by Unknown
— You’re an angel. I must go, I’ve a casserole in the oven. Till tomorrow, sweetheart!
I put the phone down and head through to the kitchen and over to the cooker. Dianne looks up at from her pile of books on the table. — Men problems?
— They’re no problem, the poor little darlings, I say grandly, — just no problem at all, I thrust my hips out at her and clasp my groin. — Pussy power conquers all.
— Yeah, Dianne says, drumming her teeth with her pen. — That’s been the saddest thing I’ve found with my researches. All those girls I’ve spoken to, they’ve got all that power, all that tits, arse and fanny power, and they sell it too cheaply. They practically give it away for nothing. That’s the fucking tragedy, girl, she says, almost as a warning.
The land phone rings on the answer machine and it takes a while to register who the voice belongs to. — Hi, Nikki, I got your number from Rab. Wanted to apologise for that vanishing act yesterday. It’s eh, a bit embarrassing . . . Then I realise that it’s Mark Renton and I pick it up.
— Oh, Mark, don’t worry about that, angel, I stifle a laugh as Dianne looks quizzically at me, — we kind of guessed as much. You did mention curry? So what are you up to?
— Right now? Nothing. The guy I’m staying with’s out with his girlfriend, so I’m sitting in watching telly.
— All on your lonesome?
— Aye. What are you up to? Fancy a drink?
I’m not sure if I do, and I’m not sure if I fancy Mark. — Oh, I’m not in a pub mood, but come round for a glass of wine and a smoke of grass, if you like, I tell him. No, he’s not my type, but he knows a lot about Simon, who certainly is my type.
So Mark appears about an hour later, and I’m surprised, though not shocked, to find that he and Dianne know each other from way back. Edinburgh can be like that, the biggest village in Scotland. So we all sit up spliffing for a bit, me trying to steer the subject to Simon, but it becomes evident that Mark and Dianne are engrossed in each other. I feel totally redundant. He eventually suggests going down to Bennett’s or the IB.
— Yeah, cool, Dianne says. This is strange; she never leaves her work like that and she’d planned another session on her dissertation tonight.
— I can’t be bothered going out, I tell them. — I thought you were busy with your work, I laugh.
— It’s not urgent, Dianne smiles through clenched teeth. As Mark heads through to take a quick piss, I make a face at her.
— What? she asks, with a faint smile.
I cross my arms in a shagging gesture. She rolls her eyes lackadaisically back, although there’s a simper playing round her lips. He comes back and they depart.
51
Scam # 18,748
Renton still won’t come anywhere near the fair port of Leith. I can’t say I blame him. He won’t even tell me where he’s staying although I know that his ma and dad are now out of town somewhere.
Nikki tells me that the sparks fair flew in the flat between Rents and her flatmate Dianne. Apparently he was supposed to have rode her back in the day. I don’t mind of her and it’s no as if Renton’s ex-shags constitute a January-Sales-on-Princes-Street sea of faces. Mind you, he always did try to keep his birds away from me, presumably in case I stole them. Renton was always inclined to be surprisingly intense in relationships, even a lovesick fool at times. But what sort of woman must she be, going out with a ging-ger?
Skreel set me up with another bird called Tina, who was less trouble than the first one and who gave me the season-ticket holders’ list no bother. She told me that she was a secret Celtic supporter. That’s what happens when you start an equal opportunities policy in employment.
I’m in the pub and totally chuffed, despite eyeing the group of young neds who’re still hanging about by the jukebox. That Philip boy’s been giving it a lot of lip, I’ve seen him talking to Begbie a few times. He obviously thinks he’s the main man, but at least there’s a bit more respect for me in his tone of voice as he knows that Franco and me are connected, of sorts.
Now this Philip’s orchestrating a wind-up against his tall, gangly sidekick, the dippit Curtis with the speech impediment who always seems to be the butt of their jokes. They’re showing off in front of the wee burds that they’re with, but it’s pretty witless fare really. — Eh’s a fuckin poof, the guy says and another cretin’s shoulders shake like he’s got some nervous disease. Surely we weren’t so fucking drab and uninspired at that age?
— Ah’m no! Ah’m n-n-no a p-p-poof! the poor Curtis boy howls and heads out to the toilet.
Philip sees me looking over, and he turns to the wee lassies, then back at me. — Eh might no be a poof, but eh’s a virgin. Eh’s no hud ehs hole. You should gie um it, Candice, he says to this glaikit wee tart.
— Fuck off, she says, looking at me all embarrassed.
— Ah, virginity, I smile, — don’t knock it. Most of the real problems in life come after we’ve lost it, I tell them, but even the blandest throwaway lines are wasted on this crew.
I go to the bog for a slash and that Curtis laddie’s in there, and yes, he is a wee bit slow. In fact, his very presence on this planet gives lie to the anarchist notion that there are no good laws; our incest legislation, for example, exists to prevent more people like him lurching around. He’s a tea leaf and he’s a bit pally with Spud, which isn’t hard to believe. A Begbie apprentice and a Spud apprentice in the same posse, incubating under my fucking roof. That bad bastard Philip and his other mates torment this Curtis all the time it seems. Like I used to with Spud at school and down the river and the Links and the railway line. Funny, the thought makes me feel almost guilty now. The boy’s daein a pish next to me, and he turns at me with an idiot’s smile, looking all nervous and shy. I inadvertently lower my glance and I see it.
It.
It is the biggest prick ever; the cock, not the sad wee thing attached to it.
I finish my urination, and I contemplate my own penis, shaking it out and putting it back and zipping up. I can’t bear to watch him do the same. This imbecile has a bigger fucking knob than me; a bigger fuckin knob than anybody. What a waste. Then, as I head over to the sink, I casually ask: — How’s things then, mate; Curtis, is it no?
The boy turns and faces me with a nervy glance. He comes over to the sink next to mine, full of dread. — Aye . . . he replies. — No b-b-b-b-bad. His eyes are watering and blinking and his breath is terrible, like he’s been sucking his own unwashed cock – which for him would be entirely possible, even with a bad back – filling his gut with a spunk turned rancid by cheap drink and bad drugs. He’s like one of those chemical bogs at a rave or a concert that badly needs cleaned out. But I’m thinking about this young gadge’s asset. — You’re a pal ay Spud’s, eh, I state, then without waiting for a reply add, — Spud’s a good mate ay mine. Old boyhood chums.
This Curtis boy’s lookin at me to see if I’m winding him up. Not that he’d know if I was though. Then he says: — Ah l-l-like Spud, then adds bitterly, — he’s the only one that disnae try n take the p-p-pish . . .
— An excellent guy . . . I nod, and I’m thinking about the boy’s stutter n that line in that old anti-war song: ‘The average age of the American combat soldier was ni-ni-nineteen.’
— He kens thit ye kin git shy sometimes, the wee-big man skulks.
A mate of Spud’s. God, ah kin jist imagine the conversation wi they two. ‘Ah git pure shy sometimes.’ ‘Aye, me n aw.’ ‘Dinnae worry aboot it, huv some jellies.’ ‘Aye, barry.’
I’m taking my time, nodding sympathetically while washing my hands and Christ, this minging bog needs properly cleaned right enough. Do we or do we not pay our cleaners to clean? No, life would be too straightforward, too fucking un-Scottish, if people did the jobs they were meant to do. Shy boy here, what was he meant to do? — Nowt wrong wi being shy, mate. Everybody was once, I lie. I stick my hands under the dryer. — Let me get you a drink, I smile, thrashing off the excess water.
The boy looks less than smitten by my offer. — Ah’m no steyin in here, he says pointing angrily outside, — no wi thaime takin the p-p-pish!
— Tell you what, mate, I’m going down to the Caley for a beer. I need a break. Come and join me.
— Awright, he says, and we sneak out the side door and into the street. It’s fuckin cauld here, and there’s spits of sleet coming down. Meant to be fucking spring! The wee guy is, as they say, all prick and ribs, it’s like every morsel of nutrition that goes into his body is swallowed up by that cock. If he was with a bird he’d probably come so much that he’d badly dehydrate himself and be in intensive care for weeks. That big Adam’s apple bulging away, that sallow, spotty skin . . . he’s certainly no movie star. But, in the world of porn, if he can find wid on demand . . .
We get into the warm, inviting Caley, with its open fire, and I set up a couple of pints and brandies as we find a quiet corner. — So what are these mates ay yours gittin oan yir case for?
— It’s cause ah’m a bit shy . . . n muh s-stammer . . .
I contemplate this problem for a while, finding it so hard to contain my indifference, before I venture: — Is it yir stammer that makes ye shy, or are ye shy cause yuv got a stammer?
This Curtis laddie shrugs. — Ah went tae see aboot it, n they said it wis jist ni-nerves . . .
— What are you so nervous about? You don’t seem any different from the rest of your mates. You’ve no got two heids or nowt like that. Youse aw dress the same, take the same drugs . . .
The wee guy bows his heid and it’s like there’s nothing going on under that baseball cap. Then he says in a tormented whisper: — B-b-but . . . no when you’ve no di-di-done it n they aw hu-hu-hu-huv . . .
The average length of the Scottish sovied wanker was ni-ni-ni-nineteen inches . . .
I can say nothing here. I just nod as sympathetically as I can. With mounting unease, I realise that these cunts are in many cases not old enough to legally fuck, never mind drink. Thank God for Chief Constable Lester’s certificate of peace above the bar.
— That Philip thinks ehs the b-b-big hard man cause ehs knockin aboot wi B-B-Begbie. Eh used tae be ma beh-beh-best mate n aw. Ah might be shy wi lassies, but ah’m no a p-p-p-poof. Danny . . . Spud, he understands that ye kin git shy in front ay bi-bi-bi-burds ye like.
— So you’ve never been oot wi any ay they lassies youse muck aboot wi thaire?
The wee cunt’s face flushes red-raw. — Naw . . . naw . . . eh naw . . .
— Jist as well fir thaime. Ye’d split thum in two wi thon, I nod downstairs. — Couldnae help but notice, mate. Bet you wir breastfed! Any Italian blood? I ask.
— Naw . . . eh Scottish, eh. Then he looks at me as if I might be a dodgy arse-bandit.
This cunt is a total pacifist in the sex war. Just as well for the chicks, cause with a weapon like that he’d have won it single-handed by now.
— You surely must have had some opportunities, I ask.
The wee guy’s really flustered now, his eyes watering as he’s spluttering and stammering out a past humiliation. — Ah wis wi . . . wi . . . this lassie one time n she sais it wis too bi-bi-big, thit ah wis a f-f-freak.
Jist that poor cunt’s luck that his first shagging opportunity was with a dipstick. — No way, mate. She wis the freak, the fuckin dozy cow, I shake my head, setting him right. Now, he’s got stooped shoodirs, shifty, nervous eyes, breath that would make any woman rather snog his ringpiece, and a horrifically bad stammer. I’ll wager, too, that it’s aw because of some daft wee troll who simply did not have the sense to realise that her ship had come in. — Listen, dae ye ken Melanie?
The young chappie’s eyes ignite a little. — Her that makes they stag movies wi you up the stairs?
— Fuck! Naebody’s supposed tae know aboot that, I curse, pulling in a sharp intake of breath and resisting the temptation to ask him who told him about our club. — Yes, that’s her, I say quietly.
— Eh, aye, ah’ve s-s-seen her, like.
— Dae ye like her?
The wee gadge breaks into a thoughtful smile. — Aye, everybody does . . . and the other yin, the nice-s-s-spoken yin . . . he says wistfully.
Let’s just get this wee cunt walking before he can run. — Good, cause she likes you. Both of them do.
The poor wee fucker blushes.
— Naw, gen up.
— Naw . . . y-y-you’re takin the pi-pi-pi . . .
There are simply not enough hours in the day to get a result with this boy. — Listen, pal, I’m half-Italian, on my mother’s side. Are you a Catholic?
— Well, aye, b-b-but ah never go tae chu . . .
I silence him with a wave. — Not important. I am, and I swear on my mother’s life that Melanie fancies you and would like you to have a go with her in one of the stag movies, I stand up, deadpan as I walk to the bar and order another round. Leave the cunt to think about that. When I come back, he’s about to say something, but being time-conscious I cut in. — And ye get peyed. Ye get peyed tae gie Melanie the message, and other birds n aw. N no just in stag, in a proper porno flick. What dae ye say?
— You’re j-j-jokin . . .
— Do ah look like ah’m jokin? My main man Terry’s incapacitated and we need new blood. You’re the man. Gittin peyed tae ride Mel? C’mon, mate!
— Ah jist like Candice, he sniffs defensively.
Another fuckin closet romantic. How sad. That wee hairy back in the Sunshine. — Listen, pal, ah ken they take the pish oot ay ye thaire, I point outside, — but they’ll no be takin the pish when you’re the porn star ridin the top-drawer fanny. Think aboot it, I wink, and drinking up, I leave the wee cunt tae do just that.
When I get back to the Sunshine, Spud’s sitting in the corner being ignored by Ali. After a bit he gets up and tries to give her some money and she tells him to go. He’s off his tits and he looks a fucking disgrace. It’s a real speed-jakey look; unkempt hair with enough grease in it to supply every chippy in Leith, eyes so hooded that they look permanently shut, black rings like washers around them, flaming blood vessels, all housed in a fibrous skin the colour and texture of stale chapatti. Why, hello, handsome! Here comes hubby, Ali doll, wow, what a catch! I let you out my sight for a few years, n look what happens. You don’t so much lower your standards as become a total fucking comedienne. But no funny-fanny from Marti Caine to French and Saunders to Caroline Aherne ever got the laughs that you did walking into a bar with that on your arm. He’s raising his voice now and I sense that my presence would only inflame things, so I catch Ali’s eye and I signal for her to get him out.
I see Curtis coming back in and wilfully ignoring his mates, one of whom, that Philip, is brushed off as he tries to put a friendly arm round the boy’s shoulders. Instead, he goes over to Spud to help him out and down the road. My new leading man. The new Juice Terry!
Mo and Ali look to be coping to the extent that they hadn’t even noticed my departure. I decide to ride my luck further and slip back out the side door and head round the corner and back upstairs to the flat. I’m about to stick on a Russ Meyer video for inspiration when I catch a look at myself in the mirror on my wall. The cheekbones strike me as more prominent. Yes, I’m losing a bit of weight okay.
Shimon, congradulations on the shuckshesh of this movie enterprishe.
Why, shank you, Sean. Pornography hash never really been my shing, but I appreeshiate a well-crafted movie, to shay nothing of a nisch piesch of ash.
Everything is coming up roses. Almost everything. I mind of Mo telling me that Francis Begbie was in again asking after me.
Sure enough I check the green mobile’s messages and there’s a text one from him, or ‘Frank’ as he signs himself:
NEED 2 C U RIGHT AWAY ABOUT
SOMEONE WHO WILL SOON SEAS 2 EXIST
I can visualise it right enough, ‘Frank’. Fuckin twat. It has to be Renton. Renton will soon ‘seas’ to exist. There’s another text message from Seeker. If ever a communication syst
em was made for a man, it’s text messages for him:
READY ANY TIME
Drugs. Good. I’ve only a small amount left. I produce the wrap and chop it up, taking a healthy line, which fair hits the mark. I really need a cigarette now, and I light one up, the smoke feeling so clean and fresh in my lungs with the ching.
I look in the mirror, deep into the mirror. — Listen, Franco, it’s about time you and I had a wee heart-to-heart, a wee clear-the-air session. It’s about this obsession you have with Renton. I mean, let’s face it, it’s got to be said, Franco, and I’m sure you’ll appreciate my candour on this, that this goes way beyond the cash from yon time. You’re like a spurned lover. Of course, that’s all over Leith. Okay, let’s accept that you’re obviously crazy about him. All the boys in the jail, as you made love to them, did you imagine that they were him? I’m only sorry that it didn’t work out for you two guys. Funny, but I used to think that it was you that gave it, and Rents who took it. Now, though, I doubt it. I can just tell that you’re the crying, bleating, ginger-whipped bitch in the dress bending over with tears in your eyes while he talks dirty to you and prepares your greased arse for him, and when he gives you it, you simper and mew like the filthy little fucking lady-boy hoor that . . .
The doorbell.
I open up and he’s there. Just standing there in front of me.
— Franco . . . ah wis jist thinkin aboot ye . . . come in, mate, I stammer, sounding like the young Curtis boy I’ve just left.
And by the reaction in his eyes it’s like this bastard has read my mind. How fucking loud was I talking? . . . surely not . . . but if he had the letter box held open to spy in first . . . and he heard me from jist doon the hallway . . .
— Fuckin Renton . . . he hisses.
Aw fuck, sweet Jesus, please don’t do this to me . . . — What? I manage to bark out.
Begbie’s sensing something’s wrong. He looks at me in that nasty, appraising way and says softly: — Renton’s fuckin well back here. Eh’s been spotted.
