by Irvine Welsh
By the time we gits tae Prague ah’m pure starvin cause ah’ve eaten aw the stuff ah boat at the station. Ah’ve let Toto out the bag n ah tells um tae hang loose a bit while ah goes tae the lavy tae take a slash, then investigate the buffet, tae git something fir me n the dug. Ah sees they hot dugs, which sounds like cannibalism for perr Toto, but obviously isnae likes. The lassie pure speaks English, and that’s barry, cause nae wey wid ye git a lassie oan the railways in Britain thit spoke German. No unless she wis German. But ah dinnae think any bilingual Deutsch chick wid be wastin her talents trolley-dollyin oan Britain’s railways. But cats huv tae dae anything tae make a livin these days, even brainy overqualified yins need tae dae shite joabs. Which makes the likes ay me pretty much useless, man. But no now. Now ah’ve finally goat a wee tickle; the part-time warehouse gig back hame n the international jet-set boy whae’s oan a mission here!
When ah gits back tae the carriage, ah cannae believe it …
Toto’s knocked ower the boax. He’s pushed it off the seat oantae the flair. It’s opened. Aw that chemical stuff is spilt acroass the flair. Aw naw, man … How did it open …? N eh’s goat the kidney oot n eh’s eatin it. Aw naw … — Aw, Toto man …
He looks up at ays. It’s lodged in ehs jaws, wriggling like it wis alive. Ah touches it n it’s aw cauld and smelling ay chemicals.
Ma life is ower, man, ah’ve fucked up big time.
— Droap it, boy! ah goes, n eh does. It’s goat ehs teeth marks in it … That’s evidence … Ah picks it up n it’s cauld in ma hand, but no frozen through … It feels sort ay burnin in ma hand … Ah tell um tae stey n ah goes outside n lobs it doon the lavy ay the train n flushes it away.
Ah dinnae ken what the fuck tae dae now! The rest ay the trip tae Berlin, man, ah’m jist pure shitein it. Thaire’s a rock in ma guts the size ay an asteroid, n ah’m brekin oot in chilly sweats. Ah’m thinkin aboot what Syme’ll dae tae ays. Like droonin me. Or burnin ays. Or setting aboot ma nipples wi pliers. Ah’m thinkin: anything but the eyes n baws. N ah cannae even blame perr Toto, no his fault; shouldnae huv left the dug unsupervised. Ah shouldnae huv flung it away: but it hus the dug’s teeth marks in it. Whin we gits oaf ah’m still in shock, pure in a trance, n Toto kens thaire’s something wrong as eh jist walks alongside ays, lookin up.
So ah’m no really thinkin straight, n ah goes tae a local butcher n buys a kidney tae replace it. Thin ah goes tae the lavy in the station n makes the swap. It looks nowt like the one Toto goat at. It’s a different shape n colour, mair ay a broonish thing like a Jambo strip. But ah pits it in the ice boax anyway, n ah ken thi’ll find oot, but it just buys ays a bit mair time tae think.
But thaire isnae time tae think cause whin ah gits back tae the platform thaire’s a boy waitin thaire, another biker, whae, funnily enough, looks a bit like the last gadge but isnae. This yin talks, seems mair chilled oot. — All is good?
— Aye, sound, ah goes n ah hands it ower tae the guy n eh leaves withoot checkin it or sayin nowt.
Ah suppose they willnae ken till they open it. But if they pill ays up fir it, ah’ll need tae hud ma hand up, cause it widnae be fair tae git the biker boy intae bother. As long as they dinnae try n pit this kidney intae a bairn or anything! That wid be the worst … Bit naw, calm doon, thi’ll no dae that. Thi’ll check it’s no right first.
Ah taxi tae the airport tae git the flight back. Ah think aboot steyin here wi Toto, but ah’d nivir survive, ah’m no a cat like Renton or Sick Boy, that kin jist take off like that n everything’s hunky-dory. Ah need tae face the music. But ah’m gaun back tae Mikey … and it’s no really Mikey, it’s the boys behind um, like that cat Syme, and whae kens who else. Ah looks at Toto, whae disnae understand that he’s done wrong, it’s no the dug’s fault, but ah cannae help sayin tae um, — Aw, Toto, what huv ye done tae us, man?
12
RENTON – DJ SHAGGER
That queasy admixture ay sad embarrassment and rip-roaring affirmation kicks in as I feel that presence ay another in the kip. And it’s somebody that shouldnae be there. And we are, like, where? Amsterdam–Berlin–Ibiza–London … No fuckin Edinburgh, please no fuckin Edinburgh, and oh fuck … there she is; so young, and ma lines, jowls, n burst blood vessels are gaunny get the full treatment fae the wrecking sun flooding in through the half-open blinds. She’s looking right at ays, her heid propped on her elbow, smiling, eyes hungry and rapaciously mocking, raven locks tumbling, that beauty-spot mole oan her chin. — Mor-ning! You were snoring!
What the fuck tae say? Why Edinburgh? Ewart’s birthday bash at Cabaret Voltaire. Conrad, who seems happier about the new track, though he won’t let me hear it, tae my amazement, volunteered tae come over and play. Of course I realised too late that his purpose was tae play a shit-hot deep-house set and blow everybody away, thus humiliating Carl in front ay his ain people. It worked. The young Dutch maestro took all the plaudits while Carl, coke-fuelled and sour, sloped off with his mate Topsy and their crew, into a dull night and a party in some west Edinburgh rat trap. Rab Birrell stuck around. So did Juice Terry. And Emily was there and did a great set too … Then I remember her swinging her hips on her cork wedge pumps, saying something vampish like ‘I think I’m enticing all the Scottish boys …’ I said something cheesy in retort and her lips were on mine, and then … for fuck sake.
Ching. Voddy. E: I fucking hate ye. She’s tons younger than me. She was pretty dirty, and I lost myself. Fuck sake, I huvnae done some ay they things since ah was thirty!
I got the three-month all-clear a few weeks ago. Huvnae heard fae Vicky since the incident, though I’ve been tempted tae get back tae her and apologise. She’s due that, even if she’ll have long moved on by now. But it’s no been easy tae pick up the phone: I just cannae let ‘sorry about giving you the clap’ be my last interaction wi her.
So now I’ve done what I excel the fuck oot ay: compound a bad situation wi another stupid decision. Emily is my fucking client. I slide oot ay the bed, and pull a hotel robe, thankfully close tae hand, round me.
— Where are you going? she asks. — Let’s order some breakfast on room service. All that shagging has given me an appetite!
— I’m truly flattered that I’m your son of a preacher man, Emily, but we cannae go any further wi this –
— What the fuck are you talking about?
— Dusty Springfield: ‘Son of a Preacher Man’. It was about the only boy who could get this lassie who swang the other way onside.
Emily flicks her dark curls. Her expression is incredulous. — You really believe that’s what that song’s about?
— Yes. It’s about a lesbian having a secret heterosexual affair with ‘the only man who could ever teach her …’
Loud, derisive laughter erupts fae somewhere deep inside her. — Yeah, well, you taught me zero. Fuck sake, Mark, I have had boyfriends before! Don’t flatter yourself that you’re some kind of Henry Higgins of cock, she sniggers. — Starr is only the second girl I’ve gone out with, and her bottom lip quivers a little as her guilt kicks in.
Fuck yes. Ah’ve jumped ahead ay myself again. Ah still believe – despite all the contrary evidence – that every woman in the world has the capacity tae fall in love wi ays. And that they maybe have to fight quite hard against doing so. That mindset, call it a delusion if ye will, is one ay the greatest gifts I possess. Of course, the downside ay this is that I tend to overreach. — So it’s a phase?
— Oh fuck off, Mark. How old are you? Sixteen? It’s called life. It’s called 2016. I don’t see the choice of sexual partners as binary. If I find somebody attractive, then I’ll sleep with them. You’re an interesting man, Mark, don’t devalue yourself, you’ve done a lot. Luxury was one of the best clubs in Europe. You always booked female DJs. You brought big-time success to Ivan.
— Yes, but he fucked off as soon as he broke huge, I remind her.
— You need to start talking more about music again, Mark. You were really passionate about it. Now you just listen to any
mixes some arsehole with half a following sends you. You’re looking for the next big thing, rather than letting the music lead you.
She’s so on the money it’s fucking scary. — I know that. But I’m an old cunt and I look silly lurking in the shadows of a nightclub full of kids.
— You think of me as a kid?
— No, of course not. But I’m still ages with your dad and I’m your manager, and you’re in a relationship, I say, suddenly thinking of not Starr, but Vicky, then trying not to.
— Oh, don’t give me that buyer’s regret shit.
— What do you expect me to say? I’m glad our slivers of existence intersected in a Venn diagram between the crushing slabs of oblivion on either side of them, but –
Emily’s finger shoots over my lips, silencing me. — Please, Mark, not the old guy’s mortality speech; always that sad and tiresome conversion of sex into death.
— How many older guys have you slept with? I instantly regret asking that.
— However many, it’s a damn sight fewer than the young club girls I’ve seen you slope off with.
— Not for a while now. And never with a client: that’s just wrong, I contend, unwisely adding, — And Mickey would kill me.
— What the fuck has my dad got to do with it? I’m twenty-two, for fuck sake! You’re as weird as he is!
Jesus fuck, that is much mair than half my age. — Quite a lot if he finds out, I should imagine, and I go into the bathroom and pick up my electric shaver.
— Don’t tell him then, she shouts through, — and I won’t tell your dad. You do have a dad – I mean, is he still alive? He must be like, ancient!
I drag ma shaver ower ma coupon. I stare back at masel in the mirror: a hollow fool who has learned fuck all. — Yes. My dad’s a bit older and frailer than he used tae be; he has a dodgy pin, but he’s hanging on in there.
— What would he say if he knew you were sleeping with somebody young enough to be your daughter?
— Did sleep wi, once, in a drunken accident, I stress. — He wouldnae think very highly of it, but he’s way past bothering about anything I do.
— And my dad should be too. It’s creepy.
— He only wants the best for ye because he cares, I tell her. I cannae believe the pathetic words stumbling weakly from my mouth, or that I’m defending Mickey, who seems tae heartily dislike me. I’ve just banged the lassie aw weys, now I’m almost telling her she should study hard or she’s grounded.
I emerge from the bathroom as thankfully my phone is going again and I have tae take this call as it’s Donovan Royce, a promoter for Electric Daisy Carnival in Vegas, who never returns calls. — Mark! The fuck, bro!
— Hey, Don. So what’s the story on a slot for my boy? In the hallway mirror, I watch Emily bristle. But I have tae work for my guys too.
— I’ll be straight, EDC, the Ultra EDM crowd thing … they just ain’t for N-Sign. They’re too young, too musically uneducated for his sophistication.
— Don, come on. He’s putting a lot intae this comeback.
— Mark, it’s N-Sign Fucking Ewart! I grew up fucking chicks at high school under his poster! The man is a house-music legend to me! It’s not me you have to sell N-Sign to. It’s me who has to sell him to kids who have goldfish attention spans. Who don’t even wanna dance, just want to punch the air and go ‘yay’ and grind up against each other as another small segment of a pop hit comes on. They don’t wanna go on a journey with an old maestro. It’s apples and oranges.
— Let’s educate them then, Don. You used to be a true believer. l glance ower at Emily who has stretched forward in the bed, her long, thin frame almost in a yoga pose.
Loud laughter erupts down the phone. — You gotta be desperate to pull that old number. It’s business, bro, as in ‘regrettably in this instance we cannot get it on and do any’.
The conversation is depressing as fuck. But it’s the basic truth: Carl will never get on the bill for an EDC or Ultra unless he has another pop hit. Ironically, the cunt is capable ay daein just that. But first I have to get him back into a place he now hates: the studio. I look back at Emily. — What about my girl, Emily, DJ Night Vision?
— I like her shit, but she isn’t that sexy.
— I disagree, I say, genuinely stung. My ravaged baws say otherwise.
— Okay, seeing as it’s you; the Upside-down House, an afternoon slot. Tell her to show some skin. Maybe a bit of cleavage. She has a pair of titties, right?
For fuck sake. Who is this cunt? The Upside-down House too; it’s the smallest stage. — Early evening. Wasteland. It’s right up her street.
— Wasteland is booked solid with reserves in place. I can do her a Quantum Valley slot, provided she can do trance.
— She fucking is trance, mate, I wink at Emily, who is nodding fifty to the dozen.
— Four till five.
— An evening slot, mate, help a brother out.
A loud sigh down the phone, then, — I can do 7.15 p.m. till 8.30.
— Done. You are a fucking man-ride and you are getting rammed till your eyes pop out your head on stalks and swing so far doon your body they are like all-seeing testicles, I tell him. The fucker is getting objectified and sexualised right back.
— Wow … thanks, I think, he says.
As I click off, Emily shoots tae alertness. — What the fuck was that?
— Got you a slot at EDC, I say, keeping it low-key, pulling on my clathes. I find wi DJs, well, mine anyway, if ye fist-pump the air aboot a gig, bristling wi enthusiasm, the cunts will moan about it no being good enough. But play it low-key, and they squeal with excitement.
— EDC! That’s a big deal!
— It’s only Quantum Valley, early evening, and you’ll have to load it with a trance vibe, I say in fake dreariness.
— But that’s fucking great! Quantum Valley is the best space at EDC! You rock, Mark Renton!
It’s aw about expectation management. — Thanks, I smile, as the phone goes again.
— Switch that thing off and come back to bed!
— I cannae, babe, this isnae a good idea for either of us. If I shag one ay my DJs I have to shag them all. It’s called democracy. And I was always useless at swinging the other way. Let’s leave it at that and discuss later, I offer, as the phone rings off.
— You won’t say that I fucked you to get this gig?
— Don’t be silly: I’m your manager. It’s my job to get metaphorically fucked in order to get you gigs. And if you want to sleep your way to the top, fuck promoters, not somebody who’s already into twenty per cent of you.
Emily flops back, thinking about this, then springs up abruptly. — I’ve a theory about you, Mark Renton, she says, arching a teasing brow. Here we go: every woman in her early twenties must buy handbags with a Penguin Freud stitched intae the lining. — That you were a young guy who was self-conscious about your ginger hair and pubes, and hung out with a mate who was a bit better looking, maybe had a bigger cock, who was more confident with girls … How am I doing?
— Way way waaay off the mark, as in distinctly not Renton, babe, I tell her, pulling on my shoes, as Sick Boy’s name flashes up on my phone. — Si … right. On my way.
— Where are you going? says Emily.
— Working for you lot twenty-four/seven, sweetheart, I tell her, tapping the phone and heading for the door. I invited Sick Boy along tae our show. He appeared and is now helping ays oot wi a management problem. The recurring one: getting Conrad laid. Since I’ve squared Simon David Williamson up, we’ve become online buddies. Sharing links ay old band videos, new songs, humorous news items about sexual disasters and mutilations, the usual psychotic shit people bandy about nowadays.
In the hotel lobby Sick Boy is waiting wi an escort girl who scrutinises something on her mobile. She’s a pretty enough brunette, though with a flinty-eyed professional hardness. Sick Boy’s talking on one phone, while trying tae text on another. — Yes, I know what I said, Vic, but I didn’t
expect the cunt tae abscond tae fucking Thailand … No indication when he’s due back, he won’t answer any emails or texts, has gone offline … Yes, he’s a surgeon, Vic … Yes, I’m still in Edinburgh. I can’t stay up here, I have a business tae run in London! Yes, okay! Right. He ends the call, evidently distressed. — Fuckin mongols! Surrounded by them! The lassie looks pointedly at him, and he composes himself. — Not you, my darling, you are the one shining light in an otherwise permanently murky scenario. Mark, meet Jasmine.
— Hi, Jasmine. I hand her the key to Conrad’s room. — Be gentle with him!
She silently takes the key and vanishes into the lift.
— Don’t be such a smarmy sleazebag, Sick Boy reprimands. — That woman is providing a service, so treat her with respect. I plan to recruit her for a possible Edinburgh operation. Most of our girls are MBAs.
If that lassie was awarded an HND in secretarial studies at Stevenson College, then Spud is professor of global finance at Harvard Business School. — Being given a lesson by you on sexism. Next week, Fred West on patio building. Or Franco on art.
— Don’t, Sick Boy says, pushing index fingers into a throbbing temple. — Just don’t.
— You seem stressed.
— So do you, he snaps back in defensive truculence.
— Well, apart fae being still jet-lagged tae fuck, oan an Amsterdam–LA–Vegas–Ibiza circuit for the last five months, having this birthday gig for Ewart, then flying tae Berlin for the big show at the Flughafen tomorrow, with a DJ I can’t find, him now lost in Jamboland somewhere, and I’m tempted to add plus ditched by my girlfriend because of you, ya cunt, — I’m perfectly fine. And you?
— First World problems, he says pompously. — My brother-in-law, who is being hassled by a psycho to do work for him, has fucked off tae Thailand, left Carlotta and the kid. Guess who’s been stalked by the nutter, and the sister, for months? He slaps his head in the manner of old. — When did I become the radge designated tae sort oot other cunts’ problems?
