Porno (22 page)

Rab’s silenced for a bit, then he says: — You’re mental, trying to effect nonchalance, but you can tell by the tone of his voice that he knows he’s behaved inappropriately, been undignified, and for somebody as proud as him, that’s a terrible thing. He’s fooling nobody, he wants me, but you are just too fucking late, Mr Birrell.

— Aye, he says, breaking the silence, — you’re in a funny mood the day. Anyway, the real reason I called was to speak to Lauren. Is she there?

Something crashes in my chest. Lauren. What? — No, I feel my voice waver, she’s gone to Stirling. Why do you want her?

— Aw, that’s awright, I’ll call her at her mum’s. I said to her I’d check if my old man had this software which converts the stuff she’s got on the Apple Mac she uses at home to Windows. Anyway, he’s got it and he’s happy to install it for her. It’s just that she said it was quite urgent, cause she had stuff on the Mac she needed . . . Nikki?

— I’m here. Enjoy the rest of your stag, Rab.

— Cheers, see ye, he says, hanging up.

I can see why Terry gets really wound up by him. At first I couldn’t, but now I can.

27

TENSION IN THE HEID

M
uh heid is fuckin nippin. This fuckin migraine. Too much thinkin, that’s ma problem, no thit some ay the thick cunts roond here wid understand that. Too much gaun oan in ma heid. That’s what comes ay huvin fuckin brains; makes ye fuckin well think too much, think aboot aw the fuckin wide cunts thit need tae git thir fuckin faces burst. N thir’s loads ay thum n aw. Crappin bastards, thir ey laughin at ye behind yir back, aw aye: ah ken n ah kin tell. They think thit ye dinnae see, bit ye fuckin well see awright. You ken. Ye eywis fuckin well ken, surein ye fuckin dae.

Ah need some fuckin Nurofen. Ah hope Kate gits back fae her ma’s wi that greetin-faced bairn ay hers soon, cause a ride eywis helps, cuts oot aw the fuckin tension in the heid. Aye, whin ye shoot yir duff it’s like gittin yir fuckin brain massaged. Ah cannae understand aw they cunts thit say, ‘No the now, ah’ve goat a heidache,’ like in they fuckin films n that. See, tae me, that’s whin ye
need
a fuckin ride. If every cunt had a ride whin they hud a heidache, thir widnae be as much fuckin trouble in the world.

Thir’s noise at the door; that’ll be her now.

Bit hud oan a fuckin minute. Naw it’s fuckin well no her.

Some cunt’s tryin tae fuckin well brek in here . . . cause ay me sittin wi the light oaf cause ay ma heid nippin. That’s thaime thinkin thit nae cunt’s in! Well, some cunt’s fuckin well in awright!

Game oan!

Ah roll oaf the fuckin couch oantae the deck, like one ay they Bruce Willis or Schwarzenegger type ay cunts, n crawl along the flair, standin up against the waw behind the livin-room door. If they ken whit thir daein thi’ll fuckin well come ben here first, instead ay gaun up the stairs. The door flies open, the cunts huv fuckin well forced it. Thir in now. Ah dinnae ken how many, no a loat by the sound ay it. But it disnae matter how fuckin many come in, cause thir willnae be any fuckin well gaun oot.

Barry . . . this is fuckin barry . . . Ah stands behind the door, waitin oan the cunts. This wee fucker steps in, cairryin this baseball bat, the fuckin wee bastard. A big disappointment tae me. Ah shuts the door behind um. — Lookin for something then, cunt?

The wee cunt turns roond n starts waving the bat in front ay ays, but eh’s fuckin well shat it right away. — Oot ma road! Lit ays oot! eh shouts. Ah recognise that wee cunt! Fae the pub, fae Sick Boy’s pub! He kens me n aw, n eh’s eyes go wider. — Ah didnae ken it wis your place, man, ah’m just gaunnae go . . .

Fuckin right the wee cunt didnae ken. — C’moan then, ah smile at um. Ah points tae the door. — Thaire it is. Whit ye fuckin waitin fir!

— Oot the wey . . . ah’m no wantin any bother . . .

Ah stoap smiling. — Yuv fuckin well goat it whether yir fuckin well wantin it or no, ah tell um. — So gie’s that fuckin bat now. Dinnae make ays take it oaf ye. Fir yir ain sake, dinnae make ays dae that.

The wee cunt’s standing fuckin tremblin, n ehs eyes start fillin wi water. Fuckin wee poof. Eh lowers the bat n ah grabs ehs wrist n takes it offay um, then ah grab ehs throat wi ma other hand. — Whit did ye no fuckin well leather ays fir, ya radge? Eh? Fuckin shitin wee cunt!

— Ah didnae . . . ah didnae ken thit . . .

Ah lits um go tae git the bat wi baith hands. — This is what ye fuckin should’ve done, n ah lamps the wee cunt wi it.

Eh pits ehs airms up and the bat cracks intae the wee cunt’s wrist n eh lits oot this scream like a dug gittin run ower, n ah’m fuckin leatherin right intae um wi it, thinkin aboot what eh’d huv done if Kate n the fuckin bairn wir here.

Ah stoap whin ah see that thir’s blood oan Kate’s fuckin cairpit. The wee cunt’s lyin aw fuckin well curled up n screamin like a fuckin bairn. — SHUT UP! ah fuckin shout at um. They waws are paper-thin n some cunt’ll be oan tae the fuckin polis.

Ah find an auld dishcloth n pit it ower the cunt’s heid whaire it’s split n pit ehs basebaw cap back oan um, that’ll stoap the fuckin Roy Hudd fir a bit. Then ah git the cunt tae turn oot ehs poakits n gie um stuff fae the kitchen tae clean the cairpit wi. Thir’s nowt here, jist some fuckin change, a set ay hoose keys n a wee bag ay pills.

— They Es?

— Aye . . . eh’s fuckin well scrubbin away, lookin roond aw worried.

— Nae fuckin ching?

— . . . Naw . . .

Ah check the fuckin locks oan the door. Thuv been forced oot wi him shoodirin it, but the wid husnae fuckin split, which is just as well fir that wee cunt. Ah pit them back in. It’s as flimsy as fuck but, n it’s gaunnae need replaced.

Ah goes back tae whaire the wee cunt’s still scrubbin. — They blood stains better fuckin well come oot. If ah’m gittin fuckin gyp fae hur fir huvin blood on hur cairpit, ah’ll make it worth ma while n show yis fuckin blood awright.

— Aye . . . aye . . . thir comin oot . . . eh goes.

Ah finds oot thit the cunt’s called Philip Muir n eh’s fae Lochend. Ah’m lookin at the cairpit. Eh’s no made a bad joab. — Right, you’re comin wi me fir a bit, ah tells um.

The wee cunt’s too feart tae say anything n wi gits tae the fuckin van. Ah opens the front passenger seat n eh gits in. Ah strolls roond tae ma seat n climbs in, kennin that eh’s shitein it too much tae make a dash for it. — You navigate, pal, you ken whaire wir gaun.

— Eh . . .

— Wir gaun tae your hoose.

Ah sticks oan the radio n wi drives doon tae Lochend. This van’s fucked, oan its last fuckin legs. Thir’s that barry auld Slade song oan, ‘Mama Weer Aw Crazee Now’, n ah starts singing along tae it. — Slade’s fuckin barry, ah tells the wee cunt.

We pills up ootside the fuckin gaff. — Yir ma n dad’s?

— Aye.

— Nae cunt in?

— Naw . . . bit thill be back soon.

— Wi better fuckin nash then, c’moan.

So wi git inside n ah’m checkin oot the gear. Thir’s a barry telly, flat-screen job, n it’s goat a video, one ay they new types wi the compact disc, but wi fuckin pictures like, a fuckin VDU or whativir the fuck the cunts call it. Thir’s a new stereo n aw, one ay the yins wi the tons ay fuckin speakers. — Right, cunty baws, start fuckin well loadin up, ah tells the wee fucker.

The boy’s still shitein ehsel n ah’m watchin oot fir nosey cunts in the street. Any cunt blabs aboot this, n it’s doon tae him, eh kens that. Wi git intae the van n take the gear back tae Kate’s. The barry thing is thit thir’s a Rod Stewart CD wi aw the hits oan it. Ah fuckin poakited that right away.

Whin wi comes back, she’s ben the hoose wi the bairn. — Frank . . . the lock . . . she’s pointin doon at they screws, back oan the fuckin flair again. — Ah jist put ma key in n they fell right through . . . she sees the wee cunt, standin behind me. He’s shitein it again cause ay that fuckin lock, n eh fuckin well should be.

— Awright, ah goes, n wi head oot n come back in wi an end ay the telly each.

She’s goat the bairn up in her airms. — The lock . . . Frank, what’s gaun oan? What’s aw this? She’s lookin at the set.

— This wee mate ay mine here, ah tells her, explainin the story ah’d worked oot, oan the wey back in the motor. — Eh’s a right wee fuckin good Samaritan, eh, pal? Came intae some gear, so ah sais bring it doon here. It’s better thin your auld stuff.

— But the lock . . .

— Aye, ah’ve fuckin well telt ye aboot that but, Kate. Mind ah sais: that lock needs fixed. Ah’ll git ma mate Stevo oan tae it, he’s a locksmith, he’ll sort it aw oot. Look at this but! New fuckin DVD n aw! Huv tae trade in aw they auld videos now.

— It’s awfay nice, she sais. — Thanks, Frank . . .

— It’s no me thit ye should be thankin, it’s Philip here, eh, pal.

Kate looks at the shitein wee cunt. Eh’s goat some fuckin eye oan um now. — Thanks, Philip . . . but what happened to your face n aw that?

Ah cuts in. — It’s a long fuckin story, ah tells hur. — What it is, is thit Philip here owes ays a few favours, so whin eh goat a new stereo n telly fir ehs pad, eh phoned ays up n goes, you kin take the auld stuff if ye like. So ah fuckin well thinks, this is jist gaunnae be a load ay fuckin junk, ken, but the wee cunt sais it’s jist eighteen months auld!

— Ye sure, Philip? It looks awfay dear . . .

— Ye ken they young cunts, it’s goat tae be the fuckin fashion wi thum. That’s like the fuckin Stone Age tae they cunts! Aye, Philip thoat ay me first, but some other wide bastard thought he wis due it, tried tae pit the fuckin bite intae the wee cunt here. So, ah picks up the baseball bat, — wi went doon n hud a wee word wi the cunt, pit um right, eh, Philip?

The wee cunt gies a daft grin.

Kate’s gittin the telly plugged in n set up. — It’s a great picture! She’s like a fuckin wee lassie at Christmas. — Look at that, she sais tae the bairn, —
Bob the Builder
! Can we fix it! Yes we can!

— Nowt but the best, hen.

The wee cunt says fuck all, eh’s lucky tae be alive. Ah’m thinkin thit ah might huv uses fir a daft wee muppet like that. Ah takes um ootside. — Right, ye kin go now, but yuv tae meet ehs doon the Café del Sol bottom ay Leith Walk at eleven the morn’s mornin.

— What fir? Eh asks, looking aw feart again.

— A joab. Wee cunts like you git intae too much fuckin bother if they urnae workin. The devil makes fuckin work fir idle hands, eh. Mind, Leith, eleven o’clock. If ah’m late, ask fir Lexo. N keep oot ay bother, cause yir fuckin workin fir me now. Mind, the café the morn.

The wee radge’s stoaped shakin but eh still looks fuckin scoobied. — Dae ah git wages?

— Aye. Ye git tae stey alive. That’s yir fuckin wages, ah whisper tae um. — Tell ye what but, ah goes, seein that eh’s goat sovies oan jist aboot every finger, — nice rings but, mate. Take thum oaf.

— Aw, man, no muh sovies, please, man . . .

— Oaf, ah goes.

The wee cunt starts pillin at thum. — They willnae come oaf . . .

Ah pills oot ma blade. — Right, ah’ll git the cunts oaf fir ye, ah tells um.

Funny, but they came oaf awright eftir that.

The wee cunt hands thum ower, aw sad, n ah poakits thum, keepin one back n giein um it. — Ye did awright the day. Keep daein awright, ye git thaim back in payment. Git wide or fuck up, ye die. The café the morn, ah tell um, n go back in n shut the door.

Ah bell Stevo oan the mobby, tellin the cunt it’s an emergency.

Kate goes: — That stereo’s brilliant, Frank! Ah cannae believe it! It was so good ay the laddie.

— Aye, eh’s a good wee cunt. Eh’s gaunnae be workin wi me. Yuv goat tae watch oot fir wee cunts. If thuv no goat something tae dae, they git intae bother. Ah should ken, ah tell her.

— That’s good ay ye, helpin the wee boy oot. You’re a big softy really, aren’t ye?

Ah feel aw funny whin she says that, sortay nice, but at the same time ah’m thinkin, nae wonder that last boy she wis wi wis quick wi ehs hands if she talks like thon. It’s good thit she’s happy but. — It’s like that political cunt goes, yuv goat tae fuckin well help ivray other cunt if yuv goat a fuckin business. Ken whit ah mean? Fling yir jackit oan, lit’s go oot. A bevvy n ah Chinky but, eh.

— The bairn . . .

— Droap the fuckin bairn oaf it yir ma’s. C’moan, nash. Ah’ve been fuckin well graftin aw day. Bevvy n a fuckin Chinky then. Entitled tae a fuckin beer tae relax. You drop her at yir ma’s n ah’ll jist wait for Stevo tae come n fix the door. It’ll no take um any time at aw n if it does ah’ll leave um the spare keys n eh kin stick thum through the letter boax whin ehs done. Ah’ll meet ye at yir ma’s in a bit, eh.

Kate gits hersel made up n changed n loads the bairn back intae the pushchair.

Ah sticks the auld telly in the lobby n connects the boax tae the new yin tae watch that
Inside Scottish Fitba
oan Sky. Funny, the heidaches away n ah nivir even needed a fuckin ride.

28

Scam # 18,740

I
t’s very strange how things work out. Begbie, Spud and now Renton, all back in my life, all back on the main stage in the compelling drama that is Simon David Williamson. To call the first two pathetic losers is a chronic insult to that breed everywhere. Renton though: running a club in the Dam. I would never have thought that he had the staying power.

Of course, the thieving bastard is far from amused with me. I told him I wasn’t letting the onanistic fuck out of my sight until he came up with the cash, which is now in my wallet. We’re in a pavement café on Prinsengracht and he’s gently touching his swollen nose. — Ah can’t believe you punched me, he whines. — You always said that violence wis for losers.

I sit there and slowly shake my head at the cunt. I feel like punching him again. — I never had a friend rip off my money before, I tell him, — and I also don’t know how you have the audacity, the sheer fucking gall, to try and fucking well guilt-trip me. Not only did you fucking well rip me off, I spit in a low growl, and I feel the outrage grow as I slam the table, raising my voice and getting a funny look from two fat Americans next to us, — you fuckin compensated Spud! That junky cunt never even told me for fuckin years! Even then it only slipped out when he was fucked!