Porno (17 page)

His hungry eyes dart over to the young team, instantly sucking the oxygen out of the air. — These wee cunts use this doss. Loat ay dealin goes oan. Some wide cunts come in here, he explains. But anybody gits wide wi you, you lit me ken. Some ay us dinnae forget oor mates, he adds snootily.

I’m thinking about Spud, subbed on the sly by that carrot-heided thief Renton. Bastards.
I wonder if François knows all about this cosy wee arrangement, Mister Murphy?
Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes could soon very well indeed be calling. Calling fucking loud. Yes, I can almost hear them now. And the tune that they are playing is sounding very much to me like the funeral lament for one wee Leith junky. Oh aye, that is most certainly one for later.

Right now, it makes no sense to play more of my hand to this radge than is necessary. — Appreciated, Frank. Ah’m a bit oot ay the Leith scene, ken, wi spending a lot ay time in London n that, I explain, as I clock another of that posse of young cunts entering. I get their attention before Morag, who’s reading a Mills and Boon, rises creakingly to her feet. — Fuckin customers. We’ll git a proper blether later oan, eh, I half tell, half implore the Beggar Boy.

— Right, Franco says, and he and this Larry character sit down in the corner by the fruit machine.

The young cunts order and down a few beers at the bar. I can hear all their talk, of gittin sorted oot, of phoning such-and-such and so-and-so. I note Franco and Larry leave, which makes the wee radges’ mood a bit lighter and their voices louder. That cunt Begbie disnae even bring the empty fucking glasses up to the bar. Does he think I’m here to wait on a fucking pleb like him?

I go to get the glasses, thinking about the sweeties I got from Seeker which are now secreted upstairs in the cashbox in the office drawer. Obviously, I’ll keep the charlie to myself. As I stack the tumblers like a fuckin skivvy, I approach the lippiest of the wee cunts, that Philip guy. — Awright, mate?

— Aye, he says suspiciously. His taller, thicker mate, Bill Hicks, what’s his name, Curtis, the one that seems tae be the butt of aw the jokes, approaches. Like the rest he’s got a load of gold sovies on his hands. I focus on the big streak of pish. — Cool sovies, chaps, I remark.

The thickoid boy goes: — Aye, ah’ve goat fi-fi-five, n ah want three m-m-mair, soas ah kin huv yin oan every fi-fi-fi-fi-fi . . .

He’s standing open-mouthed and blinking, trying to get it out and I feel like going back over to the bar and cleaning some glasses or playing ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ on the jukebox before he finally spits it out.

— . . . fi-finger, likes.

— That must help ye whin yir headin up the Walk. Keep they knuckles fae gittin chapped, scrapin against yon pavement, I smile.

The dippit halfwit looks open-mouthed at me. — Eh . . . aye . . . he says, completely bemused, as his mates start laughing like drains.

— Look at thaime but, the Philip radge boasts, showing me a full set. That’s as close as I want to get to them. This wee cunt is as cocky as fuck, and there’s a glint of the bad bastard in his eyes. He stands uncomfortably close to me, so that the visor of his baseball cap is almost sticking in my face. He’s clad in that expensive but tasteless leisurewear favoured by so many of those wee hip-hop twats.

Ah nod at him tae move a bit over intae the corner by the jukey. — Hope youse urnae dealin pills, I tell this cretin in a whisper.

— Naw, he says, with a belligerent shake of his napper.

I drop my voice. — So ye lookin for some?

— You jokin? eh goes, mooth tightening and eyes narrowing.

— Nup.

— Well . . . aye . . .

— Ah’ve got doves, a fiver a time.

— Sound.

The wee cunt gets his money together and I dish him out twenty doves. After that, it’s like a fuckin fair. I have to bell Seeker to send more down. Of course, he doesn’t grace the bar with his presence, dispatching a ferret-like courier in his place. I shift 140, with an hour left before closing time. Then the wee cunts fuck off clubbing leaving the pub empty apart from a couple of wheezing auld jakeys in the corner with their dominoes. I count six pills from my poke, and put them into a plastic bag.

I look across at Morag, who’s been washing the glasses and is back reading her Mills and Boon. — Mo, ye want tae keep an eye oan things for half an hour? Ah’ve jist got tae nip oot.

— Aye, nae bother, son, the obliging auld boiler grunts, lifting her head slightly from the great romance.

I saunter round to Leith Police Station. Thinking of that grand old phrase, the Leith police dismisseth us, I approach a short, fat, unstylish cop on the desk. The rancid smell of BO peels off him, like a nippy striker from a cumbersome central defender. This boy looks like he’s rotting away, flakes of eczematous skin quiver on his neck, held in place only by an oily, toxic sweat. Yes, it’s good to see a
proper
policeman. Grudgingly, Kebab Copper asks me what he can do for me.

I slap the six pills on the desk.

There’s a focused energy now about those small, deep-set eyes. — What’s this? Where did you get these?

— I’ve just taken over the licence at the Port Sunshine. There’s a lot of young guys drink in there. Well, I don’t mind that, they’re the ones that spend the money. But I saw a couple of them acting suspicious so I followed them into the toilet. They were in the same cubicle. I pushed the door in, the lock on it’s broken, which I need to fix, as I say, I’ve just taken the bar over. So anyway, I took those pills off them and barred them.

— I see . . . I see . . . Kebab Cop says, looking from the pills to me, and back again.

— Now I don’t know much about that sort ay thing myself, but it might be those fantasy tablets that you read about in the papers.

— Ecstasy . . .

This boy knows his Ecstasy from his eczema, which is just as well. — Whatever, I say, all businessman-and-taxpayer impatient. — The point is, I don’t want to bar them permanently if they’re innocent, but there’s no way that anybody is dealing drugs in my pub. What I’d like you to do is to test them and tell me if they are illegal drugs. If so, I’ll be straight on the phone to you if those scumbags ever set foot in my bar again.

Kebab Copper seems impressed at my vigilance, yet at the same time, put out by the bother it’s going to cause him. It’s like the two forces are pushing him in opposite directions, and he’s wobbling on the spot, trying to work out which fucking way he’ll leap, and shedding more skin in the process. — Right, sir, if you just leave your details with us, we’ll send this down to our lab for testing. It looks like Ecstasy tablets to me. Unfortunately, most of the young ones are on them nowadays.

I shake my head grimly, feeling like a senior detective on
The Bill
. — Not in my pub they’re not, officer.

— The Port Sunshine did have a bit of a reputation for that, the polisman explains.

— That probably explains why I got it for the price I did. Well, our drug-dealing friends are going to find out that this reputation is about to change! I tell him. The cop tries to look encouraging, but I might have overplayed it a bit, to the extent that he now thinks that I’m one of those ‘have-a-go heroes’, a vigilante, who’ll just cause him more long-run hassle.

— Mmm, he says, — any problems though, sir, you get straight back to us. That’s what we’re here for.

I nod in stern appreciation and head back to the pub.

When I get back, Juice Terry’s propped up against the bar, regaling auld Mo with some tale and she’s cackling dangerously close to pant-pishing levels. Her big bray fairly ricochets around the walls, making me think for a second about checking the building insurance.

The Juice chappie is well in the pink alright. He sidles up close tae me. — Sick Boy, eh, Si, ah’m jist thinkin, ye should come wi us tae the Dam for Rab’s stag at the weekend. Check oot the goods for sale in the red-light district.

No fuckin way. — I’d love tae, Terry, but I can’t leave this place, I tell him, as I shout the last orders to the deadmeat in the corner. Not one of the old fuckers wants another beer, they just file out into the night like the ghosts they’ll soon become.

I’m not into going to Amsterdam with a posse of radges. Rule one: socially surround yourself with fanny, avoiding groups of ‘mates’ at all costs. After I lock up the bar, Terry badgers me to come with him to this club in town that his DJ sidekick, that N-Sign boy, is playing at. Well, N-Sign’s quite well known and must be loaded, so after we shut up I’m happy to tag along. We get into a taxi, and then walk past the queuing masses at a Cowgate shithouse, straight through, Terry nodding and winking to the security boys. One of them, Dexy, is an old acquaintance, and I chew the shit with him for a bit.

It being Edinburgh and not elitist London, there’s no VIP bar, so we have to slum it with the fucking plebs. The N-Sign boy’s at the bar and there’s quite a few of the young cunts and wee birds making a fuss of him. He nods to Terry and myself and we go through to the office of the club with some other boys, where lines are being racked up. There are also a few welcome cases of beer. Terry’s done all the intros, and I vaguely know the N-Sign boy anyway, an old mate of the Juice fella’s from way back. The others come from Longstone, or Broomhouse or Stenhouse or somewhere like that. Somewhere predominantly Jambo. It’s funny, I don’t really care that much about Hibs these days, but my distaste of Hearts never wanes for a second.

Terry’s telling them all about the night we had. — We huv this big session back at Sick Boy’s. Thir wis this fuckin student burd, at college wi Rab Birrell, he purses his lips and turns to me, — what wis she like?

The looseness of his tongue, particularly when on cocaine, does cause concern, but the gusto of his performance is infectious. — Tidy, I acknowledge.

— They couldnae handle the skunk but. First, the wee specky yin hus a whitey, then the really shaggable yin, that Nikki, she passes oot n aw. This dirty cunt takes hur hame tae his hoose n rides hur, he says, nodding at me.

I shake my head. — Did I fuck ride her. Gina took her tae the bogs then we got her back tae mine and put her tae bed. I was a perfect gent, on my best behaviour, well, with Nikki anyway. I did shag Gina back at hers.

— Aye, then ah bet ye went back n rode that Nikki n aw, ya cunt!

— Nooo . . . I had tae get up early for a delivery so I was straight back tae the pub in the morning. When I went tae the flat Nikki was away. Even if she’d been there, I would’ve been a model gentleman.

— Ye expect me tae believe that?

— That’s the wey it wis, Tel, I smile. — There’s some lassies you need tae play the long-ball game wi. I’m not interested in poking a puking corpse.

— Aye, it wis a fuckin waste, Terry curses, — cause this wee yin wanted it awright, he says to this N-Sign boy, or Carl, as he calls him. — Here, Carl, you should git yirsel doon tae the pub, bring some ay that fanny fae yir club along n aw. Wi eywis need fresh blood, Terry teases.

This DJ boy’s okay though. We’re getting a bit mashed sharing a wrap and he says something to me which makes my heart race even faster than this off-the-rock line I’ve just done. — I was out in the Dam the other week. I saw that boy who runs this club oot there. Used tae be a mate ay yours. Renton. Youse fell oot, they telt me. Did ye ever get back in touch?

What is he saying here?

Renton? RENTON? FUCKING RENTON!

I’m thinking to myself, well, maybe I fucking well
could
do with getting over to the Dam. Check out the porn scene. Why not? A bit of R&R. And I could also get some fucking cash that’s owed me!

Renton.

— Aye, we’re aw sweet now, I lie. — What’s his club called again? I casually remark.

— Luxury, this Carl N-Sign Ewart guy says innocently as my heart pounds in my chest.

— Aye, I agree, — that’s the one. Luxury.

I’ll show that fucking treacherous ginger-heided cunt luxury.

21

Whores of Amsterdam Pt 3

T
he canal’s got a green hue today; can’t work out if it’s the reflection of the trees on the surface of the water, or some effluent spillage. The fat, bearded cunt in the houseboat below is sitting, his top off, contentedly smoking a pipe. A good ad for the baccy. In London, he’d be a worried man, shiteing his keks that somebody else would be trying to get what he’s got. Here though, he couldn’t give a toss. Someway along the line the British went from being the cunts who had it sussed out to being the biggest wankers in Europe.

I turn into the room, and Katrin’s in a short, blue, imitation-silk gown, sitting on the brown leather sofa, filing her nails. Her bottom lip rolls tightly down, her brow set in a concentrated frown. I used to be able to sit and watch her do things like that for hours. Appreciate her just being there. Now we irritate each other. To me now, it’s fuckin stupid. — You got that seven hundred guilders fir the rent then?

Katrin idly gestures to the table. — In my purse, she tells me, before standing up and discarding her robe with a slightly stagey flourish and going to the shower room. I hesitate, watching her very thin, white nakedness depart, strangely both arousing and slightly creepy.

I look at her purse lying there on the big oak table. The gleaming eye of its clasp winking at me, like a dare. There’s something about going through a woman’s purse. In my junk days, I screwed hooses, shops and did people over to get what I needed, but the strongest taboo, the one that hurt the most tae brek, wis my ma’s purse. It’s easier tae stick yir fingers in a strange woman’s fanny than in a familiar one’s purse.

Still, a roof over the head is certainly required, and I snap it open and skim off the notes. I can hear Katrin singing in the shower, or trying to. Germans cannae sing a fuckin note, like the Dutch, in fact like all Europeans. What she
can
do is do my head in. Aye, merciless needling, appalling rows, stormy sulks; Katrin can do those with panache. But her strongest card is the bitter interventions that occassionally punctuate her stony silences. Our wee flat overlooking the canal has developed an atmosphere highly conducive to paranoia.