Porno

by Unknown

  Dianne.

  I’m no daft enough to think that it’s fate or destiny. Looking back to then, if I’m being honest, I can’t distinguish her from any other lassies I went with. It’s the now I’m interested in. The way she puts her glasses down her nose and looks over them when I’ve said something she finds doubtful. The way I call her ‘owl eyes’ and she refers to me as ‘ginger nuts’ which really is a terrible sign. Even more frightening is the fact that I quite like it. Have we been together long enough for that kind of nonsensical intimacy? Evidently.

  I love her, and I think she feels the same way about me, she says she does, and I think that she’s honest enough both to know her own heart and not to lie about things like that. You can’t lie to your soul.

  I’ve left messages for Katrin, asking when would be the best time to pick up some stuff. She hasn’t replied. I see Martin and we go over to the flat in Brouwersgracht and I let myself in. We load up some of my personal stuff into his van, which I’ll store at the office. The rest she can keep. As the last box is loaded up I feel great, like I’ve got away with everything.

  Sick Boy, whom I left in the hotel, has been harassing me on the mobile. We get to Miz’s editing suite and he’s already sitting there going through the rushes with a techy guy called Jack, who’s a mate of Miz’s. Sick Boy is using Miz’s facilities, yet being completely offhand and unpleasant to the guy. It’s embarrassing. In order to salvage the situation, I take Miz out for some lunch. Sick Boy seems happy at that, yet when he arrives at an appointed Brown Bar later, his face is still tripping him.

  Miz has been nothing but enthusiastic about the film and is going on about how we should give a copy to his friend Lars Lavish, the top gonzo porn operator. — Lars will be at the Cannes Adult Film Festival, he sings, — we will get together with him.

  When I collar Simon at the bar, I ask him: — What have you got against Miz? Would you rather edit the video in Niddrie? Cause that’s where we’ll be if you don’t sort your fuckin attitude oot.

  — That sleazebag makes my flesh creep, he snorts. — No way is he connected with a main player like Lars Lavish . . .

  — He’s not bullshitting. He can help us get exhibited at top porn festivals, like Cannes.

  — Aye, right, Sick Boy says under his breath. — I don’t need his help to get my movie exhibited anywhere. And if he thinks he’s swanning around on the Bananazzurri ticket he can wank right off now. Aye, we need the cunt at the moment, but that Dutch prick annoys me and his ching isn’t very good. With my luck I’d be the first cunt to get done for smuggling a bit of percy into Amsterdam.

  The following day I call early at his room, but he’s left. Predictably, I find him at the editing suite, where he’s now being overly obsequious towards Miz. He makes it clear that my input isn’t needed, so I head off to the office and start to sort out some things at the club. I reluctantly tell Martin that I’m dissolving the partnership and that he should bring in one of our other associates. He’s cool about it, makes it easy for me: a fuckin brilliant man.

  Later on, we meet up in a club with Miz and Sick Boy, who’re now doing a nauseating best buddies routine. At least it’s better than what went on before and I’m nice and relaxed. Then I suddenly see Katrin standing over me. I’m about to say something when she throws a drink in my face and lets out a stream of curses. She even tries to assault me, but she’s restrained and led away by her friends.

  I’m shaken, but that cunt Sick Boy has found the whole thing very amusing. — A proper sherrikin, so it wis, a proper sherrikin, he gleefully sings in a put-on nasal Weedgie accent as he slaps his thighs.

  I’m looking at his mocking face, composing myself by thinking about the strange relationship we had, no less arcane through us having been apart over the years. I suppose he was a bit like me, we both knew that decadence was a bad habit for council tenants. A ridiculous habit in fact. The raison d’être of our class was simply to survive. Fuck that; our punk generation, not only did we thrive, we even had the audacity tae be disillusioned. From an early age Sick Boy and I were twisted soul brothers. The scorn, the sneers, the irony, the piss-taking; we had constructed our wee private world long before drink or drugs ever came along and helped us refine, and gave the permission to wholeheartedly live in it. We strutted around dripping a cynicism so deep, scornful and profound we felt that nobody got us; parents, siblings, neighbours, teachers, geeks, hard-cunts, or hipsters. But it wasn’t easy to develop a repertoire of decadence in the Fort or the Banana flats. Drugs were the easiest option. Then they started to take, began to gnaw away at the dreams they once nourished, nurtured and fortified, crumbling at the life they had allowed us access to. And it all got too much like hard fuckin work, and hard work was something we both strove to avoid. Now what I fear isn’t the heroin, it’s not the drugs, but this weird symbiotic relationship we have with each other. I’m concerned that it has a dynamic which will draw us right back into the slaughter, now more than ever, after what Spud told me about Franco.

  But Sick Boy has worked hard on the edit, no doubt about it. It gave me the chance to get a lot of my shit done with the club. — Have you a copy here I can look at? I ask him.

  He grinds his teeth slowly. — Nooo . . . don’t think so somehow. I’m keeping it all under wraps until I show everybody the near-as-dammit final cut.

  — Aw aye? And when will that be then?

  — Hopefully when we get back, the morn’s morning, first thing, doon the pub in Leith.

  His pub in Leith, just because the cunt doesn’t think I’ll be there. — So why, I ask, sitting forward in the chair, — the big need to shroud everything in secrecy?

  The cheeky cunt is still pompous to the last. — Because while you’ve been acting Mr Clubland and boy Birrell’s been at home playing happy families, some poor doss fucker, he points at himself, — has been sitting at an editing suite until their eyes nip, putting this movie together. I’m fucked if I’m having you doing a Barry Norman on me, then showing Birrell and getting the same treatment from him, then Nikki, then Terry. No, fuck thon, I’ll take all the cudgels at once, thank you.

  He evidently thinks I’ll be taking the cudgels, if I meet Begbie down in Leith. Let the cunt just try and set me up.

  60

  ‘. . . a Simon David Williamson Film . . .’

  There’s a blunt, drilling throb behind one of my eyes. I’m in the shower, trying to wash away another hangover, wishing somehow that the cascading jets of water could be absorbed, internalised. That instant rehydration could take place. Picking up a bottle of shower gel, squishing that gungy, synthetically herbal-flavoured detergent into the palm of my hand, working it over my body, worrying about my stomach, if it’s losing its tautness. I’m thinking gym squared. Moving down to my minge, trying to be functional, businesslike. Trying not to think about Simon; his dark eyebrows, chiselled Italian face, glacier smile and the sweet words from those snake-lips. Most of all, though, the magnetic pool of those large eyes. Brown, but seeming all black, all pupil. How even in disapproval they never seem to shrink, or avert, they just lose their brilliant sheen, develop a dull tarnish so that you can no longer see your reflection in them. Like you don’t exist, like you’ve been snuffed out.

  I’m trying to concentrate on the radio, perched on the bath. A gushing, sycophantic presenter is asking a young woman about her favourite records and what these tunes mean to her. I immediately recognise those milky, insipid, slightly adenoidal tones that respond. When she mentions that record, that shit record, I know it’s her before I hear the presenter say her name. — Jive Bunny and the Mastermixers, ‘Swing the Mood!’ Oh, I love this track! It just . . . I don’t know . . . you know when you have a song when you’re at an age where everything seems possible . . . well, I was fourteen and my gymnastics career was really starting to take off . . .

  Carolyn Cunting Pavitt.

  Carolyn Pavitt and I were once, inverted commas, best friends. It was a tag other people gave us; parents,
teachers, peers, but most of all, coaches. All because little Nikki and Carolyn went to gymnastics together. But although we became bundled together through our joint participation in the sport, we never felt this great friendship ourselves. As good little girls, we were seen as kindred spirits. In reality, right from the off, we were deadly rivals.

  As teenage gymnasts we seriously competed. At first I was better than gawky Carolyn, although the ugly duckling did turn into a swan when she hit the mat. The problem was that when adolescence descended on us, I got the tits and she got the trophies.

  And now I realise that I’ve turned the shower down as cold as it’ll go, and I can’t hear the voice of ‘Britain’s Carolyn Pavitt’ any more. All I can feel is the searing cold, the heaviness, the heaving in my chest and I think I’m going to pass out, but I step out of the shower, gasping. I switch off the radio and rub myself with the towel as a warm, compensatory glow spreads from my core to the extremities of my skin. Oh, you cunt, Carolyn Pavitt.

  I go through to my room and get dressed, wondering which jumper to wear, the tight cashmere or the shapeless angora. I think about the need for gymwork, and opt for the latter. I wonder which one she would have picked. But nothing can get me down today for long because I’m full of excitement. Simon phoned very late last night telling me to be at the pub for nine thirty this morning because he’s showing a cut of the movie! I think of Carolyn. You can stick your Commonwealth Bronze up your arse, you soon-to-be-arthritic cow!

  When I get down to Leith, Simon is highly animated. It’s obvious that he’s been snorting cocaine. He kisses me on the mouth, winking greedily as he pulls away.

  Rab’s here as well and we talk about the coursework. He’s done better than me, I expect. I tell him I think that I’ve failed because I didn’t do enough work. We chat at a mundane level, but his look, slightly judging and pitying at the same time, is making me feel queasy. I sit down beside Mel, Gina, Terry and Curtis. Mark Renton comes in, looking very tense and furtive, and Simon shouts: — The Rent Boy finally makes it tae Leith! We should git the rest ay the auld crew along! A wee Leith pub crawl!

  Mark ignores him, nods at me and exchanges greetings with the others. Simon’s over to the bar, pouring some drinks while still going on at Mark. — I was wondering when you’d work up the bottle tae show yir face doon here. Sneak a taxi right down tae the door, eh?

  — I wouldnae have missed ma auld buddy’s directorial debut for the world, Mark half sneers, — especially when eh’s assured me ay ma safety.

  There’s something going on here, but Simon just responds to Mark’s obvious aggression with a pregnant smirk. — Right . . . who are we missing . . . Miguel said he’d be here . . . he turns to see Mikey Forrester entering, resplendent in an unfeasibly brilliant-white tracksuit and dripping gold, followed by Wanda. — Ah, speak of the devil! Miguel! Just in time, come and join us! Dressed for success, I see, he says sarcastically. Forrester seems not to notice, in fact seems elated, until he registers Mark Renton. There’s a frozen, ugly little pause before they exchange cold, reluctant nods. The only person seemingly oblivious to the frosty atmosphere is Simon. — Here we go, folks, he roars triumphantly as he rips open a box of video cassettes and hands us one each.

  Simon then racks up some lines, but everybody except Terry and Forrester refuse. — All the more for the heavyweights, he says, a mix of relief and contempt in his voice, but we’re not reacting as we’re scrutinising our video-box covers in disbelief.

  For me the sense of disappointment and betrayal is absolutely fucking sickening. I see the cover, and get the first sniper’s bullet in my heart. My face with that make-up; larger than life, gaudier, tackier with that cheap print colour used. More importantly, he’d used the picture he promised he wouldn’t, the one where one tit looks smaller than the other. I look like a camp transvestite or the blow-up doll he bought Curtis; that garish, ugly picture and the big lettering: NIKKI FULLER-SMITH in SEVEN RIDES FOR SEVEN BROTHERS.

  What really gets me, though, are the credits:

  A SIMON DAVID WILLIAMSON FILM

  PRODUCED BY SIMON DAVID WILLIAMSON

  DIRECTED BY SIMON DAVID WILLIAMSON

  WRITTEN BY SIMON DAVID WILLIAMSON WITH

  NIKKI FULLER-SMITH AND RAB BIRRELL

  The others evidently feel the same way as I do. — We get the picture, Rab says, shaking his head, throwing his copy of the video back in the box.

  — No, he gets the picture, I fume, looking from the case of videos to Simon and back again. My lungs feel tight and my fingernails are digging into my palms.

  How easy it is now to think of my Simon, my lover, as Sick Boy. The grumblings intensify but he’s pretending not to hear, he’s just whistling nonchalantly as he removes another video cassette from the box. — What the fuck did you have to do with the screenplay? Rab asks urgently. — Where’s the high-production values in the packaging? It looks shite, he says, kicking the box.

  Si . . . no, Sick Boy, is completely unapologetic. — You are very ungrateful children, he scoffs imperiously. — I could have put Terry down as co-director, and Rents as co-producer, but they want just one name to deal with, for contact purposes, to stop the business side of the operation getting unwieldy. That way it’s silly cunt here, he points indignantly at himself, — who gets lumbered, and this is the fuckin thanks ah git!

  — What did you have to do with the screenplay, Rab asks again in a slow, even tone, looking over at me.

  — It needed some changes. As Director, Producer and Editor, I had that right.

  Terry glances swiftly towards Renton, who raises his eyebrows. Terry’s head moves back and his eyes scan the nicotine-yellow ceiling. I’m crumbling inside, not so much at the betrayal, but at Simon’s arrogant ease with it. He’s standing there in his black T-shirt, trousers and shoes, like a dark angel, arms folded, looking down at us like we’re some shite off his shoe. I’ve given myself over to a total bastard.

  We sit in a silence, now tinted with a greater sense of foreboding, as an excited, wired-up Sick Boy loads a tape into the machine. He kisses the cover of the video box. — We are in. We have product. We live, he says softly. Then he goes out to the window, looks down at the busy, bustling street below and screams out: — Youse hear that? WE LIVE!

  I’m watching it, sitting next to Mel and Gina, the first edited copy we’ve seen of our work. It starts off as we thought, with the television scene, where Mel and I are getting it on. I can’t help thinking that my body looks really good; lithe, tanned, supple. I more than hold my own with Mel, who’s five years younger than me! I glance around the room to try and gauge the reactions. Terry now looks sassy and smug, losing himself in the porn. Curtis, Mel and Ronnie are anticipatory and Rab and Craig uncomfortable. Renton and Forrester are inscrutable. Gina seems awkwardly excited, almost bashful.

  Then it moves into the works canteen where the ‘brothers’ are chatting about their trip to ‘Glasburgh’. It seems like an amateurish, ham-fisted tribute to the intro scene of Reservoir Dogs, but it somehow works. As it progresses it’s still looking okay, although Simon’s muttering about ‘grading’ and ‘proper copies’. We move into the scene where Simon and I are on the train, then fucking in what is supposedly the train toilet, but in reality is the shithouse here.

  — Phoah, Terry goes. — Check that fuckin arse . . . then he turns to me and smiles, — sorry, Nik.

  I wink back at him, because I’m starting to feel better. It’s much as we expected, and to be fair to Simon, he has edited it quite well. The whole thing moves along at a fair pace, although the acting is poor, Curtis’s stammer painfully evident on a couple of occasions, and you can tell that Rab is unimpressed with the picture quality. It does have something though, a certain energy. It’s only when we get about three-quarters of the way through that I realise Mel is fucking livid. I hear her going: — Naw . . . naw . . . that’s no right . . . almost to herself. I turn and see her sitting speechless as we watch her sucking on Curtis’s huge cock
. But she’s sucking it after he’s just fucked her up the arse. — What’s this! she shrieks.

  — What’s what? Sick Boy says.

  — They wey you’ve pit that thegither, it makes it look like ah’ve sooked ehs cock eftir it’s been up muh erse, she snarls at Sick Boy.

  And now it’s me, getting this same edited treatment. A close-up of my face, then a cut to Curtis’s cock which looks like it’s going in and out of my arsehole, but it’s another take of Mel’s arsehole. — Nobody fucked me up the arse! What the fuck is this, Simon!

  — Aye, Curtis says supportively, — you didnae want tae dae that but, eh no.

  — It’s just the way it’s edited, Sick Boy says. — Creativity. We used out-takes of Mel getting fucked up the arse and we were able in the editing suite to colour Mel’s buttock flesh to match yours.

  I repeat myself, hearing my voice rising in a horrible panic. — I said nobody fucked me up the arse! Why did the scenes need to be put in that sequence? That’s not me! It’s Mel!

  Sick Boy’s shaking his head. — Look, it was an editorial decision, a creative decision. You didn’t want to get fucked up the arse as an actor, and neither you did. Do you think that Ving Rhames actually got fucked up the arse by the guy that played Zed in Pulp Fiction?

  — No, but this is a porn movie . . .

  — It’s a movie, Simon says. — We faked it. We did what Tarantino did with Ving Rhames, cause Ving faked it too. Did he turn round to Tarantino and go, ‘Oooh, I don’t want to do that scene because people might think I’m a buftie-boy’? Did he fuck!