by Unknown
He stuns me with his reply. — No. I don’t want to talk, he says, shaking his head emphatically. It strikes me that Simon looks good; figure quite trim, sunbed tan prominent, with that slightly crinkled look which can be acceptable in the mature man, if he’s well groomed. — I’ve talked enough, he says, and he wears that hurt, wounded look which you know is a manipulative shield, but . . . — and it’s all been bullshit, he states roundly. — I want to listen. I want to hear you talk. That’s if you think I’m worth talking to, and, to be frank, I wouldn’t blame you at all if you didn’t.
I look back at him, saying nothing.
— Okay, he raises his hands and smiles sadly. — I just wanted to say I’m sorry for all the mess I’ve caused. But I genuinely believed at the time that I was doing everything for the best, he states balefully, before turning and heading back down towards the stairs.
A panic grips me in the chest and I can’t control what I’m about to say. My head’s buzzing, my expectations have been inverted. — Simon . . . wait . . . come in for a bit. I open the door fully and he shrugs and turns around and stands in the doorway, but he makes no attempt to come into the flat.
Instead he raises his hand like a kid at school trying to attract the teacher’s attention. The thing is that it works, I can’t believe it, but this fucking prick actually makes me feel like I want to cuddle him and say ‘there, there, sonny: come to bed, let me fuck you’. — Nikki, I’m trying to straighten myself out, he says, eyes twinkling sadly. — I’m no good to you until I do. I thought that I was further down the road to getting myself sorted than I thought, but I can tell by the look in your eyes that I’ve still got a long way to go.
— Simon . . . I can hear myself bleat, the sound seeming to come from somebody else, — if only you’d ease up a little? Like on the cocaine? It always brings out the worst side of you?
I think about what I’ve just said and it occurs to me in horror that I’ve never known him when he wasn’t on the cocaine.
Now is evidently no exception. — Exactly correct, he suddenly barks. Then his eyes go big and soulful again and he says: — Nikki, I’m drowning here. You make me want to be a better person, and with your love, I know I could be that person, he says softly, as I note the beads of drug sweat on his brow.
There’s that horrible-beautiful moment, that bitter-sweet impasse where you know that somebody is bullshitting you but they’re doing it with such panache and conviction . . . no, it’s because they say exactly what you want to hear, need to hear, at that point in time. He’s standing framed by the doorway, his arm extended, with his full weight on it. He’s not like Colin, not like the rest. He’s not like the rest because he’s fucking irresistible. — Come in, I almost whisper.
64
Just Playing
The hangover’s pure kickin in n ah’m takin a walk intae toon tae clear the nut. Up past St Andrew’s, whir thir buildin a new bus station. The auld one wis a dump, n the last time ah wis in it wis ages ago. In fact, it wis whin me, Rents, Sick Boy, Franco n Second Prize wir gaun doon tae London, wi aw that smack oan us. Pure paranoia, man, pure paranoia. Healthy stretch fir that yin if collared, too right!
Nae sun, man; the punters are aw wrapped up against the dull drizzle n the cauld wind, but they seem tae be comin at ye fae aw angles wi thir shoapin bags. Aye, that shopping-greed fever is pure in evidence up here the day, man.
Ah’m walkin tae think, man, tae think aboot thon Dostoevsky cat, how it wis the perfect crime. The nippy auld moneylender thit naebody liked, or missed, jist like the dirty nonce Chizzie. Pure baws that wis in the paper, ken, two young boys, Charlie at Nicol’s Bar goes. Bet ye Begbie pure pit the fangs intae ehs neck, man. Naw, Chizzie’ll no be missed, no a beast, jist like a junky willnae. Cause that’s whair the Raskolnikov cat messed up. Eh wis still aroond, still in the basket n ready tae crack under the psychological pressure, cause eh killed somebody else. Bit ah’ll no be aroond tae crack up, this crime’ll no benefit me, it’ll benefit the nearest n dearest.
Ah finds masel in Rose Street n ah sees um; eh’s aw excited, ehs hands ur swingin aboot n ehs heid goes back in a big horsey laugh. Now eh’s hudin ehs side wi one hand n the other’s gaun roond this lassie’s shoodir.
Been tryin tae contact the boy oan ehs mobby, git a beer, tell um thit ah need Zappa back cause ah miss the gadge. Rents’ bird and that lassie Sick Boy’s hinging out wey; they’ve got him. Aye, they’re a really close foursome n aw that shite. Mind you, ah cannae see Rents n ehs bird gaun in fir aw that swingin stuff, but ye never know. Rents mibee, aye, bit the lassie seems a bit straight fir that. Ye think: mibee aye, mibee naw. Thing is, Rents kent this wee honey back in the day, ah’m sure ay it. Now thir walkin airm in airm thegither. Rents disnae seem tae care, or believe the danger aboot the Beggar. Probably disnae even ken the rumours aboot what happened tae Chizzie.
— Spud! Awright, man, he says and gies me a big hug. — This is Dianne.
She looks at me like she’s tryin tae place me, then steps forward n kisses ma cheek, n ah respond.
— Awright, doll? How’s things? ah asks the lassie.
— Not bad. What about you? she asks aw breezy, n aye, this is a wee honey n aw, man. No the kind ay bird ye associate wi Rents. Eh eywis seemed tae go for the troubled type ay lassie: goth or New Agey sort ay chicks wi slash marks oan thir wrists thit ey talked aboot ‘healin’ n ‘growth’ aw the time. Eywis drawn tae the dark side, that cat.
— Well, man, still swirlin around in that auld Leith vortex, ah sort ay rap.
Rents hus sortay changed but, man. Once upon a time eh’d git intae that wi me, now it’s jist an indulgent wee smile for ehs simpleton pal. — Been tae the fitba lately? eh asks.
— Aye, goat ma sister’s felly’s season. That Sauzee boy’s excellent, ah tell the cat.
Renton looks thoughful for a while. — Aye, ah dunno if ah like the idea ay following a winnin team but. Too sheepish, too unhip, eh goes in a wey whither ye dinnae ken if eh’s serious or no.
— Yeah, that’s why I support Hearts, that wee Dianne laughs, looking up at him, aw sort ay indulgent. This is a cute kitten whose face changes completely in a smile.
— All that’s over now, baby, those dark days have gone. Consider the Jambo albatross around your neck well and truly shot dead, Rents laughs as they pure jostle each other in the street.
— How long are ye ower here fir? ah ask him.
— Eh, it wis meant tae be a couple weeks, but ah’m sortay thinkin aboot steyin ower for a bit. Fancy a beer?
So we go intae one ay they weekender-n-tourist bars fir a few peeves. While Dianne’s up at the jukey, Rents whispers: — Ah’ve been meanin tae gie ye a phone tae git a drink, but eh, ah dinnae want tae be, well, aroond toon wi certain parties oan the prowl, – eh screws ehs face up.
— Better watch, man, ye ken what ah mean, ah whisper.
The Rent Boy smiles like eh disnae care. Mibee eh disnae. It seems tae me thit eh disnae really realise how cracked Franco is. We depart, heading oor separate weys, them wherever, n it seems tae be a secret locale, me pure back port side n tae ma mate Begbie’s. Cause now this is aw comin thegither in ma heid; the bus station, the scam, Dostoevsky, Renton n Begbie. It’s funny though, man, but Renton’s got what ah want. Eh’s got Begbie exactly where ah want um.
So ah’m headin doonhill tae Leith, thinkin aboot how if ye come fae Leith, ye really belong tae two toons, Leith n Edinburgh, rather than just the one. The old port stretches oot before me, dank n damp as the sodium street lights kick in, floodin the broons n greys n dark blues wi white, yellay n orangey glares. Ah’m thinkin that wir jist that bit further south thin St Petersburg n mibee this is what it felt like thair tae that Raskolnikov gadgie.
Doon the Walk, passin aw the pubs, so invitin as somebody spills oot, fill ay loud chatter n music n laughter n smoke, n the odd shout. Past the chippies wi drunks n couples n groups ay wee radges ootside thum. Past the bus stoaps wi nervous auld wifies mibee gaun hame b
ack oot tae a scheme miles away eftir a bingo session, n the auld drunks n aw, punters whae huvnae lived in Leith fir decades but ur still drawn here, still Leithers through n through.
Ah turns off intae Lorne Street, n gits up tae Begbie’s stair n raps the door. Ah kin hear noises at the other side, like somebody’s just ready tae leave. The door opens n it’s that big Lexo cat, n eh’s headin oot.
— Mind what ah sais, Begbie shouts tae um, face aw stiff, n the big Lexo boy jist nods back, pushing past me, nearly knockin ays ower.
Begbie watches him go doon the stairs then looks at me for a second, fir the first time really, n goes in, noddin at me tae dae the same. Ah follay him n shut the door behind ays.
— That cunt hud better watch ehs step. Ah’ll fuckin well kill that big cunt, ah’m telling ye, Spud, eh sais, gaun intae the kitchen. Eh opens the fridge n pills oot two cans ay lager n hands ays one.
— Cheers, catboy, ah goes, lookin aroond. — Sound gaff.
Ah think ah kin smell a bairn here; thir’s a whiff ay pish n powder. Then a youngish lassie, no bad-lookin, but wi quite a worried face comes through n nods tae me, but Begbie disnae introduce us. Eh lits her git an iron fae a cupboard n waits till she goes oot.
— Fuckin Lexo tryin tae pey ays oaf wi sweeties. Ah goat the cunt fuckin telt, ah goes tae um, me n you wis partners until ah heard fuckin different . . . Franco’s choppin oot some lines ay ching now. — Eh jist stoaped seein ays in the jail, nivir said nowt aboot this fuckin Thai café or the partnership bein fuckin well dissolved. That means thit half ay that fuckin café’s mine. Eh fuckin well turns roond tae me n starts gaun oan aboot aw the debts eh hud tae pey oaf tae set that fuckin café up, bit ah jist turns roond n says tae the cunt, wir no talkin aboot fuckin money here, wir talkin aboot fuckin mates. It’s the fuckin principle ay the thing.
Ah’m lookin at a big breidknife oan a choppin board oan the worktop. It wid be perfect, man, but no here . . . no wi that lassie n her bairn in the hoose. Ah takes a line.
— That’s the fuckin last ay the ching, eh goes n pills oot the mobby, — bit ah’ll git some mair.
— Naw, ah’ve goat some up at mines, chum ays roond, will pick it up then git a beer.
— Barry, ya cunt, Franco goes, flingin oan ehs jaykit. Eh shouts through tae ehs bird: — That’s me gaun oot fir a fuckin bit, right, n ah follay um n wir oot ay the door.
Eh’s still gaun oan aboot Lexo. — That cunt . . . eh’d better watch ehs fuckin step or ah’ll fuckin kill the big cunt.
Ah’m sortay tremblin inside, but no that feart, mibee it’s the ching, so ah goes: — Aye, ye kin dae that awright, Franco. Ye did the Donnelly boy.
Franco stoaps in ehs tracks in the street n gies ays a stare thit’s jist pure arctic, man. That wis ehs manslaughter sentence. It was him or Donnelly, everybody said it, n Franco hud bad injuries, plunged twice, cause the boy tried tae dae um wi a sharpened screwdriver. — What the fuck are you sayin?
— Nowt, Franco, c’mon, lit’s git this ching then ah’ll take ye for a drink, man.
Begbie looks at ays for a second, then starts movin oaf n we head up tae mine. We get up the stair n ah’m makin a show ay lookin through poakits fir the ching. Ah goes intae the kitchen n lays oot some knives. Ah’m hopin that this gadge is quick. — Come ben here, Franco, ah shouts.
Franco comes through tae the kitchen. — Whaire’s that fuckin ching then, ya useless cunt?
— Aye, ye did that Donnelly, ah goes.
— You dinnae ken the half ay it, Spud, eh laughs, aw creepy like, n eh snaps oan ehs mobby. — Ah’ll git us some gear, ya useless fucker, then eh’s punchin numbers in.
— Chizzie the beast, ah goes. Franco snaps the phone shut. — What’re you fuckin well up tae? Begbie’s startled n eh looks at me, and eh could chill ower Hades wi that look, man. Ye see they eyes n it’s like thir’s nae skin tae ye any mair, man, nae clathes, yir jist a beatin, pumpin mass ay blood which is aboot tae lose its shape n jist spill tae the flair.
Mibee it’s the coke n the nerves bit ah’m tellin the Begbie cat the story, the plan, and how he’d be daein me a favour. But eh’s livid, man, just pure livid, so ah decides that it’s plan B. Ah nod at the blades laid oot oan the table and ah goes: — Hey, Franco, man, ah forgoat tae gie ye somethin . . .
— What . . .
N ah rams the nut intae ehs face, man, bit ah hit ehs mooth instead ay ehs beak. Fir a split second, ah feel that charged-up wey n ah almost git what the Begbie boy sees in this violence gig. Ah stand thair, in a fightin pose, jist lookin at um. Tae ma shock, eh disnae steam ays. Eh touches ehs lip, sees blood oan ehs finger. Then he stands and looks at me for a bit.
— YA FUCKIN SICK CUNT! Begbie spits, then leaps forward n smashes the heid intae ma face. Ah’m topplin back as this shard ay pure pain like white electricity seems tae shoot right tae the centre ay ma brain. Ah’m bein hit again n ah sortay find masel oan the flair withoot mindin ay fawin. Ma eyes ur fill ay water n ehs boot flies intae me n ah cannae breathe n ah’m pukin up, ma boady’s shakin in shock n thir’s blood gaun doon the back ay ma throat. Ah dinnae want this . . . jist dae it quick . . .
— . . . dae it quick . . . ah groan.
— Ah’m no gaunnae fuckin kill you! You’re no gaunnae die! IF YOU TRY TAE GIT ME TAE FUCKIN WELL KILL YE, YIR FUCKIN DEID! . . . YIR FUCKIN . . .
Begbie freezes for a minute, as ah force masel tae look up, n try tae focus oan um n it’s like eh’s gaunnae laugh, but eh screws up ehs face and punches the waw. — YA FUCKIN CUNT! WE DINNAE GIE UP! WE’RE FUCKIN HIBS! WE’RE FUCKIN LEITH! WE DINNAE FUCKIN DAE SHITE LIKE THAT! eh sortay pleads, n goes softly: — Littin ivray cunt doon . . . Spud . . . Then eh looks aw fuckin mental again. — Ah see yir fuckin game! AH SEE YIR GAME! TRYIN TAE FUCKIN WELL USE ME, YA CUNT!
Ah try n pill masel up oan ma elbay, try tae git it thegither. — Aye . . . ah want tae die . . . it’s likes ay me that Renton gave the money tae, no you . . . eh held oot oan you. Ah spent the loat. Oan junk.
Ah cannae see um now though, ah kin jist see the kitchen strip light, but ah kin feel ehs stare. — You . . . ah ken what yir tryin tae dae . . .
— Spent the fuckin loat, man, ah smile through ma pain, — sorry, catboy . . .
Franco wheezes like ah’ve kicked um in the stomach n ah’m gaunnae say mair whin ah feel this blow tae the side ay ma face n thir’s this awfay, awfay crack like ma jaw’s broken. The pain’s sickenin, but sort ay deadnin. Then ah kin hear ehs voice, n that weird sort ay plead again, man. — You’ve goat Alison n the bairn! How will it affect thaim if ye die, ya selfish wee cunt?
Eh’s bootin me n thir jist rainin in but ah cannae feel thum, n ah’m thinkin aboot it aw . . . Alison, wee Andy . . . n ah’m mindin ay that summer, the two ay us by the Shore, the Water ay Leith, her in that summer maternity dress, me pattin her lump, feelin the wee kicks ay the bairn. Me sayin tae her, wi the tears ay joy n baith oor eyes, that that kid’s gaunnae dae aw the things thit ah’ve nivir done. Then it’s like in that hoaspital whin ah’m huddin um fir the first time. Her smile, his first step, n ehs first word, which wis ‘dad’ . . . ah’m seein aw this n ah want tae live, Franco’s right, man, eh’s right . . . ah raise a hand n gasp: — Yir right, Franco . . . yir right, ah groan, but wi aw ma hert. — Thanks, mate . . . thanks fir sortin ays oot. Ah want tae live . . .
Ah cannae see Franco’s face, it’s aw jist swirlin darkness, no wi ma eyes ah cannae, but wi ma mind ah kin. N it’s cauld n evil n ah hear um say: — Too late fir that now, ya cunt, ye should’ve fuckin well thoat aboot that before ye goat fuckin wide n tried tae fuckin yaze ays . . .
N eh sinks the boot in again . . .
And ah’m tryin tae moan oot, man, but it’s like ah’m away and nothing’s working n ah’m slippin . . . it’s dark . . . then thir’s cauld n ah’m bein slapped awake n ah’m thinkin thit it’s a hoaspital but it’s Franco’s face. — Wakey, wakey, cunty baws, didnae want ye tae miss the fuckin fun! Cause you’re gaunnae die awright, ya
cunt, but it’s gaunnae be fuckin slow . . .
N a fist goes intae ma face again n aw ah kin see is Alison smilin at ays, n the wee man, n ah’m thinkin aboot how ah’ll miss thum n then ah hear hur Ali screamin: — DANNY! WHAT’S HAPPININ . . . WHAT UR YE DAEIN TAE UM, FRANK!
She’s in the hoose wi the bairn and aw naw . . . n Begbie’s roaring back at her: — HE’S FUCKIN SICK! HE’S A FUCKIN SICK CUNT! AH’M AH THE ONLY FUCKIN NORMAL CUNT IN THIS PLACE? GIT UM TELT!
Then ehs oaf, oot the door and Ali’s greetin, she’s doon cradling ma heid. — What happened, Danny? Was it drugs?
Ah’m spittin blood. — A misunderstanding . . . that’s aw . . . Ah looks up at the bairn, eh’s greetin now, aw feart. — Uncle Frank n me wir jist playin, pal . . . jist playin . . .
Ah’m tryin tae keep ma heid up, tryin tae be brave fir thaim, but the pain’s everywhaire n everything is spinnin slowly n ah feel masel gaun under and blacking oot, fawin intae a whirlin dark pit . . .
65
Scam # 18,750
I’m having a drink with my old buddy and new partner in the City Café, breaking the good news. Renton, who’s been looking like he’s put on a bit of podge, is staring at the letter I’ve handed him, then at me, with undisguised awe. — I don’t know how the fuck you pulled this one off, Simon.
— It’s all down to the showreel I ran off and sent them, I explain. I can tell by his look he thinks it was down to that cunt Miz using his influence. Let him think what he likes.
Renton shrugs and breaks into an admiring smile. — Well, we’ve done it your way so far and it’s no worked out too bad, he tells me, examining the letter again. — Full exhibition at the Cannes Adult Film Festival. That is a result by any standards.
Normally, flattery is the most fragrant balm to the ego, but when it’s spilling from the Rent Boy’s lips you’re always bracing yourself for that follow-up kick in the chops. We’re discussing the setting up of our film’s website, www.sevenrides.com, and what we want to go onto it. My main objective, though, is to ensure that we have product to sell. That means that some mug has to sit in a warehouse in Amsterdam and stuff videos into boxes. And I only know one person who claims that they have loads to do in the Dam.
