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Whin we finally finish ah whispers tae um,: — N dinnae grass Sean up at that fuckin school, either, tae yon Miss Blake, or whatever ye call the cunt, right. Tell thum ye fell, mind.

— Okay, Dad.

— Nivir mind okay, jist make sure ye mind what ah sais.

Ah tell um tae wait here while ah go tae the bog fir a fag. Cannae even git a fuckin smoke anywhere nowadays.

It takes ays fuckin ages tae find the cunts, ah end up huvin tae climb a whole fuckin flight ay stairs. Whin ah gits thaire ah’m needin a fuckin shite n aw. Ah’m sure that fuckin ching ah hud wis cut wi fuckin laxative. Aye, some cunt’s gaunnae git thir fuckin jaw rapped. Ah gits intae one booth n whips doon ma keks before ah realises thit thir’s nae paper in this bog. Supposed tae fuckin keep thum clean, n thir fuckin hoatbeds ay infection. Nae wonder every cunt oan the NHS is droapin like fuckin flies. Lucky thir’s some other cunt daein a shite in the next fuckin trap. — Hi, mate, ah rap oan the aluminium waw, — thir’s nae fuckin bog paper in this trap. Gaunnae fuckin well slide ays some under?

Thir’s a silence fir a bit.

— Git a fuckin move oan, ah shouts.

Some paper comes slidin under the door. Boot fuckin time n aw.

— Awright, ah goes, n starts wipin ma erse.

— No bother, the guys sais, a sortay posh cunt. Probably one ay they doaktirs thit’s pokin aroond every cunt, aw fill ay thirsels. Ah hear one door go n then the other. Dirty cunt didnae even wash ehs fuckin hands. Fuckin hoaspital n aw!

Lucky fir him the clarty bastard wisnae thaire whin ah came oot. N ah gies ma hands a good scrub cause ah’m no a filthy cunt like some. See, if it wis that cunt thit pit ma bairn’s stitches in wi manky hands . . .

50

‘. . . a fish casserole . . .’

T
hat Mark is a funny guy. I’m wondering if we embarrassed him with our tit-flashing at poor Terry. We waited for him outside the toilets, but he just vanished without coming for a drink or even saying goodbye. — Mibee eh shat ehsel, Mel laughed, — hud tae go hame tae change!

So we had a couple and I went home and waited for my Glasgow caller, and cooked a fish casserole while talking to Dianne. She’s been interviewing the girls from the sauna, Jayne, Freida and Natalie.

Dianne is happy with the way things are going. — I really appreciate you putting me in contact with those girls, Nikki. I’ve now got enough for a statistically valid group, which gives my tests some kind of scientific credibility.

She’s a sharp girl and she’s got the work ethic big time. Sometimes I envy her. — You’ll rule the world, honey, I tell her. I head to the kitchen and fill up a watering can and put on a Polly Harvey tape. I start watering the plants, one or two of which look a bit neglected.

I can hear my mobile ringing in the front room and I shout for Dianne to pick it up. She seems to be listening to someone for a while before going: — I’m sorry, I think you’ve got the wrong person. I’m Dianne, Nikki’s flatmate.

She passes the phone over and it’s Alan. He was so pleading and desperate he couldn’t even tell an English and an Edinburgh accent apart. I think about him, working up there in that bank, waiting for the gold watch.

— Nikki . . . I want to see you again . . . we need to talk, he whines, as I make my way to my room. Poor Alan. The wisdom of youth married to the dynamic energy of old age. A banking combination, but not a bankable one. Not for him, anyway.

They always need to talk.

— Nikki? he pleads painfully.

— Alan, I tell him, indicating that, yes, I’m still here, but probably not for much longer unless he stops wasting my time.

— I’ve been thinking . . . he says urgently.

— About me? About us?

— Yes, of course. About what you said . . .

I can’t remember what I said. What stupid extravagant promises I made to him. I want what he has and I want it now. — Listen, what are you wearing, boxer shorts or Y-fronts?

— What dae ye mean? he whinges. — What sort of a question is that? I’m at work!

— Don’t you wear underpants at work?

— Yes, but . . .

— Do you want to know what I’ve got on?

There’s a pause over the phone, followed by a long — Whaa . . .

I can almost feel his hot breath in my ear, the poor darling. Men, they’re such . . . dogs. That’s the word. They call us dogs, or bitches, but it’s projection, because they know that’s exactly what they are, that’s their nature: salivating, excitable, undignified pack beasts. No wonder dogs are called man’s best friend. — It’s not sexy lingerie, it’s faded, washed cotton smalls with a couple of holes in them and frayed elastic. The reason for that is that I’m a student who’s skint. I’m skint because you won’t give a simple printout with the names of your branch account holders with their numbers. I don’t have their pin numbers, I’m not going to rip them off. I just want it to flog to this marketing company. They pay me fifty pence a name. That’s five hundred quid for a thousand names.

— We’ve got over three thousand customers at our branch . . .

— Honey, that’s fifteen hundred quid, all my debts paid off. And I’d be so keen to reward such enterprise.

— But if I get caught . . . he lets out a slow exhalation of breath. Alan’s constant state of misery debunks the notion that ignorance is bliss.

— Sweetheart, you won’t, I tell him, — you’re far too resourceful.

— I’ll meet you tomorrow at six. I’ll have the lists.

— You’re an angel. I must go, I’ve a casserole in the oven. Till tomorrow, sweetheart!

I put the phone down and head through to the kitchen and over to the cooker. Dianne looks up at from her pile of books on the table. — Men problems?

— They’re no problem, the poor little darlings, I say grandly, — just no problem at all, I thrust my hips out at her and clasp my groin. — Pussy power conquers all.

— Yeah, Dianne says, drumming her teeth with her pen. — That’s been the saddest thing I’ve found with my researches. All those girls I’ve spoken to, they’ve got all that power, all that tits, arse and fanny power, and they sell it too cheaply. They practically give it away for nothing. That’s the fucking tragedy, girl, she says, almost as a warning.

The land phone rings on the answer machine and it takes a while to register who the voice belongs to. — Hi, Nikki, I got your number from Rab. Wanted to apologise for that vanishing act yesterday. It’s eh, a bit embarrassing . . . Then I realise that it’s Mark Renton and I pick it up.

— Oh, Mark, don’t worry about that, angel, I stifle a laugh as Dianne looks quizzically at me, — we kind of guessed as much. You did mention curry? So what are you up to?

— Right now? Nothing. The guy I’m staying with’s out with his girlfriend, so I’m sitting in watching telly.

— All on your lonesome?

— Aye. What are you up to? Fancy a drink?

I’m not sure if I do, and I’m not sure if I fancy Mark. — Oh, I’m not in a pub mood, but come round for a glass of wine and a smoke of grass, if you like, I tell him. No, he’s not my type, but he knows a lot about Simon, who certainly is my type.

So Mark appears about an hour later, and I’m surprised, though not shocked, to find that he and Dianne know each other from way back. Edinburgh can be like that, the biggest village in Scotland. So we all sit up spliffing for a bit, me trying to steer the subject to Simon, but it becomes evident that Mark and Dianne are engrossed in each other. I feel totally redundant. He eventually suggests going down to Bennett’s or the IB.

— Yeah, cool, Dianne says. This is strange; she never leaves her work like that and she’d planned another session on her dissertation tonight.

— I can’t be bothered going out, I tell them. — I thought you were busy with your work, I laugh.

— It’s not urgent, Dianne smiles through clenched teeth. As Mark heads through to take a quick piss, I make a face at her.

— What? she asks, with a faint smile.

I cross my arms in a shagging gesture. She rolls her eyes lackadaisically back, although there’s a simper playing round her lips. He comes back and they depart.

51

Scam # 18,748

R
enton still won’t come anywhere near the fair port of Leith. I can’t say I blame him. He won’t even tell me where he’s staying although I know that his ma and dad are now out of town somewhere.

Nikki tells me that the sparks fair flew in the flat between Rents and her flatmate Dianne. Apparently he was supposed to have rode her back in the day. I don’t mind of her and it’s no as if Renton’s ex-shags constitute a January-Sales-on-Princes-Street sea of faces. Mind you, he always did try to keep his birds away from me, presumably in case I stole them. Renton was always inclined to be surprisingly intense in relationships, even a lovesick fool at times. But what sort of woman must she be, going out with a ging-ger?

Skreel set me up with another bird called Tina, who was less trouble than the first one and who gave me the season-ticket holders’ list no bother. She told me that she was a secret Celtic supporter. That’s what happens when you start an equal opportunities policy in employment.

I’m in the pub and totally chuffed, despite eyeing the group of young neds who’re still hanging about by the jukebox. That Philip boy’s been giving it a lot of lip, I’ve seen him talking to Begbie a few times. He obviously thinks he’s the main man, but at least there’s a bit more respect for me in his tone of voice as he knows that Franco and me are connected, of sorts.

Now this Philip’s orchestrating a wind-up against his tall, gangly sidekick, the dippit Curtis with the speech impediment who always seems to be the butt of their jokes. They’re showing off in front of the wee burds that they’re with, but it’s pretty witless fare really. — Eh’s a fuckin poof, the guy says and another cretin’s shoulders shake like he’s got some nervous disease. Surely we weren’t so fucking drab and uninspired at that age?

— Ah’m no! Ah’m n-n-no a p-p-poof! the poor Curtis boy howls and heads out to the toilet.

Philip sees me looking over, and he turns to the wee lassies, then back at me. — Eh might no be a poof, but eh’s a virgin. Eh’s no hud ehs hole. You should gie um it, Candice, he says to this glaikit wee tart.

— Fuck off, she says, looking at me all embarrassed.

— Ah, virginity, I smile, — don’t knock it. Most of the real problems in life come after we’ve lost it, I tell them, but even the blandest throwaway lines are wasted on this crew.

I go to the bog for a slash and that Curtis laddie’s in there, and yes, he is a wee bit slow. In fact, his very presence on this planet gives lie to the anarchist notion that there are no good laws; our incest legislation, for example, exists to prevent more people like him lurching around. He’s a tea leaf and he’s a bit pally with Spud, which isn’t hard to believe. A Begbie apprentice and a Spud apprentice in the same posse, incubating under my fucking roof. That bad bastard Philip and his other mates torment this Curtis all the time it seems. Like I used to with Spud at school and down the river and the Links and the railway line. Funny, the thought makes me feel almost guilty now. The boy’s daein a pish next to me, and he turns at me with an idiot’s smile, looking all nervous and shy. I inadvertently lower my glance and I see it.

It.

It is the biggest prick ever; the cock, not the sad wee thing attached to it.

I finish my urination, and I contemplate my own penis, shaking it out and putting it back and zipping up. I can’t bear to watch him do the same. This imbecile has a bigger fucking knob than me; a bigger fuckin knob than anybody. What a waste. Then, as I head over to the sink, I casually ask: — How’s things then, mate; Curtis, is it no?

The boy turns and faces me with a nervy glance. He comes over to the sink next to mine, full of dread. — Aye . . . he replies. — No b-b-b-b-bad. His eyes are watering and blinking and his breath is terrible, like he’s been sucking his own unwashed cock – which for him would be entirely possible, even with a bad back – filling his gut with a spunk turned rancid by cheap drink and bad drugs. He’s like one of those chemical bogs at a rave or a concert that badly needs cleaned out. But I’m thinking about this young gadge’s asset. — You’re a pal ay Spud’s, eh, I state, then without waiting for a reply add, — Spud’s a good mate ay mine. Old boyhood chums.

This Curtis boy’s lookin at me to see if I’m winding him up. Not that he’d know if I was though. Then he says: — Ah l-l-like Spud, then adds bitterly, — he’s the only one that disnae try n take the p-p-pish . . .

— An excellent guy . . . I nod, and I’m thinking about the boy’s stutter n that line in that old anti-war song: ‘
The average age of the American combat soldier was ni-ni-nineteen
.’

— He kens thit ye kin git shy sometimes, the wee-big man skulks.

A mate of Spud’s. God, ah kin jist imagine the conversation wi they two. ‘Ah git pure shy sometimes.’ ‘Aye, me n aw.’ ‘Dinnae worry aboot it, huv some jellies.’ ‘Aye, barry.’

I’m taking my time, nodding sympathetically while washing my hands and Christ, this minging bog needs properly cleaned right enough. Do we or do we not pay our cleaners to clean? No, life would be too straightforward, too fucking un-Scottish, if people did the jobs they were meant to do. Shy boy here, what was he meant to do? — Nowt wrong wi being shy, mate. Everybody was once, I lie. I stick my hands under the dryer. — Let me get you a drink, I smile, thrashing off the excess water.

The boy looks less than smitten by my offer. — Ah’m no steyin in here, he says pointing angrily outside, — no wi thaime takin the p-p-pish!

— Tell you what, mate, I’m going down to the Caley for a beer. I need a break. Come and join me.

— Awright, he says, and we sneak out the side door and into the street. It’s fuckin cauld here, and there’s spits of sleet coming down. Meant to be fucking spring! The wee guy is, as they say, all prick and ribs, it’s like every morsel of nutrition that goes into his body is swallowed up by that cock. If he was with a bird he’d probably come so much that he’d badly dehydrate himself and be in intensive care for weeks. That big Adam’s apple bulging away, that sallow, spotty skin . . . he’s certainly no movie star. But, in the world of porn, if he can find wid on demand . . .