by Unknown
I see him in my mind’s eye on the way down to Leith, then we get to the pub and he’s there. Simon Williamson. The others are arriving, shuffling in. Ursula, in a tracksuit which would look horrible on a British girl but is somehow cool on her. Craig and Ronnie, the Siamese twins, and my face lights up as I see Gina for the first time since she helped me. I go over and put my hand on her shoulder. — Thanks so much for helping me that time, I croon.
— Ye goat sick oan ma toap, she says gruffly, and I’m briefly startled but her aggression is superficial and she smiles. — Jist a wee whitey. Happens tae us aw.
Then Melanie’s in, all open and friendly, hugging me like we’re long-lost pals. My spirits rise as we present them each with a copy. — Remember, I explain, — this is just a very rough draft. All feedback gratefully received.
At least the title gets them. They all snigger when they read on the title page:
SEVEN RIDES FOR SEVEN BROTHERS
I quickly explain the plot. — The story is roughly this: seven lads are on an oil rig. One of them, Joe, has a bet with another, Tommy, which states that each one of the seven ‘brothers’ needs to get laid while on weekend shore leave. But not only do they have to get fucked, they have to have satisfied their own well-known sexual predilections. Unfortunately, there are two of them who want to do other things, of a cultural and sporting nature, and a third is a hopeless virgin. So the odds are stacked in Tommy’s favour. But Joe has allies; Melinda and Suzy, who run a high-class brothel, and who contrive to find the seven rides who’ll sort out those pesky brothers once and for all.
Simon nods enthusiastically, slapping his hand against his thigh. — This sounds good. This sounds very fucking good indeed.
While the others read, Rab and I elect to go downstairs and have a drink in the locked, empty pub. We have a half-hour of small talk about the script and the university before we head back up. When we open the door, they’re sitting in stunned silence. I think, oh no, but then realise that they’re looking in awe at us.
Suddenly Melanie’s big laugh sucks the air out the room. She throws the manuscript on the desk, unable to control herself. — This is jist too fuckin mad, she smirks at me, her hand going to her mouth. — Youse are radge.
Then Terry cuts in, looking at Rab. — Aye, it’s awright, but listen, Birrell, this isnae a fuckin college project. Yuv goat tae be able tae stroke yir fuckin knob n come, no yir fuckin chin n come. This is the real world, mate.
Rab looks impatiently back at him. — Read the fuckin thing, Lawson. It’s seven brothers oan the rigs, fir fuck sakes, they come oaf thir shift n need tae meet they seven birds.
Simon looks at Terry in a hostile manner, then he turns to us glassy-eyed and seems genuinely emotional. — This is a work of fuckin genius, folks, he says, standing up and grabbing Rab’s shoulder and then kissing my cheek before leaning across the bar and filling up some huge JD’s from the optics. — You’ve got the fuckin lot here. I loved the bondage and spanking scenes. So fruity!
— Yeah, I explain, totally elated, but trying to maintain some sort of cool in the face of his comments as the grimy tiredness of our all-nighter kicks in, — British market, y’know. It’s a very British fetish? Its cultural origins are, like, in the public-school and nanny-state culture?
Rab nods enthusiastically. — It also shows our soft-porn heritage and the repressive nature of our censorship culture, he says, our pretension now suddenly growing. — How Lauren could say there was no art in it really just beggars belief.
— Nivir mind the art, Birrell, ah liked the bit aboot the boy thit wis obsessed wi blow jobs, Terry winks, letting his bottom lip caress his top one.
Simon’s nodding slowly, and in grim content, with an executioner’s enthusiasm says: — Now we’ve got tae cast this.
— Ah want tae play aw the brothers, Terry says. — Ye kin dae that wi effects n editing now. Jist a couple ay different wigs, some costumes, like glesses n that . . .
We all laugh, but it has an incredulous edge as we know that Terry’s deadly serious. Simon shakes his head. — Naw, we all need to get parts in this – or any boy whae kin find wid on camera can, that is.
— There’ll be nae problems here, Terry says patting his crotch satisfyingly. Then he turns to Rab. — Notice you’re keepin quiet, Birrell! No fancy a wee part, wee bein the operative word?
— Fuck off, Terry, Rab says with a mannered smile, — it’s big enough, although half a dozen twelve-inchers would still rattle in your fuckin gob.
— You can dream, Birrell, Terry scoffs.
— Children, please, Simon says grandly. — It might have escaped your attention, but there’s ladies present. Just because we’re making a pornogra . . . eh, adult-entertainment film, it doesn’t mean that we personally need to be coarse. Keep the gutter in your head, not round this table.
We’re flushed with our accomplishment, Rab and I. As we prepare to head off to get up to the uni to check on our assignment results, Simon comes up to me and whispers in my ear. — All my life you’ve been a mirage, now you’re real.
He did send the flowers.
We’re on the bus heading up the town and Rab’s going on about the movie and films in general, but my mind’s elsewhere. I can’t see or hear him any more, all I can think about is Simon. All my life you’ve been a mirage, now you’re real.
I’m real to him. But our life’s not real. This is not real life. This is entertainment. When I get to the university I see that McClymont has given me a fifty-five. It’s not great but it’s a pass. There are some semi-illigible notes.
A good effort, rendered less effective by irritating habit of adopting the American bastardised spelling of our language. ‘Colour’ is not spelt ‘color’. Nonetheless, you make some good points, but don’t neglect the influence of Scots immigrants in science and medicine – it wasn’t all politics, philosophy, education, engineering and building.
A pass. Now I can forget about that part of the course and that creepy old bastard for ever.
32
Scam # 18,741
I look out over the back green where a wifie’s hanging out her washing. Heavy, murky clouds are racing across the tops of the tenements blotting out the lovely pale-blue sky. The wifie looks up and, with a despondent, furrowed brow, realises that it’s going to piss down and kicks her basket in frustration.
The film was easy to cast; Craig and Ursula will do the bondage scenes, Terry as key shagger will do Mel up the shitter. Ronnie will be the boxer who gets off watching Nikki and Melanie getting it on (and he won’t be the only one), and I’ll be the man who wants the orgy. I’ll get Mikey Forrester to do the blow-job scene with one of his daft wee hoors. All we need is one more brother for the straight-sex scene, and I might see if Rab’s up for that one, or Renton even, while I need a younger stud for the cherry-popping virgin part.
The problem for this movie, to do it the way we want to, is money. I’m determined that this won’t be a ham-and-egg operation. I’ll show them all that they were wrong to dismiss SDW as a force, as a player in the industry. But it can’t be done on the cheap, cause that’s what they expect. I haven’t got access to the kind of money those spoiled cunts spunk away on nothing. But Spud and his daft soap-star pal have given me an idea, and I’ve been doing some sounding out. It could come to fruition. Of course, as well as his paltry scheme I have a far more elaborate plan in mind, which must, of necessity, exclude Daniel Murphy.
Alex McLeish?
It’s all about depth of pool, Simon, and I’m an admirer of the outfit you’ve got together, especially this girl Nikki. Very talented. The boy Murphy on the other hand, well, he has done a job when he’s come in, but I don’t think he has the professionalism to be a member of the squad.
Thanks, Alex. My view entirely: Murphy is purely a stop-gap signing. And I’m taking a tip from the man himself, and scouring the Continent for some new signings, under the Bosman rule. Of course, it may be difficult to entice old-crowd favourite Mark
Renton back to Leith. But I begin my scouting mission closer to home. There’s been a few messages left at the pub from a certain Paul Keramalandous of the Links Agency, a yuppie advertising firm down in Queen Charlotte Street who are said to epitomise the ‘new Leith’. The messages state that Keramalandous is interested in the Leith Business Against Drugs Forum. I feel both that tightness in frame and salivation in mouth that tells that I’m on the scent of something and return his call. It’s a fruitful conversation; the guy tells me that other businesses have been in touch, and he’s suggesting a date next week for an inaugural meeting at the Assembly Rooms. He asks me if I’ve anybody in mind whom I’d like to ‘bring to the table’. I’m thinking about my poverty of legitimate contacts here. Who the fuck could I bring along? Lexo, with his greasy-spoon-cum-Thai-café? Mikey Forrester with his sauna and scabby hoors? No way. This is my scam, and my scam only. I intimate to Paul that it might be better to keep things tight, myself, himself and a few of the names he mentions to me.
— Makes perfect sense, he whistles coolly down the blower, — at least till we get up and running. Don’t want to get into the too-many-cooks scenario.
I make the appropriate noises, hang up and put the potential date, to be confirmed, into my diary. I’m confident that I’ll have this toss eating the contents of my arse with subservient gratitude in no time. Buoyed by this success, I decide to pitch for the big one and go for Ginger Minger.
I begin my charm offensive by calling Renton up again and telling him about this scam, or at least as much as I want him to know. As I talk on the phone, it’s difficult coping with his silence, which at one point becomes excruciating. I want to see that face, those sly, calculating eyes, the way they can quickly morph into Aled Jones-choirboy efforts when he thinks he’s being rumbled. — So what do you reckon?
He seems pretty impressed. — It has possibilities, he says with what seems guarded enthusiasm.
— Too right, they’ll go for it.
— Aye, Weedgies are pretty predictable, Rents considers. — I mean, every other cunt in both the UK and the Republic of Ireland has hoped for decades that those six counties would just disappear, while those wankers still do this pantomime imitation of the worst possible twats over there.
— Yes, I agree, they’ve no originality at all, especially the Huns. They name their mob after West Ham’s, they copy Millwall’s song. It’s a safe bet, though, that most of them are in the Royal Bank of Scotland, but there must be a few at the Clydesdale.
— What exactly are you planning here?
— As I said, I just need a couple of offshore accounts. Come over and join me, Mark, I urge. Then I swallow hard. — I need you. You owe me. Are you in?
There’s only a slight bit of hesitancy. — Aye. Can you come back over sometime? Soas that we can go over things and sort out the details, like.
— I can get back on Friday, I tell him, trying not to sound too keen.
— See you then, he says.
You’ll fucking well see me awright, Renton, you thieving fucking bastard.
Just after I put the phone down, my green mobile goes off – the one I give only to guys – and it’s Franco. — Goat masel a mobby, eh, he tells me. — Fuckin barry. Wir huvin a fuckin caird school the night, Malky McCarron, Larry n that. Nelly’s back up fae Manchester n aw, ya cunt.
— Bummer, ah’m working, I say in false disappointment, relieved to be out off that psycho’s rotary club they call Begbie’s card schools. Having my money extorted from me by drunken bams isn’t my idea of a good night’s entertainment.
But it’s very interesting that Begbie called just after I talked to Renton. I think it means that they were meant to be together.
33
Washing Up
Ali’s only been roond once, wi the bairn, n we never really hud a chance tae talk. Nonetheless, ah’m surprisingly bouncy, bouncy, bouncy, man, cause the research is gaun well n ah’m oaf the collies. Ali wis pretty . . . eh . . . sceptical, man, cause it’s a well-worn path she’s been doon, but fair play tae her, ah think she’s tryin tae gie ays the benefit ay the doubt. Another good thing is that me n Sick Boy ur sortay likesay mates again. Ah’m seein um later oan cause thir’s a wee scam wir workin.
Ah’ve been at ma wee sister Roisin’s gaff, whae, tae be as frank as our Mr Begbie, isnae really the kind ay lassie that ah’ve ever hit it off wi. She’s ten years younger thin me, upwardly mobile, n she’s never really approved ay the traditional clan Murphy lifestyle, likes. Her boyfriend is a pretty cool catboy though, and eh’s away working in Spain so eh’s left ays ehs season ticket for Easter Road. Never really been tae a game in ages man, but the greens are daein it fir disco. That Alex McLeish reminds me a bit ay Rents n also that cat in NYPD Blue, what wis it they called that gadge again? Robinson Crusoe? Naw, bit something like it. Mind you, that could just be the fur colourin. But now we’ve goat the French boy at the back n the wee black cat in the middle. So ah might take in the home game versus Dunfermline, combat the boredom, man, always the biggest killer. Boredom and anxiety. Wi the first we hunt fir speed. Then wi git aw anxious n that’s where the auld Salisbury Crag comes intae its ain.
It’s a frosty deal fi wee sis though, right enough, man. Ah mean, we once hud the nine-month tenancy oan the same womb n aw that, but ah suppose when we each gave that up we stepped oot intae different times, man, different eras. So havin stuck the ticketbook intae ma tail, ah take ma leave ay Rosh’s hoose.
Oan the wey doon ah hears aw this shoutin n screamin in the stairwell. When ah gits doon tae the next landin ah sees thit it’s June, Franco’s ex, wi the two wee Begbie brats, n one ay thum’s screamin and the bigger one’s gittin battered by June, whae seems tae have lost it, man, big time before bedtime. — AH SAW YE HIT UM! DINNAE FUCKIN DENY IT! WHAT HUV AH FUCKIN TELT YE, SEAN!
The Begbie brat’s just standin takin the shots, buckling like a wobbly puppet, but no really botherin ehs erse. This wee cat’s like a hip-hop, body-poppin feral, jerkin tae absorb the impact ay the blows. The smaller cat looks deid feart and eh’s pure silent now.
— Whae hey! ah shout. — Awright, June!
— Spud, she says, and she suddenly starts greetin, and shakin her heid, it’s like she jist sortay pure breks doon, ken.
This is, likesay, a freaky situ tae land in. Ah mean, ah didnae even ken she lived in this stair. — Eh . . . ye awright . . . ah goes n ah grab the bags ay shoppin, seein thit the handle’s split oan one.
— Aye . . . thanks, Spud, it’s this pair, she sobs, noddin at the young gadges.
— That’s laddies fir ye, eh, ah smile. The younger yin gies me a scared wee smile back, but the older kitten fae the Begbie litter is lookin at ays in a wey that is awfay spooky, even in such a young cat. Aye, the Son ay Franco, that yin, fir defo, one hus tae say!
June gits the keys in the lock and opens up. The bairns charge in, the big yin shoutin somethin aboot Sky Sports. June watches them go, a two-man demolition squad. Then she turns tae ays n goes: — Ah’d ask ye in fir a cuppa, Spud, but the place is a mess.
That’s no aw that’s a mess, man. The June lassie looks likesay dug-rough-ruff-ruff. The wey she says it, it’s like she needs somebody tae talk tae. Ah ken ah’ve arranged tae meet the Sick Felly n Cousin Dode in the pub, but ah could dae wi a bit ay a chat masel. N ah git nowt fae Ali n nowt fae wee Rosh upstairs, whae couldnae really wait tae see the back ay ays. — Cannae be worse than oor gaff, ah tell her. N June looks at ays, like she’s sortay considerin this, then thinkin that it sounds fair dos.
When ah git intae the hoose, it’s a mess ay clathes n kids’ toys. Thir’s a pile ay dishes in the sink that look like they’ve been thaire fir years. Ah kin barely find room oan the worktoap tae pit the bags on.
June’s shakin n ah offer her a fag and light it for her. She pits oan the kettle n cannae find any clean cups. She tries tae rinse one, tries tae squeeze oot some Squeezy in at it, but aw that comes oot is a fart sound. She goes tae one ay the bags and gits
a fresh bottle, but she cannae git the toap off wi her shakin hands. She bursts intae tears, no jist sobbin, proper wailin this time. — Ah’m sorry, it’s ma nerves, everything’s gone wrong here . . . look at the place. It’s the bairns . . . thir such a handful . . . ah git nae support, ah mean Frank’s back oot but eh’s only been doon once tae see thum, never even took them oot! Oot ay jail fir ten minutes n wearin fancy new shirts n clathes n jewellery . . . they sovereign rings . . . ah cannae cope, Spud . . . ah cannae cope . . .
Ah look at the pile ay dishes. — Tell ye what, ah’ll gie ye a hand wi thaime, let’s just blitz the kitchen here. It’ll make ye feel better, man, when they aw go, cause that’s it, when ye feel like shite, like drained ay yir energy, n ye see a big pile ay washin in the sink; that is the worst, man, the ultimate worst, it’s like aw the energy jist sortay goes doon the plughole, man, jist doon. So a problem shared is a problem halved n aw that, June, man.
— Naw, it’s okay . . .
— Hey! C’moan! Ah stick oan an apron. — Lit’s blitz, man, lit’s blitz!
June’s protestin as ah fire intae the dishes, but it’s half-hearted, n she picks up a bit when wi start making headway, and in nae time at aw, it’s gone, man, the problem is gone and everything is clear and possible again. Jist clear the heid and do it, man, just dae it. Ken? Like me wi the writin, man, jist git in thaire n dae it!
That’s me done good, man, simple practical good. Ah’m buzzin, man, buzzin like ah’m on the strongest speed known tae man. It’s goat tae be said thit the June lassie is in better mental shape thin whin ah found her, man, too right.
But when I get tae the pub I’m late for Sick Boy and the gadge is mibee one or two miles away fae the amusement arcade. Cousin Dode’s bending ehs ear and eh looks at me and raises ehs watch tae ma face.
34
Scam # 18,742
Im in this grot-hole pub on the Walk waiting on a fucked-up junky to rescue me from this boring Weedgie with the prematurely greying hair, the heavy-set features and eyes of a perpetually shocked belligerence normally only seen on the goats at Gorgie Farm. Welcome back to Scotland, right enough. This Cousin Dode fucker, this pseudo-Saxon, north European, philistine, lard-buttocked, fucking Hun nonentity; this troglodyte mutant from a west-coast slum has the audacity to try and quote Latin; Latin, at me, a Renaissance man of Mediterranean and Jacobean stock. He gets us a drink in and raises his glass. — Urbi et orbi, he says. — Cheers, similia similibus curantur, I grin waspishly.