it’s, likesay, ah’ve, ehm, said the wrong sortay thing tae Franco, cause this cat isnae happy at aw. — What the fuck dae ye mean? You tryin tae take the fuckin pish?
Whoa, whoa, whoa, feral boy. — Naw, Franco, man, naw, it’s just that ah want the book tae be aboot the real Leith, ken, aboot some ay the real characters. Like you, man. Everybody in Leith kens you.
Franco stiffens up in the chair, but thankfully ah think that eh’s deciding that eh’s a bit chuffed now.
And ah’m tryin tae git ma point across, crawlin like a cat oan a hoat-tin roof. — Cause it’s aw changing, man. Yuv goat the Scottish Office at one end and yuv goat the new Parliament at the other. Embourgeoisement, man, that’s what the intellectual cats call it. Ten years’ time, there’ll be nae gadges like me n you left doon here. Look at Tommy Younger’s, man, it’s a café-bar now. Jayne’s, they call it. Mind some ay the nights, some ay the mornins, we hud thaire!
Franco nods, n ah ken ah’m gittin oan ehs tits, but it’s like ah’m nervous n whin ah git nervous ah jist pure talk, man, ah cannae stoap . . . shy ye say nowt, nervous ye jist spraff. — It’s like the sabre-toothed tigers, man. They only want cats wi cash in toon, ah mean, look what they’re daein tae Dumbiedykes. They want us aw oot in schemes oan the edge ay toon, Franco, ah’m tellin ye, man.
— Fuck off, ah’m gaun tae nae fuckin scheme oot ay toon, eh tells me. — Wis oot at Wester Hailes fir a bit whin me n hur goat thegither. Only one fuckin pub, ya cunt, what the fuck’s gaun oan thair?
— Ah but, very soon, Franco, auld Leith will be gone. Look at Tollcross, man, it’s a finance centre now. Look at the South Side: a student village. Stockbridge’s been yuppiesville for donks, auld Stockeree. Us and Gorgie-Dalry’ll soon be the only places left in the inner city for working-class cats, man, and that’s just cause ay the fitba clubs. Thank fuck they steyed in toon.
— Ah’m no fuckin workin class, eh says pointin at ehsel, — ah’m a fuckin businessman, eh goes, raisin ehs voice.
— But, Franco, what ah’m sayin is . . .
— You fuckin goat that?
This is like, man, an auld route ah’ve been doon before that many times. So if thir’s one thing ah’ve learnt it’s how tae slip oantae the back fit in such situs. — Aye, sure, man, sure, ah raise they mitts in surrender.
The Beggar Boy seems a bit pacified by this, but eh’s one stroppy, uptight gadge, that’s fir sure. — Tell ye something else fir nowt, Leith’ll nivir fuckin die, eh goes.
The cat’s no gittin ma drift here but. — Mibee no Leith, man, but Leith as we ken it will, ah tells um, but ah’m no takin it further cause ah ken the score. He goes, ‘naw it willnae’, ah say, ‘aye it will, man, it’s dyin already, how will it no’, and he’ll say, ‘cause ah fuckin well sais’, and that’ll be it.
Eh racks up two big lines ay coke n ah’m mindin ay ma promise tae Ali, but well, ah sais ah’d keep oaf the gear, n tae me that means smack, n ah said ah’d keep oaf base, but no ching, man, nae cat mentioned ching. Also it’s Franco, so ye cannae really refuse.
Pure buzzin, we head doon for a beer n ah steer Begbie away fae the Port Sunshine which is easy cause eh ey drinks in Nicol’s. Franco gits a text message oan his mobile. Eh stands lookin at it in disbelief. — What’s up, Franco, man?
— SOME CUNT’S TRYIN TAE GIT FUCKIN WIDE! eh shrieks, n two lassies wi pushchairs passin us jist aboot shit thirsels.
— What’s up?
— A fuckin text message . . . it doesnae say whae it wis fae . . . the cat is not amused, eh’s fiddlin
wi the buttons oan the phone. We get intae the pub n eh’s still playin wi the phone as ah git the drinks up fae Charlie fae behind the bar. Begbie’s mobile goes off again, n eh answers it, aw cagey this time. — Whae’s this?
Thir’s a pause n eh lightens up, thank fuck. — Right, Malky. Sound.
Eh switches it oaf n tells me: — Caird school up at Mikey Forrester’s. Wi Norrie Hutton, Malky McCarron n that. Lit’s git a cairry-oot.
Ah tell um thit ah’m skint, which isnae true, but a caird school wi Begbie means ye pure play until he wins aw yir money, no matter how long it takes the cat. So ah’m no intae that. — Jist come up fir a drink but, ya cunt, eh goes.
Well, ye cannae really refuse so wi hit the offie, n Begbie’s still gaun oan aboot Mark Renton n how eh wants tae kill um. Ah’m no happy wi ehs mood, man, n ah’m no that keen oan the likes ay Malky n Norrie n Mikey Forrester. Thir sittin roond the table n thir’s loads n loads ay ching oan the go, n boatils ay JD n cans ay beer. Ah bows oot the hand eftir losin thirty quid. — You kin keep pittin the sounds oan, Spud, Begbie goes, but ye cannae really pit oan what ye want, cause he ey pure tells ye. — Pit oan Rod Stewart, ya cunt . . . every day ah spend ma tahmm . . . drinkin wahnn, feelin fahnnn . . .
— Dinnae think uv goat any Rod Stewart, Mikey goes. — Used tae huv, bit when she moved oot she took loads ay ma records.
Franco looks at um. — Git thum fuckin back oaf the cunt! Cannae huv a fuckin caird school withoot Rod Stewart. That’s what ye dae at a fuckin caird school: git pished, sing Rod Stewart. Ye cannae fuckin beat it, ya cunt!
— Ye see they pictures ay Rod Stewart in the inside ay that CD? Norrie goes. — Eh’s done up in drag, like an auld tart in one ay thum. N thir’s yin whair eh’s dressed up like a poof!
Ah pure mind ay they pictures; Rod Stewart hud ehs hair slicked back, wi a moustache n a pair ay glesses. Ah’m sayin nowt but, cause ah kin see the reaction fae Franco.
