by Unknown
— Hiya, Ali, this is Dianne. — Dianne, this is Simon.
Dianne greets Ali warmly and Sick Boy with more reserve and I’m thinking that my tip-off about him seems to have worked, although she makes her own mind up on such matters. It’s probably more Nikki who’s turned her off him. As he almost pleaded: — Come for a drink in town, Mark, Nikki’s taken the strop. Won’t return my calls. I thought: serves you right, you cunt. It was only when he said he’d bring Ali along that I acquiesced.
— This is cosy, Sick Boy says, — more of the old crew back together. I ought to have invited François along, he sniggers, looking sideways at me. I’m trying not to react. But I’ve been realising that if Begbie’s still as radge as they say (and from what I’ve heard he’s crazier than ever), then my old pal Sick Boy, my business partner, the cunt I squared up with the money, has effectively been trying tae kill me. It goes way beyond treachery, way past revenge. And now he’s buzzing, obviously well coked-up. Ali pulls me aside, but I can hardly hear what she’s saying as I strain to listen tae Sick Boy bending Dianne’s ear. — Nikki speaks very highly of you, you know, Dianne.
— I like her a lot, Dianne says patiently, — and Lauren too.
— That, in rap parlance, is a bitch with problems, Sick Boy sniggers, his shoulders shaking, then he says: — Fancy a toot, Di? I’ll slip you this wrap and you and Ali can go into the little girly-wirlies’ room . . .
— No thanks, Dianne says in a calm, disengaged manner. She doesn’t like Sick Boy. This is fucking great, she genuinely does not like the man one little bit! And now I can see that his powers have waned. The face is fleshier, the sparkle in the eyes less evident, the decisive movements made jerkier and less fluid through . . . age? . . . cocaine?
— Fine by me, Sick Boy grins and raises his palms.
Happy that any mind games he attempts with Dianne will be easily repelled, I can now give Ali my full attention. It’s got to be said, though, that the cunt makes it difficult when I hear him say things to her like: — I don’t think that you can compare a waster like Robert Burns with the great contemporary Scottish poets of today.
Dianne’s shaking her head, staying cool, but reacting nonetheless. — That’s rubbish. Who are the great poets of today? Name me one that’s better than Burns.
Sick Boy shakes his head vigorously and waves a dismissive hand. — I’m Italian, I prefer to think in a feminine way, emotionally, rather than get into all that anal referencing thing that north European men indulge in. I can’t recall the names, don’t want to, but I read a book of modern Scottish poetry once and it shat on anything Burns has ever done.
But it’s obvious by his raised voice and sideways glances that he wants to get me involved, so I’m trying to keep concentrating on Ali and I think she’s got the same idea. — I’ve never seen you look so well, Mark, she says.
— Thanks, I give her hand a squeeze, — and you’re looking fantastic. How’s the bairn?
— Which one? Andy’s fine. The other one I’ve just given up on, she shakes her head sadly.
— Eh’s no back oan the gear again, is eh? I ask, feeling genuinely uneasy at the prospect. He seemed okay when we had that drink, well, wasted, but no skagged. Poor Spud. I’ll never meet a better guy, a more strangely vulnerable but good-hearted man; but he’s been so fucked up for so long it’s like the essence of him is harder to find now, outside of the drugs. The good intentions will still be there, lining the route of his personal journey to Hades. He really is a form of humanity that has been rendered obsolete by the new order, but he’s still a human being. Cigarettes, alcohol, heroin, cocaine, speed, poverty and media mind-fucking: capitalism’s weapons of destruction are more subtle and effective than Nazism’s and he’s powerless against them.
— I don’t know and I’m starting not to care, she says unconvincingly.
Because that’s the problem with that sick fuckin puppy, you do have to care about him, and he’ll just fuck up and fuck you up again. He’s probably caused, in his own way, more hurt than Begbie, Sick Boy, Second Prize and me all put together ever could. And even though I’ve not hung out with him properly for yonks, I know this, I know that he’ll always be the same. But Ali cares alright, that’s why she’s now crushing my hand in the two of hers and I’m seeing the lines around her brown eyes, but they’re still full of fire and she still looks beautiful, yes she does, Ali’s lovely and that should be enough for Murphy. — Speak tae him, Mark. You were his best pal. He’s always looked up to you . . . it’s always been Mark this, Mark that . . .
— Only cause I’ve been away, Ali. It’s no been me as ah am, I’ve jist been a rescue fantasy. I know how he thinks.
She doesn’t even try to contradict this, which is fuckin disturbing. Now I feel guilty that I’m undermining him when I should be sticking up for him. — He’s worse now, Mark. I don’t even think it’s the gear, that’s the saddest thing about it all. He’s just so depressed, his self-esteem is rock-bottom.
— If he doesnae have any self-esteem wi a bird like you on his airm, then he’s crazy, I say, feeling the need to keep things light.
— Exactly! Sick Boy says loudly, cutting in, then turning to her. — I’m glad you and Murphy are history, Ali.
Then, with a sudden violence of movement, he springs to his feet and bounds over to the the jukebox. To my horror he puts on Elvis Costello’s ‘Alison’ and starts looking straight over at her. It’s so fuckin embarrassing, and Dianne and I dinnae ken what the fuck tae dae.
He slides over to the bar and orders a round of brandies and we’re all looking at each other, thinking about running away. Then he moves off towards the toilet, gesturing at me, and I get up and tentatively follow him down, where he’s commandeered a cubicle. — Calm doon thaire, mate, I say as he racks up four lines on the cistern, — you’re embarrassing Ali.
He ignores me then fires back one of the lines. — I’m Italian, I’m fucking passionate. If those cunts out there, those deadbeat Pictish pricks can’t take this passion, then there are plenty pubs in Leith they can drink in. Her and me . . . he snorts another line, — ya fucker . . . her and me . . . whae-hey! . . . Her and me’s a kind of fate. C’mon, Renton, c’moan, pussy-fuckin Dutch boy, stop sticking yir fuckin fingers in a dyke and git these up yir nose . . .
Without thinking, almost by the conditioning of his voice, I snort them, one up each nostril. They are fuckin road markers of lines and I feel my heart thump in my chest like a drum. That was stupid.
— . . . cause she’s getting rode the night. Defo. What dae ye want tae bet that ah ride her? Anything you like. Bog Boy’s no been gieing her the message, another couple ay drinks n she’ll be ganting on it . . . c’mon, watch an expert in action, Rents . . . you never rode her, did ye, back in the day . . . watch this . . .
Cocaine turns men into their worst ever eighteen-year-old incarnations. I’m trying to keep it together, trying the best not to let the drug turn me into mine.
He heads over to the bar and I sit down with the lassies, sweating, as he comes across carrying a tray of more brandies and beers. Fuck me, I watch the terror on Dianne and Ali’s coupons as he sets down the drinks. — Ah don’t wanna get too sentimental, he croons and winks at her, — Spud and you is no-go, Ali. It was always you and me, he said, handing round the glasses.
Ali is angry but she’s trying to keep it light. — Oh aye, so ye could put me on the game?
— When did ah ever try that wi you, Ali? Always treated ye like a lady, Sick Boy grins.
Dianne nudges me. — Did you take some cocaine?
— Just a wee line tae stop him fae being a pest, I whisper lamely through clenched teeth.
— Certainly worked, she says caustically.
In the meantime, Sick Boy’s probing away at Ali, his face puppet-like. — Didn’t I? Didn’t I?
— Only cause ye kent ah’d tell ye tae fuck off, Ali says, raising her glass.
Then, with a tight smirk, he says: — Ah don’t think you ever
forgave me for gittin that Lesley up the duff.
Ali and I can scarcely believe he’s saying this. Lesley’s baby daughter Dawn died of cot death years back, and this is the first time we’ve heard him admit that the bairn was his.
He seems to realise that he’s said something, and a trace of mild regret flickers across his face before it’s extinguished by a cruel sneer. — Aw aye, ah hear fae Skreel that she’s married a straight-peg. Aw intae suburban life. Two kids. Like our daughter, our wee Dawn, never even fucking existed, he spits in disgust.
Ali snaps at him: — What are you saying? It’s the first time I’ve heard you admit that that baby existed! You treated Lesley like shit!
— She was fucking shit . . . couldnae look eftir a bairn, Sick Boy says, shaking his head.
Ali sits in open-mouthed incredulity as I struggle myself tae think ay something tae say.
Sick Boy looks at her as if ready to dispatch an important lesson. — Tell you what but, Ali, I’m no trying tae be wide, but you’re the fucking same. If ye stey wi Murphy that bairn ay yours’ll be taken intae care, nowt surer. That’s if the poor wee cunt’s no already crawling wi the vir . . .
— FUCK OFF, YA RADGE! Alison screams, throwing the brandy in his face. He blinks and wipes himself with his shirtsleeve. She stands above him for a moment or two, curling her fists into balls, and then she storms out the door, Dianne rising and following her.
A girl from behind the bar, the one who poured the brandies, comes over with a cloth to help Sick Boy. — She’ll be back, he says, and there’s almost sadness in his voice. Then he adds with a smile: — She works for me and she needs the money!
He knocks back the brandy. In a bizarre fear that makes me queasy, I keep looking to the door, waiting for Franco to come in. The situation is so desperate that his appearance seems almost inevitable. I was scared, not for myself, no with all this ching in me, but for Dianne. That fuckin Forrester creep and his arse-licking mooth. Just seein that cunt at the Port Sunshine set ma fuckin teeth oan edge. Odds on he’ll be hunting for Begbie to blab to him about me being around. Then I’m thinking that if Sick Boy’s powers have waned, Franco’s might have too. In my mind’s eye I see the upturned palm of my hand, rocketing into Franco’s nose, pushing it up into his brain.
Dianne comes back in but without Alison. — She jumped in a taxi, she explains, adding, — I’d like to go now.
— Sure, I said, knocking back the short. As I looked at her, she appeared not so much uncomfortable or disapproving as bored, and I was impressed by that. I thought about how she didn’t need this shite. I cough out my excuses and we make to leave. Sick Boy doesn’t protest at our departure. — Tell Nikki to bell me, he urges, his teeth white and prominent, a grinning caricature of himself.
We get out and over to Hunter Square and into a waiting taxi. My pulse throbs uncomfortably with the gear. I’m as high as a kite and we’re going nowhere. I know that I’ll lie in bed next to her like a surfboard, or sit up watching crap telly all night at Gav’s till the rushes run down.
Dianne’s not saying anything but I realise that, for the first time, I’ve fucked her off. I’m not getting into that habit. After a while the silence becomes uncomfortable and I’m moved to break it. — Sorry, love, I say.
— Your mate’s a cunt, she tells me.
I’ve never heard her use that word before, and somehow it doesn’t sound right coming from her lips. Fuck me, I’m getting old. This gear used to make me feel invincible, like there was an iron rod running through me. That rod’s still present, it’s just that now it also seems to highlight the condition of the flesh around it: old, chicken-scraggy, crumbling and, above all, mortal.
The taxi cruises past the Meadows and I see Begbie at least three times before we get to Tollcross.
63
‘. . . if only you’d ease up a little . . .’
Here I am, at the sauna I said that I wouldn’t go back to. And here Bobby is, hassling me again. That’s the thing with them, the predators, whether old or young, handsome or ugly; they are fucking relentless or, rather, relentless about fucking. He’s keeping me on because he likes me, he tells me. It’s true; my massage technique is rudimentary and I still can’t give a decent handjob, but most of the clients are too desperate to notice my apathy and my lack of technical ability. But now Bobby reckons that it’s time I was graduating from jerking off cock to sucking it.
— The customers like you. Ye should be makin proper money, hen, he tells me.
It’s too strange to try to explain that I do more than that with boyfriends and I do it occasionally with strangers in front of cameras. Why the reticence about a quick blow job behind closed doors at ‘Miss Argentina’? Firstly, I don’t want the areas of my life which are free from commercial sex transactions to recede any further than they already have. Everything in its place and a place for everything, as my dad says. There’s other things to do and to think about doing all day besides sucking cock.
Secondly, sad but true, most of the clients are fucking dogs, and even the thought of putting their genitals in your mouth is way beyond repulsive.
Bobby, to his great credit, seems to have enough aesthetic and business sense to know that his own presence at what he calls ‘the front of the house’ lowers the tone. On the subject of lowered tones, I mention that I know Mikey Forrester. His countenance takes on a hostile hue and he replies: — He’s a clart. A villain, a junky. He runs a knocking shop, a cesspit, no a sauna. Tars us aw wi the same brush.
— I’ve never seen his massage parlour.
— Massage parlour, ma arse! He’s nae discretion, thir’s no even any attempt tae gie massages. The lassies thaire widnae ken whit a massage wis! Deals drugs openly, cocaine. If ah hud ma wey scum like that wid be closed doon. Naw, they’d be jailed! Then he drops his voice in grave, confidential seriousness. — You shouldnae be hinging aboot wi that crowd, nice lassie like you. Yir askin fir bother. Thir’s one thing aboot that bunch: sooner or later thi’ll drag ye doon tae thair level. Tell ye that fir nowt.
I think: they already have, as I smile politely. Nobody seems to like Mr Forrester and I’m sure it’s deserved. When I get back home, I mention this to Mark, who’s in the kitchen with Dianne cooking a pasta dish. He throws his head back and laughs. — Mikey . . .
— Is this the pimp? Dianne asks.
— He runs a sauna, I say. — Not the one I work at, I add hastily.
— Could I talk to him sometime? For my dissertation? she asks.
Mark can’t hide his distaste at the very thought of it. — I don’t really know him, I tell her. Then I turn to Mark. — I recall that there seemed to be a bit of a clash between you two back at the pub?
— Mikey and I will never be on each other’s Christmas card list, Mark grins, scooping some chopped onions, garlic and peppers into a frying pan and stirring frantically as they sizzle. He turns to Dianne and me, and, as if reading our thoughts, laughs: — If you could conceive of either of us ever having one.
I don’t think Mikey, or any of my new friends for that matter, are likely to figure on Bobby’s Christmas shopping list. I probably will though. With Simon now persona non grata, I’ve been spending more time at the sauna, working as many shifts as I can get, trying to get more cash together. I don’t want to ask Simon, as his ostracism since the film debacle has been complete and all-embracing: in Wildean terms, he’s been eating his chop alone. To show solidarity with my fellow sex workers, I’ve been ignoring his phone messages: strange, disturbing affairs, which indicate that he’s becoming slightly unhinged. Of course, the unspoken pact between Mark and me is how we have to limit our estrangement from him. After all, we are partners in the scam.
Mark and him have such a strange relationship, friends, yet who seem to openly despise each other. While we’re eating the lasagne – me, Dianne, Lauren and Mark – I can’t help sounding off about him. I’m ranting about his tightness with money and his duplicitousness. Mark just says quietly, in the face
of my rage: — It’s always better to get even than angry.
He has a point, but I have to admit though, that for all my bluster, my hostility to Simon is waning dangerously. I miss the intrigue. Lauren, by contrast, still lets her hatred for him rage like a furnace. — He’s a user, Nikki, I’m glad you’re not getting back to him. He’s deranged, listen to him when he leaves those strange messages on the voicemail. Don’t call him, she coughs, in a terrible, rasping hack. Lauren sounds and looks, awful.
Even Dianne, who never criticises anybody or interferes in their business, is moved to remark: — I don’t think that’s such a bad idea, then turning to Lauren asks: — Have you got the flu?
— It’s just a cough, Lauren says, then turns to me and says: — You’re too good for him, Nikki.
After a bit Lauren takes some Lemsip and goes to her bed, really looking terrible, and then Mark and Dianne head off, I don’t know where, probably back to Mark’s for a shag. As the evening draws in I’m reading, for pleasure, rather than labouring at the sausage machine of academia. I’m so relieved to have finished those exams. As I enjoy Captain Corelli’s Mandolin, stroking Zappa who’s curled onto my lap, I’m trying not to think about Simon when I reread the passage where Corelli makes his first appearance. It’s stupid, the character is nothing like him . . . it’s just . . . it’s been a week now.
There’s a bang on the door and I start, making poor Zappa fly off me in fright. I’m nervous and elated because I know it’s him. It has to be. I head down the hallway to the door, playing daft games with myself, ‘if it is him we’re meant to be together’ games, hoping it is and it isn’t at the same time.
It is. His eyes widen as I open the door, but his lips stay tight. — Nikki, I’m sorry. I’ve been a bit selfish. Can I come in?
It seems to me that in my sexual life of a decade or so, I’ve been through this a million times. — Why, I say coldly, — I suppose you just want to talk?
