by Unknown
So we head off on our little jaunt but it’s far from pleasant, sitting in a warehouse doing dogsbody work. The place feels horrible, claustrophobic. When I get back to Edinburgh I need a session out at Porty Baths, so I swallow hard and incur the hideous taxi cost all the way out there. Renton accompanies me as far as the city centre and grudgingly chips in a tenner.
Sitting in the tank of the aerotone baths at Portobello, enjoying the warm waters and the pummelling sensation of the jets, I’m thinking that this has been one of the main things I’ve missed in London over the last decade. Ah, the aerotone baths at Porty pool. It’s impossible to explain to the uninitiated the sheer trance-like, luxuriant mode one slips into here, way beyond any sauna or Turkish baths. So deliciously old school, this big Jules Verne tin tank with its dials and valves and pipes. The old mingers who come in during the day love it here.
I’m thinking that this is the frame of mind in which to spread the good news, so, reluctantly getting out and wrapping a towel round my waist, I repair to my locker and the mobby. The signal’s strong for indoors. I call everyone I can think of and tell them the news about our Cannes selection. Nikki shrieks with delight, Birrell gives a grudging — Right, as if I’ve told him that a ten-year jail sentence he’s just received has been cut by couple of months. Terry reacts characteristically. — Cannae wait. Aw that French fanny, n aw they posh birds thit’ll be gantin oan it!
I head down to Leith and the pub. I’m about to sneak upstairs to my office to check the Bananazzurri messages, when Morag ambushes me on the bend in the stairs, those startled mad eyes under a newly permed mop making me stop in shock. — Mo. You’ve had your hair done. Suits you, I smile.
Mo is not happy, seeming now totally impervious to my charms. — Nivir mind ma hair, Simon, thir’s a man been doon here fae the Evenin News. Askin aw sorts ay questions aboot you, n dae ah ken aboot yis makin any films upstairs n that.
— What did ye say?
— Ah telt um ah didnae ken nowt aboot it, she says, shaking her head.
Morag’s no grass, of that I’m certain. — Thanks, Mo. This is fuckin harassment. If that creep comes in here again, tell me. I will have him fucking well shot and I will have his house burned down, I spit into her shocked face.
I’m about to make good my escape upstairs when the old cow moos: — Ah need help doon here, Simon. Ali’s had tae go up tae the hospital, her man got hurt.
— Who, Spud?
— Aye.
— What happened?
— They dinnae ken, but eh’s in a right mess by the sound ay it.
— Right, give me five . . . I say, feeling strangely concerned about Murphy. I mean, it’s not as if we’re bosom buddies any more, but I wouldn’t actively wish harm on the fleabag. I back up the stairs, waving at that startled face below me. — Got tae check the mail . . .
— And Paula’s been on fae Spain, wonderin how things are. Ah’m tellin her fine, but she’s ma pal, ah cannae keep coverin up fir ye, Simon. Ah’m no gaunnae lie tae Paula.
I stop in my tracks. — What dae ye mean?
— Well, that Mr Cresswell fae the brewery, nice fellay, eh sais that eh’s no been peyed for last week’s delivery. Ah telt um you’d git back tae um n sort it oot.
I think about this before addressing Mo. — Cresswell’s a worrier: a corporate man. Doesn’t understand that business operates on credit and cash flow. No, just sits there in his fancy Fountainbridge office pretending that he understands the real business world. A day at the coalface would kill him. I’ll speak to him, I rant out, getting up to the office for a quick fortifying line before attending to bar duties.
I’ve called a meeting this evening, in the pub. Fuck knows why, to keep them up with the state of play. More likely it’s because the ching’s coursing through the system and I’d much rather bend some ears up here than serve alcohol to the old and young fools downstairs. I elected to keep Forrester out of it, thinking that there would be bother if he and Renton were in the same building. Of course, Renton doesn’t even do me the fucking courtesy of showing up. Rab Birrell sullenly troops in and Terry arrives and immediately asks to be weighed in. Every cunt seems to have gone money-mad all of a sudden. Who the fuck do they think I am? That’s fuckin Renton; on the mobby I’ll bet, putting ideas into every fucker’s head. — Sorry, Tel, a distinct shortage of stocks of tinned pigeon, or, if you prefer: no can do.
— So that’s it, ah git nowt for what ah did?
— You’re no on a profit share, Terry, I explain. — Ye goat peyed as a shagger. Ah wis always the boy running the show.
— Fair enough, he says with a grin that makes me feel decidedly uneasy. — That’s the wey it goes, eh.
Terry’s enthusiasm made him a useful fellow-traveller at one point. His lack of ambition means that he’ll never be a player in the industry. You do your best, you afford them the opportunity to learn and grow. The rest is up to them. But he’s taking this well. Too well.
So let’s see how the cunt takes this. — We have a problem, I tersely announce. — Obviously we can’t all go to Cannes, cost prohibits. So it’ll be me, Nikki, Mel and Curtis. The talent. Rents as well, I need him on the business side. The rest? A too-many-cooks situ.
— I cannae go anyway, Rab says, — no wi the bairn, n the course n that.
Terry abruptly stands up and walks towards the door. — Tez, I shout, trying to prevent my face from twisting gleefully.
He turns and says: — Why the fuck ask ays doon here if ah’m no gittin peyed or gaun tae Cannes? To be fair, I can think of no good reason, so am literally quite speechless as he continues: — You’re wastin ma fuckin time here. Ah’m away up tae the hossy tae see Spud, he growls and exits.
— Me n aw, Rab endorses, getting up and following him. Losers or what? I’m thinking that Rab doesn’t know Spud, so I take it to mean that he’s leaving rather than going on visiting duties.
At this point Nikki comes in and apologises for being late. She watches in concern as they depart. I turn to her. — Fuck them right up their shite-encrusted arseholes. We don’t need them, never did. You simply cannot let the tail wag the dog, and I’m tired of feeding their delusions of adequacy.
Craig looks tense and Ursula laughs and Ronnie grins. Nikki, Gina and Mel look at me as if I should be saying more. — When the sales come through, we’ll work it all out between us, I explain. — Well? You can’t divvy money when there’s none to fucking divvy!
I give the rest of them a lecture on the economics of the industry, which goes over most of the heads present. Eventually they shoot off, only Nikki holding back. I can tell that she’s not happy with the way I’ve treated Rab and Terry. I’m feeling a tightening inside me as I experience a gnawing contempt for her, which is horrible because I’m probably in love with the woman. Now she’s sensing something, making small talk, telling me that she’s thinking of jacking in the sauna. I tell her that it’s not a bad idea, as these places are ran by sleazoids. I start to wonder whether she’s gearing up to try and hit me for some cash. Eventually she goes to her shift and I arrange to see her later tonight.
So it seems my crew has diminished, but I can’t be bothered thinking about foolhardy rascals like Terry at the moment. I go to the office and chop out and rack up a juicy line as a newspaper twat calls. — Can I speak to Simon Williamson?
— Mr Williamson’s not around at the moment, I tell him. — Apparently he’s playing fives up at the Jack Kane . . . or it might be Portobello.
— When are you expecting him back?
— I’m not really sure at the present. Mr Williamson has been busy of late.
— To whom am I speaking?
— I’m Mr Francis Begbie.
— Well, if you could get Mr Williamson to call me when he gets back.
— I’ll leave the message, but Simon’s very much a free spirit, I state to the receiver as I use a fifty-pound note to hoover up some ching.
— Well, make sure he calls me. It’s important.
There’s some things I need to clarify, the pompous voice drones.
— You can suck my dirty jailbird cock, I tell him, slamming down the phone as the line of ching stiffens my spine. I unroll the crisp fifty, delighting in its beauty. Money gives you the luxury of not caring about it. You can affect to find it crass and vulgar, but see how crass and vulgar it is when there’s none of it in your pocket.
First of all, though, the big one beckons. Let’s do the Cannes-Cannes.
66
Whores of Amsterdam Pt 9
I’ve had enough of high-maintenance relationships. Yet, here I am back in Amsterdam, back in another one of sorts. Because Sick Boy’s on one of his sulkers.
We’re sitting in a cold, draughty warehouse in Leylaand, on the city outskirts, putting video cards into cases and cases into boxes. This is Miz’s place and it’s a shithouse, with all sorts of rubbish stacked ceiling-high on pallets. It’s got the sick, blue-yellow fluorescent strip lighting which bounces off the aluminium panels that hang from the rust-red girder frames. I’m trying to think margins; 2,000 x £10 ÷ 2 = £10,000, but this is taking yonks and Sick Boy’s unhappy. I’d forgotten the extent of the cunt’s capacity tae complain, to moan out loud at annoyances which should be fleeting enough to keep to yourself. But even that’s preferable tae this silent brooding, which makes the air as heavy as tar. It’s obvious that he feels this isn’t glam enough for him, but he’s forgetting that once I sense that he’s annoyed I can just relax and enjoy his whining and moping.
— We need staff, Renton, he says, drumming on a empty box that sits on his thigh. — Where’s that Kraut bird ay yours? She definitely oot the picture now that that Dianne’s gittin a length?
I keep silent, working on my old principle that Sick Boy and your romantic life should be kept apart. Nowt the cunt has done this time around has convinced me to re-evaluate that philosophy. — Piss off. Stoap fuckin whingeing and keep packing, I’m telling him, thinking all the time, where indeed; far, I’m hoping. I keep my head lowered in case he reads this in my eyes.
I can feel those big lamps burning at me. — Watch yourself getting back with that Dianne bird, he says. — In Italy we have a phrase aboot reheating auld soup. It never works oot. Reheated cabbage, mate. Minestra riscaldata!
I want to ram my fist into the cunt’s face. Instead, I smile at him.
Then he seems to think about something, and nod in a stern kind of approval. — But at least she’s the right age. I love women at that age. Never go oot wi a bird in their thirties. They’re all bitter, poisonous cows with an agenda. In fact, under twenty-six if possible. But no teenagers, a bit too immature and they grate after a while. Naw, twenty to twenty-five is vintage time for lassies, he explains, then starts ranting through the jukebox of his obsessions. I get old favourites; film, music, Alex Miller, Sean Connery; and new ones: bad Manchester perms, crack hoors, Alex McLeish, Franck Sauzee, television presenters, junk movies.
He’s going on and on, and I can’t be bothered. I just can’t be fuckin well arsed saying something like: Solaris shites all over 2001, and then listening to him arguing vehemently against it. Or, alternatively, waiting for him to say it, and then being expected to argue the other viewpoint. And that way we look at each other so challengingly, as if to agree, even if we do, is a sign that we’re effete poofs. I can’t be bothered with it and I can’t even be bothered to tell him that I can’t be bothered.
I’m aware as I tuck yet another representation of Nikki’s arse cheeks into a box cover that my ears are starting to close over. Nikki has a lovely arse, no doubt about that, but when you’ve stuck a paper representation of it into the three-hundredth box, it becomes less attractive. Maybe pornographic images are something you shouldn’t view repeatedly; perhaps they do desensitise you, erode your sexuality. Sick Boy’s drones increase: plans, betrayals, the lot of a sensitive man surrounded by junkies, Masons, scumbags, wasters, hoors and lassies who don’t know how to dress properly.
I hear myself going: — Mmmm, in a steady agreement. But after a bit Sick Boy’s shaking me and shouting: — Renton! Are you totally fucking Lee Van? he asks.
I’m a bit out of the Leith rhyming slang just now, so it takes me a while to register. — Naw.
— Fuckin listen then, ya rude cunt! Conversation!
— What?
— I said I want to drink tea from bone china, he tells me. He sees that he’s got my attention, cause I’m fucked if I know what the cunt’s oan aboot. Then he looks around, and qualifies his statement. — No, what I really want to do is to drink tea in an environment where this stands out, this porcelain shite, he holds up an Ajax mug, — and bone china fuckin well disnae, he snaps, suddenly throwing down a video-cassette box and jumping to his feet. His Adam’s apple bulges in his neck like a small pig in a snake’s belly.
And then he hurls the cup against the wall and I shudder as it smashes into pieces. — Fuck off, that’s Miz’s cup, ya cunt, I tell him.
— Sorry, Mark, he says sheepishly, — it’s the nerves. Too much ching these days. Have to take it easier.
I’ve never really liked charlie, but a lot of people feel that way and still ram it up their hooters. Just because it’s there. People consume shite that does them no good at all, often just because they can. It’s naive to expect drugs tae be exempt from the laws of modern consumer capitalism. Especially when, as a product, they best help define it.
It takes us another two tense, sick hours to finish our turgid task. My hands are calloused and my thumb and wrist ache. I look at the boxed piles of videos sitting stacked up. Aye, we now have the ‘product’ as he loves to call it, ready for distribution after Cannes. I still can’t believe that he’s got us a place at the Cannes Film Festival. Not really the Cannes Film Festival, but the adult-movie event, which runs concurrently. When I qualify this, usually when he’s chatting up a woman, which he always seems to be doing, it gets right on his nerves. — It is a film festival, and it is in Cannes. So what’s the fuckin problem?
I’m happy to leave the warehouse and get back into town. We’re living it up a little this time, staying at the American Hotel on the Leidseplein. I’ve had a drink in its bar a few times, but never, ever thought that I’d stay here. We sit at the bar, paying the mad prices. But we can afford it now and will be able to for some time. Well, some of us will.
67
FITBA OAN SKY
Ah’m waitin oan Kate comin in wi the bairn, tae make muh fuckin tea before uh goes doon the fuckin pub tae watch the fitba oan Sky. She’d better fuckin nash, cause time’s tickin away. So there’s me sittin watchin that big fuckin telly, it’s never oaf now. Goat the fuckin boax fir Sky n aw, bit ah’m watchin the game doon the boozer the night. Better atmosphere.
Ah keep thinkin back tae Easter n that fuckin nonce animal. Thir wis a bit aboot it at the time, but jist the usual shite: did anybody see a group ay youths leavin the fuckin pub blah blah blah . . . Good time tae dae some cunt, a public hoaliday. People’s goat mair tae think aboot thin a fuckin stoat. Sometimes ah fuckin think but, ah’d better see Charlie again, n they auld cunts, make sure that naebody fuckin blabs.
Cause ah’ve made the fuckin world a better place, cause they fuckin things deserve tae die, that’s the wey thit ah fuckin well see it. Too right. The polis, if they wir bein honest, wid tell ye the same thing. Ah agree wi the paper, the News ay the World. Tell us whaire aw they cunts live n wi’ll go roond thaire n fuckin well exterminate thum aw. Solve the whole fuckin problem straight away. Like that twisted cunt Murphy . . . suppose tae be a fuckin mate . . . like Renton wis . . . ah’ll fuckin rip his hert oot n pish in the hole.
Then ye git worried. Worried thit yir turnin intae one ay thaime. Aw they fuckin weirdos n that, like in America. That’s how they talk.
Then ye look at that fuckin book, that fuckin Bible. Plenty ay thaim in the fuckin nick. Dinnae ken how any cunt kin read that shite; doth this, begat that, it’s no even in the Queen’s fuckin English. But they tell ays
thit the Bible says thit God made man in ehs ain image. So ah take that as meaning thit no tae try tae be like God wid be a fuckin big insult tae the cunt, that’s the wey ah see it. So aye, ah wis playin God whin ah wasted the nonce cunt. So fuckin what?
Ah switch channels bit it’s ivraywhaire oan the telly; nonces, paedophiles, stoats, the fuckin loat. Thir’s some fuckin radge psychologist cunt sayin thit thuv aw been abused thirsels, that’s how they dae it. Fuckin shite. Tons ay cunts ur fuckin well abused n it disnae make thum go like that. So ye could say thit ah took fuckin pity oan that cunt, cause eh’s jist gaunnae git abused again, n the nick n that. Best fuckin deal aw roond.
The hoose is daein muh fuckin nut in, n fuck knows whair she’s goat tae, so ah nips doon stairs fir a News. It’s fuckin freezin oot here, so ah’m right back up again wi the paper. Thir’s the usual shite, but then ah see somethin thit makes ays stoap.
CUNT.
Muh hert bangs in ma chist as ah read:
NEW LEAD IN HUNT FOR CITY KILLER
Police still searching for clues in last month’s murder of a city man in a Leith public house disclosed that they had received a tip-off from an anonymous caller which yielded ‘promising’ information. They appealed to the caller to get back in touch.
On the Thursday before the Easter holiday, Edinburgh man Gary Chisholm (38) was found bleeding to death on the floor of a Leith pub by the owner Charles Winters (52). Mr Winters had been downstairs in his cellar changing the barrel when he heard shouts and a scream from the bar. He ran up to find Mr Chisholm lying with his throat cut on the floor of the empty pub and saw two youths aged between fifteen and twenty fleeing from the scene. He went to Mr Chisholm’s aid, but it was too late.
