Dead Men's Trousers

24 RENTON – THE 114-YEAR-OLD PARTY

Despite us leaving Edinburgh early, the ‘stretchy’ is crawling along the M8. It’s surely the most woeful major road between two European cities. Franco got the Cup final tickets fae a collector of his work. He claims he’s no really bothered; it’s just a freebie. Sick Boy seems the most enthusiastic, he hired the tacky limo tae take us through tae that desolate graveyard ay dreams in the south side ay Glesgey. I’m so-so about it, though concerned due to Spud’s medicated but valetudinarian form. — Widnae miss it but, he constantly says.

Franco is the only one who doesnae ken how Spud got into this state, and he’s curious. — What the fuck’s the story, then?

— Aw, eh, a wee kidney infection, Franco, Spud says. — Hud tae huv it removed. Still, ye just need one but, ay?

— Too much fuckin drugs inside ye ower the years, mate.

On that matter, Sick Boy and I are indulging in some champagne and toot, Spud and Begbie baith passing for reasons ay health and lifestyle choice respectively. The driver’s a sound enough cunt and he’s getting well bunged tae stay cool. There was something I meant tae say tae Franco, and ah suddenly remember. — That was weird about Chuck Ponce, ay, mind he was at your exhibition?

— Aye, a shock right enough, Franco agrees.

— Ah liked that film They Did Their Duty, Spud croaks.

— Shite, Sick Boy contends, hoovering up a line. — Prizefight: Los Angeles, that was good.

Spud ponders this. — That’s when eh pretended tae be an android prizefighter, but eh wis really a mutant wi superpowers…

— Aye.

— A guy that had everything tae live for, ah shrug, — aye, it’s a funny auld life.

— Always seemed tae have issues tae me, Franco sais. — Ah mean actors, stardom, aw that stuff. They say if ye become famous, ye naturally freeze at that age. And he wis a child star. So eh steyed a bit ay a bairn really.

I’m fighting down saying: like being in the jail long-term, but he looks at me wi a wee smile as if he kens what I’m thinking.

— What the fuck was the imbecile doing with a name like Ponce? Sick Boy snaps. — Did nobody tell him he was making a royal cunt of himself?

— It doesnae mean anything in the USA, Franco shakes his heid, — and it wis some kind ay shortening ay his real name. Then, when he broke big, everybody drew it tae his attention. But by that time he’d established himself as a ponce, so tae speak.

— It happens, I go, telling them the story ay how a mate ay mine in the dance-music industry met Puff Daddy. — He said to him, ‘Do you realise that in England your name means homosexual paedophile?’

— Right enough, sais Sick Boy. — Who advises those cunts?

When we get into the stadium, I’m suddenly a suffering bag ay nerves. I realise that Hibs are like heroin. I once shot up after being off it for years, and I felt aw the horrible, nauseous withdrawal fae every hit I’d ever taken. Now I can feel every terrace and stand disappointment coming back tae haunt ays, no just previous games but fae the non-attendance ay the ones over the last two decades. And it’s the fucking Huns, ma auld man’s team.

But I cannae believe it’s possible tae attend a big fitba game wi Begbie and feel so relaxed about the potential ay violence. Instead ay scanning the crowd, as was his auld modus operandi, his eyes are totally locked on the pitch. As the whistle blows, it’s Sick Boy who’s uptight, his patter setting my fucking nerves oan edge. He refuses to sit down, standing in the aisle in spite of grumblings behind us and looks from the stewards. — They are never going to let us walk oot ay here with that Cup. You know that, right? It just won’t happen. The ref will be under strict Masonic instructions tae ensure that – YA FUCKER!! STOKESY!!!

We’re aw jumping aroond absolutely fuckin demented! Ah realise through a rid smoke flare behind the goal at the Rangers end that Stokes has scored. Their half ay the stadium is completely stationary. Our half is a bouncing sea ay green, apart fae poor Spud, whae cannae move, just sittin thaire crossing ehsel.

— Git oan yir feet, ya daft cunt! a boy behind shouts, ruffling his hair.

We are looking good. Hibs are playing nice stuff. I watch Franco, Sick Boy and Spud. We are kicking every ball with them. It’s going so well. It’s going too fuckin well: it has tae happen. Things get very fucking dark. Miller equalises and I sit in numb despair till the ref blows for half-time. I’m lamenting a life full of what-might-have-beens, thinking of Vicky and how I fucked that one up big time, as Sick Boy and I head tae the toilet. It’s rammed but we manage tae get a cubicle for the ching. — If Hibs win this, Mark, he says as he chops out two fat lines, — I’ll never be a cunt tae any woman again. Even to Marianne. She’s the one that caused aw this bother, with Euan, and through him, Syme. Funny thing is, I’ve been trying to call her. Normally she cannae wait for me to phone; her keks are aroond her ankles quicker than it took Stokesy to hit the net. Now she’s obviously had enough of my games. And the strange thing is, his dark eyes glisten sadly, — I miss her.

I dinnae want to dwell on Marianne. Sick Boy treated her like shite over the years, but there’s always a strange proprietal reverence in his voice when he talks aboot her. — I know what you mean, I declare. — If Hibs win the Cup, I’ll try and square things with this woman I was seeing back in LA. I had real feelings for her, but I fucked it up, as you do, I lament. — And I’ll look after Alex.

We shake on it. It seems utterly pathetic, and it is: two coked-up wankers in a toilet, planning their future actions in life oan the outcome ay a fitba game. But the world is so fucked right now that it seems as rational a course ay action as any. Then we go back down, and the coke buzz is still searing when Halliday’s strike fae naewhaire puts them in front. For the umpteenth time a guy behind us urges Sick Boy to sit down. Begbie starts breathing in a controlled manner. This time Sick Boy complies, sitting wi his heid in his hands. Spud groans, a deep pain, as injurious as any that has been physically inflicted on him lately. Only Begbie seems unconcerned, now oozing a strange, relaxed confidence. — Hibs have got this, he sais tae me wi a wink.

A text from ma auld boy, who is watching on the telly:

EASY! WATP ;-)

Auld Weedgie cunt.

— We were wrong to believe, Sick Boy groans. — I told you, it’s the lot ay Hibs tae never win that fucking thing. And they’ve still to get their obligatory late penalty. 3–1 Rangers: racing fucking cert.

— Shut the fuck up, Begbie says. — It’s our Cup.

I have tae admit tae being in the Sick Boy camp. It’s the way ay the world. We really are destined never tae lift it. I’m growing despondent as I’m flying tae Ibiza at 6 a.m. from Newcastle airport, tae meet Carl, who is doing a gig at Amnesia. At least ah’ll git some kip now as it’ll be an early night. He’ll be ripping the fucking pish oot ay us, wi mair 1902, 5–1 shite. And there it is, already on my phone:

HA HA MUPPETS! SAME OLD STORY! HHGH 5–1, 1902.

I suddenly feel very depressed. Hibs huvnae given up though. McGinn makes a couple ay tackles, playing like a man who wants tae physically drag the team back intae a contest that’s slipping away fae them. The fans aroond us are still defiant, but a little downcast. Then another chance for Stokes, but it’s saved…

— Fucking nearly men again. How many times, Sick Boy, back on his feet, despite more protests, snarls doon towards the Hibs bench, as Henderson lines up a corner. — I’m delighted that I’ve shagged loads ay women and taken tons ay drugs because if I’d relied on a poxy fucking football team to give me ma jollies in life – STOKESY!!! YA CAAAAHHHHNNNNNT!!!!!!

Again! Anthony Stokes wi a header fae Hendo’s cross! Game back on! — Right, I announce, — I’m dropping an E!

Begbie looks at ays as if I’m crazy.

— I’m doing this because I’m fucking shiteing myself, I explain. — I’ve walked oot ay this stadium a miserable cunt so many times in ma life: even if we lose I’m fucked if I’m daein that again. Anybody else in?

— Aye, says Sick Boy, and he turns round to the guys behind us. — And don’t ask me to fucking sit again because it isn’t going to happen! He pounds his chest in aggression.

— Sound wi the ecktos, echoes Spud. — Ah wish ah could stand…

— Fuck off wi that shite, says Franco. — And you, he turns tae Spud, — you must be crazy.

— Ah’m too like nervous tae git through it, Franco. Ah dinnae care if ah die… jist look eftir Toto for ays.

Three out of four ain’t bad. They go down the hatch. I’m on my feet, standing next to Sick Boy.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so tense at a game ay fitba. I’m waiting for Sick Boy’s declaration tae become manifest: the obligatory soft Rangers penalty. Although the ref has been great so far, he’ll be saving it for the dramatic last minute. These cunts are aw the fucking same…

Oooh… ya beauty…

I’m suddenly feeling a nice melting in ma guts and there’s a surge ay euphoria as ah look at Sick Boy, and in profile, his face contorts, as a weird, joyous ache ay a roar goes up and time freezes and JESUS FUCK ALMIGHTY, THE BAW IS IN THE RANGERS NET!! Hendo got another corner, whipped it ower, some cunt heidered it in, and the players are all over David Gray, and the crowd are going absolutely fucking mental!

Sick Boy’s eyes are tumescent. — DA-VIE-FUGH-KIN-GRAYYYY!

SHOOOOMMM!!!

A boy jumps on my back, a stranger, and another gadge kisses ma foreheid. Tears are streaming doon his face.

Ah grab Sick Boy, but he brushes me off in combative petulance. — How long?! he screams. — HOW LONG BEFORE THESE MUPPETS STEAL OUR FUCKING CUP?!

— It’s our Cup, Franco says again. — Settle doon, ya fuckin bams!

— Ah’m pure nervous n ah think they stitches might have burst… Spud wails, biting his nails.

The whistle goes, and astonishingly, the game is over. I hug Spud, whae is in tears, then Begbie, whae is jumping aroond in euphoria, eyes bulging, punching his ain chest, before forcing himself tae take deep breaths. We move towards Sick Boy, who again brushes off my lunging arm and jumps up and down and turns to us, the sinew straining in his neck, and goes, — FUCK EVERY CUNT!! I WON THIS FUCKING CUP! ME!! I AM HIBS!! He looks over tae the downcast opposition supporters, just a few rows away from us in the other half ay the North Stand. — I PUT A FUCKING HEX ON THOSE HUN BASTARDS!! And he surges doon the gangway towards the barrier, joining the multitude who trickle, then deluge, onto the pitch through the flimsy net of security personnel.

— Daft cunt, says Begbie.

— If ah die now, Mark, ah’m no really bothered cause ah’ve seen this n ah didnae think ah wid ever see the day, Spud sobs. Draped over his bony shoulders: a Hibs scarf dropped in the revelry.

— You’re no gaunny die, mate. But see if ye do, right, yir no wrong, it widnae matter a fuck!

Ah didnae quite mean it tae come oot like that, and poor Spud looks up at me in horror. — Ah want tae see the victory parade though, Mark… doon the Walk…

There are bodies everywhere on the Hibs half ay the field. A small number cross over intae the other half tae wind up Rangers fans, and a few of them come on tae meet the challenge. After some minor scuffles, the polis gets in between the small groups of would-be swedgers. On the Hibs half ay the pitch, the fans are joyously celebrating the end ay a 114-year-auld drought. The cops are trying to get the field cleared before the Cup presentation can be made. Nobody on the pitch is going anywhere fast, as goalposts and turf are torn down and ripped up as souvenirs. It takes ages, but it’s brilliant: the medley of euphoric Hibs songs, the hugging of total strangers and the bumping intae complete newcomers and auld friends. It’s hard tae distinguish between the two, every cunt is in a strange trance. Sick Boy returns with a big piece ay turf in his hand. — If I’d had this shit the other day, I’d have planted some inside you, mate, he says tae Spud, pointing at his gut.

It seems like an age, but eventually the team comes back out and David Gray lifts the Cup! We all erupt in song, and it’s ‘Sunshine on Leith’. I realise, that through all our years ay estrangement, this is the first time that Franco, Sick Boy, Spud and myself have actually sung this song together. Individually, it’s been staple fare for aw ay us at weddings and funerals for years. But here we are, aw belting it oot, and I feel fucking amazing!

As we stream outside the stadium, euphoric in the Glasgow sunshine, it’s obvious that Spud is totally fucked. We put him in the limo bound for Leith, Hibs scarf round his neck. As a departing shot, Sick Boy sais, — If ye gie yir other kidney, we might win the SPL!

I see Begbie register this, but he says nowt. We shuffle into a mobbed-out pub in Govanhill and manage tae get served. Everybody is in a dreamlike fugue. It’s like they’ve just had the best shag of their lives and are still spangled. Then we walk intae toon, hitting a few pubs in Glasgow city centre. It’s party time, aw the wey back through tae Edinburgh oan the train. Central Edinburgh is crazy, but when we get down tae Leith Walk, it’s just fucking unbelievable.

I have a car picking ays up at 3.30 a.m. fae my old boy’s place, tae take ays tae Newcastle for the 6.05 easyJet to Ibiza. I’m no fussed aboot leaving the party, as I have every confidence that it’ll still be on when I get back. I’ve got loads ay texts fae Carl. They chart his descent fae denial intae hostility, acceptance and finally grace, confirming the momentous nature ay the occasion.

WTF?

SPAWNY BASTARDS!

ABOUT FUCKIN TIME, YOU LEITH CUNTS!

LUCKY CUNTS, HALF OUR FUCKIN SONGBOOK DESTROYED!

FUCK IT, FAIR PLAY TO YOUSE.

I get down tae my dad’s tae gloat, but the auld Weedgie Hun bastard is in his bed pretending tae be asleep, and just in case he isnae kidding, I dinnae want tae wake him. I write ‘GGTTH’ on a bit ay paper and pin it oan the kitchen board for him tae see. I cannae sit here though; I’m back oot in Leith, and hooking up wi the boys again, starting at the Vine.

Sick Boy and I are hammering the ching, with loads ay others. As the night tumbles on uproariously, a sea ay faces slides by as if on a carousel; some long forgotten, others half remembered, more eagerly rejoiced with in an endless stream of bonhomie. Ah decide tae get Begbie while he’s in a good mood and gie it one last shot, before ah pit Sick Boy’s plan intae action. — That money, Frank, just let ays gie it tae ye. Ah need tae.

— We’ve discussed this, he sais, and his eyes are fucking glacial, cutting through my intoxication. I’d thought he’d forgotten how tae dae that stare. And I certainly neglected to recall how it freezes ma soul. — The answer is always gaunny be the same. I dinnae want tae hear about it again. Ever. Right?

— Fair enough, I say, thinking: well, I gave the cunt his chance. Now I’m gaunny have tae look at him, Sick Boy and Spud, as well as myself, every fucking day, because those Leith Heads will be mine. — The next words you’ll hear from me are, and I stand up and burst into song: — WE’VE GOT McGINN, SUPER JOHN McGINN, I DINNAE FUCKIN THINK YOU UNDERSTAND…

Franco smiles indulgently, but doesnae join in. He seldom did fitba songs. But Sick Boy duets with gusto, and we share an emotional embrace, as the ditty is taken up for the millionth time around the bar. — Everything you’ve ever done that’s fucked me over, I forgive you, he contends, wired tae fuck. — I wouldnae have missed these moments for anything. We are lucky, he turns tae Franco, — lucky tae be fae Leith, the greatest fucking place in the world!

Franco responds tae a speech he would have been euphoric tae hear fae Sick Boy’s lips years ago (but which would never have been made) wi only a minimal shrug. Life is so fucking bizarre. The ways we stay the same, the ways we change. Fuck me: it’s been a roller coaster couple of weeks. Seeing Spud in a makeshift operating theatre with his insides hingin oot, having one ay his kidneys removed by Sick Boy and Mikey Forrester, was crazy, but naewhere near as mind-blowing and unexpected as watching Hibs win the Scottish Cup at Hampden. We head to Junction Street, and the Fit ay the Walk, moving back up towards toon. We must have hit every bar in Leith. Begbie, without either punching a soul or necking a drink, lasts until nearly 2 a.m. before he jumps a cab tae his sister’s place.

We carry on, then I call the car tae pick ays up at the Fit ay the Walk, which is mair mobbed than ah’ve ever seen it, and the atmosphere is incredible. It’s way past just a Cup win; it feels like some magical catharsis for a whole community that’s been carrying an invisible injury. I cannae believe the enormous psychological burden that’s been lifted offay me, as I didnae think I’d gied much ay a fuck aboot Hibs or fitba for years. Ah suppose it’s aboot who you are and where ye come fae, and once you’ve made that emotional investment, it might lie dormant, but it never goes and it impacts on the rest of your life. I feel beyond fucking brilliant and spiritually connected to every Hibby, including this car-hire driver whom I’ve never set eyes on in ma puff before the day. But I really need tae kip cause the drugs are running doon and exhaustion is banging at the door ay this incredible high, and he’s droning on about the game, euphorically slapping the roof ay the cab and tooting his horn intae the empty night, as we storm doon the deserted A1.

Ah’m comatose as I get on the plane, and despite the revelry ay the package-holiday mobs around ays, a deep torpor descends on me. Three hours later I’m rolling off, crusty-eyed, beak both runny and blocked, Carl meeting ays at the magic island’s airport, having jumped off the Gatwick flight an hour earlier.

— Where’s the car? I groggily ask.

— Fuck the car: I’ve drinks set up for us in the bar.

— I’ve been up aw night, mate, ah need tae git some fuckin kip. Ah went intae this coma oan the flight and –

— Fuck your kip. Ye just won the Cup, ya daft cunt. One hundred and fourteen years! Carl is caught between an abject despair and a phantom elation that he cannae quite figure oot. But he tries. — I hate you bastards and it’s the strangest day ay ma life, but even ah want tae mark it. The stick ah’ve gied you, wi the 5–1, ye deserve it.

Ah think aboot the 7–0 stuff ah gied ma brother Billy, and Keezbo, ma poor auld buddy fae the Fort. Ah realise that it probably never means as much tae them as it does tae you. It just worries me tae think that they thought ah wis just some kind ay dull, retarded simpleton, like ah thought ay Carl. Still, the auld man is fucking getting it tight later!

We head tae the bar. It takes ays two beers and a couple ay lines ay ching, but ah dinnae feel fatigued any mair.

— Thanks for this, mate, ah tell him. — It was what I needed, and it’ll keep me awake long enough tae get through your gig – you’re going to kill it, just like you did in Berlin.

— Aw down tae you, Mark, he says with glassy-eyed emotion, squeezing ma shoodir, — you believed in me when I had stopped believing in myself.

— Conrad might need some therapy though!

— A slap across the chops will be good for the arrogant wanker. Now here, one for the car, he says, ordering up two half-pint glesses ay neat vodka.

— Ah cannae drink this… ah protest, knowin that’s exactly what ah will dae.

— Fuck off, ya Hobo lightweight. One hundred and fourteen years!

We stagger oot tae the motor, the sun blinding. The boy isn’t too happy about being kept waiting, telling us he’s another job on, obviously setting us up for the bung I’ll gie him. Carl is peeving the neat voddy effortlessly. This is suicide drinking, there’s fuck all whatsoever social about it. — Mate, the gig’s in a bit. Maybe you want to ease up.

— It’s been eight fucking years since I was last in Ibiza. I used tae be here every summer. And I’m drowning my sorrows. The Hobos won the cup. This changes ma fucking life as much as it does yours. He shakes his head in despair. — When ah wis young, even though ah wis surrounded by Jambos, aw my mates were Hibbies; the Birrells, Juice Terry… now my manager. What the fuck is going on here?

— I’ll turn you yet, mate. Leave the dark side, Luke.

— Fuck off, not a chance…

It’s blinding in the sun and I’m stuck with that albino Jambo vampire cunt, each shaft ay light seeming tae go through him as if he’s translucent. I can practically see all the veins and arteries in his face and neck. It’s a forty-minute trip and I’m wired for every fuckin second ay it. By the time we get tae the hotel, I want tae crash. – I need tae sleep.

Carl produces the bag ay coke. — You just need another wee livener is aw.

So we go up tae the hotel’s rooftop bar. It’s a predictably beautiful day. Cloudless and hot, but fresh. No sooner is the gak fighting through a plug of mucous tae get up ma Vespa, when the phone rings and Emily pops onto caller ID. In my gut: an ominous bolt of something wrong as I pick up. — Sweetheart!

— I’ll give ya fucking sweetheart, a male cockney voice grates back at ays. Mickey. Her dad. — My little gel was left waiting at the airport. You call that fucking management? Cos I don’t call that fucking management!

Shit.

— Mickey… you’re in Ibiza?

— I jumped on a flight from the Canaries to surprise her. Just as farking well I did, innit?

— Yes, mate, I’ll sort it out. Can you put her on?

Some grumbling and then the voice changes. — Well then?

— Em… alright, babe?

— Don’t fucking babe me, Mark! There was no pickup!

Fuck… — So sorry. That car firm, I’m no using these wankers again. I’ll get right onto them now. Fucking outrageous. Doesnae help you, ah know, but let’s get you billeted then we’ll get some lunch, I coo, managing to pacify her and end the call. Fuck, forgot to email Muchteld in the office. Again. Like in Berlin wi Carl’s decks. The coke is blasting more holes in a brain already like a Swiss cheese. But Hibs won the Cup, for fuck sake, so fuck everything!

Carl looks at me in quizzical evaluation. — You rode her? Young Emily? The Night Rider, he laughs.

— Of course not, she’s a client. It would be unprofessional, I say pompously. — And she’s too young for me. I feel the roar ay the coke, thinking ay Edinburgh. A terrible error ay judgement fae us both. Especially me. But fuck it; it was great n aw. And it was just sex. And there were condoms. Nobody was hurt in that particular shag. — I’m no like you, Ewart.

— What’s that meant tae mean?

— Ye cannae bang every young lassie that looks like Helena, thinking that’s gaunny bring back that romance, I say, tipping some ching into my pina colada.

— What the fuck –

— Accept that we fuck up in relationships. It’s what human beings do. Then we hopefully learn that our selfish, narcissistic behaviour bugs the fuck oot ay the other party. So we stop it. I stir the drink with the plastic straw and sip.

He looks at me, a fucking milk bottle with eyes. — So this is you stopping it then, gadge?

— Well, I’m trying to… trying to provide… I burst oot laughing and he does n aw, — a professional management service tae ma exciting client base… we’re sniggering and then laughing so much that we can hardly breathe, —… but you fuck it up and enable ma bad behaviour, ya Jambo cunt…

— Some fucking management…

— I’ve made you three hundred fucking grand this year! After you bombing out your film scores and no DJing for eight years, just sittin oan a fuckin couch smoking dope! Three hundred grand, for playing fucking records in nightclubs.

— It’s no enough, Carl says, and he’s deadly serious.

— What? What the fuck is enough?

— I’ll tell you when you bring it to me, he smiles, and he isnae joking. — Fancy daein some DMT?

— What?

— You’ve never done DMT?

I’m embarrassed, as it’s the only drug I huvnae done. It never appealed. Hallucinogenics are a young cunt’s drug. — Naw… Is it a good high…?

— DMT isnae a social drug, Mark, he contends. — It’s an education.

— I’m a bit long in the tooth for drug experiments, Carl. So are you, mate.

Thirty-eight minutes later, we’re in his hotel room and a punctured plastic litre bottle is filling wi smoke fae the drug he’s burning on aluminium foil on the nozzle, displacing the water that leaks fae the boatil intae a basin. When it’s done, Carl takes the burning foil off its neck, and ma mouth is round it. The acrid shit razes my lungs worse than crack. — As Terence McKenna says, you have tae take the third toke, he urges, but I feel fucking overwhelmed already. There’s an almighty rush in my heid and the sense that I’m physically leaving the room, even though I’m still here. What keeps me persisting, though, is the utter lack ay danger and loss ay control you normally feel when ye dae a new drug, especially one that takes hud ay ye tae this extent. I keep forcing it back intae ma lungs.

I slide back in the chair, resting my heid, wi my eyes shut. Brightly coloured geometric shapes appear, and dance in front ay me.

I open my eyes and Carl looks at me in an intense awe. Everything in the world, from him to the mundane objects in the room, is heightened. — You have the 4-D vision, he says to me. — Don’t worry, it’ll adjust to normal after about fifteen to twenty minutes.

— Can I no just keep it? I’ve never had such fucking depth perception, I grin at him, then start to haver. — I was happy just tae be, man. That strange contentment, the bizarre sense that it was familiar, that I’d seen it before. It stopped ays fae freaking oot at the weird things I saw.

— It is mental. Did you see the wee Lego dwarfs? Like sort of acid-house garden techno gnomes?

— Aye, they wee people; they seemed tae alternate between a physical presence, clear and real, almost digital, and a spectral form. They were genuinely happy tae see ays, without being all frivolous and fussy about it.

— Were you happy tae see them?

— Aye, those wee cunts are brand new. And you ken the strangest thing? Nae comedown. I feel in my body and mind like I’ve never taken anything. I could go for a run or to the gym right now. How long was I under for? It must have been at least twenty minutes, maybe forty?

— Less than two, Carl smiles.

So we sit for hours, engaging in discussion. Most of all, the conclusion is that visiting that place answers everything about the great dilemmas we ask ourselves, about human society, the individual and the collective. It tells ye that it’s both that are sovereign, and that our politics of trying to resolve the two are utterly futile. That we are aw connected to a greater force, yet retain our unique singularity. Ye can be as much or as little ay one or the other as ye like. They are so integrated that even the question, which has haunted philosophy, politics and religion for all time ceases tae exist. Yet at the same time, I never cease being aware that I am Mark Renton, a breathing, human organism, sitting oan a couch in a hotel suite in Ibiza town, and my friend Carl is in the room, and I just need tae open ma eyes to join him.

I want every cunt in the world tae be right in on this. Then Carl hands me a wrap of cocaine. — I’m not wanting fucking ching, Carl. No after this.

— It isnae ching, it’s K. I have tae play later and I don’t want tae start hitting this, so you take it.

— Fuck sake, you no got any willpower?

— Nup, he says.

I pocket the wrap.

25 SICK BOY – BRINGING IT ALL BACK HOME

I don’t want this staggering trip to end. It has changed life as we know it. — It’s time to put everything you think you were sure about in this whole wide world to one side, sis, I tell Carlotta, as the Hibernian team bus approaches so slowly, inching through the hysterical, dancing and shell-shocked but appreciative crowds that bellow out ‘Super John McGinn’ and ‘Stokesy’s On Fire’. — You need to be with him, I implore, looking over at Euan, who stands a few feet away on the corner of the side street, by the cherry-popped Ross and his spazzy wee mate whom he is doubtlessly now lording it over.

The favour I’ve done that whingy little cunt cannot be overstated. Early on in life, I sussed out that this gig was all about impressing women. The hard man, the joker, the intellectual, the culture vulture, the moneymaker; all of them trying so hard, but ultimately just aspiring to be the shagger. So much easier tae simply be that guy from the off, and cut out all the other wearisome pish. I passed that knowledge on to a gormless little spunker, gratis. Now Ross and his dippit comrade are standing there with their fresh glory-hunter Hibs scarves on, chin spots rashing, eyes scanning the lassies in the crowd.

But poor Crackpot Carlotta, la mia sorellina, has tears in her eyes. — He did me wrong, she sobs, sounding straight outta Nashville, but she’s now at last permitting the wound, rather than talking from inside a fuddled suit of antidepressant armour.

— I spiked him with MDMA powder, sis, and I tuck some of her inky hair behind her ear, letting soul seep into my eyes. — All Euan talked about was you, and then he was cynically seduced by that maniac, who was just trying to get back at me. I place my hands on her shoulders.

— Cheer up, hen, shouts a nearby half-pished unhelpful fat cunt in a Hibs strip that clings to him like a body stocking in a chubster’s sex club, — we won the thing!

I half acknowledge the blob with a weary smile. I hate to see an overweight Hibs fan: fuck off to Tynecastle if you’ve no self-control or self-respect. — You mind of Marianne? I urge her to recall. — She came to the door with her old man, back in the day, up the duff, throwing accusations around. Of course, she got rid ay it.

Carlotta looks at me in scorn, but isn’t pushing me away. — I think so. Another one you treated like shite.

I’m not loosening my grip, just letting it dissolve into an easy kneading of her tense shoulders. — Heyyy… I wasn’t blameless, far from it, but it cut both ways. So anyway, let her take it out on me, I implore, — not a reliable pillar of the Edinburgh medical community. I drop my hands, ending my massage, lifting up her fallen head. — That’s her level of spite though. She knows family is the only thing I care about.

Carra hauls in a deep breath, glances over to where Euan stands, then faces me with her wild eyes. — But he was fucking her up the arse on a video recording, Simon, she shouts, as a few Hibby heads turn round. Somebody shouts something about Stokesy and Tavernier, which I have to stifle a giggle at. I crack an appreciative smile at the nearby group, but they are quickly distracted as the chants intensify with the bus edging nearer. With the crowds trying to get closer, a crush is developing, so I steer Carlotta back down the side street, more proximate to where Euan stands. — It’s just genital interaction and drugs. There’s no love on display. All I saw there was – I’m about to say ‘the tentative technique of the amateur’ but manage, — somebody having a glorified wank. Go to him, Carra, I beg, nodding to Euan. — He’s hurting as much as you. He’s had his life wrecked too. Heal. Heal together!

Carlotta purses her lips, her eyes stockpiling tears. Then she turns and heads over to him, and as David Gray holds up the cup to ecstatic acclaim, before passing it to Hendo, she takes her beleaguered hubby’s hand. He contemplates her, also displaying impressive waterworks, as I signal to Pitch and Toss and his daft sidekick to stand over by me. Ross looks at his sobbing parents in awe. — It’s a funny old life, buddy, I ruffle his hair.

This wee cunt shouldnae be riding hoors! He’s barely mature enough to have stopped climbing trees! Maybe Renton was right, and I made a mistake inducting him into the world of minge, projecting my own teen vices onto an obvious novice. I was differently made: at his age I had testicles as vicious and hairy as the heads of two ferrets.

This Sunday Cup parade is the best! The crowd is an endearing mix of families and the many casualties who have carried on through the night, and for whom probably the only respite from alcohol in the last thirty-six hours was that beautiful ninety-four minutes of football!

There are loads of old faces around. The Exercise Bike (every cunt has pumped it and it doesnae move) approaches me. Her face is set in the tentative slouchiness of Leith Academy days. A cigarette dangles from her 22 bus and the bag slung over her shoulder has a frayed strap, which, in combo with her vacant eyes, suggests that they might be strangers by the end of the day. Not that one can conceive of this day ever ending. — Funny tae see ye back up here in Leith, Sihmin, she says. I can’t for the life of me recall the Exercise Bike’s first name, but do recollect that I was the only one in that goods yard train of scurrilous villains who treated her with r-e-s-p-e-c-t.

— Hi, gorgeous, I say, in lieu of her moniker, pecking her on the cheek.

— Crazy here, ay? she declares, in a high, shrill sound. I swear the aroma of rancid spunk from every diseased cock she’s ever sucked wafts into me like a cosmic force, setting up home in some decrepit credenza of my psyche. But even though I’ve absolutely zero intention of slipping her a length, I’m excited to see her – this Cup win heightens every experience – and text Renton:

How is Ibiza? Exercise Bike on the prowl in the Walk! Blast from the past! Not with yours, matey!!

I’m looking at her company, seeing if any of them register on the fanny Rolodex, but that familiar toxic need is dripping out of her like radiation from stricken Chernobyl victims, and I have to get the fuck away. As she becomes distracted by the trivial intervention of a cohort, I take the opportunity to slip my marker and get talking to a lassie with a pretty, oval-shaped face who seems on the fringe of the group. Despite being obviously up the duff, she’s quite steaming drunk, wearing a ludicrously tight, sexy minidress. Showing like that, this woman is a nutty raver. — Your dress is perfect. It leaves little to the imagination, yet demands a great deal of attention. That’s a winning combo.

— It’s a special day, she says, holding my gaze and dispensing a big, toothy smile.

It sets off a twinge in the baws. — Did you go?

— Naw, never had a ticket.

— Too bad. Great day out.

— I’ll bet, she smiles again, eviscerating my libido’s guard with her dazzling white teeth and keen, dark saucer eyes. — I watched it on telly.

— You know, that’s what I’d love to dae now, just chill with a couple of tins of beer and watch it again on the box. I’m pretty much done with crowds, I state, looking around at the chaos, avoiding the hungry eyes of the Exercise Bike.

She half glances to her lump. — Aye. Me as well.

— I’d invite you back to mine, but I live in London. Been up for the game and visiting family.

— Come tae mine if you like, ah’m just in Halmyres Street. She points down the Walk. — Ah’ve got some beer and the whole game is up on YouTube. Ah can play it through my telly.

I nod to her lump. — Won’t your felly be a bit miffed?

— Who says I’ve got a felly?

— Didnae get there by itself, I grin.

— Might as well have done, she says with a shrug. — One-night stand in Magaluf.

So we slip away from the Exercise Bike’s mob and slither through the crowd back tae hers. She’s not letting me ride her at first, though if Jimmy Dyson could emulate her suction power in his next model, the cunt would make a second fucking fortune. We watch Stokesy’s first goal, then fast-forward to that last ten minutes of euphoria. I’m patting her belly, but stop when I recall my words at my old man’s similar fascination with the lump of Amanda, my ex, when she was carrying Ben. I told the cunt tae at least have the decency to wait till the bairn was born before he started fucking noncing it.

However, we’re snogging in celebration and eventually she relents, and we hit the bedroom. I’ve got her splayed forward on the bed and I’m rifling her from behind. Haven’t rode such a heavily pregnant bird since the ex-missus, and I have to confess that I’m enjoying the novelty. There’s something grotesquely beautiful about the form. We crash out afterwards and I’m glad of the kip, but I snap into consciousness that way you do when a whole swathe of peeve has left you in a oner, and you’re suddenly wide awake. She’s lying on her side, and I slip out the kip and leave a note, slightly concerned that I never got her name. I mean, she did tell me, but it’s been an emotional time.

You’re wonderful x

Defo worth another bang after she pops. Also, potential Edinburgh Colleagues personnel if she can dump the bairn with her mother.

Unfortunately, she springs awake. Sits up in the bed. — Hiya… you going?

— That was great, it was really lovely meeting you, I say, lowering my weight onto the bed, taking her hand in mine and stroking it gently as I look into her eyes.

— Will I see you again?

— No. You’ll never see me again, I tell her, sad and honest. — But it’s for the best.

She starts to cry, then she apologises. — Sorry… it’s just that you were so nice… my life’s going tae total shit. I’ve had to stop working. I dunno what I’m going to do. She looks at her lump.

I lift up her chin and kiss her softly on the lips. My hand rests on her swollen belly. I gaze into her wet eyes, letting my own mist up, through recounting childhood injustices visited upon me. — First World problems. You’re a beautiful woman and you’ll get through this bad patch and off this scary path that you’re on. Somebody will love you, cause you’re the sort of person who gives out love. You’ll soon forget me, or I’ll only be a nice but fuzzy memory.

She shakes in my arms, and the tears are streaming down her face. — Aye… well, maybe, she bubbles.

— Tears are the beautiful, sparkling jewellery of the feminine soul, I tell her. — Men should cry more, I never, ever cry, I lie. — But it’s good to cry together, and I feel my own tears come on cue; gritty and thick, along with ching snotters. I stand up, wiping them away. — This never happens to me… I have to go, I tell her.

— But… this is… I thought we made some kind of…

— Shh… it’s all good, I coo, slipping on my jacket, and stepping out the room, as she erupts in loud sobs.

I leave the flat with a jaunty step, bouncing down the stairs, pleased with my work. A memorable entrance is fair enough, but the best thing to do is provide the emotional exit that breaks the other party in two with a crippling sense of loss. That’s what leaves them wanting more.

Through the chaos I have to walk towards Meadowbank before I find a cab and get back to Carlotta and Euan’s. I hit the hay again about 6 a.m. Monday morning, but, unable to sleep, I watch the entire game twice. I do one on BBC, and one on Sky, with the latter by far the best. The British imperialist state broadcaster is full of wet-eyed Unionists, with no pretence of impartiality, bleating because their chosen outfit got severely rogered. I phone up two women in Edinburgh, one of them Jill, and three in London, to tell them that I’m madly in love with them and we need to talk about our feelings for each other. I scour Tinder’s constant stream of headshots while watching Stokesy’s brace and skipper Sir David Gray’s winner again and again. The best thing about it all is the Huns taking the strop and not coming out for their losers’ medals, nor doing any interviews. It means that the coverage is just solid Hibs, our sheer joy uninterrupted by the unwanted, though probably hilarious, intrusion of sourpusses. The pundits and commentators just don’t get it: every time I hear a bitter, snidey, sweetie-wife tone deploying the term ‘tarnished’ to reference the pitch invasion, I just feel the entire occasion being massively further enhanced. This is a victory for class, for Leith, for the Banana Flats, for the Italian-Scots. I say this because I regard Hibs as essentially an Italian rather than Irish outfit. Hibernia may mean Ireland, but it means it in Latin. So the club’s real origins pre-date both Scotland and Ireland.

Renton calls and I pick up. — Unless you have decent drugs, end this conversation now, I tell him, as I’ve arranged to meet Jill for a ride. Spunk is already trickling back intae the baws from some factory in that little annexe of heaven deep within my life force. I also need to start phoning round for some more ching. Could handle a belt up the Vespa scooter.

— I don’t want to end the conversation, Renton says. — Prepare to be astonished.

— Hibs just won the Cup after one hundred and fourteen years. What the fuck is going to astonish me now?

The answer comes a couple of days later when Renton is back in town. He has summoned myself, Begbie and Spud up to his spacious, well-designed hotel suite with its soft lights and luxury furnishings (and this is a cunt who says he isn’t rich). He has the paraphernalia spread out across a low-slung Arabian coffee table, and I cannae believe what the fuck he’s up tae. Does the cunt want us to hit a fucking crack pipe?

— What does DMT stand fir? Spud asks, still looking like shit.

— Danny Murphy’s a Twat, I tell him. — I should have pummelled that gash in your gut when you were under. Would have at least then have gotten a fuckin ride out of you, and I dry-hump his wound, perhaps a little robustly.

— Get off, it’s sair. Spud pushes me away as I catch a stare from Begbie. It goes from me to Spud and back to me again. Not quite as psychotic as of old, but still with enough reprimand in it to calm me down. Ching. It can compromise one!

— Frank, are you up for this? Renton asks.

— I’ve telt ye, ah stoaped aw that shite, Franco says. — Ching n bevvy were the only drugs ah did, n ah’m done wi aw that now.

— Honest, Frank, this isn’t a drug. It’s not a social thing. It’s an experiment, Renton stresses.

— You’re an artist, Frank, I volunteer, trying to subtly get at the cunt, — see it as a new frontier to explore. I’ve heard it’s an incredibly visual experience.

— The Leith heids, Renton smiles.

All eyes are on Begbie. He cracks a low, reptilian grin. — Awright. But only for art’s sake.

— Top man. Renton starts preparing the DMT, as tutored apparently by that fucking Jambo drug apparition Ewart. — This will blow your mind, but at the same time, you’ll be totally relaxed. My theory is that it takes us back tae a time before we were born, or after our death, and in the process exposes human mortality as just a sliver in between, and, I think –

— Shut the fuck up, Renton, I tell him, — I’ve done every drug except this one. Listening to you is like working through the box set ay Breaking Bad, getting tae the final season, then having some cunt tell us what happens in the last episode.

— Aye, Mark, lit’s huv this convo eftir the collies, catboy, Spud agrees.

I’m first on that fucking bottle. It’s not that hard on a smoker’s lungs…

ONE…

TWO…

THREE…

FUCK THIS SHIT! AVANTI!!

I’m sitting back and dissolving into somewhere else…

I sense the drug is leaving me and it’s over. When I exit the trip, I’m still on the couch. Renton, Spud and Begbie are all in the 4-D vision Mark was havering on about; it’s sharper with dramatically greater depth perception. In fact, they seem like translucent computer windows, stacked in front of each other. Renton looks at me like a scientist does a chimp he’s just given a new drug to.

I look over at Spud, whose eyes are blinking, trying to find focus.

— Whoa, man… Spud gasps, — how mad was that!

— That was pretty fucking phenomenal, I concede. Most times in your life you have to be cool, even blasé. Call it dignity. But there are others, where you just need to surrender to the power of the situation. These are very few. But, like the appearance of your first – wee Dawn no – child, and Hibs winning the Cup, this is certainly one of them.

What the fuck just happened to me?

— Too fucking right, Renton says, and we start to swap experiences, focusing on the similarities: the geometric shapes and colours, the little people, the positivity and lack of threat, the sense of being welcome and guided by a higher intelligence. Then we move on to the differences; me sliding face first through snow down the side of mountain, then rocketing upwards, and Spud elaborating about a very warm, womb-like chamber, conscious that he was heading down steps, that notion of descent being his overriding sense of things…

… I can’t help smugly think that it’s typical of fannybaws Murphy to be consigned to a fucking dungeon, while Super Si explodes up mountainsides and surfs the blue skies. Begbie remains silent, starting into space. Renton, his sly rattishness enhanced by my special eyesight, says, — See, oan ma trip wi Carl, the walls fell away like boards, opening up intae a clear blue sky. I soared intae this flame, which blasted ays intae the stratosphere. He blows out air he’s compressed in his cheeks.

We look at Begbie, who has opened his eyes, and is rubbing at them. He obviously has the layered vision, like I still do, though it’s less pronounced and settling down now. — What did you get out of it, Franco? I ask him.

— Fuck all, he says. — Just some vivid colours n flashin lights. Only lasted a couple ay minutes. Load ay shite.

Renton and I look at each other. I can tell he’s thinking exactly what I am: This cunt? An artist? My fuckin baws.

— Did you take the third hit right back? Renton asks.

— Aye, of course I did. You fuckin gied ays it.

— Spud?

— Ah feel bad, man, thinkin aboot aw the chorin ah did, he says in agitation, — n that’s how ah’m aw ill now, Mark, but ah nivir –

— It’s okay, man, take it easy, Renton tries to calm his rambling.

I turn to Begbie. — Well, I experienced a lot more than some flashing lights, Franco. That was fucking phenomenal. I had a sense that I had fused with every member of the human race and I was moving as one with them, yet still somehow an individual.

— Did you see the wee Lego dwarfs? Renton enquires.

— Yes, but mine were more like spherical. Not exactly like acid-house smiley guys, but definitely from the same stable. It defies easy explanation. It was so vivid, but now it seems hard to put together in words exactly what I did see.

— I took off, Renton says. — I stepped into these flames and shot right intae the sky. I could feel the wind oan ma face, smell the ozone in the air. Did anybody experience being present at a feast, like the Last Supper? That’s quite common.

— No, I tell him, and look to Spud.

— Naw, man, ah just went doon aw these stairs intae that cellar, but no scary, like aw comfortin and warm, like gaun back tae the womb.

— Franco, nae Last Supper images? Rents presses.

— Naw, says Franco, looking annoyed, — like ah sais, jist some flashing lights.

Then Spud goes, — Ah’m really no feelin sae well…

— Yir heid? Renton asks.

— Naw… aye… but ah feel aw seek n dizzy, and then he lifts his T-shirt. The wound is damp with leakage, some sort of discharge. Spud groans, and his eyes roll into his head and he flops back into the couch and passes out.

Fuck…

26 SPUD – HOSPITAL EYES

I’m pure seek, man, really seek but, here in the hozzy, n Franco’s come tae see ays, which is an awfay surprise cause eh’s no that sort, n that isnae meant as any diss oan the cat. It’s jist that ye think eh likesay disnae care aboot folk. Ah mean, eh’s goat ehs new burd fi California and his bairns, the new yins, no the auld yins, n eh seems tae care aboot thaim. So ah suppose that hus tae count for something. Aye, ye huv tae be fair n say that cat has made the transition fae sinking fangs intae prey in the jungle, tae sittin in a comfy basket in front ay the fire n huvin a long purrrr tae ehsel. He tells ays that ah’ve been oot for twenty-four hours. — Aye, ah goes. They cleaned and dressed ma wound and ah’m oan an antibiotic drip, n ah shakes ma airm n looks at the bag hooked up. — Ah mind ay nowt, ah tell um. — Thoat it wis yon DMT.

— Listen, mate, Franco goes, — ah ken thaire wis something dodgy that went on wi this kidney stuff. Ah’m no gaunny press ye though. But if something did happen, ye kin talk tae ays aboot it. It’s no like ah’m gaunny go oan the warpath n set aboot any cunt. Those days are long gone, that’s just no my world any more.

— Aye… ah ken that, Franco, changed man n aw that. That wis mad the other night thaire but, ay?

— Aye, Franco says, then eh admits, — Played aw that DMT stuff doon. It wis fuckin wild but ah didnae want Renton tae ken. Him and Sick Boy thegither: it eywis annoyed the fuck oot ay ays when they went on aboot drugs, fuckin drugs, fuckin drugs aw the time. Ah mean, take the cunts or dinnae; but dinnae fuckin talk aboot them twenty-four/seven!

— What did ye see but, Franco?

— Enough, mate, Franco says, like it’s a wee warnin.

But ye kin git away wi mair now wi Franco, n ah’ve goat the licence ay invalid status, so ah pure press it a bit. — What dae ye mean, but?

— Ah mean ah dinnae want tae talk aboot it, eh goes. — It’s personal. It’s in ma heid. If ye cannae keep what’s in yir heid private, wir aw fucked, ay.

Ah’m gaunny say, but we telt you, but ah jist goes, — Fair dos, catboy. When ye gaun back tae the US of A?

— Soon, mate. We’ve got the big auction comin up this week, follayed by the exhibition next weekend. Melanie’s come ower, n we’re enjoying huving time thegither withoot the bairns aboot, much as we love they wee angels. We’re steyin at ma sister Elspeth’s. It’s aw workin oot nicely.

— How’s Elspeth?

— Fine… he goes, — well, no that great, but ah think it’s aw jist wimmin’s stuff, ay?

— Aye, it’s good whin yuv goat people. Ah’ve jist goat Toto but he’s at ma sister’s now. Andy, ma laddie, he’s daein well, but he’s doon in Manchester. Lawyer but likesay, ah hear the pride crack ma voice. Still cannae believe it but. Takes eftir Alison in the brains department. — Comes up tae see his ma… You mind ay Ali, aye?

— Aye. Is she well?

— Barry. Teacher now, ay? Got another felly eftir me, hud another bairn, a laddie again. Ah feel masel choking up. Ah did huv chances tae huv a better life. Ah loast love. That hurts, man. That hurts ye in places other things cannae. — Aye, it’s jist me n Toto now. Ah worry cause ma sister’ll no look eftir him if anything happens tae me. The doc said ma hert stoaped n that ah wis deid for four minutes.

— This is connected tae the kidney thing?

— Sortay naw, but aye. It weakened ays gaun through aw that n pit a strain oan the hert.

— This kidney thing, he looks at ays again, — ye want tae tell me what happened? Ah swear it stays between us.

Ah hus a wee idea n looks at him. — Awright, but you’ve goat tae tell ays aboot your DMT trip first.

Franco hauls in a breath. — Awright, but likewise for your ears only, right?

— For sure, catboy.

Franco’s eyes sortay widen. Ah mind ay whaire ah seen um like that before. Whin we were bairns n thaire wis a deid dug oan Ferry Road: a gold Labrador. Perr animal hud been hit by a car or a lorry gaun tae the docks. Back then people didnae eywis look eftir dugs right. They wid git a dug, then jist lit it roam durin the day. Sometimes dem poor puppies wid mob up in Pilrig Park, n even go feral, till cooncil dug catchers goat them and pit them doon. We wir aw sad, at the deid dug, likesay, lyin thaire, stomach ripped open, head smashed in, gore n blood streakin ower the road. But ah mind ay Franco’s eyes, they were sort ay aw innocent and wide.

Like now. He clears ehs throat. — I’m sitting roond a table and there’s a bunch ay us, aw eating nice grub fae these big plates. Ah’m at the top at the table. The settin is fuckin opulent, like some sort ay olde worlde stately home.

— Like Jesus at the Last Supper? What Rents wis on aboot?

— Aye, ah suppose so. But aw that Last Supper stuff pre-dates the Bible and Christianity. It comes fae the DMT, which humans have eaten before Christ was even thought ay.

The cats at St Mary’s Star ay the Sea or South Leith Parish Church widnae like that. — Wow… so it’s like Christians are just nosy straightpegs that, like, watch other people get messed up oan drugs and record aw their stories…

— Ah suppose it is, mate, Franco sais. — Anyway, the thing that struck ays was that aw the other people roond the table wir deid. He stares at ays. It’s a funny look.

— Like zombies?

— Naw, like people who are no longer wi us. Donnelly wis thaire. Big Seeker n aw. N Chizzie the beast…

It’s like ah ken what eh’s sayin. Eh killed them aw. Ah kent aboot Donnelly n Seeker, n ah wis wi Chizzie just before eh goat his throat cut but they nivir caught the boy that did it… but surely thaire wisnae mair… — How many wis thaire? ah ask.

— A few ay them, Franco carries oan. — So ah wisnae chuffed being there wi they bams, but everybody was sound. Ken what ah took fae that?

Ah’m lookin at him, feelin aw hopeful aboot the world. — That people are okay n we should aw git oan?

— Naw. Tae me it said nae cunt’s gaunny be bothered, even if ye fuck them right up. The next life is too big tae get aw het up aboot what ye dae here in this yin.

N ah think aboot this in terms ay ma ain life. Aye, ah’ve messed things up, but mibbe it disnae matter. Ah suppose it works fir Franco, n eh could be right. — It’s mibbe a good wey ay thinkin, man, ah tells the cat.

27 THE AUCTION

As the tourist crowds infest the city, Edinburgh does its habitual spring tease, providing a few glorious days. Then it’s time for the usual about-face; the deliverance of the traditional smoky clouds and sudden downpours of heavy rain. Citizens and incomers wander around pinch-faced, looking cheated, many a little lost, and perhaps in need of a friend. Nobody more so than Mikey Forrester, who is happy to take Simon Williamson’s call and meet up at an impersonal bar near Edinburgh’s Waverley Station. Mikey is aggrieved; he thinks he’s avoided the rain as he walks down Cockburn Street and Fleshmarket Close, but it suddenly teems down and he’s soaked to the skin by the time he slips into the pub.

Williamson is already standing at the bar, looking down at his fellow occupants of the boozer in arch disdain. Mikey nods to him and heads over. Sick Boy elicits strange emotions in him. He envies his effect on women; that seemingly effortless ability he has to charm them into bed had never deserted him over the years. Mikey is burdened by a belief that if he watches people closely enough, he can identify and appropriate their abilities for his own. As a life strategy this has afforded him limited success, but having internalised it, he can’t quite shake it off.

Sick Boy has set up a Diet Coke for himself and, without asking him, orders up a vodka and tonic for Mikey. — How goes, Miguel?

— No bad. How’s Spud?

— He was a wee bit dodgy, Sick Boy says, in mild understatement, accepting the proffered drink from the barman in exchange for notes, — but the hozzy say he’s going to be fine. Watch… and he steers Mikey down the bar, where he stands close to him. Mikey can smell fresh garlic on his breath. Sick Boy always ate well. Probably Valvona & Crolla, he guesses, or perhaps his mother’s or sister’s home cooking. — I have a wee proposition for you. Could be lucrative.

— Ah’m daein awright, Mikey Forrester says defensively.

— Ye can drop the patter, Mikey, Sick Boy responds, quickly adding, — I’m no here tae judge anybody. Let’s face it, we all shat it offay Syme, yes wi good reason, but tae our eternal shame.

Mikey is about to intervene in protest, but no words are coming.

Sick Boy continues. — Thing is, he’s off our backs now. I know how tae keep him away fae your wee goings-on, and also ensure that he retains his gratitude tae ye.

— We’re partners! Mikey bellows, bunching his fists, massively overplaying his hand.

— Easy, bud, Sick Boy whispers, urging him to drop his voice. Sick Boy thinks perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to meet in this spot. After all, there were few better places for low-life grasses to congregate than in boozers close to railway stations, and a fat semi-jakeball in a tracksuit and skinhead cut seems to be taking an interest in the conversation. Mikey acknowledges his folly with a terse nod, and stands closer to Sick Boy.

Simon David Williamson knows never to kick away a man’s crutch unless you offer him a superior replacement. — Have it your way, but my proposition could be very advantageous to you. Obviously, this is all in confidence. Do I have your ear, or should I go?

Eyes darting across the bar in a quick scan, Mikey Forrester takes a sip of his vodka and nods in the affirmative.

— Let me ask you: who does Syme fear? Sick Boy raises his eyebrows. He knows how to hook Mikey, namely by placing him at the centre of a compelling drama. With that very sentence, by urging his strategic counsel, he’s hinted at Mikey having an elevated status in the city’s underworld. The expansion of Michael Forrester’s pupils and the swivel in his neck tells Sick Boy he’s pressed the correct button.

Mikey’s voice stays low. — Naebody. No now that Fat Tyrone’s away. Nelly’ll no go up against him. Nor will the Doyles. They’ve just divided Tyrone’s wee empire up between them. The young team arenae ready, no since Anton Miller got done.

Sick Boy maintains only a rudimentary knowledge of the Edinburgh criminal scene, and has also extricated himself from the London one. Fundamentally, he dislikes gangsters. He is solely interested in women, and finds it difficult to engage at even a cursory level with most other men for any length of time. And ones who are more interested in the shifting hierarchy of power, rather than the sweet music of romance, bore him senseless, though he is too politic to show this disdain. — I was thinking of a certain Leith psychopath we both know well.

— Begbie? Forrester laughs, before lowering his voice again. — He’s in America, a fuckin artist now, oot ay that life. Besides, he looks around, noting that the chubby skinhead has drunk up and gone, — him and Syme are probably tight, the way they boys ey are.

— Syme’s West Side, Begbie was always Leith and the toon, mobbed up wi Tyrone, Nelly, Donny Laing, aw that crowd. Different circles. Syme was intae scrubbers, never really Tyrone’s thing. He was always loans, debt collection, extortion, Sick Boy explains, thinking: This is obviously pish; nutters always know each other, and generally side together against the civilians they prey on.

But it proves a convincing enough narrative for Mikey to embrace, and he nods along in conspiracy.

— Begbie’s back in Edinburgh for this auction and an exhibition ay his art, Sick Boy offers, then advances, — You and Renton, youse were never really bosom buddies, were yis?

Historically, Mikey Forrester hadn’t got on with Mark Renton. The reason was trivial enough. Mikey had long fancied a woman, who had been stringing him along for free drugs, and whom Renton subsequently enjoyed a meaningless copulation with. This bugged the shit out of Mikey, and he had made his hostility apparent down the years. Age, however, had given him perspective and he now bore Mark Renton no ill will for this incident. Indeed, he felt a tinge of shame that he’d made so much of this now-petty grievance. — He helped us in Berlin.

— Doesnae make ye bezzy mates.

Forrester looks forlornly at Sick Boy. You can’t unsay the things you’ve said over the years. This only makes you look even weaker than the original running off at the mouth. — He’s a fuckin grass who steals fae his ain.

Sick Boy shouts up more drinks, this time joining Mikey in the vodka and tonic. — How about if I told you I know a way to piss off Renton and get in Begbie’s good books? he purrs. — To the extent that it would buy you more respect from Syme, and get you right back in easy street. Intae a place where you’ll be a genuine equal partner. What do you say?

Mikey is all ears. Of course, he would never be an equal partner with Syme, but Sick Boy knows that his vanity will always stubbornly allow the possibility. — What ur ye proposing?

Sick Boy tries not to register his distaste at Mikey’s sour breath. It’s like he’s been gargling menstrual blood. He idly wonders if Mikey is a pussy eater, whether he goes south on rag week, and if he brushes his teeth after. — Renton might find that Begbie’s art will cost him more than he’s bargained for, especially if some cunt is bidding against him. And he really wants it, so there is no way he’ll let anybody else win.

— So…

— So you go there and bid the cunt up. Clean the fucker right oot. Begbie gets big bucks oot ay it all and Renton is totally skint, having peyed way over the odds. All thanks to one Michael Jacob Forrester. He points at Mikey. — Once Slimeball sees that you are the fucking man, right in with the viciously repped Franco Begbie, he starts to treat you with a bit more r-e-s-p-e-c-t. Get my drift?

Mikey nods slowly. — But ah’ve nae money tae bid for art pieces.

— You lose the auction to Renton.

— Aye, but what if he pills oot n ah win?

— I cover it, he says thinking of the money Renton gave him. — But if you stop the bidding at the figure we agree, that won’t happen.

Mikey raises his glass, takes a sip. It makes sense. Or perhaps it doesn’t. But what it does do, and what Sick Boy judges correctly is utterly irresistible to him, is place Michael Jacob Forrester right at the centre of an impending commotion that the city’s underworld will talk about for years to come.

The auction takes place inside a four-pillared pseudo-Athenian temple, cast in the grey stone and with the arched windows often favoured in Edinburgh’s New Town. Regarded as one the most beautiful salesrooms in Britain, the building is tucked in a maze of backstreets between the East New Town and the top end of Leith Walk.

Inside, it is a cross between an old church and a theatre. The stage, which holds the auctioned items to the rear as well as the auctioneer’s lectern to the fore, is the centrepiece in an inverted U-bend that runs around the hall. It looks onto a wooden floor partially covered by a giant, ruby-coloured, patterned rug, with around fifty people sitting on neatly lined-up gold-and-red chairs. Above the wings are balconies, supported by black cast-iron pillars, under which sit officials, who record the proceedings.

The room is a hub of chatter and bustle. Some serious collectors are present, evidenced as recipients of hushed comments and reverential stares. The air is stuffy and slightly rank, as if some of the ageing pieces and collectors past have deposited a lingering scent. Close by those who dress and smell of ostentatious wealth, sit a few shaven-headed wideos of varying degrees of status in the local thug hierarchy. Jim Francis, the artist formerly known as Frank Begbie, stands at the back of the room with his agent Martin Crosby, looking over at them in an affectionate disdain. — The boys. Come tae have a wee neb at how much money auld Franco’s makin oot ay this art game!

Martin nods, though he’s only able to make out the bones of what Jim is saying. Back on home turf, his client’s accent has thickened up considerably. Martin flew in from LA yesterday, and prior to today claimed never to suffer from jet lag.

Then Frank Begbie can’t believe his eyes as he spies Mark Renton sitting at the front. He moves down and slips into a seat beside him. — What are you daein here? I thought you had nae interest in art.

Renton turns to face him. — I thought I’d put in a cheeky wee bid for the Leith Heids.

Frank Begbie says nothing. He rises and returns to Martin, who is talking to Kenneth Paxton, the head of the London gallery he has got Jim Francis attached to. Franco barges in without any concern for protocol. — Who’s the main man here?

Martin Crosby flashes the gallery head a look of apology that says artists… but defers to Paxton. — That guy, Paul Stroud, the gallery owner calmly announces, pointing at a bald-headed, abundantly bearded fat man sweating in a linen suit, fanning himself with a hat. — I mean, he’s not the collector, but he’s the representative and buyer for Sebastian Villiers, who is big news.

— Seb’s a major collector of Jim’s work, Martin says to Paxton, and the artist, as if to remind him. — If he wants Leith Heads, then they’re his.

Frank Begbie’s surprise is compounded when he sees Mikey Forrester standing nearby. His eyes go from Renton to Mikey, both looking decidedly uncomfortable, Mikey obviously aware of Renton’s presence, but not the other way round. What the fuck is gaun oan here?

The auctioneer, a thin man with glasses and a tapered beard, points to four heads mounted on a display sideboard. — Our first item for auction today is Leith Heads, by acclaimed Edinburgh artist, Jim Francis.

In the front row, Mark Renton stifles a guffaw that originates from somewhere in his bowels. He glances at the group of wideos, some of whom send vague bells of recognition ringing, and finds he isn’t alone in his mirth. Renton looks at the Sick Boy head. It captures him a little, but the eyes are too serene. He arches round to see if his old friend has shown up, despite his assurances he wouldn’t, doubting Sick Boy could resist succumbing to the vanity of his own image on display.

— One is a self-portrait, the auctioneer continues, — the other three representations of his boyhood friends. All are cast in bronze. They come as one lot, rather than separate items, and I’m instructed to start the bidding at twenty thousand pounds.

A paddle is raised in the air. It belongs to Paul Stroud, the agent of the collector Sebastian Villiers.

— Twenty thousand. Do I hear twenty-five?

Mark Renton slowly and tentatively lifts up his paddle, as if this action might draw a sniper’s bullet. The auctioneer points at him. — Twenty-five. Do I hear thirty?

Renton puts up his paddle again, occasioning some strange looks and a few laughs.

The auctioneer pulls his spectacles down over his nose and looks at Renton. — Sir, you cannot bid against yourself.

— Sorry… I’m a novice at this game. Got a wee bit excited.

This sets up a series of guffaws from the punters, which die out as Paul Stroud raises his paddle.

— I hear thirty thousand.

— Thirty-five. Renton raises his hand.

— A HUNDRED THOUSAND! comes a shout from the back of the room. It is Mikey Forrester.

— Now we are getting serious, the auctioneer declares, as Frank Begbie remains composed, and Martin Crosby shimmies to the edge of his seat.

You have got tae be fuckin jokin, Renton thinks. Then he sucks in some air. Fuck him. He won’t beat me this time. — ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY THOUSAND!

— What the fuck is going on here? Frank Begbie asks Martin Crosby.

— Who cares!

Stroud pitches in, paddle flapping. — One hundred and sixty thousand!

Renton is back. — One hundred and sixty-five thousand!

Forrester shouts, — One hundred and seventy thousand! Then he dies a death as Renton hesitates, blinking like a small mammal in car headlights…

— One hundred and seventy-five thousand, Renton croaks.

— I’m hearing one hundred and seventy-five thousand, says the auctioneer, looking at the sweating Stroud, heading to the exit, frantically trying to get a signal on his phone. — One hundred and seventy-five thousand… going… going… sold! To the gentleman down the front, and he points at Mark Renton.

Euphoria and despondency battle in Renton. It is around five times what he wants to pay, but he has won! The Leith Heads are his. But now he is beyond broke. Had he not been on such an uncompromising mission, and known how much pain he saved a long-standing rival by his final bid, Renton might have shut up. As it is, Mikey Forrester breathes a massive sign of relief. He goes up to Renton. — Well done, Mark, the best man won, mate!

— Mikey, what the fuck, who are ye bidding for?

— Sorry, bud, got tae nash, Mikey smiles, making way for the advancing Frank Begbie, and dialling Sick Boy as he sharply exits.

Renton goes to follow but is intercepted by other attendees, offering him congratulations. He looks at the heads, and for a second, he thinks the Sick Boy one is smiling. Renton maintains his push to the exit, but is stopped by Franco, who shakes his hand. — Congratulations.

— Thanks… What the fuck was Forry daein bidding?

— I’m as scoobied as you are.

— Whae was the other bidder?

— His name’s Stroud. He works for this boy Villiers, a big collector. Must have breached his agreed limit, and he was trying to call the boy to get him to up it. But you were victorious.

— Aye, well, who was Forrester working on behalf of?

— Somebody who loves me and wishes me a fortune. No many ay them in Edinburgh! Franco laughs, looking at Renton, then considering. — Or…

—… some cunt that hates me and wants tae see ays broke. That’s a slightly longer list… Renton lets out a long, tight breath, glancing again to the four heads, and fixating on one in particular. — Sick Boy was the only cunt that kent how badly I wanted to buy the heads. It was the only wey I could pay you back.

Frank Begbie shrugs. — Well, you got what ye wanted. The Leith Heids. Delighted for you, he says, lips pushing together tightly. — Now if there’s nothing else…

— Maybe a thank-you?

To Renton’s shock, the animation drains out of Begbie’s face, as a dark thought seems to crystallise behind his eyes. — I’ve changed my mind. I want my fuckin money back. That fifteen grand.

— But… I… Renton stammers in disbelief, — I’m broke! I’ve peyed massively ower the odds for they heids! That was my wey ay peying ye back!

— You bought some pieces of art, Franco’s voice, so slow and deliberate, — your choice. Now I want my money back. The money for that drug deal, back in the day.

— I’ve no fuckin got it! No now! No after breaking the bank tae buy… He looks at the heads and stops himself from saying that load ay fuckin shite. — No after buying the heids!

— Well, that’s too fuckin bad, for you but, ay?

Renton can’t believe what he is hearing. — But we’re mates again, Franco, out in LA… the Cup final… we had a bonding experience… the four ay us… the DMT… he hears himself havering, as he looks into insect eyes, containing nothing but cold treachery.

— Still a fuckin druggie, ay, mate? the unmoved Franco Begbie half sneers in Renton’s bemused face. — It stipulated in the sale that the heads would be available tae the buyer after the exhibition next week. So let Martin know where ye want tae have them shipped tae, he nods over to his agent, — and he’ll arrange it. Right now we’ve got a wee table booked for lunch at the Café Royal. I’d invite ye tae join us, but let’s keep things on a business footing till ye pey me back the money ye owe ays. Till then, he smiles, turning to his advancing agent and high-fiving him.

Renton is in a daze as he exits and heads down the Walk. He registers a red disabled mobility scooter coming towards him. A small dog sits in the basket on the front. It’s being driven by Spud Murphy.

— What the fuck…

— Nifty, ay, catboy? Pride Colt Deluxe. Up tae eight miles an ooir. Ah got a hire ay it fae the social. Was headin up the toon tae the hotel tae see ye. He hands Renton a tan Hugo Boss bomber jacket. — You left that up the hoaspital when you brought ays in.

— Thanks… Renton takes the garment, looks across at an Italian cafe. — A wee cup ay char, bud?

28 BEGBIE – A HISTORY OF ART

The cunt stands in front ay the big, grey, marble fireplace. He raises an eyebrow, then his gless, and looks at me. Melanie, sitting next tae ays, wears a light brown backless dress, and a nice lavender-scented perfume. — A highly successful auction, Iain Wilkie, the well-known Glasgow painter, now ‘exiled’ in the New Town, as the cunt puts it, sais tae us. His wife, Natasha, curves trying tae burst oot ay a short black party dress, gies ays a wee smile. The ride pours some mair San Pellegrino intae ma gless. They’re Mel’s mates, here in the art world, n you’ve got tae make a wee effort. Ah’d rather be at the boxing club wi the boys… well, maybe no. It’s a big myth that ye move intae a new world when ye leave the auld yin. What ye usually move intae is fuckin limbo.

What ah miss is being in the studio, daein ma stuff. Aw this exhibitions n auctions shite n dinner parties, they dae ma heid in. Ah jist want tae work oan ma paintins n sculpture, n hing oot wi Mel n the bairns. Gaun for walks doon the beach, wee picnics, aw that sort ay stuff. That wee Eve is a scream. Cracks ays up the things she comes oot with. Grace n aw, but she’s mair like her mother. When aw that good stuff, my work and my girls, when that gets taken away fae ays, then that’s when ah git tempted by the auld diversions. I feel the fuckin urge tae hurt some cunt.

This Wilkie gadge is rabbitin shite aboot how he needs tae drink, has tae get fucked up tae express his creativity. It’s a veiled dig at me being the only sober cunt here: anybody can see that. Natasha fills up ma gless wi more sparkling mineral water. If it had been peeve in that gless her man would be up the Royal by now, gittin a fuckin tanned jaw reset.

— I like life better without it, I smile at him, — it only takes me places I don’t want to go.

Natasha grins again. I ken I could ride her nae bother. These people are like that. It’s the wey they are. That’s how she sees me; savage, untamed Frank Begbie, the real fucking deal, no like the poofy ‘bad boy’ of Scottish art, the title they gied tae that poseur. Or used tae. Before ah came along. Now he’s aw keen tae be best mates.

— We’re running a little dry here, Wilkie goes, draining the last ay the wine.

— I’ll nip out for a couple of bottles, I tell them. — I’ll get decent stuff, I’m quite au fait with vino now, Mel always sends me oot, ah wink at her.

So ah slip oot doon tae the offie. It’s a posh fuckin shoap in a basement. Ah picks oot some Napa Valley Cabernet that seems dear enough, n it’s what Mel and her mates drink back in California. While ah’m inside, settling up, ah hears a bit ay a commotion gaun oan fae the street. Ah peys up n gits ootside swiftish, right up the steps, intae the dark road, tae see two young gadges, early twenties, shoutin at each other. One boy roars: — Ah’ll fuckin take ye any time! Think ah’m fuckin feart ay you?

The other gadgie seems cooler, mair in control, n a bit less pished. — Moan then, doon thaire, n eh points tae the wee lane. They head off, and I’m thinking: Yes, ya fuckin beauty… two juicy flies gaun right intae the spider’s fuckin parlour…

Ah follays them doon and sure enough, thir tradin blows n then the less pished gadge has got the loudmouth oan the deck. He’s oan him n batterin the fuck oot ay him, pounding um in the coupon. The loudmouth’s goat his hands raised n screamin, — FUCKIN LIT AYS UP, AH’LL KILL YE, YA CUNT!

Ah pits the bag ay wine doon against the waw, n ah’m right up behind them. — Nae sense in him littin ye up, if yir gaunny kill um, ya daft cunt.

The mair sober boy turns roond, looks up at ays n goes, — What’s it tae dae wi you? Fuck off or you’ll git some n aw!

Ah gies him a grin, n ah sees the cunt’s expression change, as ah steps past him n boots his grounded mate right in the chops. The boy screams oot. The other boy jumps right off him, springing tae his feet n squarin up tae me. — What ye fuckin daein? This isnae your bus —

Ah kick him in the baws a beauty and the cunt yelps oot. He’s bent ower n trying tae crawl oot ay the dark lane, back oantae the lit-up street. — Uh-uh-uh, you’re gaun naewhaire… n ah grabs him by the hair and drags him ower tae the decked cunt oan the cobblestanes. — Apologise tae yir mate.

— But you… you kicked him in the face!

Ah bangs the cunt’s heid oaf the waw, twice, n his heid bursts open on the second bang. — Apologise.

The cunt looks fuckin spangled, n ah’m twistin his hair away tae keep the blood offay ma clathes. — Darren… ah’m sorry, mate… eh groans oot.

The Darren boy’s tryin tae stand, pillin ehsel up the waw. — What’s the fuckin story…?

— Take a fuckin shot at this cunt’s pus, ah tell him, ma grip still oan the other gadge’s hair.

— Nup…

Ah batters the other boy’s heid oaf the waw again. The cunt’s shitein it. He’s beggin the boy he was just batterin a minute ago. — Aw… dae it, Darren… just dae it!

The Darren boy’s jist standin thaire. He takes a look back doon the alley. — Dinnae think aboot fuckin runnin, ah warn the radge. — Hit the cunt!

— Dae it! Jist dae it n wi’ll git doon the road! the other boy begs.

The Darren felly punches ehs mate. It’s no much ay a dig. Ah steps forward n hooks the Darren boy in the pus. It’s a beauty n eh topples doon oan his erse. — Git up! Git up n hit um right, ya fuckin mongol!

Darren gits tae ehs feet. Eh’s greetin, n ehs jaw’s aw swollen. The other boy, ah kin feel um shakin like a fuckin leaf, ma grip’s still tight oan his hair.

Ah looks at the Darren boy. — C’mon, ya cunt, wiv no goat aw fuckin night! The Darren boy looks at his mate aw sad and guilty. — Git oan wi it, ah’m fuckin well runnin oot ay patience here!

Ah loosens ma grip as the Darren felly panels his mate, goodstyle, fuckin droaps the other boy wi a solid smack tae the chops. Ah jumps forward, rams the fuckin nut oan this Darren cunt, whae faws in a heap beside his mate. Ah’m bootin baith cunts. — Back each other up, ya fuckin poofs! Ah immediately think ah shouldnae have said that, cause it might be construed as homophobic. Nae time for aw that nonsense these days. Tons ay gay friends in California. Ye get back intae bad habits ower here though, right enough.

Thir lying thaire, groaning, burst mooths, and ah sees the other boy look oot through a bloody, crusted eye tae the Darren yin.

— Shake, ah goes. — Ah hate tae see mates faw oot. Shake each other’s hands.

— Okay… please… sorry… the less drunk cunt goes. His hand reaches oot n grabs Darren’s. — Sorry, Darren… he goes.

The Darren boy, baith his eyes slits in purple bulbs now, dinnae ken if that wis me or his mate; he’s moanin, — S’awright, Lewis, s’awright, mate… let’s just go hame…

— DMT, boys, if yis huvnae tried it, gie it a go. This disnae matter, this is jist transitional, ah tell the cunts.

When ah leave the alley, thir groanin away thegither, tryin tae help each other tae thair feet. Aw mates again! That’s ma fuckin good deed for the day!

As ah make to leave the alley, ah pick up the bag wi the boatils ay wine, breathin nice and even. Thaire was rain earlier, n the bushes are wet, so ah rub the bloodied hand on them, removing as much ay it as ah kin. By the time ah’m oot the alley ah’m no Frank Begbie any more. I’m the celebrated artist Jim Francis, and I get back to the palatial New Town home of my friends Iain and Natasha, and my wife, Melanie.

— There you are, we were wondering what was keeping you, Mel sais, as I come through the door.

— You know, I just couldn’t make up my mind, I’m afraid, and I put the bottles on the kitchen worktop and look at Iain and Natasha. — That’s an amazing selection ay wines they’ve got, considering it’s a local shop.

— Yes, the guy who opened it, Murdo, he’s got another branch in Stockbridge. Him and his wife Liz, they go on wine-tasting holidays every year, and they only stock from a vineyard they’ve personally sampled, Iain goes.

— Is that right?

— Aye, and it makes a big difference, that attention to detail.

— Well, I’ll take your word for it. I’m pretty boring these days, having shed all my vices.

— Poor Jim, this Natasha hoor goes, aw pished. If I didnae love my wife and daughters, I’d probably bang it. But I dinnae hud wi that sort ay behaviour, no when you’re mairried. Some people, it means fuck all tae thaim. But it disnae mean fuck all tae me. Ah puts my airm roond Melanie, as if tae tell this Natasha yin tae git tae fuck.

Then ah heads through for a pish, n gies ma hands a proper wash, in case anybody notices. Knuckles a bit scraped, but nowt else is a problem. Ah goes back through n curls up oan the couch, aw contented eftir ma wee fix. But the only thing that’ll pit this right is getting intae the fuckin studio and back tae work. Cause ye cannae go around battering the fuck oot ay cunts. It isnae very nice, and ye can git yersel intae bother.

29 WANKERS AT AN EXHIBITION

Edinburgh’s art cognoscenti are uncharacteristically nervous and self-conscious, filing into the prestigious Citizen Galleries in the Old Town. Within a gutted Victorian exterior with decorative facade, this functionally modern, three-storey space, with its high ceilings, white walls and pine floors, central lift and steel fire-escape stairways, is more than comfortable. But it’s their fellow clientele, rather than the premises, which is the source of the artsy crowd’s discomfort. They are in the novel situation of rubbing shoulders with the shaven-headed, tattoo-covered, Stone Island-bedecked hordes they perhaps distastefully spy from their estate cars, swaggering their way to Easter Road and Tynecastle stadiums, or to Meadowbank or the Usher Hall for a big boxing event.

These two Edinburghs rarely dally in the same zone too long for any serious cross-cultural pollination to occur, but here they are, moving through the gallery to the middle floor, united, to witness the exhibition of the work of one of Leith’s most infamous sons, Jim Francis, better known locally as Franco Begbie. Surprisingly, it’s the toffs, on their home turf, who make the early running for the complimentary drinks, the baseball caps standing back, perhaps a little unsure of the protocol. Then Dessie Kinghorn, a CCS veteran, ambles up to the bar, looks at the nervous server, and asks, — This free, mate?

The student, gamely paying off loans with a quarter-dozen jobs, is not going to argue details, and nods in accord. Kinghorn grabs a full wine bottle and a fistful of beers, turning to a group of hovering, emboldened faces and shouting: — Free fuckin ba-ar, ya cunts!

A stampede follows, the bourgeois mob melting to the side of the room in a manner some CCS vets haven’t seen since the nineties. As if on cue, the man of the moment, the artist Jim Francis, enters with his wife, Melanie. The artsy crowd pounce on them, offering congratulations, as the thug element look at Begbie’s mounted heads and paintings in doubtful bemusement, checking out the price tags and the positions of the security cameras and guards.

Mark Renton arrived earlier with Carl Ewart and Conrad Appledoorn, who is now following the silver-tray-carrying servers. Despite nodding to a few old faces, Renton feels safer behind the makeshift DJ booth, set up for the after-show party. The bank was broken to own the Leith Heads, displayed to the rear of the gallery, now it’s to be disastrously trampled by Franco for a further fifteen grand that isn’t there. The useless bronze heads stare back at him from their plinths. The expression on each, even his own, screams: mug.

— Do I really look as snidey as that heid?

— Got ye tae a tee, buddy, Carl Ewart says, observing the milling crowds. — Stacks ay fanny at these art dos but, Rents, he says, taking the words out of his manager’s mouth. Both men have lived too much of their lives in clubs, surrounded for too long by women too young, sexy and beautiful for their rougher male cohorts to ever believe in any form of social justice. Yet Renton has discerned, within the ranks of Edinburgh’s female artsy bourgeoisie, a serenely arrogant poise and entitlement, which might have been expected at a bigger urban centre, like New York or London.

— When you get this amount of stuck-up, quality birds on a Tuesday night, it can only mean that independence is in the offing.

— It isnae the Busy Bee or the Cenny, for sure, Carl acknowledges. — I’m surprised Sick Boy isnae networking… he begins, stopping instantly as he sets eyes on Simon David Williamson, raffishly at the centre of a posh-frocked squad of beauties. — Scratch that thought. And look…

Renton cannot bear to set eyes on Sick Boy, who has made no attempt to engage with him since the successful but catastrophic auction. All that money. All that travel. Hotel rooms. Clubs. Tinnitus. All for fucking Frank Begbie! All because of fucking Williamson, the cunt.

Carl has spotted Juice Terry, chatting up one of the female catering staff. — Terry isnae aspirational socially, just sexually, Carl ruminates. — He walks into a room, and he just sees fanny, full stop. He fastens on to one and if she tells him tae fuck off, he moves on to the next…

—… Whereas Sick Boy, Renton interjects, warming to Carl’s theme, — sees a woman’s minge as essentially a device, a conduit to the greater prize: the control ay her mind and, ultimately, her purse. Fanny, mind, purse, that’s always been his trajectory. Getting them into bed is the end ay the line for Terry, but only stage one for sly Si. He is a cunt. Renton focuses back on his old friend.

I gave that prick ninety-one thousand quid and he set ays up tae be shafted for Begbie’s bronze heids for another one hundred and seventy-five. And that fucker Begbie wants another fifteen four hundred and twenty on top ay that!

Renton feels giddy, almost physically sick. His nausea rises further as he overhears a sincere Sick Boy contending, — Classic Motown, classic Motown and classic Motown, in response to a question regarding his musical preferences. — Note the words classic and Motown, he adds, just in case there is any ambiguity.

— The boy’s a fuckin bastard, Renton begins, before he feels Carl’s elbow banging his ribs. His client is pointing to an apparition standing in the doorway, looking inside in spooked awe.

— God sake, says Renton, — that fucker should be in his kip.

Spud Murphy staggers towards them, taking a glass from a waiter’s tray, looking at the young man as if expecting it to be snatched away at the last second. — Mark… Carl… ah feel shite, man. This kidney, it’s pure no workin right. It’s like it’s hard tae pish…

— Ye shouldnae drink, Spud, you’ve only got one tae take the burden now. Time tae ease up, mate. Renton looks at his old friend in concern. — You seem out ay it. Ye taken anything?

— Ah’ll come clean, mate, that jaykit ye left at the hozzy, thaire wis a bit ay how’s-yir-faither in thaire n ah sortay taxed it… Ah just snorted some lines the now… rough as fuck but, man…

— Fuck… that’s no ching, Spud, it’s K, Renton turns to Carl, — the stuff you gied ays, mind?

— You’re welcome to it, Spud, Carl says.

— Right… ah’d better git back hame then, left the pavey scooter ootside… Spud turns to Renton. — Sub ays, mate…

Renton despondently pulls out a twenty from his wallet.

Spud gratefully snatches it. — Ta, mate. Will replace it and the collies whin… well… later… His head jerks round. — No gaunny go withoot sayin goodbye tae Franco but… legs awfay heavy though, man, like ah’m pure wadin through treacle, he says, then lurches away from them.

Renton makes to follow, but Carl says, — Naw, leave um. Let Franco sort him oot. You have a needy client. Tell me about this Barça deal again.

Mark Renton cracks a smile and watches, with a malicious glee, as Spud Murphy lumbers, zombie-like, across the floor, towards Francis Begbie. The artsy entourage fussing over the star scatter like pins in a bowling alley, as Spud finds his target.

Franco greets him through clenched teeth. — Hi, Spud. Nice to see ye here. You sure ye feel good enough tae be oot though?

— Ah’m gaun hame now… ah just wanted tae see… this exhibition. This is likesay weird, Franco, Spud says, stroke-victim mouth flapping open, — like Hibs winnin the Cup or me losin ma kidney. It’s mental…

— The world throws up shocks, bud, Franco agrees. — The plates are shifting. It’s aw up for grabs, mate.

— Ah’m pleased fir ye though, Franco, dinnae git ays wrong…

— Ta, bud. Appreciate it.

—… Cause you’ve really changed, man… and you’ve likesay goat everything n ye pure deserve it.

— Thanks, Spud, nice ay ye tae say so, mate. The artist hauls in a deep breath, battling a fundamental resentment at being cast as Franco Begbie, fighting to keep grace in his voice. He was the artist Jim Francis, from California, here with his wife and his agent, for fuck sake. Why couldn’t they just let him be that? What the fuck was it to them?

— Aye, you’ve changed awright, Spud insists.

— Thanks, Franco repeats. He scans around the milling, chattering crowds, all their eyes on his paintings and pieces of sculpture. Except the doolally set in front of him. He looks for a potential upgrade on the company, and a sucker to entrust Spud to.

— Aye, you’ve no goat the same eyes, mind they killer’s eyes ye used tae huv? Spud demonstrates by trying to force his bug-eyes into slits. — Thaire’s just pure love in they eyes now.

— Again, thanks, Franco says through a locking jaw, waving to Melanie.

— Ah see it when ah see ye look at yir wife… n she’s tidy, Franco, if ye dinnae mind ays sayin likes. Spud feels a roll under his feet like the wooden floor is uneven, but he steadies himself. — She looks like she’s a kind person n aw, Franco… Great thing whin ye git a good-lookin lassie… that’s a kind person n aw. Did she make you a kinder person, Franco? Is that the answer? Love?

— I suppose it is, Spud. Frank Begbie feels his fist tighten on the glass of sparkling water in his hand.

— Ah hud love wi Alison. N it wis good… it wis the best ever. But ah couldnae keep it, likesay. How’s it you dae that, Franco… how’s it ye keep it?

— Dunno, mate. Luck, ah suppose.

— Naw it’s mair thin luck, Franco, Spud says, his voice cracking with sudden emotion, — it’s goat tae be poppy n aw. N success. Like you stumbled oan this hidden art talent. Ken? That’s ma problem, he laments, — nae talent tae speak ay.

Frank Begbie hauls in another breath. Sees the opportunity to introduce the levity he badly needs. — You were a decent housebreaker and no a bad shoplifter.

Spud shuts his eyes, opening them after a couple of beats, and takes in the strangeness of the room. — Aye, n ye ken whaire they talents took me, he says. — But you’ve done well, Mark’s done well, though we ey kent that, he went tae university, the lot, n Sick Boy… as long as there’s chicks tae exploit, he’s ey gaunny git by. But how did it happen tae you, Frank? How did Frank Begbie… how did Frank Begbie… come oot ay aw this as the cat that goat the cream?

— Look, mate, ah told ye, Franco says impatiently, — it just happens. Meet the right person at the right time, get a bit encouragement, find something ye like daein…

He is relieved when Martin approaches them. His agent is a very composed man, but his eyes are glazed and his pupils enlarged in excitement. He points to a big canvas on one of the walls. It depicts a man tied to railway tracks. — Blood on the Tracks, it’s been bought by Marcus Van Helden for one million, Jim! One painting!

— Quid or USD?

— Well, USD. But it’s more than twice the highest amount you’ve sold a single piece for!

— Gallery gets half, so that’s half a mil. You get a hundred grand, that’s four hundred thou. Taxman gets a hundred and fifty, that’s a quarter ay a million bucks, or aboot one hundred and eighty thousand quid.

Martin’s brow furrows. He struggles to understand his client’s mentality. What others were in receipt of seems to be of far more concern to him than his own substantial remuneration. — Well, that’s life, Jim…

— Aye, it is.

— It’s a single piece and it sets the bar high for your other work. It establishes you as a premium artist in the eyes of collectors.

— Suppose so, Jim Francis says without enthusiasm, as they move across to the picture, Spud staggering along behind them. The piece depicts a bloodstained figure bound to a railway line. — That pure looks like Mark, Spud sings excitedly.

— It does a bit, Franco grudgingly concedes, looking over at Renton by the decks. — I wisnae thinking ay him, though. Must have been subconscious.

— This art gallery, man… it’s awfay posh n gies ays the heebie-geebies just gaun in. So ah’ve goat this ketamine, n that’s the only wey ah kin git through it, Spud announces to Begbie and Martin, then suddenly lurches to the steel stairs.

Franco looks at Martin in semi-apology. — An old pal, fallen on somewhat hard times.

Instead of going down the stairs to the exit, Spud, his mind now succumbed totally to a blank limbo, lurches up to the vacant top floor. The room is the same as the one below, but it’s empty.

Where is everybody…?

He is scarcely aware that he is taking a fire hose from the wall. Starts to unravel it. Looks down at it. Throws it away. Turns it on at the tap, then wanders off, oblivious to it jumping over the floor like a demented snake, shooting out a high-pressure jet of water. He stumbles back to the fire escape, then feels himself falling downwards, but not safe like the DMT trip, and a javelin of panic skewers through the drug anaesthetic as he reflexively reaches out to arrest his decline, grabbing out at an exposed pipe, using it to steady himself. He is aware of gently sliding again, as it wrenches from the wall. Then it snaps. Spud tumbles down a few steps, and a river of cold water skooshes from the burst duct into the stairwell.

Assisted by the banister railing, Spud manages to pull himself to his feet. He descends the stairs, almost blind, following the music, nearly knocking over a server with a tray. People gasp and move aside as Renton runs from the decks to intercept. — Fuck sake, Spud. He grabs his friend’s scrawny shoulders, placing a glass of champagne in his hand.

— The system, Mark… it’s beat us aw, Mark.

— No, mate. We’re the undefeated. Fuck the system.

Spud lets out a high hyena-like laugh, as Renton helps him sit down in a chair by the decks. Carl N-Sign Ewart plays smooth, soulful house as the various associates of Franco – boxers, ex-football thugs, jailbirds, construction workers and taxi drivers – start to mingle with the genuinely libertine among the artsy crowd, while the poseurs make for the cloakroom, like Titanic passengers for the life rafts.

Renton is trying to coax a bored Conrad to play for a bit. He has the big headlining SSEC gig later. — It’s still early. Do a wee turn.

— They do not pay.

— A wee favour for your manager?

Conrad looks at Renton as if he’s crazy, but gets up to play anyway, Carl happily giving way for him. The overweight young Netherlander drops the first track to cheers, promoting his manager to slap his back. — Go on, the Dutch master!

Then Conrad shouts at Renton, — There is a girl who is hot. He points to a young woman, sipping water by the side of the dance-floor area. She has killer cheekbones and hypnotic ringed green eyes.

— Play. I’ll get you an intro. Are you going to showcase the new track?

— Invite her to come with me to the SSEC gig. If she comes, you do not need to go, he says with a grin, then cuts back to a petulant, reprimanding scowl. — You, and the world, will hear the new track when I am ready!

— Sound. Renton focuses on the positive; a get-out-of-jail-free card is in the post. As Conrad gets back to work, Renton and Carl go over to Juice Terry. He greets them with hugs. — The Milky Bar Kid is back in town! And the Rent Boy tae!

— I love you, Terence Lawson, Carl says.

— Lean Lawson! Did you go tae the final? Renton asks.

— Hud a fuckin ticket, ay, but ah ended up baw-deep in this tart.

— Nice one, Tez, Carl says.

— Aye, ah wis watchin the game oan the telly while pumpin it aw weys. Hud her ower the couch, then oan the bed tied tae the metal frame wi her ain Hibs scerfs. Best ay baith worlds. When those cunts went 2–1 up, ah kept up the pressure till Stokesy equalised. Still at her whin Gray goat the winner. Final whistle, ah jist punched the air n blew ma fuckin muck right up her! Best fuckin ride ah ever hud!

Renton laughs, then nods towards the object of Conrad’s desire. — Who’s that lassie?

— Used tae be a gangster’s pump, but ah got her ootay that and intae the scud, Terry says. He starts to tell Renton about some fairly recent gang war. A young team boss had perished, as did Tyrone and Larry, two old associates of Franco.

Renton, Carl and Juice Terry are joined by Sick Boy and the Birrell brothers – Billy ‘Business’ Birrell, the ex-boxer, and Renton’s old pal Rab, who wrote the script for the porno flick they made. Spud is still in the chair, head twisted, eyes rolling, drooling out the side of his mouth. Franco is close by with Melanie, chatting to some guests. — Can’t wait tae get home, Renton hears his old pal sing in an accent more Californian that Caledonian. But, he reasons, his own one is blanded out through living in Holland. Sick Boy has also picked up a dreary, poncey metropolitan ubiquity, though Leith was seeping back into his tones. Only Spud, he looks at the mess, crumpled into the seat beside the decks, is keeping it real.

Nobody notices that the ceiling has been bellying out. Sick Boy is avoiding the substantial cleavage that is being thrust in his face, looking over her shoulder at Marianne, who is wearing a blue dress. She arrived with a younger man and woman. Terry peels off the company and is straight over to her. He’s firing a volley of questions at her, the usual Lawson technique… — Excuse me, Sick Boy says to the busty woman, moving across the room to where Terry and Marianne are in conversation.

Renton watches him detach Marianne from an irate Terry, and lead her to the fire escape. Just as they disappear, the ceiling collapses and water cascades down.

— Save the work, screams Martin, pulling a painting from the wall.

Everybody freezes in amazement, then they rush to avoid the water and falling ceiling debris, or try to move the artwork. Frank Begbie remains impassive. — If there was a fire in a flat at Wester Hailes, wi a family trapped in a blaze, and the chance tae save them, the services would be called here tae save the art first. Ah dinnae git that.

— Jambo scheme, Renton says, — I get it.

While Franco laughs, Renton takes his opportunity. — One question, Frank, he coughs out exigently, — this money… the fifteen grand, why now? Why do ye want it back now?

Frank Begbie pulls Renton out of earshot from Melanie, who is helping Martin and an attendant remove Blood on the Tracks. — Well, after a bit ay mature reflection, I think you’re right. It’ll help us all move on. Get rid ay aw this shite aboot the past, ay?

— But… surely… ah boat they heids. For way ower the odds. That’s us mair than square.

— Naw, mate, you bought some art. It says so on the bill of sale. That’s goat fuck all tae dae with our debt.

— You’re no gaunny hit me with that… please, Frank, I’m struggling, mate, ah’ve got –

— I’m no hittin ye wi anything. I don’t do that any more. You stole fae us all; you eventually offered to pey it back. You peyed back Spud. You peyed back Sick Boy, only tae rip him off again.

— But I peyed him back again! Renton cringes at his own voice, a high, infantile shriek.

— Anyway, I decided that I didnae want tae touch that money. Then you tried tae manipulate me by buying the heids, which ye hud nae real interest in.

— I was trying tae get ye tae take what wis due tae ye!

— That wisnae the motive, Franco says, as sirens wail from outside. — You wanted tae feel better aboot yirsel. Tae square the account. The usual AA or NA shite.

— Does there need to be a dichotomy… a separation… Renton stammers, — a difference between the two, do they need to be apart?

— Ah ken what a fuckin dichotomy is, Franco snaps. — I told ye, I got past the dyslexia in the jail, and huvnae stopped reading since. Did ye think ah wis bullshitting ye?

Renton swallows his own patronising silence. — Naw… he manages.

— Prove that was your motive then. Prove that I entered intae yir calculations. Franco cocks his head to the side. — Make it right. Pey me my money back!

And Frank Begbie walks away, leaving Renton’s mind unspooling through time and across continents, as he stands in the chaos that Spud has created. The gallery owner looks on in a helpless loathing as Martin runs around with staff, removing the last of the pieces. Conrad is upset about the water in the DJing equipment, and is shouting loudly. Carl can’t get why, all that’s his are the headphones and the USB card. Firemen and plumbers arrive in almost indecent haste, as maintenance men go about their business and guests gasp, moan and chatter. Outside, a screeching drama queen of a fire alarm continues its beseeching appeal long after everything seems in hand. Renton is rooted to the spot, with one thought burning in his mind: Begbie knows I’m skint. He’s beaten me again. I can’t let that happen.

And then there is Sick Boy, who has cost him everything, egressing with Marianne. Begbie would have been happy with twenty grand for those heads, but Sick Boy, through Forrester, had set him up to clean him out. That was not acceptable.

30 SICK BOY – MARITAL AID

Begbie’s ridiculous exhibition was a must. I so craved seeing Renton’s upset pus, knowing that I had primed Mikey to fuck his finances by bidding up Franco’s useless work. Of course, the bronze head looks nothing like me. Yes, the defined cheekbones, solid chin and noble nose are present, but it fails to capture those swashbuckling pirate eyes. But Franco provided the bonus ball of the icing on the cake: the temperamental artiste decided that he wanted the drug money back after all! Salt in the Rent Boy wounds, and a deft touch I’d never have associated with Frank Begbie. Mikey informed me that Renton’s treacherous ginger pus was a treat! Pity I missed that.

At the gallery Renton keeps his distance, fronting nonchalance, but not trusting himself around me. He slopes about the decks with Ewart and his fat Dutch kid. But all this is just a welcome prelude to the main reason for turning up, the presence of Marianne, who floats into the exhibition like a willowy ghost in a blue dress. Mazzer is in the company of a young guy and woman; two good-looking but shallow and disposable cunts to be found behind the velvet rope in any overpriced George Street hole. Whether the young boy is a lover or the girl’s beau, he is effortlessly elbowed aside when Juice Terry hones in on her.

Time, therefore, suddenly becomes of the essence. I leave my unsavoury associates, and saunter over to them. — Terry… if you’ll excuse us a wee second. Marianne, we really need to talk.

— Oh, do we? She shoots me that look of cold derision, the one that always gets me right behind the baws. — You can fuck off.

— Aye, this can wait, ya cunt. Terry gies me the evil eye.

But Marianne isn’t taking hers off me. She’s heard my deceitfully seductive lines so often before. How many times can I do this? How many times can I make her believe? I’m feeling that power of pathos mashing me up inside, as I envision both of us being stricken down by a terminal disease, each with just months to live. A farrago of Bobby Goldsboro’s ‘Honey’ and Terry Jacks’s ‘Seasons in the Sun’ plays in my head as my voice goes low and deeply resonant. — Please, I say in a deathly plea, — this really is important.

— It had better be, she snaps, but I’m in the fucking game!

— Too right it better, Terry says in rage, as I take a reluctant Marianne by the hand and we depart for the fire escape. Lawson! Cock-blocked by Williamson! The rampant Stenhouse forward was through in on goal and seemed certain to score, but the Italian central defender, the Leith Pirlo, came from nowhere with that well-timed tackle!

On the fire-escape stairwell, she’s looking pointedly at me. — Well? What the fuck do you want?

— I can’t stop thinking about you. When you threw that drink in my face at Christmas –

— You fucking deserved it. And more! Treating me like shite!

I suck in more air and let myself shiver with cocaine withdrawal. — You know why I do that, don’t you? Why I’m drawn to you and then push you away?

She remains silent, but her eyes are popping like she’s been jacksie-rammed. Not by Euan’s paltry Presbyterian penis, but by a proper monster, the size of the Holy Papa’s staff. By an Italian stallion!

— Because I’m crazy about you, I say soberly. — Always have been, always will be.

— Well, you’ve got a funny way ay showin it!

Sloppy defending – presents a scoring opportunity! I raise my hand to her face, pushing aside the static hair to stroke her cheek, as I stare deeply into her eyes with my own moistening ones. — Because I’m fucking scared, Marianne! Scared of commitment, scared of love, and I let my hand fall to her shoulder and start to kneed. — You know that 10cc song ‘I’m Not in Love’? Where the guy sings that song, because he’s desperately in love, but vigorously trying to deny it? That’s my song for you, and I watch her face involuntarily ignite. — I’m that guy! Scared ay the intensity of the feelings I have for you.

— Oh fuck off, Simon –

— Look, you don’t want to hear it and I don’t fucking well blame you. I know what you’re saying to yourself: how has he suddenly got the balls to man up, and act on his fucking feelings? I look at her. — Well, the answer is you. You’ve stayed the course. You’ve believed in me. You’ve shown me love over the years, when I was too scared to give you it back. Well, no any more. Now I’m done with running and hiding, and I fall to my knees at her feet and whip out the ring. — Marianne Carr… I know you’ve changed your name, I add, forgetting her current moniker, — but you’ll always be that to me, will you marry me?

She looks down at me in total shock. — Is this for real?

— Yes, I tell her, and I break into a sob. — I love you… I’m sorry for all the hurt I’ve caused you. I want to spend the rest of my life making it up to you. This is as real as real ever gets, I say, imagining her repeating that line to a mate in some George Street wine bar. He sais that this is as real as real ever gits. — Please say yes.

Marianne gazes into me. Our souls melt together like pastels in a hot mouth – her hot mouth – and I’m thinking of the first time we fucked, when she was fifteen and I was seventeen (at that age classed as stoat rather than noncing), and all the decades I’ve seduced her – and been seduced by her – since then.

— God… the fucking mug I am but I believe you… Yes! Yes! she sighs, as a torrent of water comes tumbling down the stairs, soaking my legs and her feet.

— What the fuck? I stand up and there’s Renton. I glance down at the wetness on my trousers and then outstretch my arms. — Mark! Guess what! I just –

His head flies into my face –

31 RENTON – THE PAY-OFF

My forehead connects wi a sweet, satisfying crack oantae the bridge ay the cunt’s nose. He slams a hand on the railing, which rings like a gong doon the stairwell, but cannae prevent his fall. Watching the wanker tumble doonstairs, like one ay those auld toy slinkies, almost in instalments, is a beautiful sight. He comes tae rest in a crumpled heap oan the cold metal ay the fire-escape stair bend, soaked by the water cascading doon the steps. For a few seconds ay fear grips ays: I’m scared he’s been badly hurt in the fall. Marianne is doon tending tae him, hudin his heid up, as blood gushes fae his bent, cartoon-like nose, oantae his blue shirt n beige jacket. — Fuck sake, Mark, she screams up at ays, her eyes crazy wi rage.

I take a step forward. I’m bordering on penitence, till I hear him protest, — A cowardly attack… so undignified…

— That’s what a hundred and seventy-five grand feels like, ya cunt!

Marianne, teeth barred, nose tip red, roars at ays, — How could you do that?! I’ve no fucking feelings for you, Mark! That was a one-off! And after what you gave me?!

— I don’t… I –

Sick Boy staggers tae his feet. His nose looks crooked and misshapen. I feel uneasy again, as if I’ve found and then ruined a hidden treasure; in its newly-mangled state, it’s easy tae discern that formerly noble proboscis as a major source ay his charisma. Now the mess spills thick droplets ay claret down his garments and oantae the dimpled metal floor. His glassy eyes brim with focused rage, switching from me tae Marianne. — WHAT THE FUCK IS AW THIS ABOOT?

A bunch ay art worshippers tiptoe past us, tense and sheepish.

Does Marianne mean that I gave her… Vicky… fuck sake, I’ve probably gied Sick Boy a Bonnyrigg! It’s time tae make masel scarce. — I’ll leave you lovebirds tae work it all oot, I tell them, heading back intae the chaos. The door flies open, almost smacking ays in the face, as another school ay punters pass me, their feet splashing in the water.

Back in the exhibition space, everybody appears concerned but Begbie, who seems no tae gie a fuck about the possibility ay his artwork being damaged. Water still cascades doon the walls, but he’s standing back wi that satisfied smile he used to deploy eftir he’d just caused carnage in a pub or on the street. He’s gone fae being the uptight cunt who goes radge at nothing, tae the fucker who doesnae gie a toss aboot anything. I look for Conrad, only to have it confirmed that the obese young Dutch master did indeed vanish into the limo with the scud model, and down the M8 to his gig. Then I’m oot ay there, heading acroass tae the other exit, in order tae avoid Sick Boy and Marianne. I get oot through the departing crowds, into the still night, and walk back tae the hotel. I pass Spud, parked on the pavement, slumped over the handles and basket of his mobility scooter. He’s in a deep sleep. If I woke him now, I would put him in greater jeopardy as he’d try and drive the thing hame. Best to leave him, and I weave up and down the city’s medieval steepness tae my hotel room.

After a profound, satisfying slumber, I rise the next morning tae see Conrad sitting wi the green-eyed honey at the hotel breakfast. Anybody who thinks that wealth and fame are not aphrodisiacs should look at this wee beauty wi that blobby mess. I gie them a nod and smile, and sit alone, a couple ay tables apart from them. I loathe hotel buffet breakfasts, and order some porridge and berries off the menu. I get on the phone tae ma bank in Holland, checking on ma finances in increasingly exasperated Dutch and English, getting transferred between various specialist staff. I’m watching Conrad, as he leaves his girl three times during my convo to refuel; scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, black pudding, tattie scones (my fault, I oversold them tae him), beans, tomato, toast and bakery goods – pain au chocolat, croissant – and, almost perversely, a portion ay fresh fruit and yogurt. Then, as the model lassie slavers on aboot addiction, he’s horsed the lot and I’m still oan the line, trying tae work oot how they can pey me ma cash. Well, not just mine any more. I’m three grand short and have tae arrange an overdraft, but they gie ays the clearance on the money I’m owing Franco.

Now I need tae head ower tae the Scottish bank, where the wire transfer has been placed, quickly telling Conrad I have an emergency and will meet him back here in an hour tae get the Amsterdam flight. The bank is a trek down tae the New Town, and there’s nae cabs till the Mound, when I’m practically already there. They issue the poppy, the fifteen grand four hundred and twenty that Franco changed his mind aboot. This on top ay the other money I shelled oot for those fucking heids, soon tae be en route tae Amsterdam. It’s this smaller amount that’s cleaned ays oot. And for this yin, Franco refused tae gie bank details, demanding a cash payment. So I’m totally skint, and ma only assets are the Amsterdam and Santa Monica pads, one ay which I’ll probably now have tae sell. But Frank Begbie, or Jim Francis, or whatever the cunt calls himself, has issued the fucking challenge, and I’m rising tae it.

At my request I meet him at a cafe on George IV Bridge. He’s already there when I arrive, wearing shades and a blue Harrington, nursing a half-finished black coffee. I sit down wi my tea and slide the envelope across the table tae him. — It’s all there: fifteen grand, four hundred and twenty quid.

For a second ah think he might just laugh it off, n tell ays he wis takin the pish. But naw. — Nice one, he sais, pocketing the cash and rising. — I think this concludes our business, he goes, like a twat in a bad soap opera, and the cunt just walks oot the door withoot looking back.

Whatever’s in my chest cavity crystallises intae rock and sinks doon intae my gut. I feel mair than just betrayed. I realise that this was how Franco felt all these years ago, and he wanted me tae experience it: that total and complete sense ay rejection. Spurned. Disposable. Worthless. I really thought we were mair than that. But he did too, back then, in his ain fucked-up wey. So the cunt has beaten me, and he’s emerged victorious by confronting me with the shallow twat that I once was, or maybe still am. I don’t even know any mair. Ah ken fuck all.

Except the realisation that there’s nae wey I could ever have won. As well as my fear, it was my guilt: it bugged the fuck oot ay me ower the years. Franco’s willnae even exist tae gie him any sleepless nights. That cunt doesn’t care about other people. He’s still a psycho, just of a different type. No physically violent, but emotionally cold. That’s poor Melanie’s cross tae bear. At least I’m done with him. I’ve totally fucked masel in the process, but I’m finished with the cunt for good.

I sit back, aw hollowed oot but finally free, and check the emails on my phone. There’s one from Victoria’s friend, Willow…

Jesus fuck almighty…

I call Conrad, citing a personal emergency. He’s surly about it, but that’s just too fucking bad, he’ll have tae travel alone back tae Amsterdam. I book a flight tae Bristol and a rail ticket tae Salisbury.

32 TAKING THE SHOT

It’s job done and the enriched and satisfied Jim Francis allows himself to relax, enjoying his debut first-class flight. They certainly spoil you. It will be hard now to go back to economy. But he refuses the complimentary drinks proffered by the smiling air hostess. He thinks about how free bevvy could turn any occasion into a potential bloodbath. The bloated, tomato-faced businessman sitting in front of him, obnoxious and entitled, so demanding of the stewardess. A face that would burst open under just one punch. And those capped, whitened teeth, so easily loosened by a well-executed hook to the jaw. Maybe a chiv, like a conductor’s baton, rammed into that liver-spotted neck, drinking the shock in his bulging eyes as that rich blood jetted across the cabin from his carotid artery. The screams and shrieks of raw panic, that orchestra Jim Francis, no, Francis Begbie, would extol to such efforts by his deeds.

Sometimes he misses a peeve.

It’s still a long flight, though. Protracted and exhausting as always. A first-class seat makes it more bearable, but it doesn’t change what it is. He feels its reductive power. Drying him out. The jail was healthier. How do people live like this? Renton: never off fucking planes.

Melanie, sitting next to him, is uncharacteristically edgy. This concerns Jim Francis, as he both admires and draws strength from his wife’s natural calm and serenity. While he watches his movie, he feels her eyes going from her Kindle to his profile. — What are you thinking about, Jim?

— The kids, Jim turns to her. — Looking forward to seeing them. I don’t like being away from them, even for a few days. I feel that I want to drink in every second of them growing up.

— I’m scared shitless about bringing the girls back home from Mom’s, knowing that he’s still stalking us.

— He’ll have calmed down, Jim says evenly, as a vision of the purple-faced Harry, swinging from the hose-noose, tongue protruding obscenely, flashes through his brain. — Besides, we still have the tape. He’ll behave himself, see the error of his ways, get some treatment. I thought he said he was doing AA.

— I’m not so sure.

— Hey! You’re the liberal, meant to see the best in people, he laughs. — Don’t let one pathetic, weak radge undermine your belief system!

But Melanie isn’t in the mood to be teased. — No, Jim, he’s obsessed! He’s mentally ill. Her eyes widen. — We could move down to LA. New York even. Miami. There’s a great art scene there…

— Naw, he’s no gaunny make us run, Jim Francis says coldly, in a voice that concerns them both, as it’s one from a past that they both know so well. He quickly switches to bland transatlantic, contending, — We’ve done nothing wrong, I’ve done nothing wrong. Santa Barbara is your home. It’s my home.

It certainly has been an eventful trip back to Scotland. Renton, trying to be fucking wide by purchasing the Leith Heads. Well, he got them alright, at a price! Be careful of what you wish for, Rent Boy! Jim permits his triumphant relaxation to meld into drowsiness through his in-flight entertainment choice, Chuck Ponce’s Gulf War movie, They Did Their Duty, the one Spud recommended.

Ponce plays a Navy Seal who bursts out of an Iraqi prison, coming across an encampment in the desert where a team of aid workers are held hostage by the enemy. He infiltrates the stockade, only to find out that the elusive weapons of mass destruction are stored there. He falls for one of the aid workers, played by Charmaine Garrity. There follows a strong action sequence with the actor depicted hanging from the wing of a plane, proving Chuck had a head for heights. But in real life it was essential to have those green screens, safety harnesses and stunt doubles. Jim dozes off just after Chuck’s most memorable line, where he drawls to an Iraqi general, — You can tell your boss, Mr Saddam Hussein, that this American does not like sand in his turkey and has kinda got his heart set on getting these good people home for Thanksgiving!

At the airport, they retrieve the station wagon from the long-stay park, and Jim takes the wheel on the two-hour stretch out to Santa Barbara. Picking up their daughters and Sauzee, the French bulldog, from Melanie’s mother’s place, they gratefully continue on. Melanie drives this leg, with Jim in the front passenger seat. Grace is delighted to be with them, as is the younger Eve, but she fixes Jim in a reprimanding stare. — I don’t like it when you go away, Daddy. It makes me angry.

Jim Francis looks round at his daughter. — Hey, Snottery Sleeve! When things make you angry, you know what you do?

Eve shakes her head.

— Pull in a very deep breath and count to ten. Can you do that?

The child nods, closing her eyes and aggressively filling her lungs with air. Melanie and Jim exchange a smile as the station wagon leaves Highway 101.

That night, after they put the kids to bed, and fatigue begins to creep up on them, Melanie, sitting with her husband on the couch, squeezes his hand and declares, — I’m so proud of you. You’ve come so far. It’s not the money, even though it opens doors for us. We really can go anywhere now.

— I like it here, Jim stresses. — Santa Barbara’s a great town. The kids love it. They love to see your folks. Grace is getting on great at the school, Eve will be there soon. Don’t worry about Harry, he’ll come to his senses. And we’ve got the tape.

Harry was good at stakeouts. He’d felt anxious and excited in equal measure when he learned that the Francis family had returned. He hadn’t dared to go back to the house, but had waited outside the older girl’s school till it was finally Melanie, not the kid’s grandmother, who picked her up. Harry drove back to circle the neighbourhood, where he found that Jim was also present. He risked a glimpse in the rear-view mirror as he passed, and saw him, deathly still, as he supervised a shitting puppy on the front lawn. Turning onto the slip road that snaked above the block of houses where the Francis home was situated, Harry then pulled up. Vaulting over the barrier, into the forested verge that sloped towards the backyard of the target dwelling in that cul-de-sac, he scrambled down the bank, the leather bag containing the assault rifle slung across his back. From above, he could still hear the rumble of the traffic on the freeway. Keeping his distance behind a small oak, shielded in some thick foliage, he found an ideal station.

Taking out his rifle and assembling it, Harry attached the sights. His heartbeat pumped up when he saw to his amazement that his quarry was now in the backyard! Harry scoped Jim Francis, as he bent down to pick up one of the kids, the younger, more demanding child. To his shock and cold revulsion, he found himself moving the sights down past Francis, onto the chubby head of his young daughter. That was the shot that would hurt Francis, and her, Melanie, the most. The urge to just squeeze made him giddy and he felt the rifle shaking as, with a concentrated effort of willpower, he unhooked his finger from the trigger.

No no no…

Not the children. And not Francis either, at least not until Melanie was forced to confront what he was. Until he confessed to her about those men he’d slain on the beach. Killing was easy. But it was a poor compromise. True vengeance, total justice and complete redemption, those were the building blocks of grace, and Harry had to strive for them.

He again focused on Francis, as the kid ran into the house. His prey was looking off into the distance. Even from this range, and with Harry having the power of death trained on him, there was still something about this motherfucker that gave him the creeps. He felt the phantom constriction round his throat, and the rising of his heartbeat was real enough.

Maybe just take that shot…

The sun was almost overhead. Soon the lens of the scope would glint through the bushes, and Francis would pick it up on his blazing, swivel-eyed radar. Harry lowered the weapon, bagged it up and threw it across his shoulder. Clambering up the slope, he pulled himself back over the barrier to the slip road. Got in the car and drove onto the freeway.

The behaviour of his nemesis had convinced Harry that there was now only one way to resolve this. When he struck, it would be decisive, and Jim Francis would be no more. But that alone wasn’t enough. She would know, oh yes, Melanie would know, exactly what she had married, what a tawdry and pathetic lie her life was.