Porno

by Unknown

  — Maybe, she says, doubtful and cagey, and I don’t know whether she means him, or me or both of us. She looks at the envelope, feels it. — There must be hundreds in here.

  — Eight grand, I tell her.

  Her eyes almost pop out off her head. — Eight thousand pounds! Mark! She lowers her voice and looks around like we’re in a spy film. — Ye cannae walk aboot wi aw this money! Ye could git mugged or anything . . .

  — Better git it tae the bank then. Look, ah’m no leavin wi it, so it stays oan that table thaire if you dinnae pick it up. She goes to say something but I talk over her. — Look, ah widnae dae it if ah couldnae afford it. Ah’m no that much ay a mug.

  Sharon puts it into her bag and squeezes my hand as tears glisten in her eyes. — Ah dinnae ken what tae say . . .

  This is ma cue tae get away. I tell her I’ll take Marina to see Toy Story, while she sorts things out at the bank and has a look around the shops. As I’m walking, hand in hand with the kid, I’m wondering what Begbie would do if he ran into me now. Surely he wouldn’t . . . I get all para that he’ll hassle the bairn or Sharon so we pile into a taxi down to the Dominion, because I can’t really see Franco in Morningside. When the film finishes I drop Marina off back at Sharon’s.

  Later on, I’m heading up George IV Bridge and I spy another familiar face, but it can’t be, not coming out the library! I go up behind him and finger his collar like I’m polis. He nearly jumps out of his skin, before turning around and his hostile gaze alters into a beaming smile.

  — Mark . . . Mark, man . . . how ye daein?

  We retire to a nearby bar for a drink. Ironically, it’s called Scruffy Murphy’s, an old nickname everybody teased Spud with. I can’t remember what it used to be. As I set up two Guinnesses, it’s hard not to think that Spud looks as big a mess as ever. We sit down and he’s telling me about this Leith history project he’s working on, which just blows me away. Not because it sounds interesting, though it does, it’s more the concept of Spud being into something like that. But he talks about it with great enthusiasm before we get round to going over old times. — How’s Swaney? He cannae still be kicking aboot surely, I ask of an old pal.

  — Thailand, Spud says.

  — You’re jokin, I reply, once again flabbergasted. Swaney always fantasised about going out there, but I can’t comprehend that he actually did.

  — Aye, the cat made it, Spud nods, the extent of the unlikelihood seeming to hit him as well. — On one leg n aw.

  We talk about Johnny Swan for a bit, but there’s one thing I really want to know, and I ask as casually as I can. — Tell me, Spud, is Begbie out of prison?

  — Aye, he’s been oot for yonks, Spud informs me as I experience a sinking sensation. There’s a numbness in my face and a ringing in my ears. It becomes hard to focus on his words and my head starts to spin. — Since eftir New Year. The cat wis roond at mines the other day, likes. The boy’s radger than ever, he says seriously. — Keep away fae um, Mark, eh disnae ken aboot the money . . .

  I reply in a deadpan manner: — What money was that?

  Spud beams back a big, warm open smile and he throws his arms round me in an excess of enthusiasm. For a skinny guy his embrace has some strength. When he breaks off, his eyes are watering. — Thanks, Mark, he says.

  — Don’t know what you’re talking about, I shrug, maintaining the silence. What you don’t know, they can’t beat out you. I don’t even ask about the state of his or Ali or the kid’s immune systems. Sick Boy is a compulsive liar and he’s a lot less good at it or entertaining with it than he used to be. I glance at the pub clock. — . . . Listen, mate, I have to go. I’m meeting my girlfriend.

  Spud looks a bit sad about this and then seems to consider something. — Look, catboy, kin ye, eh, dae ays a favour?

  — Aye, sure, I reluctantly nod, trying to guess how much he’ll hit me for.

  — Well, Ali n me . . . we’re, eh, gittin rid ay the flat. Ah’m steyin at muh mate’s for a bit, but eh cannae take the cat. Could you take it for a while?

  I’m thinking about what cat he means, then it dawns on me he’s talking about a real one. I heartily detest the creatures. — Sorry, mate . . . ah’m no a cat person . . . n it’s Gav’s place I’m in.

  — Aw . . . eh sais, n eh looks that fuckin pathetic that I have tae try n do something, so I phone Dianne and ask her how she fancies looking after a cat for a bit. Dianne’s cool about it and tells me that Nikki and Lauren were talking about getting a cat so it would be a good trial for them, see if it actually worked out. She tells me that she’ll speak to them, which she does, then she calls back immediately. — The cat’s got a new temporary home, she says.

  Spud’s delighted with the news and we arrange for a time to bring the creature up to Tollcross. As I leave Spud to head in that direction, I’m feeling an ugly rage through my numbness, eating at the core of me. I compose myself and call my business partner on his mobile. — Simon, how goes?

  — Where are you?

  — Never mind that. Are you sure that Begbie’s still in the jail? Somebody told me he was out.

  — Whae telt ye that?

  Pretentious Sick Boy’s slip back intae broad Scottish is very unconvincing. — Never you mind.

  — Well, it’s nonsense. He’s still banged up as far as I know.

  Lying cunt. I switch off the phone, heading down the Grassmarket and up the West Port towards Tollcross, fevered thoughts flying through my head, horrible emotions gnawing at my gut.

  56

  ‘. . . with him draped over my

  shoulders . . .’

  I seem to have bonded with Zappa, the cat we’re looking after. I’ve started cat-flexing with him after seeing it done on Channel Four the other week. I raise him thirty times to position one, with him draped over my shoulders and me rising from a squatting position. I move on to position two, supporting him in the stomach with the palm of one hand, holding his chest with the other, for thirty repetitions each side.

  Lauren comes in looking quite surprised: — Nikki, what are you doing to that poor cat?

  — Cat-flexing, I explain, now worried that she’ll think I’m into bestiality as well. — When you lead a busy life, pets tend to get neglected, so it’s a way of keeping fit and socialising with your cat. It gives you exercise plus the tactile, bonding thing. You should try it, I say, laying him down.

  Lauren shakes her head doubtfully, but I’m in a hurry to leave as we’re doing the last porno scene with Terry and Mel, featuring Curtis as proxy shag. I head down to Leith and meet them at Simon’s flat.

  Curtis has a simpleton’s smile on his face. The boy is coachable, in terms of shagging. He follows myself and Melanie like a sick puppy begging for food, or in this case pussy. No, that’s not fair. This boy’s looking for more. He wants love, belonging, acceptance. In fact, in his obvious, naked sincere way, he reminds us all of our own need. He genuinely wants us to like him. To love him even. For our part, we tease him, sometimes stopping just short of cruelty.

  Why? Is it revelling in our power, or is it because, as Lauren might contend, we hate what we’re doing?

  No, it’s as I said earlier, he’s simply an undignified version of the rest of us: a sad quester who hasn’t found what they’re looking for. But in his case, the little bastard has time. Maybe that affects our behaviour, our actions towards him. I fancy I can still feel it between my legs when he was inside me. I’ve got a small, tight fanny and I never thought I’d be able to take that. You can surprise yourself though.

  — Do you like that? I ask, pushing my neck into his face.

  — Aye, it smells barry, like.

  — I’d like to teach you about perfumes, Curtis, teach you about so many things. Then when I’m old and wizened and you’re still a good-looking young man breaking in virgins all over town, girls half your age, as all ageing men of substance must go for, you won’t hate me. You’ll remember me with a kind heart and treat me like a human being.

&n
bsp; Mel smiles as she sips a glass of red wine, perhaps unaware of just how serious I’m being.

  Curtis, for his part, is horrified at the notion. — Ah’ll nivir be bad tae you! he almost squeaks.

  Those young boys, so sweet and tender-hearted, how they grow into monsters. Yet they often seem to get better again as they get older; kind and gentle once more. Nobody told Sick Boy Simon that though. Curtis is as much his star pupil as he is mine. And I don’t like the lessons he’s giving him.

  Rab and the crew come down and set up the cameras. But Curtis was sweet. He didn’t want to sodomise Mel. — It’s dirty, ah dinnae want tae dae that.

  — Well done, Curtis, I say, while Mel stresses: — It doesnae bother me, Curtis.

  Simon suddenly says: — Okay, let’s just leave it for now, he looks at his watch. — C’mon, we’re going to the pictures! I wonder what he’s playing at as Rab starts moaning, but Simon gets us out and into a cab, up to the Filmhouse where they’re showing a series of Scorsese films. It’s De Niro in Raging Bull.

  In the bar, after the showing, Curtis turns to Simon, enthralled. — That wis brilliant!

  Simon’s about to say something when I cut in. — There’s like a reason? You took us up here? I ask him.

  Now Simon ignores me and says to Curtis: — You’re an actor, Curt. De Niro’s an actor. Did he want to put on loads of weight and walk around like a blob? Did he want to get battered around the ring? He glances at me. — No pun intended. No. He did it because he’s an actor. Did he turn roond tae Scorsese on set and go, ‘that’s dirty’ or ‘that’s sair’ or ‘that feels a bit cold, remote and exploitative’? No. Because he is an actor, he emphasises, stating: — I’m no getting at you, Mel, you’re no prima donna.

  I can now see that this is as much for my benefit as it is for Curt’s. His manipulation sticks out like Terry’s hard-on. — We’re not actors, we’re pornography performers, I tell him. — We need to set our own . . .

  — No. That’s middle-class bullshit. They’re the only ones who haven’t wakened up to the fact that porn is mainstream now. Virgin sells porn movies. Greg Dark directs Britney Spears videos. Grot mags and men’s mags and women’s mags are the same. Even repressed, censored British TV teases us with the hint of it. Young people as consumers don’t make the distinction now between porn or adult entertainment and mainstream entertainment. In the very same way they don’t between alcohol and other drugs. If you get a buzz off it, yes, if you dinnae, no. It’s as simple as that.

  — Don’t you think it’s a bit patronising to tell Curt what young people think? I say, but it feels pathetic, it lacks conviction in the face of his harsh certainties.

  — I’m calling it as I see it. I’m trying to direct a movie.

  — So consent means nothing to you?

  — Consent is elastic, it has to be. If not, how do we grow? How do we evolve? There has to be development, a shifting of perspectives over time, there has to be an elasticity of consent.

  — There’s not going to be an elasticity of my arsehole, Simon. Accept that. Live with it.

  — Nikki, it’s not an issue. If you don’t want to do anal, then fine. You have that right. But as a director of this motion picture I reserve the right to tell one of my leading actors what an unprofessional prude they’re being, he smiles.

  That’s what he does, gets his serious points over as a joke. He thinks he’s won the fucking argument, but he’s not. — We’re having sexual activity, not faking sexual activity. The whole point about any sexual activity is consent. If there’s no consent, it becomes coercion, or rape. The first question is, will I be raped to make a film? The answer is no. Maybe the other girls will. That’s up to them, I say, and I can’t look at Mel. I’m still staring right at Simon when I ask: — The second question is, will you become a rapist in order to make this film?

  He looks at me, and his eyes open wide. — I won’t make people do anything they don’t want to do. That’s the bottom line.

  I nearly believe him until I overhear what he says to Curtis in a coke-fuelled rant in the taxi back down to Leith in between shouting at Rab on the mobile. — You fuck with your cock, but you make love with your body and soul. The cock is fuck all. In fact, I’ll go further: the cock can be your worst enemy. Why? Because the cock needs a hole. That means the lassie is always in control, as long as the relationship is kept on a purely physical, i.e. shagging, basis. No matter how big your cock is or how well you use it, it’s replaceable. There are thousands, millions of cocks queuing up for the berth yours is occupying and a good-looking lassie with any savvy knows that. Fortunately, most lack that awareness. No, the way to wrestle control of the relationship back from the lassie is by getting into her head.

  God, I’ve been warned. It’s not my arse I should be worried about, it’s my head.

  But now it’s Mel’s arse I’m worried about. I’m feeling as protective of it as I would my own. I pull back, realising that I’m turning into Lauren. Mel’s game; she’s even told me that she likes it. So we’re back down to the flat and the gear is set up again.

  Simon’s been doing more coke and I can hear him with Curt as Melanie’s getting changed. — Curtis, pal, you’re gittin good with that weapon ay yours. Ye respect lassies, aye, fair dos, but for this scene we need a bit mair oomph. Have you ever heard of the phrase ‘make the bitch suffer’?

  — Naw, but ah like Melanie . . .

  Sick Simon shakes his head. — Gently tae start, but once ye get it in, crank it up, they love the pain. They can take it better than we can. They can huv bairns, for fuck sakes.

  — Not out our arseholes, I cut in.

  He realises that I’ve been listening to him and he slaps his head. — I’m trying to direct Curt, he spits, — will you please let me do my job, Nicola, darling?

  — Make the bitch suffer, is that where you’re coming from, that kind of misogynistic cack?

  — Nikki, please, let me do my job. Let’s finish the movie, let’s have something to debate about.

  Thankfully, it only needs one take in each of the arse-fucking positions: legs pinned back frontal, from behind and reverse anal cowgirl. Then we sit down with Mel. — What was that like? I ask.

  — It was sair, so fuckin sair, she purses, blowing through her lips. — But good as well. Just when ye thought it wis unbearable it got good, just when you thought it wis good it goat unbearable.

  — Wow, says Sick Boy, putting his arm round her. — Well done, folks, that’s the final brother, Juice Terry, shagged. I’m going to get Terry and you to simulate the positions, Mel, and we’ll use Curtis’s cock for the penetration close-ups. We need some more stuff for the orgy scene, a few establishing shots, but that’s all the brothers done. Seven Rides, it’s a kick-in-the-arse off being a wrap!

  57

  Clarinet

  It wis great seein Mark again n it wis barry gittin some encouragement aboot the book. Ah wis that up whin ah goat hame, thit even though ah wis a bit wrecked, ah goat ma manuscript oot n went ower that last chapter again. It’s like Rents hud sort ay inspired ays, man. The last bit’s aw aboot skag n Aids n that, aboot aw the boys thit wir wiped oot; the pure bams n the decent cats, gadges like Tommy.

  N eftir lookin ower it ah couldnae believe it, man, cause that wis it finished. Ah mean, the spellin’s no up tae much, but they kin sort aw that oot, dinnae want it too polished, cause it gies they poor cats in the publisher’s nowt tae dae whin it comes tae the edit.

  Ah realised that it wis nearly mornin n ah pure wanted tae git doon tae that post office n send it oaf tae they publisher’s, thaim thit dae aw that Scottish history stuff. Then ah wis gaunnae see Ali n tell her aboot the money, tell hur thit wir gaunnae book up fir Disneyland, fir the bairn n that, ken. Ah tried the other day doon the Port Sunshine bit she wis busy n ah wis pished n ah couldnae talk proper. She pure wanted ays tae go. Ah thoat it’s too late tae go tae bed n ah’m pure buzzin, so ah pit oan the Alabama’s tape n bopped aroond tae masel fir a bit.
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  Then it wis doon tae the stationer’s fir a big padded envelope, then straight roond tae the post office. Ah kissed that package as ah stuck it in the boax.

  Ya beauty!

  Ah thoat the best thing tae dae wid be tae pure git in some feather n flip then git a hud ay Ali n Andy when she goes tae pick up the wee man fae the school, tell thum aw the news aboot Disneyland! N mibee no the yin in Paris, mibee the yin in Florida! Aye, ower thair in the sun would be barry, especially wi this crap weather. Terry Lawson wis tellin ays he wis ower thair n it wis cool as.

  Then ah thinks, well, ah’m entitled tae a wee celebration now, cause that’s me pure done wi the book! Yes! Aw ma debts peyed oaf, money in the tail, me Ali n Andy away tae Disneyland soon. Jist a couple ah beers likesay. So ah’m thinkin, whaire tae go tae celebrate? N yuv goat tae watch Leith, man, cause Leith pure isnae Edinburgh. Thir’s aw they pubs in Leith n yi’ll find company, whether ye want it or no, n it might no be the right company. Yuv goat tae watch who ye celebrate wi.

  Fae Junction Street ah turns oantae the Walk past Mac’s Bar. Ah look acroass at the Central Bar then up the Walk n ah ken that beyond it thir’s the Bridge Bar, EH6, the Crown, Dolphin Lounge, the Spey, Caledonian Bar, Morrisons, the Dalmeny, the Lorne, the Vicky, the Alhambra, the Volley, the Balfour, the Walk Inn or Jayne’s as they call it now, Robbie’s, the Shrub, Boundary Bar, the Brunswick, the Red Lion, the Old Salt, the Windsor, Joe Pearce’s, the Elm . . . n that’s jist off the toap ay ma heid n jist oan the Walk itself, no countin side streets or nowt like that. So naw, man, naw, every Walk boozer contains the prospect ay a huge sesh. Same wi Duke Street n Junction Street n even Constitution n Bernard strassers. So ah head fir the mair trendy, sedate and gentrified Shore, man, whaire a Leith man ay letters should be drinkin.