by Unknown
— No, I’m screaming, — because this is different! It’s a porn movie and in porn the expectation is that the performers don’t fake it, they perform the sex acts!
— Well, Nikki, we took advice from some experienced pornographers in Holland and down in the Smoke. Mark and myself thought . . . well, you know . . .
I turn to Mark who raises his palms. — Leave me oot ay this, he says at Simon, — you’re the big supremo. It says so on the cover, he picks up and brandishes a video box. Now Rab’s intervening angrily on our behalf, pointing at Simon and saying: — It’s no fair, Simon. We hud an agreement. You’ve stitched up the lassies thaire.
Mel’s ready to implode, sitting there, gripping the armrests on the chair. — It makes us look like fuckin slappers. Ah dinnae ken any lassie who’d suck a boy’s cock eftir jist huvin it up her erse!
Terry looks coolly at her. — There are birds that dae it, take ma word, he contends.
She seems unnerved by this. — Aye, but no oan video, Terry, no fir the world tae see!
Simon sinks his hands into the pockets of his black leather trousers, in order to stop them windmilling. — Look, people know that it doesnae work like that in the sequence ay the film. They ken that once you’ve fucked somebody up the arse you wash your knob before you put it in her mooth, or her fanny.
— But that wisnae they wey it wis written in the fuckin script, Mel says, standing up and shouting. — You fuckin tricked us!
Sick Boy withdraws his hands from his pockets. — Naebody tricked anybody! he shouts, slapping his forehead with the palm of his hand. — Editing’s a creative process, it’s a craft, an art, designed to maximise the erotic experience. I was at that editing suite for four days and nights, my eyes fucking stinging, and this is the shite I get! I need creative freedom to edit the material! Youse are fascists!
Now the pair of them are screaming at each other. — Ya fuckin slimy cunt! Mel roars. Gina says: — Calm doon, but she’s dripping schadenfreude.
— Shut it, ya fuckin prima donna, Simon’s saying back at Mel and now he’s looking ugly, in a way I never thought he would. Not the cool, entrepreneurial type I see him as, but a nasty, boorish ten-a-penny thug.
But Mel’s not intimidated because she’s become somebody else as well as she takes a step forward and screams at him: — YA SNIDEY CUNT!
They stand a few feet away from each other bawling and I can’t take this, the sheer screeching volume of them both and how they are so comfortable operating at this level. It’s like childhood nightmares where your parents would turn into demonic caricatures of themselves.
Gina’s got a hold of Mel and Rab’s placating Sick Boy, who’s slapping his own head or rather headbutting the palm of his hand. Terry looks wearily at Mark. Mikey Forrester says some dumb things in support of Simon, then something to Mark about him being a beggar or going to see beggars. Mark snaps back in anger: — That’s eywis been your style, ya sneaky fuckin grassin cunt . . . Mikey shouts out something to Mark about stealing from his own, and I shudder in case he means something about our 1690 fiddle. Now they’re all shouting and pointing and jostling at each other. I can’t handle this. I head out, and go downstairs to the bar and out into the street. I’m taking gulps of the fetid, exhaust-fume-filled spring air as I storm up Leith Walk, wanting to put as much distance between myself and them as I can. I don’t even think anybody saw me leave.
I’m heading up into town, trudging through a strong, bitingly cold wind, thinking that we live in such boring times. That’s our tragedy: nobody, except destructive exploiters like Sick Boy, or bland opportunists like Carolyn, has any real passion. Everybody else is just so beaten down by the crap and mediocrity around them. If the word in the eighties was ‘me’, and in the nineties ‘it’, in the millennium it’s ‘ish’. Everything has to be vague and qualified. Substance used to be important, then style was everything. Now it’s all just faking it. I thought they were real, Simon and the rest of them.
It hits me like an iron fist in the chest that in this global communications village somehow, in some way, my father’s going to see me getting a butt-fuck I didn’t actually get. I hate the idea of having anal sex; as a woman it’s a negation of your femininity. Most of all, I loathe being a fake. My family. The boys at the uni, some of the bitter, immature little nothings I’ve knocked back, all wanking off at the image in their bedsits. Others, thinking they know all about me, all about my sexuality from that image. McClymont, once his wife goes up to bed, will sit with the handset and a Scotch pulling his wire at the image of me getting it up the arse. ‘Take a seat, Miss Fuller-Smith. Or perhaps you may prefer to remain standing . . . ha ha ha.’ Colin will see it, maybe even come up to the flat. ‘Nikki, I saw the video. I understand everything now, about you finishing with me. It was a cry for attention, which I didn’t see . . . you’re obviously hurt and confused . . .’
A car races past and a volley of slush batters my side; trickling, ice-cold, down my boots. When I get home I’m miserable and Lauren’s in, in fact she’s just getting up, still in her dressing gown. I’m carrying a copy of the video and I sit down on the couch next to her. — Give us a fag, I almost plead.
She turns, sees the tears in my eyes. — What’s wrong, sweetheart?
I throw the video into her lap. The racking sobs start and I fall into her and she’s hugging me. I’m crying heavily now, but it’s like somebody else’s doing it, all I’m doing is feeling her warmth and her fresh smells through my bubbling, snot-filled nasal cavities. — Don’t, worry, Nikki, it’ll be alright, she coos.
I want to be closer to the heat of her, I want to be in that heat, in the centre of that flame, protected by it, away from everything that might hurt me. I grip tighter on her, so strongly I hear a slight squawking noise involuntarily come from her. I want her to be . . . I raise my head to kiss her. She returns my kiss, a tentative fear in her eyes. I want her to be free, not the stiff way she always is, I want her to stretch and bend . . . but when my hand goes down to her flat belly and starts caressing it she stiffens and pushes me away. — Don’t, Nikki, please, don’t do that.
My body stiffens as much as hers. It’s like we’ve both just done a line of strong coke. — I’m sorry, I thought it was what you wanted, I thought it was what you always wanted.
Lauren shakes her head in a look of uncomprehending shock. — You really thought that I was a dyke? That I fancied you? Why? Why can’t you accept that people can really like you, even love you, without wanting to fuck you? Is your self-esteem that low?
Is it? I don’t know, but I do know that I’m not taking this from her. Who does she think she is? Who the fuck do they think they are: Carolyn Pavitt on A Question of Sport, Sick Boy Simon, poncing around like he’s a movie mogul. Now it’s Lauren, moralising little Lauren, all tease until she gets what she thinks she wants then runs a fucking mile. — Lauren, you’re nineteen. You’ve just read the wrong books and talked to the wrong people. Be nineteen. Don’t be your mum. It’s not appropriate.
— Don’t talk to me about appropriate, not when you try to do that to me, she bats back an unbowed retort, all arrogant in her chastity.
In weak response, I can only think of a dippy thing to say. — So sex between women isn’t appropriate, is that what you’re saying?
— Don’t be fuckin stupid. You’re not a lesbian, and neither am I. Don’t play stupid games, she says.
— I fancy you a bit though, I say meekly, now feeling like it’s Lauren who’s the big sister and me who’s the silly little virgin.
— Well, I don’t fancy you. Behave yourself and fuck somebody who wants to fuck you, and preferably not because there’s money changing hands on either side, she scoffs, standing up and heading to the window.
Now I feel a deadening thud in my chest. — You need shagged! I tell her, getting up and charging through towards the bedroom just as Dianne comes in the front door. She’s had her hair cut: page-boy style. It suits her.
— Hello, Nikki,
she smiles, struggling with the keys, her purse and some folders, her lips puckering in impish delight at what she’s just obviously heard.
At that point Lauren’s voice screams out after me: — Yeah, it’s really done you a power of good, all those cocks!
Dianne raises her eyebrows. — Oh! Did I just miss something interesting?
I manage a weak smile in her direction as I head for my room where I collapse onto my bed. I’m not doing porn again; I’m never going to that fucking sauna again either.
61
Rejection
A h’m beyond pain, ah’m like ma whole boady’s goat the toothache. Cause it was Chizzie, the boy that goat done. It said so in the paper. N ah ken whae done um n aw. N worse thin that, ah ken whae set the whole thing up: nae-mates, nae-burd, nae-nothing Murphy here. Cause ah cannae git away fae it. Mr Murphy, with Mrs Murphy and child Murphy, pure disnae exist any mair, man. It’s now back tae Spud, the solitary cat, the loser.
Ali disnae want tae talk tae ays now, man, willnae even lit me see Andy. Things have gone, man, fae bad tae sortay worse. Ah went doon tae the Port Sunshine the other night tae explain things again, this time dead straight. Ah thoat she’d be pleased tae hear aboot the cash n aw ma plans fir it but aw she said wis: — Ah don’t want tae go anywhaire wi you right now, Danny, n ah don’t want ma son taken anywhere oan drugs money.
— It isnae drugs money . . . it’s . . . n ah sees Sick Boy n Juice Terry come oot fae the back door wi a pile ay videos n head oot, — . . . it’s fae work.
— Aw aye? What sort ay work? This is work, Danny, she sais, lookin aroond as a guy comes in at openin time n she serves him. — N ah’d appreciate it if ye didnae come in here when ah wis tryin tae git oan wi it.
So that wis me, back hame tae this lonely auld gaff again. Ah’m thinkin aboot this cat in a suit ah overheard in Bernard Street the day: ‘My computer’s crashed. I’ve lost everything.’
Ah feel like the gadge and like ehs computer, man. N the hoose is a bit ay a tip likesay, it must be said. Ye git pure depressed oan yir ain. Ah need tae git Zappa back, man, ah pure thoat ah’d jist neglect the boy, but now ah need company n ah phone Rents again but it’s like ehs mobile’s switched oaf.
The Port Sunshine’s aboot as far as uv been since ah heard the news aboot Chizzie. Ah mean, ah thoat thir might be bother, but ah nivir kent thit nowt like that wid happen. Ah want tae git the story, but no fae Begbie, ah pure dinnae want tae see that cat again, ah want tae try n find Second Prize. But naw, man, naw, ah’m no hingin aboot Leith wi Franco aroond. Chizzie . . . what huv ah done tae Chizzie?
Bleak man, bleak as.
Then suddenly thir’s a wee ray ay light n ah rush right intae it. The post comes n it’s a letter, no a bill, ye kin tell right away.
It wis fae the publisher cause it hud a wee stamp wi ‘Scotvar Publishing’ oan it. So ah’m thinkin thit this must mean thit thir gaun tae dae it, thir gaunnae publish the History ay Leith! Whae-hey-hey! Ah cannae wait tae show Ali! That’ll get her thinkin aboot Disneyland! Ah’ll jist walk intae the pub n flash that letter aroond, especially whin Sick Boy’s in. Oh yeah, man, oh yeah! Ah’ll soon be oan the telly, talkin aboot it, likes. Ah might even git a cash advance, whoa, man, ah’m thinkin thit ah’d better open this envelope dead carefully in case thir’s a cheque in thair. Ah hud it up tae the light, but it’s too thick tae see anything. So ah open it up. Thir’s nae cheque, but they widnae send thum thegither anywey. That fee stuff needs tae be negotiated later on but, ken?
Scotvar Publishing Ltd
13 Kailyard Grove, Edinburgh EH3 6NH
Tel: 0131 987 5674 Fax: 0131 987 3432 Website: www.scotvar.co.uk
Your ref:
Our ref: AJH/MC
1 April
Dear Mr Murphy,
Re: History of Leith
Thank you for your manuscript, which I just finished reading. Unfortunately, it’s not quite what we’re looking for at the moment and, after some deliberation, we have decided against publishing.
Yours sincerely,
Alan Johnson-Hogg
Vat Registration number: 671 0987 276. Registered Directors: Alan Johnson-Hogg, Kirsty Johnson-Hogg, Conrad Donaldson QC
It’s a bad one, man. Ah sit thaire jist likes, stunned; feeling aw raw n hollowed oot fae the inside. It’s like whin you’ve been knocked back by a bird ye fancy, no thit that’s happened tae me for a long time bein wi Ali likes but, like ye’ve been intae a lassie for ages, n ye sort go, eh, awright, what aboot, likesay, you n me, likes, eh . . . n she goes: naw. No way. Fuck off.
Rejection, man.
Then ah sortay look at it again, like. Now ah’m thinkin: but wis it a rejection? Ah mean, the boy says, it took them some time tae decide tae knock it back, ‘eftir some deliberation’ which means, they thought aboot takin it, man. Then, they dinnae want it ‘at the moment’, n that reads tae me like they might want it fir defo in a few weeks’ or mibee a couple ay months’ time. Once the state ay the market changes n aw that.
So ah goes tae the phone n calls the boy up. — Is there an Alan Johnson-Hogg there?
A woman’s voice, no really posh, mair sort ay pit-oan posh, goes: — Who’s calling?
— Eh, I’m a writer he’s expressed an interest in, and I’m, eh, follayin up his correspondence . . . ken?
Well, there’s a bit ay a lull n then this really posh voice comes oan n goes: — Johnson-Hogg. Can I help you?
Posh cats make ays dead nervous if ah stoap n think aboot it, but ah jist goes, naw, n ah pure fires in. — Eh hi, man, ma name’s Murphy, Danny Murphy, bit ah git called Spud, ken? Ah sent ye a manuscript, likes. Ah jist wisnae sure aboot what the letter meant. Ken?
— Ah yes . . . eh sortay sniggers doon the phone, — the History of Leith, wasn’t it?
— Aye . . . ah ken yi’ll think ah’m daft, but ah wis jist, likesay, tryin tae work oot what ye meant in that letter ay yours, man.
— Well, I think it was fairly explicit.
— Ah beg tae differ likes, mate. Cause ye says thit ye dinnae want it at the moment. So tae me that means thit ye might want it later. So, likes, when is it thit ye think ye might want it?
Thir’s a sort ay coughin noise oan the line, then the boy speaks. — I’m sorry if I seemed ambiguous, Mr Murphy. To be more frank, it’s quite an immature work, and you’re not really yet up to publishable standard . . .
— What dae ye mean, man?
— Well, the grammar . . . the spelling . . .
— Aye, but are youse no meant tae sort aw that oot?
— . . . to say nothing of the subject matter being not right for us.
— But youse’ve published history books about Leith before . . . ah kin feel ma voice gaun aw high, cause it’s no fair, it jist isnae, it isnae fair, nowt’s fair . . .
— Those were serious works by disciplined writers, the boy sortay snaps, — this is a badly written celebration of yob culture and of people who haven’t achieved anything noteworthy in the local community.
— Whae’s tae say that . . .
— Sorry, Mr Murphy, your book is no good and I have to get on. Goodbye.
And the gadge just hangs up oan ays. Aw they weeks, aw they months, that ah wis kiddin masel ah wis daein somethin important, something big, n what the hell fir? Fir nowt, fir a pile ay useless shite, jist like me.
Ah grab ma original copy ay this rubbish, n stick it the fireplace n set it alight and watch that wee part ay ma life go up in smoke like the rest ay it. Lookin at the flames ah think aboot Chizzie . . . ah kilt Chizzie . . . a bad cat, but eh didnae deserve that, even though it wis Begbie really, it hud tae be Begbie . . . the state eh wis in whin eh came up tae mine that night . . . said eh wis comin fae toon, but ah dinnae believe that . . .
N ah’m pure sittin in here, the cash burnin a hole in ma pockit so ah goes up the street, cause Begbie never drinks past Pilrig, n intae the Old Salt, where ah sees Cousin Dode. The poor cat’s looking as doon as me.
Eh’s no as fill
ay ehsel as usual, eh looks Donald Ducked. — Ah cannae understand it, Spud. Ah thoat ah hud plenty o’ cash left ower for trades; ah wis plannin tae take muh daughter away. But ah wis brassic, cleaned oot. Ah cannae even afford a week at fuckin Butlins. Now she’ll no even lit me see the wean. Ah cannae make the fuckin mortgage, cannae keep up the maintenance payments. Ah knew ah’d been tannin it a bit, but ah’m aboot a grand doon thit ah cannae account fir. It’s fuckin diabolical, cannae even gie the wean hur hoalidays . . .
Poor Dode . . . a good cat likesay, eywis helped ays oot . . . it wis oot ay order tae dae that tae the boy . . . the world wid be a better place withoot useless, scruffy, junky Murphy . . . killer ay Chizzie, destroyer ay Cousin Dode . . . poor Ali . . . wee Andy even . . .
Dode tries tae protest as ah slip um three hundred quid. — Naw, Spud, naw . . .
— Take it, man, ah’m flush the now n you’ve eywis helped me oot, ah say tae the boy n ah cannae look um in the eye as ah head offski.
Ah hear um sayin tae this auld boy: — See that man thair, that man’s a fuckin saint, so eh is . . .
N ah’m thinkin if only eh knew, man, if only eh knew n ah need tae dae one last good thing, man, jist one last good thing . . .
. . . n ah gits hame n the first thing ah sees is that book lyin thair, that Crime n Punishment.
62
Whores of Amsterdam Pt 8
It was strangely good to see Ali again, here, in the City Café. Strangely, because although we were in the same posse, oan the junk thegither n aw that, we never really hit it off for some reason. I think that she always saw through me, always felt that I was a hypocrite, a winner who played at being a loser. Aye, a bright, upwardly mobile cunt who would one day fuck off and leave a pile of shite behind him for everybody else to clean up. She perhaps grasped my nature before I worked it out myself.
Maybe I surprised her though, sorting out Spud like that. Never thought they’d end up together, although ‘end up’ isnae the right term because it’s no happening just now. — Mark, she says, and embraces me with a simple warmth that makes me feel awkward.