by Irvine Welsh
— You both came from minging schemes, Marianne laughs.
— Aye, but Fort House was never a Cables Wynd House. One is demolished, the other designated a listed building and deemed essential to our city’s architectural heritage, Sick Boy snootily retorts. — Case rested.
Then Simon Williamson rises to head to the bathroom. Looks at himself in the mirror. His nose has set better the second time around. The A&E at the Royal was a painful nightmare, the beak still twisted after it was done. Apart from the unacceptable aesthetics, breathing through one nostril was proving difficult. And you could forget the ching. So Williamson was compelled to go private and have it reset under general anaesthetic at the Royal Free in Hampstead. But Marianne at least has been fussing over him. He now has her at an advantage. — I know you slept with that treacherous ginger bastard, my lady. Of course, I’ll keep this knowledge to myself and let you spoil me in your guilt. As for fucking Renton …
Mark Renton is across Leith in the small hotel, conversing with Spud’s family, his father, Vicky Hopkirk, and Gavin and Amy, the Temperley siblings. To satisfy a growing niggle in his bladder, he heads to the bathroom. En route, a cadaver-like man intercepts him. Seeming hollowed out by some virulent wasting disease, he bares his upper teeth in a death’s-head grin. — Ah hear you’ve got some money for me.
Renton feels the breath being knocked out him, as he contemplates Rab ‘Second Prize’ McLaughlin.
35
BEGBIE – BREXIT
Wish ah could have made it ower for Spud’s funeral the other week. Too bad. But ye cannae just keep jumping on eleven-hour flights. Shame though. Harmless cunt. Aye, it’s a long way tae come and that jet lag is a killer, but Elspeth has had a tough time and she is ma sister. Didnae like the idea ay leaving Mel, no wi that fuckin Hammy the Hamster creep hanging aroond. But she took the kids to her ma’s, and it’s only for a few days.
Nae messing aboot; I take the tram fae the airport right tae Murrayfield. It’s cauld for June, no like last month at the Cup final, and the exhibition. What a week that wis. Hibs win the Cup, and I make a fortune flogging ma stuff! That’s a fuckin result! Hoping for another yin this time roond.
When I get tae the hoose, Greg’s just leaving with the boys. They’re shocked to see me, showing up like this. — Uncle Frank, Thomas, the younger, goes.
Greg looks up. — Frank … When did you … What are you …?
— Came over tae see Elspeth. How is she?
— She had the op yesterday, and came through it well. I went in to see her last night … We’re just going there now.
— Room for another in the motor?
— Actually we’re walking, he goes, n sees me lookin doubtful. The Royal is miles away and even the Western’s a fuckin trek. — She’s in the Murrayfield Hospital. We had it done privately, through BUPA, on the dependants company policy at my work.
— Nice one. Lead on, I say.
— When did you get in? Greg asks.
— Just now. Came straight fae the airport. Ah look at the two boys, George and Thomas. Fuck me, they’re getting big. — How’s the Young Murrayfield Team? ah joke. They look coyly at ays. Good laddies.
Greg smiles at them, then turns back tae me. The thin sunlight is being blocked oot by that big fir tree. — Are you sure you don’t want to come inside and rest for a bit, maybe have a cup of tea? It must have been a tiring flight!
— No, ah’m best keeping gaun till I crash.
— Well, she’ll be delighted tae see you, Greg says, as we make oor wey oantae the main road. — Hear that, boys? Your Uncle Frank flew in all the way from California, just to see your mum!
— Didn’t Auntie Melanie come with you? says Thomas.
— Naw, she’s got the girls to look after, pal. They all send you guys their love, by the way, I go, enjoying watching the poor wee cunts get a beamer.
It’s only a ten-minute walk. It doesnae look like a proper hoaspital tae me, mair like a bank that smells ay bleach, a place where they just take yir poppy. Suppose that’s mainly what it is. Elspeth is sat up in bed watching the telly, but she isnae looking well. She gapes at ays in disbelief. — Frank!
I gie her a hug, smelling the hoaspital and auld sweat on her. — How are you?
— Awright, she says, then goes aw hesitant, her brow furrowed, — well, aye and naw. I feel bloody weird, Frank, she says, as she greets Greg and boys. — But here are my big, strong men!
— Bound tae, ah nod, — a hysterectomy’s a big thing for a woman, ah’m gaun. Though ah ken fuck all aboot that. But when you’re a bairn in Leith, ye hear wifies gaun ‘she’s pit oan an awfay lot ay weight since her hysterectomy.’ Ah dinnae ken whether that’s through depression wi ‘the change in life’, as they caw getting yir fucking womb ripped oot, leading tae overeating, or if the metabolism just slows doon. Either way, Elspeth hus tae watch cause she’s packin oan the coral as it is.
— That’s what I’ve been saying, Frank, Greg cuts in, — there’s bound to be an emotional reaction.
Ye kin see that this bugs the fuck oot ay Elspeth, but she’s biting her tongue. She goes tae me, — So what brings you over then? Another show? Some business?
— Nah, just flew over to see you. I was worried.
Elspeth doesnae believe a word ay it. But at least she isnae takin the strop. — Pull the other yin, she laughs, — it’s goat bells on it.
Ah look at Greg. He’s a trusting cunt, but even he’s doubtful.
I turn back tae her. — Naw, really, I came to see ye. Nae ulterior motive. I was worried, I had air miles wi aw the travelling ah’ve been daein, so I just went tae the airport n jumped oan a standby flight.
Elspeth bursts intae tears, and extends her airms. I step intae her grip. — Aw, muh big brother, muh Frankie boy, I’ve been awfay hard on you. You’ve changed, you really have changed, my darlin Frankie … she’s slaverin pish now, but I let her carry on. She came late tae the perty, but she got there.
I tell her, Greg and the laddies a few wee tales, about collectors ay my stuff, n the people that commission ays, like poor auld Chuck. A young doctor cunt comes in wi a big smile on his face, looking at me. — It is you, he goes. — I love your work.
— Ta.
Elspeth’s eyes are popping oot her heid, she probably fancies this doctor cunt n she’s aw flushed. — This is Dr Moss! Ma brother Frank!
The boy starts asking me about exhibitions and what ah’m workin on. It makes ays think that ah should be in ma studio now, grafting, no hinging aboot ower here, but faimlay is important. For the first time since I brought her back chips fae Methuen’s, eftir comin fae the pub when she was a kid, I’ve got my sister feeling good about ays. That hus tae count for something.
When it’s time tae go, ah think ah’m gaunny have tae shout for an orderly tae get Elspeth tae release her grip. Eventually we’re outside under the squally grey sky. Greg wants ays tae stey at thair place, but I telt them I’m spending the night with an auld pal.
— She was quite emotional, I says tae Greg, whae’s a wee bit glassy-eyed himself.
— Yes, a hormonal thing. Look, Frank, I can’t thank you enough for making that awful trip, it hardly seems –
— No hassle. Sitting on the plane wi my sketchbook, working on new ideas, it’s bliss tae be honest. And nice tae see you guys again. Maybe California for the school hollybags, boys?
The laddies look excited at the prospect. Nae wonder. Couldnae get tae fuckin Burntisland when ah was their age!
It’s rainy but quite warm when I get off the tram back in toon. I meet Terry, in his cab as arranged, parked in that wee shagger’s lane ay his in the East New Town off Scotland Street. The lassie’s sittin in the back. I nod to her and she heads off, and I take the bag ay tools. — Thanks for sortin this oot, Terry, I appreciate it, ah say, pillin on a set ay waterproof trousers.
— Ma pleasure. You mind the code tae text?
— Aye, as if I could forget, ah nod. Then I head doon the street, fol
lowing the lassie fae a distance back, watching her head doon the steps ay the basement building acroass the road. This section ay toon is cameraed up tae fuck, there’s yin ower the way, but the punters comin tae a knockin shop generally dinnae want tae be seen, so a black beanie cap n dark blue waterproof cagoule n trews disnae exactly stand oot as ah walk doon the steps. A quick glance ower tae the wee knot ay folk huddled intae the bus shelter, tae escape the rain that’s comin doon heavier. Breathe … nice n easy.
The door’s no locked, so ah let myself in. The gaff smells ay bleach and old spunk, and it’s caulder inside than oot. Ah can hear noises, first the lassie’s voice, then, as it stoaps, a sly cunt’s takes ower. It sounds agitated. As ah get closer, ah see through the crack in the door the bird gieing that Syme boy a gam. I place the bag oan the flair, open it up and pill oot the sword. Feels fuckin barry.
Ah raise the sword ower ma heid n spring through the door, interruptin the blow job. The lassie jumps back at the right time like ah said, n jist as well for her, or her fuckin neb would have come right off n aw. Ah wisnae hingin back, swinging it doon the opening space between her coupon n his groin. The Syme cunt is shriekin oot, — WHAT THE FU — and he’s lucky his erection fuckin crumbled quick n eh turned tae the side slightly, or the best part ay his knob would be oan that fuckin tiled flair. As it is ah’ve just sortay filleted the base ay the cunt’s cock wi ma blade, and as it travelled doon, sliced open a baw. Ye git an exquisite split-second glance ay the blood sluicing in the gash, before it flows. It’s like slo-mo choreography with this cunt sliding tae his knees n the bird rising fae hers at the same time. It’s a thing ay beauty, as eh cups his weddin tackle n the blood explodes through the fingers ay his hands. He’s lookin fae his sliced baws tae me, n soas the lassie, n eh goes tae speak, — What the fuuuck …
Aye, the cunt was lucky. But that luck isnae gaunny fuckin last. — Shhh, ah goes, n turns tae the lassie. — If ma lovely assistant here could help me …
She’s on her feet, dragging the bag in and getting a throwin knife oot. She hands it tae me.
— WHAT IS THIS?! WHO ARE –
— TELT YOU TAE FUCKIN SHUT IT, ah goes, hurlin the knife at the cunt.
It thuds right intae the fucker’s tit as eh lets oot another scream. — WHAAAAT … WHAT THE FUCK …
Terry did fuckin good getting they throwin knives. Ah hand yin tae the lassie. — Take a shot. Goan!
She looks at ays and huds the knife.
The Syme cunt’s eyes are bulging, that barry mix ay fear and rage. Ye kin see that fuckin self-loathing at his ain stupidity, at bein too arrogant tae ever see this day comin. Eh takes one bloodied hand away, leaving the other yin tae hud his cock n baws thegither. He raises the blood-soaked free hand slowly as he looks at the lassie. — What?! You’d better fuckin no —
She screams in his pus, — You think I am fucking scared of you now?
— C’moan, darlin … he pleads, as she lets fly at his face. It skites off the side ay his coupon opening up a wound oan his cheek. — FUCKIN HOOR!.
— Nice yin, hen, ah goes, — but mibbe best you dinnae witness the rest. Go on, and meet ays later as we arranged.
She nods and slips oot the door.
Ah’m lookin at the state ay this cunt. Squeezin his ain baws, the blood fae them trickling through his hands. — Funny auld trade, hoormaisterin. Aw aboot selling lassies tae the highest bidder n keepin them controlled by bein the biggest, baddest wolf in the pack, ah grins at the cunt. Ah’ve reached intae the bag n ah’m feelin the weight ay another throwin knife in ma hand. — Then one day, a higher bidder and bigger wolf comes along and, well, you ken the rest. This is that day, mate.
— Who are you … What dae ye want … What’s aw this aboot …? He’s lookin up at ays. The pressure in his eyes, like something’s gripped the fucker fae inside and is squeezing the life oot ay him.
— You’ve been pittin it aboot that you did Tyrone. Dinnae like people that claim the credit for other folks’ work, ay.
The cunt’s slitty wee lamps expand. — You’re Begbie … Frank Begbie … they said you were away! Please, mate, ah dinnae even ken you … Ah did nowt tae you! What huv ah done?!
— It’s no just aboot the work, ah confess tae the cunt. — Ye see, ye bullied an auld mate ay mine. See this as you gittin bullied back. This counts as bullyin, aye?
— Danny Murphy … Ah heard the boy passed … Ah didnae ken eh wis your mate! Well, ah’ve learned my lesson, no tae mess wi Frank Begbie! Is that what ye need tae hear fae me? he sais, aw hopeful. Ah’m just lookin doon at him, kneelin oan that flair, bleedin fae the baws, his face cut, a knife stickin oot ay his chest. — What is it ye want, mate? Ah’ve goat money –
— It’s no aboot money, ah cut the cunt off, shakin ma heid. — It gits oan ma tits the wey people think everything’s aboot money. Boy wis mair than a mate, eh wis faimlay. Okay, sometimes he got on ma nerves, but he was faimlay. You never liked him. Probably reminded ye too much ay yirsel, ay, mate?
Syme looks up at ays n gasps oot, — What d’ye mean …?
— They tell ays they called you the Poof at school. They battered you. But you fought back, mate.
The Poof, as ah now think ay Syme, looks at me and nods. Like ah understand him. — Aye … they did.
— That wee laddie, he’s eywis inside ye, waiting tae git oot.
The Poof looks at his baws n cock, bleedin through his fingers. Then up at me. — Please …
— Ah dinnae want tae see him. That fuckin wee poof. Ah want tae see you. Tell ays tae fuck off! Tell ays that you’re Victor Syme! TELL AYS!
— AH’M SYME, he roars. — VICTOR FUCKIN SYME … His eyes go doon tae his baws again. — VIC … VICTIHR … Victor Syme … He starts tae bubble.
— That’s no what ah’m seein. Aw ah’m seein is the Poof.
— Please … ah’ll make it up tae ye … for Murphy. For Danny. His family. Ah’ll see them awright!
Ah raise ma hand. — But pittin him aside, there’s another reason ah’m daein this, ah smile. — Which is: ah just like hurtin people. No killin them, that bit ah’m no keen oan, jist cause it spoils it aw. If they’re deid, ye cannae hurt them any mair, ay?
— Well, you’ve hurt me awright, ah’m sorry aboot Danny … Didnae ken he wis connected … Ah kin make it up tae ye, he whines, lookin doon tae his baws, — now ah need tae git tae the hoasp —
— Ah dinnae like killin people, but it makes things messy leavin them lyin around in bits, ah cut the cunt oaf, — so sadly ah’m compelled tae go aw the wey. But mind thit ah dae this purely for the love ay it, rather than the money. So call ays an artist, or a psychopath, makes nae odds tae me, ah goes, hurlin another knife intae the cunt.
It sticks in that soft bit between the shoodir n the chist, n Syme faws oantae his back, littin oot a long groan. — Ah didnae keh-heh-hen …
Ah’m right oan him, smashin the next blade intae his gut, tearin at the flesh. — Ignorance … ay the law … is nae excuse. You’ve goat something ah need … It belongs … tae ma mate!
Takes ays fuckin ages tae git them oot, n ah’m surprised that the cunt holds oan that long. Fuckin guts, they spread oot like fuck. Dinnae expect a big pile ay giant pinky-grey spaghetti tae spill oot ay the cunt n slide acroass the flair. Fuckin state ay that, but. Then, eftir draggin Syme’s boady intae the cleaning supplies cupboard the lassie n Terry telt ays aboot, n lockin the door, pocketin the key that’s awready in thaire, ah has tae wash doon the cagoule, the waterproof trousers and the shoes, n gie the place a good mop n clean. Feel sorry for the cunts that work here, cause it’ll be fuckin mingin soon, wi it bein summer.
When it’s aw done, ah text Terry:
Still cannae get ower that game, amazing how it aw went tae plan.
Right back:
GGTTH. That Davie Gray winner …
Me:
Even better on the replay. Left the opposition destroyed. GGTTH!
It’s about ten minutes later when ah git the
text:
We’ve got McGinn, super John McGinn.
Which tells ays that Terry’s parked back doon his shag lane at Scotland Street. So ah head oot the door, collar up, beanie doon over the brows, skerf roond the mooth, just another guilty punter who played away fae hame. Coast’s clear: bus must have come. Ah get tae the cab and we speed off tae the airport. When we arrive, Terry hands me two commemorative Hibs Scottish Cup mugs. — Wee pressy.
— They snide?
— Of course they are.
— No sure ah’m wantin them. Dinnae like the idea ay being mixed up in anything illegal, ah sais. We get a barry giggle at that. As ah say goodbye tae Terry, ah feel that sense ay loss and regret that ah ey dae on such occasions, realisin that ah’ll never see they throwin knives or that fuckin sword again. They have tae be destroyed or planted on some noncey paedo sex case that Tez has awready earmarked. But ah’m upset, as that sword n these knives, they just fuckin handled that well. Unusual tae git a weapon ye huvnae had any time tae practise wi, that just feels so right, never mind two. Fuckin craftsmanship. In a perfect world ah’d be able tae keep them, but thir jist jailbait. Gutted though – yir only as good as yir tools.
The lassie is waiting at the airport and I pay her off, slipping the folder intae her bag. — What’s your plans?
— I’m going home.
— Where’s that?
— Bucharest.
— That’s what ah should dae, book a rest, ah tells the lassie. She looks at me like ah’m a radge. — I’m gaun home too. Got an early flight the morn. The night ah’m treatin masel tae that Hilton Hotel here, cause ah couldnae git a first class at short notice withoot the cunts takin the pish.
— So where is your home?
— California.
She heads away and I buy a newspaper, that Independent, and walk ower tae the Hilton. Ah pey in cash, checking in as Victor Syme, using his driver’s licence as ID. Ah look fuck all like the cunt but the photae is shite n the lassie barely glances at it.
They’ve goat Sky in the room, and thaire’s golf oan. Ah dinnae mind watchin golf oan telly cause it’s barry when some cunt fucks up an easy put. I call Melanie, tell her Elspeth’s okay, and I’m looking forward tae getting hame. The papers are aw full ay that vote the morn aboot leaving the EU. One thing ye can guarantee is, whatever happens, things’ll be shite for maist cunts. The wey ah look at it is that it’s a short life, look at poor Spud, so ye might as well just dae what makes ye happy!
