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In response, he deigns to loosen the grip a little bit. — I’ve worked it out. Interest, plus compensation for the mental stress caused to me.

I shrug doubtfully at this, in some half-arsed defiance. It was such a big deal at the time, but now it seems a small thing, just a pair of twats mixed up in a bit of daft junky business. It hits me how, after a few years of looking over my shoulder, I’ve become complacent, blasé even, about the whole deal. It’s only on the odd sneaky family visit to Scotland that the paranoia resurfaces, and it’s only really Begbie I worry about. As far as I know he’s still doing a sentence for manslaughter. I only briefly considered at the time how the whole business affected Sick Boy. The strange thing was, I intended to compensate him and Second Prize, and, I suppose, even Begbie, like I did Spud, but, somehow, I just never got round to it. Nope, I never thought about how it impacted on him, but I sense that he’s going to tell me.

Sick Boy lets go of me and peels away, spinning round the office, slapping his own forehead, pacing up and down. — I had tae contend wi Begbie eftir it! He thought I wis in it wi ye! I lost a fucking tooth, he spits, halting suddenly and pointing in accusation tae a gold-toothed gap in his ivory mouth.

— What happened tae Begbie . . . Spud . . . Secon . . . ?

Sick Boy snaps savagely back at me, rocking on his heels: — Never mind those cunts! This is
me
we’re talking about! Me! He thrashes his own chest with a clenched fist. Then his eyes widen and his voice drops to a soft whine. — I was supposed tae be yir best mate. Why, Mark? he pleads. — Why?

I have tae smile at his performance. I can’t help it, the cunt hasn’t changed a bit, but this riles the fuck out of him and he jumps on me and we go crashing to the floor, him on top of me. — DON’T FUCKING LAUGH AT ME, RENTON! he screams in my face.

That was fuckin sair. I’ve hurt my back and I struggle to get my breath with this fat cunt on top of me. He
has
put on weight and I’m pinned under him. Sick Boy’s eyes are full of fury and he pulls back his fist. The thought of Sick Boy beating me to a pulp for the money seems faintly ridiculous. Not impossible, but ludicrous. He was never into violence. But people change. Sometimes they get more desperate when they get older, especially if they feel that their ship hasn’t come in. And this might not be the Sick Boy I knew. Eight, nine years, is a long time. A taste for violence must be like a taste for anything else: some people can acquire it later on in life. I have myself, in a controlled way, through four years of karate training.

But even without that I always thought that I could take Sick Boy. I mind of giving him a doing at school, at the back of Fyfe’s goods yard by the Water of Leith. It wasnae a real fight, just handbag stuff between two non-fighters, but I stuck it out longer and was more vicious. I won that battle, but he won the war, as usual, emotionally blackmailing me about it for years after. Used the best-mate routine: turned those big lamps on me and made me feel like a drunken wife-beater. Now with my shotokan karate skills I know I could immobilise him easily. But it’s me who’s doing nothing, and I’m thinking, what a paralysing force guilt can be, and how righteous indignation is such an energiser. I just want to get out of this without having to hurt him.

Now he’s ready to punch my face in, and I’m thinking about this and I’m laughing. Sick Boy is too.

— What are you laughin at? he sais, obviously annoyed, but still grinning in spite of it.

I’m looking up at his face. He’s a bit more jowly, but still in good nick really. Well togged out as well. — You’ve gained weight, I tell him.

— So have you, he says with an insulted pout, all hurt. — You mair than me.

— Mine is muscle. I never took you for a fat cunt, I smile.

He looks down at his stomach and sucks in his gut. — Mine’s fuckin muscle too, he says.

I’m hoping now that he sees how fuckin ridiculous all this is. And it is. We can sort this out, come to some kind of arrangement. I’m still shocked, but not surprised, and in a strange way it’s good to see him. I always felt that we’d meet up again. — Simon, let’s get up. We both know that you’re no gaunnae hit me, I tell him.

He looks at me, grins and makes a fist again and I see stars as it crashes into my face.

25

The Edinburgh Rooms

T
he Edinburgh Rooms at the Central Library, man, they’re like fill ay stuff aboot, well, Edinburgh. Ah mean, that stands tae reason, as it should be, likes. Ah mean, ye widnae expect tae find things aboot the likes ay Hamburg or eh . . . Boston in the Edinburgh Rooms. Thing is but, thir’s stuff aboot Leith here n aw, loads n loads ay stuff, stuff which by rights should be in the Leith Public Library doon in Ferry Road, man. Fair dos, ah mean, Leith is classed as a part ay Edinburgh by the council gadges, if no by a lot ay cats doon in the old Port. But oan the other hand, ah mind ay the time whin thir wis leaflets aboot aw that decentralisation the council’s meant tae believe in. So why the need for a Leith cat like me tae trek aw the wey up tae Edina, jist tae git stuff oan Leith? Why this great long march up tae George IV Bridge instead ay jist a nippy wee hop next door tae Ferry Road, ken?

Mind you, it’s a nice wee walk in this biscuit-ersed March sun. The high street’s a wee bit nippy but. No been up here since the festival n ah miss aw they cool chicks smilin at ye n giein ye leaflets fir thir shows. It’s pure radge but, they wey they sortay make a statement intae a question. They go: ‘We’ve a show in the festival?’ ‘It’s up the Pleasance?’ ‘The review was brilliant?’ N ye feel like sayin, hud oan a second, cool kitten-cat, cause if ye want tae dae that, n make a statement intae a question, aw ye need tae dae is tae add ‘ken’ oan the end. Ken?

But of course, ah ey took the leaflets anywey, cause it’s no fir the likes ay me tae say anythin tae posh lassies thit uv been tae college n that, studyin hot thespian action likesay, ken?

That’s always been ma problem but, man, confidence. The big dilemma has been that drug-free too often equals confidence-free, man. Right now the confidence isnae low, but it’s, what’s the word thit cats yaze? Precarious, man, precarious. N the first thing ah noticed whin ah goat up here wis this pub acroas the road fae the Central Library called Scruffy Murphy’s. One ay they Irish theme pubs that are nowt like what real pubs in Ireland are like, ken. Thir jist for business cats, yuppies and rich students. Lookin at it made ays go aw tense n ashamed inside but. In a just world these cats that run that bar should pay the likes ay me compensation for emotional damage incurred, man. Ah mean, that wis aw ah goat whin ah wis at the school, it wis ‘Scruffy Murphy, Scruffy Murphy’. Jist cause ay the auld Erin name and the poor threads due tae the adverse economic circumstances and the poverty that was endemic in the Murphy households at Tennent Strasser and Prince Regent Strasser. So it’s like the oppo ay good, man, the pure oppo ay good.

Jist, likesay, seein yon pub sign, it fair put ays at a maximum disadvantage even before the off, ken? So ah’m downcast when ah git intae the library, thinkin tae masel, ‘How kin Scruffbag Murphy here ever write a book?’ and walking intae the place wis jist weird, weird, weird. W-E-I-R-D oan baith sides, man. Aye, ah goes through the big wooden doors n suddenly ma hert wis gaun: bang bang bang. It felt tae ays like ah wis breakin in, man, like some cat hud rammed a load ay amyl nitrate up muh beak. Ah felt aw faint, ken, like ah wis gaunnae pass oot or something, jist crumple tae the deck oan the spot. Thir’s that feelin, like whin yir in a swimmin pool under the water, or up in a plane, aw that sort ay muffled noise in yir ears. So ah wis shaky, man, jist pure shaky. Then when the security cat in the uniform comes ower, ah jist sortay pure panics. Ah’m thinkin thit ah’m gubbed here; aw naw, man, ah’m huckled here awready and ah’ve no even done nowt, wisnae even gaunnae dae nowt, jist look at some books, likesay . . .

— Can I help you? the boy asks.

So ah’m thinking: ah’ve done nowt wrong, ah’m jist in the place. Ah’ve no even done nowt, nup, nowt. But ah’m sortay sayin: — Eh . . . eh . . . eh . . . ah jist wondered likes . . . if it wis awright likes, if ah could . . . eh . . . jist have a wee look in the eh, room wi aw the stuff oan Edinburgh . . . tae see the books n that likes.

N ah could jist sortay tell thit this boy kens what ah am: tea leaf, junky, schemie, ghetto child, third-generation bog-wog, gyppo; ah jist sortay ken, man, cause this boy’s a Jambo Mason, a rotary-club gadge, ah mean ye kin jist tell, the uniform n that . . . the polished buttons, man . . .

— Downstairs, the boy sais, n eh just like, lets ays go in. Jist like that! The boy lits ays go in! The Edinburgh Rooms. Central Library. George IV Bridge likes!

Barry!

So ah goes doon the big marble staircase n there’s the sign, ‘The Edinburgh Rooms’. So now here’s me feelin aw chuffed, man, like a total scholar. But, see whin ah gits in, it’s huge, man, huge, n thir’s a load ay people sitting reading at they wee desks, like thir back in primary school. It’s as quiet as Falkirk n it’s like thir aw looking at me, man. What it is that those cats see? A junky whae’s mibee gaunnae nick some books tae sell tae get gear.

So ah’m thinkin, naw, naw, naw, man, stey cool. Innocent until proven. Jist dae what Avs at the group says n try n chill oot oan the self-sabotage vibe. Count tae five whin the stress comes oan. One, two, three . . . what’s that big wifie wi the glesses lookin at . . . ? four, five. N it wis better, man, cause they wir pure lookin away eftir that, ken?

No that there’s much worth nickin in thair. Ah mean, some ay they books might be valuable tae a collector, but it isnae the sort ay goods ye could shift doon the Vine Bar, aw they auld ledgers, is that what they call thum, man, ledgers, n aw that microfilm n that sort ay stuff, ken?

Anywey, ah’m daein the wee hunt through they books n thir sayin that Leith and Edinburgh merged in 1920, eftir a sort ay referendum. It would be like that ‘Yes for devolution’ vote, for the Parliament n that, when the people spoke and that was that. Ah mind ay seeing the
Scotsman
and they dudes there were saying ‘naw, man, vote no’, but cats just went ‘sorry, man, we cannae dig what you gadges say in your paper so let’s have a big yes’. Democracy, man, democracy. Ye cannae make a cat go for Felix when there’s Whiskas on offer.

The thing is that the Leithers rejected the merger by a four-tae-one majority. Four tae one, man, but the gig still took place! Ah sort ay half mind that every old punter used to talk aboot that when we were pram-kickers. Now those auld cats are six foot under, so who’ll let everybody ken what they did against the people, against democracy, way back then, man? Send for the boy Murphy! Aye, aw those felines past in the Stephen King Pet Semetary, sleep at ease, cause here ah come! So that seems like a good place for ays tae start, 1920: the great betrayal, man.

Aye, it’s aw startin tae come thegither in my heid. The problem is that what ah forgot wis thit tae write a book, ye need things like a pen and paper. So ah nash next door tae Bauermeister’s n chorie a notepad n pen. Ah’m pure buzzin n ah cannae wait tae git back tae that desk ah wis sittin at n git intae some serious note-takin. That’s it, man, a history ay Leith fae the merger tae the present. Start oaf in 1920, n maybe go back a bit, then forward again, like aw they fitba-player biographies.

Ken?

Like, Chapter One: ‘I couldnae believe it when I lifted that European Cup intae the sky, man. That Alex Ferguson cat bounced right up and said tae me, “Hi, man, that likesay makes you immortal, ken?” No that I could mind that much aboot the winning goal, or the match, as I’d been in a crack den right through the night until aboot half an hour tae go before the kick-off when I got the taxi tae the groond . . .’ Ye ken how the script goes, man.

Then the next chapter is: ‘But the story really begins a long way fae the San Siro Stadium in Milan. In fact we have tae go back tae a humble tenement in Rat Street, The Gorbals, Glasgow, where I made my debut as the seventeenth son of Jimmy and Senga McWeedgie. It was a close-knit community and I wanted for nothing . . . blah blah blah . . .’ Ye ken the score.

So that’s it, start there and work back. Ah’m smokin, gadgie, pure smokin!

Then ah sees thit thuv goat the papers fae that time, the
Scotsman
n the
Evening News
n aw that. Now even though these were written by aw they rich Tory cats, they might still have a bit in them, likesay local news n that, thit’s useful tae me. Thing is, it’s aw microfilm thir oan, n ah need tae fill in a slip tae git thum. Then yuv goat this big, big machine, like an auld kind ay telly n yuv goat tae sort ay pit thum through it, ken? Well, ah’m no happy aboot aw this, likes. A library, man, it’s pure jist meant tae be aboot books n that, n naebody said nowt tae me aboot machines n that, likes.

So ah get they microfilm things offay the boy, ah’m aw ready tae go, cat, go, but whin ah see that big telly thing ah’m jist gaun, naw, naw, naw, cause ah’m likesay no that technical n ah’m aw sortay worried that ah’ll brek it. Ah would ask one ay the staff but ah ken thit thi’ll jist think thit ah’m thick n that, ken?

Naw, ah cannae work that, no way, naw, so ah jist leave the stuff thair oan the desk n ah go oot the door, up the staircase, just so gled tae get oot ay thair wi ma hert gaun thump, thump, thump. But when ah am oot, ah kin hear aw the voices in ma heid; aw laughin, sayin ah’m nothing, nowt, zilch n ah see that Scruffy Murphy’s sign and it hurts, man, it hurts that much that ah pure need tae git rid ay the pain. So ah head doon tae Seeker’s place, where ah ken thit ah’ll git somethin, somethin ah ken willnae make me feel like Scruffy Murphy.

26

‘. . . sex monsters . . .’

H
e took me back to his place that night and put me to bed. I woke up, fully clothed, under the duvet cover. A brief paranoid dance started in my head when I thought about the fool I’d made of myself, then the sort of things Terry could have got up to with that video camera. But I just sense and feel that nothing happened, because Gina looked after me. Gina and Simon. When I got up the flat was empty. It was a small tenement dwelling with the lounge dominated by a leather suite and sealed wooden floor with expensive-looking rugs. The wallpaper is a cascade of ghastly orange lilies. Above the fireplace is a print of a nude woman with Freud’s profile superimposed onto it, with the caption, ‘What’s on man’s mind’. I’m surprised by how immaculately tidy the place is.