by Irvine Welsh
I decide it isnae a good idea tae mention Marianne. — Only what your impressive website tells ays. ‘Ambitious plans for expansion,’ it says.
— Well, yes, naturally. ‘We plan to tread water’ doesn’t really impress, he sneers, looking over at the fellow hospitality diners in contempt.
Ah watch Terry back at the table, taking a keen interest. Sick Boy clocks this n aw, dispensing a quick scowl, then pointedly turning his back to him. As he faces ays, I explain, — The best online calculations for sixty grand in the year 1998 range fae eighty-three thousand seven hundred and seventy quid tae one hundred thousand and nine hundred nicker. Ah split the difference at ninety-one thousand and eighty pounds using a single purchasing power calendar application.
— I could have made a lot more if I’d been allowed to invest my money my way!
— Impossible tae predict that for sure. Investments can go south as well as north.
He stuffs the envelope in his jacket. — What about the masters ay Seven Rides for Seven Brothers?
— Fuck knows. But a fifteen-year-old scud film willnae be worth much.
— Hmmph, he grunts and looks over to his table. — Well, thank you for the money and about fucking time n aw. But this is a social occasion. He points tae the door. — Now go.
— Well, I’ll have a little roast beef and watch the game, at least the first half, if it’s all the same tae you, I smile. — I did purchase a hospitality package, and it’s been a long time since I saw the Hibbies in action. And aren’t ye just a wee bitty curious as to why I’m daein this now?
Sick Boy rolls his eyes in concession and nods tae the group of Terry and the lads. — Yes. Okay. Just don’t expect me tae listen tae any fucking AA/NA tale of woe and step-working, debt-paying bullshit, he says, as we step ower and settle down to join the others.
That pre-emptive speech is useful as that was exactly where I had planned tae start. I’m introduced tae Sick Boy’s son and nephew, and Terry’s two lads. All of them seem nice, normal young guys. But I suppose we did at that age to outsiders. We have a decent meal, a comic tells some gags, then gaffer Alan Stubbs gives his view of the game, before we head into the stand to watch it from nice foam-cushioned seats. My back aches a little, but it’s not too bad. I’m sat next tae Sick Boy. — Well, he says, his voice low as he taps his inside pocket, — what’s the story? Why this? Why now?
I like the look ay the Hibs midfielder McGinn. Unusual running style, but keeps the baw well. — Begbie, I met him on a flight to LA. Seen him over there a few times since. We’re sort of mates again. I had him at our club night in Vegas. He invited me back to his exhibition.
It might have been ‘Begbie’ but it’s more likely ‘club night’, ‘Vegas’ and ‘exhibition’ that ensures I have his full attention. – You’re hanging out with that fuckin psycho? After what he tried tae dae … Sick Boy pauses as Hibs attack the Raith goal, orchestrated by McGinn.
— No. That’s it. He really has fucking changed.
Sick Boy cracks a high-wattage grin. He points tae a foul on a Hibs player and elbows his son. — The butchers of Kirkcaldy, he snorts. Then he turns back tae me. — This art shite he got intae? You dinnae think for a second that that headcase has genuinely rehabilitated? He’s playing you. Waiting for his moment to strike!
— Not the vibe I get.
— Then I’m delighted for him.
— Ah offered him the money. He refused. The bastard is married tae a Californian beauty. Eh’s got two lovely wee daughters, who dote on him, and whom he gets tae watch grow up. I seldom see my boy.
Sick Boy shrugs, but fixes me a look ay understanding. He drops his voice tae a whisper. — Tell me about it. So we both fell a bit short in the paternal stakes, he thieves a quick glance at his son, — what of it?
— So how the fuck did Begbie become the success story?
Sick Boy openly scoffs, in that imperious disdain, which nobody else I’ve run into in life has ever been able tae emulate. — You must have money! You wouldnae be handing this over if ye wirnae extremely flush. He taps inside his pocket. — Clubs? Vegas? Dinnae come oot wi aw that shite and plead poverty!
So I tell him about my job and DJ Technonerd’s breakthrough.
— So you’re coining it in fae they fucking shit EDM DJs? These drum machine and stylophone wankers?
— Not really. Only one ay them makes serious dough. One is a charity case, call me sentimental, but I’ve always liked his shit. The other is a speculative punt, which doesnae look like coming off. That duo cost me practically everything I earn with the big payer and I’m too much ay a sap tae drop them. I’m looking for a fourth and fifth one. I thought, instead ay being a DJ myself, if I managed five at twenty per cent each, it would be just the same. I’ve got three so far.
Sick Boy is unmoved by my disclosure. He evidently thinks my penury pleas are simply about avoiding any mair hassle n hustle. — I read about that Dutch fucker, Technonerd. That cunt’s minted. If you’re on twenty per cent ay his earnings …
— Okay, I’ve a place in Amsterdam and an apartment in Santa Monica. I’m not starving. I’ve a few bob in the bank that I haven’t spunked on guilt money for you, treatment and care for the boy.
— What’s wrong wi the laddie?
— He’s autistic.
— Wee Davie … the spazzy gene? he thinks out loud, in reference tae ma deceased younger brother. His son and nephew turn round briefly.
Anger rises in ays and I fight it doon and look disparagingly at him. — You’re already making me regret this, I nod tae the envelope bulging in his pocket.
— Sorry, he says, and it seems semi-gracious, — can’t be an easy gig. So why are ye sorting me out now?
— I want tae live. As in live, I emphasise, and Vicky’s face, laughing, toothsome and blue-eyed, sweeping back stray strands of sun-bleached blonde locks that have escaped their penning, pops into my brain. — Not just exist, I contend as the half-time whistle goes. — Clear away aw the shit fae the past.
— So it is all about rehab case atonement.
— In a sense, yes. It gets too much carrying the burden of cuntishness around.
— Advice: Catholicism. Confession, he says. — Better a few quid on a collection plate than ninety grand, and he tips me a wink, tapping his pocket.
We head back inside for our half-time cups of tea and beers and decent meat pies. Sick Boy and I again hit the bar tae blether in conspiracy. — You seem to be doing okay. Better than me, he moans. — Fucking travel everywhere. I never get out ay London unless it’s on holiday.
— If you have loads ay girls working for you …
— They make the big bucks, no me. I just hook them up on the app. Dinnae come it, Renton. You’re the one with the dosh.
— Stuck on planes, in airports and in hotels, with nowt tae dae but lament how life’s passing ays by. I’m wasting that most finite resource: time, chasing the dream that fucking Begbie is living! I suddenly erupt. — He’s refusing tae take his money, what the fuck is aw that about?
— He’s no changed, Sick Boy spits. — He’s just fucking with you. Begbie is incapable ay change. He’s a warped specimen of humanity.
— I don’t even care what he is. I just want tae morally discharge ma obligations.
— You’ll never morally discharge your obligation tae me, Renton. He taps his pocket. — This shite doesnae even start tae cover it.
— The film is completely worthless.
— I’m talking about Nikki. You ruined my chances of getting together with a girl I was nuts about!
Nikki was a con artist who took the pish out ay us both. And I dinnae believe for a second that he still gies a toss aboot her. It’s aw leverage for future manipulation. — Wake up, mate. She fucked us both over.
Sick Boy seems tae swallow a moothfae ay something that’s unpleasant, but perhaps no quite as putrid as he anticipated. We go back tae our seats for the second half.
— Listen, I’ve goat some b
usiness fir ye. I need an escort, I tell him, watching his eyes widen. — Not for me, I hasten tae add. I’m trying to be un-sleazy.
— I’m sure that’s working for you.
— It’s for my young Dutch boy. The DJ.
He looks towards his young nephew. — Can these retards not get a fucking ride for themselves?
— Tell me about it, I’m his manager. I elaborate on the problem. — Guys like Conrad have nae social skills. They smoke weed and masturbate tae pornography. They can’t talk tae a girl or have sex with a real person.
— Cyberwanking little creeps. These fuckers are mentally ill, Sick Boy whispers, looking again at his nephew, now playing a video game on his phone, — made so by the world we live in.
What he’s saying resonates. The match isnae that bad, and there is something fundamentally wrong about the way the kids are looking at screens instead ay watching what’s going on live.
— Even we’re tainted enough by our immersion into that world, his elbow digs into my ribs, — although we were schooled up the goods yard!
I cannae even say her name tae myself, but I wince as I think ay ma cherry popping inside her piggy-bank fanny. Unable to look her in the face as ah pushed and shoved through her dryness, tae the low-key encouragement of Sick Boy. Ma eyes watering as they focused on the broken glass and gravel around us. The blue sleeve ay her cagoule we lay on blowing up in my face in the wind. A dug barking in the distance, and a disgruntled growl of Dirty wee cunts fae a passing jakey. — Aye … the goods yard.
— You’d have still been a virgin now but for me taking you under my wing, he laughs, picking up on my discomfort.
I’m now favourably recalling the banging I gave Marianne, as the nephew’s head spins round. He meets my eyes, then turns away. I lean in to Sick Boy. — Oh, I’m sure I’d have found a way oot ay that maze, but thank you for inappropriately sexualising me at a tender age.
For some reason, this stings him. — Ye never complained back then!
— But I was sensitive. Sixteen, seventeen, would have been ideal for me. Fourteen was way too young.
— Sensitive … as in thieving-cunt-who-rips-off-his-mates sensitive? That kind of sensitive?
There isnae a great deal I can say tae that. The final whistle blows and Hibs have won 1–0, tae keep the promotion bid on course. Sick Boy shepherds the young lads intae the back ay Terry’s taxi. — You chaps go on ahead, the advance party. Tell Carlotta no tae bother expecting me for dinner, I’ll grab a bite with ma auld mucker here.
The boys, especially Ben, look disappointed, but not surprised, as Sick Boy slams the cab door shut and hands Terry a tenner. — Fuck off, ya daft cunt, it’s oan ma wey, Terry says, then leans out the windae, and oot ay earshot fae the young gadges, whispers, — Anywey, be nice tae check oot your sister again, bud. No seen her in years. Still a looker, ah’m bettin, and now that she’s back oan the market … He tips a wink, leans back and starts up the car.
Sick Boy’s eyes protrude. — She’s no oan –
Terry pulls away, as his horn blares triumphantly.
— Cunt, says Sick Boy, then laughs, — but good luck tae him. Maybe a Lawson length would help sort her heid out. Her husband’s been kicked oot the hoose. He was caught Christmas Day, check this, on video, banging Marianne. Mind ay Maid Marianne, fae back in the day?
I haven’t fucked anyone in months. Fucking bullshit. — Aye … I nod meekly, as we walk across the car park, through the crowds.
— She’s always been disturbed, but has now gone full-on psycho. She would fuck a minging dog in the street these days. I’ll be telling the brother-in-law tae get checked up, especially if he manages tae get back wi ma sis, he sings, as we cross the Bridge of Doom. — Remember some ay the ambushes here, back in the day? he says, as I feel a phantom itch pepper my genitals. Paranoia rips out of me. Vicky …
He’s still slavering away as we go on to Easter Road. Everywhere seems replete with rich memory. We head down Albert Street. I’m thinking of Seeker’s flat where we got the skag, the Clan Bar opposite, now shut, and we head to Buchanan Street, where Dizzy Lizzie’s pub has been resurrected as a slightly higher-end concern. It actually has drinkable beer now. The barmaid is familiar, and she greets us wi a big smile. — Lisa, my lovely, Sick Boy says, — two pints ay that wonderful Innis & Gunn lager please!
— Coming up, Simon. Hi, Mark, long time no see.
— Hi, I say, suddenly remembering where I ken her fae.
We find a corner and I ask him, — Is that what’s-her-name?
— The Ghastly Aftermath, yes, that’s her, and we share a childish chuckle. She got that name fae a TV advert for washing-up liquid. A posh, hung-over hostess facing a sink full ay dirty dishes exclaims, ‘I love parties, but I hate the ghastly aftermath.’ The Ghastly Aftermath always hung around at the end ay a party. Ye would find her crashed oan the flair, or on a couch, or sitting watching TV and drinking tea, long after every other cunt had fucked off. It wisnae like she was hanging around tae fuck any survivors, and she wasn’t peeving the dregs ay the alcohol or waiting oan new drugs tae arrive. We never quite ascertained what her motivations were.
— Lived at hame wi her ma and wanted tae stay oot as long as possible, Sick Boy decides. — Ever ride her?
— No, I say. I once snogged the Ghastly Aftermath, but that was about it. — You?
He rolls his eyes and tuts in a don’t-ask-silly-questions manner. I insist tae him that I’m no sticking around tae peeve it up, as I’m too fucked wi the jet lag. I should feel a retro loser, but it’s oddly comforting, being here in Leith with Sick Boy. — Do ye get back up the road much?
— Weddings, funerals, Christmas, so yes, loads.
— Ever hear of what happened to Nikki? Or Dianne?
His eyes widen. — So they really did dae a turn on you as well?
— Aye, I admit. — Sorry about the film. Fuck knows what they did with the masters.
— Threw them on a bonfire, no doubt, he says, then suddenly breaks oot intae gallows laughter. — There we were, two scamming Leith schemies, fuckin rinsed like daft cunts by those cold-hearted bourgeois chickies. We were never as streetwise as we imagined, he muses ruefully. — Listen … does Begbie ever mention me?
— Just in passing, I tell him.
— I’ve never telt anybody this, but I went tae see the cunt in hospital; after that car tanned him in, when he was chasing you. He clears his throat. — He was unconscious, in some kind of fucking spazzy coma, so I let rip with a few home truths in the veg’s pus. You’ll never guess what happened next?
— He came out of the coma and grabbed your throat and tore it out?
— Actually, quite fucking close. The bastard opened his eyes and seized me by my wrist. I was shiteing it. Those fucking lamps ay his were a blast ay Hades …
— Fuck sake –
— He sank back into the bed, closed his eyes. The hospital staff said it was just some reflexive action. He woke up proper a couple ay days later.
— If he’d been in a coma he wouldn’t be able tae make oot a word you said, I smile. — And if he could and he cared, you’d already be deid.
— I’m not sure, Mark. He’s a maniac. Tread carefully. I’m glad I’m no involved with him any mair. I’ve had considerable personal distress from the spunk-breathed amoeba’s poxy obsessions.
— I’ve another one for ye. He wants to make a cast of our heads. In bronze.
— No fucking way.
I take a long swig of lager and lay the glass slowly on the table. — Don’t shoot the messenger.
Sick Boy’s head rolls slowly, as his eyes half close. — I’m not going anywhere near that fucking psychopath!
8
LEITH HEADS
As Mott the Hoople’s ‘Honaloochie Boogie’ blasts out from a small radio, none of the three men present can quite believe that they are standing in the same room. An artist friend has given Francis Begbie the use of this attic studio, located in a backstreet
zone of warehouses near Broughton Street. Despite the abundant light spilling through the glass ceiling from a sliver of blue sky, two sets of untrained eyes, belonging to Renton and Sick Boy, process the space as a small, dingy factory unit. It has a kiln, and a range of industrial equipment, two large workbenches, acetylene torches and gas canisters. Racks on the wall store materials, some of which are marked poisonous and combustible.
Frank Begbie’s protracted yawn signals that, like Renton, he fights jet lag from a long-haul air journey. Sick Boy is evidently vexed, glancing intermittently from the door to the clock on his phone. He decided to come on the basis that being seen with Begbie might give him some leverage with Syme. Already it feels like a mistake. — Where’s Spud? Probably just coming fae a fucking bench in Pilrig Park, and of course, he’s the one who’s late!
Renton notes Sick Boy’s nervousness in the presence of Begbie. He hasn’t engaged with him, beyond a perfunctory handshake and nod. — Nae word fae Second Prize? Renton asks.
Sick Boy rolls his shoulders in a ‘search me’ manner.
— I had assumed he’d drunk himself to death, or, even worse, met a nice lassie, settled doon and got lost in Gumleyland, Renton smiles. — He was a bit ay a Holy Joe the last time I saw him.
— That’s a shame, Franco says, — I wis gaunny call this piece Five Boys. I wanted tae show the journey we’ve aw been on.
It is the un-Franco-like word journey that instantly compels an exchange of doubtful glances between Sick Boy and Renton. Frank Begbie catches this and seems about to say something, but then Spud walks in. Just by regarding his bedraggled, wasted figure, Renton feels his own exhaustion peeling away. Spud’s clothing is tatty, but while his face is wizened, his eyes blaze. His movements are at first deliberate, but then break into short, uncontrollable spazzy jerks. — Here we go, Sick Boy announces.
— Sick … Simon … long time. Hi, Mark. Franco …
— Hi, Spud, Renton says.
– Sorry tae be late, boys. Franco, good tae see ye. Last time wis at yir laddie’s funeral but, ay? That wis awfay sad, ay?