Porno

by Unknown

  Later, we rendezvous along with Mel and Curt and head out to the Fox Searchlight party. It’s pretty dull at first but an excellent DJ livens things up and we get thrashed again. When it finishes, we get into a launch and head out to the do on the Private boat, an old cruise ship moored in the Med, which has been converted into a film studio. It’s a porn stars’ party, with banging, cheesy Eurotechno and free drinks. Simon’s obviously a bag of nerves, on the mobile all the time, trying to get Mark. He attempts to make light of things. — If this music doesn’t make you want butt-fucked, Nikki, nothing will.

  — You’re right, I tell him, — nothing will.

  Myself, Mel and Curtis are going for it on the dance deck, although Curt keeps disappearing and coming back with a grin on his face and a deranged starlet in tow. Mel and I are constantly getting hit on by all manner of guys including Lars Lavish and Miz, but we’re enjoying our sense of power, knocking everybody back, but flirting outrageously and prick-teasing horribly. At one stage we go into a toilet cublicle and make love, bringing each other off, only the second time we’ve been intimate in that way without a camera.

  When we get back on deck, wired but satisfied, smirking at each other, we see Simon, still constantly trying to get signals on the mobiles. More launches arrive and the boat is filling up. I see a thin girl with long, blonde hair from the side of my vision, which isn’t surprising, but the voice I can hear talking to her makes me do a quick double take. Simon even clicks off his phone in shock. — . . . aye, but people think thit ah git called Juice Terry cause ay the load ay juice that ah shoot oaf in they cum shots. Bit naw, it goes back tae the time thit ah used tae deliver the juice, or what youse Americans might call soda, bit the technical term is aerated waters, eh. Listen, doll, no fancy gaun doonstairs fir a bit, explore the ship n that? Mibee a bit mair thin the ship!

  — Lawson! Simon shouts.

  — Sicky! Terry roars, then he sees Mel and me. — Nikki! Whae-hae! Mel! Awright, gorgeous! He turns to his compainion. — This is Carla, she’s in the business, San Fernando Valley stuff, likes. What wis your fillum again, doll?

  — A Butt-Fucker in Pussy City, this blonde girl with an American accent smiles cheesily.

  — Aye, Birrell’s here n aw, Birrell Senior, that is. Telt ays eh wis gaun ower tae see ehs burd in Nice, so ah jist sortay invited masel along. Goat the train doon here n blagged intae the porn fillum festival tent. Telt every cunt ah wis Juice Terry fae Seven Rides, n goat sorted oot wi a pass, he points to an orange badge with PRIVATE ADULT FILMS, ‘JUICE’ TERRY LAWSON, PERFORMER emblazoned on it. — Cannae wait tae git back tae Edinburgh, hit the Slutland at the West End wi this oan.

  — Delighted you could make it, Tel, Simon says curtly. — Excuse me for a second, and he heads towards the starboard, punching digits into his green mobile.

  Terry grabs a handful of my arse, repeating the exercise with Mel’s, and with a sly wink he vanishes with Carla, who evidently thinks – thanks to Simon’s editing of Seven Rides – that Terry’s cock is Curtis’s. — She’ll be disappointed, Mel laughs, — but no that disappointed.

  This Eurotechno is so bouncy I’m almost wishing I had an E, but I’m not really a chemical sort. After a bit, an agitated Simon approaches us with another bulletin. — There’s no Renton, so he must be on his way here, but that specky wee Lauren says that that Dianne’s gone! Or at least that’s what I think she said. The stroppy wee hoor willnae talk tae me, Nikki. You phone her, he says, now thrusting his white mobile at me. — Please, he urges.

  I call Lauren and speak with her for a minute or two, asking about her health. Then I ask about Dianne. After, I turn to Simon. — Dianne’s only staying at her mum’s for a few days, that’s all. She’s not been too well.

  — What’s her mother’s phone number? I need to speak to Dianne!

  — Simon, will you just, like, chill out? You’ll see Mark, like tomorrow? At the hotel? He wouldn’t miss this for the world! I urge him, swinging back into the beat with Mel.

  But Simon’s shaking his head, not listening to a word I’m saying. — No . . . no . . . he moans, then smashes his fist into his palm, — that cunt Renton . . . right, you cunt, that’s it! He pulls out his green mobile phone.

  — Who are you calling now?

  — Begbie!

  Melanie looks at me in amazement. — Why does he use his green one tae call Begbie n ehs white yin tae call Lauren?

  He did explain this to me once but some things are too sad to even talk about. Now Simon’s listening to some sort of tirade on the phone, with mounting impatience as the red sunset falls behind his back. Eventually he snaps at the mouthpiece: — Never mind that fuckin crap. Renton’s back. In Edinburgh!

  Then there’s a brief pause and Simon looks incredulous, he’s saying: — What? Across the road? What the fuck . . . keep him there, Franco! DINNAE LET HIM GO! EH’S GOAT MY FUCKIN CASH!

  He stares at the dead phone in his hand, then shakes it violently. — FUCKIN PEA-BRAINED CUNT!

  Miz comes over with Lars Lavish. He touches Simon on the arm gently. — You know, Simon, we are for thinking . . .

  To my horror Simon turns and headbutts him in the face at force and he’s on top of poor Miz, flaying at him and screaming: — YOU DUTCH CUNTS HAVE GOT MA FUCKIN MONEY, YA DIRTY HOMOSEXUAL ORANGE CUNTS . . .

  It takes all of us plus half a dozen Swedish bouncers to pull him off and restrain him. Terry arrives back on deck and he’s laughing as they push Simon into a launch. — You are lucky we do not want the police on this boat, a bouncer shouts at Simon as Curtis, Mel, two girls, Terry, Carla and myself join him. As he gingerly steps onto the launch, Terry sneakily whacks the talkative Swede on the side of the face. — ’Moan then, cunt, he invites. The guy stands rooted, petulantly rubbing his jaw, looking like he’s going to burst into tears as the launch pulls away from the liner. We can hear an agitated Miz screaming: — He is crazy! He is a crazy man, as we head for the shore.

  Terry turns to Curtis. — That cock ay yours hus come in useful tae me, mate, he says, putting an arm round Carla. Then he contemplates Curtis, a girl on each side of him. — Mind you, it’s no daein you much herm either.

  I’m regarding Simon, who is sitting with his eyes tightly closed, shaking, both his arms wrapped around himself, repeating in a loud, gasping whisper: — . . . tolleranza zero . . . tolleranza zero . . . over and over again.

  — Simon, what is it?

  — I only hope that Francis Begbie kills Mark Renton. I pray that happens, he says as he crosses himself.

  75

  CAIRD SCHOOL

  Eftirnin drinkin: it does ye in but ye cannae fuckin beat it. Sometimes but, ah think thit ah see thum, jist comin intae the bar. That cunt Donnelly gadge or that Chizzie beast. That’s the problem: thir’s fuck all tae dae n too much time tae think, especially in the hoose. That’s how ah keep gaun oot, doon tae the boozer. Mind you, it’s no as if ye git much fuckin conversation doon here.

  Nelly goes aw silent n starts playin wi ehs pint. — What the fuck’s up wi you? ah goes.

  — That Larry phoned up last night. Whin ah wis oot wi youse, eh nods tae Malky. — She wis in oan her ain, wi the bairns. Eh goes, ‘Ah’m comin fir yis. Aw ay yis.’ Then eh tells her, ‘If you’ve goat any sense yi’ll git yirsel back doon tae Manchester or whairever it is ye come fae . . .’

  — Your bird’s Welsh, is she no? Malky goes.

  — Aye, Swansea, Nelly sais, aw stroppy, — but he disnae ken that. Ah met her in Manchester. But ye ken what that sick cunt sais later, the message that eh left oan the machine?

  Me n Malky ur shakin wur fuckin heids.

  — Ah’ll fuckin well show yis, Nelly says. — Ah’ll fuckin well show ye the kind ay cunt we’ve been drinkin wi, eh goes, lookin aw that fuckin hurt wey tae me, like it wis me thit made the cunt drink wi Larry. Ah’m sayin fuckin nowt but, cause ah want a fuckin laugh oot ay this.

  So wi goes up tae Nelly’s n eh’s goat the messages oan the machine. Eh play
s yin back n it’s Larry’s voice, awright, a sortay soft, creepy whisper. — Leave toon. Leave toon, cause ah’m comin fir yi. Ah am comin fae Muirhoose tae your hoose. Ah am comin tae kiss youse aw good night.

  — That cunt’s been watchin too many fuckin films, Malky laughs.

  Nelly looks back aw hard at um. — It’s goat her shitein hersel. She’s talkin aboot takin the bairns tae her ma’s doon in Wales. Sayin that’s what wi left Manchester fir in the first place.

  Ah’m lookin at um but ah’m sayin nowt. Malky’s sayin fuck all n aw.

  — Ah need tae sort this oot, eh goes. — If eh keeps that shite up, eh’s gaun doon a fuckin hole, ah’m tellin yis that.

  Whae’s he fuckin kiddin? Eh’s nivir wasted any cunt in ehs life. Aw that fuckin bullshit aboot what eh’s meant tae huv done doon in Manchester wi that Cheetham Hill mob. If eh wis that well quoted doon thaire, what’s eh fuckin well daein back up here?

  — Look, Malky goes, this is gittin oot ay hand. Franco, you gaunnae talk tae Larry, sort aw this oot?

  So now it’s fuckin Malky tellin ivray cunt what they should n shouldnae be daein, is that it? Wi’ll fuckin well see aboot that. Bit then ah thinks, naw, play it his wey, n ah looks ower at Nelly. — If ye want.

  Then Malky turns roond n sais tae um: — But you’ll huv tae tell the cunt thit ye wir oot ay order n apologise fir whit ye did in the pub.

  Nelly’s sayin nowt fir a bit, n we’re both starin at the cunt. Then eh goes: — If he fuckin apologises fir makin they fuckin sick phone calls tae ma hoose, ah’ll apologise tae him fir batterin um.

  — Right, ah goes. — Enough ay aw this shite. Supposed tae be fuckin mates. This needs sorted oot. The night, at the caird school at Sick Boy’s.

  — Will Larry show up? Malky’s wonderin.

  — If ah tell um eh’ll fuckin show up, ah’m gaun.

  So that’s me daein ma good deed fir the day n bein the fuckin peacemaker as usual. They fuckin bams wid kill each other if it wisnae fir the likes ay me sortin everythin oot. Aw that shite but: it’s gied ays a fuckin migraine so oan the wey hame ah stoaps oaf at the fit ay the Walk n gits some Nurofen Plus wi the paper. Ah phones Sick Boy oan ehs mobby tae remind him aboot the caird school the night.

  — I’m in France, Frank, at the Cannes Film Festival, the smarmy cunt says.

  Ah tipples thit the cunt isnae fuckin jokin n aw. — What aboot oor fuckin caird school? Ah telt ye wi wir huvin a fuckin caird school doon at yours!

  — Frank? Are you still there? Hello?

  — WHAT ABOOT OOR FUCKIN CAIRD SCHOOL! AH GOAT TELT RENTON’S BEEN SEEN! AH’M WANTIN A FUCKIN WORD WI YOU, YA CUNT!

  — Are you still thair, Frank? Hello?

  What’s that cunt fuckin well playin at . . . ? — OOR FAHKIN CAIRD SCHOOL! AH’M GAUNNAE KILL YOU, YA CUNT!

  Thir’s a fuckin cracklin ay static oan the line. Then the cunt goes: — I can’t hear you and you’re breaking up. I’ll phone you back later, n it jist goes fuckin deid!

  FUCKIN RADGE!

  That cunt thinks ay kin treat us like shite, swan oaf tae fuckin France wi aw ehs pals fae that dirty club, that fuckin Juice Terry n aw they other fuckin wideo fuckin nonce stoat-the-baw fuckin perverts n hing-oots . . . ah’ll fuckin well show that sneaky fuckin lyin cunt . . .

  So eftir muh tea ah bells Nelly n Malky n Larry n tells thum thit that cunt’s let us doon n tae meet up at the Central Bar. We gits thaire n it’s jist Nelly n Malky, Larry’s no even fuckin well showed up but, eh. Eh bells ays oan the mobby tae say thit ehs gaunnae be a wee bit late, but eh’ll definitely fuckin be thaire. Ah think it’s jist tae pit a bit ay pressure oan Nelly. Ye kin see thit the cunt’s lookin aw tense. Anywey, wuv goat the cairds oot in one ay the booths, n the pints ay Guinness ur gaun doon thick n fast. Ah nivir use the Central much, bit for some reason ah eywis like a pint ay Guinness whin ah’m in thaire.

  Eftir a bit thir’s still nae sign ay Larry.

  Ah hears the tone gaun oan the mobby but it’s that cunt Sick Boy. Ah’ll gie um brekin up . . . ah’ll fuckin well brek that cunt up . . . Ah goes ootside the pub tae git a better signal. Aye, it’s fuckin Sick Boy awright. Jist as well fir that cunt thit eh phoned ays back. — Whaire the fuck ur ye? ah goes. — Ah’ve goat things tae fuckin well talk tae you aboot! Our fuckin caird school!

  — Never mind that fuckin crap, eh goes n ah’m jist aboot tae fuckin well lose it whin eh sais: — Renton’s back. In Edinburgh!

  So it’s fuckin true . . . ah’m tryin tae think what tae say n ah looks up, acroass the street n thair eh fuckin is! That rid-heided thievin cunt is at the cashpoint ower the fuckin road fae ays! — Eh’s . . . ah’m fuckin well screamin intae the phone, — EH’S ACROASS THE FUCKIN ROAD FAE AYS!

  Ah hear Sick Boy sayin stuff like ‘keep a hud ay um, ah’m wantin tae see um whin ah git back . . .’ bit then that cunt Renton looks right ower at ays n ah jist clicks oaf the fuckin phone.

  76

  Whores of Amsterdam Pt 11

  Spud’s fuckin cat! I remember just as I’m coming into Edinburgh. When I call him he tells me that he’s given all his cash to Ali and predictably asks me if I can lend him some money, three hundred quid. What can I say but yes? He’s in his hoose, feart tae go oot.

  So I take a cab from the airport to Dianne’s to pick up the cat. It takes me ages tae get the fuckin thing intae the carrier, they make me allergic and I’m sneezing like fuck. I lose my cool and grab the bastard and take a scratch across my arm in retaliation. — Don’t hurt him, Mark, Dianne snaps, as I stuff the spitting bag ay shit into the carrier and secure the door. She’s packed and I take her down to Gavin’s. We arrange to meet at the airport at eight o’clock for the 9 p.m. flight, the last one to London and our connecting night-flight to San Francisco.

  I know how Spud feels about being scared to go out, but here I am, in the taxi, heading down to Leith with the doss cunt’s fuckin cat. My napper’s buzzing and I’m thinking that this is where I came in, ripping off Sick Boy. I get out at Pilrig to the cashpoint.

  The Clydesdale’s fucked and there’s a grey-haired guy with a Glasgow accent booting it in frustration. There are nae cunting taxis to be seen. So, with some trepidation I pull my hat down and walk, the cat carrier swinging uncomfortably against my legs, down towards the Halifax at the foot of the Walk. The cat mews treacherously, as if trying to attract the attention that I’m seeking to avoid. They do Link at this cashpoint: funny how you mind of these things after all the years. I used to feel so at home, so safe, the further down the Walk I got. Now it feels like a descent into Hades. I won’t be here for long though, cause as soon as this fuckin cat’s delivered, I’m offski in a fast black to meet Dianne, then it’s the big white tin bird again.

  My spirits soar as I see a queue at the cashpoint at the foot ay the Walk. There’s a drunk trying to operate it. I approach the cunt cautiously, anxiety oozing oot ay me. I can hear some guys shouting threats at each other in Junction Street. You miss this atmosphere in Amsterdam, this atmosphere of barely repressed casual violence and aggression, this procession of paranoia. It just doesnae exist over there.

  C’mon, mate. Sort it oot.

  Then I hear a familiar voice and it cuts me in two, and by a wrenching effort of will I look across the road in its direction.

  Begbie.

  Shouting into a mobile phone.

  Then he sees me and stands open-mouthed, outside the Central Bar. He’s momentarily paralysed by shock. We both are.

  Then he snaps the phone shut and roars:

  RENNTUUUN!!!

  My blood is frozen in my veins and all I can see is Frank Begbie tearing across the road towards me, face contorted with rage and it’s like he’ll just run right past me and do some cunt else cause he doesn’t know me now and I’m nothing to do with him anymore. But I know it’s me he wants and it’s going to be a bad one and I should run but I can’t. In those few seconds life’s shredded into a million thoughts. I reflect how hopeless and ludicrous my martial a
rts pretensions are. All that training and practice will count for nothing, it’s all shorn away by the expression on his face. I can’t abstract anything, because an old childhood tape is playing relentlessly in my head: Begbie = Evil = Fear. I am in a total paralysis of will. The parts of me that envisage the simple adoption of the wado ryu stance, blocking his blow, ramming his nose into his brain with the palm of my hand, or sidestepping his lunge and elbowing his temple, yes, they are present. But they’re feeble impulses, easily overwhelmed by the mortifying fear that I’m slow-dancing with.

  Begbie’s coming at me and I can’t do anything

  I can’t shout.

  I can’t plead.

  There’s nothing I can do.

  77

  Home

  Ali’s sister Kath nivir really liked ays, man, n she pure disnae like Ali hingin oot wi ays again. Ali jist wants tae come hame now, wi Andy. Cause ah wis worried aboot gaun oot, but she came roond n wi went tae the pictures thegither. Ah’ve goat that wirin oaf the jaw, so ah’m pure back oan solids again, even though it’s awfay stiff. Ali n me huv nivir necked like thon fir years, n the jaw isnae the only thing thit’s stiff. Ah’m thinkin aboot sayin, come back wi ays for a bit, whin ah mind thit ah hud arranged tae meet Rents doon the hoose!

  S ah tears masel away, still sair, but bouncin doon the Walk, high, but aw wary in case ah see Franco. Thir’s been aw sorts ay reports, but it could be jist talk. Ye nivir really ken fir sure. Rents sais thit eh’d be doon by now n ah’m worried thit ah’ve missed the gadge. Whin ah gits tae the fit ay the Walk, thir’s a bit ay a commotion, an ambulance n a polis car n a big crowd roond. The shivers are pillin oan me like ah wis in junk withdrawal, cause whin ye see a polis car or an ambulance in Leith, well, ah suppose thir’s a few names thit crop up but thir’s jist one that’s oan ma mind right now. Aw ah see is HOME but ah’m thinkin, what if Begbie’s got Mark?