by Unknown
And something in my brain, as I look into that five-mile stare and freeze, some primal essence is screaming: Act, Simon, act. Act for Scotland, no, make that Italy. — Renton? Whaire? Whaire the fuck is that cunt! And I’m looking into hell, that solitary black spot behind the pupils of his mad eyes, with a hateful stare of my own which I feel is like trying to put out a blast furnace with a Woolies water pistol. I’m waiting for him to strike like a cobra, almost praying: for fuck sakes do it now, put me out my misery, cause even chinged up I can’t keep this going any longer.
Begbie holds my gaze, and thankfully his voice climbs down to a low hiss. — Ah wis hopin you could fuckin well tell me.
I slap my head and turn away and start pacing, thinking back to the agony Renton caused us, caused me. I stop suddenly and point at Franco, and yes, it’s in accusation, cause it was that fucker’s folly that caused the bag to be nicked, he was the one that was meant to be in charge of it. — If that cunt is back here, I want my fuckin money . . . then I start to think of how Begbie would perceive me, and add, digging my forehead with my palm: — I’m trying to make a fuckin movie here, on a fucking shoestring!
An excellent pitch. Franco seems just about satisfied with that. His eyes narrow further. — You’ve goat ma fuckin mobile number. If Renton gets in touch wi you, you fuckin bell me straight away.
— And vice versa, Franco, I tell him, basking in the outrage now, the charlie working as one with it, feeling the power and purity of my disdain, the sheer strength of my front. — And don’t fucking well touch that cunt until I’ve got my money, plus compensation, and then you can do what you want to with him . . . so long as I get to lend a helping hand, of course.
I must have seemed suitably tumultuous because Begbie says: — Right, then he turns and starts to exit.
Renton. I can’t believe I’m protecting that cunt. Not for much longer though. The bank accounts are all set up. Once the film’s in the can, we go our separate ways.
I’m following Franco out down the stairs, and he turns to me and asks: — Whaire the fuck ur you gaun?
— Eh . . . back to the pub, I just nipped out and I’m due back.
— Barry, we’ll git a peeve, he says.
So the asinine specimen follows me there and I have to stand drinking at the bar with him. One bonus: he punts me a wrap of ching, which will at least tide me through until I can get up to Seeker’s. Still, it’s a far from ideal situ. At least Spud’s gone, but not before he’s upset Alison who’s obviously been crying. That Paddy fleabag is now undermining my fuckin staff’s morale.
Begbie’s still stuck in paranoia central, going on about packages, which makes my pulse race with excitement, how Renton’s a twisted poof, which is all music to my ears. Oh, I want Renton to meet him, basically just to see, for my own curiosity, how far Franco will go. Surprisingly, he asks me about the film.
— Well, I go, playing it down, — it’s just a bit of fun really, Frank.
— They porn stars n that, the gadges like, is thir like . . . ah mean, huv they goat tae be a certain fuckin length?
— Not really, I mean the bigger the better, obviously, I tell him.
Franco gives his crotch an orangutan-like grapple, which makes me feel queasy. — So ah’d be awright then!
— Aye, but the maist important thing is the ability tae find wid. A lot ay boys wi big dicks just cannae find wid on camera, when it comes doon tae it. The ability tae find wid is the key thing, that’s why Terry was so good . . . I run down, suddenly aware that Franco’s looking at me in a hateful rage. — Are you awright, Frank?
— Aye . . . it’s jist whin ah think aboot that cunt Renton . . . he says, then he’s throwing back the drink and he’s into a rant, going on about his kids, about how June doesn’t look after them properly. — The fuckin state ay her, like a fuckin Belsen horror. She looks like she’s fuckin wastin away . . .
— Aye, Spud was saying she’s in a bad way. The pipe does that though. Ah mean, ah dae a fair old bit ay ching, Frank, but aw ah’m sayin is that the pipe really takes it oot ay ye, I explain to him, relishing dropping Murphy right in it.
Begbie looks at me in shock, and his fingers go white on the glass. I take in a deep breath as this cunt is ready to explode. — The pipe . . . crack . . . June . . . WI MA FUCKIN BAIRNS?!
I see my chance here and move in. — Look, Spud says eh wis washin up wi her, ah’m only tellin ye this cause ye should ken, wi the kids n that . . .
— Right, he says, looking over at Alison who looks totally bedraggled. — YOUR MAN IS A CUNT! EH’S A FUCKIN USELESS JUNKY CUNT! THEY SHOULD TAKE YOUR FUCKIN BAIRN INTAE CARE!
Then Franco charges out the bar as Alison stands in disbelief for a second or two, then explodes into racking sobs, only to be comforted by Mo. — What . . . she bubbles, — what is he fucking saying . . . what hus Danny done . . . ?
I have to take the bar as they go through this lame-duck performance. I’m delighted that the simian oaf Begbie has departed, less so that he’s incapacitated my fucking staff. And for my next customer on this conveyor belt of lost souls which passes as an alehouse, it’s none other than poor Paul, my mate from the Leith Business Against Drugs, looking like the weight of the world’s on his shoulders. I take him to the quiet end of the boozer and he’s straight into a bleat about the money. — It’s my neck, Simon!
I’m telling the cunt straight: — You’ll keep it shut or your pathetic career goes, I’m telling ye! Having made the point, I then adopt a more placatory stance. — Listen, Paul, dinnae worry. You simply don’t understand the economics of business. Of my industry. We’ll get it back, I sing cheerfully, delighting in keeping my head when all around me are losing theirs.
What an excremental little creature.
— Now here’s a man who understands economics, I smile as old Eddie shuffles into the bar, nose in the air like a Roman emperor. — Ed, how’s things, auld buddy?
— No bad, Eddie moans.
— Excellent! I smile. — What will you have? On the house, Ed, I tell him.
— If it’s oan the hoose, a pint ay special and a large Grouse.
Even this jakey auld cunt’s blatant liberty-taking cannot knock me out my stride today. — Certainment, Eduardo, I smile, then shouting over at Leith’s Marjory Proops: — Mo, do the honours will you, my lovely? Nodding at a destroyed Paul, I turn back to Ed. — Just putting my mucker Paul here correct on the wiles of commerce. What line ay work were you in again, Eddie?
— Ah wis a whaler, the mumpy auld shipwreck tells me.
A seafaring man. Well, hello, sailor. Or should it be, hello, whaler? — Aye, so, did ye ken Bob Marley?
The auld salt shakes his heid vigorously. — Thir wis nae Bob Marley oan the boats oot ay Granton. No when ah wis oan thum, Ed tell us in great sincerity, flinging back the Grouse.
— It’s your shout, Paul, I smile beamingly, — and I’ll expect you to stick another wee gold yin in there for Ed. It’s a sign of a society’s civilisation, how we treat the elderly, and we in Leith are several light years ahead of all the opposition in that field. Am I right or am I simply correct, eh, Ed?
Eddie just looks aggressively at Paul. — Ah’ll huv a whisky, but make sure it’s a Grouse, he warns the flummoxed adman, like he’s doing the poor bastard a big favour.
I decide to ignore the bleating yuppie ponce and leave Mo and Ali to enjoy the taste of bitter seamen, cause Juice Terry comes into the pub. — Tel! Discharged?
— Aye, he smiles. — Still have tae watch n keep takin the pills but, eh.
— Excellent. What are you drinking?
I’m in even higher spirits now. We’ll have a full squad soon. Alex?
Of crucial importance, Simon. Unfortunately, you don’t win anything with a bare first eleven these days. We need about forty in the buff, all going for it.
— Ah cannae even fuckin drink oan they pills, Terry moans, sweeping a hand through those curls. The porn-star mowser he grew for a laugh has gone.
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— Crikey, Tel, what a nightmare. No shagging, no drinking, I laugh, nodding over at Ed’s mates who are sitting nursing their half-pints in the corner. — Still, it’ll get you prepared for the future shift, eh.
— Aye, he says ruefully, as I watch that Paul wanker, now very much aware that I can simply cold-shoulder him all night, decide to get real and head dejectedly out.
To cheer Terry up, I take him through the office and rack up a couple of poodle’s legs from the gram Begbie got me. I’m telling Tezzo about my visit from mon former colleague Monsieur François Begbee. — The words ‘shoulder’ and ‘chip’ spring to mind, I say, cutting the lines finely with my credit card and nodding to Terry to be my guest, — but not necessarily in that order. Still, it’s his ching we’re on, so the boy does have his uses.
Terry laughs, bending over to snort. — A chip oan ehs shoodir? That cunt’s goat the whole fuckin casino, he says before firing one back.
I follow suit and start rabbiting about my plans for the movie. Terry’s starting to look uncomfortable. — You okay, Tel?
— Naw . . . it’s ma cock . . . it must be the charlie, but it’s really nippin, really throbbin.
Poor Terry heads off, almost bent over. So sad to see a once proud man emasculated in such a way. As he’s still out of commission, I worry about poor Melanie’s sex life so I bell her, thinking that it might be nice if she met young Curtis.
52
CRACK HOOR
Ah’m fuckin well ragin. That cunt fuckin dies, a fuckin unfit mother. Aye, she’s gittin it . . . but the bairns cannae go intae care n if muh ma disnae take thum . . . so she’ll huv tae screw the fuckin nut cause me n Kate cannae fuckin well huv the cunts . . . THAT DIRTY FUCKIN HOOR!
Cause ay hur ah even gits caught in the fuckin rain, in a pishin wet shower. N thir’s even water in they shoes through jumpin a fuckin puddle, like a fuckin blocked drain. Whin ah gits back ah flings ma jaykit oan right away n kicks oaf ma auld fuckin shoes n pits they new Timberland yins oan. Kate goes: — Whaire ur ye gaun, Frank?
— Roond tae see the fuckin druggy hoor thit’s goat ma bairns.
Fuckin rain, does yir fuckin nut in. Every cunt’s sniffin away wi the cauld, but mind you, wi half ay thum it’s the Columbian flu, caused by too much fuckin sniff. Sick Boy’s the worst, n ah’m no sayin nowt against a wee tickle, but no washin it up, that’s a fuckin loser’s game, n no in front ay ma fuckin bairns!
So ah gits roond thair n ah looks at her n shi’s lookin back at ays like shi hus the fuckin cheek tae deny it n aw. Ah jist goes tae the bairns: — Git yir coats, yis ur gaun roond tae muh ma’s.
Thir wis nae wey ah wis huvin thum roond at oor fuckin place. Fuck thon. Ah’m thinkin thit muh ma’ll want thum, once shi kens the score, sees the danger thit thir in.
— What . . . what’s wrong? June goes.
— You, ya fuckin dirty hoor, keep oot ay ma sight, ah’m fuckin tellin ye, ah jist warns the cunt. — Ah’m runnin oot ay patience n ah’ll no be held fuckin responsible fir what ah might dae if ye open yir big fuckin junky mooth!
She kens me well enough tae ken thit ah’m no fuckin well jokin n hur eyes go aw wide n hur face is even fuckin whiter thin ever. Look at hur, a fuckin wreck, how did ah no see it before? Ah wonder how long shi’s been at it. The bairns ur gittin ready n sayin: — Where are we gaun, Dad?
— Yir gran’s. At least she kens how tae bring up baims, ah looks at her. — N she disnae sit aboot gittin fucked up wi junkies.
— What dae ye mean? What ur you oan aboot? that fuckin sow hus the nerve tae go.
— Yir denyin it? Yir denyin thit Spud fuckin Murphy wis roond here the other week?
— Aye . . . bit nowt went oan, n anywey, she goes, a mad light in her eyes, — it’s nane ay your business what ah dae.
— Washin up in front ay ma laddies? Nae ay ma fuckin business! Ah turns tae thaime. — Youse two, git. Yir ma n me’s huvin a private conversation. Git oot intae the stair n wait fir me! Goan, beat it!
— Washin up . . . aye . . . but . . . she’s gaun, — ah jist needed some help . . .
As the wee cunts troop oot, ah turns tae her. — Ah’ll gie ye fuckin washin up! FUCKIN WASH THIS! Ah batters the cunt in the puss, n blood spurts fae hur nose. Ah grabs it by the hair, n it’s that fuckin greasy ah huv tae wrap it roond ma fist tae git a good grip oan it. She’s screamin as ah stick in the plug n turn oan the taps n fill the sink. Ah sticks her heid in it as it fills up. — WASH THIS, YA CUNT!
Ah pills up her heid n she’s blowin water n blood ootay her nose n thrashin aroound like a fish caught oan a line. Ah hear a voice n that wee Michael’s standin in the doorway n eh goes: — What ur ye daein tae Mum, Dad?
— Git back in that fuckin stair! Ah’m jist washin her cause she’s goat a nosebleed! Now git! Ah’m fuckin tellin ye!
The wee cunt bolts oot, then ah plunges her heid intae the sink again. — AH’LL GIE YE FUCKIN WASHIN, YA DURTY FUCKIN CRACK HOOR, AH’LL FUCKIN WELL WASH YOU UP!
Ah pills her heid up again, but the dirty psycho hoor grabs a fuckin wee vegetable choppin knife fae the drainin board n fuckin leathers ays wi it! It’s stuck right in ma fuckin ribs. Ah lits go n she hits ays wi a plate thit breaks ower ma heid. Ah fuckin batters her again n she hits the deck n starts fuckin screamin, as ah pills the knife oot ma ribs. Fuckin blood everywhere. Ah boots her n leaves her doon thaire curled intae a baw n gits oot tae the bairns but whin wir in the stairwell, thir’s the auld cunt opposite standin in her doorway wi her airms roond thum. — C’mon, boys, ah tell thum, but they jist stand thaire, so ah grabs at Michael cause ah’ve nae time tae fuck aboot here, n then that fuckin June’s oan her feet n she’s oot n screamin at me, shoutin at the auld cunt: — CALL THE POLIS! EH’S TRYIN TAE TAKE MA BAIRNS!
— Ma! that sooky wee Michael cunt goes, Sean should’ve cut that cunt’s fuckin heid oaf, probably no even mine, a fuckin wee poof like that, n ah lits him huv it wi the back ay ma hand, n she’s grabbin ehs airm oan the stairs n it’s like the wee cunt’s caught in a tug ay war. Eh’s screamin n ah jist lits go n they baith faw back oantae the stair. The auld cow’s shoutin again n two polis come straight up the stair n one’s gaun: — What’s going on here?
— Nowt. Mind yir ain fuckin business, ah say.
— Eh’s tryin tae take ma bairns away! she screeches.
— Is this right? the aulder cop asks me.
— Thir ma fuckin bairns n aw! ah goes.
The auld cunt oan the stair goes: — He battered that lassie, ah saw um! And that wee yin, the wee sowel! Shi fuckin well turns tae me n goes: — Eh’s bad that yin, rotten tae the core!
— You shut yir fuckin mooth, ya auld cunt! It’s fuck all tae dae wi you!
The aulder cop goes: — Sir, if you don’t move out into the street, I’m going to arrest you and charge you with a breach of the peace. If this lady presses charges, you’re in serious trouble!
So eftir a fuckin big shoutin match ah jist heads, cause ah’m no fuckin well wantin lifted cause ay that cunt. N they polis cunts, fuckin well lookin at me, like ah wis a fuckin nonce. Ah shouldnae huv hit Michael but, but that wis her fuckin fault, windin ays up again. Well, ah’ll be oantae the fuckin social work n every cunt’ll ken thit it’s hur, hur thit’s the fuckin dirty crack hoor takin fuckin drugs in front ay ma fuckin bairns . . .
They want tae arrest some cunt, lit thum arrest that Home Alone 2 fucker. Ah ken eh wis jist a bairn ehsel whin eh did they films, bit ah dinnae ken how a cunt like that kin live wi ehsel now.
53
‘. . . even flaccid it’s over
a foot long . . .’
I get up to Simon’s flat. It’s a mess, but that doesn’t worry me. I leap forward and grab a hold of him and push my lips onto his. He’s tense, unbending. — Eh, we have visitors, he tells me. We go through and on the leather sofa is a young guy I dimly recognise from Simon’s pub. One of those shadowy, vaguely unsavoury presences you register from the corner of your eye. Now he just seems
a normal young lad: gangly, smelly, spotty, nervous. I smile at him and I can see his face turning bright red, his eyes watering, and the poor little darling turns his gaze away.
We’re looking at him and I’m wondering what’s going on here. Simon’s saying nothing. Then there’s a knock at the door and I go to answer and it’s Mel and Terry. She kisses me and goes through and gives Simon a hug, then sits down beside the boy. — Awright, Curtis pal?
— Ah-ah-aye, he says.
Terry’s still quite subdued. He sits in a chair in the corner.
— This is Curtis, Simon says to me. He’s going to join us as an actor. As the lad forces a weak smile back I’m thinking that this is some kind of joke. Then Simon looks from Mel to me, explaining: — From this unpromising material I want you ladies to mould the hottest young stud that ever came out of Leith. Well, second hottest, he says with a mock, self-effacing swagger and bow.
— Eh’s a big laddie, Mel sniggers, — if ye ken what ah mean.
— Show her, Curt, don’t be shy, Simon says, as he heads to the kitchen.
Curtis’s eyes water again and his face is scarlet. — C’moan, ye showed me last night, Mel grins.
I glance at her as he nervously unbuckles his trousers then unzips his flies. Then he starts to pull this thing out of his pants and it just keeps on coming. Even flaccid it’s over a foot long, hanging down, almost to his knees. I’m speechless. More importantly, the width . . . I’ve never thought of myself as a size queen, but . . . So the young lad is in. Fourteen inches, how can he be out? A virgin (until Melanie got her hands on him last night, I’ll wager), a freak almost, but he is the man for our show.
Simon instructs him to shave his pubes to make it look even bigger, like real porn stars do.
Terry says: — Look at the wee cunt’s face wi the shaving. You trust him tae shave roond that asset?
— You’re a fine one tae talk, Terry. Stitches still in?
I’m wondering how we’re going to break him in so that he’ll be able to perform, although I reckon Mel’s ahead of the game there.
