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— The full share? eh asks, ehs eyes bulgin oot.

— Every penny, man, ah tell um wi a bit ay glee, then ah sit back doon in the seat cause ah’m fucked. Ali looks accusingly at ays, and ah kin only shrug, and hur heid droaps again.

Ye kin see Sick Boy’s dome’s pure spinnin. Ah’m thinkin that the inside ay that cat’s nut must be like one ay they things wi aw the baws that they yaze fir the lottery or the Scottish Cup draw. Eh looks really hurt, no jist pretend hurt, but then eh suddenly smiles, ehs grin imitatin the logo oan the gadge’s blue Lacoste shirt. — Aye? Well, a lot of fuckin good it did ye n aw. Ye really sorted yirself oot, eh. Really invested the money well.

Ali raises hur heid, looks at me. — That money, when ye goat that stuff for the bairn . . . that was aw fae Mark Renton?

Ah say nowt.

Looking at ehs gless ay whisky, Sick Boy picks it up and drains it, then starts tappin the empty gless oan the table. — Aye, that’s right, just sit thair in a fucking stupor, eh sneers at ays. — You dinnae dae anything, you never will dae anything, eh’s tellin me.

And ah cannae help it, ah just blurt it oot; ah tell him that ah do, that ah’m writing a history ay Leith.

Sick Boy starts sniggering. — That should be fucking riveting, eh bellows acroass the bar, and a few heids turn roond.

Now Ali’s lookin at me like I’m daft n aw. — What are ye talkin aboot, Danny? she asks. Ah’ve jist goat tae git away, oot ay here. Ah stand up n head oaf. — Negative energy, eh, ah’ll mind ay that yin, likesay. Right, see yis.

Sick Boy raises ehs brows but Ali follays me tae the door and we go ootside. — Where are ye goin? she asks, wrapping her airms roond herself.

— Ah’ve goat ma meeting, ah tell her. It’s nippy, and she’s cauld, shivering, even though she’s goat that navy-blue cardigan oan.

— Danny . . . she starts, rubbing the zipper oan ma jaykit between her finger and thumb, — ah’m gaunnae go back in thaire n talk tae Simon.

Ah jist look at her in pure disbelief.

— Eh’s upset, Danny. If eh says anything aboot that money n it gits back tae the likes ay Second Prize . . . she hesitates fir a wee bit, — . . . or Frank Begbie . . .

— Aw aye, go n see Simon. We cannae huv him upset, kin we, likesay? ah snap, but fuck aye, that still registers. It wis me, Rents, Sick Boy, Second Prize n Begbie aw in London, n Rents pure ripped us off. Bit eh peyed me back. Eh obviously nivir peyed Sick Boy back, bit ah dinnae ken aboot the others. Probably no Begbie, cause he went mental, killed that boy Donnelly n goat sent doon, even though Donnelly wis a bad bam as well, it’s goat tae be said.

— You’d better no be late, she sais, kissin ma foreheid, then she turns and she’s gone back through the door.

She’s gone.

So that wis what done it, likesay, ah wis aw charged up wi excitement n worry but whin ah went along tae the meeting ah jist told them aw aboot it, this history ay Leith. The thing is, man, that that Avril lassie, she was jist so happy, ken, jist so fuckin happy. It made it worthwhile, likes, just tae see the smile oan the chick’s face. So now ah’ve done it, ah’ve blabbed n pure created this expectation ay masel as a man ay letters. A dude movin oan up, a distinguished local historian, a mover, a shaker.

But it isnae me, likes. That boy oan the telly, the one that goes oan aboot ancient civilisations n aw that, ye cannae really see him gaun: Hey, man, ah’d better watch this gadge fae Leith, this new kid oan the block. If ah dinnae mind masel, this radge’ll be prowling roond aw ma Pyramids, giein it big licks aboot aw they Egyptian dudes. Nah, ah dinnae think so somehow.

Ah’ve goat tae make a stab at it but, ken, goat tae try, mibee prove tae Ali that ah’m mair than she thinks. Mibee prove it tae aw ay them.

When ah first met Alison she was a weird and wonderful kind ay lassie, wi that great sortay tanned skin, the long, dark wavy hair n the big white set ay pearly choppers. She wis ey a bit ay an intense chick but, it was like sometimes there wis an invisible vampire attached tae her neck, jist drainin the energy oot ay her.

Never really took that much notice ay me, likes. She wis eywis intae him. Then ah mind one day she jist smiled at me and ma hert blew tae smithereens in ma chist. Whin we goat thegither ah thoat it wis jist wasters stuff, man, and that once we cleaned up, she’d want tae move on. But then came the bairn n she jist sortay stayed. That’s probably it, man, the wee yin, maist likely the only reason she’s stuck aroond sae long.

But now she’s back tae being that vampire-sucked Ali, and guess whae the vampire is? It’s me, man. Me.

Eftir the gig at the group ah wonder if Ali’ll still be doon the road at the Port Sunshine. Naw bit, ah cannae handle seein that Sick Boy again right now. Instead, ah turns the other wey n heads up intae toon where ah runs intae Cousin Dode, comin oot the Old Salt, n wi goes up tae his flat in Montgomery Street fir a blaw. Quite a cool wee pad tae; a bit oan the titchy side, the rooms like, a wee tenement rather thin one ay the big yins. Eh’s goat it aw done up nice n aw, man, except fir the big Huns picture, the Souness era, framed oan the waw above the fireplace. Thir’s a nice leather couch which ah pure collapse right intae.

Ah quite like Cousin Dode, even if eh does sortay go oan a bit, n eftir a couple joints n a beer ah’m tellin um aboot ma women problems.

— Never mind, mate,
Omnia vincit amor
, love conquers all. If yis love each other, it’ll work oot, if yis dinnae, it’s time tae move oan. End aff, Dode says.

Ah’m tellin um thit it’s no that easy. — See, it’s likes thir’s a boy that used tae be a good mate, n him n her wir like an item, n now eh’s back in toon, back oan the scene, like, man, ken? The guy wis a bit fill ay ehsel, so ah said a few things, telt um something ah shouldnae huv, ken?

—
Veritas odium parit
, Dode says in a sortay sage wey. — The truth begets hatred, eh adds fir ma benefit.

It’s pure crazy me tryin tae dae a book n ah cannae write ma name, n there’s that Cousin Dode boy whae’s like some kind ay a Latin scholar n eh’s a Weedgie n aw. Ye nivir think that Weedgies huv schools, but they must, n they must be better thin oors. So ah goes tae the good Cousin: — How is that you ken so much aboot things, Dode, likesay Latin n that?

Eh explains it aw tae me as ah skins up another joint. — Ah’m a self-educated lad ay pairts, Spud. You come fae a different tradition, fae us Proddies, like. Ah’m no sayin that you cannae be the same as me, ye kin. It just takes mair work fir the likes of you cause it isnae in yir culture. See, Spud, we’re firmly in the Knoxian tradition ay Scottish Protestant working-class education. That’s how ah’m an engineer tae trade.

Dinnae quite follow follow the cat here. — But ye work as a security guard, ken?

Dode shakes ehs heid aw dismissively like that’s jist a wee detail. — Temporary thing but; till ah get back oot tae the Middle East n land another contract. Ye see, this security stuff, it keeps me busy. Ah’m no tryin tae be offensive tae you, pal, ah kin say this tae you, cause you’ve goat potential. But ye see, it’s a case ay the devil makin work.
Otia dant vitia
. That’s the difference between an enterprising Proddy and a feckless Pape. We’ll work at onything tae keep wur haund in, tae keep wur discipline, until the next big thing comes along. Nae way will ah jist sit back here spunkin away aw that Oman money.

Ah’m sortay wonderin how much that cat’s got stuffed away in that Clydesdale Bank basket ay his.

20

Scam # 18,738

I
t was good to see the lovely Alison again, even if the altercation with that fucked-up junky tattie-picking loser she’s in tow with has upset me. Got pretty nippy as well, the skinny, skaggy wee cunt. Should have fucking well slung him out into the street along with the other rubbish for the binmen to pick up and incinerate.

Things either get better, or they deteriorate, and I’m thinking about Spud, thinking that the worst is now over. But no, it does get much fucking worse.
He
comes in.

— Sick Boy! A fuckin publican! You, runnin a pub in Leith. Kent ye widnae be able tae keep away fae the fuckin place!

The man is wearing an unfashionable brown bomber jacket, old Nike trainers, a pair of Levi’s and what looks like a disturbingly ancient range Paul and Shark striped shirt. Of course, the total effect screams ‘Jailbird’. There’s maybe a little fleck of silver at the temples and a couple of extra Mars bars on the coupon, but the cunt looks in excellent condition. Hardly a day older, it’s as if he’s been to a fucking health farm rather than a prison. Probably doing weights twenty-four seven. Even the touch of silver looks unreal, like some film-set make-up artist has stuck it there for the purposes of ageing him. I am literally fucking speechless.

— Never thoat ah’d see the fuckin day! Telt ye ye’d fuckin well be back, ya cunt! he says again, showing me that his obsession with boring repetition is as intact as ever, possibly even developed, incubating as it did for so long in that hothouse of a slammer. Imagine sharing a cell with that! I’d take my fucking chances on the beasts’ wing first.

My jaws lock together and grind slowly. And it isnae just the charlie I had before Murph the Smurf came in. I force a smile and find my tongue. — Franco. How’s tricks?

In true form of old, the cunt never responds to a question when he’s got several of his own. — Whair ye fuckin steyin?

— Roond the corner, I mumble vaguely.

He fixes me with that paint-stripping look for a second, but that’s all the information the cunt is getting. Then his eyes go to the font, then back to me.

— Lager, Franco? I grimace.

— Thoat ye’d nivir fuckin ask, ya cunt, he says, turning to another fuckin loser next to him. I don’t know this particular psycho. — Cunt kin afford tae run a pub, eh kin afford tae stand ehs auld mate Franco a fuckin peeve. The strokes me n this cunt used tae fuckin well pill, eh, Sick Boy?

— Aye . . . I force a grin, raising the glass to the tap, trying to calculate how many free drinks he’ll bum per week and what this’ll do to the already breadline-profit levels that this hovel just about delivers. I’m chatting away with Franco, casually throwing in info and names that’ll fuck his sick head. You can see the wheels turning, him getting more and more distressed. Names and half-formed schemes are jostling to get into the right lane, like motorway traffic confronted by an oncoming emergency filter. Of course, I leave out one particular moniker. It dawns on me that I’m both perturbed and strangely excited at Franco’s re-emergence, trying to concoct in my head a crude balance sheet of opportunity and threat. I’m attempting to remain studiously neutral, listening to his bullshit in a grim, mordant silence. There will be many souls much less ambivalent about Begbie’s return.

This other wide cunt’s glinting at me. He looks a slightly thinner, less healthy version of Franco; a body pumped up by prison steel, yes, but then honed down by drugs and alcohol. His eyes are wild, psychotic slits that bat-dance in your soul looking for good things to crush or bad elements to identify with. Shorn hair peppers a craggy skull you could punch all day and just break your fingers on. — So you’re Sick Boy then, ur ye?

I just look at him as I’m pouring the beer. My expression is that hopefully insincere, urging way where a silent ‘and?’ is left hanging in the air, and in this battle of wills I want this moron to say more. But I’m losing control, all I’m getting is a rapscallion’s smile back while the coke rush is running down and I think about that wrap in my jacket pocket hanging up in the office.

Thankfully, he breaks the impasse. — The name’s Larry, mate. Larry Wylie, he tells me in a busy, sizing-up way. I shake a proffered hand with some reluctance. I can see the licence already heading down the tubes with bams like this hanging around here. — Heard we hud oor knobs poking aboot in the same place, he says, an evil, measuring grin splitting his snidey puss.

What the fuck is this cunt on about?

The Larry character must be picking up on my bemusement as he puts me in the picture. — Louise, he tells me. — Louise Malcolmson. She wis tellin me thit ye tried tae pit her oot on the game, ya dirty cunt.

Hmm. A blast from the past, that yin. — Aye? I nod, looking at the tap and then him. I hate bar work. I don’t have the patience to pull pints. It’s as well that those scapegrace wank-boys haven’t asked for Guinness. Yes, that face of his is familiar after all, belonging to one of those vaguely malign presences in the corner of some gaff you visit to score from or chill out in.

— Cheers, mate, he smiles. — Ah ken, cause ah tried n aw.

Begbie looks from me to this Larry and back to me again. — Dirty cunts, he says, with real disgust. And suddenly an old fear comes over me for the first time since he came into the place. We’re aulder, and I’ve not seen the cunt for ages, but Franco is still Franco. You look at the lamebrain and know that he’s never going to move on; the marriage and domesticity option simply isnae one for that twat. For the Little Beggar Boy it’s death or life imprisonment and taking as many doon with him en route. Yes, the man still simply beggars belief.

In mild protest Larry turns up his palms in appeal. — That’s me but, Franco, he smiles, then he’s looking back towards me. — That’s the wey it goes, eh, mate. Once ah’ve shafted a bird every which wey but loose, the only thing tae dae is tae try n git some ay that Bacardi money back n git her pimped oot. The boy here’ll tell ye, eh, mate?

This cunt thinks I’m the same as him. Not so. Me: Simon David Williamson, businessman, entrepreneur. You: thick, schemie thug, going nowhere. I nod, but keep my smile to myself, as this fucker has the look of somebody it wouldn’t do to antagonise. A great buddy for Franco, cut from the same cloth. They should just
get married now
, cause they’ll never find anybody else more suitable. Like Begbie, he’s nae rocket scientist but he’s got hyena street cunning skooshing out of every pore and knows when he’s being condescended to from a hundred yards away. So I look at Franco and nod over at the leisurewear- and sovie-bedecked wee toerags sitting at the table by the jukey. — What’s the form thaire, Franco?