Dead Men's Trousers

33 RENTON – VICTORIA’S SECRET

The train rolls into Salisbury Station. I’m exiting, saying my farewell tae two young squaddies I chatted wi on the short journey fae Bristol. We were swapping stories and I told them about my brother, blown up in Northern Ireland three decades ago. I felt instantly bad about that disclosure, as it left them oan a bit ay a downer. The older ye get the harder ye have tae fight against being socially inappropriate, becoming mair prone tae narcissistic emotional outbursts. They were nice lads and the fact that they’re in soldier uniform is constant proof that a nation state isnae a kind construct if you urnae rich.

I’m nervous as I’d got no reply after texting Victoria to tell her I wis en route tae Salisbury, and what train I was coming off. I said ah’d see her later at the crematorium. I’m thinking that Willow maybe read this all wrong and the guy who gave her a dose ay the John Knox is the last person she wants tae see at her sister’s funeral. But tae ma surprise, she’s waiting there, on the station platform. She now looks smaller, older and frightened. Circumstance has stripped the vivaciousness fae her. The Californian sun-bleached blonde hair is already fading tae a murky Blighty brunette. She seems both surprised and relieved when ah take her in ma airms and hold her. It was either that or touch her hand and say something too cold. — Oh, Vic, I’m so sorry, I gasp intae her ear, and her tense body relaxes in my embrace, telling me it was the right move. And tae think I had rehearsed clichéd shit like ‘how are you bearing up?’ So irrelevant, as the tears streaming doon her cheeks and her choking sobs provide aw the requisite information. It’s like hugging a pneumatic drill workmen use tae dig roads. But aw I can do is hud oan till they subside a little, then whisper in her ear aboot getting tea.

She looks up, her eyes wet. She wisely hasnae worn mascara. Her lips curl doon in an oddly childlike parody ay misery, which ah’ve never seen fae her before. I take her airm, and as we exit the red-bricked Victorian station, the first thing ah see is the beautiful spired cathedral, which dominates the toon. She takes me tae a touristy tea room on a winding shopping street. It’s a fussy wee low-ceilinged joint, where two women, one an older, determinedly manageress type, the other a younger trainee, are chatting and busying themselves behind the counter. I order some tea and scones, and we sit doon away fae the windae, at Vicky’s urging. Of course: she’ll no want tae display herself tae her home toon in this frame ay mind. — You didn’t need to come down here for me, Mark, she says plaintively, her voice breaking.

— Maybe we’re just going to have to agree to disagree on that one, I tell her. Fuck me, I would take on aw the pain in the world right now, just tae alleviate one moment ay her throttling sadness. I can’t believe I left it so long to see her.

— I’m so sorry, she says, fighting back tears, as her hand reaches across the table and fastens onto mine. — This is so stupid and horrible, and yeah, so fucking embarrassing. She forces a big breath into her lungs. Her voice still seems so small, like it’s coming fae somewhere much deeper inside her than is normal. — I was kind of seeing somebody for a while, this guy Dominic… She halts as the younger lassie nervously approaches wi the tea and scones I ordered, setting them doon oan the table. I smile at her, catching the disapproving eye ay the manageress, who looks at ays as if ah intend tae pimp the girl oot.

As she leaves, Vicky continues. — Dominic and I weren’t exclusive, but you know that… and he didn’t look after himself…

Fuck… I don’t believe it… Not Vicky, no my English Rose… my English Bonnyrigg Rose…

—… You were away, and we hadn’t really talked, like defined where we were going with all this, she looks downcast, —… I felt a vibe, but I worried that I was being presumptuous…

Fucking hell, man, what the fuck… The tea room is so frightfully English, with its drapes, cluttered faux-country artefacts, and delicate bone-china cups and saucers. I feel like we’re two sticks ay Semtex in a decorative cake tin. — We really don’t need tae do this now, honey, I tell her, but I know she couldnae stop if she wanted tae.

Vicky shakes her head and smiles tightly, no really hearing ma intervention. — Anyway, he gave me something, brought me a present back from Thailand… She looks up at me.

This is so hard for her tae say. It’s horrible seeing her like this, but if she only knew how much ay a relief it also is for ays tae hear this, thinking it was me who had given the present tae her.

— This really was before you and I got properly… well, whatever we got, she chews on her lower lip. — I didn’t know, Mark. I gave it to you, right? I did. I’m so sorry.

I slide my chair round next tae Victoria’s, pulling her to me, my arm around her shoodirs. — It’s just one ay those things, babe. A quick visit tae the doc’s, a week on the antibiotics and it was gone. It’s no important.

— It’s the first time in my life I’ve ever picked up an STD. Honestly, she says, gaping lamps, the palm ay her hand literally on her heart.

— Unfortunately I can’t say the same, I confess, — though it has been a while. But as I say, these things happen. And I cannae point any fingers at you, for going with somebody else. My instinct is tae run when feelings start tae get intense in that way.

— You said you were with that woman, Katrin, for quite a while. You’re maybe not as much a commitmentphobe as you think, she says generously.

— That was an emotionally barren relationship, and it probably suited ays at the time, I tell her, glancing at the manageress looking at me like I’m a Rottweiler who has just shat on the lawn ay her country garden. — Then Alex came along, and he had certain needs, so I stuck around way too long, trying tae make it work.

— I wish you weren’t so nice about this… I mean, you give a guy a dose of the clap and he says it’s not important… but I know it was. I know that’s why you didn’t get in touch.

— No… I saw somebody else too, I admit. — From my own past. It was nothing, and as you say, terms were never defined, but I thought that I’d given it tae you.

— Oh God, what a pair we are, she gasps in something like relief. I’m wondering if she believes what I’ve said or thinks I’m just making it up tae help her feel better. — How did you… did Willow… does she know about the STD?

— Yes, she did, and no, she doesnae ken aboot the Maria von Trapp. As I said, these things happen. It was just a daft wee accident. Your sis, honey… that’s the real deal. I’m so sorry. I squeeze Victoria tighter. Then a juddering bolt surges right through ays as Marianne and Emily gatecrash intae ma thoughts and ma fingers painfully intertwine with hers.

— You’re really are a nice guy, Mark, Vicky says, tearing me away fae my ain pulsing angst. This is a fucking roller coaster. I cannae even speak. I thought getting older would make things easier. Does it fuck.

Her big haunted blue eyes. I want tae swim in them. I’m barely reacting tae the worst compliment you can gie tae somebody like me: a nice guy. Tae my Leith lugs, it’s always a euphemism for a sap, even if she doesnae mean it that way. Sometimes ye have tae step past yourself. Past aw those voices you’ve always heard in your heid. All the shite that you’ve let define ye: that ignorance, certainty and reticence. Because it’s fuckin crap, all of it. You’re nothing but a work-in-progress until that day you fall out of this world into the land ay dead men’s trousers. — I love you.

Vicky lifts her head, and looks at me, joy and pain bursting out through her tears. A snottery bubble explodes from one nostril. I pass her a napkin. — Oh, Mark, thank you for saying it first! I missed seeing you so much. Christ, I love the shit out of you, and I thought I’d blown it!

I’m fuckin useless at receiving praise and this is as high as it gets. I respond wi humour, tae reduce the unbearable tension and the strangulating rapture inside ay me. — If you’re referring to your nose, then yes, you just did. If you mean you and me, I’m afraid you’re no getting away that easily.

Vicky puts her beautiful, reddish, blubbering face onto mine and her lips send soul-scorching kisses through me. I can taste the salty discharge fae her beak, trickling over our lips, and I love it. We sit there for ages, oblivious even tae the undoubted scrutiny ay the manageress, and talk about her sister. Hannah died in a car crash in Dubai, where she was on a break fae her duties working for an overseas aid organisation in Africa. A driver in a car in the opposite lane went into cardiac arrest, lost control and smashed intae her head-on, killing her instantly. Ironically, he survived, and was resuscitated with minor injuries. Vicky looks at her watch, and ye sense that she’s been putting it off. — We should make our way to the crematorium, she says.

I pay the young lassie, leaving a decent tip. She smiles appreciatively, as the manageress tracks our departure, her face set in Thatcherite cheerlessness. Ootside, we walk through the Queen’s Gardens, along the grassy banks ay the River Avon. — It’s pretty cool here. Wish thaire wis time tae see Auld Sarum and Stonehenge.

— Honey, we are going to have to continue this romance in LA, because your accent has gotten so thick, I can barely understand you, and she laughs and my soul ignites.

— It has, hasn’t it? Been back a lot lately, seeing some old pals.

— I’m dreading seeing mine, cause they were Hannah’s friends too.

Fuck me, ah wish ah could take her pain, but that’s the narcissistic element ay love talking. It’s no yours tae take. All you can dae is be there.

It’s maybe a crass thing tae say, but wi its big chessboard walls oan the main building and the tower, Salisbury has the coolest crematorium ah’ve ever seen. As the mourners acknowledge each other, I leave Vicky tae her grim meet-and-greet duties. An attendant, noting me taking in the architecture, explains that Scandinavians designed the facility. Tae me it feels uplifting rather than morose, reminding me ay the DMT trips, like a launchpad tae the next life. Nonetheless, the funeral is shite, as the untimely death ay a young person always is. I obviously didnae ken Hannah, but the outpouring ay grief and torment is real enough tae evidence a pretty amazing and deeply loved woman. They talk about Hannah’s VSO work, culminating in NGO stuff in Ethiopia and Sudan, then working for a human rights charity based in London. The sort ay person a total wanker, that never did a thing for anybody in their lives, least of all themselves, would dismiss as a do-gooder. — I wish I’d known her. I kind of miss not knowing her, I tell Vicky.

Instead I get tae meet Victoria’s remaining family and her friends. Her mum and dad, the dimmed life-essence in their eyes set in ashen pallor, have had everything ripped out ay them, and are clearly broken. I’ve lost two brothers and my ma but I still feel it doesn’t give me a notion of the kind ay road they have tae go down in order tae get back tae any sort ay normality. Vicky helps, and they cling tae her like limpets. They can see the bond between us and don’t seem tae be unhappy about it. They probably wish I was a bit younger. Fair enough, I feel the same way.

As funerals do, it made ays think ay the people I know. How I have tae make mair time for them. It takes practically two minutes to put this resolution tae the test as I switch my phone back on after the service at the chapel of rest. I’m rereading that old email from Victoria. She wisnae ditching me, she was assuming I was ditching her because she gied me a dose. I then see three missed calls from an Edinburgh landline number. My first thought is: my dad. He’s healthy, but he’s no young any more. Things can change so quickly. When the same number goes again, I pick up as I watch Vicky and her parents shake hands wi the departing mourners.

— Mark, it’s Alison. Alison Lozinska.

— I know who you are, Ali. I recognise the voice. How are ye?

— Good. But it’s Danny.

— Spud? How is he?

— He’s gone, Mark. He died this morning.

Fuck.

No Spud.

No my snottery-nosed old comrade in misadventure… Berlin… What the fuck…

I’m feeling bits ay masel breaking off inside. No believing a word ay it. Not fucking having it. — But… he was getting better…

— It was his heart. They said it was weakened after the poisoning, following that kidney donation.

— But… oh fuck… how is your son, the name pops into my head, — how is Andy taking it?

— He feels terrible, Mark, he thinks he should have tried to help his dad more.

— He couldnae be Spud’s parent, Ali, it’s not on him.

Ali is silent for such a long while, I’m wondering if she’s hung up. As I go to speak, her voice starts again. — I’m just glad Danny did something so good wi his life, donating that kidney tae save that bairn.

This is obviously the narrative that’s been spun, so I’m fucked if I’m ruining it. – Aye, it was a great thing he did. How did he — what happened?

— He had a big heart attack a few days back. That almost did him, and the doctors telt him that a second yin was in the post. Listen, Mark, Danny left something for ye. A package.

— I’ll be back up tomorrow, I say as I see Vicky coming towards me. — Strangely enough, I’m at a funeral right now, down in England. I have tae go. Ah’ll call you later and see ye the morn.

I’m instantly at one wi the funeral party. No longer a tourist in their grief, but stewing in my ain bubble ay numbness. We head back into town, tae the King’s Head Inn for the reception, which, in my distraction, I can’t fucking well stop calling the after-party. I’ve been in clubland too long. Following a bit of small talk, Vicky says tae ays, — I need some air. Come and walk down Fisherton Street with me.

— Anywhere you want tae go, I tell her, taking her hand.

When we get outside, I start talking about Spud. I instantly apologise, telling her that I realise this isnae his or my time, but I just heard it and it’s hit ays hard. She takes it well, pulling me intae the doorway ay a wool shop, and wrapping her airms roond ays and squeezing. I whisper, — I’m not going to say I know how you feel, because I don’t. My brother Billy and I had a very different relationship fae the one you had with Hannah. But we were young when I lost him. I’d like to think we’d have been closer now, had he lived, I tell her. I can’t believe my own ears. I don’t understand why I’m mourning Billy now, after all these fucking years, as much as Spud. I’m snivelling thinking about them, and old mates like Tommy, Matty and Keezbo too.

— Hannah and I fought loads, she laughs. — We were only a year apart and had the same taste in boys. Can you imagine?

As we press on down the street, I’m thinking that Billy and me never really had the same taste in girls, although ah did fuck his pregnant fiancée in the toilet after his funeral. I rub my eyes as if trying tae erase the memory. Aye, I definitely would class that as iffy behaviour. Then Vicky suddenly shudders, as if reading my thoughts, but she’s reacting tae something else. It’s two girls, giggling, playful, walking down the shopping street of narrow white buildings. Probably going to a bar or somewhere else on that trail she and Hannah regularly traversed as teens, or when they returned home to catch up. Every gurgling fountain of their girlish laughter must be a devastating blow to her right now.

I stay the night at Victoria’s parents, sleeping with her in a single bed. It isn’t actually her old one, she explains; that was thrown out when they got the room done up, about a decade ago now. I tell her that Dad still has my room pretty much the same as when I left it, even though I never considered it home after the Fort. We whisper and kiss and make love tenderly, both having tested clear from chlamydia after the three months. It’s hard tae leave her the next day, I want us tae be together until we both go back tae California, but her parents need her time more than ah do right now. I can’t face even a short flight, so ah take the long train ride up tae Edinburgh, reasoning that it will gie me mair time tae think.

When I get intae the city early evening, I head tae my dad’s, letting myself in wi the spare key. He isnae in, it’s the night he goes tae the Dockers Club with some auld mates. His routine is etched into my consciousness from a million phone calls. Fuck knows how he would have reacted had he seen the contents ay the Sellotaped brown-paper package Alison brings round.

Alison looks quite different. She has put on weight, but carries it with an almost luxuriant swagger. Underneath her upset about Spud, she has an underlay of contentment. She was always a vivacious soul, though one permanently on the run from a dark cloud that hovered above her. That seems to have gone.

I contemplate the brown package on my lap. — Shall I open it now?

— No, Ali says urgently. — He said it was for your eyes only.

I put it under the bed and we head out tae the big Wetherspoons at the Fit ay the Walk for a drink. Ali’s done alright; went tae university as a single parent to study English, then Moray House, and now teaches at Firhill High School. Yet she doesnae see this as a triumph. — I’m massively in debt and will be forever, in an incredibly stressed job that’s killing me. And everybody tells me how successful I am, she chuckles.

— The only successful people are the one per cent. The rest ay us are just fighting over the crumbs those bastards spill fae the table. And their media are constantly telling us it’s all good, or it’s our ain fault anyway. Probably right about the second: ye get the pish ye put up wi.

— For fuck sake, Mark, this convo is depressing the fuck out ay me, ah hear it in the staffroom every day!

I take the point. Nae sense in dwelling on the world’s shit, even though it’s pilling up mair every day. — Hibs won the Cup! Impossible not tae believe in the revolutionary, transformative potential ay the human citizenry in such circumstances!

— My brother was on the pitch. He’s worried cause he’s already on a life ban from Easter Road. I’m glad Andy never had much interest in football. It’s like everything else in working-class culture now, a route tae jail for doing practically nothing.

— Now who’s the depressing yin? I laugh. She joins in, and it rolls years off her face.

It’s great to see Ali again, and we have a decent drink, both a little tipsy when we leave. We exchange emails and swap hugs and kisses. — See ye at the funeral, I say.

She nods and I head down Great Junction Street. This stretch of Leith has struggled since as long as I recall; my auld girl and Auntie Alice taking ays up to the Clocktower Cafe in Leith Provy Co-op for juice; the auld State Cinema, long closed, where I watched the matinees on Saturday with Spud and Franco; Leith Hospital, where I got my first stitches, above my eye, after some cunt smashed the swing seat in my pus at the playground. All ghost buildings. Crossing over the bridge at the river, a place of phantoms.

Dad’s still out, the boozy auld fucker, so I open the package.

On top, a card. It just says:

The card sits on a pair of jeans. Levi’s. 501s. Washed and folded. My first thought is: what the fuck, and then I see it all. The Nick Kamen advert. Billy getting dressed in them, pulling them on, the cool stud who fancied himself, going out tae fuck Sharon or some other wee bird. While me, the reluctant virgin, lay on my bed, reading the NME, thinking aboot the lassies fae the school, and ma burning desire to pop ma cherry up the goods yard. Where no goods trains had run through for years. Willing the posing cunt tae leave so that I could pull the end oaf it tae the images of Siouxsie Sioux and Debbie Harry, kindly provided by IPC magazines.

Then my mum, storming in fae the drying green, teary mascara eyes like Alice Cooper, screaming, speaking her first words I remember since Billy’s death, about how they’ve taken everything, they’ve even taken ma bairn’s jeans…

Spud had kept them all this time. Couldnae even flog them or gie them away. Too shamed tae hand them back, the sentimental snowdropping gyppo cunt. I could see him in my mind’s eye, sitting shivering with junk withdrawal in a back pew at St Mary’s Star ay the Sea, watching ma old girl light another candle for Billy, maybe overhearing her say, Why did they have tae take his clathes, his jeans…?

Billy was always a thirty-four, me a thirty-two. I’m thinking that they bastards’ll fit me now. — Who knows the mystery ay the Murphy mind, I muse. Ah cannae tell Ali aboot this, at least no now. It’s her son’s dad.

Then, the packet underneath the jeans. I open it up. It’s a thick manuscript, typed, with some handmade corrections. Astonishingly, it’s written in the same style of my old junk diaries, the ones I always thought I might do something with one day. In that sort of Scottish slang that takes a wee while tae get on the page. But after a few pages of struggle I realise that it’s good. Fuck me, it’s very good. I lie back on my pillow, thinking about Spud. I hear my auld man come in, so I put the chunky document under the bed, go through and greet him.

We put the kettle on and talk about Spud, but I can’t tell him about Billy’s jeans. When he turns in, I find sleep impossible, and I need to converse more, to share all this grim news. I can’t talk to Sick Boy. It’s pathetic, but I just can’t. For some reason the only person I can think ay telling the now is Franco, no that he’ll gie a fuck. But ah send him a text for old times’ sake:

No good way of saying this, but Spud died this morning. His heart gave out.

The fucker bats it right back at me:

Too bad.

And that’s the extent tae which he cares. What a first-class cunt. I’m enraged, and I text Ali to tell her.

A charitable response comes back immediately:

It’s just his way. Go to bed. Goodnight. x

34 THE FORT VERSUS THE BANANA FLATS

The sun beams obstinately in the cloudless sky, as if offering any potential troublemakers planning to drift in from the North Sea or the Atlantic a pre-emptive square go. Summer has bubbled its usual promise, but now there are signs of real traction. The old port of Leith seems to sprawl in heat’s lazy vulgarity around the churchyard of St Mary’s Star of the Sea, from the run-down 1970s Kirkgate shopping centre and flats on one side, to the dark lung of dock-bound Constitution Street on the other.

Despite the grimmest of circumstances, Mark Renton and his girlfriend Victoria Hopkirk are powerless to resist a nervy onset of levity occasioned by her first meeting with Davie Renton. Mark’s father has never set foot inside the Catholic church. As a Glasgow Protestant, he initially resented it on ecclesiastical grounds, but when his stubborn sectarianism finally started to wane, he grew to see it as a rival for his wife’s affections. It was his Cathy’s place of refuge, indicative of a life he couldn’t share, a competitor. Guilt wracks him, as it all seems so trivial now. To calm his nerves Davie has taken one nip too many. On seeing his son, in the churchyard with his English, American-based girlfriend, he undertakes a rakish Bond impression, kissing Vicky’s hand and stating, — My son never showed good taste in women, then adding the waspish punchline, — until now.

It is so ludicrous they both laugh out loud, forcing Davie to join in. However, this reaction excites a chastising look from Siobhan, one of Spud’s sisters, and they rein in their mirth. They greet the other mourners sombrely, filing into the church. In the icon-laden camp palace of unreformed Christianity, Victoria is struck by the contrast to her sister’s cremation. In the coffin, the body of Daniel Murphy lies out on display in an open casket, in preparation for the full requiem Mass.

Renton can’t avoid running into Sick Boy, who is present with Marianne. After a terse nod of acknowledgement, they are silent. Each wants to speak, but neither can bypass the powerful saboteur of pride. They studiously avoid meeting each other’s eyes. Renton registers that Vicky and Marianne have exchanged glances, and is keen to keep them at a distance.

They file past the coffin. Renton notes uneasily that Daniel Murphy looks positively wholesome, better than he’s done in about thirty years – the undertakers deserve a medal for their craft – the Hibs scarf he found at Hampden folded on his chest. Renton thinks of the DMT trip, and wonders where Spud is. It brings home how life-changing that experience was, as he’d previously simply have thought of him as completely extinguished; like Tommy, Matty, Seeker and Swanney before him. Now he genuinely doesn’t know.

The priest gets up and gives a standard speech, Spud’s extended family shivering under the meagre psychic comfort blanket he provides. The proceedings are uneventful, until Spud’s son, Andy, gets up into the polished pulpit to make a testimony to his father.

To Renton, Andrew Murphy looks so like a young Spud, it’s uncanny. The voice coming from him instantly undermines this impression though, a more educated, blander Edinburgh, with a hint of north of England. — My dad worked in furniture removals. He liked that manual labour, loved the optimism people felt when they were moving into a new home. As a young man, he was made redundant. A whole generation were, when they shed all the manual jobs. Dad wasn’t an ambitious man, but in his own way he was a good one, loyal and kind to his friends.

At these words, Renton feels an unbearable tug in his chest. His eyes glass over. He wants to look at Sick Boy, who is sitting behind him, but he can’t.

Andrew Murphy continues. — My dad wanted to work. But he had no skills or qualifications. It was important to him that I got an education. I did. Now I’m a lawyer.

Mark Renton looks to Alison. Through her tears, she glows with pride at her son’s performance. Who, he thinks, will provide a testimony to him? Thinking of Alex, something catches in his throat. When he’s gone, his son will be alone. He feels Vicky’s hand squeezing his.

Andrew Murphy changes the mood. — And in a few years, maybe five, maybe ten, I’ll be as redundant as he ever was. The lawyer will be gone, like the labourer before him. Made obsolete by big data and artificial intelligence. What will I do? Well, then I’ll find out just how much like him I am. And what will I say to my child, he points at his girlfriend, her belly swollen, — in twenty years’ time, when there are no labourers’ or lawyers’ jobs? Do we have a game plan for all this, other than wrecking our planet in order to give away all its wealth to the super-rich? My father’s life was wasted, and yes, a lot of it was his own fault. Still more of it was the fault of the system we’ve created, Andrew Murphy contends. Renton can see the priest tense up to the point where the pressure in his arsehole could crush a solar system. — What is the measure of a life? Is it how much they’ve loved and been loved? The good deeds they’ve done? The great art they’ve produced? Or is it the money they’ve made or stolen or accumulated? The power they’ve exerted over others? The lives they’ve negatively impacted upon, cut short or even taken? We need to do better, or my father will soon seem a really old man, because we’ll all start dying again before we reach fifty.

Renton thinks about Spud’s manuscript. How Spud’s life wasn’t all wasted. How he sent it off to that publisher in London, with some minor modifications. He imagines he can feel Sick Boy’s gaze, rapacious, on the back of his neck. However, his old friend and nemesis has averted his eyes to the floor. Sick Boy fights down a poignant, undermining reasoning that significance in life is only found in relationships with others, and we’ve been cruelly hoaxed into believing that it’s all about us. A pain is intensifying behind his eyeballs, a sour sickness curdling in his guts. It shouldn’t be like this; Spud dead, Begbie absent, him and Renton estranged. He’s trying to convince himself that he tried to save Spud but his friend was let down by two people: his brother-in-law Euan McCorkindale, and brothel-keeper Victor Syme. — They fucking killed Spud, he raises his head and whispers to Marianne, — that two who urnae here.

— Begbie?

— No, not Begbie. Sick Boy scans the mourners. — Euan. He shat out of doing his duty as a doctor, couldnae even stop Spud getting infected. And I reunited that cunt with my sister!

‘Sunshine on Leith’ strikes up as the mourners rise and file past the coffin, paying their last respects. Spud, strangely, scarily, doesn’t even look deceased. There isn’t that lifeless, soulless, toneless quality dead bodies generally have. He looks like he could spring up and demand an ecky, Sick Boy thinks. He crosses himself as he looks at his friend’s face for the last time, and heads outside the church, lighting up a cigarette.

He overhears a conversation between Mark and Davie Renton, and Renton’s girlfriend, whom he annoyingly finds exceptionally fit. He’s surprised that she’s English, rather than American. When he hears his old rival mutter something about his flight to LA, he cringes, and steers Marianne away. Renton will make the money back, he bitterly considers, scum rises to the top. Of course, Syme wouldn’t show his face, but Sick Boy is disappointed at Mikey Forrester’s absence.

Marianne asks him about attending the reception at the hotel on Leith Links, where the mourners are all heading. — No, I’ll spare myself the bleatings of victim plebs. Embittered anger and self-pitying grief love a spurious mission, and pissing it up with losers now has zero appeal. You move forward in life or you don’t move at all, he scoffs as they head into the Kirkgate. — Even the church was almost unbearable, despite the palatial holy surroundings. The Murphy family, though, they always did embrace the wrong elements of Catholicism. To me the only part that makes sense is confession, emptying the sin bin when it gets full, to make room for new, incoming ones.

— His son gave a really nice speech, Marianne observes.

— Aye, a bit too close to communism for the old priest, decidedly not a liberation theologist.

She looks thoughtfully at him. — Do you ever think about dying, Simon?

— No, of course not. Though as long as there’s a priest by my side I couldn’t give a toss how or when.

— Really?

— The deathbed repentance, the Davie Gray winner in the game of life deep in stoppage time, as I think ay it. No prods need apply.

— Hey! Marianne pushes into him. — I was christened Church of Scotland!

— Nothing sexier than a Scottish proddy bird with an arse like yours. Wait till I get you in the sixteen-ninety position.

— Aw aye, what’s that then?

— It’s the sixty-nine but with a really skinny fucker and a fat cunt standing on either side of youse, just watching as you go at it, maybe frigging themselves off.

The lovers double-back down Henderson Street, opting for a fish restaurant on the Shore. In a favoured surrounding, overlooking the river, Sick Boy continues to grow more effusive, after his moment of reflection. — Alas poor, skint Renton, he pours the Albariño, — now penniless despite his cowardly attack on me. I’m betting he actually thinks that it bothers me: it was a pleasure to finally out him as the Fort yob he really is, strip him of his pathetic, cultured affectations. Leith south of Junction Street bred only thuggery; north of that great cultural divide was all port sophistication.

— You both came from minging schemes, Marianne laughs.

— Aye, but Fort House was never a Cables Wynd House. One is demolished, the other designated a listed building and deemed essential to our city’s architectural heritage, Sick Boy snootily retorts. — Case rested.

Then Simon Williamson rises to head to the bathroom. Looks at himself in the mirror. His nose has set better the second time around. The A&E at the Royal was a painful nightmare, the beak still twisted after it was done. Apart from the unacceptable aesthetics, breathing through one nostril was proving difficult. And you could forget the ching. So Williamson was compelled to go private and have it reset under general anaesthetic at the Royal Free in Hampstead. But Marianne at least has been fussing over him. He now has her at an advantage. — I know you slept with that treacherous ginger bastard, my lady. Of course, I’ll keep this knowledge to myself and let you spoil me in your guilt. As for fucking Renton…

Mark Renton is across Leith in the small hotel, conversing with Spud’s family, his father, Vicky Hopkirk, and Gavin and Amy, the Temperley siblings. To satisfy a growing niggle in his bladder, he heads to the bathroom. En route, a cadaver-like man intercepts him. Seeming hollowed out by some virulent wasting disease, he bares his upper teeth in a death’s-head grin. — Ah hear you’ve got some money for me.

Renton feels the breath being knocked out him, as he contemplates Rab ‘Second Prize’ McLaughlin.

35 BEGBIE – BREXIT

Wish ah could have made it ower for Spud’s funeral the other week. Too bad. But ye cannae just keep jumping on eleven-hour flights. Shame though. Harmless cunt. Aye, it’s a long way tae come and that jet lag is a killer, but Elspeth has had a tough time and she is ma sister. Didnae like the idea ay leaving Mel, no wi that fuckin Hammy the Hamster creep hanging aroond. But she took the kids to her ma’s, and it’s only for a few days.

Nae messing aboot; I take the tram fae the airport right tae Murrayfield. It’s cauld for June, no like last month at the Cup final, and the exhibition. What a week that wis. Hibs win the Cup, and I make a fortune flogging ma stuff! That’s a fuckin result! Hoping for another yin this time roond.

When I get tae the hoose, Greg’s just leaving with the boys. They’re shocked to see me, showing up like this. — Uncle Frank, Thomas, the younger, goes.

Greg looks up. — Frank… When did you… What are you…?

— Came over tae see Elspeth. How is she?

— She had the op yesterday, and came through it well. I went in to see her last night… We’re just going there now.

— Room for another in the motor?

— Actually we’re walking, he goes, n sees me lookin doubtful. The Royal is miles away and even the Western’s a fuckin trek. — She’s in the Murrayfield Hospital. We had it done privately, through BUPA, on the dependants company policy at my work.

— Nice one. Lead on, I say.

— When did you get in? Greg asks.

— Just now. Came straight fae the airport. Ah look at the two boys, George and Thomas. Fuck me, they’re getting big. — How’s the Young Murrayfield Team? ah joke. They look coyly at ays. Good laddies.

Greg smiles at them, then turns back tae me. The thin sunlight is being blocked oot by that big fir tree. — Are you sure you don’t want to come inside and rest for a bit, maybe have a cup of tea? It must have been a tiring flight!

— No, ah’m best keeping gaun till I crash.

— Well, she’ll be delighted tae see you, Greg says, as we make oor wey oantae the main road. — Hear that, boys? Your Uncle Frank flew in all the way from California, just to see your mum!

— Didn’t Auntie Melanie come with you? says Thomas.

— Naw, she’s got the girls to look after, pal. They all send you guys their love, by the way, I go, enjoying watching the poor wee cunts get a beamer.

It’s only a ten-minute walk. It doesnae look like a proper hoaspital tae me, mair like a bank that smells ay bleach, a place where they just take yir poppy. Suppose that’s mainly what it is. Elspeth is sat up in bed watching the telly, but she isnae looking well. She gapes at ays in disbelief. — Frank!

I gie her a hug, smelling the hoaspital and auld sweat on her. — How are you?

— Awright, she says, then goes aw hesitant, her brow furrowed, — well, aye and naw. I feel bloody weird, Frank, she says, as she greets Greg and boys. — But here are my big, strong men!

— Bound tae, ah nod, — a hysterectomy’s a big thing for a woman, ah’m gaun. Though ah ken fuck all aboot that. But when you’re a bairn in Leith, ye hear wifies gaun ‘she’s pit oan an awfay lot ay weight since her hysterectomy.’ Ah dinnae ken whether that’s through depression wi ‘the change in life’, as they caw getting yir fucking womb ripped oot, leading tae overeating, or if the metabolism just slows doon. Either way, Elspeth hus tae watch cause she’s packin oan the coral as it is.

— That’s what I’ve been saying, Frank, Greg cuts in, — there’s bound to be an emotional reaction.

Ye kin see that this bugs the fuck oot ay Elspeth, but she’s biting her tongue. She goes tae me, — So what brings you over then? Another show? Some business?

— Nah, just flew over to see you. I was worried.

Elspeth doesnae believe a word ay it. But at least she isnae takin the strop. — Pull the other yin, she laughs, — it’s goat bells on it.

Ah look at Greg. He’s a trusting cunt, but even he’s doubtful.

I turn back tae her. — Naw, really, I came to see ye. Nae ulterior motive. I was worried, I had air miles wi aw the travelling ah’ve been daein, so I just went tae the airport n jumped oan a standby flight.

Elspeth bursts intae tears, and extends her airms. I step intae her grip. — Aw, muh big brother, muh Frankie boy, I’ve been awfay hard on you. You’ve changed, you really have changed, my darlin Frankie… she’s slaverin pish now, but I let her carry on. She came late tae the perty, but she got there.

I tell her, Greg and the laddies a few wee tales, about collectors ay my stuff, n the people that commission ays, like poor auld Chuck. A young doctor cunt comes in wi a big smile on his face, looking at me. — It is you, he goes. — I love your work.

— Ta.

Elspeth’s eyes are popping oot her heid, she probably fancies this doctor cunt n she’s aw flushed. — This is Dr Moss! Ma brother Frank!

The boy starts asking me about exhibitions and what ah’m workin on. It makes ays think that ah should be in ma studio now, grafting, no hinging aboot ower here, but faimlay is important. For the first time since I brought her back chips fae Methuen’s, eftir comin fae the pub when she was a kid, I’ve got my sister feeling good about ays. That hus tae count for something.

When it’s time tae go, ah think ah’m gaunny have tae shout for an orderly tae get Elspeth tae release her grip. Eventually we’re outside under the squally grey sky. Greg wants ays tae stey at thair place, but I telt them I’m spending the night with an auld pal.

— She was quite emotional, I says tae Greg, whae’s a wee bit glassy-eyed himself.

— Yes, a hormonal thing. Look, Frank, I can’t thank you enough for making that awful trip, it hardly seems –

— No hassle. Sitting on the plane wi my sketchbook, working on new ideas, it’s bliss tae be honest. And nice tae see you guys again. Maybe California for the school hollybags, boys?

The laddies look excited at the prospect. Nae wonder. Couldnae get tae fuckin Burntisland when ah was their age!

It’s rainy but quite warm when I get off the tram back in toon. I meet Terry, in his cab as arranged, parked in that wee shagger’s lane ay his in the East New Town off Scotland Street. The lassie’s sittin in the back. I nod to her and she heads off, and I take the bag ay tools. — Thanks for sortin this oot, Terry, I appreciate it, ah say, pillin on a set ay waterproof trousers.

— Ma pleasure. You mind the code tae text?

— Aye, as if I could forget, ah nod. Then I head doon the street, following the lassie fae a distance back, watching her head doon the steps ay the basement building acroass the road. This section ay toon is cameraed up tae fuck, there’s yin ower the way, but the punters comin tae a knockin shop generally dinnae want tae be seen, so a black beanie cap n dark blue waterproof cagoule n trews disnae exactly stand oot as ah walk doon the steps. A quick glance ower tae the wee knot ay folk huddled intae the bus shelter, tae escape the rain that’s comin doon heavier. Breathe… nice n easy.

The door’s no locked, so ah let myself in. The gaff smells ay bleach and old spunk, and it’s caulder inside than oot. Ah can hear noises, first the lassie’s voice, then, as it stoaps, a sly cunt’s takes ower. It sounds agitated. As ah get closer, ah see through the crack in the door the bird gieing that Syme boy a gam. I place the bag oan the flair, open it up and pill oot the sword. Feels fuckin barry.

Ah raise the sword ower ma heid n spring through the door, interruptin the blow job. The lassie jumps back at the right time like ah said, n jist as well for her, or her fuckin neb would have come right off n aw. Ah wisnae hingin back, swinging it doon the opening space between her coupon n his groin. The Syme cunt is shriekin oot, — WHAT THE FU — and he’s lucky his erection fuckin crumbled quick n eh turned tae the side slightly, or the best part ay his knob would be oan that fuckin tiled flair. As it is ah’ve just sortay filleted the base ay the cunt’s cock wi ma blade, and as it travelled doon, sliced open a baw. Ye git an exquisite split-second glance ay the blood sluicing in the gash, before it flows. It’s like slo-mo choreography with this cunt sliding tae his knees n the bird rising fae hers at the same time. It’s a thing ay beauty, as eh cups his weddin tackle n the blood explodes through the fingers ay his hands. He’s lookin fae his sliced baws tae me, n soas the lassie, n eh goes tae speak, — What the fuuuck…

Aye, the cunt was lucky. But that luck isnae gaunny fuckin last. — Shhh, ah goes, n turns tae the lassie. — If ma lovely assistant here could help me…

She’s on her feet, dragging the bag in and getting a throwin knife oot. She hands it tae me.

— WHAT IS THIS?! WHO ARE –

— TELT YOU TAE FUCKIN SHUT IT, ah goes, hurlin the knife at the cunt.

It thuds right intae the fucker’s tit as eh lets oot another scream. — WHAAAAT… WHAT THE FUCK…

Terry did fuckin good getting they throwin knives. Ah hand yin tae the lassie. — Take a shot. Goan!

She looks at ays and huds the knife.

The Syme cunt’s eyes are bulging, that barry mix ay fear and rage. Ye kin see that fuckin self-loathing at his ain stupidity, at bein too arrogant tae ever see this day comin. Eh takes one bloodied hand away, leaving the other yin tae hud his cock n baws thegither. He raises the blood-soaked free hand slowly as he looks at the lassie. — What?! You’d better fuckin no —

She screams in his pus, — You think I am fucking scared of you now?

— C’moan, darlin… he pleads, as she lets fly at his face. It skites off the side ay his coupon opening up a wound oan his cheek. — FUCKIN HOOR!.

— Nice yin, hen, ah goes, — but mibbe best you dinnae witness the rest. Go on, and meet ays later as we arranged.

She nods and slips oot the door.

Ah’m lookin at the state ay this cunt. Squeezin his ain baws, the blood fae them trickling through his hands. — Funny auld trade, hoormaisterin. Aw aboot selling lassies tae the highest bidder n keepin them controlled by bein the biggest, baddest wolf in the pack, ah grins at the cunt. Ah’ve reached intae the bag n ah’m feelin the weight ay another throwin knife in ma hand. — Then one day, a higher bidder and bigger wolf comes along and, well, you ken the rest. This is that day, mate.

— Who are you… What dae ye want… What’s aw this aboot…? He’s lookin up at ays. The pressure in his eyes, like something’s gripped the fucker fae inside and is squeezing the life oot ay him.

— You’ve been pittin it aboot that you did Tyrone. Dinnae like people that claim the credit for other folks’ work, ay.

The cunt’s slitty wee lamps expand. — You’re Begbie… Frank Begbie… they said you were away! Please, mate, ah dinnae even ken you… Ah did nowt tae you! What huv ah done?!

— It’s no just aboot the work, ah confess tae the cunt. — Ye see, ye bullied an auld mate ay mine. See this as you gittin bullied back. This counts as bullyin, aye?

— Danny Murphy… Ah heard the boy passed… Ah didnae ken eh wis your mate! Well, ah’ve learned my lesson, no tae mess wi Frank Begbie! Is that what ye need tae hear fae me? he sais, aw hopeful. Ah’m just lookin doon at him, kneelin oan that flair, bleedin fae the baws, his face cut, a knife stickin oot ay his chest. — What is it ye want, mate? Ah’ve goat money –

— It’s no aboot money, ah cut the cunt off, shakin ma heid. — It gits oan ma tits the wey people think everything’s aboot money. Boy wis mair than a mate, eh wis faimlay. Okay, sometimes he got on ma nerves, but he was faimlay. You never liked him. Probably reminded ye too much ay yirsel, ay, mate?

Syme looks up at ays n gasps oot, — What d’ye mean…?

— They tell ays they called you the Poof at school. They battered you. But you fought back, mate.

The Poof, as ah now think ay Syme, looks at me and nods. Like ah understand him. — Aye… they did.

— That wee laddie, he’s eywis inside ye, waiting tae git oot.

The Poof looks at his baws n cock, bleedin through his fingers. Then up at me. — Please…

— Ah dinnae want tae see him. That fuckin wee poof. Ah want tae see you. Tell ays tae fuck off! Tell ays that you’re Victor Syme! TELL AYS!

— AH’M SYME, he roars. — VICTOR FUCKIN SYME… His eyes go doon tae his baws again. — VIC… VICTIHR… Victor Syme… He starts tae bubble.

— That’s no what ah’m seein. Aw ah’m seein is the Poof.

— Please… ah’ll make it up tae ye… for Murphy. For Danny. His family. Ah’ll see them awright!

Ah raise ma hand. — But pittin him aside, there’s another reason ah’m daein this, ah smile. — Which is: ah just like hurtin people. No killin them, that bit ah’m no keen oan, jist cause it spoils it aw. If they’re deid, ye cannae hurt them any mair, ay?

— Well, you’ve hurt me awright, ah’m sorry aboot Danny… Didnae ken he wis connected… Ah kin make it up tae ye, he whines, lookin doon tae his baws, — now ah need tae git tae the hoasp —

— Ah dinnae like killin people, but it makes things messy leavin them lyin around in bits, ah cut the cunt oaf, — so sadly ah’m compelled tae go aw the wey. But mind thit ah dae this purely for the love ay it, rather than the money. So call ays an artist, or a psychopath, makes nae odds tae me, ah goes, hurlin another knife intae the cunt.

It sticks in that soft bit between the shoodir n the chist, n Syme faws oantae his back, littin oot a long groan. — Ah didnae keh-heh-hen…

Ah’m right oan him, smashin the next blade intae his gut, tearin at the flesh. — Ignorance… ay the law… is nae excuse. You’ve goat something ah need… It belongs… tae ma mate!

Takes ays fuckin ages tae git them oot, n ah’m surprised that the cunt holds oan that long. Fuckin guts, they spread oot like fuck. Dinnae expect a big pile ay giant pinky-grey spaghetti tae spill oot ay the cunt n slide acroass the flair. Fuckin state ay that, but. Then, eftir draggin Syme’s boady intae the cleaning supplies cupboard the lassie n Terry telt ays aboot, n lockin the door, pocketin the key that’s awready in thaire, ah has tae wash doon the cagoule, the waterproof trousers and the shoes, n gie the place a good mop n clean. Feel sorry for the cunts that work here, cause it’ll be fuckin mingin soon, wi it bein summer.

When it’s aw done, ah text Terry:

Still cannae get ower that game, amazing how it aw went tae plan.

Right back:

GGTTH. That Davie Gray winner…

Me:

Even better on the replay. Left the opposition destroyed. GGTTH!

It’s about ten minutes later when ah git the text:

We’ve got McGinn, super John McGinn.

Which tells ays that Terry’s parked back doon his shag lane at Scotland Street. So ah head oot the door, collar up, beanie doon over the brows, skerf roond the mooth, just another guilty punter who played away fae hame. Coast’s clear: bus must have come. Ah get tae the cab and we speed off tae the airport. When we arrive, Terry hands me two commemorative Hibs Scottish Cup mugs. — Wee pressy.

— They snide?

— Of course they are.

— No sure ah’m wantin them. Dinnae like the idea ay being mixed up in anything illegal, ah sais. We get a barry giggle at that. As ah say goodbye tae Terry, ah feel that sense ay loss and regret that ah ey dae on such occasions, realisin that ah’ll never see they throwin knives or that fuckin sword again. They have tae be destroyed or planted on some noncey paedo sex case that Tez has awready earmarked. But ah’m upset, as that sword n these knives, they just fuckin handled that well. Unusual tae git a weapon ye huvnae had any time tae practise wi, that just feels so right, never mind two. Fuckin craftsmanship. In a perfect world ah’d be able tae keep them, but thir jist jailbait. Gutted though – yir only as good as yir tools.

The lassie is waiting at the airport and I pay her off, slipping the folder intae her bag. — What’s your plans?

— I’m going home.

— Where’s that?

— Bucharest.

— That’s what ah should dae, book a rest, ah tells the lassie. She looks at me like ah’m a radge. — I’m gaun home too. Got an early flight the morn. The night ah’m treatin masel tae that Hilton Hotel here, cause ah couldnae git a first class at short notice withoot the cunts takin the pish.

— So where is your home?

— California.

She heads away and I buy a newspaper, that Independent, and walk ower tae the Hilton. Ah pey in cash, checking in as Victor Syme, using his driver’s licence as ID. Ah look fuck all like the cunt but the photae is shite n the lassie barely glances at it.

They’ve goat Sky in the room, and thaire’s golf oan. Ah dinnae mind watchin golf oan telly cause it’s barry when some cunt fucks up an easy put. I call Melanie, tell her Elspeth’s okay, and I’m looking forward tae getting hame. The papers are aw full ay that vote the morn aboot leaving the EU. One thing ye can guarantee is, whatever happens, things’ll be shite for maist cunts. The wey ah look at it is that it’s a short life, look at poor Spud, so ye might as well just dae what makes ye happy!

Gutted tae have missed his funeral, but this is a better wey tae pey ma respects.

Each tae their ain.

36 RENTON – DOING THE RIGHT THING

Sometimes it’s mair complex than just daein the right thing. It’s working out what the right thing is when every cunt’s dangling wrong yins in front of ye. I’ve made the call that the right thing for me is tae keep the Santa Monica gaff and stay clean. So instead of bringing out Conrad’s new track, I left it to Muchteld, while I engineered three generations ay Renton to be together.

Taking Alex fae Amsterdam, out ay social services and the care home, tae my dad’s place at Leith, was quite an ordeal. But I decided possession was nine-tenths ay the law. Instead ay one ay our regular outings tae the Vondelpark for ice cream and coffee (that was a fucker ay a battle, autistic kids are programmed tae routine), I took him tae the passport office. Then, after dropping Alex back at the amusement park, as I call the home, I went tae the seaside tae visit Katrin and tell her ay my plans.

— It is good you are taking this interest, she said in her usual offhand way. She obviously didnae gie a fuck, and indeed, was happy tae have him out ay the way. I couldn’t believe I’d spent so many years sleeping in the same bed as this stranger. But I suppose that’s the nature of love: we are either creatures ay the present and have tae live with the trauma and misery if it goes tits up, or doomed tae loneliness. I might no have taken much interest ower the fifteen years ay his life, but it’s still a fucking sight mair than she ever did. When it was obvious that there were issues with Alex, she had said wearily, — It is useless. There is no communication.

Her coldness and detachment always intrigued me when it was just the two ay us. Then there was somebody else, who was totally dependent on us, and it didnae play so well. She basically fucked off and lumbered me with the kid, taking an acting job wi a touring theatre company. That was us done. I found Alex a place in a care home, so I could keep working.

As I left her, probably for the last time, she loitered in the big doorway ay this Zandvoort mansion she shares with her architect boyfriend and their two flawless blonde Nazi children, and, in gesture and descending tone I could no longer interpret, said, — I wish you well.

Conrad keeps phoning but not leaving messages. I need to get back to him, but I can’t bear to hear him tell me he’s signed up with some big agency. Even though not picking up makes this all the more likely. Muchteld put out his single, ‘Be My Little Baby Nerd’, quirky, dancey, pop, and it’s tearing it up.

Of course, I had to take the auld man as well. Ordinarily there was no way the stubborn auld Hun would get on a plane to America, but Alex being in the package changed everything. On the flight tae LA I realise that ma faither is the chronic autism whisperer. He could always calm or distract my wee brother Davie, and he does the same with Alex. My son sits in silence, without any customary loud outbursts or agitation. I hear him repeat, under his breath, — I asked for one, not two.

— One what, pal? Dad asks him.

— It’s just something he says.

But every single time he repeats it, my father asks the question ay him.

Vicky meets us at the airport. She smiles and greets Alex, who looks blankly at her, mumbling stuff under his breath. Driving us up to Santa Monica, Vicky leaves us to get settled, as she puts it. Dad and Alex have the apartment’s bedrooms, while I’m on the couch. It’s too small for the three ay us, and will wreck my back. I really need tae sort something out.

37 SICK BOY – GIVE ME YOUR ANSWER DO

Marianne moved down to London with me, to my new Highgate flat, courtesy of Renton’s cash. It’s a short walk from Hampstead Heath, and satisfyingly bucks my downwardly mobile trend. Ever since Offord Road in Islington, back in the eighties, neoliberal economics have been chasing me out of the city. Time, gentlemen, please, it insists, as it cock-sucks shadowy fifth-home oligarchs from Russia and the Middle East, who deign to show up two weeks in the year to get cunted in this particular one of their gated gaffs dotted throughout the globe. We treated ourselves to a hooker and some ching last night and are exhausted from our efforts. So she lies in, but I’m up early next morning, on the tube down to King’s Cross, to interview some more girls for Colleagues.

I stand behind my raised desk in the small office that serves as the nerve centre of the Colleagues empire, a bunch of phones spread in front of me like playing cards. The buzzer goes and I press it, and several moments later can hear a woman walking up the stairs, her breath, like her expectations, falling away steadily as she comes into the office. If the landlord would get a fuckin windae cleaner in so we could see ootside, let in some light, it might make the place less dreary. I really do need to get a more salubrious suite. Maybe Clerkenwell, or perhaps even Soho. The woman looks at me, and her anxiety at the sleaze can’t wipe out the shagger’s glint in her eye and filthy set to her mouth. She’s the first of eight I have to see today.

I’m zonked when I get home, but I still have enough juice in the tank to pummel Marianne under the beef cosh, while igniting her with the creeping love bombs of obscene speech. Keep them well shod and well shagged: the only decent advice my father ever gave me in the affairs of the heart department. The only decent advice the cunt gave me in anything.

My mouth is dry and my head spins satisfyingly as we lie in bed. Then we shower and get dressed, heading out to dinner with Ben and his boyfriend, who have moved in together, close by in Tufnell Park. I’ve told them to forget about decent restaurants in that area. — I booked up this place, I inform Ben on the phone. — I hope Dan likes seafood.

I’ve only met Dan once, and I like him. He seems good for Ben, who, as tough as it is to admit, is a bit fucking straight. Sadly Surrey and soul just don’t go. We rendezvous at FishWorks in Marylebone High Street. Is there anywhere else more acceptable for seafood in London? I sincerely doubt it. Despite arriving before us, the boys thoughtfully take the two chairs, leaving us the grey padded bench seating opposite.

I order a bottle of Albariño. — I find most whites a little acidic for me these days but this works, I say. — So, how are the Surrey people reacting to my upcoming nuptials?

Ben, wearing a black jacket and a green crew-neck top, says, — Well, Mum’s been a little quiet. He breaks into a smile. — Sometimes I think she still holds a candle for you.

Of course she does. Batters it into her fanny every night, while thinking of the best cock she ever had or ever will have. I almost say this out loud, but check myself. After all, it’s the boy’s mother and he dotes on her. — Understandable. Once you’ve perused the goods in the Simon David Williamson emporium, I look at Marianne and drop my voice to a playful growl, — it’s very hard to shop elsewhere.

— Copy that, Marianne grins, winking at the boys. Then she looks at my nose. — I just hope that bruising goes for the wedding photographs!

Must this spectre be continually raised? — A cowardly attack, I explain to the lads. — I cost an old pal a bob or two as payback for some considerable emotional chaos he caused, and he can’t take it like a man.

— Ooh er missus, Dan laughs.

Yes, I do like this guy. — That’s the spirit, Dan. I look at Ben. — I’m glad you didn’t take up with one of those boring homosexuals, son.

— Dad…

— No, fuck that, I say, as the menus arrive with the white wine. — It’s just the same as a boring heterosexual. If you’re gay, just be a proper fucking poof, would be my advice. The waiter opens the bottle and pours the wine for me to taste. I take a sip, and nod in approval. While he fills the glasses, I warm to my theme. — Be a lisping, gossiping, flamboyant, outrageous, scandalous queen! Don’t be a suburban Charlie with a boyfriend called Tom, with whom you go kayaking at the weekends. Ram strangers in toilets! OD on Oscar Wilde! Get your cock sucked by rent boys in the park…

A couple at the next table look round.

— Simon, Marianne warns as the waiter departs.

Marianne and Ben are looking edgy, but Dan’s loving it, so I speak a little louder. — Seduce a straight fucker and wreck his life, then, after he’s divorced, become BFF with his ex-wife, make each other wild cocktails and gossip about what a lousy lay he is. Discover a passionate love of musical theatre. Go to underground techno nights in Berlin dressed in lederhosen.

— We’ll bear that in mind, Dan laughs, turning to Ben. — So Germany it is for the holidays then!

Ben blushes. He’s a couple of years younger than Dan, and it shows. I wonder if he’s getting rammed, or doing the ramming, the saucy wee devil. I suppose the benefits of poofery is that you get to mix it up. Lucky bastards. — Good! I don’t want you guys squandering your gift of homosexuality on dating apps, mortgage brokers, estate agents, architects, adoption papers, meeting with surrogate single hoors who will take you to the cleaners, and arguments about fucking fabrics!

— There are no arguments about fabrics with us. It’s my way or the highway, Marianne says, as she rises to go to the toilet.

— I like her, Ben says. — I’m happy for you, Dad.

I move in close and lower my voice. — She’s either a predator or a victim. Like Churchill said about the Germans, at your feet or at your throat. It’s great living with her, it keeps me on my toes. She tries to undermine me as much as I do her. Every day is a fucking joust, I punch the table in euphoria, — I have never felt so alive in my life!

— That doesn’t really seem like a recipe for –

I cut him off right away. — Three words: make-up sex. Or is that two?

The boys look at me, and giggle a little. Not in a faggy way, more a what-the-fuck-is-that-embarrassing-old-cunt-saying-now manner. It’s taboo talking sex to youth: they don’t want to envision middle-aged sleazebags banging away. I was the same at that age. Still am now.

— Enough said, I tap my nose, and fuck me, it’s sore. Renton. That cunt.

Ben’s voice rises to an acceptably fey pitch with the wine, and his camp mannerisms become more pronounced.

— That’s it, lads, you can dispense with all the Hollywood closet-case stuff and let it all hang out. I’m straight, but I’m still as camp as a row of tents.

— He is, Marianne agrees, returning from the toilet to slide back into her seat beside me.

— That’s because I was rifling you aw weys, I laugh, enjoying the wine, as she digs me in the ribs. I look at them. — Well, why should you raving buftie boys have all the fun? No offence meant, my bellissimi bambinis!

When they get off the tube at Tufnell Park, Marianne and I have a drunken argument. — You don’t have to try and outperform them, they’re just young lads, she says.

I know that look, and it calls for an olive branch. — You, my darling, are exactly right as usual. I was remiss, please forgive me. I guess I’m just nervous. My boy moving in with a new partner. But he’s a nice lad.

— They’re a great couple, she says, assuaged.

The next day we are off to Edinburgh on the train. The journey is very pleasant; it beats flying hands down. I love the way it gets progressively more beautiful the further north you go.

— Do you think this is a good idea? Marianne asks.

— Not particularly. Richard Branson is a wanker and I hate giving money to him. But flying is such –

— No, I mean this dinner!

— Yes, I insist, thinking about that cunt Euan. A sapling whose weakness led to Danny boy’s sad demise. — I spoke to my mamma on the phone. She’s all excited, I could hear her crossing herself. ‘My-a boy finally settling doon and getting married…’

— But she doesn’t know it’s tae me, Simon. We have history. And your sister…

— Carlotta and Euan are fine now. They’ll just have to accept you, or we won’t be seeing any of them. Simple as, I tell her. — They have to learn that it can’t all be about them, that fucker Euan leaving a trail of devastation with his dick, then going back to playing bourgeois happy families when it suits him… I look her in the eye. — Not on my watch.

— I just wish I hudnae… you know… Her gaze is penitent, as well it might be. A terrible slut, but I really would not have her any other way. — I was so angry with you at the time. She squeezes my hand.

— I don’t care about that… well, only in so far as it sparked off a twisted chain of events, but it was Euan’s folly that messed it up.

Marianne sweeps her hand through her hair. It falls back into place instantly. — But won’t they be freaked out that it doesn’t matter to you, likes, about myself and Euan?

It only matters to me that you shagged fucking Renton. — I’m not a man prone to jealousy. It’s only a ride. I drop my voice as the trolley dolly creaks past. I consider shouting up a Stella, but decide against it. — You’re a hot vixen slag and that sort of wanton, reckless behaviour just makes me desire you more.

She fixes me that ‘I’m game’ look and we repair to the toilet. I sit on the lavy seat, her straddling me, and we’re banging away. Suddenly the door slides open and a chunky cunt in a Sunderland strip stands looking at us, mouth open. Marianne turns round. — Fuck… Simon… I slap the shut knob and it slides back, and this time I remember to press the locking button. The bloater’s intervention has upped the horn stakes and we shit-talk each other into a joint shrieker of an orgasm.

Staggering back to our seats, we regard the rest of the carriage in languid, superior, sex-case snide. The train rolls into Waverley, a little delayed, but I’ve texted Mamma, and we shouldn’t be too late. We jump in a cab up to the Outsider restaurant in George IV Bridge. It’s a favourite haunt of mine when I’m back in town. Great locally produced food, and a friendly but unfussy service.

— I’m nervous, babe, Marianne says.

— Fight through that shit, oh cherishable force. I’m proud of you, doll, and nobody is snubbing or disdaining you on my watch, I tell her. — Bring it on! Tony Stokes!

It’s kid sis who looks up first, as her darling brother walks in arm-in-arm with his lovely fiancée. I’d decided that this would be the best entrance we could make. Carlotta’s eyes bulge in disbelief and she sits in a choking silence. Louisa notices and looks shocked, but almost pleasantly, and her man, Gerry, turns to her, trying to work out what’s going on. Then Euan, doubtlessly sensing the disturbance in the air, glances up from the menu to see us standing above them, about to sit down.

— Cards on the table time, I announce to the aghast company, getting in my seat, Marianne following stiffly, — there’s a wee bit ay history for us all to get past, it might make your hearts go oh, oh, oh, oh… but we’re all grown-ups and we don’t care what the –

— AH DINNAE BELIEVE IT! YOU BRING HER HERE! Carlotta wails, as diners’ heads swivel round to us. — YOU… YOU’RE GAUNNY MAIRRAY… She turns to Marianne. — AND YOU… YOU’RE GAUNNY MAIRRAY HIM?!

— Carlotta, please, Mamma appeals, as the shocked diners tut and the maître d’ hovers nervously.

— Sounding gey Bananay Flats thaire, sis, I smile for levity.

Of course, it falls on unreceptive lugs. — C’MON! Carlotta grabs Euan’s hand, hauling him to his feet and pulling him through the scandalised diners towards the door. He looks briefly back, spazzing in confusion, like a lamb in an abattoir, bleating consoling inanities at his wife.

— Typical, I shrug, — make it all about her! I turn to my mother. — Mamma, this is Marianne, the love of my life.

Marianne glances to the door Carlotta and Euan are crashing out of, then smiles at Mamma. — It’s a pleasure, Mrs Williamson.

— I think I remember you…

— Yes, Simon and I went out many years ago.

— Aye, I mind, Louisa smirks, as Marianne tenses up.

— It’s been a rocky road but the path of true love never ran smooth, I declare, summoning the waiter. — Sorry about the fuss, brother, emotional time… I address the table: — Who’s for champers? A wee swally ay Bolly?

— What happened to your nose? Mamma asks.

— A cowardly attack, I tell her, — but it’s all good!

— Well, this is a turn-up for the books, Louisa grins like a demented Cheshire cat with its furry balls caught in a vice.

The waiter reappears with that thickset glass fucker in an ice bucket. He pops and pours to my unbridled delight. — Cheer up! I raise my glass. — There is absolutely nothing bad happening anywhere in this big wide world at this precise moment in time!

38 RENTON – DON’T BEG THE BEGGAR BOY

On the road, the afternoon light thickens in a gaudy, retina-scorching burst. I take my shades from my shirt pocket, stick them on and floor it, as Vic Godard sings about Johnny Thunders on the stereo. I motor smoothly up the Pacific Coast Highway, the vibrant blue sky clashing with the scrub-covered brown hills. As I head to Santa Barbara, I’m aware that I’m risking it all. Happiness with Vicky, with my dad, trying to build a home over here for Alex.

I was skint anyway but Second Prize has cleaned me out completely. I’ve zilch and my main source of income, Conrad, is as good as away to a big agency. The worthless Leith Heads: fucking Sick Boy and, most of all, that cunt Begbie. I’m not going to beg the Beggar Boy. All I can do is ask. And if he says no, then I’ll offer the cunt a square go. I feel an avalanche of rage gather in my chest. Constricting my throat. Tightening my muscles. My back throbbing in its old spot. We’ll see if the artsy poof Jim Francis is all that’s left ay Frank Begbie. At this moment, I feel the very same way he probably did when I betrayed him: like everything has been taken from me. Well, Williamson fuckin got it, and now Begbie will. And there he is, standing as a man wi a wife and two young daughters, a proper man, in the way he never was back then; one who looks after his family. Like I’m striving tae. But how much empathy does the cunt have? None. Spud’s in the fuckin groond and he couldnae even bother showing up. Never sent a wreath, a caird or fuck all.

The ride gets good when I hit Ventura as the road hugs the coastline, the breaking waves lapping up along the shore. My shades are on, the window is rolled down and I’ve keyed Begbie’s address into the GPS. This hire drives nicely, responsive tae my touch on the wheel, as I weave smoothly in and out of traffic.

I need that money. I need it tae be able to build a life here, and I need it right now. No in six months’ time when Conrad’s royalties come in, cause that will be my last payday there. He’s building up tae say something; he’ll be off tae a bigger manager, like Ivan did.

So this is how it has to happen. Franco’s beaten me at what I value most – art – and now I have tae have this dash wi the cunt; face him on his home turf of violence. If I stand over him, the battered artist, I’ve won the duel. If he beats ays tae a pulp, I’ve also won: I’ve shown the cunt up for what he is, and what he’ll always be. And me? What am I? Spud, God rest his soul, is more creative than me. He produced something more detailed, clever and meaningful about our life on skag than anything that was in my diaries. I’m glad I sent it off to that publisher.

I play my messages back over the car speaker. Conrad first:

What is going on? I need you to phone me! I am in Los Angeles! There are things we need to talk about! Where are you?!

Muchteld:

Mark. This is not good. You have been been absent with the track coming out. Conrad is pissed off. You need to deal with this and everything else at Citadel. Call me.

Fuck them all. I’ve bigger fish to fry. I’m fighting for my future, and also my son’s and my dad’s.

When I get on the turn-off for Santa Barbara, I pass fresh roadkill by the side of the highway. It looks like a domestic pet; a cat or a small dog. I think ay Begbie, and how one ay us is fucking getting it.

39 BEGBIE – HOSTAGE

It’s just got dark. There’s the cool breeze coming oafay the ocean, and that scent ay eucalyptus fae the trees in the garden. Mel is in the hoose, putting the kids tae bed, and I’ve just stepped out tae take the trash tae the dumpster in the alley at the back ay the yard. Have tae gie the cunt his due, he’s fuckin quiet enough. Hear nowt till I feel the gun barrel. Naebody’s stuck one ay them in the back ay ma neck before, but ah ken what it is right away. — Just walk back in here, he sais, pushing it harder against ays.

So we cross the yard and enter the kitchen through the back door. Probably this is where I should pivot and ram the nut on the cunt. But he might pull the trigger. Aw I’m thinking of is Melanie and the girls, through in their beds. So when ah realise we’re gaun intae my workshop, which is attached tae the house, ah’m no resisting, as it’s the furthest point fae the bairns’ bedroom. Ye sometimes get a chance, one chance, in a situ like this. Ah made a mistake ay no striking right away, but ah didnae git a sketch ay the cunt tae tipple how gone he was. — You… he turns me round, — put your arms behind you.

The cop cunt. Harry the fuckin Hammy Hamster.

Ah comply, as I’ve nae doubt he’ll pull the trigger. His voice is tellin ays he’s fucking away wi it. That he’s gone tae a place in his heid where he’s set out the path ay action and willnae deviate fae it. Clipped, precise and certain. What d’ye dae at times like these? Obey and hope something turns up, n if it does, grab the fucking opportunity.

He gets me tae sit in one ay the metal chairs ah keep for visitors. They replaced a couch, as I didnae want people getting too comfy in ma place ay work and distracting me. He moves behind ays. — Put your hands through the back of the chair.

As I comply I feel the metal harshly clasping ma wrists. A long time since I’ve known that sensation. Nowt like it for making yir guts sink. Ah kin hear the bats squeakin ootside in the trees.

Then he’s got a length ay rope and I’m thinkin This cunt is gaun for a revenge hingin, but he’s winding it roond ays, securing me tae the chair. He heads tae the door. Ah’m about tae scream: Get the fuckin bairns oot and run like fuck, now, but he turns tae me, his eyes hidden in shadow. Under that slash ay darkness, ah see his lips, set tight. — Don’t fucking move or shout out or you will hear gunshots. I guarantee it.

And he goes away. The bats are silent now. Amazing how they settle so quickly. This is the hardest bit. Every fuckin fibre ay ays wants tae roar oot a warning, but this cunt really does look ready tae start shootin. Ah think aboot they two wee lassies, lying dead, lifeless, in their ain blood, smashed by bullets. Mel the same wey. My knives are by my workbench, attached tae the waw by a magnetic strip. I start tae inch the chair back in that direction. Suddenly the sound ay tense whispering, and ah’m thinking: dinnae let the cunt get tae the point where he’s left himself nae option but tae shoot ays. Save ays for the fuckin payback. Then, thank fuck, eh’s back in wi Melanie. Her hands are cuffed behind her back, but she doesnae seem injured. Tears are running doon her cheeks as she looks at ays, imploring through her shock, but ah kin dae nowt, except concentrate like fuck on ma breathin, as she’s pushed intae the identical chair next tae mine. It’s aw ah can dae tae look at her, for the shame I feel aboot no being able tae protect her and the bairns.

This Hammy Hamster cunt stands in the doorway wi his gun pointed at us. Eyes focused but wi that glaze that aw men ready tae hurt need tae pit between them and their prey. Mel pleads softly with him, keeping her voice firm and professional. — Please don’t hurt the children…

— That’s down to you, he snaps, moving towards ays.

It’s hard tae witness. Ah’m no keen tae stoap a bullet, but ah’ll take yin for them. — Leave her and the kids out of this, I tell him, trying tae stand up in the chair. — This is between you and me.

It’s funny, but ah hear Mel scream oot before ah feel any pain. — No, please! she yells as the cunt connects the butt ay the pistol wi the side ay my jaw, and pushes me doon.

— Don’t wake your kids, the cunt goes, makin it sound like a threat. — Now you, he looks at me, — you tell this stupid fucking whore all about the man she married!

Ah keep quiet. Ah look up at the ceiling fan. Then doon at the concrete flair. Sensing the knives behind ays, wi the hammers, chisels, n aw the other sculpting stuff.

— Tell her!

— Harry, please, Mel begs, as ah’m lookin ower the other tools in view, like the gas canisters and the acetylene torch, off tae the side. — It doesn’t have to be like this, she goes, aw breathless. — You say you care for me! How is this caring for anybody? And she’s greetin, tryin tae keep control ay hersel. The fear is nearly overwhelming her.

— I thought you were strong, he sneers at her, pacin up n doon in front ay us, — with that proud, stuck-up-bitch way you had. But I was wrong. You’re weak, soft in the head. Easy meat for evil bastards like this scumbag. He points at ays. — This asshole broke into my home! Tried to kill me! Tried to fucking well hang me with a noose! My own garden hose! Have you told her that? He bends doon and screams in ma face: — HAVE YOU?!

Ah feel his gob on ma cheek.

— What? You’re fantasising, mate. Ah shake ma heid. — Auto-asphixiation, was it? Jerk off, did ye?

— TELL HER! And he batters me in the pus again with the gun. Ah feel ma cheekbone depress.

Breathe…

Pain’s never bothered ays much. It’s jist a message. Ye kin put pain outside ay yirsel. The eyes, teeth n baws are hardest, but ye can dae it.

Mel screams out again. — No, Harry, please!

There are stars, aw different colours, dancing in front ay ma eyes. Ah tries tae blink them away as ah focus on this cunt. — Ever done DMT?

— You shut the fuck up!

— A mate gied ays it, ah explain. — Said it was the ultimate trip. Said that as an artist, ah should experience it.

He looks tae Mel, then back at me. — I’m fucking warning you…

— Now ah nivir really liked drugs. A peeve, aye, sound, ah smile at him. — A wee bit ay ching. But this stuff, couldnae really caw it a drug as such –

— Harry! Please! Mel shouts. — This is lunacy! We have two little girls in their beds! We need to work this out!

This cop cunt laughs in her face. — What can you work out? You, who can’t even see what you fucking married! I used to be in love with you. Wanted to be with you. He laughs in that daftie sneer again. — Now? Now I pity you. I pity the useless, pathetic cunt that you are!

Ah fuckin hate the way some American cunts call lassies cunts. Fuckin offensive, that shite. Ah’m tastin ma ain blood doon the back ay ma throat, as ah try tae breathe steadily in through ma neb. That sweet Pacific air comin through the metallic scent. Nowt like it. — That’s a bit sad, mate.

— What?

— Ye cannae be in love wi somebody whae isnae in love wi you. It’s no love, it’s just a fucking noncey sickness in the heid. You’re no well, pal, I say. — Get treatment. Doesnae need to be this way.

— Jim, no, please… Mel’s urgin ays tae be quiet, let her do the talkin.

— You?! You call me fuckin sick in the head! You?!

— Listen, ah tell him, no likin the wey Mel’s lookin at ays, like she might half believe this radge, — do what you like with me but leave them out of it, Mel n the kids. They’re not the issue. That’s what ye always wanted, me out the road. Make it happen.

— Jim, no! Melanie squeals, drawin Hammy’s attention back tae her.

— It’s too late for that, the cunt tells her, then eh’s back tae me. — You tell her. Tell her what you done! Coover! Santiago! Tell her about them! Tell her who you are!

Ah’d go tae the fuckin grave before ah’d grass masel up tae Mel aboot removing they two rapist trash. — Tell her what, ya fuckin bam?

He jumps forward and his pistol butt cracks down on my beak this time. A bolt ay searing pain shoots up tae the centre ay ma brain. It feels fuckin good. The sickness maist cunts would feel rising in their guts, ye just laugh at that shite n away it goes. Ye huv tae make friends wi pain. Ah see them aw in ma mind’s eye again. Like they were in that DMT trip; Seeker, Donnelly, Chizzie, Coover, Santiago, Ponce, naebody really seeming that upset. Just enjoying the feast…

But the mood was sort ay… disorganised. It was like this grand stately dining room, but it felt like a bus terminal or railway station, somewhere that would take ye somewhere else. There wis this overriding idea that we needed tae just sit doon and get on wi the meal. Finish it, so we could move on, go somewhere else. Ah wonder where. Ah’m thinkin that it would be good tae try that DMT again, maybe see if we could take it tae the next fuckin level.

— Harry, stop, please, let us go! You’re a police officer, Harry! Melanie’s screams cut through ma thoughts.

— And what use was that? What respect did I ever get from you, from cunts like you, for that?

— I respect the police, I respect the law, Mel says, calm, reasonable, and finding strength again fae somewhere. — This isn’t the law, Harry!

The cunt seems tae think aboot this for a second or two. — You go with this fucking murdering old jailbird, who’s not even from here, he points at ays withoot looking at ays, which gits ma fuckin goat, — and you talk about the goddamn law. That is rich. You really are a piece of work.

I’m staring at him. The blood trickling slowly doon the back ay ma throat. I’ve never hated anything so much in ma life. Ah pull in a deep breath. — Uncuff ays, ah say, nearly in a whisper. — A fuckin square go then, ya shitein cunt.

The cop pervert looks at ays like ah’m a radge. He cannae understand a fuckin word. — What are you talking about, fool? Then he puts his gun tae Melanie’s head.

— Noo… Melanie shuts her eyes.

— Please… I hear a small voice coming fae inside ays. It’s no ma ain. It is ma ain. — Don’t hurt her. If you loved her like ye say ye dae, you cannae hurt her. Please…

— Tell her, Hammy screams at ays, his eyes doolally. — Tell her what you did or I’ll pull the fucking trigger!

Ma heid is startin tae clear n ma eyes ur getting intae focus.

Hammy pivots n slowly points the gun at me. At least it’s away fae Mel. — Now I’m gonna blow your fucking head off. You’re too much of a selfish asshole to deserve to see your kids grow up… or even your fucking wife grow up, you sorry old motherfucker, n eh turns tae Mel briefly before whiplashing back tae me. — You will never know what is gonna happen next: to her, or your kids. Tell me, how does that feel? His face is grinning right at ays.

Nowt ah kin dae but spill n beg, and then…

And then ah see him…

Standing just behind the copper.

My old mate. In his hands, the baseball bat I got fae Karl Gibson. The ex-Dodgers boy who got ays tae make that mutilated heid ay his former coach. The story eh telt, how eh hit the home run tae win game one for the Dodgers in the World Series. And there the cunt is, half in shadow, the bat raised…

RENTON…

… He takes a swing and skelps Hammy right across the side ay his pus. The polis cunt goes doon and the gun fires off, a shot ringing oot. Renton is right on Hammy, on top ay him, battering the cunt. The most amazing thing is that it isnae even a fight. It’s a fuckin massacre. Renton’s heid smashes repeatedly into Hammy’s nose. Then his elbays. He grabs the bat again n wedges it on Hammy’s windpipe. Renton. — THAT’S IT, RENTS! KILL THE CUNT! YLT!!

— I’M A CAW-CAW-CAWWP… the dopey cunt gargles.

— I’m a fuckin social worker, ah think Renton sais, n he isnae letting up until the cunt’s eyes roll right intae his heid. Even though Rents wisnae a fighter, ye kin see that schemie flint in they squirrelly, shifty, sunken eyes. That ruthless snide streak that would never hesitate and surrender any advantage life throws at ye by accident. This Hammy Hamster cunt is fuckin well out for the count! I’m trying tae git tae ma feet in this fuckin chair…

— Stop, Mark, Mel begs, — he’s done!

Renton eases the pressure and looks up at us, panic in his wide eyes. He’s spooked himself now, at where he’s taken this. The cop cunt is fuckin spangled, right enough. Renton takes the cunt’s pulse oan his neck. — He’s still here, he says in a gasping, euphoric chant ay excitement and relief.

— Thank God you came, Mark, thank God you came… Mel blabbers, pale and disbelieving as she stares doon at Hammy, his face bloodied and pulped.

Rents’s eyes are everywhere before they settle on me. — Where’s the keys tae they cuffs?

— The cunt’s poakits, ah tell him.

Renton goes back tae Hammy and fishes oot these keys on a chain. Tries a couple before they work. He frees Mel first. — Oh, bless you, Mark, she goes n flings her airms around him, then she turns tae me, and does the same, as Renton takes oaf ma cuffs n starts windin that rope oaf ay ays. Ah stand up too quick and feel like ah’m gaunny cowp ower n be seek, but ah fight the impulse doon. — Rents… what the fuck are you daein here?

— Well, it looks like ah’m fuckin helpin you oot, bud, ay? Renton says, shaking, his teeth hammering thegither in shock. — What’s gaun oan here?

Mel’s still got a hud ay me, but suddenly ah see the blood. Ah wriggle oot her grip. His fuckin bullet caught her in the airm. — Ye okay?

— It’s only a graze, she says, and wraps an auld rag roond it. She looks tae the door n goes, — The girls, n she runs through.

Ah picks up the shooter that Hammy cunt droaped when Rents tanned the fucker’s pus. Ah’m careful no tae touch the handle. The barrel’s still hoat in ma fingers.

Renton sees ays looking at the cop’s body. He’s still half oot, groanin oan the deck, baith eyes rollin n tryin tae focus, blood pishin oot ay his mooth.

Renton kens what I’m thinking. — He broke in, ah tell him. — He’s been stalking Mel. Obsessed wi her, since school. A weirdo. He’s a cop, an ex-cop, but an alkie.

— The polis’ll do the cunt, Franco.

— One fuckin shot but, ay? Self-defence. Solve the whole fuckin problem!

— It’s his shooter, Frank. He’s fucked. Dinnae shoot the cunt, you’ll jist fuck it aw up.

Ah thinks aboot this. Hauls in a deep breath. He’s probably right. Ah pits the gun doon oan the bench. — AH’LL FUCKIN KILL THE CUNT! N ah step forward, ready tae stomp that heid intae that concrete flair, till the skull cracks n grey shite spills oot ay it, till ah kin smell the cunt’s brains…

— JIM, STOP! Mel has come back through, and she’s ower grabbing ays by the airm. — The girls are okay, she shrieks at ays. — They slept through it all! Just call the police!

— It’s the way tae go, Franco, Rents smiles, like he’s comin up oan a fuckin ecky.

— Aye, right… n ah pull in some mair gulps ay air.

— Honey, he’s an ex-cop and a stalker. The trauma is back in Mel’s eyes. — This is for the police! You must see that!

Ah’m lookin at Hammy Hamster, still tryin tae git ma breathin sorted oot. The rush ay blood tae the heid, like the tide comin in, the same sort ay sound ah heard when ah fucked they two wide cunts oan the beach, the ones the cop cunt wis talkin aboot… it slowly starts tae recede. Ah look at the cunt oan the deck. It wid be easy…

Naw… jist breathe…

— Mel’s right, Franco, Rents says, bug-eyed n excited, makin a fist ay a scrapped and swollen mitt. — Think ay the life he’ll have in prison as an ex-copper: ungreased butt-fuckings every day. He’s gaun tae a place a lot worse than death, Franco!

Mel looks at Rents in a vaguely chastising way, as ah haul in another deep breath. — You eywis kent how tae get roond me, I say tae um, and I walk ower tae Hammy’s groaning body, swing ma leg back and boot oot three ay the cunt’s front teeth with one blow.

— JIM, NO! Mel screams.

— Sorry, doll. Ah move away, nodding tae her and then Renton. — Fuckin polis it is then, ay, n ah pits ma hands on her trembling shoodirs. — I know it’s primitive, but there’s no way he’s touching you without me getting a lick in. Wis never gaunny happen.

— Enough now, she commands.

— Of course.

Renton is connected tae 911 right away. — Hello, I’d like to report a break-in, kidnapping, assault and possibly attempted murder.

Then Mel’s calling the lawyer, the boy who has a copy ay the tape and whae’s been pit in the picture. Wi Hammy bein filth it’s the smart move. We sit there, Hammy shackled wi his ain cuffs, lying on the floor, face bleeding over the concrete. The visible side is misshapen and reddish black, both his eyes slits in swollen red bulbs. Aye, Renton fuckin well pummelled the cunt pretty good. Wisnae fuckin aboot wi they elbays. Could have done wi that style fae the shitein cunt up the toon in our youth, instead ay daftie here huvin tae sort everything oot. Still, fair play, better late than never. I envy the cunt every single fuckin lick he goat in. If it was doon tae me, ah’d set aboot the cunt wi the tools, n pit in a steady shift till thaire wis nowt left.

The lawyer gets here aboot a minute before the polis and the first thing he does is supervise them gettin that cunt oot ay the hoose. The Hammy Hamster fucker goes quietly, like he’s in shock, mutterin tae ehsel. It’s Mel whae’s daein maist ay the talkin tae the polis. Ah just sits doon n speaks whin spoken tae. Ah tells them that he was obsessed wi her, and seemed tae think that ah wis some kind ay serial killer. — It’s utterly bizarre stuff, ah tell them, thinking ay how Iain, the bad boy ay Scottish art, back in the New Town, would respond in such a situation. Ah’m sucking in ma breath at times, but ah’m as polite as fuck tae they cunts. If your instincts are bad, ye train yersel by acting counter-intuitive, daein the reverse ay what ye feel like daein. Mel and Rents are as plausible as fuck. He eywis wis a smart cunt. He’s goat that managerial tone, that in control shite gaun oan. The lawyer sits thaire, looking intently, occasionally nodding but no really saying anything, but ye know that just wi him being there the polis play by Queensberry rules n dinnae overstep the mark. This is how coppers should be, but ah’ve never hud them like this before.

When the polis leave, the lawyer debriefs us before he goes n aw, and then Mel goes tae check oan the bairns, whae, eftir sleepin through aw the aggro, got woken up by the cop car sirens. Like there was any need for aw that fuckin fuss when the cunt had been taken care ay!

It leaves me and Renton in the front room. Ah take him tae the kitchen and make him a cup ay tea. — Dinnae keep peeve in the hoose, ah tell him when he pills a wee face. — So, what’s aw this aboot?

— They cannae fuck aboot wi the YLT, mate, he sais, half laughin, the bones ay his face defined in the moonlight comin through the windae. Always was a skinny cunt.

Ah hus a wee giggle at that, as ah pours, intae they Hibs commemorative Scottish Cup mugs ah goat fae Terry. — I meant what brought ye here?

— You wouldnae believe this, he smiles, — but ah came here tae have a row wi ye aboot the money. Was even gaunny offer tae fight ye for it! Seems a bit pointless now.

— You’d huv fuckin done me now, mate, ah laughs, taking another sip ay tea. — Violence just isn’t my bag any more. Never led me anywhere but jail. Ah looks him up and doon. — But when did you git tae be such a tidy cunt?

— That’s thanks tae you as well, Renton sais, his sly eyes burning away. — Was practising for you coming for me. Then it happened and a car got in the way first. Just as well, cause I fuckin froze!

— Well, thank fuck ye never this time. Come wi me, ah tell him, and pick up the pot, milk n mugs, n stick them on a tray. We go back intae the studio, and tae my desk in the recess, where ah set it down. Ah pull an envelope out the drawer. It’s his money, the fifteen grand, still in UK dosh. — Ah wis gaunny gie ye it back, ah tell um, although that’s no exactly true. Fact is, it was gaunny sit in my desk forever, tae remind ays that there’s other ways ay getting even wi a smart cunt. — Jist wanted tae hud oantae it for a while, teach ye a wee lesson aboot rippin yir mates oaf. How it feels, ay?

— Thanks. He takes the envelope and slaps it against his thigh. — Helps me out a bit. Means a lot. And, aye, lesson learned, he goes.

Ah sortay realise that ah’ve been a bit hard oan the cunt, cleaning him oot wi the Leith Heads, cause eh came through big time. And ah suppose eh really did just want tae make things right, even if ah wisnae struck oan the wey eh went aboot it. — Good, cause ah’ve found a buyer who’s interested in the Leith Heads. If ye ever fancy sellin them, like.

— Seriously?

— One ay ma regular collectors. Boy named Villiers. Very wealthy. If you’re of a mind to sell I’ll get you what ye peyed plus twenty-five per cent on top.

— I’ll sell, the cunt goes, a bit too fucking quickly, then adds, —… no offence tae the works, Frank, but I really do need the money. But ah don’t get it, ah mean…

— Why is he peying that much for a pile a shite I’ve just cast, and huvnae even given ma signature mutilation?

Renton looks at me for a wee bit, raises the mug, takes a sip. — Well, aye.

Ah huv a wee laugh at that wi the cunt. — You dinnae get how art works, mate. It has zero value other than what people are prepared to pay for it. By paying what you did for it, you gied it that value. You also outbid a cunt whae doesnae like to be outbid. Ever.

— So why was he?

Ah pour us some mair tea fae the pot. — He instructed his agent tae go tae a certain price, thinking, like every cunt else, that the bidding would fall way, way under it. Then you come along and scooby every fucker. The agent, this boy Stroud, that cunt bidding against you, he was huvin kittens trying tae get the radge on the mobby before that hammer came doon.

— And he would have paid…

— Whatever it took. It fucks his heid that he didnae even ken who you were. Nae social media presence or nowt. Ah sits back oan the workbench. — He probably thought you were working on behalf ay some rival whae wis tryin tae stiff the cunt! But what ah want tae ken is, what the fuck was Mikey Forrester daein biddin it up?

Renton blows on the top ay his mug ay tea. — That was our auld buddy Sick Boy’s doing. I think he felt I needed a bigger financial hit. He was daein you a favour and me a bad turn. And Mikey and I never got on since back in the day. I rode this bird fae Lochend he was intae. He smiles in memory.

It sounds plausible enough. Everything in life is distorted by wee irrational jealousies and daft impulses. Ye huv tae get control ay these cunts or they destroy ye. So best thing tae dae – n aw they politicians n business cunts get this – is fuck up people that have nae real connection tae ye.

Renton looks around the studio. — I’m in the wrong game. All those years fannying around in music wi nae talent for it.

— Talent is way, way overrated, mate. Timing is all. And that’s maistly luck, and a wee bit ay intuition and savvy. I point tae him. — And thank fuck you’ve got that, bud. Ah owe ye big time. That cunt would have made ma bairns orphans.

— Ah’ll settle for us being square. Finally, he smiles.

Ah extend ma hand. — Square it is.

He gies a cheeky wee smile, which reminds me ay the way he looked as a kid. — And you were always quite good at art, back at school, before ye got flung out the class!

— That was the only class ah minded getting bounced oot ay. Ah lower ma voice cause ah kin hear Mel talking tae the bairns. — The best rides were in the art class.

— They still comprise twenty-five per cent ay ma wanking material, he grins.

— That’s quite low.

— I’ve been working in clubs for years. That’s steadily reduced it.

We just laugh, the baith ay us, like we used tae dae comin hame fae school. Doon Duke Street, along Junction Street, towards the Fort, pishin ourselves, just talkin aboot some daft shite or other. — Ken the funniest thing? We’re now both rich enough tae never let money come between us again.

It’s probably the nerves but Renton starts laughing like a fucking loony. Ah join in. Then he suddenly goes aw serious. — Ah want ye tae come down tae LA sometime, tae meet somebody.

Fuck knows whae, but it’s the least ah kin dae. — Sound.

40 SICK BOY – HUCKLED

The meal was eaten in stilted circumstances, but the job was done. Euan is, hopefully, once again isolated from Carlotta. That was just phase one: next that bastard is out of my family for good. This town ain’t big enough for the both of us! Then Marianne and I head back to the hotel to celebrate, and I’m straight online.

I thought it might be a bitty unwise to get Jill along to the room tae help Marianne and me celebrate our love. That somewhat unedifying bit of history from Christmas. Best make those accessories purely business ones. Jasmine, sadly, seems to have vanished. I was almost even tempted to call Syme to pull a favour, but I’m staying away from that grotbag. Instead, I get on to a wannabe Colleagues agency, and I’m ogling their app. My preference is for an African princess, black as coal, or even a raven-haired, dusky-skinned Romany maiden, in order to provide a contrast to Marianne’s Nordic Nazi. She looks over my shoulder and pulls a face. — Why can’t we get a guy? I want to be done by you and another guy! I want an uncircumcised dick with a big fat cherry bursting onto the scene.

I feel my brow crinkle in distaste, and lower the phone. — But, darling, I hate men. I can’t look at another man’s naked body without feeling sick. I can barely talk to them, I insist, as I’m psychologically scythed by a horrible image of Renton, fucking her, my soon-to-be wife.

— Maybe you need desensitivity training. C’mon, let’s get a guy!

I shake that Treacherous Ginger Bastard out of my head.

— It won’t work, honey. I’ve tried to tell you that over the years. I once went to an orgy and got a sweaty bawbag and hairy arse-crack in my face. Way too traumatising, and I’m far from the squeamish sort, I explain, shuddering in recall of a terrible incident in Clerkenwell. — I envy the fuck out of you, as I’ve always aspired to be bisexual.

— I’m no bisexual, she protests.

— Well, if you prefer, ‘a-woman-who-knows-how-to-pulverise-another-woman’s-clitoris-until-she-explodes’?

— I dinnae like labels, she says, then commands, — Suck my clit.

— Try stopping me, babes, just you try stopping me, I grin, — but only after you’ve picked a lassie, I nod to the phone.

Tutting and rolling her eyes, Marianne takes the iPhone off me, scrolling the profiles. She settles on Lily, another blonde who looks like a younger version of her. Fucking narcissists everywhere. It’s not a great contrast, and I stress the need for visual variety, but as she’s getting a bit twitchy, I decide it’s best not to push it. I call the agency and Lily will be at the hotel within the hour.

I get to work and multiple-orgasm Marianne, deploying fingers, tongue, cock and, most of all, speech play that would make a death-row sex offender blush. Fucking her down the years has been like reading that leather-bound Collected Works of William Shakespeare I ordered ages ago – you find something new each time you pick it up. She’s a feisty opponent, but I’ve hammered her into a dopey state of lassitude by the time the hooker arrives. I’ve taken care not blow my own wad, this was just a starter before the main dish of the day.

Lily comes up and I’m a bit despondent as her shots flatter her. Like extremely, like in an Exercise-Bike’s-Facebook-Page sort of way, where the posted snaps stop at around 1987, but no point in quibbling, as time is money. We go through only the rudimentary courtesies before getting down to business. Lily has a huge strap-on which she works into the arse of Marianne, who is crouched on the edge of the bed. I assume a similar position in front of Marianne, in order to take my fiancée’s lubed dildo up my hole. It’s going in with slow relief, like shitting in reverse, Marianne screaming as the base of the device is grinding against her clit like a demented Italian waiter on speed with a pepper cellar. I feel my soul being eye-wateringly spiked as Marianne gasps and shouts, — That’s my boy, take it right up ye… this is the faggot bitch I’m gaunny fuckin mairray…

I’m moving my hips to try and accommodate more dildo, while watching all this in the mirror, drinking in Marianne’s demented scowl and Lily’s gum-chewing detachment (at my instigation, all part of the set-up). Meanwhile, I’m chugging at my lubed penis in long strokes, feeling the pressure steadfastly building, like Hibs on the Rangers goal in the closing phase of the Hampden final. I’m thinking this is what married life will be like, when the door opens and the fucking cleaner…

Fuck me, it’s no the fucking cleaners…

The party literally crumbles as two men burst in, flashing IDs, wearing shite cop clothes and expressions of dumb, crass entitlement. They stop in their tracks as they take in the scene, speechless and bemused for a couple of seconds but not leaving. Then one says, — You’ve got two minutes to get dressed, we’ll be waiting outside!

They depart, one saying something I don’t catch and the other responding with a deep, throaty laugh, then slamming the door behind them.

— What the fuck, Lily squeals.

Marianne looks at me and haughtily says, — I dinnae mind ay ordering those boys…

41 RENTON – SHEDDING KING LEARS

I’m so buzzed, shocked, tired, relieved and fucking rich, I shouldnae be driving back to Santa Monica. My knuckles are ripped and my hands are swollen on the wheel, stubbornly reminding me that it happened. That fucking weirdo was going to shoot Franco and Melanie! And I saved the cunt! Me!

I’ve strayed into the wrong fucking lane and a horn blares out, a trucker giving me the finger as he passes. I’ve just beaten a cop to a pulp with my bare hands, and now I would shite it from my own shadow. I can’t concentrate; I’m wondering how much the Leith Heads will really fetch and whether I should play hardball with that collector cunt, as Conrad is going to jump ship and I’ll make fuck all from Emily or Carl.

This isn’t working. I pull off at some services and drink shit black coffee at Arby’s. It only burns a volatile stomach that feels like a nest of squirming maggots. I eat half a burrito and throw the rest away. Begbie explained that I was just suffering an amateur’s stress reaction to perpetrating violence. I’m beset with the idea that dark consequence and terrible reprisal lurk around every corner. In spite of the cops totally believing our story and the lawyer’s assurances that I’m in the clear, the paranoia is ripping out of me. I consider turning on my phone, but I know that would be the worst thing to do right now, even if the urge is almost irresistible. It’s always just bad news, anyway. Conrad is ramping to jump ship, just when I hear from the Wynn that he’s got the big gig at XS, on the back of his latest big hit. Now some other cunt will reap the benefits. Fuck it.

I get back in the rental, driving like a learner, conscious of every move, never so relieved to get off the 101 onto the 405. The jammed city traffic slows things down, composing me, giving ays time to think. I decide it’s good. I did a virtuous thing and got payback from it. I fantasise about the likely and unlikely rewards. A mystical healer or breakthrough wonderdrug for Alex, that miraculously connects him to the world. But no amount of money will make that happen. It will, however, get me an essential three-bedroomed apartment. Then I’m onto the 10 to Santa Monica, then coming off it, and parking in my underground lot. I get out the car and hold my hand in front of my face. It’s shaking, but I’m home in one piece.

Then, from the periphery of my vision, I see a figure step out of a car. It moves between two parked vehicles, and starts walking towards me, still obscured by darkness and shadow. It’s big, and powerful-looking, though, and I feel my pulse kick up and my sore fists ball. I’m ready to go again but, fuck me, it’s Conrad, now lit from a yellow lamp in the roof above.

— You are okay! the fat bastard sings in delight, tears welling in his big eyes as he grabs me in an awkward embrace. I’m nervously patting his back, totally scoobied. I never expected this. — You should phone, text, email… he gasps, — it is not like you not to return calls! For many days! I was worried, we all were!

— Thanks, pal… Sorry about that, loads to sort out, congrats wi the track, I lamely hear myself say, as he releases me.

— I know there are money problems with you, Conrad whispers. — Anything you need, you must tell me, and I will give it to you. My money is your money. This you know, right?

Well, no, I never had a fucking inkling that he was anything other than a tight, selfish cunt. And I thought that this was the fucking bullet coming. That Conrad would surely be signing for a rival, moving tae Ivan’s stable. I certainly never imagined we had this kind ay stuff going on. — That is incredibly generous of you, pal, but I’ve been out of the loop, attending tae this personal and financial stuff, I explain, adjoining, — to my extreme satisfaction, I might add.

— That is good. I am pleased to hear this. But we need to talk, there have been developments, he adds an ominous tone.

— Right, well, first I have to go upstairs and check on my dad and my boy. Meet me in the Speakeasy on Pico in twenty.

— Where is this? he asks.

— Wouldn’t it be great if there was this device called the Internet, whereby you could type in Speakeasy and Pico Boulevard, and the directions would come up as if by magic?

Conrad looks at me, and laughs disparagingly. — I think I know this device. It is in something called a phone, which you can also talk into when it rings. But I’m not sure that my manager has a fucking clue as to what it is!

— Point taken, bud, see you in a bit.

So I go up to the apartment, a bit trepidatious at the reception I’ll get from my dad, for taking off and leaving him and Alex, and now having to head straight back out. I’ve been leaning heavily on the poor old bastard. Since the two funerals, Vicky and I have been hanging out a lot, and I’ve stayed more than a few nights at hers down in Venice. Dad doesn’t seem to mind, agreeing that the couch won’t do my back any good, though I suppose I’ve been taking the piss a bit. But when I get in he’s sitting on the couch, playing video games with Alex. He points to the Xbox and the pile of games. — Just been stocking up, he says, neither one of them averting their eyes from the screen to me.

It’s fairly obvious that they are both fine with me going right out again. I head to the Speakeasy and Conrad’s parked up in the street outside, slumped over the dashboard like an activated airbag. I tap the window and he springs awake. We go into the bar and he orders a Diet Pepsi. Fuck me, the revolution has started. I order a nice bottle of California Pinot. The Speakeasy wine bar is almost empty tonight. Two young women sit at one table, and a group of executives at another, their loud chatter telling the world that they’re in TV. Conrad declines a glass of my plonk, but then augments his soft drink with a beer, as we settle down at a corner table. — I thought you were here to sack me, I confide.

— No, and he looks shocked, — do not be stupid! You are family to me, he says, as I quickly work through a glass, then refill. — Sometimes it feels like you are the only one who has ever taken an interest in me.

Fuck sake, now it’s me fighting back the King Lears here! This has been an emotional day. I rescue Begbie and Mel, and pummel some bent psycho copper half to death, get back the fortune I’d lost, and now this Dutch cunt is breaking my fucking heart! So I cope by letting the manager in ays kick in, the sudden intimacy between us giving me an opening. — The family thing, I look at him gravely, — I feel the same way about all you guys, mate… and that’s why it’s killing me to see you letting yourself go.

— What…?

— The timber, bro; it needs to be shed, and I punch his airm. — This weight is killing you, and it shouldn’t be that way. You’re a young guy, Conrad, it’s not right.

There’s a brief flash ay hostility in his eyes. Then they soften, moistening as he starts telling me about his old man. The dude is a classical musician with the Dutch National Orchestra, who has never respected his son’s love of electronic dance music. This lack of acknowledgement and credibility in his dad’s eyes depresses the fuck out of Conrad.

I suck in a long breath, and unload. — This maybe isnae what ye want tae hear, mate, but fuck him. He’s respected by some stiff-arsed old cunts who go tae listen tae his fannybaws orchestra playing the music ay deid fuckers. You’re respected by teenage Lyrca-clad goddesses who want to suck your brains out through your dick and then fuck whatever’s left out of your head. The old cunt is jealous, mate, it’s as simple as that. If our one goal in life is to replace our fathers, and I think in guilt at the lovely old Weedgie boy down the street, — then job done, and at a precociously early age, and I raise my glass in a toast. — Nice one!

He looks at me with that same tremor of anger again, before it melts into considered deliberation, then enlightenment and finally, a hopeful, — You really think so?

— I know so, I tell him, as the two young women who have been looking over at us come across.

— It’s you, isn’t it? one of them says to Conrad. — You’re Technonerd!

— Yes, Conrad says robotically as I look at him in affirmation. This woman has dramatically underscored my point.

— Oh my God!

They want selfies with him, and Conrad is happy enough to oblige. Afterwards, they have the grace to see that we’re into something, and head back to the bar. I’m surprised Conrad didn’t ask for a phone number, it’s very unlike him.

— Now back tae this business ay the coral reef. I jab a finger at him. — I know a trainer in Miami Beach. You like it down there. She’s as tough as fuck, but she will sort out your brain and body. I hand him the card of this woman Lucy, whom Jon, a flabby promoter at Ultra (at least until she got a hold of him), recommended tae ays.

Conrad takes it in his grubby fist, and slips it into his pocket. — Now that we are being frank, he says, — there are some things I need to tell you. The first one is that you are right about Emily. She is an amazing talent. Her new stuff is very, very good. I am remixing some of her tracks. We have been working in Amsterdam, but we need to find a new studio here for the Vegas season.

— Brilliant! That’s great news! I’m totally on it with the studio. I have several options –

— The second is that we are having a relationship. Emily and myself.

— Well, that’s your business, bud…

My face must be giving away that I believe they are probably the two most fundamentally unsuited people on the planet. But maybe not, as Conrad says, — She said that you guys had been fucking. So this thing with her and me, it is not a problem for you?

— No… why should it be? It was just once… I look at him. — She told you we had sex? What the fuck… what did she say?

— That you were good in bed – creative, was the word she used – but also that you do not have the stamina of a younger man. That you can no longer fuck all night, which is what she needs, and a trace of a smile spreads across the corners ay his chops.

I can’t help but laugh at that. — Let’s just leave it there and allow me to congratulate you both. I have a bit of news too. This will be your last season at Surrender.

— They cannot fire me, he fumes, then smashes his fist on the table and my wine glass wobbles, — you cannot let them do this!

I raise my hand to silence him and cut in, — Next season you’ll be playing XS.

— Fuck! He jumps up, and shouts across to the bar, — Give me a bottle of your best champagne, then says to me, — I have the best manager in the world!

I can’t resist it. — To quote Brian Clough, I’m certainly in the top one.

— Who is Brian Clough?

— Before your time, bud, I say depressingly.

For the first time, Vicky, with Willow and Matt, joins me in Vegas. We see Calvin Harris at the Hakkasan, Britney Spears at the Axis, and, of course, Conrad, Emily and Carl at Surrender.

While Conrad is on the decks, and Carl is explaining DMT to the others, I collar Emily. — Thanks for telling him about us. I nod to the box and Conrad’s hulking back.

— Oh, it just slipped out. Sorry!

— I should think so.

— Don’t take the hump. Emily raises a brow. — It was me who helped convince him, and Ivan, that you were the main man.

The fuck… — Ivan? What about Ivan?

— Yes, Conrad and I have been hanging out with him in Amsterdam. I’ve been trying to get him back onside. It’s only gone and worked, hasn’t it? she grins. — He wants to come back to Citadel Productions. You should expect a call soon.

Fuck me. It’s not Ivan who has been trying to poach them for the big boys! It’s them who’ve been grooming Ivan-the-treacherous-Belgian to return to the Citadel camp. — Emily, I’m eternally grateful, but why are you doing this?

— I feel a bit bad, because of all the aggro I caused you.

— Look, it was just a daft wee shag and it shoul —

— Not that, you fucking idiot, she laughs and leans into me. — This one you really need to keep to yourself…

— Okay…

— …the dickhead thing wasn’t Carl, she confides, and we both start fitting with laughter.

42 INTERROGATION

The interview room is stark and bare. There is a Formica table, on which sits recording equipment. It’s surrounded by hard plastic chairs. Simon David Williamson has regained his composure, and part of him, as it always does, is relishing the interpersonal challenges ahead. He grinds his teeth together in a move he considers galvanising. On his arrival at the police station and prior to his placement in a holding room, he immediately insisted on calling his brief. The lawyer instructed silence until he arrived. Williamson, though, has other ideas.

He looks aloofly at the two police officers who have taken him into the room. They have sat down, one of them placing a plastic folder on the table. Williamson opts to remain standing. — Take a seat, invites one of the cops, as he turns on the recorder. This officer has cropped fair hair in quite a dramatic receding ‘V’. He has attempted to cover up an acne-ravaged chin with a beard that grows only wispy hair, therefore just emphasising the scarring more. Married the first bird that opened her legs to him is Williamson’s pitiless evaluation. In his laughing eyes and incongruously crueller, tight mouth, he reads the classic tells of the bad cop.

— If it’s all the same to you, I prefer to stand, Williamson declares. — Sitting down isn’t good for you. In fifty years from now we’ll laugh at old movies where we see people sitting at desks, in much the same way we do now when we see them smoking.

— Sit down, Bad Cop repeats, pointing to the seat.

Williamson crouches down on his hunkers. — If it’s eyeline or microphone pickup you’re concerned with, this should do it. It’s the way the creature known as Homo sapiens naturally lowers itself; we do this instinctively as bairns, then we get told to –

— In the seat! Bad Cop snaps.

Simon Williamson looks at the officer, then the chair, as if it’s an electric one, designated for his execution. — Have it on record that I was forced into sitting out of some antiquated attachment to social convention, and against my personal choice, he says pompously, before lowering himself.

My hands are steady. My nerves are cool. Even rattling on ching and alcohol withdrawal, I can still man the fuck up and function. I’m just a higher form of evolution. If I’d had the education, I would have been a surgeon. And not fannying about with stinky wee feet either. I would be transplanting hearts, even fucking brains.

As Bad Cop makes the aggressive pitch, Williamson studies the reaction of his colleague, the ironic smile of slight disdain that says: My-mate’s-a-wanker-but-what-can-I-do? We understand each other. It’s a variation on the good cop/bad cop routine. Good Cop is a tubby, dark-haired man who looks permanently startled. The harsh lights above bounce unflatteringly on his uneven, putty-like features. He keeps the grin on Williamson as Bad Cop continues. — So you were in London on the 23rd of June?

— Yes, I believe so. Easy to verify. There will be phone calls, probably a withdrawal from the NatWest cashpoint at King’s Cross Station, which I visit regularly. And of course, there’s the sandwich bar on Pentonville Road. Tell your colleagues at the Metropolitan Police to ask for Milos. I’m a weel-kent face there, as you like to say back up here, he smiles, starting to enjoy himself. — I always travel by tube, my Oyster card transactions should show a confirming pattern, and of course, my fiancée would be with me… So, what happened to Victor Syme?

— Friend of yours, was he? Bad Cop tugs at his ratty beard.

— I wouldn’t say that.

— You’re on his calls list enough.

— We explored the possibility of doing business together, Simon Williamson declares, voice now set in the authoritative cast of the tetchy businessman having his time wasted by incompetent public servants. — I run a reputable dating agency, and I was talking to him about the possibility of expanding into Edinburgh.

Bad Cop, aware that Williamson is pointedly examining his facial ministrations, lowers his hands. — So you didn’t do business together?

Simon Williamson envisions him having eczema in his genital region and trying in vain to pass it off as an STD in the dressing room of the police football team. It amuses him to think of the flakes of skin nestling in the law enforcement officer’s pubes, sticking with sweat to the face of his wife as she grimly performs fellatio duties. — No.

— Why?

— To be quite frank, Syme’s operation struck me as very low-rent and sleazy, and the girls were obviously common prostitutes – not that I make moral judgements, he adds in haste, — just not what I was looking for as a business model. I’m focusing more on MBAs, the premium market.

Bad Cop says, — You do know that prostitution is illegal?

Williamson looks at Good Cop in faux amazement, then turns to his interrogator, speaking patiently to him as one would a child. — Of course. As I say, we’re an escort agency. Our girls, or partners as we call them, accompany executives to meetings and dinners, they host events and parties. This is the legal framework within which I operate.

— Since when? You’ve had two court appearances for living off immoral earnings.

— One was when I was a very young man, addicted to heroin. My girlfriend and I were extremely desperate, driven by the dictates of that horrible drug. The second one was related to an enterprise I had absolutely nothing to do with –

— The Skylark Hotel in Finsbury Park –

— The Skylark Hotel in Finsbury Park. I happened to be visiting those premises when they were being investigated by the Metropolitan Police vice squad. There was a lazy association and some nonsense, trumped-up charges, which I was proven innocent of. Totally exonerated. That was well over a decade ago.

— So you’re Mr Snow White, Bad Cop scoffs.

Simon Williamson allows himself a highly audible exhalation. — Look, I’m not going to insult your intelligence and claim that sort of thing doesn’t go on, but, as I say, we are an agency selling escort services. Prostitution is nothing to do with us, and if any of our partners get involved in that and we find out about it, they’re off the books straight away.

— Us?

— My fiancée is now a company director.

Good Cop comes in with a complete change of emphasis. — Do you know Daniel Murphy?

To avoid seeming wrong-footed, Simon Williamson attempts to think of the great injustices Spud visited on him; concentrating on his snowdropping of a much loved Fair Isle jersey from the concrete drying greens of the Banana Flats. But all he sees in his mind’s eye is the Oor Wullie smile on a younger Spud, and he feels something in his heart melt. — Yes, and may his soul rest in peace. An old friend.

Bad Cop is back in the chair. — Do you know how he died?

Shaking his head, Williamson composes himself. An expression of genuine grief would be a good reveal, don’t panic. I tried to save him. — Some sort of illness. Danny, God love him, well, he led a very marginal life, I’m afraid.

— Somebody ripped out his kidney. He died from complications resulting from that, Bad Cop snaps. The air in the room seems to lose half of its oxygen.

— I really think I need to wait till my lawyer gets here before answering any more questions, Williamson declares. — I’ve tried to cooperate as a concerned citizen, but –

— You can do that, Bad Cop cuts him off, — but you might find it’s to your advantage to cooperate with us informally if you don’t want to be charged with the murder of Victor Syme, and he takes a photo from the plastic file in front of him, throwing it under Simon Williamson’s nose. He examines the picture in morbid fascination. It shows Syme lying in a pool of blood, which seems to have come from multiple wounds, most of it a gash in his stomach.

Then Bad Cop shows him a closer image, and two maroon bean-shaped things seem to be sticking out the sockets where Syme’s eyes once were. It gives the impression of a comic Photoshopped set-up and Williamson laughs.

— Is this for real?

— Oh, it’s real alright. Those are his kidneys, Bad Cop says.

Williamson lowers the photograph. Feels his hand tremble. Knows Bad Cop has noticed it. — This isnae fucking well on, I know my rights –

— Yes, so you say, Bad Cop mocks. — Okay, come with us.

The officers rise and take him next door into an adjoining anteroom. On one side, through a one-way plate glass, Williamson can see the empty interview room they’ve just vacated. On the other side is an identical room. But there, at the table, sits his brother-in-law, Euan McCorkindale. The disgraced podiatrist seems beyond catatonic; it’s as if he’s been lobotomised.

— He’s basically told us about your part in the removal of Daniel Murphy’s kidney, Good Cop announces in sad compassion. He looks as if he’s genuinely going to burst into tears on Williamson’s behalf.

But Williamson remains composed. — Aw aye, he says disparagingly, — which was?

Good Cop nods in stagy reluctance to Bad Cop, who takes over. — That you removed it, under his supervision, with another man, in unsanitary conditions, at a location in Berlin.

Williamson hits back with a dismissive tirade so contemptuous, the police officers unprofessionally swither between visible anger and embarrassment. — Under his supervision? Williamson thumbs at the man through the mirror. — Is he on fucking drugs? I’m not qualified to remove a kidney! Wouldn’t even know where to fucking find it! Do I look like a surgeon? Simon Williamson tosses his head back, openly revelling in his performance. Then he looks from one cop to the other, sensing their unease. He says softly, — He’s the doctor, and he points back to the glass again, — that fucking balloon there. So work it out for yourselves.

Good Cop slips back into the driving seat. — He said he was being blackmailed by Victor Syme, over a sex tape, into performing this surgery –

— That I can believe –

— But couldn’t go through with the removal of the kidney. He said that you took it out, assisted by a YouTube video and a man named Michael Forrester –

— Now we’re delving into the realms of fantasy, Williamson snorts.

— Are we, Simon? Are we really? Good Cop pleads.

— Mikey Forrester? YouTube kidney-removal videos? What the fuck are youse boys on? Simon Williamson laughs loudly, shaking his head. — That one will amuse the fuck out of the magistrates when this goes to court!

The cops look at each other. To Williamson they now give off the underlying desperation that they are grown men playing a silly child’s game they can no longer believe in. But then another sudden change of tack blindsides him, as Good Cop’s face takes on a cuntish hue. — Can you explain a deposit of ninety-one thousand pounds in cash into your bank account on the 6th of January?

Williamson knows that his face will register little, but he feels something die inside of him. Renton. I’m going to be done by fucking Renton. — How do you know about that money?

— We contacted your bank. You’re part of an investigation, so they were obligated to let us know any substantial recent deposits made.

— This is fucking outrageous, Williamson booms. — Since when did the fucking banks, who have ripped off and exploited every citizen in this country, become… he blusters. — That was a payback from a business deal!

Good Cop delivers the line like a soap-opera actor. — The business of organ harvesting?

— No! It was… Look, talk to Mikey Forrester. He’s Syme’s business partner. They had a bad falling-out.

Both police officers stare at him in silence.

Williamson wonders where the fuck his brief has got to, but in this anteroom no recording device is in evidence, so this is probably off the record. He glances again through the mirror, at the immobile and miserable Euan. He counts to ten slowly in his head, before speaking. — Okay, cards-on-the-table time. I was in Berlin, at Spud’s request, to look after him. I learned that Euan was being blackmailed by Syme, he explains, wondering whether to throw Forrester under the bus, and deciding against it. Mikey would manage that easily enough himself, and it would be far more convincing coming from the horse’s mouth. — I was there to make sure my old mate was okay. A hand-holding exercise. I obviously suspected it was a dodgy deal, but that wasn’t my business. Ask Mikey!

Bad Cop looks to Good Cop. — Mr Forrester has gone to ground; he’s not returning our calls. His phone is switched off, and we’re trying to trace it. I would suspect that it isn’t on his person.

Simon David Williamson decides it’s time to stop busking it. — I’m saying nothing more till my lawyer gets here. He shakes his head. — I have to say I’m very disappointed in the attitude displayed by you officers today. There’s nobody more pro-police and law and order than me. I try to cooperate and assist you and I’m treated like a common criminal, subjected to all sorts of snidey innuendo. So where’s my brief?

— He’s on his way, Good Cop says. — Tell us about Syme.

— No comment.

— You sure you want to do time? For these bams? Syme? Forrester? Not easy at your age, Bad Cop says, then leans forward and drops his voice to a whisper. — Somebody else will be drilling that hot bitch of a fiancée of yours soon, mate.

— Somebody probably already is, Williamson replies.

Good Cop seems to chastise Bad Cop’s crassness with a disagreeable pout. — Go easy on yourself, Simon, he softly urges. — Just tell me, can you think of anybody, other than Forrester, who might have done this to Syme?

Sick Boy couldn’t see Mikey perpetrating such violence on Victor Syme. But he can’t think of anybody else other than diffuse and shadowy East Europeans who must have been his sauna and organ-harvesting associates. — No. I can’t. But Syme was obviously mobbed up with some dodgy people, he states as Bad Cop opens the anteroom door. Williamson immediately sees what looks like a lawyer, coming down the corridor, trying to get his bearings. The man walks past the anteroom, then double-backs and looks in.

— I’m Colin McKerchar, from Donaldson, Farquhar, McKerchar, he says to Good Cop. Then he nods to his client. — Simon David Williamson?

— Yes, Williamson says and looks at the policemen. — So for any future questioning I will have a lawyer present. And I will fucking well exercise my human rights and stand on my feet. But right now, I think I want to leave.

— No charges? McKerchar fixes a searching, professional gaze on the cops. — Then let’s do just that.

— Of course, says Good Cop. — Thank you so much for your assistance, Mr Williamson.

— The pleasure was all yours, Williamson snorts, turning on his heels and exiting, followed by his brief.