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by Unknown

  Ah rolls oaf n tries tae pill ma breeks up, wi the flunky still roond ma cock. Now Chizzie’s doon at her and eh grabs her n pushes her ower ontae her front n hacks up some phlegm from ehs throat and she’s gaun: — What the fuck . . . ? but ehs sookin some snot doon fae the back ay ehs nose, mixin up a swirlin cocktail in ehs mooth. Then eh droaps it ontae hur shite-encrusted arsehole. Chizzie’s positive, in the sortay medical sense ay the word, just but, jist in that scenario likesay, cause in sortay real life, that is one negative gadge, ken, so eh doesnae bother wi a spunkbag. Ah’m sortay assuming that eh kens or thinks she might be n aw but eh’s probably jist no bothered cause eh’s fuckin her hard up the erse. Yir no meant tae dae it that wey, yir meant tae start oaf slow . . . no thit me n Ali dae that or dae anything now . . . but she’s jist groanin and greetin soft tears, lookin like a bloated beached whale or seal that jist cannae struggle intae the water.

  When eh finishes, eh gits oaf hur n wipes ehs shite-covered cock oan a clean part ay hur white leggings.

  She’s rolls roond, her face aw rid n snotters are runnin oot her nose n she shouts: — Yuh fucken bastard! as she pills the leggings oan.

  — Shut the fuck up! Chizzie snaps, punchin ehr right in the face. It makes a snappin sound n ah jist go aw tense n paralysed, even wi the jellies n the drink, like it wis me eh hit. Then she lits oot this high squeal as he gies hur a boot that nearly knocks her tit inside oot.

  Ah find ma voice at that cause that’s like, fucked, man. — Hi, c’moan tae fuck, Chizzie . . . ah say, — that’s ootay order.

  — Ah’ll tell what’s ootay order, chavvy, eh says pointin doon at hur, as she sits sobbing quietly, massaging hur tit, — dirty slags that need a fuckin wash! Well, here’s a fuckin wash fir ye!

  Then eh jist starts pishin in hur hair, likesay dirty auld stale lager urine, man. N she disnae move or nowt like that, jist sits thair greetin. She looks that pathetic, man, so wretched, no like a human bein, and ah’m sortay thinkin, is that likesay how people see me, whin ah’m like really fucked up n that? This solitary jogger, aw in whites, runs past us, looks, then turns quickly away withoot brekin ehs stride. Ah kin hear the boys fae the buildin site shoutin at each other. Chizzie’s a nasty cat awright, everybody kens that. Anyone whae’d dae what he did . . . but Chizzie’s done ehs time for that. Peyed ehs debt tae society n aw that. What dae they see when they look at me bein wi him but?

  N it hits ays, man; it hits ays thit ah’m a nasty bastard n aw. But it’s sortay like ah dinnae huv the kind ay . . . malevolence, man, the malevolence tae be sae sortay . . . contrived aboot it. Like maist people in this world, ma nastiness is like a kind ay passive nastiness, a sortay nastiness by omission, by no daein anything cause ah dinnae really care aboot anyone strongly enough tae sortay intervene, except the people ah really ken. Why kin ah no care fir everybody like ah care fir the people ah ken? Chizzie, well, eh’s a dangerous radge to pal aboot with, but eh was a mate in the jail n eh phoned ehs up wi the tip n that has tae likesay count for something . . . cause ah’m takin Andy n Ali to Disneyland n everythin’ll be jist hunky-dory again n it’s really aw cause ay Chizzie . . .

  We head off, me n Chizzie, crossin the park at the Abbeyhill exit, tae hit another pub. Wir leaving the daft lassie tae her misery and sortay degradation n ah look back at hur, cause she’s whaire ah’m gaun, man, ah ken that, once Ali chucks ays that’s it, end of . . . n she awready hus really, so mibee it is . . . but naw, cause ah’ve goat money n ah’m gittin back proper wi her n ah’ve goat the Leith book n wir gaun tae Disneyland, man . . .

  Wir staggerin aroond fir a bit n wi gits in this pub. Ah sortay tells Chizzie thit eh wis oot ay order n eh turns tae ays n says: — Dinnae huv any sympathy wi they cunts. That’s your problem, Spud, yir too nice tae cunts. Cunts like you think thit if every cunt likes aw they fuckin refugees n that, then everything pans oot awright, bit it disnae work that wey. Ken how, chavvy? Ehs face is inches fae mine, but ah kin still barely focus oan it. — Ken how? Cause they take the fuckin pish, that’s how. Mark ma fuckin words.

  Ah’m half-cut, oot ay ma boax n thir’s a wad in ma pockit. But thir’s something in Chizzie’s face that annoys ays. It’s no really anything tae dae wi what ehs been saying or what eh’s done tae that woman or nowt like that. Ah sortay work it oot n it’s the wey eh kind ay raises ehs eyebrows n stares at ye then throws ehs heid back. Ah ken that ah’m gaunnae punch the cat, a good couple ay minutes before ah do. That couple ay minutes is spent winding him up, soas that him n ah both sortay ken what’s comin.

  Then ah pure swing at um, n ah think ah’ve missed cause ah felt nowt n ma hand or airm, but ah see blood comin fae ehs nose n hear shouts roond the bar.

  Chizzie’s pit ehs hands ower ehs face eftir ma blow, then ehs up, oan ehs feet n eh’s picked up the gless n the beer spills. Ah’m up n aw, n eh’s swung at ays n missed n the barman’s shouting at us. Chizzie’s droaped the gless but eh’s screamin: — OOTSIDE!

  N ah’m heading oot but ah stoap n think; ah’m no gaun oot wi Chizzie, no way, man, so ah stoap at the door n let him go oot first. When he’s oot ah shut the pub door behind um n ah snib it loaked. Chizzie’s trying tae kick it in, tae git back intae ays, but the two barmen are over, n thir openin the door n shouting at um tae git the fuck away. Chizzie tries tae git in but the boy grabs um so Chizzie punches the cat. The boy n Chizzie are swedgein n the other boy grabs me and throws me oot. N it’s now sortay Chizzie and me against the boys fae the pub, which is sortay easy for the pub gadges because ah’m drunk n jellied n Chizzie’s drunk n besides ah cannae really fight. So we take a bit ay a doing n then they go back in, leaving us aw battered n groaning in the street.

  Wir walkin apart fae each other shouting and cursing one another up the road and then wi sortay make up n try tae cairry oan drinking. Wi dinnae git served in any pubs but, except this real rat-hole where they let any radge in, no matter how pished n battered n bloodied they are n eftir a bit ah sortay black oot, n whin ah wake up ah realise thit ah’ve lost Chizzie. Ah git up, go tae the door n ah’m in Abbeyhill somewhere n ah cannae dae nowt but press oan.

  — ALISON! A-LI-SAWWNN . . . ah hear a shout as wee bairns playin in the street ay the Abbeyhill Colonies look at ays aw wary like, n ah slip n faw doon a few steps n haul masel up oan the banister. The shout goes up again n ah realise fir the first time thit it’s comin fae me.

  Ah stagger doon intae Rossie Place, passin the big red tenements oan the wey tae Easter Road n ah’m still shoutin, it’s like ah’ve goat two brains, one’s thinkin, the other’s shoutin.

  Two lassies in Hibs tops pass by n one goes: — Shut up, ya radge.

  — Ah’m gaun tae Disneyland, ah tell thum.

  — Ah think yir awready thaire, pal, one ay them says back.

  46

  Scam # 18,747

  Nikki is a goddess. I’ve been watching her; she knows how to play people, how to make them feel special. For example, she doesn’t ask you if you fancy a fag, she says, ‘Would you like to smoke a cigarette with me?’ Or, ‘Shall we drink some wine together?’ and it’s always red, never white wine. That marks out a class bird from a bad Manchester perm from Fife or Essex with her white-wine farts. ‘Shall I make some tea for us both?’ or ‘I’d really like to listen to some Beatles with you. Norwegian Wood. That would be greyayt.’ Or, ‘Why don’t we choose some new clothes?’

  In our financing scam she’s doing better than me, and I’m just starting to worry about my lack of progress. At least the filming’s going better, although I had the dubious honour of shooting Mikey Forrester getting a blow job from Wanda in the lifts at Martello Court last night. Brian Cullen, an old mate from Leith, is doing the security for Edinburgh’s biggest tower, Martello Court that is, not Mikey’s skinny cock. Still, that’s the brother number four satisfied.

  The scam’s been worrying me, but thankfully my prayers are answered as Skreel comes through on the blower. — Awright there, ma man, he says as I stifle a sneeze to avoid expelling th
e big line of posh I’ve just snorted back. These days most of the shit seems to settle in my cavities and sinuses. When I blow my beak I get more in my hanky than my lungs. It makes me want to wash up my snot. My nose is fucked, I need the pipe.

  — Skreel. I was jist thinking about ye, ma auld mucker. Just saying to this pal ay mine: Skreel, ma mate through in Glasgow, he’s the boy. Never lets me down. Any news then, bud? Eh?

  — What the fuck ur you oan, Sick Boey?

  — Is it totally obvious? I snigger. That’s ching for ye. I’m in league with Satan on a fucked-up, slow and expensive trip to hell.

  — Isnae hauf. Onywey, the lassie ye wahnt is called Shirley Duncan. She’s a fat wee bird, steys wi her maw doon in Govanhill. Nae boyfriends. Shy type. Her n her pals usually drink in the All Bar One on a Friday after work. She’ll be there the night.

  What a human being that Gleswegian is. — I’ll meet you in Sammy Dow’s at six.

  — Done n dusted, big man.

  I’m clad in Armani jacket and slacks with the lambswool Ronald Morteson sweater underneath. My shoes are Gucci. Unfortunately, I can’t find a decent pair of socks in my drawer so I’m forced to put on Adidas white sports efforts with the sick towelling effect. I have to get rid of them and find a Sock Shop up the Waverley before I get on the train or I’m fucked.

  I buy a pair of navy thin efforts, and think about keeping the Adidas for Skreel, but he might take it the wrong way. Just before boarding the train I’m checking the messages on my mobile. Renton tells me he’s back in Scotland. The cunt is well paranoid alright. Won’t even tell me where he’s staying, presumably in case I spill the beans to one of François’ associates. I’ll find out soon enough.

  I call Malmaison in Glasgow, thinking that if I book into somewhere expensive, it’ll make me double-determined to pull.

  Off the train and into Sammy’s and Skreel’s standing at the bar. I realise that it’s been about four years. I try not to wince when he intros me as Sick Boy to another couple of Weedgie tinkers present. — Sick Boy here’s an Embra man, Skreel laughs, — a wee bit ay a contradiction that, but there ye go.

  Weedgies. If you take away their knives and teach them personal hygiene, they’d make excellent pets. Skreel’s in the chair though, and he’s done the business, so I’m perfectly prepared to snack on humble pie right now, and let him go through the wind-ups, in anticipation of the big meal to follow. — Anywey, whaire’s this wee bird? I drop my voice, and start singing, like a cartoon I saw once, I think it was Catnip out of Herman & Catnip: — I’m in de moood for luff . . .

  — Ah dinnae even wahnt tae know aboot the scam yir tryin tae pill here, ya bastirt, Skreel smiles, which means he most certainly does want to know. The envelope I thrust into his pocket silences him.

  — One day I’ll tell ye, but no quite yet, I say with a starkly cold finality.

  We exit and head across George Square through the dull drizzle, into Merchant City as the Weedgies hilariously call this tarted-up part of their doss. A polisman stops a jakey for drinking and tells him to put his can away. What bullshit. If Glasgow was serious about operating a zero-tolerance-of-jakeys scheme, they might as well just put the entire city population on cattle trucks and transport them all up to the Highlands.

  I tell Skreel this, and he tells me that he’d stab me if I wasn’t his mate.

  I tell him I expected nothing less.

  It’s your classic All Bar One, could be anywhere. And the lack of character in such places seems to suck any out of its customers. It’s an Ikea showroom where people go to get drunk with colleagues when their office has shut down and hopefully find somebody who’s pissed or desperate enough to take them home and fuck them. I spy a sea of bad Manchester perms; more than you’d get in the Arndale Centre on a Saturday.

  We get up to the bar and Skreel points out Shirley Duncan to me, leaving me with a jaunty, — Good luck.

  Well, hello, baby. I would have guessed that she was the one straight away. She’s there with two other lassies, one of whom is awright, the other a bit of a hound. But my lassie in question, my Shirley, is more than a few pounds overweight. One thing I agree with Renton on is the repulsiveness of fat. You can’t put a decent spin on it, it’s a socially strangulating deformity, which hints at greed and lack of self-control, and let’s face it, mental illness. In a woman, that is: in a man it can show a bit of character and a joie de vivre.

  I’d say she’s late teens or early twenties (that’s another thing about fat, the more of it, the less age becomes of any import) and is dressed by a domineering mother. ‘That 1950s retard’s dress of cheap material I picked up in the market looks awfay nice oan ye, hen.’ I stand at the bar nursing a JD and Coke and wait for her friend, the hound, to come over. I flash her a smile and she reciprocates, sweeping the fringe from her eyes, her expression plastic coy. But this starlet is fooling nobody that she’s not desperate for the real column inches that count in the audition to the next stage of this great ‘I’m alive, honest’ game we must all now play.

  — Is it always so busy through here this early on a Friday? I ask her, as Sting sings about being an Englishman in New York.

  — Aw aye, that’s Glesca, she says. — So where are you from?

  Oh, this is such easy work. If only it was her instead of Fat Girl Gross over there. — Just Edinburgh, through on business, but I thought I’d grab a drink before heading back. You just finished work?

  — Aye, just a while ago.

  I introduce myself to this lassie, who is called Estelle. She offers to buy me a drink. I insist upon buying her one. She tells me she’s got friends, so being a proper Edinburgh gentleman, I buy the round.

  The lassie’s impressed, and ain’t it just obvious why. — Is that a Ronald Morteson jersey, she asks, feeling the wool quality. I just smile in ambiguous affirmation. — I thought it was! She gives me that couthie, evaluating look that you never really see in Edinburgh or London women unless they’re twice her age. I’m a Leither in soapdodger-land, oh, oh . . .

  As I get over with the drinks, I ascertain that they’re all quite pished, even Shirley Duncan. Estelle looks at me and turns to Marilyn, the other lassie present. — She’s in the mood tae snare a bear, she giggles, coughing out some of her drink.

  — Did it go doon the wrong hole, I smile, catching Shirley Duncan’s eye, and getting a traumatised look back. She’s certainly the ugly sister of the three.

  — Funny, it usually goes up the wrong hole wi her, Marilyn laughs and Estelle nudges her. I try to curb my natural instinct to fire into that Marilyn, and even Estelle would do in an emergency, but this is business.

  Shirley looks embarrassed, yes, she’s definitely the odd one out in this company. — What sort of work are you in, Simon, she asks timidly.

  — Oh, PR. Advertising mainly. I moved back up to Edinburgh from London recently to set up some projects here.

  — What sort of clients dae ye work with?

  — Film, television, that sort of thing, I say. I keep chewing the shit and more drinks come over and I see their three faces with the blotches on them getting bigger and redder as the alcohol rapidly fires through the system, flashing them like beacons, as the hormones shoot all over the place. Aye, it’s like a Vegas sign which says: COCK PLEASE.

  And I just know that that fuckin Estelle; I could have her singing on her back for her supper in six months’ time down in King’s Cross if I gave her the full treatment. Aw aye, there’s some chickies you just smell damage off-of, some you know that bad daddy or stepdaddy’s left some psychic scar tissue that just cannae be healed, and that while it might be dormant like a social eczema for a while, it’s just waiting to erupt. It’s just there in the eyes, that blighted, wounded aspect, manifesting itself in the need to give a destructive love to an evil force, and to keep giving it until it consumes them. Chicks like that, their whole life is underscored by abuse, and, make no mistake, they have been programmed to hunt their next abuser down just as relentlessly
as the predator seeks them.

  The night sprawls up to Clatty’s and I’m peeling away from Estelle and Marilyn, all over Shirley Duncan, to their complete shock and to hers. She’s fat and fresh and I feel like a stoat and a social worker combined and soon we’re kissing and heading out and up towards Malmaison. She’s saying: — I’ve only done this once before . . .

  As we get into the bed I grit my teeth and think of the scam. I’m as hard as fuck and my hands are all over her heavy breasts, up and down those flabby thighs and across that lunar landscape of an arse. No sooner am I in than she’s off. For control purposes, I opt not to shoot into the rubber but give a false grunt and let my body hold a rigid stretch with a spazzy pelvic thrust to simulate ejaculation.

  I consider that this is the first time I’ve ever faked an orgasm. It felt quite satisfying.

  When the morning light spills in, the extent of my sacrifice becomes apparent, causing me to feel nauseous. Then she gets out of bed saying: — I’ve got to go, I’m working this morning.

  — What? I ask, a bit concerned. — Do you work when Rangers aren’t at home?

  — Oh no, I don’t work at Ibrox. I finished there last week. My new job’s in a travel agent’s.

  — You don . . .

  — That was so lovely last night, Simon. I’ll call you! I have to hurry, and she’s out the door and I’m lying there, raped by a fat minger, thanks to that cunt Skreel’s incompetence!

  I have the hotel breakfast and head self-loathingly towards Queen Street, calling Skreel on his mobile. He’s protesting innocence, but that soapy cunt’s set me up, I know it. — Ah didnae know, big man. Never mind, hing oot wi her, n she’ll be able tae tell ye if onybody else works there.