Dead Men's Trousers

1 RENTON – THE TRAVELLING MAN

A rash ay sweat beads are forming on Frank Begbie’s forehead. I am trying no tae stare. He’s just come intae the air-conditioned building fae the heat outside, and his system’s adjusting. Pits ays in mind ay when we first met. It was warm then n aw. Or maybe no. We start idealising shit as we get older. It actually wasn’t at primary school, as I had often recounted. That tale seemed tae have slid intae that weird overstuffed volume between fact and folklore, where a lot ay Begbie stories ended up. No, it was before that: at the ice-cream van outside the Fort, probably on a Sunday. He was cairrying a big blue Tupperware bowl.

I had no long started school, and recognised Begbie from there. He was the year above me then, but that would change. I stood behind him in the queue, a bright sun in our eyes, bursting oot fae gaps between the blackened tenements. He seems a good boy, I thought, watching him dutifully hand the bowl over to the ice-cream man. — It’s for eftir dinner, he said with a big smile, on noting me observing proceedings. I recall that this impressed me greatly at the time; ah’d never seen a kid entrusted to get a bowl filled in that way. My ma just gave us tinned Plumbrose cream with our sliced peaches or pears.

Then, when I got my cone, he had stalled and was waiting for me. We walked back doon the street thegither, talking about Hibs and our bikes. We were fleet-footed, especially him, speed-walking and bursting into a trot, mindful of the melting ice cream. (So it was a hot day.) I headed to the towering council flats at Fort House; he veered across the road to a sooty tenement. Auld Reekie was just that back then, before stone cleaning removed the industrial grime. — See ye, he waved at me.

I saluted back. Yes, he did seem a good boy. But later on, I would learn different. I always told a story of how ah was seated next to him at secondary school, as if this penance was imposed on me. But it wasn’t. We sat thegither because we were already friends.

Now I cannae quite believe I’m here in Santa Monica, California, living this kind of life. Especially when Franco Begbie is sitting across the table from me, with Melanie, in this nice restaurant on 3rd Street. We are both light years away from that ice-cream van in Leith. I’m with Vicky, who works in film sales, but hails originally from Salisbury, England. We met on a dating website. It’s our fourth outing and we huvnae fucked yet. After our third would probably have been the time. We’re not bairns. Now I sense we’ve let it slide too long and are a bit tentative in each other’s company, wondering: is this going anywhere? I thought I was being cool; truth is that she’s a lovely woman and I’m aching to be with her.

So it’s tough being roond Franco and Melanie; such a bright, bronzed and healthy couple. Franco, twenty years older than her, almost seems a match for this fit, tanned, blonde Californian. They are easy and languid in each other’s company; a touch ay hand on thigh here, a sneaky wee peck on cheek there, a meaningful glance and exchange of conspiratorial smiles everywhere.

Lovers are cunts. They rub your face in it without meaning to. And that’s what I’ve had from Frank Begbie since that fucking insane day on the plane last summer. We did stay in touch, and have met up a few times. But never just us: always with Melanie, and sometimes whatever company I bring along. Strangely, this is at Franco’s instigation. Whenever we arrange a get-together for just the two of us, so I can discuss paying him back, he always finds a reason to cancel. Now here we are in Santa Monica, with Christmas looming. He’ll be here for the festive period, in the sun, while I’ll be in Leith, with my old man. Ironically able to relax, now that the guy sitting opposite me, who I thought would never leave the old port, or only for a prison cell, is no longer a threat.

The food is good and the company is pleasant and chilled out. So I should be at peace. But I’m no. Vicky, Melanie and I split a bottle ay white wine. I crave a second but stay silent. Franco doesnae drink any more. I keep saying that tae myself in disbelief: Franco doesnae drink any more. And when it’s time tae leave and head tae the apartment in the Uber with Vicky, who lives close by in Venice, I’m again pondering the implications of his transformation, and where it’s left me. I’m far from a strict temperance guy, chance would be a fine thing, but I’ve done enough NA meetings over the years tae ken that no paying him back just isnae a valid psychological option for ays. When I do compensate him – and I realise that I must, not just for him but for me – it’ll be gone, that fucking huge burden. That need to run will be forever extinguished. I can see more of Alex, maybe rebuild some kind of a relationship with Katrin, my ex. I can perhaps make a proper go ay it with Vicky here, see where it takes us. And all I need to do is tae pey this cunt off. I know exactly how much I owe him at today’s money. Fifteen thousand four hundred and twenty quid: that’s how much three thousand two hundred pounds is worth now. And that’s small beer compared tae what I owe Sick Boy. But I’ve also been putting money aside for him and Second Prize. Franco, though, is more pressing.

In the back of the Uber, Vicky’s hand fastens around my own. She has big paws for a woman of around five-six; they’re almost the same size as mine. — What are you thinking about? Work?

— Got it, I lie glumly. — I’ve those gigs at Christmas and New Year in Europe. But at least I’ll get back home tae spend time with the old boy.

— Wish I was going home, she says. — Especially as my sister’s making it back from Africa. But it takes too much time out of my leave. So it’ll be Christmas with some expats… again, she groans in exasperation.

Now would be the time to say it: I wish I were spending Christmas here with you. It would be a simple, honest statement. However, meeting Franco has once again discombobulated me, and the moment passes. But there are other opportunites. As we reach my building I ask Vicky if she wants to come up for a nightcap. She smiles tightly. — Sure.

We get upstairs and into the apartment. The air is thick and stale and hot. I hit the air con and it creaks and whistles into action. I pour two glasses ay red wine and slump down on the small couch, suddenly tired after all my travelling. My DJ Emily says that everything happens for a reason. It’s her mantra. I never buy into all that cosmic forces shite. But now I’m thinking: What if she’s right? What if I was meant to run into Franco, in order to pay him back? Unburden myself? Move on? After all, that’s what he’s done, and I’m the one who’s fucking stuck.

Vicky has sat down on the couch beside me. She stretches out like a cat, then slips off her shoes and pulls her tanned legs up, smoothing down her skirt. I feel blood flowing from brain to baws. She’s thirty-seven and has had a proper life, from what I can gather. Been messed around by a couple of wankers, broken a few saps’ hearts. Now she has a fire in her eye and set tae her jaw that says: Time to get serious. Shit or get off the pot.

— You think it’s time we, eh, took this to the next level? I ask.

Her eyes are slitty and alert as she touches the sun-bleached brunette-blonde hair scrapped right back off her forehead. — Oh, I think so, she says in a voice that is meant to be sexy and is.

We’re both relieved tae get the first shag out the road. Already beyond excellent, it’ll only kick on from here. It always fascinates me how, when you fancy somebody, they often look even better with no clothes on than you imagine. But the next day, she leaves early for work, and I have to get on a plane tae Barcelona. It’s for a gig that isnae important in itself, but at a club night promoted by a guy who does the Sonar Festival there. Our participation in that was sealed by agreeing to do this Christmas show. Who knows when Victoria and I will hook up again. But I travel happy and with a bit to think about, and maybe something to come back for. And that’s been a long time in happening.

So here I am, flying east, the dreaded east. Business class is essential for this one. I should lie flat but the stewardess offers a nice French wine from their selection, and before I know it I’m shit-faced at altitude again. All I’m thinking about is getting some coke. I settle for an Ambien.

Yes, it has gotten obnoxiously trendy. Aye, money has ruined it. For sure, it’s been colonised by cosmopolitan fuckers high on solvency and low on personality, their mirthless laughter from the bars and cafes echoing down its narrow streets. But for all those caveats, the simple fact remains intact: if you don’t like Barcelona, you’re a cunt, and totally lost tae humanity.

I know I still have some kind of pulse, cause I love it. Even when I’m fighting tae keep my eyes open, and shutting them jaunts me back into the hell of the sweaty nightclub I’ve either just left or am heading to. I have a constant four-four beat pounding in my brain, despite the cab driver playing tinny Latin music. I stumble out the taxi, almost falling over with fatigue. I pull my roller-wheeled case out the back, and struggle intae my hotel. The check-in is swift but seems like an age. I feel myself letting the air out my lungs in a long sigh to hurry the clerk up. I’m shiteing it in case one ay my DJs or the promoter walks in right now and wants to talk. The plastic strip that gains me entry to my room is issued. Some notes about the Wi-Fi and breakfast. I get intae the lift. The blinking green light in the lock tells me the key works, thank fuck. I’m inside. On my bed.

For how long I’m out I don’t know. But the room phone wakes me with loud burps. My mind journeys with each one; the pause long enough to give me hope I’ve just heard the last of them. Then… it’s Conrad. My most high-maintenance client has arrived. I push my bones vertical.

I’m wishing I was in LA or Amsterdam, I don’t care, watching Pop Idol, Vicky perhaps tucked into my side, but I’m a shuddering mass of jet lag and ching in this Barcelona hotel, feeling my IQ almost satisfyingly slip away as my heartbeat pumps up. I’m in the bar with Carl, Conrad and Miguel, a promoter at Nitsa, the club we’re playing. Fortunately, he’s one of the good guys. Emily enters and refuses to join us, pointedly standing at the bar, playing with her phone. She’s making a statement, one that compels me to rise and go to her.

— You get those wankers in your little boys’ club sorted out, why not me?

No much in my job disturbs me. Certainly setting up a DJ with prostitutes doesn’t even twinge my moral compass these days. But when the DJ is a young woman, who is seeking the company of another young woman, it’s outside both my skill set and comfort zone. — Look, Emily –

— Call me DJ Night Vision!

How do you react when a young lassie with wavy dark hair, a beauty-spot mole on her chin and big swimming-pool eyes looks at you as if she indeed does have night vision? She once told me that her mother was of gypsy stock. That surprised me as I’ve met her dad, Mickey, who seems pure English Defence League. I can see why that one didn’t last. Her title has become a big thing with her, since she heard me calling Carl N-Sign and Conrad Technonerd. — Look, DJ Night Vision, you’re a beautiful woman. Any guy, I correct myself, — I mean girl, or person, in their right mind, would want tae sleep with you. But you shagging a lipsticked-and-stiletto-heeled hooker will depress the fuck out of me, as I crash in the next room alone with a good book. Then it’ll do the same tae you, as you’ll have tae lie tae Starr.

Emily’s girlfriend Starr is a tall, gorgeous, raven-haired medical student. Not the sort of lassie that gets cheated on, you’d think, but nobody is too beautiful to suffer that fate. Carl’s ex, Helena, is a stunner, but it didn’t stop this weird-looking albino cunt from Stenhoose banging anything that smiled at him. Emily sweeps her hair oot ay her eyes and rocks back on her heels, looking over at the boys. Carl is animated, gesticulating, arguing with Miguel: his voice high, fuelled by powder. I hope tae fuck the cunt isnae burning this gig down. Conrad watches in detached semi-amusement, cramming some complimentary nuts intae his face. Emily turns back to me, her voice harsh and low. — Do you care about me, Mark?

— Of course I do, babe, you’re like a daughter to me, I say, a little blithely.

— Yeah, one that makes you money instead of one you have to pay college fees for, right?

Emily Baker, Night Vision, doesn’t actually make me that much money. With a few notable exceptions, female DJs don’t do that well. Back when I had the club, I booked Lisa Loud, Connie Lush, Marina Van Rooy, Daisy, Princess Julia and Nancy Noise, but for every one of them there were scores who were still worth booking but who weren’t. Female DJs more often than not have great taste and play the cool, righteous house music I like. But they generally aren’t as obsessive-compulsive as male ones. In short, they have lives. Even those who don’t are still tough to break, as the industry is extremely sexist. If they ain’t lookers, they don’t get taken seriously, ignored by the promoters. If they are lookers, they don’t get taken seriously, cruised by the promoters.

I’m not going to mention the track or the studio though, that will set Emily off; it’s great but she lacks confidence in it and I cannae give anybody lessons in how tae live. I have more hassles with my DJs than I do with my own kid, the difference being that I try harder tae make a difference with them. When I tell people what I do for a living, the daft cunts actually see it as glamorous. Is it fuck! My name is Mark Renton and I’m a Scotsman who lives between Holland and America. Most ay ma life is spent in hotels, airports and on phones and email. I have around $24,000 in an account at Citibank in the USA, and €157,000 in the ABN AMRO in the Netherlands, and £328 in the Clydesdale Bank in Scotland. If I’m no in a hotel, my head rests on a pillow in a flat overlooking a canal in Amsterdam or a balcony-less condominium in Santa Monica, a good half-hour walk from the ocean. It’s better than being on the dole, stacking shelves in a supermarket, walking some rich cunt’s dug, or cleaning some slavering fucker’s arse, but that’s about it. It’s only in the last three years I’ve started making serious money, since Conrad has broken big.

We’ve caned it a little at the hotel and get taxied to the club. Conrad seldom does coke or E but smokes a ton of weed and eats like a beer-titted horse. He’s also narcoleptic and has fallen into his customary deep sleep in the anteroom off the green room, which is a busy space, full of DJs’ managers, journos and hangers-on. I head to the bar with Miguel to talk business, and when I go to check on my superstar DJ around forty minutes later, something isn’t quite right.

He’s still under, lying on his side, his arms folded, but… there’s something attached to his forehead.

It’s… it’s a fucking dildo!

I pull gently on it, but it seems stuck fast. Conrad’s lids dance but remain closed, as he gives out a low growl. I let go.

Fuck! Which cunt…?

Carl! He’s in the DJ booth. I head back to the green room, where Miguel is conversing with Emily, who is about to go on. — Who the fuck… In there, his heid, I point, as Miguel moves through to investigate while Emily shrugs blankly. — Carl… That cunt…

I charge out to the booth as Carl is finishing up for an unenthusiastic audience, on a quarter-full floor. Emily appears at my shoulder, ready to replace him.

— C’mere, ya cunt. I grab his wrist.

— What the fuck –

I’m pulling him out the booth, through the green room and into the anteroom, pointing at the still power-napping, dildo-heided Dutchman. — Did you do that?

Miguel is in attendance, looking at us with startled wide eyes. Carl laughs, and slaps the Catalan promoter on the back. Miguel chuckles nervously and raises his hands. — I saw nothing!

— Looks like one more complex management problem for you to resolve, bro, Carl grins. — I’m heading out onto the dance floor. There was a sultry wee honey I kept making eye contact with. She could be getting rode. So don’t wait up. He punches my airm, then shakes Conrad’s shoulder. — Wake up, ya dickheided Dutch dope!

Conrad doesn’t open his eyes. He just shifts onto his back, the cock pointing upwards. Carl departs, leaving me to sort this fucking mess out. I turn to Miguel. — How the fuck do you remove superglue?

— I do not know, he confesses.

This isn’t good. I always feel that I’m on the verge of losing Conrad. Big management agencies have been sniffing around. His head will be turned. It happened with Ivan, the Belgian DJ I broke big, and the cunt jumped ship as soon as the royalties started flowing in. I can’t afford Conrad to do the same, although I scent the inevitability.

Watching him slumber, I pull out my Apple Mac and batter through some emails. He’s still under when I check my watch; Emily is coming to the end of her set soon, so I shake him. — Buddy, time to rock.

He blinks awake. His eyes roll into his head as his peripheral vision sees something loom above them. He touches his forehead. Grabs at the dick. It hurts. — Ow… what is this?

— Some cunt… probably Ewart, fucking around, I tell him, trying to make light of it. Miguel is over. The sound engineer shouts that Conrad is due on.

— Tell Night Vision to hold the fort, I say, pulling on the dildo. It looks like it’s growing out his head.

Miguel looks on in mounting perturbation, his tones sepulchral. — He will have to go to the hospital to get it removed!

My touch isn’t that deft, as Conrad lets out a howl. — Stop! What the fuck are you doing?

— Sorry about this. After your set, bud, we go straight to casualty.

Conrad sits bolt upright, storms over to the wall mirror. — What… His fingers pull at the phallus and he yelps out in pain. — WHO DID THIS? WHERE IS EWART?

— Pussy hunt, mate, I advance timidly.

Conrad is gingerly probing and pulling at the cock with his doughy fingers. — This is not a joke! I cannot go on like this! They will laugh at me!

— You have to play, warns Miguel, — we have an arrangement. Sonar. It is in the contract.

— Conny, I beg him, — help us out here!

— I cannot! I need this off me! He tugs at it again and screams out, his face contorted in pain.

I stand behind him, my hands on his big shoulders. — Don’t, it’ll take your skin off… Please, bud, go out, I implore. — Own it. Make it your joke.

Conrad swivels round, breaking my grip, panting like a pressure cooker, looking at me in pure, earnest execration. But he’s off, led by the big cock, and he steps out behind the decks to cheers and the flashing of camera phones. Fair play to the fat lad, he rolls his head and lets the dick flop around, to feverish screams from the floor.

Emily stands back and giggles through her fingers. — It’s funny, Mark.

— It’s not fucking funny at all, I declare, but I’m laughing too. — I’ll never hear the end of this. He will make me pay with my blood, sweat and tears. I was relying on him to help me elevate you and Carl, but he’s no going to play nice now!

— Everything happens for a reason!

Like fuck it does. I have to hand it to Conrad though: he sidelines his petulance. On the chorus of his hit ‘Flying High’ with the refrain Sexy, sexy baby, he faux wanks the cock to great cheers, roaring into the mike, — I luff house muzik! It is the ultimate headfuck!

It’s a monster gig, but when it’s over Conrad’s understandably back in the strop big time. We get him to the hospital where they apply a solution to loosen and remove the dildo quite easily. He still isn’t happy, as a nurse sponges the excess glue off his forehead. — Your friend Ewart, trying to build his comeback on my reputation. There is no way! I am laughing stock! It is all over social media! He shows me Twitter on his phone. The hashtag #dickhead has been well used.

The next morning sees the familiar shaky rise for another flight, this time to Edinburgh. A favourable article I find while netsurfing lifts my spirits. It’s by an influential dance-music journalist who was at the gig. I show Conrad, who reads, his eyes bulging and a wheezy purr insinuating from deep within.

— See? You fuckin owned that shit, I say with a passion only partly contrived, — and you owned that fuckin crowd. It was a flawless display of dance-music entertainment, the humour and wit matching the tunes and –

— I did. Conrad punches his big tits and turns across the aisle to Carl. — And I owned his tired old has-been ass!

Carl turns his head into the window, doghouse hung-over, and lets out a groan.

Conrad leans into me, and says earnestly, — You say flawless performance… this was the word you used, flawless. But this implies, does it not, that it was purely technical? It was contrived, and it lacked soul. This is what you mean, yes?

Fuck sake, what kind ay a life is this tae lead…? — No, mate, it had soul brimming out of every pore. And it wasn’t contrived, it was the polar fucking opposite. How could it be contrived, I point over at the now slumbering Ewart, — when this cunt did that to you? It forced you to dig deep, I slap his chest, — and you fucking came up with the goods. Proud as fuck of you, bud, I say, watching his face for a reaction.

A satisfied nod tells me things are okay. — In Edinburgh, the Scottish pussy is good, yes?

— The city boasts the most stunningly beautiful women in the world, I tell him. — There’s a place called Standard Life; mate, you do not want to know.

His brow arches in intrigue. — The Standard Life. This is a club?

— More a state of mind.

When we land, I scrutinise the emails, the texts, fire off some in return, round up the DJs, check into another hotel like a zombie. Get the DJs to bed, get some sleep myself, then stroll down Leith Walk in the murky cold, biting after the Californian sun, and even the Catalan one. But bold in my strides for the first time in decades, not caring about bumping into Begbie any more.

Perversely, some stretches of the old boulevard of broken dreams are not too dissimilar from parts of the Barcelona I just left: old pubs tarted up, students everywhere, rip-off flats like cheap false teeth in the gap sites between tenements, cool cafes, eateries of every type and cusine. Those sit comfortingly alongside pockets of the familiar: a vaguely recognised tab-puffing bam outside the Alhambra strangely reassuring as he gives me the snidey eye.

Down to Dad’s gaff by the river. I stayed here for a couple of years after we moved from the Fort, but it never felt like home. You know you’ve turned intae a cunt with nae life, whose fetid arsehole is owned by late capitalism, when times like this feel an imposition and you cannae stop checking your phone for emails and texts. I’m with my dad, my sister-in-law Sharon, and my niece Marina and her infant twin boys Earl and Wyatt, who look indentical but have different personalities. Sharon has packed on the beef. Everybody in Scotland seems fatter now. As she fingers an earring, she expresses guilt about them staying in the spare rooms, while I’m in a hotel. I tell her it’s no hardship for me, as my dodgy back demands a specialist mattress. I explain that the hotel room is a business expense; my DJs have gigs in the city. Working-class people seldom get that the wealthy generally eat, sleep and travel well at their expense again, through tax deductables. I’m not exactly rich, but I’ve blagged my way into the system, onto the steerage class of the gravy train that bulldozes the poor. I pay more tax registered in Holland than I would in the USA, but better gieing it to the Dutch to build dams than the Yanks to build bombs.

After the meal prepared by Sharon and Marina, we’re kicking back in the cosy cramp of this small room, and the drinks slip down nicely. My old boy still has a decent posture to him, broad-shouldered, if a little bent over, not too much muscle wastage in evidence. He’s at the time of life where nothing at all surprises. His politics have drifted towards the right, in a moany auld cunt nostalgia way, rather than intrinsically hardcore reactionary, but still a sad state of affairs for an old union man, and indicative of bigger existential distress. That leakage of hope, of vision and passion for a better world, and its replacement by a hollow rage, is a sure sign that you’re slowly dying. But at least he lived: it would be the worst thing on earth to have those politics at an early age, to be born with that essential part of you already dead. A sad gleam in his eye indicates he’s holding on to a melancholy thought. — I mind of your dad, he says to Marina, referencing my brother Billy, the father she never saw.

— He’s off, Marina laughs, but she likes to hear about Billy. Even I do. Over the years I’ve learned tae recast him as a loyal, steadfast big brother, rather than the violent, bullying squaddie that for a good while dominated ma perception ay him. It was only later that I realised that both were complementary states ay being. However, death often serves to bring somebody’s good qualities to the fore.

— I mind after he was killed, Dad says, his voice breaking as he turns tae me, — your ma looked oot the windae. He’d just been hame on leave and had gone back that weekend. His clathes were still hingin oot tae dry; everything except his jeans, his Levi’s. Somebody, some scabby bastard, he half laughs, half scowls, still hurting after all those years, — had swiped them off the line.

— Those were his favourite jeans. I feel a tight grin stretch my face, looking at Sharon. — He fancied himself a bit in them, like that model ponce in the advert who took them off in the launderette and put them in the washer dryer. Became famous.

— Nick Kamen! Sharon squeals with delight.

— Who’s that? Marina asks.

— You’ll no ken, before your time.

Dad looks at us, perhaps a bit miffed at our frivolous intrusion. — It fair set Cathy off that even his favourite jeans had gone. She ran upstairs tae his room, and laid aw his clathes oot oan his bed. Wouldnae let them go for months. I took them tae the charity shop one day, and she broke down when she found out they were gone. He starts bubbling and Marina grabs his hand. — She never quite forgave me for that.

— Enough, ya auld Weedgie radge, I say to him, — of course she forgave ye!

He forces a smile. As the convo moves on to Billy’s funeral, Sharon and I share a guilty glance. It’s bizarre tae think that I was shagging her in the toilet after that grim event, while Marina, sitting comforting ma faither with her own kids, was unborn inside her. I would now have to class that one as bad behaviour.

Dad turns tae me, tones heavy with accusation. — It would have been nice tae have seen the wee man.

— Alex, well, that just wisnae gaunny happen, I muse out loud.

— How is Alex, Mark? Marina asks.

She’s never got to know her wee cousin so well. Again, that’s my fault.

— He should be here, he’s as much a part ay this family as any ay us, my dad growls in contention, his square-go-then-ya-cunt expression on. But he cannae add tae ma considerable hurt on this issue.

— Dad, Sharon gently reprimands. She calls him that more than I do, even though she’s the daughter-in-law, and with more justification.

— So how’s the jet-setting life, Mark? Marina changes the subject. — You seeing anybody?

— Mind you ain business, nosy! Sharon says.

— I never kiss and tell, I say, feeling wonderfully schoolboy bashful as I think ay Vicky, and switch the tone myself, nodding at my old man. — Did I tell you that I’m pally with Frank Begbie again?

— Heard he did awright wi this art stuff, Dad says. — Ower in California now, they say. Wise move. There’s nothing here for him but enemies.

2 POLICE HARASSMENT

It’s a nice enough little house, he concedes. That Mediterranean burnished-antique look many Santa Barbara homes have, with its Spanish colonial-style architecture, the red-tiled roof and whitewashed courtyard, covered in climbing bougainvillea. It has steadily gotten hotter, the breeze coming off the ocean having faded as the overhead sun stings the back of his neck, the roof down on the convertible. What burns Harry more, though, is being on a stakeout without a badge. That tight omnipresent ball of acid in his gut, despite his over-the-counter drugstore shit, waiting to rise and blister his oesophagus. Suspended, pending investigation. What the fuck did that actually mean? When were those IA assholes actually going to investigate? Harry has been swinging by the Francises’ deserted home in this quiet cul-de-sac in Santa Barbara for months now, worried that the killer Melanie lived with has done something to her and their kids, just as he most certainly had with those drifters Santiago and Coover.

It isn’t a bad spot for surveillance: a tapering street, on a turn-off from a highway and close to a narrow intersection, then a slip road onto the freeway. They probably thought they were being smart when they picked it. Harry smirks to himself, wet hand leaving a damp trace on the leather wheel he’s been tightly gripping, although the car is long stationary. Close to downtown, accessible to the freeway.

Assholes.

For a while his only sighting has been the couple from next door. They have a dog, one of those big Jap bastards. Sometimes Melanie’s mom – he remembers her from his high-school days, a looker like her bitch of a daughter – swings by to pick up the mail. Now she’s an older woman, her blonde hair fading to ash-grey, with complementary silver-rimmed specs. Is she still fuckable at a push? Hell, yeah, Harry would spring to giving the old girl a taste of dick. But she’s not his target. Not her, nor the two little grandchildren Melanie and the killer have given her, whom she’s now looking after.

It’s felt like an age but it must have been only a few days, and suddenly, one late afternoon, Melanie is back. The car pulls up and there they are. Her little daughters, the oldest not that much younger than Melanie herself was when he first met her… and there he is… that monster she married.

Harry rubs the bristle on his face, adjusts the rear-view mirror to see anything that might approach from the bend behind him, in the quiet, tree-lined street. To think he looked up to Melanie, thought of her as strong, smart and good. But he was wrong; she’s weak, deluded by a sense of her own self-righteous liberal bullshit, easy prey for that animal. Harry can imagine him, with that weird gravelly voice of his, giving her that jailbird hustle, that born-on-the-wrong-side-of-the tracks BS. But maybe she’s just blind. And if that’s the case, then it’s Harry’s duty to make her see straight.

He watches the old Paddy motherfucker helping their two daughters out of the station wagon, into the home. The way his evil eyes look back, scanning the street. Scum, scum, scum. Oh, Mel, what are you fucking doing? She worked with the killer in that Irish jailhouse – or was it Scotch? – what the fuck was the difference? – where he first conned her. She knew then he was a killer! Did she really expect him to change? Why can’t she see through him?

Those two bums; no sign of Coover, the water and fish probably doing their work on his body right now. Forget him. But the other one, Santiago, found snagged onto the oil platform, though with his pulped face and the gunshot wound still easily detectable. The bullet extracted, bagged and tagged in the evidence room. It could be traced, to a still-missing weapon. But he is no longer on the case (on any case), and nobody else freaking cares.

Then Melanie appears again: wearing a blue hoodie, sneakers and shorts. Is she going for a run? No. She gets into the car. Alone. Harry takes his chance, waits till she drives past, then pulls out and follows, tracking her all the way to the mall. This is good. It’s public; she won’t suspect his motives.

He follows her inside, slipping past her, before stopping and doubling back, so that he accidentally-on-purpose runs right into her. On seeing his approach and widening smile of recognition, she pointedly looks the other way. This is bad. Even after everything that has happened, and with that drunken phone call, he didn’t expect such a blatant snub. He has to say something. — Melanie, he pleads, stepping in front of her, his palms turned outwards, — I need to apologise. I made a terrible mistake.

She stops. Looks at him warily, her arms folded across her chest. — Fine. Now that’s the end of it.

Harry nods slowly. He knows what will fly with her. — I’ve been in rehab for alcohol addiction, and I’m attending meetings regularly. It’s important for me to make amends. Can I buy you a coffee? Please? It would mean a lot to me. His tone’s pleading and emotional. Liberals liked to hear that people are basically good and trying to be better. Why shouldn’t I make the same play on her as that criminal psycho asshole she married?

Melanie flicks her hair back, sighs and gestures wearily to the food court. They head over, finding seats at the Starbucks, close to the counter. As Harry joins the line and orders two skinny lattes, Melanie starts talking on her phone. His ears prick. Is she talking about him? No, it sounds like harmless banalities, dispatched to a friend. Yes, we’re back… The kids are fine… Yes, Jim too. I think it did us both good to get away. Last year was all about reconnecting with family… Sicily was wonderful. The food – I need to hit the gym, big time.

Harry lowers the coffees to the table, slides one across to her as he gets into the seat opposite. Melanie picks up her cup, takes a tentative sip, mumbles some thanks. Her phone sits on the table in front of her. He has to broach this carefully. She’ll still have the recording made of his message from last summer, when he was drunk, stupid and weak. That cunning monster she married would see to that. But Melanie had to know that she’s hitched to a psychotic killer. And Harry will prove it. He will show that Jim Francis murdered those two men.

At first they talk blandly of old college and high-school days, and mutual acquaintances. It’s going smoothly, Harry reckons, straight from the cop’s interpersonal playbook. Establish normality. Build trust. And it seems like it’s working. Hell, Harry even draws a smile out of Melanie, through recounting a tale of one of their buddies. It excites him, as it has always done. It allows him to glimpse possibilities. So he talks about himself a little. How Mom didn’t last long after Dad passed, kind of just gave up. How he inherited that lovely old house up in the woods. It’s a bit isolated, but he doesn’t mind that. But then something goes wrong. The part of him that so desperately still wants her to be with him, in that house, it suddenly emerges, and Harry jumps topic too quickly. Can’t hold back. Can’t stop the cop in him coming out. — You’re in serious trouble, Melanie. He shakes his head in tense gravity. — Jim is not the man you think he is!

Melanie rolls her eyes and picks up her phone, putting it back in her bag. She looks at him evenly, speaking in a slow, deliberate tone. — Keep the fuck away from us. From me, my husband and our children. Her voice rises, to pull nearby patrons into referencing the drama. — You’ve been warned!

Harry draws in a breath, shocked at the depth of her loathing. — I’ve been suspended from the department. I’ve lost everything, but I’m never going to let him hurt you!

— Jim isn’t hurting me, you are! I’m telling you, if you approach me again, I’m making a formal complaint, through an attorney, and giving your department a copy of the tape, and Melanie rises, swinging her bag over her shoulder. — Now stay away from my family!

Harry pouts, his bottom lip involuntarily trembling, but then he turns away, facing two women who have been eavesdropping. — Ladies, he says in a slow, sardonic seethe of acknowledgement, before sipping at the latte. He looks forlornly at the lipstick mark around the rim of the other cup. It seems to belong to a ghost he has been chasing most of his life. Sure enough, by the time he turns back, Melanie has gone, vanished into the throng of shoppers. Harry can scarcely believe that she was ever sitting so close to him.

When Melanie returns home she finds Jim in the kitchen, making a sandwich. It is an elaborate, layered effort, involving lean turkey breast, avocado slices, tomatoes and Swiss cheese. Her husband’s ability to immerse himself so fully in the most mundane of tasks, as well as the most complex, never fails to amaze her. The still intensity he brings to everything. Through the window, she sees the girls playing in the yard with the new puppy, which is out of sight, but Melanie can hear its excited barking. Jim looks at up her, cracking a smile. It slides south as he quickly senses that something is wrong. — What’s up, honey?

She extends her arms and grips the countertop, leaning back to stretch the tension out of her. — Harry. I ran into him at the mall. I suspect he engineered it. He was apologetic and sensible at first, so I had a coffee with him at Starbucks. Then he started coming out with that same delusional bullshit about you killing those two guys on the beach! I threatened him with the tape and he backed off.

Jim hauls in a deep breath. — If this happens again we might have to take action. Get ourselves a lawyer and file a harassment suit against him.

— Jim, you’re a resident alien and a convicted felon. Melanie looks glumly at him. — The authorities don’t know a lot about that part of your life.

— Those two guys, I blew up their van…

— If all this comes out, you could be deported.

— To Scotland? Jim suddenly laughs. — Ah don’t know if I could handle the girls growing up talking like me!

— Jim…

Jim Francis steps forward, filling the space between him and Melanie, taking his wife in his arms. Over her shoulder he can see their daughters playing with Sauzee, the recently acquired French bulldog. — Shhh, it’s okay, he coos, as much to himself as to her. — We’ll sort it all out. Let’s just enjoy Christmas.

Christmas in the sun, Jim thinks, then considers Edinburgh and lets a phantom chill race up his spine.

3 TINDER IS THE NIGHT

Euan McCorkindale examines himself in the bathroom mirror. He prefers what he sees when he removes his glasses, this act sending his features into a satisfying blur. Fifty years. A half-century. Where had it all gone? He replaces the spectacles to contemplate an increasingly skull-like head, apexed by a silver buzz-cut bristle. Euan then looks down at his bare feet, pink plates on the heated black-tiled floor. It is what he does, in the same way others study their faces. How many pairs of feet has he seen in his life? Thousands. Perhaps even hundreds of thousands. Flat, twisted, broken, fractured, crushed, burned, scarred, pitted and infected. But not his own: those have lasted better than the rest of him.

Moving through from the en suite bathroom, Euan dresses quickly, nagged by a mild envy of his still-sleeping wife. Carlotta has the best part of a decade of youthful advantage on him and is handling middle age well. She bloated in her mid-thirties, and Euan was secretly looking forward to her gaining some of her mother’s upholstery; he likes women who tend towards the plump. But then a dedicated diet-and-gym regime seemed to make Carlotta go backwards in time: not only approximating her youthful self, but in some ways even surpassing it. She never had muscles like that when they first got together, and yoga has given her a suppleness and range of motion previously beyond her. Now Euan is experiencing the acute return of a withering sensation, which he hoped age would completely vanquish: that he’s massively punching above his weight in this relationship.

Euan, however, is a devoted husband and father who has spent his married life happily indulging his wife and son. This is especially the case around Christmas. He loves Carlotta’s Italian social extravagance and wouldn’t have wished his own austere background on anybody. A birthday that fell on Christmas Eve, in a Wee Free family – it was a recipe for privation and neglect. But Euan’s enjoyment of the festive period is generally ring-fenced around Carlotta and Ross. His bonhomie tends to dissipate when others are brought into the mix, and tomorrow he is expected to host Christmas dinner for her family. Carlotta’s mother Evita, her sister Louisa, Lou’s husband Gerry and kids: they are all fine. It’s her brother, Simon, who runs a dubious-sounding escort agency in London, whom he isn’t so sure about.

Thankfully, Ross and Simon’s son Ben seem to get on. It’s just as well. Simon has seldom been around the last two days. After arriving from London with the young man, he unceremoniously dumped poor Ben on them, and took off. It wasn’t on, really. No wonder Ben is such a quiet young chap.

He finds Ross down in the kitchen, still in his pyjamas and dressing gown, sat at the table, playing a game on his iPad. — Morning, son.

— Morning, Dad. Ross looks up, bottom lip protruding. No ‘Happy birthday’. Ah well. It’s obvious that his son has something on else his mind.

— Where’s Ben?

— Still asleep.

— Everything okay with you guys?

His son pulls a face Euan can’t interpret, and snaps his iPad shut. — Aye… it’s just that… Then Ross suddenly explodes, — I’m never gaunny get a girlfriend! I’ll be a virgin till I die!

Euan cringes. Oh God, he’s sharing a bedroom with Ben. He’s a nice lad, but he’s older and he’s still the son of Simon. — Has Ben been teasing you about girls?

— It’s no Ben. It’s everybody at school! They’ve all got girlfriends!

— Son, you’re fifteen. There’s still time.

Ross’s eyes at first widen in horror then narrow into slits, as he contemplates his father. It isn’t a comfortable expression for Euan to witness. It seems to say: you can either be a god or a joke depending on how you answer this next question. — How old were you when… the boy hesitates, — when you first done it with a girl?

Fuck. Euan feels something hard and blunt strike him inside. — I really don’t think that’s the sort of question you ask your father… he nervously offers. — Ross, look –

— How old?! his son commands, in real distress.

Euan regards Ross. The boy often seems the same tousle-headed little rogue of old. However, a certain ranginess and rash of spots, as well as a more sullen demeanour, testify to puberty’s ongoing assault, and therefore the inevitability of this conversation in some form. But Euan grimly assumed that today’s boys and girls would be watching extreme pornography online and hooking up on social media sites, doing despicable things to each other, then filming and posting the grotesque and humiliating results. He anticipated dealing with the psychological problems of post-capitalist abundance, yet here he is, confronted with traditional scarcity. He clears his throat. — Well, son, those were different times… How can he tell the boy that school sex was out of bounds in his village, as it would invariably have meant shagging a blood relative? (Not that this stopped some of them!) That he was twenty-two and at university by the time he enjoyed full congress with a woman? That Ross’s mother, Carlotta – then eighteen to his twenty-five and infinitely more experienced – was only his second lover? — I was fifteen, son. He opts to embellish an incident where he got the tit from a cousin’s visiting friend into an episode of penetrative, mind-blowing, no-holds-barred sex. This isn’t such a difficult step as this masturbatory bejewelling has taken place countless times in his imagination. — I remember it like yesterday, as it was around this time, a few days after my birthday, he says, pleased that he’s got in the reminder. — So don’t worry, you’re still a young chap. He ruffles the boy’s hair. — Time is on your side, trooper.

— Thanks, Dad, Ross sniffs, mildly reassured. — And happy birthday, by the way.

With that Ross runs back upstairs to his room. No sooner has he departed than Euan hears a key in the front-door lock. Moving out to the hallway to investigate, he witnesses his brother-in-law creeping in. Simon’s eyes are wild, rather than bleary, with his shock of grey-black hair, shaved at the sides, sprouting from a still-angular face, all cheekbones and wedged chin. So he’s stayed out again, hasn’t used the spare room they made up for him. It’s ludicrous: he’s worse than a teenager. — You’re in, Euan, Simon David Williamson says with puckish enthusiasm, instantly disarming Euan by pushing both a card and a bottle of champagne into his hands. — Happy five-zero, buddy boy! Where’s kid sis? Still in the Maggie Thatcher?

— She has a lot to do for tomorrow, so I expect she’ll lie in, Euan declares, heading back to the kitchen, lowering the champagne to the marble worktop and opening the card. It features a cartoon depicting a wily, sophisticated man, dressed like an orchestra conductor, holding a baton, and linking arms with a young buxom woman on each side, both of whom hold violins. The caption: THE OLDER THE FIDDLE, THE BETTER THE TUNE, SO GET YOURSELF FIDDLING ABOUT REAL SOON! HAPPY 50TH BIRTHDAY!

Simon, his gaze burningly intense, drinks in Euan’s study of his offering. Euan looks up at his brother-in-law and house guest, feeling himself surprisingly moved. — Thanks, Simon… It’s nice somebody remembered… My birthday tends to get forgotten in all the Christmas hullabaloo.

— You were born one day before that daft hippy on the cross, Simon nods, — I mind of that.

— Well, it’s appreciated. So what did you get up to last night?

Simon Williamson’s face screws up as he reads a text message that has jumped onto his screen. — It’s what I didn’t get up to that seems to be the problem, he snorts. — Some women, mature women, will not take no for an answer. Life’s crazy casualties… Otherwise, old acquaintances. You need to keep in touch; it’s only good manners, Simon insists, popping the champagne, the cork smacking the ceiling, as he pours the bubbling elixir into two flutes he’s taken from the glass display unit. — If somebody gives you champagne in a plastic vessel… no class. Here’s a story that will interest you, professionally speaking, he snaps in a way that permits no dissent from this contention. — I was in Miami Beach last month, at one of those hotels where they strictly adhere to glass. That’s Florida, you aren’t allowed to do anything there unless it’s potentially hazardous to others; guns in waistbands, cigarettes in bars, drugs that make you cannibalise strangers. Of course, I love it. I was ogling some poolside lovelies, cavorting in their skimpy wee two-pieces, when a bit of drunken horseplay resulted in the breaking of a glass. One of the said lovelies stood on the shards. As her blood plumed in the blue water at the edge of the pool, to the consternation of all in the vicinity, I was straight over, taking a leaf out of your book and doing my ‘I’m a doctor’ thing. I demanded that the staff brought me bandages and plasters. As they were swiftly procured, I wrapped the girl’s foot and helped escort her back to her room, reassuring her that although it didn’t need stitches, it would be best if she lay down for a bit. He breaks off his tale to hand Euan a glass, and toasts him. — Happy birthday!

— Cheers, Simon. Euan takes a drink, enjoying the fizz and rush of the alcohol. — Was it bleeding heavily? If so –

— Aye, Simon continues, — the poor lassie was a bit worried that the blood was seeping through the bandages, but I told her that it would soon clot.

— Well, not necessarily –

But Simon is allowing no interruptions. — Of course she started asking about the Connery accent and how I became a doctor. Obviously, I was giving it the old chat, inspired by you, buddy. I was even telling her the difference between a podiatrist and a foot surgeon, for fuck sakes!

Euan can’t help but feel the balm seep into his ego.

— To cut a beautifully long story crassly short, his brother-in-law’s large eyes blaze as he necks the remains of the flute, urging Euan to do the same before topping them up, — soon we were riding away. I’m on top, banging her senseless. In response to Euan’s raised brows, he helpfully adds, — Young thing, fit as a butcher’s dug, on holiday fae South Carolina. But when we’re done, I’m concerned to note that the bed is covered in blood, and the poor poolside lovely, on also noting this, starts going into shock. I told her we’d best call an ambulance in order to be safe rather than sorry.

— God… it might have been the lateral plantar, or perhaps one of the dorsal metatarsals –

— Anyway, the ambulance arrived post-haste and they took her away and kept her in overnight. Just as well I was off the next morning!

Simon continues his tales of his recent Florida holiday, every one of which seems to Euan to involve sex with different women. He stands and listens patiently, drinking his glass of champagne. By the end of the bottle, he feels satisfyingly heady.

— We should slip out for a beer, Simon suggests. — My mother will be round soon and I’ll get the usual shit from her about where my life is going, and we’ll just be under Carra’s feet as she prepares the meal. Italian women and kitchens, you know the drill.

— What about Ben? You haven’t really seen much of him since you’ve been up here.

Simon Williamson rolls his eyes in contempt. — That lad is spoiled tae fuck by her side: rich, Tory, Surrey, cock-sucking, hound-wanking, House of Lords- and monarchy-worshipping paedophile bastards. I’m taking him to the Hibs–Raith game at New Year. Yes, he’ll pine for the Emirates, but the boy needs to experience the real world, and we’re in the hospitality suite, so it’s not like I’m exactly throwing him in at the deep end… Anyway… He makes a drinking gesture. — El peevo?

Euan is swayed by Simon’s logic. Down the years stories about his brother-in-law have abounded, but as Simon lives in London, they have never done anything as a duo. It would be nice to get out for an hour or so. Perhaps if they bonded a little it would make for a more pleasant Christmas. — The Colinton Dell Inn has a really nice guest ale from –

— Fuck the Colinton Dell Inn and its guest ales all the way up their petit bourgeois rectums, Simon says, eyes up from fiddling around on his phone. — A cab is on its way right now to whisk us into town.

A couple of minutes later they emerge into brisk and squally weather and climb into a hackney cab, driven by a loud, brash man, his hair a mop of corkscrew curls. He and Simon, whom he calls Sick Boy, seem to be arguing about the merits of two dating sites. — Slider’s the best, the driver, whom Simon refers to as Terry, argues. — Nae fuckin aboot, jist get right doon tae it!

— Bullshit. Tinder rules. You need at least the veneer of the romance. The intrigue of seduction is the best part of the whole enterprise. The hump at the end of it is just simple bag emptying. The process of allurement and inveigling always provides the bulk of the magic. Not that I generally use Tinder for sexual purposes, it’s more of a recruitment tool for the agency. You know, I’m thinking of opening a branch of Colleagues in Manchester. Well, with the BBC now in Salford… Simon has his phone out and is skimming through what appears to Euan to be headshots of women, and mainly young ones.

— What… that’s a phone dating application?

— What a shite name for an escort agency, Terry contends, as the taxi rumbles towards the city centre.

— Is it fuck a shite name, Simon protests to Terry, ignoring Euan. — It’s not a hoors’ agency, Terry, it’s designed for the business professional. Anybody can get sex now. This is about surface, image: businesspersons wanting to make the right impression. Nothing says success like having bright and gorgeous associates. Thirty-two per cent of our girls are MBAs.

— Mooth Before Erse? Ah should hope so!

— Masters in business administration. At Colleagues we like them to be able to talk business as well as get down to it. It’s all about sophistication.

— Aye, but they still ride them. That’s hoorin tae me, ay.

— That’s for the girls to negotiate, Simon says impatiently, looking at his app. — We take our fee as an agency and get client feedback to ensure the girls maintain the standards we expect. Enough of this, though, he gruffly declares, — on to affairs festive. His eyes scan the screen. — Three prospects in the Counting House: two young things and a seasoned pro that looks good value. Simon sticks the headshot of a pouty brunette in front of Euan. — Would you? Assuming, of course, you were single?

— I don’t – well, I suppose –

— You’d fuckin ride it raw, mate, Terry sings from the front seat. — It’s the wey wir hard-wired. Guaranteed. Ah’m only gaun by Richard Attenborough. That cunt’s been aw ower this fuckin planet, watched everything that moves n analysed its cowpin behaviour. Scientific. He taps his head. — Trust in Dickie.

Simon is looking at another incoming text message. — Hunting the women you want, avoiding the ones you don’t, it’s such a drag… He glances up at the back of Terry’s head as they roll over the North Bridge into Princes Street. — And it’s David Attenborough, ya fucking docile mutation. Richard was the cunt that died. The actor. Humped Judy Geeson after strangling her in 10 Rillington Place. Mind, kenning you, ye probably did mean Richard, Simon asserts, setting off a round of laughing and bickering with Terry, which to Euan’s ears is both pointless and obscene.

They fight their way to the bar of a George Street pub packed with festive revellers. Christmas songs of the seventies and eighties blast out. As Euan gets the drinks in, Terry immediately hooks up with a woman whom, Simon explains, he arranged to meet on Slider. In truculent entitlement he manoeuvres elbow room at the bar, Euan deploying polite diligence to attain the same result, as Terry vanishes with his consort. — And that’s it? He’s off with her? Euan asks.

— Yes, done deal. He’ll probably bang her in the back of the taxi. Simon holds up his glass. — Happy birthday!

Sure enough, Terry returns fifteen minutes later, a smile etched on his face. His companions are only halfway through their beers. — Mission accomplished, he winks. — Slide it in, slide it oot, git thum frothin at the mooth.

With their hard-won advantageous position at the bar, Euan anticipates another round, but Simon, checking his phone, suggests they move to an establishment down the street.

Outside, the cold is starting to bite. Euan is relieved that they don’t wander too far down Hanover Street before Simon leads their descent into a basement space. As his brother-in-law hits the bar, Euan turns to a yawning Terry. — Are you and Simon old friends?

— Kent Sick Boy for years. He’s Leith, ah’m Stenhoose, but we eywis goat on. Baith shaggers, baith Hibbies, ah suppose.

— Yes, he’s taking Ben to Easter Road at New Year.

— You follow the fitba, bud?

— I do, but I don’t really support any team. On my island, passions weren’t highly aroused.

— Keep aw that for the cowpin, mate, right? Country birds ur meant tae be game as fuck. Suppose thaire’s nowt else tae dae but, ay-no, mate?

Euan can only force an awkward nod, but his blushes are saved as Simon returns from the bar, carrying incongruously summery-looking drinks. He steers them over to a relatively quiet spot close to the toilets. — Time for a sneaky wee guzzle of the most vile cocktail ever. If you can knock this back in a oner, you are fucking men, he declares, thrusting beverages that look like pina coladas at Terry and Euan.

— Fuck… it’s Christmas but, ay, Terry says, holding his nose and knocking his back. Simon shadows him.

Euan sips at his drink. Despite the pineapple, coconut and lemonade, it has a rank but metallic bite to it; there is something bitter and evil at its centre. — What is this?

— My own special recipe. Designed for your birthday! Drink, drink, drain your glass; raise your glass high! Simon commands in song.

Euan gives a well-it-is-my-birthday-and-it-is-Christmas-Eve shrug and swallows it back. Whatever abominable concoction lies in the fabric of the cocktail, it’s easier to down it in one.

Simon eyes are diverted from the phone’s screen to look over to a woman wearing a green top, who is scanning the bar. — That one’s probably been on the prowl in the same spot since I rogered her last Christmas!

Terry swiftly looks across. He puts on a David Attenborough voice: — If the beast is at its watering hole, it’s about to get its hole watered… and he sweeps back his corkscrew mane, winks at the woman and heads over to her.

Euan and Simon watch him in action. When the woman starts giggling at some comment, her hand reaching to her hair, they know the deal has been sealed. To Euan, Simon’s rapacious eyes scrutinise Terry as much as his new companion. — Terry is phenomenally effective. With a certain type of woman, he spits out bitterly.

His reaction makes Euan uncomfortable, and inclined to change the subject. — You were up last Christmas to see your mum?

— Yes… Ah ha, he says, his busy index finger flicking through an on-screen catalogue of girls’ faces, most of whom seem to be in their twenties, — a Ghost of Christmas Tinder Present!

— I can see why it would be a powerful dating tool, Euan says nervously. He is suddenly aware of nausea in the pit of his stomach, followed by a tingling in his arms and chest. He feels warm and he is sweating. After a brief panic clashes with this excitement, he succumbs to a strange glow coming over him, like a golden cloak of levity has been lowered onto his shoulders.

— Euan, you can download this app in seconds, Simon urges. — Seriously. Or I’m happy to shop around on your behalf, and he casts his eye over a group of women, compelling Euan to follow.

— I can’t! I’m married… he says wistfully, thinking of Carlotta, — to your sister!

— Jesus fuck, am I in the wrong century, or what? Simon snaps. — Let’s enjoy the benefits of neoliberalism before it goes tits-up, finally detonating this wretched planet from under our feet. We have a perfect synthesis of the very best of the free market and socialism, right here on our phones! It’s the answer to the greatest problem of all time – the loneliness and misery caused by not getting your hole at Christmas – and it’s free!

— But I love Carlotta! Euan shouts in triumph.

His brother-in-law rolls his eyes in exasperation. — What’s love got to do, got to do with it, he sings, then explains in a forced patience: — In today’s marketplace, sex is a commodity like any other.

— I’m not in today’s marketplace, and I don’t want to be, Euan says, feeling his jaw starting to grind. His mouth is dry. He needs water.

— How quaintly Protestant. Johnny Knox would be proud. I am fortunate to be blessed with the papist’s slate-wiping gift of confession, which I cheerfully deploy once every few years.

Euan dabs his sweaty forehead with a hanky, sucks in some air. The Christmas tree lights and the glow of tinsel are particularly vivid. — I feel pretty buzzed after the champers and that vile-tasting short… What was it…? That lambswool jumper of yours, he touches Simon’s forearm, — it feels so soft.

— Of course. I spiked the cocktail with MDMA powder.

— You what… I don’t do drugs, I’ve never done drugs…

— Well, you’re doing them now. So kick back, relax and enjoy.

As Euan sucks in air and pushes his melting bones into a seat at a suddenly vacated table, Terry, who has been chatting to the woman in the green top, storms over to Simon, all lit up. — Did you pit E in that drink? Turnin ays intae a fuckin lesbo, ya sabotaging cunt! Ah’m away tae the bogs tae hit the ching n take the love oot ay this mix n git the fuckin shaggin back in. Fuckin clart! And he shakes his curls and heads to the toilets.

WHOOSH!

Euan is rising up through himself in an unabating ascent. It is good. He thinks of his father and that rapturous high the old man seemed to get from prayer and song on Sundays. He considers Carlotta and how much he loves her. He doesn’t tell her often enough. He shows it, but doesn’t say the words. Not nearly enough. He has to phone her now.

He moots this to Simon. — Bad idea. Tell her straight or not at all. She’ll just think it’s the drug talking. Which it is.

— No it’s not!

— Tell her tomorrow then: at the Christmas dinner table. In front of us all.

— I will, Euan states emphatically, then he starts to tell Simon about Ross, and then his own sexual experiences. Or lack of.

— Ecstasy is a truth drug, Simon says. — I thought it was time we got to know each other. All these years we’ve been in the same family, yet we’ve barely spoken.

— Yes, we’ve certainly never had a time like this…

Simon prods his brother-in-law’s chest. The action isn’t aggressive or intrusive to Euan, it feels quite bromantic. — You need to experience different women, Simon’s head swivels across the bar, iPhone finally sliding into his pocket, — or the resentment will eventually destroy your marriage.

— No it won’t.

— Yes it will. We are nothing but consumers now: of sex, drugs, war, guns, clothes, TV shows. He waves his hand in grandiose derision. — Look at this crowd of miserable cretins, pretending to have fun.

Euan checks out the revellers. There is a kind of desperation about it all. A bunch of young lads in Christmas jumpers are swaggering in superficial bonhomie, but waiting for the one drink that will pit them violently against some strangers, or, failing that, each other. A group of office girls are comforting a morbidly obese colleague, who is bubbling in tears. Sitting a little apart, two others chuckle in a vicious, conspiratorial glee at her distress. A barman, lower lip hanging and eyes dulled in clinical depression, sets about the joyless task of collecting the glasses that appear on the tables like baby rabbits in a spring meadow. All this to an unceasing medley of Christmas pop hits from the seventies and eighties which have become such staple fare every Yuletide that they have people mumbling the words under their breath, like discharged military combat victims of post-traumatic stress.

It is in such an environment that Simon David Williamson increasingly warms to his theme. — We have to keep on going till the train hits the buffers; then we shelve the insanity and neurosis and build a better world. But we can’t do that until this paradigm comes to a natural end. So for now we simply go with neoliberalism as an economic and social system, and pursue those addictions relentlessly. We have no choice in the matter. Marx was wrong about capitalism being replaced by a wealthy, educated, workers’ democracy; it’s being replaced by an impoverished, tech-savvy, shaggers’ republic.

Enthralled and horrified by Simon’s bleak dystopia, Euan shakes his head in agitation. — But there has to be choice, he protests, as Roy Wood once again reiterates his wish that it could be Christmas every day, — there has to be doing the right thing.

— Increasingly not. Simon Williamson tosses his head back, running his hand through black and silver locks. — Doing the right thing is now for the loser, the mug, the victim. That is how the world has changed. He takes a pen and small notebook out of his pocket and draws a diagram on a blank page.

— The only real choices are proscribed, slightly different versions of the wrong thing, basically picking an alternative route to the same overriding hell. Jesus, these poodirs are total fucking old-school… Simon says, wiping some sweat from his brow. — Still, he lets his saucer eyes swivel to Euan, — it’s not all bad, then he turns and stares at a girl, who is standing a few feet away with a friend. He holds up his phone. She stares back and laughs before coming over, introducing herself as Jill, and presenting her cheek for, and receiving, a dignified peck from the rising Simon. As she converses with his brother-in-law, Euan is enchanted to find his misgivings peeling away. Jill is nothing like the desperate online daters of his imagination. She is young, confident, good-looking and obviously smart. Her friend, roughly the same age, but a little bit plumper, looks at him. — I’m Katy.

— Hi, Katy, I’m Euan. Are you, em, a Tinder person too?

Katy seems to evaluate him for a second, before responding. ‘My Girl’ by Madness comes on the jukebox. Euan thinks of Carlotta. — I use it occasionally, but it can get dispiriting. Most people are just looking for sex. Fair enough. We all have our needs. But it’s sometimes too much. Do you use the app?

— No. I’m married.

Katy raises her brows. She touches his arm, looking at him in enervated leniency. — Good for you, she sings, but in a detached manner. Then she spots somebody and flutters across the bar. Euan is staggered to experience a deep sense of loss at her departure, which is assuaged by the notion that everything is okay.

A slender blonde woman, probably in her thirties, Euan fancies, has entered the bar and is staring at Simon. She is striking, with almost translucent skin and haunting, luminous blue eyes. On meeting her stare, his brother-in-law sighs loudly. A Ghost of Christmas Tinder Past, and he apologises to Jill, and heads over to address the incomer. Jill and Euan watch in silence as they exchange some words, which Euan senses are heated, before Simon heads back to them. He jostles Jill and Euan over to an empty table.

To Euan’s surprise, the blonde woman joins them, a glass of white wine in her hand, never taking her eyes off Simon. He is preoccupied, canoodling with Jill. It’s at that point Euan thinks that the woman might be older than he first thought; her skin is flawless, but her eyes carry a weight of experience.

She turns to Euan, still looking at Simon. — Well, he obviously isn’t going to introduce us. I’m Marianne.

Euan extends his hand, glancing over at his brother-in-law whose fingers now caress Jill’s dark-stockinged thigh, as her tongue goes into his ear.

And Euan is looking at Marianne, who watches the scene in sheer loathing. Yes, he considers, she might even be close to his age, but there is something majestic about her. All the flaws of ageing, the lines, the bags, the crow’s feet, seem to have been airbrushed from her. He wonders if it could be the drug. All he sees is the essence of this strikingly beautiful woman. — Euan, he introduces himself. — Have you known Simon long?

— For years. Since I was in my teens. I’d say twenty per cent a blessing, eighty per cent a curse, she informs him in a monotone voice. To his ear, it straddles scheme and suburb.

— Wow. In what sense? he asks, moving closer to her, and looking at Simon.

— He’s a menace to lassies, Marianne says matter-of-factly. — He makes them fall for him, and then he just uses them.

— But… you’re still here, in his company.

— Then I’m still in his control, she laughs joylessly, then bitterly lashes out and kicks Simon’s shin. — Bastard.

— What? Simon breaks his grip on Jill to glare at her. — Are you fucking mental? Calm doon!

— Fucking bastard. Marianne kicks out again, then, looking at the younger woman, acidly scoffs, — You poor wee fucking cow. He’s an old cunt now. I least I was conned by a young, exciting guy, and she rises and throws the contents of her wine glass over him.

Simon Williamson sits immobile, wine dripping from his face, as the oohs and aahs of the nearby drinkers reverberate. Euan fishes out his hanky and passes it to his brother-in-law. — Go after her, Simon urges him, nodding at the departing Marianne. — Talk to her. Been stalking me for weeks, knowing I’d be up from London for Christmas. She resents that she’s no longer young, but it happens to us all. I mean, get the fuck over yourself, he intones in a rising plea to the bar, before turning to Jill. — Repeat after me: I will never turn into my mother!

— I will never turn into my mother, Jill says emphatically.

— Attagirl. Simon appreciatively grapples her knee. — It’s all a state of mind. You obviously have the big-match temperament.

— I’m ticklish, Jill chuckles and pushes his hand away, before asking, — Do you think I could work for Colleagues? I’ve no got an MBA but I’ve an HND in Management Studies fae Napier and I just need another four credits to get it made up tae a BA.

— If BA stands for beautiful arse — and I think in your case it does — then it seems to me that you have all the essential attributes! Though all potential partners, as we call them, are subject to the most rigorous and searching interview procedures, he purrs.

Euan is done with Simon’s company. Perversely, his brother-in-law probably meant well in his own twisted way, but he has filled him full of drugs, and attempted to get him to cheat on his wife, the man’s own sister! He hesitates for a second, before rising to follow Marianne. In the event, she has only got as far as the bar, where she stands, holding her bag as if waiting on somebody. — Are you okay?

— I’m fine, Marianne says, the second word hissing out.

— Are you…?

— I’m waiting on a cab. She waves her phone, the motion seeming to precipitate its ringing. — Here we go.

— Ehm, if you don’t mind me asking, which way are you going? I’m going to bow out too.

— Liberton, Marianne responds in a vague tone, tucking her hair behind one ear. — Any good?

— Yes. Great.

In the back of the cab, the relative heat gives Euan another set of E-rushes. They head up the Bridges towards the Commonwealth Pool. It isn’t that far from his house. But he can’t go home in this state.

She picks up on his agitation. — Are you okay?

— Not really. Simon spiked my drink with MDMA powder. It was apparently his idea of a big festive joke. I’m not used to drugs… these days, he feels the need to add, worried that she’ll find him a little straight and dull. He suddenly glances at her feet; small, dainty and strapped into heels. — You have very beautiful feet.

— Kinky that way, are you?

— No, but perhaps a little obsessed. I’m a foot doctor, a podiatrist, he explains, as they pass his employ at the Royal Infirmary.

Jill has gone to the toilet with Katy to do some powder, leaving Simon the opportunity to get back on Tinder. However, he sees Terry advancing towards him. — Where have you been?

— Took that yin in the green toap roond tae Thistle Street Lane in the cab. Thanks tae your daft wee MDMA ah jist chowed at her fanny till she went bananas. Didnae even ram it. Now she wants tae see ays again, the lot. Thinks ah’m like that aw the time. Telt her tae git the fuck oot ay ma cab!

— You’re a gentleman, Tez.

— N ah saw your brar-in-law, that Euan cunt, sneakin oaf wi that Marianne bird, Terry declares, his eyes dancing in front of Simon. — How come ah nivir rattled that yin back in the day? Fit as.

— Knobbed her aw weys fir years. First her faither threatened me, then her fucking husband. Obviously I was still banging her when she got married, and at her instigation. But I was a gent. I told her I found it inherently ungracious breaching a pussy bequeathed to another chap, so I always jacksie-rammed her eftir that. Taught her how to orgasm on anal, the lot.

— Gap oan the CV for lean Lawson, n thaire’s no many ay thaim, he says, put out. — Cunt, if she wis that much ay an imposition, ye should’ve slipped me her phone number, ah’d have got ye oaf her mind. Or mibbe that’s what ye wir feart, ay!

— That. Will. Be. The. Fucking. Day.

— Shoatie, Terry glances at the two young women returning from the toilet, — here’s the fanny back: time fir the fuckin charm offensive!

The first to rise in the McCorkindale household on Christmas Day is Simon Williamson. He hasn’t been able to sleep, as is always the case when he’s done loads of alcohol or drugs. He regards this wanton consumption as a weakness, but as it’s Christmas, and pretty much a rarity for him these days, he resists beating himself up about it. Euan soon joins him in the kitchen, still looking a little blitzed from the night before. – That was some stuff, he gasps, his voice low. — That powder. I couldn’t sleep.

— Ha! Welcome to my world. Try doing some ching and base on top of it, like me –

— You are on your own! I had to get back to Carlotta. Luckily she’s a heavy sleeper. I lay awake beside her the entire night, all sweating and stiff like a drug addict!

— On that note, how was Marianne? Did you go to hers?

Euan seems to think about lying, before realising the futility of it. — Yes, I really needed to get myself together before going home. I had an interesting chat with her. She’s a very complicated woman.

Simon Williamson raises a solitary brow. — The untrained eye would certainly see it that way.

— What do you mean?

— She’s not complicated at all. Complicated is good. Complicated is interesting. She’s neither.

— Well, she seemed that way to me.

— A damaged simpleton can appear complicated because their personal behaviour is erratic and they have no impulse control. But that is not good. Damaged simpletons are merely exasperating and tiresome. I told her several fucking decades ago that she’d gotten obsessed with me and that I wanted nothing more to do with her. But no, she kept coming back, demanding to see me. The spoiled daddy’s girl used to getting everything she wants. Simon Williamson stares brutally at his brother-in-law. — Her faither, first gaunny kill ays for riding her, then gaunny kill ays for no riding her! He shiver-shrugs, as if literally casting off a chilling cloak of injustice. — The entire family is a bunch ay controlling nutters.

— Keep it down, Euan shushes him, as he hears the toilet flush from a bathroom upstairs.

Simon nods and drops his voice. — So muggins here kept dutifully slamming it up her, with, I hasten to add, increasing reluctance. In her defence it has to be said that she’s a terrific ride, though I have to take some credit for that: she flourished under my selfless tutelage. Then, when she vanished over a decade ago, I thought: good riddance. But I genuinely hoped she had found happiness. He says the word in a French accent, making it sound like a penis. — But no, the dopey prick who took her on board, he’s seen the light. Voilà, she’s back in my face, hassling me by text, castigating me for chasing minge that is a) younger, and b) not her. He shrugs. — So what about you, did you give her the message?

— Don’t be ridiculous, Euan splutters. Whoever had used the upstairs bathroom seemed to go back to bed. — I went to her place to compose myself and let that MDMA you gave me wear off. Thankfully, Carlotta was fast asleep when I got in. She wasn’t charmed when she briefly stirred this morning, but she was, in her words, ‘glad we’d bonded’.

Suddenly there is activity. Ross comes down the stairs, with Ben following. — Here’s the gadges! Simon announces. – Merry Christmas, you handsome young bucks! A pair of heartbreakers, huh, Euan? That vintage Italian-Scots genetic and cultural combination: it devastates the girls. Leaves them senseless, heaving wreckages.

His son and nephew look at him, both deeply embarrassed by his proclamation, and each more than a little doubtful.

— Anyway, I’m going to check out some morning telly, Simon declares. — In fact I’m not going to move from that couch until it’s time for my Christmas dinner. This is breakfast, and he unwraps the gold foil and bites the ear off a Lindt chocolate teddy bear, pointing to the heart on its chest. – Take that, ya Jambo bastard, and he decants to the living room.

Carlotta comes downstairs and starts on the meal preparations. Euan wants to help but his wife insists she has it all planned and that he should sit down with Simon and the boys and watch TV. Ross and Ben are less than enthralled at the prospect and retreat upstairs, while Euan complies, to find Simon enjoying an Innis & Gunn lager with the chocolate teddy, watching a rerun of White Christmas.

— A little early, Euan says, looking at the tin of beer.

— It’s Christmas, for fuck sake. And this lager is amazing. Who would have thought that the Scots could produce the best lager in the world? It’s what I would imagine Sleeping Beauty’s sweet douched-out fanny to taste like!

This extreme sexualisation of everything, Euan ponders, does he ever stop? Then he considers that it might not be a bad idea to have a couple of beers. Still woozy from the MDMA, they might provide a covering excuse for his lassitude. Fortunately, Carlotta seems too caught up in the Christmas dinner preparations to notice. Euan can hear his wife singing, the Eurythmics ‘Thorn in My Side’, melodic and sweet. He feels his heart swelling in his chest.

His mother-in-law and sister-in-law arrive, with Louisa’s husband and three children, all between the ages of seventeen and twenty-four. The house is busy and presents are swapped and unwrapped. Ross and Ben receive identical PS4s, and immediately head upstairs to download a favoured game from the Internet.

The Innis & Gunn lager is settling nicely into Euan, producing a satisfying, mellow cheer. He vaguely thinks something is off-kilter about his son as Ross suddenly reappears in the hallway, cornering Carlotta as she goes into the kitchen, urging his busy mother to follow him upstairs.

He cranes his neck over the back of the settee to watch them and is about to speak, when Simon shakes his arm, and mother and son ascend the stairs behind them. — I love this bit when Crosby makes that speech to Rosemary Clooney about the knight falling off his silver charger… he says, tears welling in his eyes. — That’s the story of my life with women, and he chokes, as if something is breaking in his chest.

Euan observes this in mounting unease. Simon appears to be absolutely genuine in his sentiments. It dawns on him that his brother-in-law is so dangerous to women due to his ability to totally immerse in, and believe, those self-cast fantasy roles.

Eventually, they are shouted through to the dining area at the rear of the kitchen for the meal. Photographs are taken with an air of ceremony. Simon Williamson snaps the family, then, individually, his mother Evita, who looks vacant, Carlotta, Louisa, Gerry and kids, Ben, a sullen Ross, and even Euan. Throughout this process, both Simon and Euan feel a strange tension in the air, but they’re now hungry and looking through mild intoxication’s fug, as they take their seats. Carlotta is whispering urgently to her mother and sister. Mindful of the weight of the Christmas dinner, she has prepared a light starter; small prawn cocktails, with a minimal lemon-based dressing, sit on the table.

Euan sits back appreciatively, and is about to speak, when he sees the tears streaming down his wife’s cheeks. Clutching her mother’s hand, she doesn’t meet his concerned eyes. And Evita is looking daggers right at him. Instinctively, he and Simon glance at each other in puzzlement.

Before Euan can say anything, his son stands up and slaps him hard across the face. — You’re a fuckin dirty old bastard! Ross points at Carlotta. — That’s my mum!

Euan can’t react, or even open his mouth, as his eyes go to his wife. Carlotta is now sobbing in heavy despair, her shoulders shaking. — You should be ashamed of yourself, Louisa screeches at him, as Evita curses in Italian.

The overwhelming sense that the world is crumbling to dust sucks every piece of energy and, indeed, sentience out of Euan.

And then Ross turns on his iPad, holding it up to his shocked father’s face. There he is, yesterday, with that Marianne woman, and they are naked, on her bed, and he is pushing his cock into her lubed-up arsehole, as he strokes her clitoris. She is coaching him through her groans, telling him what to do. And then he looks, in trauma, at his brother-in-law, realising that the words coming out of her mouth are really Simon David Williamson’s.

It flashes through his mind in a storm, as the faces gape in shock and disgust at him: Marianne has emailed him the tape they made. It must have gone to the family iCloud. Ross has accessed it by accident when trying to download the video game for his PlayStation 4. Now they are all watching it, as a family, literally over their Christmas dinner; Euan’s first ever drug-induced infidelity. His sister-in-law and her husband glare in disgust. His mother-in-law is crossing herself. Simon, genuinely shocked, looks at him in a phantom admiration. But in his son and wife, Euan can sense nothing on their shattered and wrecked faces but a deep, uncomprehending betrayal.

Euan McCorkindale can find no words. But he is speaking them, obscenely and deliciously, on the screen, which Ross grips with outstretched arms, firmly, unbendingly, in front of him.

It is Carlotta who finds her voice. — You are fucking out of here. You are fuckin oot ay here right now, and she points to the door.

Euan rises, with his head bowed. He is mortified in the sense of almost turned to actual stone by his shock, beyond even embarrassment. His limbs are heavy and his ears ring, as a rock the size of a black hole fills his stomach and chest cavity. Looking to the door, which seems so far away, he feels himself move towards it. He doesn’t know where he is going and it is only instinct that makes him pick up his coat from its hook in the vestibule, as he leaves his family home, quite possibly forever.

Closing the door behind him and stepping out into the cold, gloomy streets, all he can think of is that Christmas will never be the same again. But his hand goes to the iPhone, and plucks it out of his pocket. Euan McCorkindale doesn’t google hotel accommodation. Instead he hits the Tinder icon, the application he downloaded after leaving Marianne’s in crippling, joyous guilt, in the wee small hours of Christmas Day morning. Already, his cold fingers are quickly scrolling a new future.

4 SPUD – HERE’S TO YOU, MR FORRESTER

A soft Sqezy-boatil heartbreak whine leaks ootay the wee gadge. He needs tae git a trim likesay, ye kin barely see they sparkly wee eyes through yon fur. — Freezin the auld hee-haws oaf here, Toto. Ah’m sorry aboot this, pal, but wi you bein likesay a West Highland terrier, you’ve goat the fur coat, man, ah tells ma boy, curled up at ma feet. Ah feel ehs neb, it’s stane cauld awright, but that’s meant tae be a sign ay canine health. Sometimes ah feel pure bad though, man, like ah’m one ay they gadges thit only gits a dug as an accessory for ma beggin pitch, a sympathy gambit, likesay. N they see Toto n say, — Spud, ah thoat you wir intae cats, man, n ah say, — Aw animals, likesay. N ah tell ye but, it’s pure done ays nae herm huvin Toto. For the beg, n that, ay. People hate tae see animals suffer.

— Bit that wisnae the reason ah goat ye, Toto, it wis mair fir the companionship, ay, pal, ah goes tae um. Ah ken animals cannae make oot what yir sayin, bit they kin detect the vibe, man, they wee bits ay negative body lingo ye gie oot whin yir voice or even think they bad thoats. It’s how the world’s sick, man: that media run by the corporations, spreadin that virus ay bad vibes. That Rupert Murdoch cat in that Sun. Every time ah see a headline in that paper ah just go: aw, man. Ah dinnae like subjectin Toto tae that sortay deal. It’s true but, ye need a wee four-legged buddy tae go through life wi, now that aw the two-legged yins have aw waltzed oaf intae the sunset, ken?

The beg’s gaun no too bad but, the festive period is eywis decent. Cats aw fill ay good cheer n booze, and wi the weather bein that cauld, it sort ay turns aw they indifferent herts, ken?

So ah’m happy wi ma twelve quid sixty-two pence bounty. Four hours in the cauld, still below minimum wage, even if ye do git peyed fir jist standin aroond. It’s funny, but whin ye start the John Greig, ye pit oan that coupon: that sad, baleful pus that screams ‘help ays’ tae the world. By the end ay the mooch, whin the cauld has crept intae yir bones, ye dinnae need tae fake it any mair. So ah’m aboot tae pack up whin ah realise thaire’s a figure standin ower ays. Likesay lingerin, no makin any attempt tae chip a coin intae the auld styrofoam. Ah pure dinnae want tae look up, cause sometimes ye git a radge or a wideo giein ye hassle. But ah hears the friendly tone, — Awright, Spud, so ah raises ma heid.

Man, it’s Mikey Forrester starin doon at ays. — Mikey! How goes? ah asks. Cause ah’ve goat tae say that Mikey boy seems a wee bit doon at heel n aw, wearin a tatty fleece, jeans n trainers. Ah’m kinday surprised, man. The last time ah seen him, the Forrester gadge seemed tae be daein well; aw tin flutes n long coats fae wannabe gangster central.

— Good, Spud, Forrester goes, but ye kin sortay tell the cat’s tryin tae summon as much enthusiasm as he kin, ken? — Ah’ve got a wee bit ay graft, if yir interested. Involves good food and travel. Fancy a pint?

Ah’m aw lugs in this situ, man. — You’ll have tae be the cat in chair, like, Mikey. Ah’m a bit short ay the hirey’s gadgie, ah tells a wee fib. Cannae afford tae use that twelve quid oan beer, man: thaire’s beans n toast fir me n dug food fir Toto tae come ootay yon haul.

— I gathered that.

— They let ye in wi dugs in that place ower the street there, ah points tae the pub.

Mikey nods and we head ower the cobblestanes intae that awfay welcome howf. Ken whin the heat jist blasts oot? Ye cannae beat that, man, even though it’s like the maist miserable time for a wee while, while the body pure adjusts. It’s like that fulum ah saw once whin they wir in space n hud tae wrap up in likesay tinfoil n jump fae one ship tae another, wi nae suits oan or nowt. Even jist a few seconds ay that cauld. It’s the decompression time. Git they hands n taes warmed up. It helps wi Toto curlin up oan ma feet as Mikey shouts up two pints ay San Miguel lager.

When eh sets thum doon oan the table, eh goes, — I’ve gone intae a wee partnership wi Victor Syme, then eh adds in a low voice, — Vic’s back, like.

Ah’m pure no sae keen oan this gig now, man, cause Syme’s well kent as a bad cat, n ah dinnae think it’ll be Mikey that’s runnin the show here. So the wee alarm in ma heid’s gaun: aw-aw, aw-aw…

— Thaire’s decent spondoolays in this, and it’s a piece ay pish.

But, well, let the cat ootline the deal but, man. Does nae herm tae listen tae what the boy’s goat tae say, ay. — Is thaire any chance ay a wee poppy advance oan the fee fir this joab, man? Things been a bit slow, likesay.

— I’m sure we kin work something oot. No want tae hear my proposition first but?

— Eh, aye, ah goes, suppin mair ay the pint. But ah’m awready jumpin aheid ay masel, thinkin thit things are lookin up but, n it’s aboot time the boy Murphy caught a wee brek. Everybody else, even the maist marginalised kittens in the basket, seems tae huv left ays behind. Boot in the hee-haws fir the auld self-esteem, man. No kiddin ye. But tae be wanted again, for anything, it feels barry.

So the Forrester felly is tellin ays that aw ah need tae dae is pick up a wee package and droap it oaf. If ah wis tae git a cash advance ootay Mikey, thaire’s mibbe some new troosers, n a pair ay trainers wi some tread oan thum oot ay it. Ah dinnae ken aboot Mikey but; likesay whether the dude is trustworthy or no. Goat tae dae the fieldwork here, man. — The delivery but, it’s no collies, man, is it? ah asks um. — Cause ah’m no like one ay they drug smugglers, no way, Jose.

Mikey shakes that shaved dome, then runs a hand ower it. It’s like eh tries tae copy aw they gangsters, the likes ay Fat Tyrone n that. — Ah swear, bud, it’s nowt like that, the Forrest Fire explains. — Aw ye need tae dae is fly tae Istanbul and a boy’ll pick ye up at the airport and gie ye a boax tae take tae Berlin oan the train. You git the package thaire, ye gie it tae another boy. Under nae circumstances, and the cat looks awfay, awfay serious, — dae ye try n open the boax.

— Sortay like that fulum, The Transporter?

— Exactly.

— But, eh, what is in it, likesay?

Mikey gies ays a grim smile. Looks around, lowers ehs voice, leans intae ays. — A kidney, Spud. A human kidney: for a life-saving operation.

Uh-oh. Ah’m no sure aboot this, man. — What? Is that no illegal, smuggling body parts, like the invasion ay the bodysnatchers n aw that?

Mikey shakes ehs heid again. — This is aw kosher, buddy boy. We’ve goat a certificate for it, the lot. Ye cannae open the boax cause it’s aw sealed n sterile, wi the kidney packed in ice or some frozen cauld chemical that isnae ice but works like ice.

— It isnae ice?

— Naw, but it works like ice. Like what they’ve invented tae replace ice.

— Replace ice… Whoa, man, no sae sure aboot that. Ice is pure natural like, well, it’s usually made artificially in fridges like, but in its natural state in the polar regions –

Mikey waves ehs hand n shakes ehs heid. — Naw, Spud. No in likes ay drinks n that, eh laughs, hudin up his pint. — But it works better freezin organs.

— Keeps thum tip-top till auld transplant, likesay?

— Bang on the money! Ye open the boax n the cunt starts tae deteriorate n it’s fuckin useless, ay?

— But the transportation ay this, man, is it no a bit dodgy?

— Well, ye cannae take it through airport security, but ye kin git it oan trains easy enough. A boy meets ye wi it at the Istanbul airport and you just jump oan the train tae Berlin. Another gadge picks it up, you bounce tae the airport in a Joe Baxi n head hame, five hundred bar richer. N that’s eftir ah front ye another five hundred bar right now. Cannae say fairer than that.

Five hundred bar… right now… — Whaes kidney is it?

— A doner’s.

— Like some deid gadgie’s?

— Aye… well, no necessarily, cause ye can live fine wi just one, Mikey says, then goes aw thoughtful. — It might be somebody daein this for one ay thair family. Ah dinnae ken. Ah’m no gaunny say tae Vic Syme… n eh looks at ays n droaps ehs voice, — ah’m no gaunny say tae the boy that runs the saunas, where’s this came fae and where’s it gaun? Ma motto is ask nae questions n yi’ll git telt nae lies. Here’s aw the paperwork, eh sais n passes ays a certificate.

It looks like something ye could git oaf that Internet, likesay download, so ah suppose that makes it sortay official enough. — It’s goat tae be snide though… Vic Syme, likesay… ah goes. Dinnae ken the boy but that jungle cat has the rep ay bein a sabre-toothed killer.

— Well, mate, there’s ey gaunny be risks, n it’s obviously black-market goods, it’ll be some private clinic daein the op, aye. But the job’s yours if ye want it, Mikey sais. — Aw ah kin say is that they’ve been daein a lot ay this sortay stuff and thuv no hud any bother yet, n eh pits an envelope stuffed wi readies oan the table.

Ah think aboot this, a wee adventure, and lit’s face el factos, thaire’s nowt else doon fir ays. — No sayin nowt against naebody, Mikey, but ur they people, likesay Vic Syme, ur they trustworthy, ken? Ah’m no wantin in if naebody is trustworthy.

— Spud, you ken me, Mikey shrugs.

N it’s true, cause ah’ve sort ay kent um for years. N eh’s no ey been trustworthy ehsel, but ah’ve no either. Mibbe he’s changed n aw. Ye huv tae gie folks the benefit ay the doubt. He’s giein me a second chance, so ah’ve goat tae gie him yin. Ah’ve nowt tae lose. — Aye, sound, n ah reaches ower n takes the envelope, like that boy in Mission: Impossible, the wee gadgie in Hollywood that wis in Top Gun wi the barry bird wi the great hair that ye nivir hear nowt aboot now. The tape or whatever’s inside disnae self-destruct but, so it’s aw good! — Ah wisnae tryin tae be wide, or cast any aspersions, Mikey, that wis jist me daein ma due diligence, ken?

— Nae offence taken, bud. Goat tae keep the heid screwed oan. Ah’d be much mair nervous giein the joab tae some daftie that wisnae askin they sort ay questions. Gies ays confidence that ah’ve picked the right boy for the mission!

N eh pure yazed the word mission, which makes ays feel barry. We clink glesses. — Aye, man, ah’ll dae it awright.

— Great, kent ah could count oan ye, ma auld mucker, Mikey goes. — N Spud, try n tidy yirsel up a wee bit, ay, mate?

Ah ken that Mikey’s no bein wide, eh jist doesnae want ays likesay standin oot gaun through Checkpoint Charlie or wherever it is. — Wi this dosh, the answer tae that is basically, aye, catboy.

5 RENTON – CLIENT CONFIDENTIALITY

I love dance music, but draw the line at DJs: pish situation tae be in when you’re a manager ay them. It never used tae be like that – some DJs were fuck-ups, aye, but most weren’t, they were just people who loved clubs and dance music. That changed when those entitled straight-peg millennial cunts took ower – a very general rule of thumb, and aye, exceptions abound but: the more money they get paid, the mair ay a prick the DJ is. So as I made poppy, I worked with mair grandiose, vainglorious arseholes, then, after I built his career, one ay the fuckers sacked me – Ivan – long-haired, silent Belgian cunt – it happens – it’s no a hard-luck story, ah’ve done okay, jist an illustration that you need a thick fucking skin in this game. I have to get those DJ cunts out their fucking beds in the afternoon, procure them drugs fae scumbag promoters, sometimes pull them oot ay the fuckin jail, and even mair galling, argue the toss with corporate lackeys about publishing royalties. But the worst ay it: I have tae try tae get the bastards laid – this is no always as easy as it soundzzzz –

Lying on my bed in a truly sybaritic penthouse suite in this Vegas hotel. It’s divided into two bedrooms, each with a marble bathroom, and a large living room with a luxury kitchen and an ornate fireplace. Of course, it’s on account and a tax write-off, but I’m so jet-lagged after this Edinburgh–London–Amsterdam–Barcelona–LA–Vegas travelthon that I scarcely know where the fuck I am or what I’m meant to be doing, in fact I’m unable to grab hud ay a single thought. Despite having slid just one solitary Ambien (and a Vallie) down the hatch, this fucking laughing gas they pump intae the room, tae keep ye at the tables doonstairs twenty-four/seven, ensures sleep remains beyond ays. All I can dae now is lie back and catch up on Game of Thrones. Then a rap on my door, and I pull my carcass off the bed and let Conrad in. The Technonerd felly comes right tae the point. — I cannot sleep now, and I will not later in the morning in Los Angeles. I need to be with a woman!

— Fine. I freeze the image on the screen, and sit up, my head woozy. Dinnae ken if I buy Jon Snow coming back from the dead, but that’s a straightforward task compared tae mine. Conrad was a leanish young Dutch boy just two years ago. Then he started spunking a fair chunk ay his new-found wealth on food, and the cunt isnae that discerning. What’s sadder than a young millionaire ordering the limo tae pull up ootside a fuckin McDonald’s? When you’re the daft cunt that has tae go in and buy the shit that’s sending his cash cow tae type 2 diabetes. He literally cannae stoap eating. It’s aw tae dae wi the munchies, cause eh smokes tons ay weed. Now, at twenty-two, the cunt is a wheezing tub ay lard. I can feel my ain arteries furring just by standin next tae him.

— But the woman has to be dark-haired, Conrad’s round, entitled baby-face insists, the whistle of his Dutch voice exacerbated by the thin gasp ay burgeoning respiratory disease. — And she has to have medium-sized breasts; they cannot be small, but they must not be too heavy and pendulous. No implants. And lips that are full, but natural –

I cut him off. — Conny, you’ve obviously been wanking off tae porn. Just cut tae the chase and show me the adult entertainment performer who is blessed tae be the object of this superstar DJ’s desire.

He looks briefly at me as if irony is something he almost gets, and pulls out his phone. Fortunately, the porn star has a website and does escort services, and is based in LA. If I can deliver her it saves me spending fucking years in a futile search for a lassie that looks like her. When you’re doing this on behalf of somebody else, it’s the most spirit-crushing employment imaginable. It will cost a pretty penny but that sad little twat is the one bringing in the cash, which makes me just about the most pathetic cunt in Christendom. — If you want this yin, it’ll have to wait till the wee small hours of the morning, when we get back to LA. If your needs are immediate, there’s an agency here in Vegas I can call –

— Fuck those tacky Vegas bitches, they just see money, he snaps.

— Well, that tends tae come with the territory. Like prostitution, ken? At least Conny, being Dutch, gets it when I say ken. In Dutch the verb kenen is also ‘to know’.

— But it is no good if they cannot act with sophistication.

Of course he’s right; the most successful hoors are those who dinnae act like they are. That’s why the high-end escorts get top dollar: it’s the emotional labour they excel at. Conrad believes Vegas is too replete wi one-off out-ay-towners, rather than repeat business. He looks crabbily at me, opening a packet ay crisps fae my well-stocked kitchen area. His suite is next door and he’s probably already cleaned oot its contents as well as hammered room service. — Set me up with this Brandi girl tonight, he says, grabbing a PowerBar as he leaves.

It takes ays twenty minutes to get in touch and conclude the deal, even wi the usual ‘client confidentiality’ speech thrown in. The woman is very cool and businesslike, dispensing wi the breathless baby-doll tones once ah tell her I’m working on behalf ay some other cunt. I then call Conrad. — She’ll be waiting at the Standard around 4 a.m., when we get back to LA.

I hit the hay and believe that I’m actually about to drift off, when the cunt is back hammering at my door again. — I still cannot sleep.

— Here… I go to my drawer and pull out some Ambien. — Take two ay these. I drop the wee browny-orange pills intae an upturned duvet-like hand. I don’t feel good about doing this. I’m trying to sack those bastards myself, so it’s a bit naughty passing them on.

— Okay… and why am I staying at the Standard? I like the Chateau Marmont, he moans.

Too fucking bad: I have a discount deal with the Standard. — Fully booked, bud, I lie, knowing he’s too lazy tae check, — and besides, the honeys, the Glen Hoddles and the Hollywood starlets all party at the Standard these days. It’s hot again.

— West Hollywood or Downtown?

— The West Hollywood one.

Conrad’s doughy fingers rip open a packet of gum. He offers me a stick. I decline. — They say the downtown Standard is more awesome. He opens two gums and crams them into his mouth.

— I’d dispute that. Downtown gets the arty crowd, but West Hollywood is certainly better for the Gary Busey. I check his face for signs ay understanding. He smiles, starting tae get the rhyming slang. — And most of our business is around there. You don’t want tae be stuck in motors on choked freeways. Ye ken how you get in cars wi the motion sickness.

As he sulks in compliance, I feel like my dad must have on family outings; North Berwick, Kinghorn and Coldingham. Those stone beach picnics, under dull, cloudy skies in a freezing cauld wind. Not too much ay that ice cream, it’ll make ye sick. No wonder we became fucking drug addicts. Never mind deindustrialisation: sugar and biting-cold wind played their part.

Conrad leaves again – the Ambien must have relaxed him – and there are nae mair interruptions. I drift off intae a fucking weird kip where all my life’s confusions are given the Salvador Dali remix, whirling around in my head. When I wake up I’m more exhausted than ever. I lie in bed most ay the day, sending emails on my laptop, and avoiding phone calls.

In the evening I’ve booked a bunch of us in for dinner at the Wing Lei, the wonderful fine-dining Chinese joint at the Wynn Hotel. It’s one ay my favourite spots. With its warm and lavish but somehow sedate gold furnishings and lush gardens, it does what the very best places in Vegas do: make ye forget you’re in Vegas. It’s also the first Chinese restaurant in America tae be awarded a Michelin star. In addition tae Conrad and Emily, who I aim tae have supporting him here eventually, though not tonight, we have Jensen, a hanger-on mate ay my superstar DJ. He’s an annoying buck-toothed wee cunt with a black fringe that hangs in his eyes, but strangely useful tae have around as he distracts Conrad fae hassling ays. Mitch, the promoter, is also present. Carl, as usual, who is opening, hasn’t shown up yet. It was a major endeavour on my part tae convince Conrad no tae remove him fae the bill after the dickhead incident.

And now my two other guests arrive. Francis James Begbie and his wife Melanie have driven to Vegas in a hire car, making a big desert road trip out of it, a diversionary night in Palm Springs thrown in. Like lovers do. They can fly back with us on the rented jet, which takes less than an hour. Some cunts say private jet. It’s a rented jet ride and tax-deductible. Again, propaganda designed to intimidate and inspire awe in the masses. I don’t know of any star musician who is silly enough to run a private jet. Just hire one when you need it.

Melanie has her hair pinned up and wears a stylish mauve-coloured party dress. Franco sports a white shirt and black jeans. His hair is number-two short. Once we’d only sit down tae grease in some grubby Leith cafe together, nursing brutal hangovers. Now good food is a vice we share and our meets are always in a nice restaurant. After introducing them to everyone, I run a proposition past him. — Listen, this Edinburgh exhibition you’ve got in May; how do you fancy us putting a party on? I can get my DJs tae play there. Carl Ewart will love it, I offer, wondering where the fuck he is, again checking my phone for messages, as a waiter delivers sizzling ribs on two platters. Desperate bullets of sweat shoot from Conrad as the dish is laid in the centre of the table, far fae his clammy grasp. — What about it, Frank?

As Franco hesitates, Melanie intervenes. — Oh, that sounds great!

— Nah. No wanting any fuss, ay? Frank Begbie shakes his head. — Back over there, right in, right out, he says, as I catch Conrad lunging for glory, literally pushing Jensen aside to get at the goods.

— It’s no bother, Franco. Least I can do, I say, glancing doon the table tae marvel at my superstar DJ. He’s filled his plate up and is working hard on a pile of ribs and barbecue sauce, while absent-mindedly chatting tae Emily. Fuck me, I’m sure I heard the words ‘track’ and ‘studio’.

— C’mon, Jim! Melanie urges.

— Okay, Franco smiles, — but it’s against ma better judgement.

— Oh, and another thing, I drop my voice, bending in close to him, — I have that money for you.

Franco falls silent for a few long seconds. — It’s cool, mate. We’re sound, he emphasises. — Just nice tae see ye again, out here in America, daein so well. He takes in the stylised opulence ay the restaurant. — Life is weird, ay?

I can only agree wi that contention, but as I prepare tae get back onto the cash theme, Carl arrives, gaunt-faced, and wearing a Stetson and shades. He’s with this woman, late twenties, blonde hair with crimson tendrils, sly eyes, whom he introduces as Chanel Hemmingworth, a journalist on a dance-music website. — She’s doing a piece on me.

He briefly chats to Franco about Juice Terry, Billy Birrell and some other old names, before heading to the other end of the table to join Chanel. Conrad looks at him in a forced disdain. As Carl displays classic coked-upness, eating very little and ranting, Conrad is eavesdropping desperately. I’m trying to blank out his bullshit but in a conversation lull I catch a sleazy, cruisy, — I’m addicted to women but also allergic to them, so that’s a bad mix.

Chanel Hemmingworth stays cool; she’s obviously been in this situ before.

Checking my watch, I shout for the tab, settle up, and herd those unruly cats doon tae the club. Forget procuring sexual services: this is the hardest part ay the job. Vegas clubs have shitloads of security, so we have tae go through a labyrinth of basement corridors, even being diverted through a sweaty, fully-staffed kitchen (that a superstar DJ is treated to such indignities annoys Conrad, while the sizzling food preparations torment him), before we get tae the premier VIP box, located behind the DJ booth wi its decks and mixing desk. Carl’s been dragging his flight case ay records wi him, perspiring like a Thatcher Cabinet minister wi the education portfolio up for grabs, and looking dangerously red. When we arrive, he makes straight for the giant bottle ay iced voddy clocked by a sexy hostess, who pre-emptively fixes him a drink. As Carl takes his refreshment and slips into the DJ booth and Conrad scans the crowd, I offer everybody earplugs. Melanie accepts; Emily and Franco don’t. — It gets loud, I warn, placing mine lightly in. — I’m not losing my hearing for a fucking DJ. You shouldn’t risk yours.

— Go on, Jim, Melanie urges.

Franco reluctantly takes the plugs. — I’ve never really been yin for dance music.

— You still a Rod Stewart fan?

— Aye, still dinnae mind a bit ay Rod, but have ye heard Guns N’ Roses’ Chinese Democracy?

— Wisnae too keen. It’s no a real Guns N’ Roses album, it doesnae have Slash oan the guitar.

— Aye, but the boy who plays guitar is fuckin better than Slash, he says, suddenly sounding like Begbie again, before inserting the plugs to eradicate any objections I might make.

Carl is a bit fucked and his hour warm-up set, spinning old vinyl on record decks that naebody has used for a decade or more, doesnae go doon that well. I always phone ahead to tell them to dig out old-school Technics turntables as the cunt still insists on spinning vinyl. They think it’s a joke at first, then they generally curse me tae fuck. Some flat refuse: albino Luddite intransigence has cost us bookings. And it’s not as if anybody here gives a fuck about his deep-house music. The Vegas weekend shagger crowd craves only the big names in EDM. They sit at their tables getting loaded on peeve, and hit the floor en masse when Conrad waddles intae the booth tae replace Carl. The star’s gig is pretty damn good if ye like that sort ay seedy table-service pseudo-prostitution deal, which I dinnae. Tae me, the brand ay jumpy cut-up EDM shit Conrad has adopted – lucratively, so I cannae criticise him – is a fucking misnomer. It’s totally undanceable, but the brostep frat-boy crowd and the husband-hunting suburban bimbettes lap him up.

Chanel, the journo, seems to have absconded, so Carl sits drinking steadily, making heavy-handed passes at the hostess. He’s pretty fucked off. His heart wisnae in that gig. In order tae gie the lassie, whae’s just daein her job, some respite fae his predatory attentions, I pull him aside and try tae say reassuring things. — Vegas will never be acid house.

— What the fuck am I doing here, then? he shouts as Conrad cuts up some more pop hits tae a dangerously rammed and intoxicated dance floor.

— Making money. Getting your name back out there.

Carl took the split with his missus Helena very hard. I got him this gig supporting Technonerd, which neither of them is happy about. But it’s Surrender at the Wynn, one ay the best nightclubs in the USA. So the term ‘ungrateful cunt’ resonates in my head a little.

Surrender is opulence personified, and we are making a fortune, but as usual, it’s no enough. It’s never enough. Not for Carl, and not for Conrad, who after the gig, is singing the same old tune as we have a drink before making our way tae the airport. — Why do I not get a residency in XS? Guetta has one in XS!

XS is the Wynn’s other nightclub, which is even bigger and more opulent than Surrender. It’s bigger and more opulent than anywhere, an ancient Roman palace of vice and decadence. — Because Guetta’s Guetta and you’re Conrad Technonerd, I snap in tetchy exhaustion, climbing down in face of his pout. — Next year you’ll be up with him, mate. Let’s just enjoy that express elevator ride to superstardom.

— So next year we will play in XS?

Jesus fuck. Greedy fat cunt. — We’ll see, buddy boy. But the prognosis is good.

— There is a girl… I said that I would take her and her friend back to LA. He nods over to a storm of sexy in the form of two lassies, all tans, hair, teeth, eyes, breasts and legs, who have managed to slip past security into our box.

Fucksticks. It means I have tae arrange passes, documentation and insurance for these sleazy-but-hot youngbloods who have targeted the fat Dutch boy. And I’ve already set the gluttonous cunt up wi an expensive hooker back at the Standard. I hope they all like the taste ay pussy and polder plug. We get into the minibus. Carl is pished, slumped in the very back seat and shouting about coke. At least Emily is quiet; she’s talking to Melanie.

— It must be so shit to know that you are finished as a DJ, Conrad shouts back to Carl, as Jensen chuckles and the two girls gasp in fake admiration.

— Fuck off, dickhead. Play some music, and he pulls out his phone, showing pictures of Conrad with the dildo attached.

I roll my eyes as the storm of squabbling builds. Franco turns to me, nods behind us. — However much you make, you deserve it, having to babysit them!

I learned fae babysitting the master; trying tae have a night oot withoot you cutting some cunt’s heid off. — I keep telling myself that, I say.

The private airfield is adjacent to McCarron, and thus a short hop from the Strip. I’m on the phone the rest of the way, trying tae arrange clearance for the two lassies, one of whom Conrad is sweatily pawing, while Jensen is hanging on Emily’s every word as she pontificates about her influences, no realising that he has zero chance. Carl has fallen intae silence. I dinnae like seeing him in that frame ay mind. We get into the jet and are LA-bound with minimum fuss. Melanie is impressed, and so is Franco. He keeps looking at me with that you flash cunt expression of disbelief.

— It’s a tax write-off against expenses, I stress. — Uncle Sam pays us to fuck up the environment, so we can get to our beds without having tae spend another sleepless night as high as kites in an oxygenated Vegas hotel room.

— Aye, right, Franco says doubtfully.

Although it’s a short flight, I’m jittery without the Ambien, and feel my mitt sweaty on the yellow container in my pocket. We land at the private airport in Santa Monica, where I say goodbye to Franco and Melanie, who are getting picked up by obviously loyal friends at this hour. Emily has hooked up with her party pals and Carl has a couple of sleazy druggies meet him and vanishes into the dark LA morning. I’m about tae get Conrad, Jensen and the girls intae a taxi and myself intae an Uber, but he’s having nane ay it. — You must come with me to the Standard, to make sure that the bitch whore you hired shows up, he commands, pushing a Hershey bar he got from the vending machine into his clammy pus.

My Santa Monica pad is ten fucking minutes away. I’m beyond exhausted and my jaw rattles as I think ay that bed. No a particularly great structure, but boasting a very expensive mattress. West Hollywood is around thirty minutes away, even in the clear roads at this time of day, and the same back. But he’s the talent. This fat, obnoxious, spoiled misogynistic little prick who calls women ‘hoes’ and ‘bitches’ because he’s a stupid rich white kid, trying to imitate some dumb black rapper twat he once met at a hip-hop conference: he is the fucking talent.

— Okay, I say, feeling my soul wither a wee bit mair.

I zone out at the front by the driver, trying tae block out Conrad’s charmless patter, and the fake, sycophantic laughter of Jensen and the girls. I’m already looking forward tae getting back tae Edinburgh for the New Year. I’ll even kip on the dodgy mattress in my old boy’s spare room. But then I think of Victoria, and realise that LA has its charms.

Thankfully, when we get to the Standard, the escort, Brandi, is waiting, and she’s pretty cool. Conrad vanishes with her and both ay the girls, shutting a miserable Jensen out ay the party. But he has a room, paid for by Citadel Productions, to be later charged to their client Conrad Appeldoorn as a management expense. I take an Uber back tae Santa Monica and my bed. I try to get to sleep, craving that fluttering comma induced by two Ambien and half a bottle ay Night Nurse. I resist, in spite of my eyes snapping open at intervals and devouring the ceiling in creeping dread. When sleep comes it’s in the dreamscape of a theatre stage, where I seem to be taking part in a Noël Cowardesque play, with a monocled and smoking-jacketed Franco, and a ballgown-wearing Vicky/Melanie mixture.

My apartment in Santa Monica is in a dreary complex on the corner of a block. The orange paint covering the exterior walls has been diluted to save money, tapering out from brash and showy, to a meagre, insipid covering, pallid as it bends into the side street. On the plus side, it has a communal rooftop sundeck, with a pool rarely used by anybody other than two chain-smoking French queens. In the mornings, as I call the afternoons – I tend tae operate on DJ hours – I like tae sit up here with my laptop and dae emails and deal with calls. Up comes one I’ve been avoiding, a promoter back in Amsterdam. The poor cunt is so persistent that I have tae take it. Fucking time zones. — Des! We’ve been playing phone tag!

— We need Carl at ADE, Mark. He has relevance. Carl Ewart is acid house. Yes, that movable feast we know and love has fallen on hard times. But it will be back. Next year is the thirty-year anniversary of Ibiza ’87. We need N-Sign in that booth and on top form.

I’m silent in the face ay his rigmarole. It’s a heartbreaker when somebody is bringing their A-game and you ken that you’re still gaunny disappoint them.

— Mark?

I look at the blinding sun, screwing up my eyes. Should have put on sunblock. I consider hanging up or telling Des I cannae hear him. — We can’t do ADE, mate. We booked another gig in Barça.

— You bastard. You promised me at Fabric that you’d be at ADE!

I was coked. Never make promises on drugs. — I said we’d try. The Barça gig is a good stage for Carl, Des, we couldnae pass it up. They gave us the Sonar slots this year. Can’t disappoint them.

— But you can disappoint us, right?

— Des, I’m sorry, mate. You know the score.

— Mark…

— Yes, Des?

— You’re a cunt.

— I’m not going to fight you on that one, Des. I stand up, walk over to the parapet and look across at the freeway traffic, moving slowly towards the beach. Up ahead, the rumbling ay a new metro train on the downtown Santa Monica stop, at last connecting the beach towns with LA and Hollywood. There was a time when I’d have been excited about that; now I realise I haven’t even been on it, and tae ma horror, I can’t think ay when I’d need tae. Instead I’ll charge around in rental cars on choked freeways, looking for parking validation in hotel and office underground lots. Fuck sake.

— Wise move, Mark. Fuck you, you double-crossing motherfucker! If you knew the hassle I had to get your washed-up druggie homeboy on that fucking bill!

— C’mon, Des, let’s take it down a notch.

He sighs. — Fair enough, but fuck you anyway.

— I love you, Des.

— Yeah, sure you do, he says and hangs up.

I do feel like an absolute cunt, but as soon as ah acknowledge this, it just fades away. Back in the day, I never had that much ay a thick skin, even though ah pretended tae. Then, suddenly, it was just there. Like ah was a fuckin Tony Stark whae’d invented a psychic Iron Man suit. The upside ay developing that armour is the obvious one: fuck all bothers ye that much. The downer? Well, it’s like antidepressants. You dinnae get the lows, but ye sure as fuck miss the euphoria ay the highs.

The last few days have been so disorientating. Travel, time zones, sleep deprivation. I seem to be on the phone constantly, without making any inroads. Muchteld in the office back in Amsterdam, calling in various states ay alarm about it all. All this pish about online banking: it disnae work so smoothly when you’re between countries. Ah’ve spent most ay the eftirnoon talking tae ma bank in Holland, the ABN AMRO, to get them tae transfer money intae ma Citibank account here in the USA. Of course, trying tae withdraw cash is still a fucking hassle because… just fucking banks.

As is trying to withdraw fae Ambien. My eyeballs feel full of grit and my pulse trashes in them. Thankfully Vicky helps, coming round and dragging me tae bed. She tells me no more pills, just sex. After we make love I fall intae the deepest sleep I’ve had in months. In the morning, I’m delighted tae find that she’s stayed over. It feels great tae wake up with her. Even though it’s criminally early for me, I feel rested for the first time in ages. She even talks me into going for a run down the beachfront. Although she’s taking it easy, I’m struggling tae keep up, sweat surging and lungs burning. I dig in, pride at no being perceived as a past-it cunt propelling ays on. Afterwards we get some brunch then go back tae the apartment and bed. As Vicky stretches out, a big yawn, her sun-bleached locks sprawling over my pillow, it hits me through my ain exhaustion that I’ve no been this happy as I am at this precise moment in years.

In the evening we head tae Franco’s exhibition, or ‘Jim Francis’ as he now professionally styles himself. I suggest we take the metro. At first she looks doubtful, then agrees, and we glide in jocular relaxation towards downtown LA. Vicky is wearing a knockout glittering black dress and pumps, her hair pinned up. I feel an exalted, lucky bastard.

The gallery is in a single-floored warehouse conversion about fifteen minutes’ walk from Pershing Square in a neighbourhood full of cool street art. We chat to Melanie, with whom Vicky has already struck up a fine rapport. Although Vicky is English and shorter, there is a galling similarity in the way they talk and move. It seems bizarre that Franco and I can have similar tastes in women. Wearing chinos and a V-necked T-shirt, he stands a bit apart from everyone. He still gives off something that makes strangers reticent about approaching him, but it’s now more of a weary aloofness than naked aggression. Melanie provides the charm, excusing herself as she greets some more visitors, who are probably potential buyers.

We head over to Franco who welcomes Vicky and myself warmly. I haven’t told her his backstory (and mine) other than he was a bit rough and ready in the bad old days, doing some jail time before discovering art. As he chats to her about a painting depicting the crucifixion of Cameron, Miliband and Clegg, I look over at a grinning, charismatic wee guy with dark hair, who is being fussed over by an entourage. — Is that Chuck Ponce?

Franco nods, and Vicky remarks, — I’m working on the overseas sale of his latest film for Paramount. Not that I’ve met him!

The enthusiastic, slightly autistic star beams at Jim Francis, the artist formerly known as Begbie, and rushes over to us. Vicky and I get a nod and a cheesy smile, before he focuses on Franco. — Jimbo! My man! Long time no see!

— Yes it is, Franco concedes, his face immobile.

— I need a head! I need you to give me head, bro, he laughs. Franco remains stoical. — Charmaine, my ex… he drops his voice, as Vicky excuses herself and heads for the restroom, and I pretend to look at the art hung on walls and mounted on plinths. I pick up that Ponce is obviously trying tae get Franco tae dae a head ay Charmaine Garrity, his ex-wife and fellow Hollywood star. I grab a gless ay red wine fae a server’s tray and inch closer, hearing him urge, — Help a brother out, dude.

— I did already. The Hunter Strikes, mind?

— Yeah, man, pity about that movie. I had real problems with the accent. But you’ve been doing great work, and I want an original Jim Francis!

— Shut up, I hear Franco say, as I look at the crucifixion painting, — I like these sort ay commissions to be confidential.

— You got it, bro. How do I get in touch?

— Give me your digits and I’ll get in touch with you, Franco goes. I’m looking at Cameron’s greetin baw pus. It’s pretty good, as is Miliband, hapless and nerdy, but that looks fuck all like Clegg.

— Sure thing, pal, Ponce beams, reciting his number as Franco keys it into his phone. — You ain’t still sore at me, huh, dude?

— No. Not in the slightest, Franco replies.

Ponce play-punches him on the shoulder. — Cool. Get in touch, bro! Name your price. I gotta have one while I can still afford you!

As the grinning Chuck leaves, heading back to his crew, tracked aw the wey by Franco, I slip back ower to the artist’s side. — So you’re big mates with Hollywood idols and rock stars?

— Naw, he says, looking at me soberly, — they urnae your friends.

Vicky returns from the restroom – I hate myself for calling the lavy that – but is intercepted by Melanie and they start talking to two other women. I take my chance, delving into my bag and thrusting an envelope at Franco. — Here it is, buddy.

— Naw… naw… yir awright, mate. He pushes it away like I’m trying to gie him dog shit.

— It’s yours, bud. The money at today’s value. It comes tae fifteen thousand four hundred and twenty quid sterling. We can quibble on the method ay calculation –

— I dinnae need it. He shakes his head. — You have tae let go ay the past.

— This is me doing that right now, Franco. I hold out the envelope — Take it, please.

Suddenly this guy wi black-framed glasses, whom I’m assuming is his agent, rushes across tae us. He’s obviously excited and says to Franco, — Sam DeLita has just bought a piece for two hundred thousand dollars! The Oliver Harbison head!

— Tidy, Begbie says, completely unmoved, as he scans the crowd. — Axl Rose no here?

— I’m not sure, the guy says, puzzled at the crushing anticlimax, — I’ll check. Rumours abound, and he looks at me. Franco reluctantly introduces us. — This is my agent, Martin. This is Mark, a pal from the old country.

— Pleased to meet you, Mark. Martin shakes my hand firmly. — I’ll catch you guys later. There’s a room that needs worked!

As Martin heads off, Franco says, — See? I’ve got everything I want, mate. There’s nothing you can dae for me. So keep yir money.

— But you’d be helping me oot if ye took it. You could do something for me.

Franco’s head turns slowly in the negative. He looks across the room, nods and smiles at some people. — Listen, you ripped me off and I forgive you, he says, his voice low. He waves at a swankily dressed couple, and the guy salutes back. It’s another actor cunt that was in a film I saw recently on a plane, but I cannae think ay the boy’s name or the movie. — The bad choices I made would have happened anyway, that was just where I was at that point in ma life. He gives me a wee smile. — But I’ve let go ay the past.

— Aye, and I want tae n aw, I tell him, fighting doon ma exasperation.

— Delighted for you, he says, not that sardonically, — but you have to find your own way, ma auld buddy. The last time you tried to dae that ah was a fucking vehicle for ye. He pauses, and the old coldness fuses intae his eyes.

It sears my insides. — Franco, I’m sorry, man, I –

— I’m no gaun there again. This time it has tae be a solo gig, and suddenly eh smiles and punches me softly on the airm, almost in a parody ay the auld Begbie. It hits ays: this cunt is taking the pish.

— Fuck sake… this is perverse! I’m offering ye money here, Frank! Money that’s yours!

— It’s no mine, it came fae a drug deal, he says, poker-faced. Then his hand is on my elbow, guiding me ower tae a painting ay Jimmy Savile, unknown in America, lying battered tae a pulp outside the Alhambra Bar. Savile’s eyes have been torn out and blood from his genitals stains his white tracksuit groin like dark red piss. Underneath it bears the title:

He points tae a rid dot on it, indicating that a sale has been made. — This is mine. I used tae fuck up people’s faces and get jailed. Now I dae it and get paid.

I’m looking aroond, scanning the portraits and cast heids that he’s produced. I have tae say it, even though ah confess that ah don’t know much about art: this is the biggest pile ay shite I’ve seen in ma fuckin life. He’s totally gaming those thick, spoiled rich fuckers, whae probably think it’s cool tae collect the works ay this savage jailbird. Fair play tae the cunt, but fuck sake, casting somebody’s face and then mutilating it: that’s no fucking art. Ah observe the occupants ay the gallery, shuffling fae one exhibit tae the next, eyes screwed up, pointing, discussing. Tanned men and women with bodies honed in gyms, decorated wi nice clathes, impeccably groomed, stinking ay top cologne, perfume and wealth. — Do you know where their money comes fae? Drug trafficking? Human trafficking, for fuck sake! A few people in a proximate group turn roond in response tae ma raised voice. Fae the corner ay ma eye, a security guard cranes his neck. — You must have a charity you like, something ah can gie it tae?

— Quiet, bud. Franco now looks like he’s really enjoying this. — You’re embarrassing yourself.

I feel incredulity warp my face. — Now I’ve been told by you tae stop making a cunt ay masel in public: game, set and match! Now gies ays the name ay your favourite charity, Franco, for fuck sake!

— I dinnae believe in charity, Mark. And call me Jim, please.

— What do you believe in? So I have to gie fifteen and a bit grand tae Hibs?

— I believe in looking after my ain, mate. He nods at his postcard Californian blonde wife, as the speakers suddenly rumble and Martin the agent guy gets tae the front ay the house.

Vicky rejoins me. — All good? she asks. — What’s that? She points to the envelope in my hand.

I put it back in the bag and zip it up. — Trying to give Frank something I owe him, but he won’t take it.

— Well, I must say, it all looks very exciting cloak-and-dagger stuff. Does it come from an illicit drug deal?

Franco turns and I cannae look the cunt in the eye because I suspect neither ay us would be able tae keep a straight face. — We only deal in Provi cheques in Leith, I tell her.

As I glance back at Franco, there’s a sound ay fingers hitting the mike, causing a static crackle, hushing the crowd intae silence. Martin the agent clears his throat. — Thank you for coming along. Now I’d like to introduce the director of this gallery and great patron of the arts of the City of Los Angeles, Sebastian Villiers.

A white-heided, rid-couponed, country-club cunt, whae looks like every American politician I’ve ever seen, gets up and starts talking utter shite aboot Begbie. About how his ‘work’ is the best thing since sliced breid. I cannae listen tae this pish! All I can think ay is getting Vicky home. I thought I was saturated with sex after this afternoon. No fucking way. I look at her, and her raunchy smile tells me she’s thinking the same. As we slope away, a DJ starts playing funk, and Franco and Melanie are dancing smoothly tae that Peter Brown track ‘Do You Wanna Get Funky with Me’.

Fuck me. That cunt. Dancing. And the fucker has moves. Is that really fucking Francis Begbie? Maybe it’s me. Maybe my Begbie beliefs are inculcated from another era. Maybe I just need tae let go ay aw that shite, like Jim Francis evidently has.

6 SICK BOY – IN SEARCH OF EUAN MCCORKINDALE

Drink and drugs are a whippersnapper’s game: there is little worse than a hangover or an E comedown after you hit fifty. Even under the licence of Christmas, you just feel weak and stupid, as the facts have to be faced: the meagre, diminishing returns of fun to be squeezed out in no way justifiy the subsequent extended horror show.

So I’m half submerged in this comfy couch, in front of the big flat screen and blazing coal fire in the McCorkindale home, a pot of tea by my side. I’m channel hopping, trying tae keep in a positive frame of mind. I can see Ben, outside in the garden, talking into his mobile phone, all big smiles. I decide that I’ll hang around here a few days longer, once I get him packed off south, after the Hibs–Raith encounter. I was set against Scottish independence, believing that we’d totally fuck it up. Now I’m changing my mind: the vibe and confidence in the city suggests we’d cope better than the shit-show down south. I’m thinking of calling Jill, speculating about an Edinburgh Colleagues, maybe identifying some more raw recruits and licking them intae shape!

I’m distracted by Carlotta, man-marking her darling brother, literally looming right over me. Obviously on her agenda: a missing hubby, the disgraced man of this formerly esteemed household. Carlotta isn’t going to move, or speak, and I don’t know how long I can keep pretending she isn’t staring at the top of my head. It’s been her MO since she was a kid. Always knew how tae use the power of brooding, silent outrage to increase the air pressure. I elect tae cashie it oot. — Hi, sis. Just trying to decide on my viewing. There’s… I pick up the handset, hit the guide button and read the screen, — ‘an enchanting romantic comedy starring Audrey Tautou’ that isn’t Amélie –

— You find Euan! You find ma husband! I look up and she’s glaring at me. Her voice set in that controlled, precise way of hers.

I turn to her and spread my palms. — Sis, I really can’t take volume right now… which is the wrong thing tae say as her eyes burn with murderous Latin passion. — He’ll show up when he’s go —

— FIND HIM!

What could be worse than walking those cold streets in that dead zone between Christmas and New Year? Staying here and enduring that banshee wail. I cough out my agreement and she heads off, her feet thumping up the wooden stairs. I’m putting on my coat in the hallway, with scarf and hat, as Ross comes through with a silent stare that commands a response. That laddie is perhaps his mother’s son.

— How’s Pitch and Toss? And what’s cuz Benito up to outside? Lady shenanigans, no doubt.

Then I realise that this little fucker is only balling his fists at me as if he wants a square go! — Mum said that you set Dad up with that woman, his high voice bleats.

Saucy mare, her! And cheeky little cunt, too! Well, the smart wee fucker is going head-to-head with the big boys now. I fix him in an even gaze, and lower my voice. — Maybe the blame was yours though, buddy, and I watch his mouth flap open in disbelief. — Maybe you made Euan want to prove himself, with you going on about being too much ay a pussy virgin tae git yir hole.

— What… How did you… Who said –

— You may wish tae factor that into your calculations. I flick my scarf over my shoulder and start buttoning my coat up.

His eyes blink rapidly in concert with his trembling lips. – You shouldnae… You don’t… He tries to run away, but I reach out and grab his arm. — Get off me!

— Go on, run to Mamma, I sneer. That stops his struggle in its tracks. — That’ll work, if your quest in life is to stay a virgin forever. That’ll ensure you achieve your goal, awright.

Ross’s head is hung low. It’s as if he’s looking at the imaginary Minecraft world he’s set up on the floor.

— Lift your head up, I tell him. — Be a man, for fuck sake.

He physically struggles to do this. — But… but… but…

I assist him, wrenching his chin north. Forcing him to look into my eyes. — You can’t get your hole. Fine. I get it. I understand how important it is, and I release my grasp ay his face. I note his chin dips a bit but his eyes remain set on mine. — Your mother won’t help you get laid, Ross. Your father… well, come on, I tell him, feeling a little disloyal. But nobody asked Euan to fuck Marianne or for them to get fruity with the video camera. That horny hoor… her sluttish adventurism is suddenly exciting to me. I should have ridden her, not that prick… — But I will, I tell him, watching his eyes suddenly bulge. — If you want it.

Yes, even through his despondency, something in those lamps has ignited! — You… you’d do that for me?

— Of course I will. I punch his airm. — Blood is thicker than water. I want you to have a full sex life, tae be able to talk tae women and enjoy congress with them, and I pull him into the alcove by the front door, lowering my voice. — I don’t want to see you wasting your teen years on guilty masturbation, choking whenever a girl you fancy steps into the room, I explain, enjoying the shade of Jambo maroon his coupon is bursting out into. — I had a great friend, Danny Murphy, his name was; he never got any action, I wistfully recount. — So the boy grew up wrong. I don’t want any ay that nonsense for you, good buddy.

I feel my blandishments move him, but he’s still suspicious. — What’s it to you? Why do you want to help?

— Well, I have one considerable advantage over your mum and dad.

— What?

— I don’t see you as a daft wee bairn. To me you’re a normal young guy who is just trying tae make his way in life, and I realise that this is the most important thing in your world right now.

— It is! Ross squeals in gratitude. — I’m glad somebody understands!

I nod upstairs, urging him to lower his voice by dropping mine. — Well, naturally I do. Have you any idea what I do for a living?

Ross swivels his head to check the coast is still clear. Then he faces me, sucking in his bottom lip. — I’ve heard Mum and Dad talk about it. It’s like an escort agency.

— Exactly. I’m in the business of hooking up lonely and frustrated people with desirable members of the opposite sex. It’s what I do.

— You could –

Again, I take my voice down a notch, and nod up the wooden staircase. — Shh… Yes I could, I hiss. I can hear Carlotta thrashing around in rage, slamming doors too hard, stamping across the sanded floors. I gaze out to the garden where Ben is ending his call, doubtless ready to come in and hit me for cash. The kid is a money-guzzling machine. I blame the Surreyites and their careless indulgence of him, or, perhaps more realistically, their planned humiliation of one Simon David Williamson; forcing me to compete in a game I can never win. — What you need is an experienced woman to guide you through this cherry loss.

Ross looks at me in horror. — But I fancy –

I cut him off. — I know who you fancy; some feisty, pixie-faced wee heartbreaker at school, who struts around well aware that she’s a playground supermodel. But to hunt that sort of game you need the tools, and I ain’t just talking about that cannon in your troosers, which I’m hoping is a Williamson 9.5 rather than a McCorkindale 5.5, if you get my drift.

The kid’s pained face tells me it’s closer to the latter.

— No, buddy, you need the confidence that experience gives you: social as well as sexual. That’s what Prof Unc Si from Shaggers University offers. Now think it through. And tell your mother fuck all. This is a bros’ thing. Promise?

— Right… Thanks, Uncle Simon, he squeaks in gratitude, bumping my proffered fist.

Just then, Ben appears at his shoulder, looking a little smug, but still shooting us a what-the-fuck stare.

— Benito the bandito! I’m trying to talk your piccolo cugino, Pitch and Toss here, and I place an arm around the shoodirs of the spotty boy, — into joining us at the ER hozzy.

— The ER hozzy… Ben says in his lazy, posh, suburban Home Counties accent… My God, he’s one of them. My son is one of them. — Is that something to do with Uncle Euan?

— No! ER as in Easter Road, hozzy as in hospitality. For the match of the season against the mighty Raith Rovers!

— Yeah, cool, Ben says, massively underwhelmed, but coming to some animation on noting that I’m attired in a coat and scarf. — Where are you going?

— A wee message for your auntie.

— Are you going to find Dad? Ross bleats. — I want tae come!

— Not possible, pal of mine, I contend as I hear thumping steps down the stairs.

— Ross! Carlotta barks from the doorway. — You’ll stay here with your cousin!

Ross has that what-the-fuck-have-I-done-wrong expression of hangdog bemusement.

I tip him a wee wink, which seems to console him a little. This is as opportune a time as any to make good my escape. Enough of all the family shite! This festive blight on the calendar is a headfuck, and thank Christ (literally) that it’s only once a year.

So I head out on my dispiriting search. The frosty bite of winter tingles my face, as the street lamps blink into an insipid glow. The daylight hours here are so fleeting it’s almost more of an insult inserting such meagre, murky grey slithers of shit into the total darkness. Funny, but in my younger days, I always wanted out of this city. London offered a bigger canvas. Now, unaccountably, I feel a perverse loyalty towards it. I even contemplate taking a stroll down Leith Walk, but that would only serve to invite crushing despondency. The one thing worse than hearing the words: SICK BOY YA CUNT, WHAIRE HUV YOU BEEN HIDIN YIRSEL? – delivered at maximum volume across a filthy pub – would be not hearing them at all. I set course away from town, towards the Royal Infirmary, Euan’s place of work. When I get to the reception desk, they phone personnel in response to my enquiry, before informing me, — Dr McCorkindale is on leave until the 6th of January.

So I get the bus back into town. It’s fuckin nippy alright; my coupon is stinging with the cold air and my lips are cracking over. I head into a Boots tae buy some lip balm and condoms.

As he’s not a lost waif, there’s no sense in trawling the bus or train stations, so I opt to hang around the hotel lobbies. At least they’re warm. Euan has dosh but is too much of a penny-pinching Calvinist wanker to splash out on the Balmoral or the Caledonian. It will be a functional, clean budget chain, so I hit a few and loiter; they’re full of sales and marketing cumsplats, but no sightings of disgraced Colinton podiatrists.

Applying the same logic, I doubt Euan would have gone to a high-class escort agency. I’m betting he’s been slumming it in the saunas, loving the thrill of the transaction, and part of him excited at the potential humiliation of being rumbled by a work colleague. Yes, I reckon he subconsciously craves all this drama. I hit a couple of the Mary Tyler Moore hooses, one at the top end of Leith and the other in the New Town, showing the Christmas photo I took of Euan on my phone, without exciting any signs of recognition.

I find those tacky premises and their grubby clientele dispiriting. This place in the East New Town is like a shabby government office of the eighties. With its bland reception area, you feel as if you are here to get your passport stamped rather than your pipes cleaned. I head outside, about to call it a day and return empty-handed to face Carlotta’s wrath, when I hear somebody emerging behind me. Then a voice urges, — Hi, mate, hud on a minute.

I turn to face what can only be described as a total fuckin radge. His eyes, slitty but burning with a focused intent, announce him as big trouble. He wears an expensive-looking suit, but it somehow seems scabby on him, as if it’s gotten damp from him actually wearing it in a sauna. I know who he is; he’s the psycho cunt that runs some of these establishments, and whom Terry once did some work for. This isn’t good. When a stranger refers to you as ‘mate’ in that tone of voice, it never is.

— You’ve been gaun roond the saunas, asking about a boy?

— Aye. I take the initiative and show him the picture on my phone.

— Well, if you’re playing detective and no going tae the bizzies, it cannae be kosher, this bastard says. God forged this cunt’s pus when He was sat constipated on the toilet seat and thinking of the word ‘snide’. Not the Creator’s best work, it must be said.

— The boy’s a bit ay a sex case, I explain. — His missus is ma sister, and she caught him playing away fae hame. Chucked him oot. Now she wants him back. I thought he might have been hooring, is all.

All the time this cunt’s slanty, malicious, sweetie-wife eyes are going from the screen to my coupon. Then he suddenly says, — Ah ken you! Sick Boy, they called ye!

They presumably being his fellow retarded idiots, ones also created from the grunting congress of mongol siblings. — Ha… no heard that one for a while.

— Ayyye… you punt aboot doon in London now. Wi Leo, and the Greek cunt, what’s-his-name…

My heart skips a wee beat. This product of retard kinshafting has a long reach, and with fellow insect-brained fuckers not programmed to compromise their mechanical goals. If he’s mobbed up with them, there is no hiding place and it means I’m duty-bound to assist. — Andreas… Yes, Leo, great lads. But that’s all in the past. These days I run a respectable dating agency. We have an application –

— You’re a Leith boy, he accuses, — used tae run wi Franco Begbie.

— Aye, I concede. I hate the way these cretins use the term ‘run’, their pathetic gangster pish vexes me, and I can’t believe I’m hearing Begbie’s name now; that violent psychopathic cunt who conned his way out of jail on some bullshit art ticket. This nightmare grows bleaker by the second. It’s dark and cold and I’m hung-over and I crave that couch. Even Carlotta’s verbal assault and iciness must beat being in the uncomfortable proximity ay this fucker. Now the wind is whipping freezing fucking rain into my face.

— Well, ah dinnae care who you are, ye dinnae come intae ma premises and poke yir neb in. Got that?

— Well, I wisnae really. As I explained, I was looking for my brother-in-law. He’s a surgeon and he –

The next thing I know is the wind is battered oot ay ays by a jackknifing blow tae ma guts… I can barely breathe, as I reach out and grab the railing. There are people walking by in the rain, some at a bus stop, others smoking outside a pub. Not one of the cunts has even noticed this prick’s assault on me!

I look up at his pitiless eyes. — Ah’ll take that phone, he gestures tae the mobby in my hand.

— Ma phone… what the fuck…?

— Dinnae make ays say it again.

I hand it over, hating myself, but trying to catch my breath. The options of running away or striking back are beyond me at this point in time, and probably any. This cunt is a killer.

He casually types his number into my phone, and calls up his own, letting it ring. He hands it back to me. — We have each other’s contact info now. So ah’ll let you ken if this boy shows up. Meantime, you keep the fuck oot ay my premises, unless invited by moi. Right?

— Right. I feel my breath coming back. — Thanks… appreciated. I’m thinking to myself: If this cunt has any hoors worth thieving, they will all be working for me at an Edinburgh Colleagues, while he’ll be wearing that famous maroon jersey as he’s getting rogered daily on the beasts’ wing at Saughton. I will make that happen.

— Okay, I’m Victor, by the way, Victor Syme, this cunt says, now scarier than ever with his gossiping fishwife tones and his hand on my shoulder. — Ah’ll let ye ken if I hear anything about this… he plays with the word, —… this surgeon felly. And I’m sorry aboot the wee dig, but thaire’s a lot ay wide cunts aboot, n ye huv tae draw a wee line in the sand, he grins. — But if ye ken the likes ay Leo, and, of course, Frank Begbie, then that’s okay wi me.

I’m happy to depart this cunt’s company, although I only get round the corner before a text from him comes in.

I won’t forget. Vic S.

It’s replete with a smiley emoticon, which has never looked so sinister.

I find a grotty cafe and sit down, trying tae compose myself over a cup ay tea. This fucking town! I have to get out of here. And fuck Scottish independence: in no time at all we would be a gangster state run by scum like this cunt Syme! It’s true: you never escape old associations, no matter how tenuous you believe them to be. On that note, I’m straight on to Juice Terry. — Tezza. What’s the story with this Victor Syme cunt? Heard you did some work for him.

— Cannae talk right now, buddy boy. Where are ye?

— Broughton Street, I tell him. He must have some cunt in the back ay his cab.

— Be there in five minutes. Where aboots?

— See ye in the Basement Bar.

I retreat to the Basement, settling into the comfy seats towards the rear of the bar with two bottles of lager.

Terry is as good as his word, and swings in. Unfortunately, he leaves me waiting for such a long time while he chats to a barmaid that I have to phone him. He rolls his eyes and heads across. — You’re a cock-blocking bastard, Williamson. Seriously.

— This is important, bud. Victor Syme, I urge.

— Aye… he wis away in Spain. Terry takes a glug of lager. — The bizzies wir pittin heat oan um, but eh came back last year, Mr Fuckin Untouchable. Does that no say grass tae you? It sais it tae me.

I refuse to get enmeshed in pathetic local gangster politics. — How do you ken him?

Fae the school. Fuckin nowt in they days, we aw used tae caw um the Poof, that wis ehs nickname. Every cunt battered the wee creep back then; eh wis a late developer. Now eh thinks eh’s Mr Big cause ay Tyrone bein deid –

— Tyrone? Potted heid? This was news to me. Tyrone had been around since I was a boy. — So what happened tae the fat man?

— Burnt tae death in a fire in his hoose. He hud some war wi the young team. One ay them got done doon Leith Docks. A lot ay people are thinkin the Poof took advantage and moved in oan thum baith: Tyrone and the young gadge. Rumour is eh’s connected; goat Police Scotland, East Europeans, cunts in London and Manchester aw owin um tons ay favours, or so they say, ay? Might be shite, might no. But ah ken one thing, the cunt wis oan the lam in Spain cause the polis wir lookin for him in connection wi the disappearance ay this bird that worked in the saunas. Cowped it masel, but as a mates’ thing, nivir peyed for it. Terry looks at me in sombre insistence.

— I’ve no doubt that you could charm a prostitute into sleeping with you without a cash transaction, Terry. But you said Syme was on the run?

— Cunt hud fuck all gaun for um. He wis oot the sauna game, hidin in Spain. Then eh jist waltzes back ower like nowt’s happened. Terry looks around. Lowers his voice. — Thinks ah’m at his beck n call. ‘A wee favour, Terry mate…’ and he does a passable imitation of Syme’s snidey tones. — But he’ll git his, Terry says in empty belligerence. — Cunt’s a heidcase, keep away fae um, he warns. — Anywey, how did yir Christmas turn oot? Usual borin family stuff?

— You ken how it goes, I tell him, thinking of that cretinous brother-in-law and his imbecile son, the bother their blood-filled cocks and bloodless brains are causing me, and I idly pick up a discarded magazine on a chair. It shows an image of the actress Keira Knightley, half naked and in a sultry pose, advertising perfume.

— Fuckin ride yon, Terry announces.

— Knightley, I muse.

— Aw fuckin ooirs if she wis game.

We chat for a while, and Terry drops me off in the cab at Carlotta’s. It’s so pitch black I can’t believe that it’s only just after 8 p.m., it feels like two in the morning. I see Ben, once more in the garden, on the phone, illuminated by a trip light. Probably talking to some bird; he tells me fuck all, which I totally admire. Of course, the fact that I’m without Euan is enough tae send Carlotta into another rage. I tell her I checked the hospital and the hotels, omitting the saunas. It seems to calm her down a bit, before another bolt of fury suddenly sears her. — What did you say to Ross?

— Nothing, I protest, rubbing my gut, still tender as I lower myself onto the couch, considering that Syme might actually be able to do me a favour. Sometimes radges need to be assimilated – the Borg in Star Trek strategy – rather than opposed or ignored. The pain brings back a memory of being bullied by Begbie at school, before I became friends with Renton, who was his best mate. This was purely in order to get that psycho cunt off my back. My head is spinning. Carlotta’s eyes are batty. — Just urged the wee man to try and learn a lesson from Euan. Where is he? I see Ben out there –

— At Louisa’s, she spits, then these lamps narrow. — A lesson fae Euan? What the fuck do you mean?

I don’t know what baked beans that spineless little twat has spilled, but he’s going to get some shit back from me, via his beloved mammy. — Look, what Ross saw was quite traumatising, I concede, — but perhaps not as much as it should have been.

Carlotta’s looking at me with the big Eyetie peepers both of us inherited from Mamma, firing on full tilt. Poor Louisa: she got the old boy’s vicious, furtive Jockoid slits. — What are ye trying tae say?

— He’s my nephew and I love him, so I don’t want to grass him up, but I have good reason to believe that Ross has been watching extreme pornography.

— What?! Ross? Pornography? Online?

Oh, sis! After all those years, still making schoolgirl errors: the mistake of admitting the possibility. When defenders back off, keep running at them, twisting and turning like a squat Argentinian. Think Lionel. Think Diego. — Furthermore, I believe Euan discovered this and it unhinged him a little. Being a lad from the country and sexually inexperienced before he hooked up with you –

— Wait! Euan told you this?

— Well, in a blokish roundabout sort of way, yes, but it was more that I deduced it. No names were dropped or details offered, but I kind ay worked out it was a Taylor Swift–Michael Gove courtship with you guys, I smile. — Vamp–nerd scenario.

That teases a confirming bitter-sweet smile out of her.

— I think he was vulnerable, turning fifty n all, and that crazy harridan Marianne took advantage of the situation tae get at me, by hurting the one thing I care about, I look at her with all the intensity I can summon, — family.

Carra shakes her head. She’s heard versions of this over the years. — I don’t believe you, she says, her voice rising. — So all this mess is my son’s fault?

— No. It’s society’s fault. It’s the pace of technological change, I advance, but I now have a sense of her shepherding the ball harmlessly out of play for a goal kick. If I can just get a leg in… — But Ross was its conduit in inflicting pain on this family. Our social mores haven’t developed to keep pace with the Internet, the digital revolution, the iPad and the Cloud, thus our cognitive dissonance.

Carlotta takes a step back. Looks at me as if I’m a dangerous specimen on the wrong side of the zoological bars. — You are a total fucking bastard, she gasps. — You wreck people’s lives tae gie yirsel cheap thrills!

The younger Williamson lassie cannot be written off on the counter… — Look, sis, let’s not point fingers. It does naebody any good.

She steps forward, and I think she’s going to punch me. Instead she shakes her fists like maracas. — It’s always let’s no point fingers when it’s you that’s tae blame!

I have to pull something out of the hat here. Attack is usually the best form of defence. — I’m forever taking stock of my life, especially at this very reflective time of year. Am I blameless? No, very far from it. I fold my arms across my chest. Carlotta has never gotten physically violent before, but these are uncharted emotional waters. I decide to amp it up. — But please, dinnae fuckin gies it that this is aw ma fault, I say, getting into outrage mode. — Dinnae hit ays wi that pish, that old let’s-exonerate-everybody-but-Simon approach. As a tactic it must have prima facie appeal, but it’s disingenuous and waaay too convenient. The moon is not made of green cheese!

Carra’s eyes are like a Rottweiler’s balls. — What are you fuckin talkin about?! Do you even live in the same fuckin world as the rest ay us?! Her breathing is thin and she’s having palpitations.

I go to embrace her. — Carra… la mia sorellina…

She pushes me back, both her palms slapping into my chest. — MA HUSBAND IS MISSING AND MA SON IS IN PIECES, and now her fists pound me. One hits the spot below the ribcage where Syme’s well-placed thug-blow struck, and I stumble. — BECAUSE AY YOU! YOU FIND HIM! YOU BRING HIM BACK!

— Chill, sis, I’m on it, and I pick up my phone and look at my calls list and my text from Vic with the emoticon.

Then Carlotta, compulsively checking emails on her own phone, starts to suddenly shriek. — AH DINNAE BELIEVE IT! She looks at me, in shock. — It’s fae Euan…

— That’s good, I knew he’d eventually come to his senses and get in touch.

— But he’s… he says he’s in FUCKIN THAILAND!

Just then, a text from Syme jumps in.

No word from the surgeon boy?

I groan out loud, and we both say at the same time, — What the fuck are we going to do?

Then Ben comes in from the back, contentment scored on his face. I don’t know how much he’s heard of our little shouting match, but he seems laconic about it.

— I know that look of love, I tease, as Carlotta removes herself forcibly from the room. — Who’s the lucky lady?

— I’m not a kiss-and-tell sort. The boy gives me a bashful smile. All of a sudden, I protectively want him back in Surrey, away from all the shit that’s going on around me.

7 RENTON – SICK BOY PAYBACK

It’s a clear, crisp day, as I look out onto the Royal Mile. My cup twitches and rattles as I lower it tae my saucer, like I’ve a nervous disease. I cannae keep jumping on long-haul flights, the jet lag is destructive. I’ve sacked the Ambien, Xanax and Vallies but I barely trust myself tae sugar this tea. I cannae go on like this.

It was tough leaving Vicky. We’ve amped it up; both now that hungry, excited, stupid way ye are when ye meet somebody you’re really into. I think I might have fallen in love at some point; perhaps when I said that I’ll never forgive the Muslim extremists for 9/11, because it made it so much harder to move drugs around, and consequently made my life as a DJ manager mair difficult. She looked at me sadly and said that her cousin had worked in the World Trade Center and died in the terrorist attack. I gasped in horror and coughed out apologies, before she laughed and told me she was winding me up. Hard no tae love a lassie like that.

Now she’s in LA and I’m in a cafe in cauld and frosty Edinburgh. People walk past, bleary. Global commercialism has compelled the Scots tae pretend tae like Christmas, but we’re genetically programmed tae rebel against it. Ah come oot in a rash if I’m stuck in a hoose wi family for more than two days. New Year is more our natural speed. Not that I’m looking out the windae too much, because the view inside isnae so bad. Marianne always was a very good-looking girl, a pouty, superior, willowy blonde; athletic-slim, with ersecheeks like a superhero’s biceps. She had the world at her feet, but was burdened by a fatal flaw: she was besotted with Sick Boy. Of course the cunt ruined her life. But she’ll probably ken where he is or be able tae find him. I got her number through Amy Temperley, a mutual friend fae Leith, and we hook up at this cafe on the Royal Mile.

My initial thought: fuck me, Marianne has aged spectacularly well. Those Scando-Scot genes don’t bloat and her skin has remained excellent. She’s guarded at first. No wonder. I’m fucking guarded too. I ripped Sick Boy off for a lot more than that three-point-two grand, which I paid him back during the porno-flick era. That repayment was just a set-up, tae dae him out ay sixty grand, back in 1998, which is about ninety-one grand now. But I only did this because he tried tae steer Begbie onto ays as revenge for initially ripping him off. And I also snaffled the masters of the pornographic film we made. It’s complicated. — So you want to pay him this money back? Marianne says doubtfully. — After all this time?

Ah think she’s aboot tae tell ays tae fuck off, so I add, — I just want tae let go ay the past and move on.

A light clicks on behind her eyes. — Didn’t you try Facebook?

— I’m not on social media myself, but ah did have a look. Couldnae find him.

She scrolls on her phone, and hands me it. — He’s not under his own name. This is his escort agency.

The Facebook page links tae a website. The Colleagues.com mix of nudge-nudge, wink-wink innuendo, coupled wi a corporate eighties business-speak, replete wi motivational poster sloganeering, give ays absolutely zero fuckin doubt that the copy was written personally by him. — Sick Bo — Simon, he runs this escort agency?

— Aye, Marianne says, taking her phone back and checking it.

In spite ay myself, ah feel a warm glow in my chest, followed by a surge ay excitement. The dynamic between Sick Boy and me always veered towards the destructive, but it was seldom boring. I’m inexplicably chuffed tae get the details. Marianne then says, wi a certain impatience, — Do you want to get a proper drink?

Did I want to get a proper drink? I’m thinking about Vicky. But what are we? Is the connection all in ma mind? I don’t even know whether she would be hurt and offended if I slept with somebody else, or laugh in my face for being so ridiculous. I hear my treacherous words slide out: — We can go back tae my hotel if ye fancy it.

Marianne says nothing but she gets up. We head out, and walk side by side, down Victoria Terrace, her heels gunfiring across the Grassmarket cobblestones. We pass a pub that has probably changed its name a million times, but I recall that bands used to play there in my youth.

Ripping off Sick Boy was the other reason (as well as being the cause of Begbie’s injury) that I left running a club to manage DJs. My first client, Ivan, I put everything into. Then, as soon as he broke big, a manager with even fewer scruples and a bigger Rolodex poached him. It was an important lesson, and I showed I had learned it when I saw Conrad play in a Rotterdam club. He was being sort of looked after by his friend’s older brother. I quickly realised that the cunt was a prodigy. He could do any kind ay dance music. I talked tae him and ascertained that he wouldnae consider it beneath him to try and make pop hits. Those would make me the kind of money where I could pay off big debts quite easily. And now they have.

Of course I dinnae want tae gie that hard-earned money tae Sick Boy! But if I’m consistent wi this rehabilitation and personal atonement plan, I need to see him right as well. And Second Prize, who refused payment back then. He got religion and nobody’s heard from him. Like Franco, he’s due his fifteen grand. But it’s fucking Sick Boy who is gaunny totally wipe ays oot wi his big chunk. So I deserve some compensation.

When we get tae the hotel, I make the pretence of indicating the bar, but Marianne abruptly says, — Let’s go to your room.

I can’t fucking do this, and yet I have tae do it. It’s Marianne. I recall her as a teenager; feisty and contemptuous ay me, impossibly beautiful and sexy as she hung from a lecherous Sick Boy’s arm. I had zero chance with her back then, but now she’s offering herself tae me on a plate. Maybe it’s all part ay the process; maybe ye need tae exorcise past demons before you can move on.

We take the lift and get tae the room. I’m embarrassed because the bed hasn’t been made yet and there’s a dusky smell. Ah cannae recall if ah shot my load or no last night. I never wank these days, as ah enjoy such vivid wet dreams in the waking hours. There’s also a miserable lonely ennui with masturbation after you’ve shot your duff in a hotel room, something that bothers you mair as ye get aulder. I switch on the air con, even though ah ken it’ll freeze the place within five minutes. — Do ye want a drink?

— Red wine. Marianne points tae a bottle on the desk, one of those that ye eywis open because ye subconsciously think thir complimentary, but they never are.

I open it as Marianne collapses in a sprawl on the bed, kicking off her heels. — We doing this, then? she says, looking pointedly at me. In such situations it’s best not to speak, and I start removing my clothes. She sits up and does the same. I’m thinking that outside of my ex, Katrin, Marianne is the palest-skinned lassie I’ve ever set eyes on. Of course, the fabulous architecture ay a woman never fails tae excite, and that arse is as utterly splendid as I have observed-imagined from my youth. One day this magnificent charge will go, like vision, hearing, continence, and I hope it’s the very last of them to succumb. Then I realise there’s a problem. — I don’t have any condoms…

— I don’t have any either, Marianne says, nutter imperious, hand on her lily-white breasts, — because I don’t shag around. I haven’t fucked anyone in months. You?

— Same here, I concede. I stopped banging young chicks from clubs several years back. They’re only really after the DJ, and you’re generally a consolation prize. What starts off as succour to the psyche eventually tramples the self-esteem.

— Then let’s get it on, she says, like she’s challenging me to a square go.

We do, and I try to bring my A-game, in order to show her what she’s been missing.

Afterwards, as we lie alongside each other, the distance of an ocean and continent I thought I’d put between Victoria and myself suddenly narrows. Guilt and paranoia rips out ay ays tae the extent that she could be in the next room. Then Marianne says with a harsh laugh, — You were better than I thought you’d be…

This would have been affirmation had her expectations no been rock-bottom. If I still saw her as the too-cool-for-school chick, it figured that she’d always see me as the socially awkward, ginger-heided loser. We were condemned tae those perceptions ay our fourteen-year-old selves. I can not only feel the ‘but’ coming; much worse I ken exactly who he will be.

—… But not as good as one person we both know, she says, as her eyes take on a faraway aspect. I feel my spent dick shrivel a little. — He always left me wanting more, and feeling as if I could have given him more. Teased me, and she looks at me with a bitter smile that ages her. — I always liked good sex, and she spins catlike in the bed. — He gave me the fucking best.

My exhausted cock retracts another half-inch. When I speak, tae break my own ruinous silence, ma voice is at least an octave too high. — Ye let him wreck your life, Marianne. Why? I force my tones down. — You’re a smart woman.

— No. She shakes her head, her static blonde locks, like a nylon wig, falling exactly into place, just as they’d done when we’d been going at it full steam ahead. — I’m a fucking child. He’s made me that, she states, then looks at ays. And he’s here. In Edinburgh, not in London. Up here for Christmas, the cunt.

This was a revelation. Of course he’d be here: his mother, sisters, the big Italian family thing. — Do you know where?

— His sister’s, for Christmas, Carlotta, the younger one. But his brother-in-law… She suddenly looks awkward. — I met them in George Street. Simon told me that he was taking his son to the hospitality suite at Easter Road, for the game at New Year.

— Right… maybe see him there.

But I’m a fucking child too. So when Marianne leaves, I find out fae the Hibernian FC website that the game at New Year is against Raith Rovers at home. This is what we now have instead ay the derby. I’m glad I’ve been spared Hibs, and even fitba, in the last twenty years, becoming an armchair supporter. Ajax went downhill when I started following them. From the European Cup and the last season at De Meer, tae the fabulous Arena, and fucking mediocrity. I cannae even remember my last Hibs game. I think at Ibrox with the old boy.

So I go back tae my dad’s down in Leith. He’s seventy-five and sprightly. Not Mick Jagger sprightly, but nimble and strong. He still misses my mother every day, and his two dead sons. And, also, I suspect, his living one. So when I come into his life beyond the weekly phone call, I take him to Fishers down the Shore for some seafood. He likes it there. Over the sublime fish soup, I tell him how it came about that I’m pally with Franco again.

— I read about him, Dad nods. — Nice to see that he’s doing well. He waves his spoon at me. — Funny, I thought that art stuff was mair your thing. You were ey a good wee drawer at school.

— Ah well… I smile, a little infantilised. I love this old bastard. I look at his white hairs, plastered back in thin strands like a polar bear’s claw on a pink scalp, and I wonder how many of them are down to me.

— Good that you’ve put aw that behind youse, he growls. — It’s a short life; far too short tae faw out over money.

— Shut it, ya auld commie. I can’t resist the opportunity to recentre his politics. — Money is the only thing worth fawin oot ower!

— That’s what’s wrong wi the world the day!

My work is done! We finish a bottle ay Chardonnay, him still a bit fucked as he shifted too much whisky – as did I – on Christmas Day. When he starts tae get a bit woozy in the chair, I call a cab and drop him off home, then head on tae the hotel.

As the car trundles through the dark streets, I cannae believe who ah see begging on the pavement under a street lamp. Tae my mixed joy and trepidation, it’s Spud Murphy, sitting there, just yards fae my hotel. Ah ask the cabbie tae stop, and climb oot and pey the boy. Then I walk quietly up tae Spud, who wears a Kwik-Fit baseball cap and cheapo bomber jaiket, jeans and incongruously new-looking trainers, wi a scarf and mittens. He’s sat like he’s folding in on himself. Beside him, one of these wee terriers, dunno if it’s a Yorkie or a Westie, but it looks like it needs a wash and fur trim. — Spud!

He looks up and blinks a couple of times before a smile spreads across his face. — Mark, ah cannae believe it, ah was jist aboot tae pack up. He rises and we share an embrace. A rank odour of stale sweat peels fae him, and ah even have tae fight down a retching impulse. We decide tae get a drink, and repair tae the hotel bar. Spud is a semi-jakeball and has a scabby wee dug in tow, but I’ve an account at this doss, so despite the barmaid’s glance indicating she’s singularly unimpressed, they let it slide. This is actually quite big ay them, because, well, ah hate tae be a cunt, but he kind ay fuckin mings, like he hasnae since he was a wee laddie. Well, maybe in the junk days, but ma ain smell probably masked that. We position ourselves in a dark corner, a bit apart from everyone else in the sparsely filled bar. The dug, called Toto, sits silently at his feet. I’m thinking it’s strange Spud going canine, as he was eywis a cat obsessive. We inevitably start discussing the Franco phenomenon, and I’m telling him aboot wanting tae square up Sick Boy, Second Prize and the art radge himself. How I need tae find one, how another has vanished, and how the third doesnae want the money he’s owed.

— No surprised Franco isnae interested in the dosh, catboy. Spud slurps back a good quarter of the pint of lager, as Toto accepts my pettings under the table. He’s a matted-furred minger, but he’s cute and sweet-hearted, and his sandpaper tongue slaps ma knuckles.

— What dae ye mean?

— Pure cursed that dosh, likesay. That money you gied ays was the worst thing that ever happened tae ays. A big, big binge ay drugs, the end ay me n Ali. No that ah kin pin ma demise on you, catboy, he helpfully adds.

— I suppose we all make our choices in life, mate.

— Ye really believe that?

So here I am, sitting discussing free will and determinism with a jakey; me on Guinness, him on Stella. And the debate carries on up in my room. — What other option dae ye have but tae believe it? I ask, as I open the door and the afternoon sex smells hit ays, but Spud seems oblivious. — Yes, we’ve goat strong pulls but we can see what they are and where they take us and we therefore resist and reject them, ah tell him, suddenly realising that ah’m chopping oot the lines ay coke in the bathroom, using ma stainless-steel Citadel Productions business caird.

— Can you no see what you’re daein now?

— I’m no in a resist-and-reject mode at the moment, I tell him. — I’m in a getting-through-shit-at-all-costs one. You dinnae need tae join ays. It’s up tae you, ah tell him, waving a rolled-up twenty. — Make yir choice: this is mine.

— Aye… mibbe just tae be social, likesay, Spud says with rising panic, only abating as soon as ah hand the cunt the note that ah ken ah’ll never see again. — It’s been a long time.

Then we’re back oot, at a couple ay bars, which is the only wey I ken I’ll get rid ay him, before my eyes start shutting and a pit-bull yawn almost tears my bottom jaw fae my face. I head tae the hotel and try tae fitfully sleep.

The shattering alarm seems tae wake ays ten minutes later. And this is my life, the sheer fucking lunacy of it. I now have to fly back to LA, for one of Conrad’s gigs, then return here for Hogmanay, getting in on the morning of New Year’s Eve for the big bells party. Then I want to just hole up in Amsterdam for winter and get some work done, but ah need tae go back tae LA again, and put time intae Vicky and me, if I really want things tae take off. And, I reflect, as a ball ay self-loathing sticks in my chest like a tumour, I need tae stop shagging the fuck aroond.

So I’m on the red eye tae that fucking blight on humanity that is Heathrow and then up in first class aw the way tae LA. The cunts at security swabbed every inch of my case for traces of ching. But my bank cards show fuck all, and the stainless-steel business caird cleans up a treat.

Hell, it’s a long and tedious flight with Conrad, whae connected fae Amsterdam, sitting next tae us. He’s bored, sulky and utterly charmless company and I give thanks for the relative isolation ay the individual pods. Conrad is basically mildly autistic, a spoilt fat cunt, but I believe there’s a fundamentally decent young gadge in there. I have to believe it. Emily, who is on at Fabric in London, is just young and confused but has a good heart. Then there’s Carl. The biggest bairn of them all. What a fucking trio. And now FUCKING FRANCIS BEGBIE is back in ma life and I’m seeking out SICK BOY.

At LAX, the immigration ratshagger’s look is long and searching, gaun fae me, tae passport, tae me, tae passport. This is bad. It means he now has tae say something. — So how long have you lived in Amsterdam?

— On and off, about twenty-five years.

— And you’re a manager in the entertainment industry?

— An artist manager, I concede, depressed at the lack of irony in my voice. I watch Conrad, a couple of booths down, breeze through, his doughy digits sweating over the fingerprint glass like sausages on a hotplate.

— Like bands?

— DJs.

He softens a little. — Is that like managing a band?

— Easier. Solo artists. No equipment, I state, then think of the exception to every fucking rule, that fucking Neanderthal Ewart. — Book the plane, transfers and hotels. Organise the press. Fight for publishing royalties, battle promoters for gigs and cash, I rant, managing to stop myself from saying, and drugs.

— You come here a lot. Do you plan to move to the USA?

— No. Though I do have an apartment in Santa Monica. It saves on hotels. I’m in LA and Vegas a lot on business. One of my artists, I point at Conrad, now through and heading for the luggage, — he’s got a residency at the Wynn. I always travel on an ESTA. I’ve applied for a green card, and I suddenly think of Vicky, smiling in the sun on the beach, — but even when I get it, I won’t be living here all the time.

He looks at me as if he doesn’t believe my green card application for resident alien will be accepted.

— David Guetta is one of my sponsors, I offer.

— Uh-huh, he says doomily, then seems all put out. — Why don’t you wanna live here permanently?

— Maybe the same reason that you don’t want to live in Amsterdam? I like America, but it’s a bit too American for ma personal tastes. I suspect you’d find Holland a wee bit too Dutch.

He pulls his lower lip out in dreary evaluation, slumping back into catatonic boredom, as the luminous green light comes on and I print my fingers for the thousandth time, and get my picture snapped yet again. A stamp on the passport and customs form, and I’m back in the land of the free.

The first thing I do – literally – when I land somewhere is hassle the promoter for drugs. Anyone who doesn’t have a contact shouldn’t be in the fucking game. I tell them it’s for the DJs, but most of those boring cunts nowadays never touch anything other than hydroponic grass, my contemporary, N-Sign Carl Ewart, being the exception – yet again. I usually get some gak, just to keep the party going, anything that stops me from reminding myself that I’m the oldest person in the club, unless I’m with N-Sign. I feel sorry for old DJs, they deserve big money, stepping out to that ritual humiliation every night: guys who no longer dance, playing music for people who do. That’s why I try to be patient with Carl. I put in my order for the unofficial rider: cannabis, MDMA powder and cocaine. Conrad is slavering so much techy shit about different buds in my ear, I put him straight onto the man.

The deal done, he says, — Where is that cokehead bum N-Sign? Why do you persist with him?

— History, mate, I shrug. I should tell Conrad to mind his own business, but I’m desperate he doesn’t go the way of Ivan. And it is his business, as I’m booking Carl gigs on his undercard.

As we wait for our luggage to come onto the belt, a text from the cunt himself: no Carl, but Begbie.

When r u next in Embra?

You never know if he’s being ironic or dyslexic.

Hogmanay. N-Sign playing.

Would you, Spud, Sick Boy and Second Prize be up for an art project? I want to make casts of your heads.

Can’t speak for them, but count me in. Saw Spud, hoping to see Sick Boy Hogmanay.

Sound. Can u do 3 Jan?

Aye.

Conrad gets an Uber to the hotel, on his own, after I explain that I’m meeting my girlfriend. — Dude, he smiles.

When I get back to the apartment to hook up with Vicky, she’s so pleased to see me, and me her. I’m thinking about Marianne and what the fuck was I doing? Maybe it was something that had to happen. To get it out my system, so I can move on with her now.

After we go out for a meal with her friends Willow and Matt, we head home and are at it like knives. I feel a sort of twang and Vicky feels it too, but we only pause for a second, before finishing. We find that the condom has split. It has rolled down the shaft of my cock, splattered in a mix of spunk and thick menstrual blood; her period has started. I’m relieved but she nonetheless goes for the morning-after pill. — I want to be double-treble sure, I’m just so not a mother, Vicky smiles cheerfully.

We fall back into the bed, and for a brief second I hear Marianne’s nagging voice: I don’t shag around. I haven’t fucked anyone in months. With her being privy to Sick Boy’s movements, I’m just not convinced. But it’s drowned out by Vicky’s appreciative contentions. — It’s great being with you. I’ve dated boys, nice boys, but boys. It’s good to be with a man.

I feel the vice of guilt. I’ve always enjoyed boyishness, never striven for maturity. Manhood is an ill-fitting cloak on my shoulders, like being dressed by somebody else. But my euphoria breaks its constraints: there is more than one type of man. — You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long, long time, I confess to her. We share a wow look; acknowledgement that we’re spinning into something and it feels good and right.

Then, of course, I have to leave her. When I get back to Edinburgh, without the smoothing pills, my fatigue is jaggy and acute. Thankfully Carl has not too bad coke, and the home crowd inspires him to play a decent set at Hogmanay. As well as Marina and her boyfriend Troy, I have a twitching Spud and a jovial Gavin Temperley with me in the main guest box. One is skeletal, the other now a fat bastard. In the next box my auld pal Rab Birrell, with his brother Billy, who used to be the boxer. Both look well. It’s good to see them.

Afterwards there’s a party, but I’m no much company, and I dinnae want tae get too fucked up in front of Marina, so I make my excuses and bow out early. I crash at the hotel and sleep like fuck, right through tae the next night. Then I go doon tae Leith and get a wee dram with the old boy for New Year, and he’s made a welcome pot ay stovies.

Then more kip at the hotel and I’m off the next day tae see Hibs. Surprisingly, for a relegated outfit, the club seems a much bigger and more professional operation than ah mind ay it being. The reception area looks like one ay they corporate hotels, and there are now several hospitality suites rather than just the one. — Just gies ays the most expensive package, I tell the woman, who looks at ays like I’m a clown.

— But it’s just for you, right?

I realise how pathetically nae-mates this is sounding. — I’m meeting a Mr Williamson here, it’s a last-minute thing.

— Right… Is it Simon Williamson? There’s a party of six. Would you like tae join them at that table?

— Sound.

I square up on the Visa and head for the stairs. On reaching a reasonably plush dining area, I immediately see Sick Boy, looking much the same, bar the greying locks, sitting wi what appears to be Juice Terry Lawson, still with that corkscrew hair, and four young gadges. I stare at Simon David Williamson, the cavalier shagger ay the Bananay Flats, for a few moments. Yes, the mop has maybe receded a little along with the touches of silver, but he looks well. As I gape, he suddenly rubbernecks. He stares at me in disbelief, then, rising, bellows: — What the fuck are you doing here?!

— Wee word, buddy, I say, nodding tae Terry. — Tez. You huvnae changed much! Got tae be fifteen years, easy, I consider, remembering the last time I saw Terry was when we made that dodgy scud film. He had a terrible accident where he ruptured his cock.

— Aye, he smiles, and he kens exactly what I’m thinking, — one hundred and ten per cent recovery!

We exchange pleasantries for a few moments, but I can feel the seethe of Sick Boy, who grabs my wrist and ushers me ower tae the bar. When we get there, I dump the envelope in front ay him. He has zero reticence about immediately snatching it. Snidely looking inside, he discreetly counts it, hudin it close tae his chest, eyes gaun fae the money tae me, tae the people in the vicinity, in an almost Dickensian parody ay furtive greed.

Finally he lets those blazing lamps rest on me. I’ve forgotten the hurt, questioning, accusation they permanently carry. With an injured pout, he declares, — You ripped me off not once, but twice. The cash I can get past, but you stole the film! I put my heart and soul into that movie! You and that fucking bitch Nikki and that stuck-up hoor Dianne –

— They shafted me as well. I went back tae the Dam with my tail between my legs.

— I came looking for you there!

— I figured ye might, so I moved out of town for a bit. Den Haag. It was a little dull.

— Very fucking wise, I can tell you! he hisses, but he’s looking in the package again. He’s impressed and cannae even hide it. — Never thought you’d pay me back.

— It’s all there. You should’ve been after Nikki and Dianne for most of it, but I decided tae compensate ye on their behalf.

— That doesn’t sound like you! You must be fucking off-the-charts wealthy. All that NA stuff works for rich bastards, who think they can buy their way oot ay the misery they’ve created!

This cunt has loast nane ay his natural outrage. — Well, there it is. I’m happy to take it back –

— You can get tae fuck!

— Good, cause it’s aw yours. Now you can expand Colleagues.

His eyes bulge, his voice goes to a low growl. — What do you know about Colleagues?

I decide it isnae a good idea tae mention Marianne. — Only what your impressive website tells ays. ‘Ambitious plans for expansion,’ it says.

— Well, yes, naturally. ‘We plan to tread water’ doesn’t really impress, he sneers, looking over at the fellow hospitality diners in contempt.

Ah watch Terry back at the table, taking a keen interest. Sick Boy clocks this n aw, dispensing a quick scowl, then pointedly turning his back to him. As he faces ays, I explain, — The best online calculations for sixty grand in the year 1998 range fae eighty-three thousand seven hundred and seventy quid tae one hundred thousand and nine hundred nicker. Ah split the difference at ninety-one thousand and eighty pounds using a single purchasing power calendar application.

— I could have made a lot more if I’d been allowed to invest my money my way!

— Impossible tae predict that for sure. Investments can go south as well as north.

He stuffs the envelope in his jacket. — What about the masters ay Seven Rides for Seven Brothers?

— Fuck knows. But a fifteen-year-old scud film willnae be worth much.

— Hmmph, he grunts and looks over to his table. — Well, thank you for the money and about fucking time n aw. But this is a social occasion. He points tae the door. — Now go.

— Well, I’ll have a little roast beef and watch the game, at least the first half, if it’s all the same tae you, I smile. — I did purchase a hospitality package, and it’s been a long time since I saw the Hibbies in action. And aren’t ye just a wee bitty curious as to why I’m daein this now?

Sick Boy rolls his eyes in concession and nods tae the group of Terry and the lads. — Yes. Okay. Just don’t expect me tae listen tae any fucking AA/NA tale of woe and step-working, debt-paying bullshit, he says, as we step ower and settle down to join the others.

That pre-emptive speech is useful as that was exactly where I had planned tae start. I’m introduced tae Sick Boy’s son and nephew, and Terry’s two lads. All of them seem nice, normal young guys. But I suppose we did at that age to outsiders. We have a decent meal, a comic tells some gags, then gaffer Alan Stubbs gives his view of the game, before we head into the stand to watch it from nice foam-cushioned seats. My back aches a little, but it’s not too bad. I’m sat next tae Sick Boy. — Well, he says, his voice low as he taps his inside pocket, — what’s the story? Why this? Why now?

I like the look ay the Hibs midfielder McGinn. Unusual running style, but keeps the baw well. — Begbie, I met him on a flight to LA. Seen him over there a few times since. We’re sort of mates again. I had him at our club night in Vegas. He invited me back to his exhibition.

It might have been ‘Begbie’ but it’s more likely ‘club night’, ‘Vegas’ and ‘exhibition’ that ensures I have his full attention. – You’re hanging out with that fuckin psycho? After what he tried tae dae… Sick Boy pauses as Hibs attack the Raith goal, orchestrated by McGinn.

— No. That’s it. He really has fucking changed.

Sick Boy cracks a high-wattage grin. He points tae a foul on a Hibs player and elbows his son. — The butchers of Kirkcaldy, he snorts. Then he turns back tae me. — This art shite he got intae? You dinnae think for a second that that headcase has genuinely rehabilitated? He’s playing you. Waiting for his moment to strike!

— Not the vibe I get.

— Then I’m delighted for him.

— Ah offered him the money. He refused. The bastard is married tae a Californian beauty. Eh’s got two lovely wee daughters, who dote on him, and whom he gets tae watch grow up. I seldom see my boy.

Sick Boy shrugs, but fixes me a look ay understanding. He drops his voice tae a whisper. — Tell me about it. So we both fell a bit short in the paternal stakes, he thieves a quick glance at his son, — what of it?

— So how the fuck did Begbie become the success story?

Sick Boy openly scoffs, in that imperious disdain, which nobody else I’ve run into in life has ever been able tae emulate. — You must have money! You wouldnae be handing this over if ye wirnae extremely flush. He taps inside his pocket. — Clubs? Vegas? Dinnae come oot wi aw that shite and plead poverty!

So I tell him about my job and DJ Technonerd’s breakthrough.

— So you’re coining it in fae they fucking shit EDM DJs? These drum machine and stylophone wankers?

— Not really. Only one ay them makes serious dough. One is a charity case, call me sentimental, but I’ve always liked his shit. The other is a speculative punt, which doesnae look like coming off. That duo cost me practically everything I earn with the big payer and I’m too much ay a sap tae drop them. I’m looking for a fourth and fifth one. I thought, instead ay being a DJ myself, if I managed five at twenty per cent each, it would be just the same. I’ve got three so far.

Sick Boy is unmoved by my disclosure. He evidently thinks my penury pleas are simply about avoiding any mair hassle n hustle. — I read about that Dutch fucker, Technonerd. That cunt’s minted. If you’re on twenty per cent ay his earnings…

— Okay, I’ve a place in Amsterdam and an apartment in Santa Monica. I’m not starving. I’ve a few bob in the bank that I haven’t spunked on guilt money for you, treatment and care for the boy.

— What’s wrong wi the laddie?

— He’s autistic.

— Wee Davie… the spazzy gene? he thinks out loud, in reference tae ma deceased younger brother. His son and nephew turn round briefly.

Anger rises in ays and I fight it doon and look disparagingly at him. — You’re already making me regret this, I nod tae the envelope bulging in his pocket.

— Sorry, he says, and it seems semi-gracious, — can’t be an easy gig. So why are ye sorting me out now?

— I want tae live. As in live, I emphasise, and Vicky’s face, laughing, toothsome and blue-eyed, sweeping back stray strands of sun-bleached blonde locks that have escaped their penning, pops into my brain. — Not just exist, I contend as the half-time whistle goes. — Clear away aw the shit fae the past.

— So it is all about rehab case atonement.

— In a sense, yes. It gets too much carrying the burden of cuntishness around.

— Advice: Catholicism. Confession, he says. — Better a few quid on a collection plate than ninety grand, and he tips me a wink, tapping his pocket.

We head back inside for our half-time cups of tea and beers and decent meat pies. Sick Boy and I again hit the bar tae blether in conspiracy. — You seem to be doing okay. Better than me, he moans. — Fucking travel everywhere. I never get out ay London unless it’s on holiday.

— If you have loads ay girls working for you…

— They make the big bucks, no me. I just hook them up on the app. Dinnae come it, Renton. You’re the one with the dosh.

— Stuck on planes, in airports and in hotels, with nowt tae dae but lament how life’s passing ays by. I’m wasting that most finite resource: time, chasing the dream that fucking Begbie is living! I suddenly erupt. — He’s refusing tae take his money, what the fuck is aw that about?

— He’s no changed, Sick Boy spits. — He’s just fucking with you. Begbie is incapable ay change. He’s a warped specimen of humanity.

— I don’t even care what he is. I just want tae morally discharge ma obligations.

— You’ll never morally discharge your obligation tae me, Renton. He taps his pocket. — This shite doesnae even start tae cover it.

— The film is completely worthless.

— I’m talking about Nikki. You ruined my chances of getting together with a girl I was nuts about!

Nikki was a con artist who took the pish out ay us both. And I dinnae believe for a second that he still gies a toss aboot her. It’s aw leverage for future manipulation. — Wake up, mate. She fucked us both over.

Sick Boy seems tae swallow a moothfae ay something that’s unpleasant, but perhaps no quite as putrid as he anticipated. We go back tae our seats for the second half.

— Listen, I’ve goat some business fir ye. I need an escort, I tell him, watching his eyes widen. — Not for me, I hasten tae add. I’m trying to be un-sleazy.

— I’m sure that’s working for you.

— It’s for my young Dutch boy. The DJ.

He looks towards his young nephew. — Can these retards not get a fucking ride for themselves?

— Tell me about it, I’m his manager. I elaborate on the problem. — Guys like Conrad have nae social skills. They smoke weed and masturbate tae pornography. They can’t talk tae a girl or have sex with a real person.

— Cyberwanking little creeps. These fuckers are mentally ill, Sick Boy whispers, looking again at his nephew, now playing a video game on his phone, — made so by the world we live in.

What he’s saying resonates. The match isnae that bad, and there is something fundamentally wrong about the way the kids are looking at screens instead ay watching what’s going on live.

— Even we’re tainted enough by our immersion into that world, his elbow digs into my ribs, — although we were schooled up the goods yard!

I cannae even say her name tae myself, but I wince as I think ay ma cherry popping inside her piggy-bank fanny. Unable to look her in the face as ah pushed and shoved through her dryness, tae the low-key encouragement of Sick Boy. Ma eyes watering as they focused on the broken glass and gravel around us. The blue sleeve ay her cagoule we lay on blowing up in my face in the wind. A dug barking in the distance, and a disgruntled growl of Dirty wee cunts fae a passing jakey. — Aye… the goods yard.

— You’d have still been a virgin now but for me taking you under my wing, he laughs, picking up on my discomfort.

I’m now favourably recalling the banging I gave Marianne, as the nephew’s head spins round. He meets my eyes, then turns away. I lean in to Sick Boy. — Oh, I’m sure I’d have found a way oot ay that maze, but thank you for inappropriately sexualising me at a tender age.

For some reason, this stings him. — Ye never complained back then!

— But I was sensitive. Sixteen, seventeen, would have been ideal for me. Fourteen was way too young.

— Sensitive… as in thieving-cunt-who-rips-off-his-mates sensitive? That kind of sensitive?

There isnae a great deal I can say tae that. The final whistle blows and Hibs have won 1–0, tae keep the promotion bid on course. Sick Boy shepherds the young lads intae the back ay Terry’s taxi. — You chaps go on ahead, the advance party. Tell Carlotta no tae bother expecting me for dinner, I’ll grab a bite with ma auld mucker here.

The boys, especially Ben, look disappointed, but not surprised, as Sick Boy slams the cab door shut and hands Terry a tenner. — Fuck off, ya daft cunt, it’s oan ma wey, Terry says, then leans out the windae, and oot ay earshot fae the young gadges, whispers, — Anywey, be nice tae check oot your sister again, bud. No seen her in years. Still a looker, ah’m bettin, and now that she’s back oan the market… He tips a wink, leans back and starts up the car.

Sick Boy’s eyes protrude. — She’s no oan –

Terry pulls away, as his horn blares triumphantly.

— Cunt, says Sick Boy, then laughs, — but good luck tae him. Maybe a Lawson length would help sort her heid out. Her husband’s been kicked oot the hoose. He was caught Christmas Day, check this, on video, banging Marianne. Mind ay Maid Marianne, fae back in the day?

I haven’t fucked anyone in months. Fucking bullshit. — Aye… I nod meekly, as we walk across the car park, through the crowds.

— She’s always been disturbed, but has now gone full-on psycho. She would fuck a minging dog in the street these days. I’ll be telling the brother-in-law tae get checked up, especially if he manages tae get back wi ma sis, he sings, as we cross the Bridge of Doom. — Remember some ay the ambushes here, back in the day? he says, as I feel a phantom itch pepper my genitals. Paranoia rips out of me. Vicky…

He’s still slavering away as we go on to Easter Road. Everywhere seems replete with rich memory. We head down Albert Street. I’m thinking of Seeker’s flat where we got the skag, the Clan Bar opposite, now shut, and we head to Buchanan Street, where Dizzy Lizzie’s pub has been resurrected as a slightly higher-end concern. It actually has drinkable beer now. The barmaid is familiar, and she greets us wi a big smile. — Lisa, my lovely, Sick Boy says, — two pints ay that wonderful Innis & Gunn lager please!

— Coming up, Simon. Hi, Mark, long time no see.

— Hi, I say, suddenly remembering where I ken her fae.

We find a corner and I ask him, — Is that what’s-her-name?

— The Ghastly Aftermath, yes, that’s her, and we share a childish chuckle. She got that name fae a TV advert for washing-up liquid. A posh, hung-over hostess facing a sink full ay dirty dishes exclaims, ‘I love parties, but I hate the ghastly aftermath.’ The Ghastly Aftermath always hung around at the end ay a party. Ye would find her crashed oan the flair, or on a couch, or sitting watching TV and drinking tea, long after every other cunt had fucked off. It wisnae like she was hanging around tae fuck any survivors, and she wasn’t peeving the dregs ay the alcohol or waiting oan new drugs tae arrive. We never quite ascertained what her motivations were.

— Lived at hame wi her ma and wanted tae stay oot as long as possible, Sick Boy decides. — Ever ride her?

— No, I say. I once snogged the Ghastly Aftermath, but that was about it. — You?

He rolls his eyes and tuts in a don’t-ask-silly-questions manner. I insist tae him that I’m no sticking around tae peeve it up, as I’m too fucked wi the jet lag. I should feel a retro loser, but it’s oddly comforting, being here in Leith with Sick Boy. — Do ye get back up the road much?

— Weddings, funerals, Christmas, so yes, loads.

— Ever hear of what happened to Nikki? Or Dianne?

His eyes widen. — So they really did dae a turn on you as well?

— Aye, I admit. — Sorry about the film. Fuck knows what they did with the masters.

— Threw them on a bonfire, no doubt, he says, then suddenly breaks oot intae gallows laughter. — There we were, two scamming Leith schemies, fuckin rinsed like daft cunts by those cold-hearted bourgeois chickies. We were never as streetwise as we imagined, he muses ruefully. — Listen… does Begbie ever mention me?

— Just in passing, I tell him.

— I’ve never telt anybody this, but I went tae see the cunt in hospital; after that car tanned him in, when he was chasing you. He clears his throat. — He was unconscious, in some kind of fucking spazzy coma, so I let rip with a few home truths in the veg’s pus. You’ll never guess what happened next?

— He came out of the coma and grabbed your throat and tore it out?

— Actually, quite fucking close. The bastard opened his eyes and seized me by my wrist. I was shiteing it. Those fucking lamps ay his were a blast ay Hades…

— Fuck sake –

— He sank back into the bed, closed his eyes. The hospital staff said it was just some reflexive action. He woke up proper a couple ay days later.

— If he’d been in a coma he wouldn’t be able tae make oot a word you said, I smile. — And if he could and he cared, you’d already be deid.

— I’m not sure, Mark. He’s a maniac. Tread carefully. I’m glad I’m no involved with him any mair. I’ve had considerable personal distress from the spunk-breathed amoeba’s poxy obsessions.

— I’ve another one for ye. He wants to make a cast of our heads. In bronze.

— No fucking way.

I take a long swig of lager and lay the glass slowly on the table. — Don’t shoot the messenger.

Sick Boy’s head rolls slowly, as his eyes half close. — I’m not going anywhere near that fucking psychopath!

8 LEITH HEADS

As Mott the Hoople’s ‘Honaloochie Boogie’ blasts out from a small radio, none of the three men present can quite believe that they are standing in the same room. An artist friend has given Francis Begbie the use of this attic studio, located in a backstreet zone of warehouses near Broughton Street. Despite the abundant light spilling through the glass ceiling from a sliver of blue sky, two sets of untrained eyes, belonging to Renton and Sick Boy, process the space as a small, dingy factory unit. It has a kiln, and a range of industrial equipment, two large workbenches, acetylene torches and gas canisters. Racks on the wall store materials, some of which are marked poisonous and combustible.

Frank Begbie’s protracted yawn signals that, like Renton, he fights jet lag from a long-haul air journey. Sick Boy is evidently vexed, glancing intermittently from the door to the clock on his phone. He decided to come on the basis that being seen with Begbie might give him some leverage with Syme. Already it feels like a mistake. — Where’s Spud? Probably just coming fae a fucking bench in Pilrig Park, and of course, he’s the one who’s late!

Renton notes Sick Boy’s nervousness in the presence of Begbie. He hasn’t engaged with him, beyond a perfunctory handshake and nod. — Nae word fae Second Prize? Renton asks.

Sick Boy rolls his shoulders in a ‘search me’ manner.

— I had assumed he’d drunk himself to death, or, even worse, met a nice lassie, settled doon and got lost in Gumleyland, Renton smiles. — He was a bit ay a Holy Joe the last time I saw him.

— That’s a shame, Franco says, — I wis gaunny call this piece Five Boys. I wanted tae show the journey we’ve aw been on.

It is the un-Franco-like word journey that instantly compels an exchange of doubtful glances between Sick Boy and Renton. Frank Begbie catches this and seems about to say something, but then Spud walks in. Just by regarding his bedraggled, wasted figure, Renton feels his own exhaustion peeling away. Spud’s clothing is tatty, but while his face is wizened, his eyes blaze. His movements are at first deliberate, but then break into short, uncontrollable spazzy jerks. — Here we go, Sick Boy announces.

— Sick… Simon… long time. Hi, Mark. Franco…

— Hi, Spud, Renton says.

– Sorry tae be late, boys. Franco, good tae see ye. Last time wis at yir laddie’s funeral but, ay? That wis awfay sad, ay?

Renton and Sick Boy look at each other again, this obviously being news to both of them. Franco, however, remains unruffled. — Aye, Spud, good tae see you n aw. Thanks.

Spud continues rambling, with Renton and Sick Boy trying to work out what drugs he’s ingested. — Aye, ah’m sorry tae be late, man, ah pure goat involved cause ah ran intae this boy, Davie Innes, you’ll ken the boy, Franco, Jambo, but a good lad, likesay –

— Nae worries, mate, Frank Begbie cuts him off. — As ah say, I appreciate you daein this, and he turns to Sick Boy and Renton. — That goes for youse n aw.

It is unnerving for them all to hear Franco express gratitude, and an uncomfortable silence follows. — I’m kind of flattered, Franco… or, eh, Jim, Renton ventures.

— Franco’s fine. Call ays what ye want.

— Mibbe call ye Beggars, Franco, Spud laughs, as Renton and Sick Boy freeze in horror. — Wi nivir called ye that tae yir face but, ay, lads, mind we were ey too feart tae say ‘it’s the Beggar Boy!’ tae Franco’s face? Ken?

— Aw ye did, did yis? Frank Begbie says, turning to Renton and Sick Boy who stare at the floor for an excruciating moment. Then he laughs loudly, a blustering guffaw, which shocks them in its hearty joviality. — Aye, ah could be a wee bit uptight back then!

They look at each other and explode into a joint, cathartic laughter.

When it dies down, Renton asks, — But why do ye want tae make casts ay our ugly mugs?

Franco sits back on one of the workbenches and looks wistful. — Us and Second Prize, we aw grew up thegither. Wi Matty, Keezbo and Tommy, who are obviously oot the picture.

Renton feels a lump in his throat at the mention of those names. Sick Boy’s and Spud’s gleaming eyes tell him that he’s not alone.

— My art stuff’s in demand right now, Frank Begbie explains, — so I wanted tae dae a kind ay early autobiographical piece. Aye, I was gaunny call it Five Boys, but I think Leith Heads should dae it.

— Sound, Renton nods. — Mind way, way back in the day, there was a chocolate called Five Boys?

— Ye nivir git that Five Boys chocolate any mair. No seen it for donkey’s years, Spud says, his mouth flapping open. He brushes some saliva off his chin with his sleeve.

Sick Boy addresses Franco directly for the first time. — Will this take long?

— About an hour ay yir time, all in, Franco replies. — I know you all have busy lives, and that you and Mark are only here for a short break and probably have family stuff tae dae, so ah’ll no keep youse long.

Sick Boy’s head bobs in accord, and he checks his phone again.

— It’ll no be sair, likesay? Spud asks.

— No. Not at all, Frank Begbie declares, handing them overalls, which they put on, then sitting them down on a set of small swivel stools. He inserts two shortened straws up Spud’s nostrils. — Just relax and breathe easily. This will be cold, he explains, as he starts to paint latex onto Spud’s face.

— It is. N aw sort ay tickly, Spud laughs.

— Try no tae speak, Danny, ah want this tae set right, Frank urges, before repeating the procedure on Renton and Sick Boy. Then he fits a five-sided Perspex box over the head of each man, the edge of the receptacle sitting about an inch shy of any part of the face, lining up the protruding straws to slip through small holes in the front of the box. Through grooves at the bottom, he slides in two adjustable convex-indented leaves. Those join together, forming a base with a hole that fits snugly around each man’s neck. — This is the bit that people get edgy aboot, it’s like a guillotine, Franco cackles, to be met with three tight smiles. Checking that each man can breathe freely, he then secures the gaps with putty, and opens the top of the box and starts to pour a preprepared mixture in. — This might feel a bit cauld. There’s a bit ay weight in it, so try and sit up and keep your back straight so that it isnae straining on your neck. It’ll just be on for fifteen minutes, but if ye experience any difficulty breathing, or any discomfort, just raise yir hand and ah’ll open it up.

As the boxes fill up and the compound begins to set, the sounds from outside – the cars in the street, the radio, Franco’s own activities – all fade out in the consciousness of Renton, Sick Boy and Spud. Soon each man can sense only the air entering their lungs through their nostrils, via the straws that poke out from the plaster-filled blocks.

The amalgam solidifies quickly, and Franco removes the Perspex casings and contemplates his old friends: three literal blockheads, sitting next to each other on their stools. Suddenly aware of a tug in his bladder, he heads to the toilets. On the way back, his phone displays MARTIN on caller ID, and he picks up. — Jim, we might have to change venue for the London show. I know you liked that one, but the gallery has suffered some structural problems and the council need them to do work before it’s suitable for the public… Martin’s soft American voice is hypnotic after the grating Scots ringing in his ears, and Franco thinks of Melanie. He finds himself loitering in the corridor, looking out through a dirty window at the narrow cobbled streets below, and the random foot traffic cutting between Leith Walk and Broughton Street.

I put my hand onto my lap to rearrange the erection I feel burgeoning. I don’t want Begbie – a closet homo if ever there was one, this art thing shocks me far less than it does the others – getting the wrong idea! In my mind’s eye, I’m going back to Marianne, pleading undying love, winning her round, setting her up to be fucked by a gang of strap-on-wearing schoolies from her alma matter, Mary Erskine. Ah, the sweet narratives of pornography. I miss them so. That’s creativity, Begbie…

This is so relaxing… in fact it’s the most relaxing time I’ve spent in fucking years! Just doing nothing, letting your thoughts slowly unravel and meander.

Vicky… how uncharacteristically quiet she’s been the last few days… no emails or texts returned… like I’ve somehow upset her. What the fuck did ah dae? She can’t be up the kite after the flunky burst, cause she had her period on, and in any case, she scoffed that morning-after pill straight away.

Does she know about Marianne? Could she tell?

Marianne lied about no shagging anybody, cause she defo rode Sick Boy’s brother-in-law. And obviously Sick Boy himself. Who else?

Fuck, they thin wisps ay air coming through that straw… I cannae hear or see anything…

BEGBIE!

I’m at his mercy! He could just cut off ma fuckin air supply right now!

What the fuck… cool it…

As they say in the movies: if the cunt wanted ays deid I’d already be deid…

Stay fucking calm.

Fuckin itchy knob, but I cannae scratch it cause I dinnae fuckin ken whae the fuck’s watching…

Funny but this sortay staeted oaf as barry at first but it’s gaun aw sortay messed up cause one ay ma nostrils is jist pure seizen up, like, then it pure shuts, like wi aw the ching n snotters… oh man… the second yin… ah pits muh hand up in the air… ah cannae breathe!

Help ays, Franco!

Ah cannae breeeethe…

Frank Begbie is still on the phone with Martin, but has shifted the discussion from suitable London exhibition venues onto his own area of interest. — If Axl Rose saw that fuckin catalogue, he’d be right in for that yin ay Slash. Just get it oot tae his people.

— Right, I’ll send it to his management, and also the record company.

— Call Liam Gallagher’s lot, and Noel Gallagher’s n aw. And they boys in the Kinks, the Davies brothers. There’s a huge market in the music business we huvnae even started to tap intae.

— I’m on it. But, Jim, I’m conscious of your time, and the commissions are rolling in.

— Ah’ve plenty time.

In the workshop, Danny Murphy, rendered blind, deaf and anosmatic, rises from his stool in terror, tearing at the set block of wet plaster-concrete mix that encases his face. He stumbles over Mark Renton. Alarmed by the weight on him, the sensation of tipping off the stool and tumbling to the floor, Renton reflexively grabs out, striking at something. Feeling a walloping blow to his side, Simon Williamson panic-strickenly raises his hands, trying to pull the heavy object from his face.

Frank Begbie hears the banging, thrashing sounds, and abruptly ends the call. He returns to find the studio in chaos. Spud, arms and legs spreadeagled, lies immobile, on top of a flailing Renton, while Sick Boy has collapsed across a trolley. Franco grabs a huge set of stainless-steel cutters and tears north from the side of Sick Boy’s neck, pulling open the block, exposing his grateful face as he fills his lungs. — Fuck… fuck sake… what happened?

— Some cunt was fuckin aboot, Frank says, in a voice that strikes terror into Sick Boy. It is almost signalling the return of someone much feared, whose impending presence is hinted at, but as yet unconfirmed. Sick Boy sees it in the eyes staring at him, inspecting the latex mask, before looking to the imprint in the discarded block, noting it has set as a mould. — Good… Franco Begbie purrs, hauling in a breath, seeming to slip back into the mode of artist Jim Francis.

Franco pulls Spud’s almost weightless figure from Mark Renton. He falls to his knees and starts giving Renton the same treatment as Sick Boy.

— Will I take this off him? Sick Boy asks, reaching for the block that covers Spud Murphy’s face.

— Leave it! Franco first snaps, then adds, more gently, – Ah’ll see tae it… as he cuts and tears Renton’s casing from his head.

A gasping, jerking Renton can suddenly breathe, as he feels the air and sees the light flood in. Then Frank Begbie is lunging at him with a pair of industrial cutters. — NO, FRANK!

— Shut it, I’m taking this oaf for ye!

— Ay, okay… thanks, Frank… Renton wheezes in gratitude. — Some cunt fell on ays, he moans, as Frank Begbie springs the mould from him. Then Franco is over to Spud Murphy, now a thin, motionless body sticking out from a block of concrete.

— I was smacked by some bastard, Sick Boy says, pulling the latex mask from his face.

— It wisnae me… Spud fuckin fell on toap ay me! What was he playing at? Renton rises, staring at the immobile body on the floor. — Fuck… is he okay?

Frank Begbie ignores them, cutting through the block, then tearing it from Spud’s head. He rips off the latex mask. Spud doesn’t respond to a hearty slap across the chops, so Begbie pinches his nose and sets to work on him with mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Sick Boy and Renton look at each other in trepidation.

Frank lurches back as Spud’s lungs explode into life, puke shooting across the floor, then trickling out from the side of his mouth as Franco spins him onto his side. — He’s awright, he announces, before helping Spud to sit up, propping him against the wall.

Spud gulps in air. — What happened…?

— Sorry, bud, ma fault. Fuckin phone. Franco shakes his head. — Loast track ay the time.

A snigger suddenly ebbs from Renton. First Sick Boy looks at him, then Spud and Franco, compelling him to ask, — What’s the worst job you’ve ever had?

The laughter is loud and tension breaks from them like wild stallions smashing out of a corral. Even Spud, through a fitting cough, is moved to join in. When there’s a lull, Sick Boy looks at his phone and turns to Begbie. — Is that us done?

— Aye, thanks for your help. If you have to get off, go ahead, Franco nods, then turns to the others. — Mark, Danny, ah could do wi a wee hand.

— What can we do? Renton wonders out loud.

— Help ays cast my ain heid.

On this news, Sick Boy finds himself inclined to loiter, as they assist Franco in putting on his own latex mask. Then, as he had done to them, they encase his head in the Perspex box, and start to pour the concrete-plaster mix around it. The timer on the clock is set. As the block solidifies, Sick Boy play air-humps at it, to Spud’s and Renton’s mild amusement. As they know through experience, Franco will hear nothing now, yet they opt to remain silent.

At the allotted time, they tear off the mould. The freed artist calmly inspects the indentation of his own face in the concrete block. — Good work, boys, it’s perfect. He immediately starts to cast all the heads from the impressions, filling them in with clay. Once they set, he explains, he will do the eyes by hand, from photographs he takes of them all. Then he’ll take the moulds to a specialist forge to be cast in bronze.

Sick Boy is now fascinated, and in no hurry to leave. They chat more easily and when the heads finally come out of the kiln, the others are shocked, not at their own images, but that of Frank Begbie’s. There is something about it, gaunt and tense, still with hollows for the eyes that he will add later. It isn’t a representation of the man now in their company. The head looks like how he used to appear; full of psychotic anger and murderous intent, and that is before he has filled in those blank voids. It is the mouth; it twists in a familiar cold sneer, which they haven’t yet seen in the Jim Francis version. It chills each man to his bones.

The artist picks up on the mood of his subjects and the shifting atmospherics of the room, but can’t determine its source. — What’s up, boys?

— They look great mate, Renton says uneasily. — Very authentic. I’m just blown away by how real they seem, even withoot the mince pies.

— Nice one, Frank Begbie smiles. — Now as a token of my appreciation, I’ve booked us a table at the Café Royal. A slap-up nosh on me. He looks at Sick Boy. — You still in a hurry to get off?

— It might be nice to catch up properly, Simon Williamson concedes. — On condition Renton puts his fucking phone away for ten minutes. I thought I was bad, but you have to retain some fucking social skills in the digital age.

— Business, Renton says defensively. — It never stops.

— Vicky business, I’m betting, Frank Begbie teases.

Sick Boy’s guileful grin slides over Franco and Renton, deft as a pickpocket’s fingers. — So he has a proper girlfriend, which he’s kept silent about! He still reverts to his seventeen-year-old self on such occasions!

— Aye, right, Renton says, his hand wet with sweat on the device in his pocket.

— And on the subject of business, if you gentlemen are ever in London and looking for escort services, and he hands them all an embossed Colleagues business card. — Now, he smiles at Franco, — let us feast!

9 SICK BOY – EXPANDING/CONTRACTING

Carlotta is constantly on the phone, even though I’m back in London where I can do little to find her missing Thai-hooring husband. She’s fucking relentless, so I pick up, as I trek from King’s Cross Underground to my office. I can’t leave Colleagues for too long. There’s only so much you can do online without being at the holeface. The girls form their own bonds with the clients, then conspire to undercut you by making their own deals. There is zero you can do about it. Then they’ll rip off, or fall out with the customers, who return like nothing has happened, to use my service again. So you are continually firing and recruiting. And for a pittance. They make the real money.

But Carlotta does not give a fuck about my business affairs, as her sobs heave down the line. — It’s killin me, Si-mihn… it’s fuckin killin me, as I jink past open-mouthed stunned plebs waiting for the lights to change, hopping over York Way to the Caley Road. This time my sis really is beside herself and making no sense. I’m looking around the tarted-up street, barely able to comprehend what’s become of the bookies and the Scottish Stores pub, those once-redoubtable centres of hooring and drug activity that constituted my personal power base. Grim days. Carra can barely speak; thankfully Louisa takes over. — She’s in pieces. Still husnae heard a single word fae Euan since he went tae Thailand.

The dirty bastard. Lumpy-bawed Presbyterian hoor’s erse-ramming cunt… — Has anybody been able to work out how long he’s going to be away?

Louisa is trying to sound outraged, but she can’t help a salacious Schadenfreude seep into her tones. Nobody could have female siblings like mine and believe in the concept of the sisterhood as anything other than a movable feast. — Only that he bought a round-the-world ticket after sorting out a career break with his employer. Of course his first port of call is Bangkok!

— What the fuck, I hiss, crossing past the old snooker hall, now a shit club venue, copping a lungful of exhaust fumes. A solitary jakey extends a styrofoam and croaks hopefully. His face contorts in a bitter sneer as he sees it’s only coppers and a 5p I’ve deposited. — He must have said when he’s planning on returning?

— He told her all this in one email, Lou says breathlessly, — then cancelled his account and shut down his Facebook page. He’s even pit off his phone, Simon. She’s goat no way ay getting in touch wi him!

The office is located in a backstreet behind Pentonville Road, on the side that has escaped redevelopment. It’s a shabby old building above a minicab office and kebab shop, its days numbered with the sweeping post-Eurostar gentrification of the area. I let myself in and feel my feet stick to the carpet as I mount a stair so narrow it could be in Renton’s stomping ground of Amsterdam.

In the meantime, Lousia has managed to get Carlotta back on the blower. Of course, her and Ross, to say nothing of Euan’s auld mammy back in Wee Free cattle-cowpin land, are worried sick. The audacity of those self-indulgent pansy bourgeois drama queens on their menopausal breakdowns in saying that I don’t know how to treat women!

A wave of heat hits me as I open the office door. I left the fucking radiator on, and the power bill will be extravagant. Some privatised utility-shareholding one per cent public-school Nazi fuck will be getting wanked blind by a Third World child on a luxury yacht right now. Thank heavens for Renton’s money. I tell Carlotta to calm down and assure her I’ll be up next week. I ask her if there’s anybody else Euan would be in touch with, but she’s tried all his workmates and he’s just cut them off too. The cunt really has gone native. I never thought he’d have the balls.

Getting her off the phone feels like the psychic version of doing a pish you’ve long been bursting for. I open the window to let the cold air seep in, then move to my raised standing desk to check my emails and the website. A few lassies have left notices and shots. I’m enjoying their portfolios, and phoning to make appointments, when VICTOR SYME flashes up on caller ID, providing not so much a sinking feeling, as a bitter, rancorous surge of nausea, convincing you that the world is fucking finished.

The snide-couponed sex offender is talking about his urgent desire to meet ‘this surgeon felly’. Of course, I have to spill the disturbing news. Inevitably, he’s far from chuffed. — Call me as soon as he’s back! Ah dinnae like surprises, he whinges.

That’s a cliché all arseholes use: Ah dinnae like surprises. Fucking soulless control freaks. And gangsters are just the politicians of the schemes. Now the psychotic fishwife Syme thinks that I’m some kind of PA for this vanishing podiatrist! Fuck me, that cunt’s feet must be in bad shape! — He’s fled the country, Vic, on a hooring expedition, I’m wagering.

— Well, you’d better git um fuckin well back!

When you’re as much of a cunt as Syme, you don’t need to be logical, far less reasonable. — Well, Vic, if I knew where the fucker was I’d be right over there, dragging him back myself. But he’s gone off the radar.

— As soon as ye hear fae him, ah want tae ken aboot it!

— You’ll be the second to know, after my sis, his wife.

— Ah dinnae dae second, Syme says, and I can feel the spiteful malice down the line. Fuck sake, this is one creepy imbecile!

— Did I say second? I meant my sister will be second, I say, examining the profile of Candy from Bexleyheath, 20, student at Middlesex University, tweaking the head of my cherry through black brushed denim and boxers. — You, of course, will be numero uno.

— Count oan it, he snaps. — And dinnae think you’re oot ay ma range doon there in London, he says, in that queasy, smug voice that chills me. — Be seein ye.

I cough a goodbye into a dead line.

10 RENTON – BONNYRIGGED

I cannae ignore it any longer; that itching and the watery, milky discharge fae my cock every time I take a single fish. That tenderness around the hee-haws, and now augmented by those sharp abdominal pains. A present from Edinburgh. One that Marianne probably got fae fucking Sick Boy!

The Sexually Transmitted Infections Outpatient Clinic is on the Weesperplein. I inform Muchteld, sitting opposite me, peering over her specs into her laptop, that I have tae nip out for a couple ay hours. There’s no reaction from her, as nothing is suspicious about this. She’s been with me long enough. When we worked together on my club night, Luxury, I was always sneaking away to pay people off in cash, or even meeting associates tae get fucked up.

We’re (appropriately) based in the heart of the red-light district, which retains a strange sleaze during the day. I stroll in the welcome brisk air towards Nieumarket, planning to jump on the Metro 54. I shuffle past two young holiday jakeballs fae the north ay England, preoccupied with ogling a hefty black lass in a window, as their mates urge them tae come doon the street. — This is where Jimmy Savile started out, I tell one. A salty retort comes my way, which I miss as a shivering junky asks ays for cash, and I slip him a two-euro coin. He tears off without recognition, sick wi need. I dinnae take offence, I’ve been there, and however his condition compels him tae act, he’ll be glad ay it. Weaving off tae the sounds ay a hurdy-gurdy, I head underground. The station is calm and sterile compared tae the chaos above it. As I board the chunky train to ride the two stops I’m thinking of Vicky and there’s an ominous tug in my chest.

When I get off, I emerge into bright sunlight. I’ve always liked this part of town, without realising that the clap clinic was based here. The Nieuwe Achtergracht is one ay ma favourite canals tae walk. It’s full ay quirky things to look at, and a real houseboat community; as it’s outside ay the four horseshoes in the centre ay toon, tourists rarely meander it. The clinic is housed in an ugly 1970s precast structure oan the corner. It’s joined to a block ay purple-bricked eighties-style apartments, which at least try tae nod tae Amsterdam’s nautical heritage with a few porthole windaes, aw looking oantae the bustling street. There’s a twisted dark canopy ay shame, which ironically looks like a vagina wi open piss flaps, urging ‘Come in, big boy!’ as ye walk through the doors below. I think ay aw the scabby cocks and putrid fannies of shaggers, innocent and prolific, who have walked underneath it, tae – often temporary – salvation.

The doctor’s a young woman, which is embarrassing, but the tests are nowt like the auld Ward 45 ay Edinburgh popular culture, where the wire test-tube brush soaked in Dettol is rammed down the cock hole. Nothing more than blood and pish samples, and a swab of the discharge. But she kens what it is straight away. — It looks likes chlamydia, which the tests will no doubt confirm in a couple of days. Do you wear condoms when you have intercourse?

Fuck sake…

I’ve picked up a fuckin Bonnyrigg Rose, for the second time in my life. At my fucking age, it feels beyond embarrassing, just totally ridiculous. — Generally, yes, I tell her. — Though there has been a recent exception, and I’m thinking ay Marianne.

— The risk, with chlamydia, as with all sexually transmitted diseases, is greatly decreased by use of a condom, but not eliminated. Condoms aren’t foolproof, for many reasons, and you can still get sexually transmitted infections despite using one. They sometimes break, she says.

Fuckin tellin me… I’m now thinking aboot bein wi Vicky and my cock bursting through the tip ay the rubber, and her scrambling in panic for the morning-after pill. For fuck sake.

They sometimes break.

It’s all I can hear as she goes on about how the chlamydia infection can spread if you have vaginal, anal or oral sex or share sex toys… Though the woman is detached and professional, I feel like a chastened adolescent who should know the fuck better.

Afterwards, I sit at the Café Noir on the corner ay Weesperplein and Valckenierstraat. I decide against a beer and have a koffie verkeerd, and contemplate the shambles ay a life oscillating between extreme social boldness and cowardice, neither ay them ever deployed at strategically optimum times.

I dinnae even need the test results tae confirm it, as the next day the email comes in:

Well, there it is. You fucking blew it again. A great woman, who was so into you, and you give her a fucking dose because you cannae keep it in your troosers and have tae bareback ride some slag just because fucking Sick Boy humped her for years and you were jealous. Ya stupid, pathetic, useless and irredeemably weak bag ay shite.

I look at the email again, and feel something inside ays fold in two. My body seems tae go intae shock, and ma eyes water. I slump in front ay the TV in my apartment, letting my emails and calls pile up before deleting them all. If it’s important they’ll get back to me.

A couple ay days later, Vicky’s grim correspondence is confirmed by the test scores. I go back tae the clinic and they put ays on antibiotics for seven days, no sexual contact tae be had within this time. I have tae return in three months tae confirm that I’m all clear. The doctor asks about sexual partners, who I’m likely to have goat it fae, and who I probably gave it tae. I tell her I travel a lot.

I’m sitting back in my flat, smoking dope, feeling sorry for myself. Getting even more depressed through knowing exactly what I’ll do tae handle this setback: get wrecked, then sober up and fling masel into my graft. Repeat till death. This is the trap. There isnae a later. There’s no fucking place in the sun. There is no cunting future. There is only now. And it’s shite and getting worse.

The following evening and Muchteld comes tae the door, wi her partner Gert. He’s also been wi ays since the early days of Luxury, and they carry big bags ay shopping. Muchteld starts cleaning up the apartment, while Gert skins up and starts cooking a meal. — I have tickets for the Arena tomorrow.

— I don’t want to watch football. It just makes me miserable.

Muchteld, throwing takeaway cartons into a black bin liner, looks up and says, — Fuck you, Mark, football will not make you worse. We go to Ajax, then we eat and we talk.

— Okay, I concede, as a capitalised text pops in from Conrad.

WHY ARE YOU NOT ANSWERING MY CALLS AND TEXTS? THERE IS AN ISSUE AT THE STUDIO WITH KENNET. HE IS AN ASSHOLE! I WANT HIM FIRED AND I NEED A PROPER SOUND ENGINEER LIKE GABRIEL!

— You guys, I smile at them, hudin up the phone, — and this spoiled fat cunt, who has never stopped for a second tae think about anyone other than himself, you might have just saved ma life.

— Yet again, klootzak! Muchteld laughs. — You must speak to him, Mark, he is bombarding the office with calls. He thinks you do not care about this track he is making.

— Yeah, okay… I say, without enthusiasm.

Gert gets me in a headlock, aggressively rubs my scalp. I can’t break free, he’s a bear of a man.

— Hey, honey, easy on my boy! Who manages the manager, right, Mark?

I love those cunts.