by Irvine Welsh
— Okay, I’m Victor, by the way, Victor Syme, this cunt says, now scarier than ever with his gossiping fishwife tones and his hand on my shoulder. — Ah’ll let ye ken if I hear anything about this … he plays with the word, — … this surgeon felly. And I’m sorry aboot the wee dig, but thaire’s a lot ay wide cunts aboot, n ye huv tae draw a wee line in the sand, he grins. — But if ye ken the likes ay Leo, and, of course, Frank Begbie, then that’s okay wi me.
I’m happy to depart this cunt’s company, although I only get round the corner before a text from him comes in.
I won’t forget. Vic S.
It’s replete with a smiley emoticon, which has never looked so sinister.
I find a grotty cafe and sit down, trying tae compose myself over a cup ay tea. This fucking town! I have to get out of here. And fuck Scottish independence: in no time at all we would be a gangster state run by scum like this cunt Syme! It’s true: you never escape old associations, no matter how tenuous you believe them to be. On that note, I’m straight on to Juice Terry. — Tezza. What’s the story with this Victor Syme cunt? Heard you did some work for him.
— Cannae talk right now, buddy boy. Where are ye?
— Broughton Street, I tell him. He must have some cunt in the back ay his cab.
— Be there in five minutes. Where aboots?
— See ye in the Basement Bar.
I retreat to the Basement, settling into the comfy seats towards the rear of the bar with two bottles of lager.
Terry is as good as his word, and swings in. Unfortunately, he leaves me waiting for such a long time while he chats to a barmaid that I have to phone him. He rolls his eyes and heads across. — You’re a cock-blocking bastard, Williamson. Seriously.
— This is important, bud. Victor Syme, I urge.
— Aye … he wis away in Spain. Terry takes a glug of lager. — The bizzies wir pittin heat oan um, but eh came back last year, Mr Fuckin Untouchable. Does that no say grass tae you? It sais it tae me.
I refuse to get enmeshed in pathetic local gangster politics. — How do you ken him?
Fae the school. Fuckin nowt in they days, we aw used tae caw um the Poof, that wis ehs nickname. Every cunt battered the wee creep back then; eh wis a late developer. Now eh thinks eh’s Mr Big cause ay Tyrone bein deid –
— Tyrone? Potted heid? This was news to me. Tyrone had been around since I was a boy. — So what happened tae the fat man?
— Burnt tae death in a fire in his hoose. He hud some war wi the young team. One ay them got done doon Leith Docks. A lot ay people are thinkin the Poof took advantage and moved in oan thum baith: Tyrone and the young gadge. Rumour is eh’s connected; goat Police Scotland, East Europeans, cunts in London and Manchester aw owin um tons ay favours, or so they say, ay? Might be shite, might no. But ah ken one thing, the cunt wis oan the lam in Spain cause the polis wir lookin for him in connection wi the disappearance ay this bird that worked in the saunas. Cowped it masel, but as a mates’ thing, nivir peyed for it. Terry looks at me in sombre insistence.
— I’ve no doubt that you could charm a prostitute into sleeping with you without a cash transaction, Terry. But you said Syme was on the run?
— Cunt hud fuck all gaun for um. He wis oot the sauna game, hidin in Spain. Then eh jist waltzes back ower like nowt’s happened. Terry looks around. Lowers his voice. — Thinks ah’m at his beck n call. ‘A wee favour, Terry mate …’ and he does a passable imitation of Syme’s snidey tones. — But he’ll git his, Terry says in empty belligerence. — Cunt’s a heidcase, keep away fae um, he warns. — Anywey, how did yir Christmas turn oot? Usual borin family stuff?
— You ken how it goes, I tell him, thinking of that cretinous brother-in-law and his imbecile son, the bother their blood-filled cocks and bloodless brains are causing me, and I idly pick up a discarded magazine on a chair. It shows an image of the actress Keira Knightley, half naked and in a sultry pose, advertising perfume.
— Fuckin ride yon, Terry announces.
— Knightley, I muse.
— Aw fuckin ooirs if she wis game.
We chat for a while, and Terry drops me off in the cab at Carlotta’s. It’s so pitch black I can’t believe that it’s only just after 8 p.m., it feels like two in the morning. I see Ben, once more in the garden, on the phone, illuminated by a trip light. Probably talking to some bird; he tells me fuck all, which I totally admire. Of course, the fact that I’m without Euan is enough tae send Carlotta into another rage. I tell her I checked the hospital and the hotels, omitting the saunas. It seems to calm her down a bit, before another bolt of fury suddenly sears her. — What did you say to Ross?
— Nothing, I protest, rubbing my gut, still tender as I lower myself onto the couch, considering that Syme might actually be able to do me a favour. Sometimes radges need to be assimilated – the Borg in Star Trek strategy – rather than opposed or ignored. The pain brings back a memory of being bullied by Begbie at school, before I became friends with Renton, who was his best mate. This was purely in order to get that psycho cunt off my back. My head is spinning. Carlotta’s eyes are batty. — Just urged the wee man to try and learn a lesson from Euan. Where is he? I see Ben out there –
— At Louisa’s, she spits, then these lamps narrow. — A lesson fae Euan? What the fuck do you mean?
I don’t know what baked beans that spineless little twat has spilled, but he’s going to get some shit back from me, via his beloved mammy. — Look, what Ross saw was quite traumatising, I concede, — but perhaps not as much as it should have been.
Carlotta’s looking at me with the big Eyetie peepers both of us inherited from Mamma, firing on full tilt. Poor Louisa: she got the old boy’s vicious, furtive Jockoid slits. — What are ye trying tae say?
— He’s my nephew and I love him, so I don’t want to grass him up, but I have good reason to believe that Ross has been watching extreme pornography.
— What?! Ross? Pornography? Online?
Oh, sis! After all those years, still making schoolgirl errors: the mistake of admitting the possibility. When defenders back off, keep running at them, twisting and turning like a squat Argentinian. Think Lionel. Think Diego. — Furthermore, I believe Euan discovered this and it unhinged him a little. Being a lad from the country and sexually inexperienced before he hooked up with you –
— Wait! Euan told you this?
— Well, in a blokish roundabout sort of way, yes, but it was more that I deduced it. No names were dropped or details offered, but I kind ay worked out it was a Taylor Swift–Michael Gove courtship with you guys, I smile. — Vamp–nerd scenario.
That teases a confirming bitter-sweet smile out of her.
— I think he was vulnerable, turning fifty n all, and that crazy harridan Marianne took advantage of the situation tae get at me, by hurting the one thing I care about, I look at her with all the intensity I can summon, — family.
Carra shakes her head. She’s heard versions of this over the years. — I don’t believe you, she says, her voice rising. — So all this mess is my son’s fault?
— No. It’s society’s fault. It’s the pace of technological change, I advance, but I now have a sense of her shepherding the ball harmlessly out of play for a goal kick. If I can just get a leg in … — But Ross was its conduit in inflicting pain on this family. Our social mores haven’t developed to keep pace with the Internet, the digital revolution, the iPad and the Cloud, thus our cognitive dissonance.
Carlotta takes a step back. Looks at me as if I’m a dangerous specimen on the wrong side of the zoological bars. — You are a total fucking bastard, she gasps. — You wreck people’s lives tae gie yirsel cheap thrills!
The younger Williamson lassie cannot be written off on the counter … — Look, sis, let’s not point fingers. It does naebody any good.
She steps forward, and I think she’s going to punch me. Instead she shakes her fists like maracas. — It’s always let’s no point fingers when it’s you that’s tae blame!
I have to pull something out of the hat here. Attack is usually the best form of defence. — I’m forever taking stock of my life, especially at this very reflective time of year. Am I blameless? No, very far from it. I fold my arms across my chest. Carlotta has never gotten physically violent before, but these are uncharted emotional waters. I decide to amp it up. — But please, dinnae fuckin gies it that this is aw ma fault, I say, getting into outrage mode. — Dinnae hit ays wi that pish, that old let’s-exonerate-everybody-but-Simon approach. As a tactic it must have prima facie appeal, but it’s disingenuous and waaay too convenient. The moon is not made of green cheese!
Carra’s eyes are like a Rottweiler’s balls. — What are you fuckin talkin about?! Do you even live in the same fuckin world as the rest ay us?! Her breathing is thin and she’s having palpitations.
I go to embrace her. — Carra … la mia sorellina …
She pushes me back, both her palms slapping into my chest. — MA HUSBAND IS MISSING AND MA SON IS IN PIECES, and now her fists pound me. One hits the spot below the ribcage where Syme’s well-placed thug-blow struck, and I stumble. — BECAUSE AY YOU! YOU FIND HIM! YOU BRING HIM BACK!
— Chill, sis, I’m on it, and I pick up my phone and look at my calls list and my text from Vic with the emoticon.
Then Carlotta, compulsively checking emails on her own phone, starts to suddenly shriek. — AH DINNAE BELIEVE IT! She looks at me, in shock. — It’s fae Euan …
— That’s good, I knew he’d eventually come to his senses and get in touch.
— But he’s … he says he’s in FUCKIN THAILAND!
Just then, a text from Syme jumps in.
No word from the surgeon boy?
I groan out loud, and we both say at the same time, — What the fuck are we going to do?
Then Ben comes in from the back, contentment scored on his face. I don’t know how much he’s heard of our little shouting match, but he seems laconic about it.
— I know that look of love, I tease, as Carlotta removes herself forcibly from the room. — Who’s the lucky lady?
— I’m not a kiss-and-tell sort. The boy gives me a bashful smile. All of a sudden, I protectively want him back in Surrey, away from all the shit that’s going on around me.
7
RENTON – SICK BOY PAYBACK
It’s a clear, crisp day, as I look out onto the Royal Mile. My cup twitches and rattles as I lower it tae my saucer, like I’ve a nervous disease. I cannae keep jumping on long-haul flights, the jet lag is destructive. I’ve sacked the Ambien, Xanax and Vallies but I barely trust myself tae sugar this tea. I cannae go on like this.
It was tough leaving Vicky. We’ve amped it up; both now that hungry, excited, stupid way ye are when ye meet somebody you’re really into. I think I might have fallen in love at some point; perhaps when I said that I’ll never forgive the Muslim extremists for 9/11, because it made it so much harder to move drugs around, and consequently made my life as a DJ manager mair difficult. She looked at me sadly and said that her cousin had worked in the World Trade Center and died in the terrorist attack. I gasped in horror and coughed out apologies, before she laughed and told me she was winding me up. Hard no tae love a lassie like that.
Now she’s in LA and I’m in a cafe in cauld and frosty Edinburgh. People walk past, bleary. Global commercialism has compelled the Scots tae pretend tae like Christmas, but we’re genetically programmed tae rebel against it. Ah come oot in a rash if I’m stuck in a hoose wi family for more than two days. New Year is more our natural speed. Not that I’m looking out the windae too much, because the view inside isnae so bad. Marianne always was a very good-looking girl, a pouty, superior, willowy blonde; athletic-slim, with ersecheeks like a superhero’s biceps. She had the world at her feet, but was burdened by a fatal flaw: she was besotted with Sick Boy. Of course the cunt ruined her life. But she’ll probably ken where he is or be able tae find him. I got her number through Amy Temperley, a mutual friend fae Leith, and we hook up at this cafe on the Royal Mile.
My initial thought: fuck me, Marianne has aged spectacularly well. Those Scando-Scot genes don’t bloat and her skin has remained excellent. She’s guarded at first. No wonder. I’m fucking guarded too. I ripped Sick Boy off for a lot more than that three-point-two grand, which I paid him back during the porno-flick era. That repayment was just a set-up, tae dae him out ay sixty grand, back in 1998, which is about ninety-one grand now. But I only did this because he tried tae steer Begbie onto ays as revenge for initially ripping him off. And I also snaffled the masters of the pornographic film we made. It’s complicated. — So you want to pay him this money back? Marianne says doubtfully. — After all this time?
Ah think she’s aboot tae tell ays tae fuck off, so I add, — I just want tae let go ay the past and move on.
A light clicks on behind her eyes. — Didn’t you try Facebook?
— I’m not on social media myself, but ah did have a look. Couldnae find him.
She scrolls on her phone, and hands me it. — He’s not under his own name. This is his escort agency.
The Facebook page links tae a website. The Colleagues.com mix of nudge-nudge, wink-wink innuendo, coupled wi a corporate eighties business-speak, replete wi motivational poster sloganeering, give ays absolutely zero fuckin doubt that the copy was written personally by him. — Sick Bo — Simon, he runs this escort agency?
— Aye, Marianne says, taking her phone back and checking it.
In spite ay myself, ah feel a warm glow in my chest, followed by a surge ay excitement. The dynamic between Sick Boy and me always veered towards the destructive, but it was seldom boring. I’m inexplicably chuffed tae get the details. Marianne then says, wi a certain impatience, — Do you want to get a proper drink?
Did I want to get a proper drink? I’m thinking about Vicky. But what are we? Is the connection all in ma mind? I don’t even know whether she would be hurt and offended if I slept with somebody else, or laugh in my face for being so ridiculous. I hear my treacherous words slide out: — We can go back tae my hotel if ye fancy it.
Marianne says nothing but she gets up. We head out, and walk side by side, down Victoria Terrace, her heels gunfiring across the Grassmarket cobblestones. We pass a pub that has probably changed its name a million times, but I recall that bands used to play there in my youth.
Ripping off Sick Boy was the other reason (as well as being the cause of Begbie’s injury) that I left running a club to manage DJs. My first client, Ivan, I put everything into. Then, as soon as he broke big, a manager with even fewer scruples and a bigger Rolodex poached him. It was an important lesson, and I showed I had learned it when I saw Conrad play in a Rotterdam club. He was being sort of looked after by his friend’s older brother. I quickly realised that the cunt was a prodigy. He could do any kind ay dance music. I talked tae him and ascertained that he wouldnae consider it beneath him to try and make pop hits. Those would make me the kind of money where I could pay off big debts quite easily. And now they have.
Of course I dinnae want tae gie that hard-earned money tae Sick Boy! But if I’m consistent wi this rehabilitation and personal atonement plan, I need to see him right as well. And Second Prize, who refused payment back then. He got religion and nobody’s heard from him. Like Franco, he’s due his fifteen grand. But it’s fucking Sick Boy who is gaunny totally wipe ays oot wi his big chunk. So I deserve some compensation.
When we get tae the hotel, I make the pretence of indicating the bar, but Marianne abruptly says, — Let’s go to your room.
I can’t fucking do this, and yet I have tae do it. It’s Marianne. I recall her as a teenager; feisty and contemptuous ay me, impossibly beautiful and sexy as she hung from a lecherous Sick Boy’s arm. I had zero chance with her back then, but now she’s offering herself tae me on a plate. Maybe it’s all part ay the process; maybe ye need tae exorcise past demons before you can move on.
We take the lift and get tae the room. I’m embarrassed because the bed hasn’t been
made yet and there’s a dusky smell. Ah cannae recall if ah shot my load or no last night. I never wank these days, as ah enjoy such vivid wet dreams in the waking hours. There’s also a miserable lonely ennui with masturbation after you’ve shot your duff in a hotel room, something that bothers you mair as ye get aulder. I switch on the air con, even though ah ken it’ll freeze the place within five minutes. — Do ye want a drink?
— Red wine. Marianne points tae a bottle on the desk, one of those that ye eywis open because ye subconsciously think thir complimentary, but they never are.
I open it as Marianne collapses in a sprawl on the bed, kicking off her heels. — We doing this, then? she says, looking pointedly at me. In such situations it’s best not to speak, and I start removing my clothes. She sits up and does the same. I’m thinking that outside of my ex, Katrin, Marianne is the palest-skinned lassie I’ve ever set eyes on. Of course, the fabulous architecture ay a woman never fails tae excite, and that arse is as utterly splendid as I have observed-imagined from my youth. One day this magnificent charge will go, like vision, hearing, continence, and I hope it’s the very last of them to succumb. Then I realise there’s a problem. — I don’t have any condoms …
— I don’t have any either, Marianne says, nutter imperious, hand on her lily-white breasts, — because I don’t shag around. I haven’t fucked anyone in months. You?
— Same here, I concede. I stopped banging young chicks from clubs several years back. They’re only really after the DJ, and you’re generally a consolation prize. What starts off as succour to the psyche eventually tramples the self-esteem.
— Then let’s get it on, she says, like she’s challenging me to a square go.
We do, and I try to bring my A-game, in order to show her what she’s been missing.
Afterwards, as we lie alongside each other, the distance of an ocean and continent I thought I’d put between Victoria and myself suddenly narrows. Guilt and paranoia rips out ay ays tae the extent that she could be in the next room. Then Marianne says with a harsh laugh, — You were better than I thought you’d be …