Dead Men's Trousers

11 SPUD – THE BUTCHERS OF BERLIN

People kin be awfay funny, man. Ah mean, ah goat hassle fae Mikey cause ah nivir hud a passport. So the cat made ays git yin, n ah’m thinkin: it pure shouldnae be that wey, needin passports, cause wir aw Europe, likesay. Wis a lot ay hassle n aw, man, hud tae go through tae Glesgey n fill in tons ay forms. N they needed the photaes tae be jist right. Then, whin the passy finally comes through the door, n ah’m ready tae rock, Mikey’s naewhaire tae be seen! Took ays ages tae track um doon, but finally found the feral gadge in Diane’s Pool Hall, hingin wi some jungle cats. — It’s no happenin right now, mate, eh sais.

— Ye mean… yuv cancelled the gig? Ah’ve pure sortay spent the deposit, man, ah goes, pointin tae ma new trainers.

— Ah widnae say cancelled, Spud, ah’d say mair postponed. That’s how ah wid pit it. Postponed at this stage ay time, is what ah wid say. Then eh goes, raisin ehs voice a bit soas the other gadges kin hear, — Vic Syme n me huv tae sort oot some details, that’s aw. Ah ken whaire tae find ye.

So ah goes hame again, n looks at the passport. N it wis like that fir weeks n weeks. Me aw excited, then Mikey sayin: still no go.

Ah cannae stoap gittin the passy oot ay the drawer. It’s barry, cause ah’ve nivir had yin before. It says Great Britain and Northern Ireland and European Community. But wi Britain mibbe headin oot ay Europe and Scotland mibbe headin oot ay Britain, ah’ll probably huv tae get a new yin before long! Mind you, a Scottish passport wid be barry, wi a thistle oan the front mibbe, instead ay that Her Britannic Majesty requests stuff which seems awfay auld-fashioned, and a rip-off offay the Stones, likesay. The Brian Jones cat that’s potted heid.

It makes ays feel like ah’m the man though: DANIEL ROBERT MURPHY. A subject ay Her Majesty the Queen. Even though ah’m likesay a pape ay Paddy stock, ah’m just as much ay a subject as any west Edinburgh Jambo or west coast Sticky Bun. Aye, they cats’ll no like that but, ay!

The thing is the weeks rolled by n ah nearly forgot aw aboot this big secret-squirrel hush-hush Berlin joab, cause ah gits sorted oot wi part-time casual work, daein forklift drivin in a warehouse. Peys sweeties but it’s guid tae graft n git a wage again but, ay. N still gies ays time tae go oan the John Greig doon at the Grassmarket. Spring isnae bad for the mooch cause cats ur aw optimistic n ah kin fantasise that aw they cool office lassies walkin past wid be impressed if they kent ah wis makin a top-secret delivery ay stuff behind the auld Iron Curtain n doon tae the mystic East ay Istanbul. N mibbe it would be pure exotic love in foreign climes, like that Sean Connery cat as Bond. In the aulder Bond fulums, likesay.

Then, one eftirnin, Mikey comes along tae ma pitch. — It’s time, eh goes. N man, ah’m pure sortay nervous, cause eh disnae look happy, eh’s goat that serious face oan.

— Ah’m ready, bud, ah goes, standin up. But ah wisnae really, cause ah’m sortay happy, ken? Things ur gaun a bit better now. But ah pure took the five hundred up front. — Bring ays yir kidney, Sydney, ah sais oot ay nerves. Mikey isnae chuffed but.

— Shut it. Eh looks around, gesturing ays tae follay him ower tae the pub. — This is fuckin serious. Ah never want tae hear that word comin oot your mooth again. Goat that?

— Aye, sorry, man, ah tell um, n ah git Toto leashed up n wir walkin ower the street.

— Ah pit masel oan the line gittin ye this work, Spud. Dinnae fuck it up. Dae the business n it’ll be a regular thing.

So ower in the boozer eh slips ays a wallet wi the plane tickets. A few days later ah’m at the airport, and Toto’s wi ays! Ah goat ma sis Roisin tae go oan that Internet thing n check eh wis wee enough tae take oan ma lap. Turns oot ah kin pure take um in this thing called a Sherpa bag, n ah dinnae huv tae pit um in the hold. Ah try tae keep um under eighteen poonds, but ah’ve let it creep up a bit, so ah’m tryin tae make sure eh disnae drink sae much in case eh disnae make the weight. Ah think aboot the bag, mindin how as a sprog ah used tae watch that Owen, M.D. oan telly aboot the Welsh country doaktir boy, n his dug was called Sherpa. But the bag couldnae be named after that canine gadge cause he was a huge dug, n wid never have goat in one ay these boys. Ah pure need the company, man, cause ah’ve nivir flew before n ah’m excited but dead nervous that mibbe some sneaky terrorist gadge might be oan the plane thinkin aboot another 9/11! Wid jist be ma luck tae be comin up in the world, then git blawn tae fuck by some boy whae wis worried aboot they Molly Malones zappin ehs faimlay. N ah dinnae trust naebody else tae look eftir the dug right.

But oan the plane they gie ye stuff tae eat n a wee peeve, so ah’m sittin back, sayin tae Toto, whae’s in the bag at ma feet, — This is the life, pal, but eh’s sayin nowt, just wee whines, which the lassie sittin next tae ays picks up oan n tries tae comfort the wee gadge. — He’s lovely! What’s his name?

— Toto, ah goes. Thinkin barry tae git some convo oan the airy, ken?

— Oh, how sweet, after The Wizard of Oz!

— Naw, it wis pure eftir that band Toto whae did that song aboot Africa. Thaire’s a barry remix ah heard and ah just thoat: name the dug that. Then ah goat telt by ma gay mate, Poofy Paul, aboot The Wizard ay Oz connection, ken?

— Well, I hope you both follow the Yellow Brick Road!

— That wis that Elton John boy though, no Toto, ah goes.

The lassie jist smiles at that. Goat her thaire but, pure bambozzled the dude-ess wi cultural science, man.

— He’s… ah bends ma wrist, — that wey n aw. Nowt against anybody, mind you, live n let live, aw love is beautiful, but ah’m a straight shooter, if ye git ma drift.

Overcooked that chick, man. That’s me aw ower. Some gadges ken how tae talk tae a lemon, no me but, ay? She gies a smile that sais ‘yir a radge, but hermless enough’ which is the worst smile a lassie kin gie ye. — He’s certainly a cute one, she goes, pattin the dug’s wet beak through the mesh ay the bag again.

So we lands in Turkey n me n the dug gits oot ay the David Narey, n jumps a sherbet tae Istanbul, and it’s mental! Man, the place is fair bustling, wi aw they people bouncing aboot. Cause ah’m a fair-skinned gadge wi a dug ah wid sort ay stick oot a bit here, but ah’m in the taxi n wir drivin through the streets. It’s like thaire’s tons ay guys but hardly any lassies. Rents went ages ago as a student n ah mind um sayin it wis like Leith, but that’s aw changed. Ye git tons ay lassies walkin around in Leith now. Ah sort ay thoat thit aw the burds here wid huv veils, n look through thum aw seductively at ye wi big eyes, like in they auld Turkish Delight adverts, full ay Eastern promise, but it isnae like that, likesay. Shame but, ay? How barry wid that be?

But this is good, it’s the best wey tae make money, like, bein a middleman. See, ah cannae dae the tea-leafin any mair. Whin ye git aulder, ye git too much ay a moral compass, and it ey points in the ‘dinnae rip cats oaf’ direction. Can not dae it any mair, man. Just cannae be in some dude’s hoose takin thair stuff, n it disnae matter how much thuv goat. It still might be something that means a loat tae them, like a deid relative’s trinkets. Could not huv that oan ma conscience, man. Nup. The auld ‘feast ay Stephen’ jist isnae happinin fir ays any mair.

So ah’m at the station, huvin boat some food, waitin by platform 3 like they sais, n this boy comes up tae me, leathers n a helmet, n looks at the dug. Eh hands ays a cardboard boax wi a plastic handle stickin oot ay it. It’s aboot the same size as Toto. The boy sais nowt, just hands ays the boax n a ticket for the train, then eh’s away. The boax is heavier thin it looks, cause inside the cardboard thaire’s another boax.

The train leaves at nine, but ah lets Toto oot n takes um fir a walk n tae dae his business, so the time goes quick. Ah heads back as it gits dark n huv tae bag the dug up tae git him oan the choo-choo, but ah’m chuffed cause it’s a nice wee carriage aw tae ourselves, so ah let him oot. There we are sittin back, bound fir Berlin. Toto’s oan the seat opposite, his wee heid bobbin away like a noddin toy dug in the back ay a car windae, as we go past stuff at speed. Ah opens the cardboard boax, n see that the other boax inside is white, n looks like a mini fridge or a microwave cooker. It’s goat aw controls n things oan it. Yon kidney’ll be inside. Ah dozes off for a bit n wakes up when ah hears the ticket wifie comin. Wir in Bucharest, so ah gits Toto back in the Sherpa bag. It steys thaire for ages. The train disnae seem too busy though.

By the time we gits tae Prague ah’m pure starvin cause ah’ve eaten aw the stuff ah boat at the station. Ah’ve let Toto out the bag n ah tells um tae hang loose a bit while ah goes tae the lavy tae take a slash, then investigate the buffet, tae git something fir me n the dug. Ah sees they hot dugs, which sounds like cannibalism for perr Toto, but obviously isnae likes. The lassie pure speaks English, and that’s barry, cause nae wey wid ye git a lassie oan the railways in Britain thit spoke German. No unless she wis German. But ah dinnae think any bilingual Deutsch chick wid be wastin her talents trolley-dollyin oan Britain’s railways. But cats huv tae dae anything tae make a livin these days, even brainy overqualified yins need tae dae shite joabs. Which makes the likes ay me pretty much useless, man. But no now. Now ah’ve finally goat a wee tickle; the part-time warehouse gig back hame n the international jet-set boy whae’s oan a mission here!

When ah gits back tae the carriage, ah cannae believe it…

Toto’s knocked ower the boax. He’s pushed it off the seat oantae the flair. It’s opened. Aw that chemical stuff is spilt acroass the flair. Aw naw, man… How did it open…? N eh’s goat the kidney oot n eh’s eatin it. Aw naw… — Aw, Toto man…

He looks up at ays. It’s lodged in ehs jaws, wriggling like it wis alive. Ah touches it n it’s aw cauld and smelling ay chemicals.

Ma life is ower, man, ah’ve fucked up big time.

— Droap it, boy! ah goes, n eh does. It’s goat ehs teeth marks in it… That’s evidence… Ah picks it up n it’s cauld in ma hand, but no frozen through… It feels sort ay burnin in ma hand… Ah tell um tae stey n ah goes outside n lobs it doon the lavy ay the train n flushes it away.

Ah dinnae ken what the fuck tae dae now! The rest ay the trip tae Berlin, man, ah’m jist pure shitein it. Thaire’s a rock in ma guts the size ay an asteroid, n ah’m brekin oot in chilly sweats. Ah’m thinkin aboot what Syme’ll dae tae ays. Like droonin me. Or burnin ays. Or setting aboot ma nipples wi pliers. Ah’m thinkin: anything but the eyes n baws. N ah cannae even blame perr Toto, no his fault; shouldnae huv left the dug unsupervised. Ah shouldnae huv flung it away: but it hus the dug’s teeth marks in it. Whin we gits oaf ah’m still in shock, pure in a trance, n Toto kens thaire’s something wrong as eh jist walks alongside ays, lookin up.

So ah’m no really thinkin straight, n ah goes tae a local butcher n buys a kidney tae replace it. Thin ah goes tae the lavy in the station n makes the swap. It looks nowt like the one Toto goat at. It’s a different shape n colour, mair ay a broonish thing like a Jambo strip. But ah pits it in the ice boax anyway, n ah ken thi’ll find oot, but it just buys ays a bit mair time tae think.

But thaire isnae time tae think cause whin ah gits back tae the platform thaire’s a boy waitin thaire, another biker, whae, funnily enough, looks a bit like the last gadge but isnae. This yin talks, seems mair chilled oot. — All is good?

— Aye, sound, ah goes n ah hands it ower tae the guy n eh leaves withoot checkin it or sayin nowt.

Ah suppose they willnae ken till they open it. But if they pill ays up fir it, ah’ll need tae hud ma hand up, cause it widnae be fair tae git the biker boy intae bother. As long as they dinnae try n pit this kidney intae a bairn or anything! That wid be the worst… Bit naw, calm doon, thi’ll no dae that. Thi’ll check it’s no right first.

Ah taxi tae the airport tae git the flight back. Ah think aboot steyin here wi Toto, but ah’d nivir survive, ah’m no a cat like Renton or Sick Boy, that kin jist take off like that n everything’s hunky-dory. Ah need tae face the music. But ah’m gaun back tae Mikey… and it’s no really Mikey, it’s the boys behind um, like that cat Syme, and whae kens who else. Ah looks at Toto, whae disnae understand that he’s done wrong, it’s no the dug’s fault, but ah cannae help sayin tae um, — Aw, Toto, what huv ye done tae us, man?

12 RENTON – DJ SHAGGER

That queasy admixture ay sad embarrassment and rip-roaring affirmation kicks in as I feel that presence ay another in the kip. And it’s somebody that shouldnae be there. And we are, like, where? Amsterdam–Berlin–Ibiza–London… No fuckin Edinburgh, please no fuckin Edinburgh, and oh fuck… there she is; so young, and ma lines, jowls, n burst blood vessels are gaunny get the full treatment fae the wrecking sun flooding in through the half-open blinds. She’s looking right at ays, her heid propped on her elbow, smiling, eyes hungry and rapaciously mocking, raven locks tumbling, that beauty-spot mole oan her chin. — Mor-ning! You were snoring!

What the fuck tae say? Why Edinburgh? Ewart’s birthday bash at Cabaret Voltaire. Conrad, who seems happier about the new track, though he won’t let me hear it, tae my amazement, volunteered tae come over and play. Of course I realised too late that his purpose was tae play a shit-hot deep-house set and blow everybody away, thus humiliating Carl in front ay his ain people. It worked. The young Dutch maestro took all the plaudits while Carl, coke-fuelled and sour, sloped off with his mate Topsy and their crew, into a dull night and a party in some west Edinburgh rat trap. Rab Birrell stuck around. So did Juice Terry. And Emily was there and did a great set too… Then I remember her swinging her hips on her cork wedge pumps, saying something vampish like ‘I think I’m enticing all the Scottish boys…’ I said something cheesy in retort and her lips were on mine, and then… for fuck sake.

Ching. Voddy. E: I fucking hate ye. She’s tons younger than me. She was pretty dirty, and I lost myself. Fuck sake, I huvnae done some ay they things since ah was thirty!

I got the three-month all-clear a few weeks ago. Huvnae heard fae Vicky since the incident, though I’ve been tempted tae get back tae her and apologise. She’s due that, even if she’ll have long moved on by now. But it’s no been easy tae pick up the phone: I just cannae let ‘sorry about giving you the clap’ be my last interaction wi her.

So now I’ve done what I excel the fuck oot ay: compound a bad situation wi another stupid decision. Emily is my fucking client. I slide oot ay the bed, and pull a hotel robe, thankfully close tae hand, round me.

— Where are you going? she asks. — Let’s order some breakfast on room service. All that shagging has given me an appetite!

— I’m truly flattered that I’m your son of a preacher man, Emily, but we cannae go any further wi this –

— What the fuck are you talking about?

— Dusty Springfield: ‘Son of a Preacher Man’. It was about the only boy who could get this lassie who swang the other way onside.

Emily flicks her dark curls. Her expression is incredulous. — You really believe that’s what that song’s about?

— Yes. It’s about a lesbian having a secret heterosexual affair with ‘the only man who could ever teach her…’

Loud, derisive laughter erupts fae somewhere deep inside her. — Yeah, well, you taught me zero. Fuck sake, Mark, I have had boyfriends before! Don’t flatter yourself that you’re some kind of Henry Higgins of cock, she sniggers. — Starr is only the second girl I’ve gone out with, and her bottom lip quivers a little as her guilt kicks in.

Fuck yes. Ah’ve jumped ahead ay myself again. Ah still believe – despite all the contrary evidence – that every woman in the world has the capacity tae fall in love wi ays. And that they maybe have to fight quite hard against doing so. That mindset, call it a delusion if ye will, is one ay the greatest gifts I possess. Of course, the downside ay this is that I tend to overreach. — So it’s a phase?

— Oh fuck off, Mark. How old are you? Sixteen? It’s called life. It’s called 2016. I don’t see the choice of sexual partners as binary. If I find somebody attractive, then I’ll sleep with them. You’re an interesting man, Mark, don’t devalue yourself, you’ve done a lot. Luxury was one of the best clubs in Europe. You always booked female DJs. You brought big-time success to Ivan.

— Yes, but he fucked off as soon as he broke huge, I remind her.

— You need to start talking more about music again, Mark. You were really passionate about it. Now you just listen to any mixes some arsehole with half a following sends you. You’re looking for the next big thing, rather than letting the music lead you.

She’s so on the money it’s fucking scary. — I know that. But I’m an old cunt and I look silly lurking in the shadows of a nightclub full of kids.

— You think of me as a kid?

— No, of course not. But I’m still ages with your dad and I’m your manager, and you’re in a relationship, I say, suddenly thinking of not Starr, but Vicky, then trying not to.

— Oh, don’t give me that buyer’s regret shit.

— What do you expect me to say? I’m glad our slivers of existence intersected in a Venn diagram between the crushing slabs of oblivion on either side of them, but –

Emily’s finger shoots over my lips, silencing me. — Please, Mark, not the old guy’s mortality speech; always that sad and tiresome conversion of sex into death.

— How many older guys have you slept with? I instantly regret asking that.

— However many, it’s a damn sight fewer than the young club girls I’ve seen you slope off with.

— Not for a while now. And never with a client: that’s just wrong, I contend, unwisely adding, — And Mickey would kill me.

— What the fuck has my dad got to do with it? I’m twenty-two, for fuck sake! You’re as weird as he is!

Jesus fuck, that is much mair than half my age. — Quite a lot if he finds out, I should imagine, and I go into the bathroom and pick up my electric shaver.

— Don’t tell him then, she shouts through, — and I won’t tell your dad. You do have a dad – I mean, is he still alive? He must be like, ancient!

I drag ma shaver ower ma coupon. I stare back at masel in the mirror: a hollow fool who has learned fuck all. — Yes. My dad’s a bit older and frailer than he used tae be; he has a dodgy pin, but he’s hanging on in there.

— What would he say if he knew you were sleeping with somebody young enough to be your daughter?

— Did sleep wi, once, in a drunken accident, I stress. — He wouldnae think very highly of it, but he’s way past bothering about anything I do.

— And my dad should be too. It’s creepy.

— He only wants the best for ye because he cares, I tell her. I cannae believe the pathetic words stumbling weakly from my mouth, or that I’m defending Mickey, who seems tae heartily dislike me. I’ve just banged the lassie aw weys, now I’m almost telling her she should study hard or she’s grounded.

I emerge from the bathroom as thankfully my phone is going again and I have tae take this call as it’s Donovan Royce, a promoter for Electric Daisy Carnival in Vegas, who never returns calls. — Mark! The fuck, bro!

— Hey, Don. So what’s the story on a slot for my boy? In the hallway mirror, I watch Emily bristle. But I have tae work for my guys too.

— I’ll be straight, EDC, the Ultra EDM crowd thing… they just ain’t for N-Sign. They’re too young, too musically uneducated for his sophistication.

— Don, come on. He’s putting a lot intae this comeback.

— Mark, it’s N-Sign Fucking Ewart! I grew up fucking chicks at high school under his poster! The man is a house-music legend to me! It’s not me you have to sell N-Sign to. It’s me who has to sell him to kids who have goldfish attention spans. Who don’t even wanna dance, just want to punch the air and go ‘yay’ and grind up against each other as another small segment of a pop hit comes on. They don’t wanna go on a journey with an old maestro. It’s apples and oranges.

— Let’s educate them then, Don. You used to be a true believer. l glance ower at Emily who has stretched forward in the bed, her long, thin frame almost in a yoga pose.

Loud laughter erupts down the phone. — You gotta be desperate to pull that old number. It’s business, bro, as in ‘regrettably in this instance we cannot get it on and do any’.

The conversation is depressing as fuck. But it’s the basic truth: Carl will never get on the bill for an EDC or Ultra unless he has another pop hit. Ironically, the cunt is capable ay daein just that. But first I have to get him back into a place he now hates: the studio. I look back at Emily. — What about my girl, Emily, DJ Night Vision?

— I like her shit, but she isn’t that sexy.

— I disagree, I say, genuinely stung. My ravaged baws say otherwise.

— Okay, seeing as it’s you; the Upside-down House, an afternoon slot. Tell her to show some skin. Maybe a bit of cleavage. She has a pair of titties, right?

For fuck sake. Who is this cunt? The Upside-down House too; it’s the smallest stage. — Early evening. Wasteland. It’s right up her street.

— Wasteland is booked solid with reserves in place. I can do her a Quantum Valley slot, provided she can do trance.

— She fucking is trance, mate, I wink at Emily, who is nodding fifty to the dozen.

— Four till five.

— An evening slot, mate, help a brother out.

A loud sigh down the phone, then, — I can do 7.15 p.m. till 8.30.

— Done. You are a fucking man-ride and you are getting rammed till your eyes pop out your head on stalks and swing so far doon your body they are like all-seeing testicles, I tell him. The fucker is getting objectified and sexualised right back.

— Wow… thanks, I think, he says.

As I click off, Emily shoots tae alertness. — What the fuck was that?

— Got you a slot at EDC, I say, keeping it low-key, pulling on my clathes. I find wi DJs, well, mine anyway, if ye fist-pump the air aboot a gig, bristling wi enthusiasm, the cunts will moan about it no being good enough. But play it low-key, and they squeal with excitement.

— EDC! That’s a big deal!

— It’s only Quantum Valley, early evening, and you’ll have to load it with a trance vibe, I say in fake dreariness.

— But that’s fucking great! Quantum Valley is the best space at EDC! You rock, Mark Renton!

It’s aw about expectation management. — Thanks, I smile, as the phone goes again.

— Switch that thing off and come back to bed!

— I cannae, babe, this isnae a good idea for either of us. If I shag one ay my DJs I have to shag them all. It’s called democracy. And I was always useless at swinging the other way. Let’s leave it at that and discuss later, I offer, as the phone rings off.

— You won’t say that I fucked you to get this gig?

— Don’t be silly: I’m your manager. It’s my job to get metaphorically fucked in order to get you gigs. And if you want to sleep your way to the top, fuck promoters, not somebody who’s already into twenty per cent of you.

Emily flops back, thinking about this, then springs up abruptly. — I’ve a theory about you, Mark Renton, she says, arching a teasing brow. Here we go: every woman in her early twenties must buy handbags with a Penguin Freud stitched intae the lining. — That you were a young guy who was self-conscious about your ginger hair and pubes, and hung out with a mate who was a bit better looking, maybe had a bigger cock, who was more confident with girls… How am I doing?

— Way way waaay off the mark, as in distinctly not Renton, babe, I tell her, pulling on my shoes, as Sick Boy’s name flashes up on my phone. — Si… right. On my way.

— Where are you going? says Emily.

— Working for you lot twenty-four/seven, sweetheart, I tell her, tapping the phone and heading for the door. I invited Sick Boy along tae our show. He appeared and is now helping ays oot wi a management problem. The recurring one: getting Conrad laid. Since I’ve squared Simon David Williamson up, we’ve become online buddies. Sharing links ay old band videos, new songs, humorous news items about sexual disasters and mutilations, the usual psychotic shit people bandy about nowadays.

In the hotel lobby Sick Boy is waiting wi an escort girl who scrutinises something on her mobile. She’s a pretty enough brunette, though with a flinty-eyed professional hardness. Sick Boy’s talking on one phone, while trying tae text on another. — Yes, I know what I said, Vic, but I didn’t expect the cunt tae abscond tae fucking Thailand… No indication when he’s due back, he won’t answer any emails or texts, has gone offline… Yes, he’s a surgeon, Vic… Yes, I’m still in Edinburgh. I can’t stay up here, I have a business tae run in London! Yes, okay! Right. He ends the call, evidently distressed. — Fuckin mongols! Surrounded by them! The lassie looks pointedly at him, and he composes himself. — Not you, my darling, you are the one shining light in an otherwise permanently murky scenario. Mark, meet Jasmine.

— Hi, Jasmine. I hand her the key to Conrad’s room. — Be gentle with him!

She silently takes the key and vanishes into the lift.

— Don’t be such a smarmy sleazebag, Sick Boy reprimands. — That woman is providing a service, so treat her with respect. I plan to recruit her for a possible Edinburgh operation. Most of our girls are MBAs.

If that lassie was awarded an HND in secretarial studies at Stevenson College, then Spud is professor of global finance at Harvard Business School. — Being given a lesson by you on sexism. Next week, Fred West on patio building. Or Franco on art.

— Don’t, Sick Boy says, pushing index fingers into a throbbing temple. — Just don’t.

— You seem stressed.

— So do you, he snaps back in defensive truculence.

— Well, apart fae being still jet-lagged tae fuck, oan an Amsterdam–LA–Vegas–Ibiza circuit for the last five months, having this birthday gig for Ewart, then flying tae Berlin for the big show at the Flughafen tomorrow, with a DJ I can’t find, him now lost in Jamboland somewhere, and I’m tempted to add plus ditched by my girlfriend because of you, ya cunt, — I’m perfectly fine. And you?

— First World problems, he says pompously. — My brother-in-law, who is being hassled by a psycho to do work for him, has fucked off tae Thailand, left Carlotta and the kid. Guess who’s been stalked by the nutter, and the sister, for months? He slaps his head in the manner of old. — When did I become the radge designated tae sort oot other cunts’ problems?

— Sortin oot other people’s crap is the shittiest, most thankless deal you’ll ever get, I empathise.

— And while we’re running around like daft fuckers, Begbie is lying in the Californian sun, Sick Boy spits bitterly. — But you know what? I think you could be right about him. From deadly psychopath to arty wee pussy!

13 BEGBIE – WILD ABOUT HARRY

The cunt got a fuckin shock when he came intae his hoose n pit oan the light. There wis me sitting in the chair behind ehs desk, pointing ehs ain fucking shooter right at him. Had it in his top right-hand drawer, the fuckin spazwit! Polis? That cunt? Seen fuckers in Edinburgh that would pit that wanker tae shame.

— What the fuck… How did you get in here?

— Do you really want the boring details? ah ask him. Ah wave the gun a wee bit. The cunt properly registers it for the first time. Disnae like it. — Now give me one good fucking reason, after you harassing my wife, why I shouldn’t shoot you now.

— You’re a murdering scumbag and she should know that! N eh points the finger at ays.

This cunt isnae wise. — That’s another good reason why I should shoot you. I was asking for one why I shouldn’t.

The prick faws silent at that yin: did not fuckin like that at aw.

— Thought we’d just have a wee chat. About you bugging my missus.

With his slitty black eyes, he looks angry rather than scared. Fair fucks tae him.

— Hear you like a peeve. Ah point tae the bottle ay whisky that ah’ve placed between us on the desk. — Take a wee drink.

He looks at me, then the bottle. He wants it awright. Hesitates for a few seconds, then pours a gless. Knocks it back slowly but steadily.

— Go on, have another! Sit doon. Ah gesture tae the chair. — I’d join ye but I’ve stopped. Never leads tae good places.

That scoobies the cunt. He stares at the empty gless. He’s fucked his life up, his shite cop life, wi the auld Christopher Reeve. That boy isnae bothered whether yir polis or a villain: he just wants tae send ye tae hell. Ah’ve done aw that shite. This Harry cunt seems tae make a calculation that there’s nae wey oot for him, so he pours anyway, n takes a seat, oan ma second promptin, wi the pointin ay the shooter. He looks at ays, eyes narrowing that accusing wey. — You killed those drifters, and the cunt tries tae stare ays oot.

I glower back at the cunt, my lips sealed. Gaze intae that cop soul. They’re aw the same, despite the TV shows that portray them as the big heroes. Ah jist see the gossiping, sweetie-wife, fussy essence ay a wanker programmed tae serve others.

Harry blinks first. Clears his throat. — They were pieces of shit, but you murdered them in cold blood. The two that threatened Mel and the kids, he contends, tryin the fuckin stare again.

Cheeky cunt. Breathe. One… two… three…

These wee black beady eyes. Like a fuckin hamster looking at ye fae its cage. Like the yin we hud at school. The raffle tae see whae got tae take it hame for the holidays. Aw the oohs and aahs and the trepidation oan the teacher’s face when they saw whae fuckin won. Poor Hammy, he’s going to Begbie’s for the summer! Last we’ll see of him! N it wisnae misplaced. The poor wee golden bastard never came back. It wis natural causes – the fuckers just last a year – though nae cunt ootside our hoose believed that. They aw thought some cunt had stuck him between two slices ay breid.

— You couldn’t let it go, could you? Couldn’t leave us… the police… to deal with it, this Hammy, sorry, Harry cunt goes. — Because that’s who you are… that’s what you do. You’ve done… you’ve… you… The cunt’s speech slows tae a mumble as ehs eyes get aw heavy.

— GHB, mate. Sodium gamma-Hydroxybutyrate, a designer drug with anaesthetic properties. The sex offender’s game. Dinnae worry, ah stifle a wee chuckle, — you’re no getting rattled. Or even hurt. I’m just removing you from the game.

— What…? His eyes are closing, his neck heavy as his heid faws forward. He grips the rests oan the chair.

And the cunt looks at the hosepipe, which ah pick up by the nozzle and fling ower the ceiling beam. I’m making a noose at the end ay it. His weary eyes trace back tae where it comes in fae the gairdin, via the windae. Dib dib dab, ya polis bastard. Boy’s spangled now, just aboot able tae show a slab ay fear through the confusion in his glazed eyes.

— Disgraced alco cop suicide, ah explain tae the cunt. — I never liked the fuckin polis, mate. I thought it was just back hame, in Scotland, and that American cops would be different. But naw. I hate all polis. Everywhere.

Eh tries tae stand, but faws oot the chair, tumbling oantae the rug. Ah bend ower him and slap his chops. Nowt. The cunt is out for the count. Ah wipe the gun clean n pit it back in the drawer. I get the noose aroond his neck and pull him back up on the chair; thankfully, he’s no that heavy, aboot five-eight, 150 pounds, a welterweight, would be ma guess. The makeshift rope, gaun over the beam and oot through the windae, is attached tae the hose reel, which is bolted oantae the garage wall. I’d staked it out earlier. It should make a strong enough wrench.

I open the windae and step ootside. Ah go tae the reel n start winding it in. Looking inside ah kin see the cunt starting tae revive, his mooth flapping n his eyes doolally under heavy lids he struggles tae keep open. I’m yanking the fucker tae his feet, as his tired airms reach up, groping at the rope, trying tae loosen it. The daft cunt falls nicely intae ma trap by getting oan the chair, tae try and get some slack on the rope that’s throttling him, but that’s exactly where I want um! Fucker jist gets one shot tae try and pull the noose off before I furiously wrench it up, baith hands on the handle, tae take the slack and tighten it again, forcing the dopey polis bastard oantae his toes.

— Ye dinnae fuck aboot wi me n what’s mine, mate, ah say as ah climb back in and blooter the chair oot fae under his taes. The cunt’s swinging there, eyes popping oot, tongue hingin oot his heid, n ah’m gled ay the croakin sounds as ah’ve heard mair than enough words fae a snide copper mooth. Then a tearing, screeching noise, but comin fae ootside, n ah look tae the hose wheel, starting tae fuckin buckle under the weight.

I step back ower tae the windae and slam the cunt tight, tae take the strain offay the reel. Then ah’m back tae this Hammy the fuckin hamster cunt; watching his spazzy eyes bulge as he gropes and splutters, swinging and kicking away, but fair play tae the cunt, he’s still pittin up a fight.

Hurry up and die, ya fuckin polis bastard!

Ootside ah sees the hose wheel’s bending, so ah tries tae push the windae frame’s edge even tighter against the rope tae jam it in, n tae relieve the pressure oan it. But then, as ah’m concentrating oan shuttin the windae, there’s a creaking and snapping noise fae behind ays. Ah turns tae a huge fuckin crash fae above and the whole fuckin ceiling caves in! The fuckin beam’s broken in two, and this cop cunt’s oan his hands n knees covered in dust and plaster, scrambling across the flair tae his desk, trying tae pill the noose oaffay his neck. Aw fours, jist like that fuckin hamster! There’s no wey I’m gaunny get there before him so ah grab the hose and pull it wi baith hands, tryin tae reel this cunt in like a fish, but thaire’s too much slack oan the fuckin rope. He’s goat tae his feet n eh’s reaching across the desk, fastening one hand oantae the edge ay it, n the other’s gaun tae the drawer where I put the gun back… Ah’ve goat tension oan the hose now n ah’m tryin tae pull him back… but ya cunt, eh’s goat the fuckin drawer open…

Ah lits go ay the hose, so the cunt faws forward acroass the desk, but his hand’s in the drawer! Ah’m no gaunny git there quick enough, n thaire’s nae time tae open the windae so ah dives right through the fucker, shatterin the gless, landin oantae the gress, and I’m oan my feet and fuckin offski, cursing this gammy leg Renton gied ays, as I bombs ower the fuckin yard.

Ah hears a rasping cry and a shot ring oot and ricochet, hitting against the fuckin garage or one ay the other outbuildings. Ah gits roond the corner and thaire’s a second shot; thankfully the fucker sounds further away, no that ah’m stallin tae find oot. This place is isolated up here in the woodland hills, which means it’s good for what ah planned tae dae, but nae use when it aw goes fuckin tits-up and you’re the cunt hunted by a bam wi a fuckin shooter!

The motor’s parked on a dirt track windin up the bank, by an overhanging bush. It seems like there’s nae pursuit, but ah jump in and get the fuck away, no easin oaf the gas till ah git doon the slip road n oantae the freeway. At first ah worry that this fucker is gaunny grass me right up, but if he does, Mel’s tape comes oot, and anywey, it’s that cunt’s word against mine.

Ah’m cruisin along the freeway, breathin nice and easy, but cursin my bad luck. Fuckin woodworm! Ye think yuv planned for everything, stakin the place oot since fuckin Christmas! Now aw ah’ve done is made a dangerous enemy even mair motivated tae take ays doon.

But lookin oan the bright side, ah’ve just gied masel even mair encouragement tae fuck that cunt right up. It’s him or me now. N it’s no fuckin well gaunny be me, tell ye that for nowt.

Ah haul in ma breath. Nice n slow. Breathe…

That’s the fuckin game. Suddenly ah feel masel shakin wi laughter. Thinkin aboot that cunt’s pus when eh wis gittin throttled by that noose: it wis a fuckin treat! Goat tae enjoy what ye dae: ye dinnae enjoy it, dinnae fuckin dae it.

In the rear-view mirror, the sun’s in the background, fawin ower that range ay hills. It’s no been such bad day, at least weatherwise. Ye cannae really feel shite for long in this climate.

14 SICK BOY – ALL THAI’D UP

I emerge from the building site at Tottenham Court Road, and a skyward glance shows darkening clouds bunching together. There’s a sharp chill in the air, as I dig oot my phones from the inside pocket of my Hugo Boss leather jacket. All messages to be disregarded, except the one from Ben:

Just got here, will get them in.

I’ve been steadfastly avoiding Edinburgh, but it hasn’t been avoiding me! I’m ruing that festive day I put the MDMA powder in that self-indulgent, weakling sex case’s drink. I couldn’t have envisaged that my playful alchemy would have meant fucking months of fielding correspondence from a heartbroken Carlotta and the weaselly brothel-keeper Syme.

There is fuck all I can do to bring their boy back from Thailand. Pompous Presbo shit with his fucking round-the-world plane ticket and his career break. It’s something I have to do, said the prick in his last ludicrous email, before going completely offline. Leaving his missus and son distraught, punishing them for his nefarious misdeeds! What a cunt! I fight through the blocked-off roads into Soho. The IRA or ISIS never created anything like as much chaos and demoralisation in London as the neoliberal planet-rapists with their corporate vanity construction projects. Sure enough, a steady rain is beginning to fall in cold splatters.

My son has asked me to meet him for a drink in a public house of zero repute, a bland haunt of office workers and tourists. It dawns on me that I’ve spent practically no time with him recently. I’m feeling guilty, as I enter a busy bar. He’s already gotten a seat in a corner, where two pints of Stella fizz on a wooden table. We are close to an imitation fire with a low grate. A pleasing smell of polish fills the air.

We exchange greetings and Ben, who looks troubled, suddenly fixes me in a gaze. — Dad, there’s something I need to say to you…

— I know, I know, I’ve been a self-absorbed wanker. I’ve just had so many things on, this mess back in Scotters, with your uncle freaking out and your aunt being in pieces, it means I’ve had to –

— This isn’t about you! Or them! he snaps, like he’s at the end of his tether. His neck is red and his eyes glisten.

This startles me. Ben has always been a cool, taciturn lad, more placid Englishman, or even stoical Scot, than tempestuous Italian.

— I told you I was seeing somebody.

— Aye, this wee bird you’re knocking off, you sly –

— It’s not a bird… he pauses, — it’s a bloke. I’m gay. I have a boyfriend, and he spits the word out, indicating how he resolves a certain issue I now presume he has to contend regularly with. He’s looking at me with a belligerent counter-aggressive set to his chin, as if he expects me tae freak out and gie him the shit he probably got from those cunts in Surrey.

But all I feel is a warm, relieved glow. While I never saw this coming I’m absolutely delighted, as I’ve always secretly hoped for a gay son. I would have hated to have that hetero-shagger competitive thing that my dad had with me. — Excellent! I sing. — This is great! I’ve got a gay son! Good on you, bud! I punch his arm.

He looks at me in shock, his brows rising. — You… you’re not upset?

I jab a finger at him. — We’re talking gay, totally gay, not bi, right?

— Yeah, I’m only into guys. Not girls at all.

— Brilliant! This is the fucking best news ever! Cheers! I raise my glass in a toast.

He looks flabbergasted, but clinks it with his own. — I thought you’d, well…

I take a gulp of Stella back, smacking my lips together. — I would probably have been a bit jealous if you were bi, as you’d have more shagging options than me, I explain. — You see, I always wanted tae be bisexual. Could never get it on with men, though. But I do like a lassie to put on a strap-on and give it tae me up the –

Ben starts flapping and cuts me off. — Dad, Dad, I’m delighted you’re taking this well, but I don’t want to hear all this stuff!

— Fair enough. But it’s no skin off my nose; we’re Hull v Wasps, different codes, union v. league. You’re not likely to bring in some hot wee torpedo-titted vixen, to make me jealous, like I did with my father. What about the Surrey people?

— Mum is pretty upset, while Gran is just inconsolable. She can barely bring herself to look at me, he says, genuinely saddened.

I shake my head slowly in disgust, as old bile, dredged up, ferments in my gut. Fuckin old boiler. Wisnae shy aboot taking a Jocko-Eyetie portion, back on that Tuscan holiday, yet would deny her first grandchild the same pleasure. — Fuck those bigots: it’s the twenty-first century. I don’t care who you shag, as long as you shag with a vengeance!

His face lights up at that one. — Oh we do. In every conceivable way. I’m moving into his flat in Tufnell Park, and already the neighbours have been complaining about the noise!

— That’s my boy, and I punch his arm affectionately again. — Right, you fucking raving arse bandit, up to that bar and make mine a double Macallan’s!

He complies and we both end up in a bit of a state. My son is gay! What a fucking blessing!

As I’m on my way home in a cab, I look at my phone and there’s a text from Victor Syme:

Get your arse up here. I’ve found your boy.

What the fuck? Either Syme wants me urgently, or Euan really has returned to Edinburgh. A year of absence my hairy hole, he’s only been away a few months! I type a response:

Euan McCorkindale is in Edinburgh?!

Aye. Get your arse up here.

Jumping on a shuttle first thing in the morning. See you.

A reply from that maggot would have been too gracious.

15 SHAGGING HOORS WILL NOT BRING YOU PEACE

He realises that he hasn’t dodged the lines between the paving stones since he was a child. Now he’s avoiding them in an even stride, enjoying the rhythm of his feet on the cold slab. The brogues: always a good stout shoe for this sort of weather. Trainers – those incubators of foot disease – not so much. He’s lost count of the number of times he’s told Ross not to constantly wear them. The strange dislocation he feels, that sense of being completely in touch with the other, one of the multitude of alternative characters we repress in order to complete our chosen daily life; it makes him sick and giddy with fear and exhilaration. To walk this familiar city as a man without a home is just like walking new streets in a new world.

On his return to Edinburgh, he got a new phone and email address. He wanted to call Carlotta, but couldn’t face the further humiliation of having only been able to stick less than four months in Thailand, after his declaration that he would be away for a year. At first he felt fabulous out there. He was free. The break, the new place, and Naiyana, the girl he’d taken up with. But the novelty quickly wore off, supplanted by an emotional downer. He missed Carlotta and Ross, craved the order of his old life. Now he is home.

Euan McCorkindale doesn’t know at this stage whether or not he will return to his podiatrist duties at the Royal Infirmary following his career break. Everything is still up for grabs. After checking into the cheapish-but-clean budget chain hotel on the Grassmarket, his next move was to reset the Tinder app on his new phone.

And then he’s off onto the streets and into a cafe, sitting opposite Holly, thirty-four, recently divorced, two kids. She says she doesn’t want anything ‘too serious’ at this point in time. Euan finds he’s augmenting himself in such encounters, not necessarily lying – women generally find his career as a podiatrist quirkily interesting enough – but adding to himself, pushing his parameters further. He once took Spanish classes with Carlotta in preparation for a holiday. After the event, he was keen to continue, but she didn’t see the point. That tuition will be resumed and from now on he will be self-describing as a Spanish speaker. And although he’s only played a few times with a colleague from work, he is designating himself a squash player. Life is about perceptions, of the self as well as others. You can either sell yourself short or claim something, own it, and grow into it.

Holly is a strong prospect, but Euan leaves her an hour and twenty minutes later, with nothing more than a peck on the cheek. Never give it up right away, if they’re worth fucking more than once, keep them waiting for it. Then slam the very fucking soul out of them, leave them wanting more. To his complete dismay, Simon Williamson’s oddly restrained words resonate in his ear. This psychotic pig is still guiding me! Marianne was right!

Euan’s spirits sink further, despite re-emerging onto brighter, warming streets. Summer is digging in, Scotland’s most anticipated guest, who generally arrives late and is usually the first to leave. Euan was uncertain of where he was going but he instantly knows when he gets there. It’s where he was yesterday, a building down a side street with an orange sign that says TOUCHY FEELY SAUNA AND MASSAGE.

Thankfully Jasmine, whom he visited the previous evening, is working her shift again. This time she takes him to what she describes as the ‘special suite for preferred customers’. It certainly seems impressive enough. There is no bed, just piles of giant red cushions of all shapes and sizes strewn over a floor with indented lights. There’s a big TV set on one wall and, most theatrically, a red velvet curtain on the other. The cushions, though decorated with gold lace trimmings, are designed to facilitate various sexual positions; some are wedged, others rectangular, and Jasmine is skilled at the configurations they offer. Euan is excited, yet senses that something is off in her performance. He finds Jasmine tense and wary, her distracted eyes tinged with trepidation, a contrast to the highly engaged, cheerful and performative woman who serviced him yesterday in the less salubrious chamber. He wonders if it is bad protocol to visit the same girl two days in a row; if it marks him in her eyes as desperate, damaged or sleazy. Then he’s aware of another presence in the room. He turns to see a man in a suit, his face hard and weaselly, all sharp angles, standing over them. Sweating, the man rubs at his neck with a hanky, although it isn’t hot. Euan realises that he’s been behind the red curtain, which is open, indicating a small, recessed stage. — What’s… what is this…? and he ceases his activity. He looks from Jasmine to the menacing interloper.

— Sorry to interrupt, but we have enough for a special VIP tape. The man points to a security camera above the door, its red eye blinking. He hadn’t even seen it.

— What’s going on? Euan looks at Jasmine, who can’t meet his eyes. As he dismounts her, she rolls away and promptly shrinks out of the room.

— Doctor Who? Welcome tae the Tardis. The man flashes a direful, violating smile. — I’m the owner of these premises. The name’s Syme. Victor Syme.

— What do you want? Is this how you run a business –

— I want you tae go and see your brother-in-law. Up at the City Cafe in Blair Street. In half an hour. He’ll tell you all you need tae know.

The podiatrist is chopped to the quick by the sneering certainty of this man. Deathly still, it’s his piercing green eyes that do the real talking. In an attempt to grab some control of the situation, Euan finds his professional voice. — But why are you taping me? What’s it got to do with Simon?

— I don’t like repeating myself, Doc. If you make me do it again, you’d best use your inside knowledge and tell me now exactly which A&E unit you would prefer to be taken to, Syme says, so cold and inanimate. — One more time: the City Cafe in Blair Street. Now go.

Held fast in a vice of his own silence, the naked podiatrist pulls on his clothes. All the time, he feels the pimp’s eyes on him, and is relieved to get outside.

On his way up to the City Cafe, Euan’s brain is a riot of confusion. The violent knot in his gut tells him that this latest disaster has made an already-terrible situation interminably more perilous. His certainty is that this is a blackmail scenario. The concept of forgiveness from Carlotta is like an elusive radio frequency which his mind tunes in to and out of. One minute totally dead, the next blaring beautiful, infinite possibilities at him. The confusion of international travel followed by the ambivalence of the last few days, on Tinder and in the saunas, that incessant veering between elation and despair; it now merely seems training for this new horror, which has yet to fully unravel.

I should have stayed on the year’s career break, travelled round the world, whoring my heart out. Why did I come back? But indulging his baser instincts only seemed to make matters worse. Or maybe go back to work, he considers, rent a flat, be a dutiful weekend dad to Ross, and live as a single shagger, the life that he obviously felt, beneath the threshold of consciousness, was groundlessly denied him. Even with Syme’s intervention and this horrific tape, the latter still seems the most rational course of action.

But there is Carlotta, his beautiful Carra… though he’s burnt his boats there, surely. Erred fatally. Neither his wife nor his son could un-see those horrible, perverse images. They sickened even him, the loose skin on his arms, the sack of flesh across his lower gut, his beady, budgerigar eyes. Then he vanished for months off the face of the earth. And now they might be seeing even more, the model husband and father with a prostitute!

And fucking Simon!

He steps into the City Cafe, enraged as he sees, sitting at a table in the corner, the man who has occasioned all this torment and twisted liberation. Simon David Williamson looks up at him with a sad smile. He has an Americano coffee, turning the large cup in his hands, never taking his eyes off Euan.

— What the fuck is going on, Simon? Why are you here?

— Carlotta asked me to find you, Simon Williamson says. — I’ve been coming back up here every fucking weekend, he exaggerates, — when I should be running my fucking business. Colleagues London and, potentially, Colleagues Manchester. Not Colleagues Edinburgh. You know why? Because I haven’t fucking set up a Colleagues Edinburgh… He cuts himself short as he seems to really see Euan for the first time. — You look gey shelpit, he says, surprising himself with his couthie Scots affectation.

— I’ve been travelling, he says, unable to stifle a sad groan in his voice. — How are Carlotta and Ross?

— You fuck off to Thailand, and don’t call them. Disappear off the fucking face of the globe. How the fuck do you think they are?

Euan hangs his head in miserable shame.

— Fucking hooring over there and doing the very same back here, I’ll wager.

Euan glances up at Simon. In his brother-in-law’s eyes he sees himself as old and depleted, pathetic and wretched. — And now your friend Syme has fucking filmed me with a prostitute!

Simon Williamson looks around, casting a sour eye on the premises and its patrons. The City Cafe hasn’t changed, but it now seems long past its cool heyday and the clientele has aged with it. He waves his phone. — First, he’s not my friend, he emphatically states. — But yes, he took great delight in telling me. I had asked him to look out for you, but I didn’t think you’d be so daft. Or that he’d stoop so low. I overestimated you both. You should have stayed the fuck in Thailand.

— What do you mean?

— I mean you fucked up badly. A gentleman is always discreet. And this life, Euan, it isn’t you…

— Well, it obviously is, as it’s the one I’m leading.

Williamson’s eyebrows rise. — Yes, so I’ve heard from Syme, the proverbial horse’s mouth on these matters. To paraphrase James McAvoy as Charles Xavier in X-Men: First Class, ‘Shagging hoors will not bring you peace, my friend.’

Euan meets his brother-in-law’s stare with a cold, implacable one of his own. — To paraphrase Michael Fassbender as Magneto’s reply, ‘Not shagging hoors was never an option.’

Sick Boy cackles loudly and rocks back in the chair. — Fuck me, I’ve created a Frankenstein’s monster here, he says, then leans forward, putting his elbows on the table, resting his head on his fists and letting his tone assume gravity. — I never thought I’d utter these words in a million years, but for God’s sake, think of your wife and kid.

— That’s what I’ve been doing. It’s why I couldn’t stay in Thailand. I need to see them…

— But?

— But I’m coming to terms with the sort of man I really am and I’m thinking that they are far better off without me. I’ve had those desires for years. The difference is that I’m now acting on them.

— That’s a big difference. That’s the crucial difference. So stop all the proddy bullshit.

— I don’t think I can stop seeing other women now. Euan shakes his head sadly. — Something has been unleashed.

Williamson looks around the premises again. A DJ whom he recalls playing lots of cool shit back in the day now sits slaughtered at the bar, a semi-jakey, slavering about the pomp of Pure, Sativa, the Citrus Club and the Calton Studios to a bored, younger barman. — Do what we Catholics do.

— What’s that?

— Lie. Be a fucking hypocrite, Williamson shrugs. — I never rattled as many women in my life as I did when I was married to Ben’s mother. Rode the mother-in-law, the wee sister, banjoed the fucking maid of honour on the night before the wedding; the whole shebang, for fuck sakes! I’d have rammed the old boy if he’d had a fanny. If I had my way I would have drugged that cunt, given him a gender reassignment operation, had him ganting on it, then made him my bitch and treated him atrociously, he declares, visibly warming to the thought.

Euan finds himself sharing guilty laughter, surely a measure of how far he’s fallen, before he reflects in sad resignation, — My life is a mess…

— Listen, mate, you have to go back and try to make amends.

— It’s not possible. You saw the video. You witnessed her reaction. Her fury was beyond incandescent. She was totally broken and completely disillusioned, Euan whines, refusing to drop his voice, even though two couples have sat down at the table next to them. Foam spills from the ripped leather seats between them.

— She was in shock, ya radge, Simon declares. — People are adaptable. I’m not saying you’re her pin-up boy and she’s coming round a hundred per cent, but she needs to see you. It’s been months. She’s had time to process it all.

This observation provides Euan with a smidgen of comfort. — Yes, he concedes, — I can see that.

— Well?

— Well, what?

— Do you want to return to normal family life?

— Well, yes.

— But still shag around on the side?

Euan reaches into his heart. Trembling, he looks at Simon. Nods grimly. — But thanks to your friend Syme, the first is no longer an option.

— We certainly can’t let Carlotta see that video, Simon says. — Or it’s over, and he passes his phone to Euan, who is stunned to see an image of himself, having sex with Jasmine in the sauna, only thirty minutes ago.

— How did you –

— Technology will kill us all. Williamson screws his face up, as if in edgy recall. — I can get Syme to erase those videos. But you need to work with me. That means doing him a wee favour. If not, he puts this shit online and not just Carlotta and Ross, and her friends and his classmates, but all your colleagues and patients will see this. They will form an opinion as to the type of man you are. A one-off mistake is one thing; a serial philanderer and pervert, exhibitionist hoor-monger is something else.

Euan wallows in his despair. The images with Marianne were devastating for the family. But this stuff the world would see. The credibility he’s built up over the years would be trashed and he would be humiliated in his profession, a laughing stock and a pariah… He struggles to make sense of the nightmare. — How? Why? Why me? What does Syme want with me?

His brother-in-law swivels his eyes around the bar, and sighs. — It was my fault. I was looking for you, at Carlotta’s request, and I took that Christmas picture around the saunas. Syme heard about this, came after me, and was curious about what I wanted with you. He obviously thought I was the polis at first, then perhaps some kind of grass. I told him the situation and let slip that you had medical skills, at which point he suddenly took an interest. Then you vanish off the map for months, and I have to deal with the hassle from this murderous buffoon, who fucking well thinks we’re both at it. Then you come back and he rumbles you rifling one of his Roger Moores in the sauna. Bang to rights.

— He… this Syme character, he wants me to look at his feet?

— He has a job for you. Simon Williamson notes a swaggering posse of lads enter the bar. He puts on a Wild West frontier accent. — Some kinda doctorin work, I’m supposin. With Euan evidently unmoved, he adds abruptly, — That is as much as I know.

— But I fail to see how – how can you do this to me?! This is blackmail! We’re family!

Simon Williamson’s features seem to turn to cold stone. He speaks in a clipped, staccato rhythm. — Let me make one thing clear: you are not being blackmailed by me. For both our sakes, I wish that were the case. We are both being fucked over by a very dangerous cunt indeed. You should not have gone to the saunas, Euan. I would have set you up with a tasty wee bit of –

— It’s your set-ups that have ruined my fucking life already!

— Look, we both fucked up. Simon suddenly slaps his own forehead. — We can point fingers at each other till the cows come home, or we can try and sort it. I’m suggesting the latter course of action. If you disagree, feel the fuck free to have this argument with yourself. I’m off.

Euan is silent in the face of Simon Williamson’s cold logic.

— It’s broken, but it can be fixed.

— What do you want me to do?

— I don’t want you to do anything. But this cunt, and I use the term advisedly, he apparently needs your medical skills. What for, I can’t even imagine.

Euan contemplates his brother-in-law. — What sort of world are you mixed up in? What kind of a person are you?

Simon Williamson looks at him in injured disdain. — I’m as desperate as you, and I’ve been pulled into this world by you shagging about!

— You gave me that fucking drink spiked with MDMA! Your drugs started –

— Fuck you and your First World problems! If every cunt that had taken their first ecky committed adultery by jacksie-rifling the first psycho fucker who smiled at them, not one worthwhile relationship in Britain would still exist! Either you man the fuck up and we sort this shite out, or everything, your family, your job, your reputation, are all down the fucking swanny!

Euan sits trembling in the seat. His hand fastens around the glass of vodka and tonic. He downs it in a oner. Asks Williamson, — What do I have to do?

16 OUT OF THE SHADOWS

For some time anonymous shapes and shadows, their identities almost but not quite discernable, have haunted Danny Murphy. They swagger out of Leith Walk’s pubs for cigarettes, sprawl in duos or groups to the next howf, or stare out as menacing smudges from behind dirty bus windows. His heart jumps beats in anticipation as echoing footsteps in the stair outside intensify, only to die out on the floor below, or slap past his door bound for the top-floor flats. But as the days roll by, he finds himself reacting less. The unlikely scenarios of comfort he’s formulated and magnified start to achieve dominion in his mind. Perhaps the biker crashed and the box somehow opened, and it was presumed that had ruined the kidney. Maybe he was in the clear.

One evening, all this changes. Indoors with the dog, watching TV, he hears the familiar steps on the stair. This time there is something about them, perhaps their weight or rhythm, that indicates a dread purpose. This sense is shared by Toto, who looks poignantly up at his master and lets out a sad, barely audible whine. Danny Murphy sheds a skin, and he almost breathes a sigh of relief at the bang on the door, which he opens up to the inevitability of Mikey Forrester. — Mikey, he says.

Forrester’s face has been pulled an inch south. His hands are clasped together in front of him. — You fucked this one up big time. You’ve cost my partner, Victor Syme, a great deal of money and –

As if on cue, a man pushes past Mikey, who, in timid deference, gives way for him. Whereas Mikey is all performance, Victor Syme carries an overwhelming air of reptilian menace, speaking with the certainty of a man already privy to the conversation he is about to have. — You, he points at Spud, — you tried tae take the fuckin pish!

— Ah’m sorry, man, Spud desperately blurts out, taking a backward step, as Forrester slides in and shuts the door behind them, — it wis an accident, likes. The dug knocked ower the ice boax and ate the kidney! Ah jist pure panicked, ay, but ah’ll make it up tae ye –

— For fuckin sure, Victor Syme says, before turning to Forrester. — So this is the boy you vouched for. He struts down the hallway, scanning its squalor in disgust. — A fuckin jakey.

— Tae be honest, ah didnae ken he’d fallen on such hard times, Vic, I thought –

— Shut the fuck up, Mikey. Syme dismisses Forrester with a raised hand, closing his eyes, as if not trusting himself to even look at his supposed business partner.

Mikey’s plummet into screaming silence sets off a sickening confirmation deep inside Spud that this isn’t going to end well. Victor Syme moves towards him, seeming to glide as if on castors, and ushers him over to the window. — Nice view. He gazes outside to street activity barely visible through the grime on the panes.

— Eh, aye… Spud says, his head bobbing and jerking. Blood pours from the side of his mouth. He sees Syme register it. — It’s aw the speed, ah need it tae distract ays fae the peeve.

— Aye, no such a nice view in here, the brothel-keeper smiles, looking at an implausible stack of old Pot Noodle containers.

— Ah ken that Pot Noodles urnae good for ye and ah shouldnae be eatin thum –

— Nonsense, you’ve got everything ye need in them. Chinese folk live for ages. He turns to Mikey. — Think ay the Master in Kung Fu.

— Ah suppose thaire is that, Spud smiles wanly.

— What dae ye see oot there, mate? Syme asks, attempting to envision what it would be like occupying the mind of a man like Daniel Murphy, trying to comprehend how it would feel to see the world through his hollowed, veering squirrel eyes. This exercise fills him with corrosive distaste and a sense that obliterating such weakness would constitute a service to humankind. He puts one arm around Spud’s thin, trembling shoulder as he smoothly slips a cosh out of his pocket with his free hand.

— Ah dunno… likesay buildins and shoaps n that…

In one violent predatory movement, Victor Syme jumps back and batters Danny Murphy over the head. Mikey Forrester, forced to bear witness, cringes in guilt and revulsion as the assailant hisses through clenched teeth, — What do ye see now?!

Spud howls out in a primal shriek, overwhelmed by a surge of nausea and the most terrible pain, as if his skull is cracking open, like a nail is being driven into the centre of his brain. This thankfully only lasts for a couple of seconds, and he feels his own vomit spill from him, as the floor ascends to meet him.

Toto starts to yelp, and then licks at Spud’s head. Mikey’s face takes on a rubicund flush, his bottom lip trembling. Spud’s rolling eyes have receded into his skull, his breath emitting in soft but audible pants. Syme picks up the dog, who whines in misery. — Never was much ay a dug man, he says to Mikey, whose countenance is now a funereal grey.

A red velvet curtain dominates the largest suite in the basement premises that Victor Syme uses for his trade. The rest of the windowless room, uplit by a series of floor-mounted spotlights, is festooned with scarlet cushions, bordered with gold lace. These litter a sandblasted floor of varnished timbers. One other feature of the room: a large flat-screen television, fixed on a wall.

A handset held by Victor Syme snaps the images on the screen dead. The proprietor has just played Euan McCorkindale the video of him engaged in sexual congress with Jasmine, forcing him to view it in silent purgatory. — Why make me watch that? the podiatrist groans.

— Tae bring home tae ye, dear Doctor, Syme’s slimy fake Morningside tea-room accent making Euan shudder, — that you are in fucking shit street. Well, Doc, you can get out of it, if you play your cards right.

Euan can’t arrest his returning drift to a deep, beaten silence.

Sick Boy, sitting in the corner, his perusing of the video punctuated by the odd disdainful sigh that added insult to Euan’s injuries, suddenly rises. — Great. Well, I’ll just head off and allow you fine fellows to negotiate your own deal, as my services are now superfluous.

A shaky plea tears from Euan’s throat, — You can’t leave –

— Aw naw, you wait here, Syme snaps in accord. — Ah’ve heard aw aboot you, mate. You take ownership ay this problem, he demands of Sick Boy. — Ah found yir brother-in-law here.

— Aye, but now you’re blackmailing him. So I’d say we’re even.

— Disnae work that wey. Syme almost presents himself as a reluctant enforcer of oppressive rules devised by another party. — Youse need tae square this wi your sis, he looks at Sick Boy, — and your wife. Euan is treated to a creeping, diseased wink. — And yis urnae gaunny dae that wi this vid in circulation.

— Please… how much do you want for it? Euan pleads.

— Shhh, Victor Syme urges. — Your bro-in-law understands this world, Doc. You’re a fuckin tourist here.

— Fuck off, Sick Boy says defiantly, — I don’t work for you.

— Oh yes you do, Syme sings, Christmas-panto style, drawing open the velvet curtain behind them. It reveals, hung upside down, a bound and gagged Spud Murphy.

Sick Boy gasps and takes a step back.

– Now it’s up to you two. Syme’s tongue darts across thin, bloodless lips. — Youse can walk oot ay here. But if yis do it’s endy story for this boy.

Euan’s head jerks back. — I haven’t got a clue who that is.

Then Victor Syme waves the embossed Colleagues business card, the one he removed from Spud’s pocket, forcing Simon Williamson to admit, in a pappy voice, — I do.

— But you’ll get to know him, Doc, Victor Syme’s lofty tone pledges to Euan, as his pasty, noxious smirk freezes the souls of both brothers-in-law. – Oh aye, you will get tae know him most intimately. Because right now you have work tae dae.

17 SPUD – UNSUPERVISED MEAT

Ah’m walkin through this graveyard but it’s aw covered in mist. Ah kin see heidstanes, but no make oot anything oan them. Toto’s lying doon by a grave, his wee paws ower his eyes, like he’s greetin. Ah go acroass n try tae talk tae him but he doesnae move they paws. Ah read the inscription on the stane. DANIEL MURPHY…

Aw man…

Then Toto’s paws go doon n ah see it isnae him, it’s a demon wi a reptile heid n it’s lookin right at ays…

Ah turns tae run n these radges wi big bulbous faces grab ays n one slams a chib intae ma gut…

NAWWWWW!!!!!

When ah comes to, it’s pure like the bad dream’s still gaun oan, cause it’s naewhaire ah’ve been before, yit still sortay ken, but ah kin hardly breathe. A sharp smell ay pish tickles ma nostrils. Ah huv tae fight through this pain, and a seek feelin in ma gut, tae make ma napper obey basic commands. Keep they blurry eyes open. Git that chokin tongue offay the roof ay the mooth…

Aw man… ah’m in a bed n shiverin like a kitten. Ma eyes are bleary like thir fill ay gunge n ah keep blinkin n the vision finally pills intae focus. Thaire’s a plasma bag on a metal stand, wi a tube coming fae it…

What the fuck, man…

I can hardly believe that this tube’s gaunny lead intae ma boady, even if ma brain’s sayin it’s a cast-iron cert! Ah lift up the thin covers n trace the tube under thum, tae track it gaun intae a bandage in the side ay ma stomach. Ah jump up in shock. Ah’m seek and sair and ah raise ma heid, tryin tae gain mair focus. Thaire’s stale lime-green waws, painted over auld patterned wallpaper that shows through. A stained maroon carpet. The room is pure seventies, a time warp ay aw the bedsits and shabby flats that have been the stages for aw the dramas ay the boy Murphy’s life…

That sickening feeling in ma tremblin boady: aw man, that’s awfay familiar. The air aw rank n fusty.

Ah hears a coughin n ah suddenly realises that thaire’s other cats in the room! Mikey Forrester’s there, so is that Victor Syme boy. Ah think he banjoed ays. That evil pus, man, it pure fills the room. — You ruined ma property. Destroyed it. Made it fuckin worthless.

— It wis an accident… ah find my voice, still croaking aw sair like ah’ve gargled broken gless. — What have you done…?

Syme looks at Mikey, then at two other gadges whae step forward ootay the shadows. One’s Sick Boy! The other yin’s the boy ah saw when ah wis hingin upside doon, aw trussed up. — Si! What happened? ah’m raspin. — What happened, Si?!

Sick Boy comes forward wi a gless ay water. — Here, Danny, drink this, pal. He helps ays sit up n huds it tae ma mooth. The tepid water seems tae roll ower the caked slime and scum in ma gob n throat. His beak twitches, n ah ken it’s cause ay ma breath. — Slowly, he says.

— I’ll leave you tae fill him in wi the details, Syme sais tae Sick Boy, and heads fir the door. Eh turns the handle and pulls it open, but stoaps n looks at Forry. — And get the rest ay this sorted oot! It’s on you, Mikey. Dinnae disappoint me again.

Mikey goes tae say something, but the cat’s words seem tae stick in his craw, just like mine, as Syme swaggers out ay the room.

Ah’m fuckin shitein masel, n ah pushes the beaker away. This isnae right. No at aw. N whaire’s the dug? — Si… Mikey… what happened? ah goes.

Sick Boy n Mikey look at each other. Sick Boy stands back n Mikey shrugs n goes, — Syme wanted payback for the kidney you’d ruined, so he felt he was entitled tae take one ay yours.

Ah touch the bandaged wound. Look at the tube. — Naw…

— It was either that, or, Sick Boy runs his hand ower his throat, — Finito. It took aw ay our joint powers ay persuasion, believe me. He looks tae Mikey. — He’ll tell ye!

— Aye, Mikey nods. — Ye were very lucky that Syme thoat he had a recipient that matched ye. It’s goat tae match, see?

— Whaaaat… Ah dinnae believe this! Ah try tae sit up proper, but ma whole boady is in pain n ah’ve nae strength in ma airms…

— Shhh, dinnae distress yourself, mate, Sick Boy sort ay coos, easing ays back doon intae the bed, makin ays sip mair water. — It was removed by Euan here, eh nods at the other gadge, — who is my brother-in-law, Carlotta’s man, and a qualified doctor. You were in the best possible hands, buddy boy!

Ah’m just glarin at this boy, but eh cannae look ays in the eye. Eh’s just shuffling aboot, eyes shiftin fae flair tae waws. Ah raises ma hand and points at um. — You, you took ma kidney? In here? Ah looks around at the pure squalor. — You’re a butcher!

— I’ve been dragged down a sewer, the boy sais, shakin his heid, but it’s no like he’s talkin tae anybody. — I only went out for a fucking drink at Christmas, on my birthday…

— IT’S YOUR FAULT! ah screams, pointin at Mikey, and then Sick Boy. — Youse two! Supposed tae be mates! Supposed tae be ma-hay-haytes… n ah feel the tears streamin doon ma face…

This is like, fucked…

Mikey turns away in shame, but no Sick Boy. Aw naw, no him. — That’s right, blame me! That cunt Syme was gaunny kill us all! I only got roped intae this because he wanted revenge and payback after you cost him thirty grand with that kidney! IT’S FUCK ALL TAE DAE WI ME! He pummels his ain chist in outrage, as his eyes protrude and his Adam’s aypil bobs. — NANE AY IT!

— Ah didnae ken… ah goes, —… it wis the dug, ah mean it wisnae his fault, jist an animal… didnae understand…

— What were you thinking, taking the fucking dug with you?! Leaving meat, unsupervised, wi a dug?

— Wisnae meant tae go doon like this, Spud, n Forrester backs Sick Boy up. — You sais nowt aboot bringing yir daft wee dug oan the trip.

— Ah couldnae git anybody tae look eftir him, my voice screeches oot. Then ah gits a surge ay pure fear n ah’m lookin aroond, in panic. — Where is he? Whaire’s Toto?!

— He’s fine, Sick Boy goes.

— WHAIRE?!

— Syme has him at one ay the saunas. The lassies are dug-sittin. They’ll be spoiling him, taking him oot for walks.

— Ye cannae leave a perr wee dug wi that cruel bastard! He’d better no hurt Toto!

— Toto’s insurance, Mikey goes.

— For what? For what?! What ye sayin, Mikey?!

Mikey says nowt but looks at Sick Boy, whae raises his palms. — It was me, well, me and Mikey here, that convinced him to spare us wi this eye for an eye thing. It took some daein, that cunt is a fucking animal. His heid weaves fae side tae side, then he breks intae a smile. — But, throughout this fucking mess, there’s at least some good news!

Ah cannae believe this. — What? What’s good aboot this?!

— The kidney Shictor Schlime took, Sick Boy goes in that annoyin Bond voice, like it’s aw a joke, — for a client… it turns out that it was incompatible with his recipient after all.

— What… ye mean it didnae need tae come oot?! Ah hear ma ain voice, whimperin. — Yis took it oot fir nowt!

— Aye, but it can go back in again.

— Where… where is it?

— Back in Berlin. Sick Boy reaches intae his jaykit and pills oot some plane tickets, hudin them in ma face. — So we need to fly there, post-haste, and get you refitted. You’ll be as good as new, apart fae the Mars bar.

— As good as new, ah’m mutterin aw tae masel in misery, as Sick Boy shares a raised eyebrow with Mikey Forrester and this doaktir boy Euan turns away, sayin something under his breath ah dinnae catch.

— What’s he sayin? Ah points at him. — What’s yir doaktir boy sayin?!

The Euan felly turns n goes, — It’s crucial to move quickly.

Ah just groan, aw feverish n seek. Ah’m burnin in hell here, man. Ah feel that ill, ah ken ah’m no gaunny make it oantae that plane tae Berlin.

18 SICK BOY – ALL ABOARD THE RENFREW FERRY

I accompany a furrowed-browed Euan back to his hotel, issuing the caution, — Nae hooring tonight, bud, plenty feather and flip, a big day the morn.

He departs, ghoulish and jerky, to the lift and his lonely room in silence. I head back to the McCorkindales’ sprawling well-appointed Colinton villa, sans the man of the house. Crackers Carra is giving me a hard time, her saucer eyes protruding as if the lids have been ripped off, her jaw grinding fiercely, her pus reminding me of the time I ran into her and her mates at Rezerection. Fuck me, how long ago was that? — But how do you ken he’s back? Have ye seen him?

— No, I fib, deciding that telling her would only compromise an already-desperate enterprise. — But he’s definitely been sighted, by reliable sources.

— Who? Tell me who’s seen him!

— A few people. He was in my mate Terry’s cab. I spin another harmless wee white lie. — Coming out the Filmhouse. Look, that’s why I’m here, to find him.

A matt finish to her popping lamps shows me that Carlotta is doped up on something or other. Her black hair is greasy and shows grey roots, something she’d never tolerate before. — This is tearin us apart… she pleads, in a voice like a coffin creaking open.

— Look, you’re stressed, go and lie doon.

Her lip curls south and she bursts intae tears. I take her in my arms and she collapses like a puppet with the strings cut. I have to practically carry her up the stairs and put her to bed, kissing her sweated brow. — I’m on it, sis, I tell her. Although drug-stunned, Carlotta still has a face on her like a well-skelped bahooky and glances at me from under the duvet like a small, cornered animal, as if ramping up for some aggro. I’m happy to make my escape. Why the drama? Fuck me, she’s still a fine-looking woman who will get paired up easily. She’ll get the hoose, and child support for the boy, till he leaves home with a good degree to secure exciting work in the retail sector. Then she can downsize and get a comfy pad and a young lover, with perhaps the annual lumb-sweeping sex-tourist holiday in Jamaica flung in, just tae keep the buck on his toes.

As I get downstairs Ross immediately ambushes me, his imploring eyes igniting through a forest of spots. Every time I see him, the wee bastard asks me when he’s getting his hole. If the laws of natural selection were properly applied, he’d remain a virgin for life. Like Renton should have done. This is what I get for fucking with nature. — You sais the next time you were up!

Saved by the bell! The phone goes, and I wave him into silence, taking my call out in the garden. Talk about timely! Syme’s at least had the decency to offer to help me with this issue. — Your wee problem is soon going to be sorted, he declares as I go behind the shed, away from the prying eyes of the hapless wee runt staring out through the windae at me.

— Thank you, Vic, I tell the pus bag, as I shiver in the cold, — but let me get back to you. I might be able to complete the job in-house. I’m a little out of the Edinburgh scene, but I still have an address book I can work, I declare, as the meaty-titted hoor from next door flings open a back-bedroom windae, allowing Tiffany’s ‘I Think We’re Alone Now’ to spill out into the air. Is this a come-on?

I sniff the creosote on the hut as Syme growls something indecipherable. It could have been scorn or tribute; I know not and care less.

So I succumb to my debt of honour. I’ve got Ross in a cab – not Terry’s, the man has zero discretion where other people’s sexual affairs are concerned – and we’re heading for the same hotel Rents used, where I book a room online and call Jill to meet us there.

We wait for a bit before she appears in a wrap-around pencil skirt, black-and-white-striped top and bobbed haircut with purplish-black lippy. I intro them, and Ross’s eyes have a hard-on, but she’s underwhelmed to the point of disgust.

— No fucking way, she says, pulling me aside and hissing in my ear, — he’s not a businessman!

Ross does look like a pizza-faced prepubescent Aled Jones on meeting his new adoptive parents, Fred and Rose West. — He’s a prodigy, a youthful high-flyer: a sort of junior William Hague at the Tory Party Conference type of character.

— I’m no a paedophille, she snaps, as Ross’s lips tremble.

— Lassies can’t be nonces, I tell her. — It’s no like there’s a beastesses’ wing at Cornton Vale. You’d just be popping the boy’s Renfrew Ferry. A social service, really.

— Fuck off…

— C’mon, babe… unprofessional behaviour, I tell her, as poor wee Pitch and Toss’s eyes flick from me to her.

— Aye, on your part. I thought Colleagues was a high-end escort agency, no about daft wee bairns wanting laid, and she turns on those high heels and heads off.

— Fair enough, I tell her retreating figure, — we can work something out, but she’s no listening. She is so fucking out ay there.

So I’m compelled to dive back into the swamp, and take Syme up on his offer. It’s the only way to shut wee squeaky baws up. Ironically, he sends Jasmine along to the hotel, the very bird that did Ross’s old man. I suppose there’s a certain symmetrical poetry to it all!

Jasmine looks Ross over. He’s like a refugee being shown to his dormitory in Auschwitz.

— Gonna leave you guys alone for a bit, I grin.

Ross goes to say something, but Jasmine takes his hand. — It’s okay, honey. Tell me about yourself.

This lassie has got the goods. I split and hit the bar downstairs.

Well, thirty-five minutes later, as I’m just about halfway through my third Stella and the Guardian, Jasmine comes down alone. — He’s sorted, she says. — He’s just getting dressed.

— Great, I tell her, slipping her another twenty over and above the agreed tariff. She looks at me in mild disappointment before she departs. If I’d gied her a hundred, I’d have gotten the exact same look. I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was the son of the guy she made the sex tape with, whom her boss is now blackmailing.

Pitch and Toss arrives downstairs a few minutes later, very dazed and confused. I swear it’s as if his face has been steeped overnight in a vat of Clearasil. The pus seems to have been sucked out his spots like the spunk from his baws.

— Job done?

He nods blankly, stuffing his hands into the pocket of his hoodie.

I get him outside, down George IV Bridge, and we take a stroll across the Meadows. It’s a beautiful spring day. — So how did it go, pal?

— It was okay… no like I thought but. I was nervous at first, but then she started kissing me and then… his eyes light up as his voice drops and he glances over to a football game, —… she sooked my cock. She said it was really big!

I’ll bet she did.

— When I sort of… got it… more up than in, really, she said that she couldnae believe it was ma first time, that I was a natural!

I’ll bet she did.

The sun is hotting things up, burning off the meagre cloud cover. It’s now more like summer. I pull some Ray-Bans out my pocket and stick them on. Ross havers in unbridled enthusiasm. — That she couldnae believe how good it felt for her, and that ah made her come, he squeals, turning to me, wide-eyed, looking for confirmation, as a woman passes us pushing a pram. — That ah really knew how tae make love tae a lassie and ah would give any girl the time ay her life!

Jesus fuck, whatever Syme is paying this yin isnae enough!

— Did she get ye licking her oot?

Ross’s jaw seems to spasm a little, as if in muscle memory. – Aye, he blushes, — she showed me that bit that’s sort ay at the top ay the fanny. Ye never hear aboot that in the online sites.

— You’re going on the wrong ones, I tell him. — Fuck that dude stuff. Try lesbian sites instead. Here’s a tip: there are three keys tae being a good lover: fanny-licking, fanny-licking and fanny-licking. Tip two: surround yourself with women, women and more fucking women. Work with them. Become a hairdresser, a bingo caller, a cleaner, do those sorts of jobs. Shagging is a disease of association. Tip three: don’t speak; just listen to them. If you do speak, ask politely about them, what they think of this or that. As he goes to comment, I wave a silencing finger. — Just listen. Tip four: don’t go near other guys; they are the fucking useless stupid enemy. They are not your brothers. They are not your mates. They are obstacles at best. They will teach you less than nothing, and get in your way with their fucking stupid pish.

I watch him trying to take this in.

Fuck me, that Jasmine is getting so poached for Edinburgh Colleagues.

We stop off at a store and to his delight I buy him some decent trainers. — The cover story for your mamma, when she asks you where we were. And also a reward for being a top shagger. I give him a playful nudge.

— Thanks, Uncle Simon, squeaks the dazed Colinton gigolo.

When we return to the ranch, Carlotta is up and we tell her about the trainer shopping. But she’s still going on about Euan, lost in her own despair. This problem will hopefully be sorted out soon. I check my phone. Sure enough, there’s an email from Syme with an e-ticket in the attachment for myself and Euan. Economy class. I get onto the airline and upgrade mine to business, using the Colleagues account. Of course Carlotta is clucking, hovering over me, trying to see what I’m doing. — I have a lead, which I’m following up first thing tomorrow morning, I tell her.

— What kind ay a lead?

— Just some people I’ve been talking to. I don’t want to get your hopes up, Carra, but I’m giving this everything I’ve got.

— You cannae keep me in the dark like this!

I pat her softly on the cheek. — As I say, something or nothing, and I head up the stairs, opting to retire early.

After a decent kip, I rise the next brisk morning, and taxi to the airport. Yes, I’m meeting Euan, among others, to make the direct flight to Berlin. I text Renton:

When did you say you were going to Berlin?

An almost instant reply:

Here now. Big gig at Tempelhofer Feld tonight.

Life’s ironies: when I was hunting for Renton, I couldn’t find the bastard anywhere. Now our stars are so aligned that I can’t get rid of the cunt.

Espied timeously in the departure area: Mikey Forrester, clad in semi-decent Hugo Boss brown corduroy jacket, carrying an Apple Mac in a leather shoulder bag. He’s with Spud, who looks like he’s been rejected as an extra from The Walking Dead for being too decrepit. Murphy sports a crappy old green dress jacket and a Ramones Leave Home T-shirt, through which seeps a stain of blood and something else, even though he’s well bandaged. Then I catch Euan, the obtuse cunt, standing apart from us, looking anxiously at his watch. As we clear security, Mikey picks up his cue and moans something about time.

— Relax, boys, I tell them, even though I’m anything but, in fact absolutely shiteing it about what we’re about to try and pull off. Fear, though, is an emotion best not expressed. Once acknowledged, it spreads like a virus. It’s ruined our politics: the controllers have been dripping it into us for decades, making us compliant, turning us against each other, while they rape the world. You let em in, you let em win. I cast an eye over at my motley cohorts. — Looks like the gang’s all here!

Mikey drops his passport and I pick it up. As I hand it to him I see his full name: Michael Jacob Forrester. — Michael Jakey Forrester! You kept that quiet!

— It’s Jacob, he protests belligerently.

— Whatever you say, I grin, throwing my bag on the belt and heading through security.

19 RENTON – DECKED

Never work wi a Jambo cunt fae the west side ay Edinburgh. Being steeped in a broth of Gumley mediocrity, schemes too drab tae be offensive, snobby-but-shite bungalows and that dark tumour on the city that is Gorgie-Dalry tenementland, serves to leave an indelible stain of moral weakness. Carl vanished after his birthday bash and finding him was a nightmare. I eventually tracked him down at the BMC club yesterday, where he helpfully introduced me as a ‘Hibs cunt, but awright’ tae the ching-snorting, crap-beer-guzzling occupants ay this seedy blood-relative-battering shithole. It gets even worse as I have Conrad and Emily ootside in the limo on Gorgie Road. When I manage tae get Carl, who apart from his two fucking heavy record flight cases has nothing but the clathes on his back and whae smells like a cross between a blocked lavy and the local brewery, intae the vehicle, the Dutch maestro roars, — You smell bad! I must sit up front!

So fat boy moves up beside the driver, leaving me sitting bitch between minging Ewart and Emily, who keeps groping my thigh. Carl can smell nothing outside the rancid chemicals clogging his ravaged nostrils and sinuses, but he witnesses her actions through a drunken, sleepy haze and gies ays a creepy, licentious smirk. Then he bursts intae ‘Happy Birthday to Me’ which segues intae ‘Hearts, Hearts, Glorious Hearts’, before he passes out.

— Fuckin B-side cunt, I laugh. The limo driver is Hibs and gets the joke.

When we arrive in Berlin, Carl, comatose on the flight, is suddenly animated again. I pick him out a couple ay T-shirts fae the Hugo Boss shop at the airport. — Cool, he sais aboot one, and, — My ma wouldnae dress me in that shite, Renton, regarding the other. He cheers up when we meet Klaus, the promoter, at the hotel bar. A dance-music veteran, he makes a big fuss ay Carl, immediately sorting us both out with ching. — N-Sign is back! I was at that party outside Munich, many years ago. The crazy one. Your friend… he climbed onto the roof!

— Aye, says Carl.

— How is that guy?

— Deid. He jumped off a bridge back in Edinburgh, shortly after that.

— Oh… I am sorry to hear this… Was it the drugs?

— Everything is the drugs, mate, Carl says, signalling for another lager. The first never touched the sides, and you can see it flooding back into the toxic reservoir inside him, recharging it. This could be a shit gig.

Conrad starts moaning about his room being too small. The cunt is acting out because my old homie is getting the star treatment from Klaus. Then Emily’s all nippy, because my little boys’ club is sooo much more important than her. I’m fucking exhausted and we’ve only just got here. This will be a shit gig.

The Tempelhofer Feld is on the site of the old Berlin Flughafen, which shut down several years back. They plan to make it into a refugee camp. Now the youthful, colourful ravers are cultural émigrés from the old, clapped-out, straight society of capitalism that can’t pay them a living wage and exists solely to suck the wealth of their parents into its coffers through debt.

The Nazi-era terminal, said to be the biggest listed building in the world, is stark, imposing, gloomy and beautiful. Its giant hangars curve out implausibly under a column-free cantilevered roof. In its flightless era it’s mostly leased out, and one of the biggest tenants are the Polizei. Two cops with machine guns look stonily at us as we head into the building, our pockets stuffed with wraps of cocaine. We find the offices, in a glass-fronted control centre overlooking the big arena and its stages. Besides the cops, Berlin’s traffic-control authority and the central lost-property office are based here. There’s also a kindergarten, a dancing school and one of the city’s oldest revue theatres. We watch the out-of-town ravers, milling about, gaping in awe at this strange utopia the locals casually accept. — This is some gaff, I concede to Klaus, who practically ignores me. Now that the festival is under way, he seems tae have ditched sociable and turned intae a narky fascist cunt, snapping orders at stressed underlings. I go off to check things out as the arena fills up, shimmying through the revellers. A skinny young guy I’ve never heard ay plays an interesting set. I’m getting into it. I head for the DJ box, wondering if I can get a word when he’s done, when I see that there are no decks there. Ewart. The place does not have record decks. Fuck. I realise that I forgot to arrange for turntables to be there.

I hurry back to the control centre, flustered. I’ve stated repeatedly tae Carl that he needs to move with the fucking times. All I get in response is a shrug and him muttering about how ‘we’ll sort something out’, usually as he chops oot another line ay coke. Emily and Conrad probably wouldnae remember their SD cards and headphones if I wisnae constantly chasing them up, but they are of a different era. The culpabilty is mine, though: I ought to have mentioned this on the rider.

I’ve haven’t had dealings with Klaus before, and tell him about our decks problem. He laughs in my face. — We have not had record turntables in here for over a decade!

— Is there nothing around, on any of the other stages?

He looks at me as if I’m tapped, shakes his head slowly.

— Fuck. What can we do? Exasperation has made me publicly air my concern. Big mistake. Ye never show your doubts or fears in this game. Suck it all up.

The promoter shrugs. — If you cannot play, we cannot pay. Somebody else will do the slot.

Carl, loitering at the long Formica-topped bar, has caught this exchange and comes over. The bastard is already ablaze with ching. At least that makes my next question to Klaus superfluous. — Mark, you’re a manager, aye?

I ken exactly where this is gaun, but my lot in life is tae play this tedious game out. — Aye.

— So fucking manage. Find a set ay turntables. Should not be mission impossible here in Berlin. Still plenty time before the gig. Now I’m going tae wander the festival site, have a few drinks, and try and get ma cock sucked. I’ve always liked German birds.

I’m sucking down my wrath, at him, yes, but also at myself. There’s little tae be gained in protesting impotently and I’ve been here before. As galling as it is to admit, the cunt is right. It is my job tae solve problems and right now we have a big yin. But I cannot believe this fuckin doss cunt. — DJs huvnae used vinyl since John Robertson was a Hibby. If you’d spun since fuckin 9/11 you’d fuckin well realise that. That’s why you have airms like a fucking ape, cartin they boaxes aboot. A fuckin USB, that’s aw you need. You dump your set into the Pioneer, press play and pump your fists in the air like a daft cunt. That is DJing now. Get teckied up, no eckied up!

Conrad and Emily seem friendlier; they’ve been working together in the studio, which is good news. I’m concerned with his secrecy about this track, though. I hope the fat fuck isn’t cutting a deal with somebody else. He comes over, drawn to our conflict, and wobbles his head, sniggering in derision. — So unprofessional.

Carl responds in haughty disdain. — Others might get doon wi aw that shite, bro, he says to me, not even looking at my Dutch star, — that’s no fucking DJing but, no tae me, he sings in defence. But he’s covering up the fact that he’s embarrassed. Carl is more like a fish out ay water every day and I ken exactly how the poor bastard feels.

So I’m off, oot ay the site, intae the street, trying tae get a fucking signal on the mobby tae find music-equipment stores, which is almost impossible with the crowds milling around, all on their phones. Eventually, the bars pop up and I’m scrolling around, looking for some kind ay shopping district, but there seems to be nothing around for miles. The sky is blackening and it’s starting to drizzle. I wander despondently for a bit, heading through a big flea market.

I can’t believe it.

I’m normally as blind as a Scottish referee over long distances, but desperation has given me X-ray vision. Literally fifteen minutes outside the site, in this market, is an electrical goods stall. I still have to walk closer to confirm that jumping the fuck out at ays among knock-off fridges, freezers, amps and stereos, there really are two old-school Technics decks! My heart is pounding, and even more uncannily: THEY HAVE NEEDLES AND CARTIDGES! Thank you, God! Thank you, God of Edinburgh dance music…

I approach a young Middle Eastern-looking kid in an Everton FC football top. — The decks, do they work?

— Yes, of course, he says. — As if they are new.

— How much?

— Eight hundred euros. His expression is gravely serious.

— These are ancient, I scoff. — Two hundred.

— They are vintage, he says coolly, brows arching, lips riding back to display a set of dazzling white choppers. — Seven hundred and fifty.

— No way. They probably don’t even work. Three hundred.

The kid’s face does not change one reflexive muscle. — They work as new. I can only go to seven hundred. You look anxious, as if you need them urgently. You must think of this as a favour I am doing you, mister.

— Fuck… I delve intae ma pockets and count out the poppy. Thankfully, a manager eywis needs a wad. There’s eywis some cunt – drug dealer, hotel doorman, taxi fucker, hanger-on, security, polisman – who wants paying off or needs a bung. The wee cunt is now smiling, serenading me with a chorus ay — As new, my friend, as new…

— You’re a manipulative, unscrupulous, little fucker. I hand the boy the cash and issue him ma embossed card. — Ever contemplated a career in the music business?

20 SICK BOY – BUSINESS CLASS

Sitting up in business class is an unmitigated delight. It’s not so much the benefits of the actual service; more knowing you’ve got your status over the plebs officially confirmed for the next three hours. From my seat, I pull an obligatory face of impatient disdain as they pass by me, on their walk of shame to steerage. That aside, it gives me the luxury of territory and time to think things through.

Across the aisle, there’s a gay bastard; blond hair, tight trews, blue round-collar T-shirt, and he’s being outrageously loud. I kind of wish Ben was like that. What’s the point of having a buftie-boy son who isn’t outrageously effete? Who just wants to live a boring hetero life? Oppression breeds struggle, which engenders culture, and it would be shite if swashbuckling camp was to vanish from the globe just because some uptight cunts have finally discovered that the world is round. This boy, mid-thirties, is a bit of a star. Even the stewards – outrageous ferrets to a man – are all cast as Ernie Wise in face of his swaggering affectation. In the name of sport, I decide to compete with him to see who can be the most mincing, self-indulgent, attention-seeking cunt on the plane. — Try-ing to get a drink on this death trip. I shake my hand enough to indicate nerves, but also to suggest that the wrist is a bit rubbery.

This ploy backfires spectacularly when the raving arse bandit takes a massive shine to me, seeing my narcissistic Olympiad as a form of buftie seduction. — I dee-tect Celt in that brogue! the queen squeals in excitement.

— Oh you do, I storm back, — courtesy of me being back this side of Hadrian’s Wall for the first time in a long time. And there was me thinking that my inner Mel Gibson was a dormant force!

— Oh no, I assure you he’s alive and kicking, but sans the fetching plaid!

Suddenly a stewardess is upon us, bearing glasses of champagne. — An angel of mercy. I down one instantly as my hand reaches to another. — May I?

She smiles indulgently.

— You’ll have to forgive me, I hold the spare glass of champers to my chest, — I am such a nervous flyer!

— Oh stop, says the queen, taking his glass, — I am so anxious as I have my dogs in the hold, two labradoodles, and they aren’t used to travelling.

As I quaff the extra champers, and we taxi, then take off, I tell the frantic buftie a horror story about two pit bulls in a plane hold, one of whom ripped off the other’s bottom jaw. — They turned on each other after the luggage shifted and crushed against them. I lean over and drop my voice. — They don’t look after animals on these flights. You do have insurance, yes?

— Yes I do, but –

— But that doesn’t bring those gadges back. I get it.

He gasps in fear as the plane levels out and the seat belt sign goes boing, and I rise to investigate the lower orders, leaving him to chew on the nightmare his trip has now become.

The economy portion of the plane is essentially a scheme in the sky. Spud is crammed into the window seat. Fuck me, that South Leith scruffbag literally does look like death warmed up. Mikey sits tensely next to him, while Euan is somnolent across the aisle in his grim and depressive thoughts. Amazing this world that we live in, where poking your cock in a hoor’s erse for ten minutes can wreck your life.

— How are the men? The real men, I roll my eyes, still in camply-cruising-at-thirty-thousand-feet mode, — the foot soliders, toughing it out back here in economy class?

— Dinnae you talk tae me! Spud shouts.

Da fellah Morphy won’t be after bein told, sure now he won’t. — I saved your bacon, ya daft muppet! Once again: it was you whae fucked up a simple task for that psychopath, Syme. And you, I snap at Forrester.

— Ah’m his –

— I know, his partner.

— That’s right, Forrester says defiantly.

— And how is it you git tae sit up in business class? Spud moans. — Ah’m the yin that’s sick!

Mikey, and even Euan, breaking out of Tranceville across the aisle, look at me in accusation.

— Eh, because I paid for an upgrade? Under normal circumstances I’d be delighted to spring a biz-class ticket for you boys, but the cost was prohibitive. I couldn’t put it through the company account, as you are not employees of Colleagues. I pause. — The taxman’s hackles would have been raised and I don’t want an audit from those fucking cocksuckers at HMRC right now, thank you. Besides, I look to Mikey, — as Vic Slime’s distinguished partner I would have thought you’d be joining me with the Kate Winslets, Miguel.

Forrester has to eat that one in silence.

I go back to biz class and the queen formerly known as flamboyant still frets in stricken silence. As this broken pansy is now of little interest to me, I opt to chat to the hostess, the one who brought the drinks. Thought I detected that spunky edge of shagger’s glint in her eye. I get a little flirty with Jenny, eventually asking her if she thinks there’s any call for a male escort agency like Colleagues, for travelling women like her. She says it certainly has possibilities, and we swap contact details. Time passes nicely, even if Jenny is forced to bunk off occasionally, to attend to the morose business bores I have to share this compartment with. Then we get an announcement that we’re landing in fifteen minutes. So I quickly head back down to steerage where I reckon it’s time to tell Spud the good news.

Mr Murphy is zoned out. His head, leaking from rheumy eyes, snottery nose and slavering gob, rests on the shoulder of an uncomfortable-looking Forrester. I gently shake him awake, and he jumps with a start. — Daniel, mein burden, I’m afraid to say that we haven’t been quite straight with you.

Spud blinks awake and gapes at me in confusion. — What… what dae ye mean…?

I look to Euan, he and Forrester both tensing in grim concern, as I hunker down in the aisle. Then I turn back to Spud. — Call it poetic licence, deployed in order to keep the patient in a strong frame of mind, and gain his cooperation in expediting our task.

— What… he touches his wound, — what did you dae?

— We didn’t take your kidney. We aren’t butchers.

Spud rubbernecks to Euan, who confirms, — You still have two kidneys.

— But… but what am ah daein here? What are wi gaun tae Berlin fir? What’s that wound meant tae be fir?!

His high, yelping voice incites a few heads on the plane to turn to us. I glance at Mikey and then Euan, leaning forward, whispering, — You see it wisnae what we took oot ay ye, it was what we had tae put in.

— What?

— Skag: several kilos of uncut pharmaceutical heroin. I swivel round. A fat cow who was all ears seems to have returned to her knitting. — Apparently there is a bit of a drought in Berlin right now. Something tae dae wi a big bust.

— You put skag in me? Spud gasps in disbelief, and then looks to Euan. He lurches to me but Mikey pulls him firmly back into the seat.

My brother-in-law can’t look at him.

— See when we land, ah’m gaun straight hame –

— Suit yourself, bud, but I wouldn’t recommend that course of action, I stress, scanning the locale and edging closer again. — Your body fluids will soon break down the latex bags and discharge the auld Salisbury Crag right intae your system. What a way tae go though! There was once a time we’d have thought ay that as a result! And… Toto is still in Syme’s hands, mind?

Spud sits back, bug-eyed and open-mouthed, taking in the horror and impotence of his situation. I feel sorry for him. He was foolish to take this job, daft to bring along the dog and crazy to leave it unsupervised and underfed with the goods. The punishment, however, as it always is for those who suffer from the disease of poverty, is very excessive. — How could you dae that? he squeals at Euan. — You’re a fuckin doaktir! He lunges across the aisle and swings at my bro-in-law, swiping air.

Mikey grabs him and pulls him back into the seat. — Chill, Spud, you’ll burst the fuckin stitches!

The knitting munter glances from us to her shite jumper, in order to ensure that this comment doesn’t apply to her. The completed garment will go to a poor nephew or niece, securing them ritual playground beatings for retardedness.

— This isn’t my fault! Euan pleads.

I beg with Spud to see sense. — Do you think we wanted this mess? Syme literally had a gun to our heads, Danny. You’ve witnessed how he operates at first hand. He was going to kill us all, our fucking family members, and every cunt we ever sat beside on the 22 bus! Get real!

Mikey turns away. — Business partner, he mutters, in a self-denying plea.

— But this is… it’s aw wrong, and fuck me if ma auld mate poor Danny Murphy fae Leith disnae start tae fucking greet, here on the plane. — It’s jist aw-aw wrong!

I have my arm round those pieces of bone they call shoulders. — It is, bro, it is, but we can sort it…

— Aye, it is, but whae dragged us intae this mess by fucking up a simple delivery? Mikey suddenly barks, turning tae his broken travelling companion. — Me n Sick Boy ur jist tryin tae fix the mess!

— Speak for yourself, I tell him, — I’m being blackmailed. Threatened. Forced into this fucking nightmare, by your business partner.

Mikey slumps down in a wee sulk.

— And you try to rectify this… by blackmailing me, Euan hisses.

The stewardess, not the lovely Jenny I was chatting tae, but a low-rent, pleb-serving, varicose-veined battleaxe, bike-rode into decrepitude over decades by the few hetero pilots, without even a hint of a sparkler thrown into the mix, is right over, her crabbit pus rammed into my coupon. — Please, take your seat! We are about to begin our descent!

I comply, thinking that my descent started a long time ago, when I was stupid enough to come back tae fucking Edinburgh for Christmas. That crazy Marianne bitch! I resolve tae pay her back with fucking interest!

Tis a relief to be on the ground, and more so for the squawking queen who is haranguing airport officials about his dogs, as we head out to the taxi rank. In the cab I try to make light of things by telling the tale of the buftie and his labradoodles, but this backfires, only reminding Spud of Toto. — If he hurts that dug, ah’ll kill him, ah’ll no care! Spud bleats. I do believe Murphy would actually try to do this.

The ride through a zone of shabby warehouses and dilapidated slums – I suspect the old East Berlin – hints that the clinic will be highly insalubrious. But even this scuzzy approach has failed to give myself and obviously Euan, mouth agape with incredulity, an impression of the teeming squalor that greets us.

We’ve alighted into the car park of a three-storey disused building, its ground-floor windows smashed and boarded. Mikey, his leather manbag swinging, nods at a battered aluminium entryphone box. I press practically all its buttons before it yields a tepid buzz allowing me to shoulder open the heavy door and gain admittance. Inside, it’s almost pitch black. I bang my shins on something, and my eyes adjust to reveal a commode with the top of a packing case over the shitter. I look to Mikey who flashes sheepish confirmation that this forms the ‘wheelchair’ he contended would be available at this ‘hospital’. At his request Spud sits in it, and Mikey pushes him slowly down the empty, ghostly corridor. As we traverse it, our shoes crunch on broken glass. I wish I had a torch; the barricaded windows permit only meagre light to shoot through the spaces between the edges of the wall and the wooden panels. The building is institutional, probably an old school or insane asylum. Under his breath, Euan spraffs some gibbering nonsense. The impact is like Dick Dastardly’s sidekick, Mutley, trying tae recite Muriel Spark’s The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie.

We get into a goods lift smelling of stagnant urine, the sort formed by cheap, acidic alcohol. Even a minger like Spud is sensing this is not kosher. — This isnae a hoaspital… he plaintively whimpers as the elevator creaks upwards before coming to a sudden, jaw-rattling halt on the second floor. We walk down another long, dark, unlit corridor. The windows at this level remain largely unbroken, but are so filthy that the only light shoots through in beams from the odd breached pane. Mikey delves into his bag, producing a large T-shaped key, opening up a battered, reinforced steel door that reminds me ay Seeker’s old skag base in that top-floor tenement in Albert Street. We step intae a dirty and dingy room with a floor of cracked tiles that looks like an old industrial kitchen, except that it contains two metal-framed hospital beds. In one of them lies a fat Middle Eastern-looking man in a filthy vest, sitting bolt upright as we enter. He seems both vaguely annoyed and guilty, and I suspect we’ve interrupted a masturbation session. Then he breaks into a big smile. — I have company… he chuckles, waving his big hands at us. — I am Youssef! From Turkey.

Mikey and I introduce ourselves to the Ottoman, obviously, by his dark, circled eyes, another patient of sorts, as Euan’s neck twists and his lamps swivel around in horror. — This is outrageous. The place is insanitary… it’s… it’s more like a medieval torture chamber than an operating theatre, he gasps, — I can’t work under these conditions!

— Have tae, Doc, or the patient is history, I say, saluting the Youssef gadgie.

— Just git that shite oot ay me, a bug-eyed Spud flaps, climbing out of the commode, lying out on the second bed as he removes his clothes down to his underpants. — Now!

— See, I challenge Euan. — Danny Murphy. Balls the fucking size of Leith. Now you, step the fuck up!

— I… I can’t… Euan pleads, looking fae me tae Mikey.

— You… you call yirsel a medical man, likes? What sort ay doaktir are you? Spud barks, then winces in pain.

— I’m a podiatric surgeon.

— A what? Spud sits up.

— A foot doctor, if you will, Euan says meekly.

— What?! Spud looks at me. — You’ve goat a fit doaktir operating oan me? Oan a bag ay skag in ma gut?

— Aye, Spud, but dinnae worry, I pick the skin around my nails, — Euan put it in, so he can get it back oot, I try to reassure him. I need snout badly. — Right, Euan, get Danny boy under the anaesthetic.

— I’m not an anaesthetist, Euan snaps indignantly. — It’s a highly skilled and specialist profession! They said there would be one here!

— I am the anaesthetist, Youssef smiles, and rises, heading tae the sink, washing his hands, then splashing some water on his face, and putting on a gown and mask, a selection of which hang fae a rack. — Shall we begin?

Euan turns to me. — We can’t… I can’t…

My brother-in-law is getting on my fucking nerves. — Options. Gies yin. Dinnae just say ‘we can’t’ like a fuckin fanny. I turn to the rest of them. — One thing that gets on my tits in life is cunts that just go tae fucking pieces under pressure. Yes, we’re in the shit. I suggest we work together to get the fuck out of it!

Euan eats that one up. Glancing at Spud, he goes to the surgical gowns. As he, Mikey and I robe and mask up, Youssef starts tae administer Spud the anaesthetic. — It will be all good, my friend, his big, dark eyes laugh over the top ay the mask.

He’s the only cunt here giving me confidence. — This is a fucking man, I shout, looking at Euan and Mikey. — Act like men!

Mikey starts to light up a fag.

— Are you crazy? Euan gasps.

Mikey looks at him in seething rage for a second, then ceases his activity, as Spud turns tae me in panic and grabs my gown, drawing me close. — Promise me one thing… if ah dinnae make it, you’ll look eftir Toto.

That’ll be right. — That fuckin mutt got us intae this mess in the first place. Mair than you. Mair than any cunt!

— Promise, Spud urges in fear as he slumps intae the pillow and his eyes roll intae the back ay his heid before shutting. As he slips under, I say in soothing tones, — Aye… then add a crisp, — right. The torment is still etched on his face, as he drifts off into deep sleep.

Now that he’s unconscious, Mikey gets the fags out.

— But – Euan starts.

— Crash the ash, Mikey.

— Only one left. He flashes the packet with the solitary cancer stick.

— Fuck. I suck it down, contemplating the others. — The biggest problem is that we haven’t told him exactly what Syme is making us do…

— This is absolutely crazy! Euan suddenly bellows at the ceiling.

That fucker is losing it. And now is not the time. — Your fanny-curious Wee Free proddy bell-end set this mess up, ya Calvinist cunt. I shake my brother-in-law by the shoulders. – Don’t fucking wimp out on us now!

Euan breaks my grip and pushes me away. — I’m not a fucking kidney surgeon! Can’t you get that through your head?

This cunt needs tae calm the fuck down. — The principles of surgery are generic. I lower my voice to a hush, pulling the laptop from Mikey’s bag. — We have a good YouTube video on the subject. I watch Euan’s face crumple further in disbelief. — Backup, likes.

— A YouTube video?! Are you kidding?

— Do not worry, my friend, Youssef smiles, — I am not really an anaesthetist either!

As desperate as it is, I feel a snigger rupture uncontrollably from me at that one.

— What…? Euan gasps.

— Well, I anaesthetised animals, in Baskent slaughterhouse back in Ankara. A place of the very highest standards. It is the same principle, just a different dosage. Enough to put them to sleep a little, but not enough for good! I have done those operations before many times and never lost anybody yet!

I haven’t a clue whether this cunt is joking or not, but he seems tae ken what the fuck he’s daein. Well, Spud looks like he’s kipping, rather than being broon breid. Mikey has the laptop fired up, and the video is on, and we’re quickly going through it on fast-forward. — I’m hoping this is ringing some fucking medical student bells, I snap at Euan.

— But I need to see it all the way through, I need time –

— We don’t fucking have time. The video will be playing as you’re operating, and I place the laptop on Spud’s milk-bottle white, pancake-flat chest, delighted to cover those incongruously red nipples that look like lesions. — You’ll have an ongoing tutorial.

Euan shakes his head in resignation, as Mikey and I lay out the equipment and instruments to his specifications: the knives, clamps and swabs.

I nod to the shiteing podiatrist, and he starts peeling off the minging bandages to expose an angry, weeping wound. I’m seriously crapping it now too, the tension rising through me, as sharp as those scalpels. I almost want to cry ‘stop’ but there’s no going back at this stage. Taking him tae a hospital isn’t an option. They wouldn’t let us keep Syme’s skag and they’d throw us in jail. And then there’s the other matter, of our real purpose here…

As Euan opens up the stitches, I suddenly realise that the fucking laptop is running out of juice. It blinks on the emergency power indicator. — Fuck… Mikey, gies ays the fuckin mains cable, I snap. — We’re nearly oot ay Robert the Bruce.

Mikey nods, goes into his leather bag. Then looks back up at me.

Surely fucking not. — What…? I hear the word wheeze out. — Dinnae fuckin tell me!

— You sais bring the laptop! Ye said nowt aboot a fuckin charger or a lead!

— Jesus fuck!

— I can’t do this! Euan pleads in that girly voice that is getting on my tits.

— We will make a great team! Youssef cheers in enthusiasm.

— Let me call Renton, I shout. — He’s here! The festival site is only twenty minutes away. He’s always got his Apple Mac with him!

21 RENTON – THE CHARGER

I’m fucking stressed enough through getting the decks here, and I’m supervising a thankfully very German technician efficiently connecting them up to the mixer and amp, but now Carl has gone fucking AWOL. I turn round and Klaus is right in my fuckin coupon. — Where is your DJ?

— He’ll be here, I tell him, checking my phone. I don’t believe this cunt. I try to call him, then text:

Get the fuck here now please, mate.

Klaus sweeps his long fringe out of his eyes to show me him rolling them in exasperation, and steps away. Conrad is across, a big smile on his face, Jensen, who arrived on a later flight, by his side. — He will have gone to pieces. Taken cocaine, alcohol and run away. Thinking of his wife who is now being fucked by another man, he says with malice, as Jensen chuckles malevolently. — He is finished. It is all over for him.

I can do without this bullshit from that fat cunt, and AAAGGGHHH…

…I can do withoot Sick Boy phoning ays up! I should ignore it, but for some reason, I take the fucking call. The reason being that the cunt won’t stop until I pick up or block him.

— Mark, it’s a long story, but I’m here in Berlin. With Spud and Mikey Forrester.

— Spud? Forrester? In Berlin? What the fuck? I hear myself exhaling sharply. — Well, the answer is aye. Youse can get on the GL. Ah’ll leave passes for the three of yis at Will Call, I say, ma tones terse and clipped. I do not need this right now.

— That’s not what I’m after, but if it all goes okay it’ll be welcome. Right now I need you tae bring the lead fae your laptop, the power lead, fae your Apple Mac, right?

— What?

— Is it a Mac?

— Aye it’s a Mac, but –

— I need you tae bring it tae the address I’m going to text you. I need you tae bring it, right now, Mark, he stresses, adding, — Spud’s life literally depends on it.

— What? Spud? What the fuck is up wi –

— Mate, listen. I need you to do this and I need you to do it now. I’m no fucking aboot.

By his tone ah ken that he isnae. What the fuck are they involved in? The text drops in with the address. By my rudimentary knowledge of Berlin, it’s pretty close. — Okay, I’m on my way.

I grab my Apple Mac and tell Klaus that I need a driver, as I know where Carl is. He reluctantly nods tae a big, muscular bouncer-type guy who intros himself as Dieter, and we’re off the site and intae the car park, then in a people carrier and heading tae the address. We cross the river and drive through a warren of backstreets adjacent to a huge expanse of railway tracks and sidings, heading in the direction of the Tierpark.

After about twenty-five minutes Dieter pulls up outside an old, dark, three-floored industrial building, in a desolate quarter ay disused and squatted spaces. A weak sun sneaks timidly behind the back of it, almost synchronised with us stepping out the car. There’s an eerie silence. The vibe isnae right but it gets even worse when ah buzz a battered intercom, then, leaving the driver, go inside and head down a darkened, fusty-smelling and broken-glass-strewn corridor. At the end of it I see what looks like a ghost, and a freeze spreads up my back, but it’s Sick Boy, dressed in sterile hospital gown and mask. I’m now even mair curious as tae what the fuck is going on here. — Quick, he says, gesturing me into a creaky old goods lift.

— What the fuck?

He’s explaining, but it’s in a rant and it’s aw gaun ower my heid. I’m struggling tae keep up with him as he bombs doon the corridor and opens a steel door. I follow him inside. A guy I dinnae ken, wi a Scottish accent, thrusts a gown and mask at ays. — Put these on.

As I comply, I’m looking over his shoodir and cannae quite believe what I’m seeing. An unconscious man is lying oan a bed, in robes, a laptop oan his chest. There’s a wound in his stomach, held open by surgical clamps. He’s hooked up tae a drip in what seems tae be a makeshift operating theatre…

Fuck me, it’s Spud Murphy…

Mikey Forrester is also robed up, as is this outrageously fat gadge, and that Scottish guy I’ve never seen before.

— Rents, Mikey nods.

— Gies that lead… the fucking laptop is aboot tae die, Sick Boy barks.

I hand him the lead and eh plugs it in and scrolls back this online video. I can’t believe it. Sick Boy and Mikey Forrester are operating on Spud Murphy!

— WHAT THE FUCK! I shout. — What is this? What the fuck are youse playing at?

— Have tae dae this, this cunt’s hands were fucking shaking, Sick Boy growls, nodding tae the guy wi the Scottish accent. — A Nicola Sturgeon, my fuckin hole. Stey or go, Mark, but shut the fuck up, because ah need tae concentrate. Right!

— Right. I hear the word creep oot fae some dark corner ay ma soul.

— I’m a podiatrist, the boy sings in a long, piteous bleat, holding the clamp, and Sick Boy’s right, the cunt’s hands are shaking on it.

— You get the clamp fae him, I’ll make the cut, Sick Boy says tae Mikey, who is smoking a fag. Mikey looks at him and hands him the snout. The fat guy is monitoring the mask over Spud’s face. This is like walking intae a nightmare and for about five solid heartbeats ah think I’m still at the fucking gig, spiked on something hallucinogenic, or kipped in ma hotel room dreaming. Sick Boy nods at Mikey, removes the cigarette from his mouth, and takes a drag on it. — Let’s rock the fucking discotheque!

— Watch it, the podiatrist guy says tae him, — you’re dropping cigarette ash into his wound!

— FUCK, Sick Boy snaps. — Mikey, go n fuckin clean that bastard, swab the fucker oot! He drops the tab and crushes it under his heel. — Gently… he says, supervising Forrester, who is poking around inside Spud, — it’s only ash. Marlboro, low tar, he adds. — Right, have you got that clamp on there, Euan? Can you see where it is? Same place in the vid?

— I… I think so… the Euan guy stammers.

— You should fuckin know so! You trained in medicine as a physician! You studied fuckin surgery! Sick Boy’s eyes ignite ower the mask. — Is it on the same bit as the video!

— Yes!

— Right. I’m going to cut it… now… right?

— I dunno, I…

— Ah sais right! Either we sit here aw day or I fuckin cut! Is this the right place? It looks likes it on the video! Is it the fucking right place, Euan?

— Okay! Yes! Euan shrieks.

— Here goes!

I look away, my arsehole clenching, then turn back, and Sick Boy snips it and he’s hudin the clamp on the bastard. And as there’s no blood spurting like a fountain, I have tae assume that it’s fucking working.

— Yes! Ya fuckin beauty! Sick Boy roars. — Now let’s lift that bastard out! Mikey, git that fuckin boax ower…

Forrester wheels a trolley across to the operating bed. There is something that looks like a miniature fridge sittin on it. With these long surgical tongs, Sick Boy lifts this slithery thing out of Spud’s body… fuck me, this is like a scene fae a fucking sci-fi alien intrusion movie, cause this bloody thing wriggles, as he drops it into this high-tech box. I feel boak rise inside me and fight it back down into my acrid guts. Ma legs are weak and shaky, and I grip the back ay a chair for support.

Mikey seals the box up, as he catches ays looking at it. — State-ay-the-art technology, Mark. This is a Lifeport organ-recovery system. Ah thoat it wid jist be an ice boax like ye huv tae keep bevvy cauld, but naw, it’s aw sophisticated. Ye dinnae want tae ken the favours ah hud tae pill tae git this beauty!

— What is this… this fuckin dystopian science-fiction shit?! What did ye take oot ay him? WHAT THE FUCK IS GAUN OAN?!

Sick Boy punches the air as the Euan guy starts tending to Spud. — I’VE SAVED THE FUCKIN DAY AS USUAL, he roars, then points to Euan. — Suture! Stitch the cunt up! Quick!

— I am! Euan hisses. Then he turns tae me, his eyes filled with trauma above the mask. — I only got into this mess through going out for a Christmas drink. He spiked my drink with Ecstasy –

— Ecstasy? What the fu —

— That’s right! Why not blame Simon? Sick Boy snaps, but he’s euphoric, as if he’s scored the winning goal in a Cup final. — Something of a cottage industry in these parts! I’m the only cunt whae hud the fucking baws tae sort oot this fucking mess! And did I no sort it? Surgeon Si! He bursts into song, pointing at himself, — Like a surgeon… cut for the very first time…

My heid is spinning. I’m getting phone calls and texts from Klaus, Conrad… and now Carl, but I dinnae gie a fuck. We’re sitting there, watching Spud unconscious, beyond white, already looking like a corpse, the big gash in his stomach being sewn up by this Euan gadge.

— What’s in that box? What did you take out ay him?

— A kidney, Sick Boy says. — It had a Graham Parker and the Rumour on it.

— Cause that’s what youse cunts specialise in, life-saving surgery, ah mean, what the fuck is wrong wi hoaspitals? Fuck it, ah throw my hands up, — ah dinnae want tae ken!

— It’s for the best, me old chum, Sick Boy says.

— This is what’s best for Spud, is it?

Sick Boy seems tae come doon instantly, and looks sheepishly at me. — Believe it or not, yes. Which shows the extent ay the fucking mess we’ve got into. But, he taps the white box-like device, — we finally have a ticket out of it.

Forrester and the Turkish-looking guy have been rummaging in a stainless-steel fridge, I thought for some medical supplies, but they return with some bottles ay German beer. Mikey opens them and passes them aroond. My hands are shaking as I take one.

— Any ching? Sick Boy asks ays.

— Well, aye…

— Rack them the fuck oot then.

Right now I cannae think ay a reason no tae get ripped and stey ripped forever. — Whae’s in?

Forrester nods in agreement. So does the Turkish boy, introduced finally as Youssef. The Euan gadge looks away, so I rack up four on a stainless-steel table.

— I could have been a surgeon, if I had the training, likes, Sick Boy advances. — But they say surgeons are cold and mercenary. I’m probably too Italian, too warm-bloodied.

They tell ays what’s been happening, and I cannae believe it. How the fuck did Sick Boy and this Euan guy, whom he tells me is his sister Carlotta’s doctor husband, get involved wi some gangster called Syme? — And what the fuck are you going to dae with Spud’s kidney? I ask the last one out loud.

— He owes it tae Syme, Mikey says.

— He’s donating a kidney… for money? Tae this Syme boy?

— Sort ay. He wrecked one ay Syme’s. No actually one ay Syme’s, but one Syme peyed for, Mikey explains.

— Jesus fuck, you guys really are off yir fuckin heids!

Sick Boy looks gloomy at me. — Unfortunately we’ve no telt Spud yet…

Then I hear the croaky voice from the rattling bed behind us. — Telt ays what?

22 POST-OP BLUES

The people carrier twists, stalls and tears through the choked streets of rush-hour Berlin. Mark Renton sits up front alongside Dieter the driver, talking softly into his phone. Spud Murphy, whom they’d had to carry to the vehicle, sits in the back, barely sentient. Flanked by his medical team of Youssef and Euan, he feverishly struggles to make sense of the latest twist in the grim saga of those last few days. Extrapolates this shit-show to his life in general. He tries to think of the turning point, the moment when it went bad. He looks at Renton, the ginger-brown fuzz on his scalp greying, thinks of that money his friend gave him, all those years ago. It set him right back on a drug path he’s rarely deviated from since. — Tell ays again… he begs Simon Williamson, Michael Forrester, Euan McCorkindale and the Turkish man he knows only as Youssef.

— Yes, you now only have one kidney, Sick Boy glumly confirms. — It was the only way we could square things with Syme.

— But how…? Spud touches the bandaged wound. It is sore. Despite the painkillers he’s been given, his body burns in agony.

Mikey, who sits in the middle seats with Sick Boy, explains, — Syme had tae have it fresh, and getting ye oot here was the best way tae dae it. The skag deal wis an opportunity. Two birds wi one stane.

— So ye didnae really pit… skag… in ays…

— Aye. Mikey holds up a red-stained plastic bag of white powder. — Two birds wi one stane but, ay, he repeats emphatically. — Thaire wis a drought oan ower here, n Syme kent a boy, so…

Spud can’t speak. He shakes his head slowly and sinks back into the seat. To Euan, he looks like a jumble of rags. The foot doctor feels moved to make a plea of innocence to his patient. — I only got involved because I’d never been with another woman properly…

— You, Spud points at him, — you’re married tae his sister… His eyes burn into Simon Williamson.

— Yes, Carlotta, Euan sadly nods.

Spud’s eyes grow wistful. — She was beautiful… as a young lassie…

— Still is, Euan says, adopting Spud’s baleful tone.

— Ye love her?

— Yes, Euan says, with tears in his eyes.

— What aboot me? Spud starts whimpering. — Ah’ll never be wi a lassie again! Ah’ve no hud ma hole in years! It’s aw ower for me n it never even started!

Sick Boy turns to Spud. — If that’s aw you’re worried about, I’ll sort ye oot for fuck sake, then he scowls at Euan. — I’m used to sorting out retards who cannae get laid!

— Yes, you are, Euan shoots scathingly back at him. — A fucking pimp. What a noble trade!

Simon Williamson heatedly retorts, — Aye, well, you and your dippit wee laddie wirnae exactly complaining when youse were sticking your dicks intae hoors!

The crash inside Williamson on this reflexive disclosure is mirrored in his brother-in-law’s expression. Euan looks like he’s just run into a brick wall. He gasps in stunned silence. Then he hauls in a breath, the veins in his neck bulging. — Ross… WHAT DID YOU DO WITH ROSS? his voice roars out, crackling in his throat.

— I helped him oot! Something you should have done!

— You fucking sleazebag! Did you set your own son up with a prostitute when he was below the age of consent?!

— He never asked ays tae, as he didnae need it, Simon Williamson declares, suddenly, mordantly, thinking of his son sucking another man’s cock. — He was brought up the right way!

— Not by you obviously! Do you know that what you did to my son is illegal? It’s fucking child abuse! Fucking paedophilia!

— Fuck off! The wee radge begged ays tae set him up wi a woman. Now he’s as happy as a fly in shite! Where were you when he craved the cherry-popping advice? Thailand, banging fucking hoors! You’ve no seen him since Christmas, ya fucking hypocritical cunt!

Euan lets his head fall into his hands. — It’s true… we’re lost… the human race is lost… we have no discipline and we just look to loud-mouthed, lying tyrants to punish and reward us for it… we’re gone…

— Nae cunt got snout? Mikey asks.

Youssef pulls out a packet, issues one to Mikey, who sparks up, and Sick Boy.

— There is no smoking in here, Dieter the driver barks.

— What? Mikey snaps in anger.

— If you want to smoke, you can walk.

Mikey and Sick Boy suck it up, the former looking at the GPS on his phone. On Mikey’s instructions they pull up on a slip road, by some shops, just before a busy crossroads. Then Mikey, handing the Lifeport to Sick Boy, who sets it on his lap, gets outside, immediately sparking up, prior to dialling on his phone. Renton is trying to talk but Sick Boy urges silence as he attempts to eavesdrop on Mikey’s conversation with Syme. — All good, Vic. Aye, Vic. Conditions were sanitary, Vic.

Then they hear the approaching rumble of a motorbike, which soon pulls up alongside them.

— He’s here, Vic. Ah need tae go, but it’s mission accomplished.

Sick Boy sits, both relieved and still racked with tension, the Lifeport box on his lap. Spud shouts at him, — Gies ays that boax! It’s mine! It’s ma kidney!

Sick Boy ignores him, passing the box out the window to Mikey and the biker. — It’s Syme’s, Spud, he says, looking back. — He needs tae get it or we’re aw fucked!

— No until ah git Toto back! Spud squeals in horror, as Mikey Forrester and the biker put the box into a storage unit on the back of the motorbike. The driver remounts and speeds off, receding within seconds into Berlin’s traffic and the mottled evening light.

Mikey climbs back in and Renton nods to the nervous-looking steroid bouncer, who starts up the car and heads for the festival site. Spud, sprawled on a seat in the back, is ranting as if still groggy from the anaesthetic, or perhaps it’s a fever, Renton worries. — It’s mine… gies it back… Ma dug… Ah need it tae git ma dug… Mikey… what did Syme say aboot Toto?

— Sais eh wis fine, Spud, bein well looked eftir…

Spud tries to assimilate this, decides that he wants to believe it. Has to believe it.

— I gied you something worth more than a kidney, Danny, Sick Boy says soberly. — I gied ye your life.

Renton glances back at Sick Boy, shakes his head, as the vehicle navigates the Berlin streets. — I do not know what this is, but I know that not one of these guys is DJ N-Sign Ewart, Dieter says to Renton, looking pointedly at him.

Renton feels his hand going to his wallet and extracting more euros from the wad. — Aye, I got a message that he found his own way back. For your trouble, and he hands over the notes. Dieter stares at him doubtfully for a beat, before pocketing the money.

— What aboot… what aboot ma kidney? Spud babbles.

— It’s gaun tae a wee lassie in Bavaria, Mikey rubbernecks. — The kidney, likes. Will save her life, mate. The bairn’s been on dialysis for donks. Must make ye feel barry but, ay!

But now Spud can’t even speak. He sits with his eyes closed, his head back on the seat rest, sucking air through his teeth, in hard, sharp bursts.

They drop him off at Renton’s hotel, with Euan and Youssef. As Renton, Sick Boy and Mikey make to leave, Spud panics, — Where are youse gaun?

— I have a gig, mate, Renton says. He looks to Sick Boy.

— Worry not, Danny boy, Sick Boy coos, — Euan and Youssef here, he nods at the semi-pro Turk anaesthetist, — will keep an eye on ye. You really are in the best possible hands. Euan’s cleaned oot aw the muck and he’ll gie you something for the pain. You’ll soon be kipping like a bairn. Nae sense in us hingin aboot. Sick Boy looks to Mikey Forrester, who nods in agreement.

— But youse’ll come back…

— Of course we will, mate, Renton says. — But try and get some solid snooze in. You’ve been through a big trauma.

— Yes, Sick Boy trumpets, — rest is the best medicine.

By the time the trio reach the festival site, Renton feels as shattered as Sick Boy and Mikey Forrester both look, but without being anything like as buzzed. He watches them high-five as Sick Boy roars, — The Nicky Sturgeons did the fucking business, mate. Best left tae the low-grade care team now. Our specialist skills are no longer required, and tonight we celebrate!

As Renton tries to find his game face, Sick Boy and Mikey make their way to the guest bar at the back of the main stage. Sick Boy holds out his hand. — The number ay lassies this boy has fingered, and they try and tell me aboot the steady hand and the deftness ay touch required tae be a surgeon! Fucking amateurs!

— Goat tae admit but, ah wis shitein it, likes, Mikey nods, grabbing two bottles of beer.

— But we held our fucking riverboat gamblers’ nerves while the posh trained cunt went tae fuckin pieces! Sick Boy beams in triumph, as they clink the bottles. Three girls, standing close, look him over, clocking the euphoric power he radiates.

A few seconds ago, Renton didn’t care about anything, but now he’s clicked back into managerial mode. He notes with relief that Carl is present, sitting drinking on a sofa underneath a giant Depeche Mode poster. But something is not right. The DJ looks downcast, and Klaus, standing by the bar close to Sick Boy and Mikey, is visibly angry.

Renton flops down next to his DJ. He goes to speak, but Carl gets in first. — I can’t do it, mate.

— What…? Renton says, surprising himself at how much he still cares. — What, the gig? Why? It’s your big shot tae get back in the frame! Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Conrad and Jensen, who have been hovering by the fridge and table, eating the rider pizza, inching towards him.

— I’ve lost it, Mark, Carl says sadly. — I really appreciate everything that you’ve done for me, he points to his chest, — but N-Sign is finished, mate.

Conrad, listening in, springs over, pointing at the stricken DJ. — I told you he was the drunk and the drug addict and the bag of nerves who is now of zero use, he laughs at Renton.

Carl turns away and snivels, as if he’s going to burst into tears. It cuts through Renton, and makes him flash a reprimanding stare at his cash cow.

Conrad laughs again, then folds over a wedge of pizza, better to cram it into his mouth. Red grease dribbles onto his top. A publicist runs forward and dabs at it with a wet cloth.

— Well, that’s it then, Renton says, in grim resignation, talking to Carl, but taking in everybody assembled. — I’ve spent a fortune on this cunt of a gig and we won’t get paid now, and probably will get sued.

Klaus looks on, his stern face and tight posture confirming this.

As Sick Boy represses a mirthful shrug, Carl suddenly bursts out in loud laughter. He points at Renton. — Got ye, ya fuckin Hibs wank! Then he springs forward and addresses Conrad. — As for you, ya fucking useless fat tub ay lard, come and watch a real DJ blow this fuckin place apart! He turns to Klaus. — Hope you’ve got insurance for death by astonishment, mate, because that’s what half those cunts out there, he gestures to the crowd, — are gaunny fuckin well die of!

— Ja, this is good!

Conrad looks open-mouthed, dropping paper plate and pizza on the floor, then turning to Renton. — He cannot talk to me like that!

— He’s a cunt, Renton gasps in relief. — A total cunt.

Carl struts out into the box, nodding to the departing DJ. He thinks about Helena, how blessed he was to be with her. But now there are no tears at having fucked up. He thinks of his mum and dad, what they gave him, and sacrificed. Now there’s no sadness, only a burning flame igniting within him, a desire to do them proud. He thinks of Drew Busby, John Robertson, Stephane Adam and Rudi Skacel, as he bellows into the mike, — BERLIN! ARE YOUSE FUCKIN READY TAE HAVE IT??!!

The crowd greets him with a wild, cacophonous roar, as he drops ‘Gimme Love’, his breakthrough hit, setting out his intentions, following up with a mesmerising set. The livewire audience are eating out of his hand, and at the end they are begging for more. As he walks off to choruses of ‘N-SIGN…’, he ignores a wide-eyed Conrad, going to Mark Renton with five fingers raised in the air on one hand, and one on the other. For once, Renton couldn’t be more delighted at this irritating gesture. — Stenhoose sex bomb, he whispers in his ear.

— Believe, Carl retorts.

Conrad, edgy and demoralised, follows him onto the stage, as the floor instantly thins out. He gets it partially back by throwing in his two big hits earlier than planned, but doesn’t look happy and the audience scents his desperation. It’s Renton who quietly saves the day, encouraging his star from the wings with the thumbs up, as the nervous DJ glances at him.

Suddenly Sick Boy is on Renton’s shoulder, clutching a beer, waving a small baggie of coke and nodding to the toilets. — That cunt is shiteing it, he says. — I’d like to see him remove a kidney!

— He’d probably eat it, Renton laughs, following him. — It’ll dae him nae harm tae play second fiddle for once. This is an older crowd of seasoned house heads. People who appreciate good music. And they remember.

They get to the toilet. Sick Boy racks up, looking at Renton, feeling a strange love and hate he can’t explain. Both seem compromising, but also uplifting and essential. As Renton snorts up the line, Sick Boy says, — You know, I’ve been thinking of how you can pay Begbie his money back.

— It’s nae use. The cunt has me where he fucking wants me. He’ll no take it. He knows I’m in his debt forever and that it’s fucking killing ays.

Sick Boy takes the rolled note, arching an eyebrow. — You know how he’s having the exhibition over in Edinburgh, right?

— Aye, we’re playing at it. Renton opens the toilet door slightly, to look out over to Conrad, and then spies Carl, now cavorting with Klaus and several women, including Chanel Hemmingworth, the dance-music writer.

As he shuts the door, Sick Boy hoovers back a line, standing up stiffly. — And a couple of days before that, he’s auctioning the Leith Heads.

Renton shrugs, gets on the other poodle’s leg. — So?

— So buy the heads. Bid them up, then win the auction, pay over the odds for them.

A smile explodes across Renton’s face. — If I bid for these heads and buy them for mair than they’re worth…

— You’ve forced him to take the cash. Then you’ve discharged your obligation, paid the cunt back what you owe him.

— I like it, Renton smiles, checking his phone. — Speak ay the devil, he says, showing him a text that has just come in from ‘Franco’.

Have hospitality tickets for Cup final at Hampden for you, me, Sick Boy and Spud.

Eyes bulging, Sick Boy says, — Now that cunt Begbie has done an unsolicited act of goodness, for the very first time in his entire life. What a fucking day!

— Oh, but that’s him now, Mr Goody Two-Shoes, Renton says.

23 BEGBIE – CHUCK PONCE

Ah minded ay meeting the boy, back in the jail. Ah wis pretty surprised that a big Hollywood star would come and see us, in the fuckin nick. But funny, he wanted me tae help him prepare for this hard-man part he’d goat. He needed tae dae the accent cause it was based on a book by some crime writer, that this European art-house director wanted tae film. Fair play, the cunt that wrote it selt a ton, but I never liked these books. Written for straight cunts: always makin the polis oot tae be the big fuckin heroes.

The polis urnae the big fuckin heroes.

First thing I did when ah saw this handsome but diminutive leather-jacketed young man wi the slicked-back dark hair was tell the cunt the score. I said I wisnae being wide, cause I assumed it wisnae like in America, but Chuck Ponce was a funny name in the UK. Telt him he was makin a right cunt ay ehsel ower here, wi a handle like that. Of course he kent aw that shite; telt me his real name was Charles Ponsora, and yes, he was now aware that it meant something different in the UK, but he was stuck with it. The cunt’s agent had told his name was ‘too Latin’ and would go against him for Waspish lead-man roles. Just like Nicolas Coppola became Nicolas Cage, so Charles Ponsora became Chuck Ponce.

So we worked together in the jail, him listening tae me and some ay the boys crackin oan. We made tapes wi his dialect coach, a bools-in-the-mooth fucker that slavered pish aboot the accents ay Scotland. Cunt was fuckin useless. I telt Chuck stuff, about the jail, about enforcing for the likes ay Tyrone. Did him fuck all use but; his accent in that film was still ridic, like if ye goat that groundskeeper cunt fae The Simpsons n hud the fucker oan skag in the Kirkgate for five years. But the boy had a way about him, looked at ye like he was really listening, like ye were special. He made aw those big declarations that we’d be brothers forever. He’d see me in Hollywood!

His words.

Never heard fae the cunt again for six years, even after being back oot. Even after getting my agent tae send him an invite tae the exhibitions, tae my wedding, and my bairn Grace’s christening. Ah learned fae this that actors were fuckin liars, and the best liars believed their own bullshit when they spouted it. Then, a few months ago, he comes along tae one ay ma shows. Just wanders in with this wee entourage. Telt me that he wanted a heid made ay Charmaine Garrity, his ex-wife, but wi specific mutilations.

I telt him that I liked to keep they commissions confidential. Could we meet for a wee coffee? So Chuck called and I drove tae San Pedro, and now we’re walking along the clifftops together. Although it overlooks the port, this is a private place tae talk, particularly this deserted ocean side, a sheer drop tae the grey rocks below and the incoming tide that laps them. I’m telling him how ah love the sounds ay the waves crashing, the gulls squawking. — We used to go down to Coldingham when I was a kid. It’s in Scotland. Cliffs, with rocks below, like here, I tell him. — My ma always told me to keep away from the edge, I smile. — Of course, I never listened.

Chuck shimmies forward, wi that big grin on his pus. — No, I’ll bet you didn’t, dude! I was the same! I always had to dance to the brink of that goddamn cliff, and he ambles tae the verge. Shuts his eyes. Stretches out his arms. The wind whips his hair into the sky. Then he opens those peepers again and looks doon tae the rocks. — I had to do all that shit too! That’s the way we’re made, bro, we dance to the edge and then weeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaahhhhh —

My hearty shove oan Chuck’s back sends him intae that void, squeezing his voice intae a decelerating, dissolving scream. Then nowt. I turn away fae the brink, roond tae feel the sun on my face, raising my hand tae cover my blinking eyes. I haul in a deep breath, and turn back tae glance down at the body lying broken on the rocks. It puts ays in mind ay how he was at the end ay They Call Him Assassin, as the incoming tide froths around him. — I was bullshitting ye, mate. I did listen tae my ma. You should have listened tae yours n aw.