by Unknown
Ma hert’s banging, man.
AW FUCK, NAW . . .
Ah saw him first. Begbie. Eh’s doon. Begbie’s been done! Eh’s oan the deck. Franco! Eh’s fucked, cause eh’s oan the groond n standin ower um ur the ambulance boys, n thir’s a ginger-heided boy on toap ay um n it looks like . . . fuckin hell . . . it’s the Rent Boy, n it looks like eh’s awright. This is Rents n Begbie . . . and it’s . . .
Naw.
Naw . . .
It’s like Rents has done Begbie, and done him bad . . . then a chilly spasm goes through ays again cause whaire’s ma cat but, man, whaire’s Zappa?
No way . . . thir’s no way kin ah stop n git involved in this, man. No fuckin way. Bit ah’ve goat tae find the cat. Ah pill ma collar up n ma basebaw cap doon n push through the mob. Then ah sees Nelly comin oot fae the crowd n eh bangs Rents a shot in the face.
Rents staggers a bit n huds ehs jaw, as Nelly shouts something n slopes back intae the crowd. A polisman goes up tae Renton but Mark’s shakin ehs heid like eh’s no grassin Nelly up n eh jist gits in the ambulance wi Begbie.
N then ah sees um; it’s Zappa, ma poor cat, jist left thaire, left thaire in the street! So ah goes ower n picks the carrier up, wi ma good airm. This lassie thit hud been bent doon, pettin um through the wire gies ays a dirty look! — Ah ken whaes cat this is, ah tell hur, — ah’ll git it back tae thum.
— That’s oot ay order; ye cannae leave a cat lying in the street, the lassie goes.
— Aye, too right, ah sais, jist wantin tae git oot ay here, cause it’s pure freaky, ma nerves ur jist like janglin, ken?
Then Nelly sees ays, n eh’s right ower tae me. Eh points ehs finger n hisses: — Fuckin junky cunt.
Never really liked that cat n ah’m no feart ay him, even smashed up like ah ahm. Ah’m aboot tae say somethin back whin ah sees this boy, a boy ah’ve seen knockin aboot wi Franco, n eh comes up behind Nelly n hits um in the back, no that hard, then jist sortay dances away mergin intae the onlookers. Nelly twists roond tae scratch ehs back, like it’s itchy, n sees aw this blood oan ehs hands.
Ah see the fright in ehs eyes as the other boy wades through the crowd wi a big smile oan ehs coupon. Eh gies me a wee wink, then eh vanishes. And so do ah, man. Ah’m pure away hame wi Zappa. Ah’m thinkin thit it wis bad ay Mark tae leave the cat in the road, that wis as cruel as, man, but mind you, eh wis under pressure, wi Franco n that.
Naw, bit the thing is wi me, ah’ve goat Zappa back, then it’ll be Ali n Andy n everythin’s gaunnae be better again, that’s fir defo.
78
Whores of Amsterdam Pt 12
There was nothing I could do.
I couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t shout, plead or nothing.
And the boys in the car didn’t see him.
There was nothing I could do.
The car hit Franco at force just a few feet away from me. He was thrown right over the top of it and he crashed down onto the road. He lay there immobile, the blood trickling out of his nose.
I’m over there without consciously knowing what the fuck I’m doing. I’m down at his side, supporting his head, watching his busy eyes blaze and jive, brimming with baffled malevolence. I don’t want him like this. I really don’t. I want him punching me, kicking me. — Franco man, ah’m sorry . . . it’s oot ay order . . . ah’m sorry, man . . .
I’m greeting. I’m holding Begbie in my arms and I’m greeting. I’m thinking of all the old times, all the good times and I’m looking into his eyes and the rancour is leaving them, like a dark curtain being drawn back, to let in a serene light as his thin lips twist into a wicked smile.
He is fucking well smiling at me. Then he tries to talk, says something like: — Ah eywis liked you, or maybe I’m just hearing what I want tae hear, maybe there’s a qualification. Then eh starts coughing and a rivulet of blood trickles oot from the side of his mouth.
I try tae say something, but I’m suddenly aware of somebody standing over us. Looking up, I behold a face, which looks alien and familiar at the same time. I realise that it’s Nelly Hunter, that he’s had his facial tattoos removed and I’m jist gaunnae say something in acknowledgement when ehs fist lashes oot n cracks ma jaw.
My body jolts in shock and a dull throb registers in my face. Fuck me, that was a cracker. I see him spring back into the crowd of ghouls as I rise unsteadily to my feet. There’s a hand on my shoulder and I turn sharply, fearing that I’m going to be battered to a pulp by Franco’s mob, but it’s only a green-jacketed paramedic. They get Franco onto a gurney and move him into the ambulance. I go to follow but a polisman stands in front of me and says something that I can’t make out. Another cop nods at the paramedic, then the first cop. He unbars my way and I’m in the back of the ambulance as they slam the door shut and start off. I’m crouching over Franco and telling him to hold on. — It’s okay, Frank, ah’m here, mate, I tell him, — ah’m here.
I rub my jaw, which is fucked from Nelly’s fist, a sair one awright. Welcome tae Leith. Welcome home, right enough. But where is that now? Leith . . . naw. Amsterdam . . . naw. If home is where the heart is, right now Dianne’s my home. I’ve got tae get tae the airport.
I’m squeezing Franco’s hand, but he’s unconscious now and the paramedics have put an oxygen mask on his face. — Keep talkin tae him, one of them urges.
This does not look fuckin good. The weird thing is that over the years I thought that I’d wanted this moment, had even hoped for it, fantasised it, but now I’d wish for anything other than this. The ambulance guy doesnae need tae prompt ays cause ah couldnae shut up if ah wanted tae. — Aye . . . ah meant tae git thegither wi ye, Frank, pit things right. Ah’m really sorry aboot that time in London, but Frank, ah wisnae thinkin straight, ah jist needed tae get away, tae get off the gear. Ah’ve been in Amsterdam but I’m back here now for the time being, Frank. Met a nice lassie . . . you’d like her. Ah think a lot aboot the laughs we used tae have, the fitba in the Links, how your ma was always good tae me when ah came roond tae yours, she eywis made ays welcome. These things sortay stick wi ye. Mind we used tae go tae the State in Junction Street on Saturday morning for the cartoon shows, or tae that scabby wee cinema at the top ay the Walk, what was it called? . . . the Salon! If we hud the money we’d go tae Easter Road in the eftirnoon, mind ye used tae be able tae git a lift ower . . . Then we got caught sprayin our names and YLT oan the back ay Leith Academy Primary and we were only eleven and nearly greetin so the polis went and let us go! Mind that? That wis me, you, Spud, Tommy and Craig Kincaid. Mind the time we both shagged Karen Mackie? What aboot that time at Motherwell when you battered that big cunt and ah goat fuckin lifted for it!
And the strange thing is that as I’m saying all this, and remembering it, feeling it, part of my brain is thinking something else. I’m thinking that Sick Boy is a born exploiter, instinctive, a creature of his times. But his effectiveness is curtailed by the fact that he’s far too into the process; the intrigue and the social side of it all. He thinks it’s significant, that it actually means something. So he gets immersed in it all, and never just stops to sit back and remember to do the simple thing.
Like taking the money and running.
He won’t be pleased when he sees that the money has gone and me with it. His self-hate at being done twice will probably precipitate some sort of mental breakdown. I might end up having offed both him and poor Franco. Franco . . . apart from the oxygen mask, he looks exactly the same. Then there’s a ringing coming from him and I realise it’s the mobile phone gaun oaf in his jacket pocket. I glance at the paramedic, who nods at me. I take it out and click it on. A shout rings in my ear. — FRANK!
It’s Sick Boy’s voice.
— DID YOU GET RENTON? ANSWER ME, FRANK! IT’S ME, SIMON! ME! ME! ME!
I hang up and switch the phone off. — I think that was his girlfriend trying to get through, I hear myself telling the paramedic. — I’ll call her later.
We get to the hospital and I’m in a dumb haze as a
skinny, nervous-looking young doctor’s telling me that Franco’s still unconscious, which I had already worked out, and they’re taking him into intensive care. — It’s just a question of trying to stabilise his condition then we’ll run tests to see what kind of damage has been done, he says, so tentatively, it’s almost as if he knows who they’re looking after.
There’s nothing more I can do, but I go up to the intensive-care ward where I catch a nurse putting an IV drip into his arm. I nod gently at her and she responds with a tight economical, professional smile. I’m thinking about how I want to be with Dianne at the airport, and how I don’t particularly want to be here when Nelly and some of Franco’s mates come crashing through the door. — Sorry, Frank, I say, before making to go, then I turn quickly and add: — Be strong. Exiting the ward, I head off at pace along the corridor, down the marble stair, my soles nearly slipping on the surface, come out through two sets of swing doors and dart across the forecourt into a waiting taxi. We’re making good time out to the airport because the traffic’s light but I’m still late. Very late.
We pull up outside of Departures and I see Dianne waving to me and I run to meet her. She stays rooted to the spot but thaws when I get closer, her understandable chagrin evaporating as she registers the state I’m in. — God . . . what’s wrong? I thought you’d stood me up for an old flame or something.
For a second I nearly laugh. — There was never any danger of that, I say, shaking as I grab hold of her, breathing her in. I’m trying to keep a grip on myself too, because I need to be on that plane, with a greater desire than I ever wanted for any fix.
We hurry to the check-in, but they won’t even book us through. We’ve missed the London flight, and therefore our connection. Missed the bastard by minutes, seconds even. But missed it. Fortunately, we have open tickets and we book onto the earliest San Francisco via London flight which is tomorrow lunchtime. We both agree that we can’t face the city again and we elect to check into a nearby airport hotel, where I explain fully what happened.
Sitting on the red-and-green quilt-covered bed with Dianne, still in shock, her hand in mine, I’m tracing the thin blue veins at the back of it as I recount my tale. — It’s crazy, but the radge bastard would have killed ays . . . I just froze . . . I doubt I could even have tried tae defend myself . . . The most mental thing about it though was . . . after . . . it was like we were still mates, like ah hudnae ripped him off or nowt like that. It’s so fuckin bizarre but there’s part of me that still really likes the cunt . . . I mean, you’re the psychologist, what’s that aboot?
Dianne purses her lips and opens her eyes wider in contemplation. — He’s part of your life, I suppose. Do you feel guilty about your part in his accident?
A sudden, focused coldness comes over me. — No. He shouldnae have ran across the street like that.
The room is centrally heated but Dianne holds the coffee cup in both hands as if to draw warmth from it, and it strikes me that she’s in shock about Franco as well, though she never knew him. It’s like it’s transmitting from me to her.
We try to change the subject, to pick ourselves up by looking ahead. She’s telling me that she doesn’t think that her thesis on porn is very good, and in any case she fancies a year off. Maybe even check out a college in the States. What will we do in San Francisco? Just hang out. I might start up a club again, but probably not, it’s too much hassle. Dianne and me might get into website shite, become dotcommers. We’ve planned and fantasised about this for long enough, but I can’t think of that right now, all I can think of is Begbie, and Dianne of course. She’s turned out a cool woman, but she always was. It was me who was a bit too young and immature for us to make a proper go of things at the time. This time we’ll ride it out as long as the love or the cash lasts.
The next morning we’re up early and have breakfast in the room. I phone the hospital for news of Franco. There’s no change, he’s still unconscious, but the X-rays confirm the extent of his injuries; he has a broken leg and a shattered hip bone as well as some cracked ribs, a fractured arm and skull and some internal damage. It should be a relief to have him incapacitated, but I still feel terrible about what happened to Franco. And yes, right now I do feel guilty.
We head back over to the airport, her excited about getting away, me just more anxious about the consequences of sticking around here a second longer than we have to.
79
‘. . . easyJet . . .’
Simon’s been phoning like crazy all morning. We’re at the airport early doors to catch the easyJet back to Edinburgh, the first available flight. Terry and his American porn girl, Carla, are seeing us off, only because Terry’s wanting to get the keys to our room off him which is booked for two more days and Simon won’t part with them until the last minute. He keeps looking at Terry, who’s now emerged from the airport shop, with unbridled suspicion. — I really appreciate you coming back with me, Nikki, he says: — cause you could stay here another couple of days with Curtis and Mel and have a ball at the awards party. You’ll probably walk it as well. It’s your moment, Nikki.
— We need to stick together, honey, I tell him, gripping his hand.
— Dinnae worry, Sick Boy, me n Carla here’ll enjoy the suite, eh, doll? Terry says, looking at his new girl, then at me, obviously worried in case I change my mind.
— Yeah . . . it’s so kind of you . . . she happily murmurs.
Simon looks wildly discomforted, and picking up on it Terry says earnestly: — Ah’ll be a great ambassador fir Seven Rides n ah’ll no take the pish oan hotel expenses.
But Simon’s not hearing him. He’s called the pub and he’s talking to Alison and if anything he’s even more deflated than ever. — You are fucking joking . . . I don’t believe it . . . he turns to Terry and me. — The cunting polis and the fucking Customs and Excise are down the pub. They’ve confiscated the videos . . . they’re closing me down . . . Ali! he snaps back into the phone, — tell nae cunt nowt, tell them I’ve gone to France, it’s the truth. Is there any sign of Begbie or Renton?
There’s a short silence then Simon barks: — WHAT! then gasps: — Hospitalised the cunt? A fuckin coma? Rents?
My heart almost jumps out of my mouth. Mark . . . — What’s happened!
Simon clicks off the phone. — Renton has done Begbie! He’s hospitalised the cunt. Begbie’s in a coma from which they reckon he won’t wake up. Spud told Ali, he saw it, at the fit ay the Walk last night!
— Thank God Mark’s okay . . . I say aloud and Simon’s eyes suddenly screw me in ghastly intent. — Well, Simon, I whisper, — he’s got our money . . .
— What money’s this then? Terry asks, his ears pricking up.
— Just some cash I lent him, Simon shakes his head. — Anyway, Terry, here’s the hotel keys. He quickly produces them from his pocket, throws them to him and says bitterly: — Enjoy.
— Cheers, Terry says, grabbing Carla’s waist. — Dinnae you worry aboot that, he winks. Then he considers. — Funny aboot Mark sortin oot Begbie. A dark hoarse awright. Ah ey reckoned that kung fu stuff wis shite n aw. Jist goes tae show ye but, eh. Still, he smiles, — see yis, and skips away across the forecourt with his porn star shag. I watch him shuffle off, a fly-in-shit with all his needs met, having the time of his life, while Simon, who should be the same, has a pained, ulcerated expression. Terry on his tab in Cannes for two days gives him yet something else to worry about.
During the flight, Simon’s full of rancour for the world, and is still seething as we come into land at Edinburgh airport. — Now you still don’t know that Mark’s ripped us off, so take it easy. We had an amazing time? The film went down well? That’s positive.
— Hummph, he coughs, his shades perched on top of his head, his neck craning, looking around anxiously as we pick up our luggage and head through passport control and customs.
Then he stops in his tracks, because just about fifty yards away Mark and Dianne are standing there, preparing to go through the depart
ure gates.
Dianne goes past first and as Mark’s showing his documents to the airline official, Simon screams at the top of his voice: — REHHNNNTUHNNN!
Mark looks at him, smiles faintly and waves, and then steps through the gates. Simon goes sprinting towards him and tries to run right through the gates, but the official and the security man won’t let him past. — STOP THAT THIEF! he screams as Mark and Dianne’s backs recede. I’m following, looking at her wondering if she’ll turn around but she doesn’t. — TELL THEM, NIKKI! Simon beseeches me.
I stand there in breathless shock. — What can I say?
He turns back to the official and the security guard. More of them are appearing now. — Listen, he pleads, — you have to let me through the departure gates.
— You need a valid boarding card, sir, the clerk informs him.
Simon’s heaving, trying to control his breathing. — Listen, that man has stolen something that belongs to me. I have to get through that fucking gate.
— That’s surely a matter for the police, sir. If I can radio the airport police . . .
Simon’s grinding his teeth together and shaking his head. — Forget it. For-ge-tit! He spits and he’s walking away. I follow him to the departures board. — Fuck me, they’re all boarding now: London Heathrow, London City, Manchester, Frankfurt, Dublin, Amsterdam, Munich . . . where could they be going . . . RENTON AND THAT FUCKING DEVIOUS LITTLE COW! he screeches, setting aside some more of that special time he reserves to humiliate himself in public, then he crouches down in the middle of the busy concourse, his head in his hands, perfectly still.
I put my hand on his shoulder. Somebody, a woman with an orangey perms asks: — Is he alright? I smile at her in appreciation for her concern. After a bit I whisper to him: — We have to go, Simon. We’re drawing too much attention.
— Are we? he says in a small, little boy’s voice. — Are we? Then he stands up and strides towards the exits, clicking on the mobile phone.