Porno (47 page)

When the totally normal seems so strange, you know you’ve led a fucked-up life. I’m in Princes Street Gardens with my sister-in-law Sharon and my niece Marina, whom I’ve never met before. It’s the first time I’ve seen Sharon in years. I think the last time was when I shagged her at my brother’s funeral, in the toilet, when she was pregnant with Marina.

Not only can I not emotionally connect with the person I was then, I can’t even envisage what such a person might be like. Maybe I’m kidding myself of course, you can never be sure, but that’s the way it feels. Would I have still been that person if I had stayed here? Probably not.

Sharon’s gone fat. Her body’s been hardened by layers of it. The old Sharon, big-titted, voluptuous, is now wrapped in several rolls of fleshy carpet. I don’t think about how I must look to her, that’s her problem, I’m just being honest at my negative reaction. Once we talk I feel guilty about this skin-deep revulsion. She’s a nice woman. We’re sitting on the piazza having a coffee, Marina is on the merry-go-round, waving at us from a sinister-faced horse.

— Sorry tae hear it didnae work oot wi you and the boy ye were wi, I tell her.

— Naw, we split up last year, she says, lighting up a Regal, offering me one, which I decline. — He wanted kids. Ah didnae want another bairn, she explains before adding: — But, I suppose there wis mair tae it than that.

I sit there nodding slowly, feeling that disconcerted and uncomfortable way in that intimacy fest when people tell you everything about themselves straight away. — It happens, I shrug.

— What about you, ye wi anybody?

— Well, it’s a bit complicated . . . I ran into somebody the other week, I explain, feeling a strange light come on in my face and a smile form on my lips when I think about her, — somebody I used to know back here. And there’s somebody over in Holland, but it’s a bit rocky right now. Well, no, it’s finished.

— Same old Mark, eh?

I was always more into relationships than one-night stands, without particularly excelling at either. But when you meet somebody, no matter how many times you’ve fucked up in the past, you always think . . . yes. We’re too full of hope to even consider expectation. — Listen . . . I reach into my bag and hand over the envelope, — that’s for you and Marina.

— I dinnae want that, she says pushing it away.

— Ye dinnae ken what’s in it.

— I can guess. It’s money, isn’t it?

— Aye. Take it.

— Nup.

I look at her as searchingly as I can. — Listen, I know what everybody says about me in Leith.

— Naebody talks aboot ye, she says in a way which is supposed to be comforting but is actually a bit fucking deflating tae the ego. They surely must . . .

— It’s no drugs money. I promise you that. It’s from my club, I explain, fighting the urge to wince at the irony of my statement. Everybody in the world who runs a dance-music club owes their money, albeit indirectly, to drugs. — I don’t need it. I want tae dae something . . . for my niece. Please, I beg, then elaborate in discomfort. — My brother and me, we were like chalk and cheese. Both radges, but in different ways. Sharon smiles in response and I reciprocate in a strange affection, as I recall my brother Billy’s face, see him sticking up for me, suddenly wishing I’d been easier on him now. Less bellicose, dogmatic and all that. But it’s shite. You were what you were and are what you are. Fuck that regrets bullshit. — Funny, what I miss about him, it’s not how we were, it’s the possibility of us getting on better. I’ve changed in so many ways. I think he might have too.

— Maybe, she says, doubtful and cagey, and I don’t know whether she means him, or me or both of us. She looks at the envelope, feels it. — There must be hundreds in here.

— Eight grand, I tell her.

Her eyes almost pop out off her head. — Eight thousand pounds! Mark! She lowers her voice and looks around like we’re in a spy film. — Ye cannae walk aboot wi aw this money! Ye could git mugged or anything . . .

— Better git it tae the bank then. Look, ah’m no leavin wi it, so it stays oan that table thaire if you dinnae pick it up. She goes to say something but I talk over her. — Look, ah widnae dae it if ah couldnae afford it. Ah’m no that much ay a mug.

Sharon puts it into her bag and squeezes my hand as tears glisten in her eyes. — Ah dinnae ken what tae say . . .

This is ma cue tae get away. I tell her I’ll take Marina to see
Toy Story
, while she sorts things out at the bank and has a look around the shops. As I’m walking, hand in hand with the kid, I’m wondering what Begbie would do if he ran into me now. Surely he wouldn’t . . . I get all para that he’ll hassle the bairn or Sharon so we pile into a taxi down to the Dominion, because I can’t really see Franco in Morningside. When the film finishes I drop Marina off back at Sharon’s.

Later on, I’m heading up George IV Bridge and I spy another familiar face, but it can’t be, not coming out the library! I go up behind him and finger his collar like I’m polis. He nearly jumps out of his skin, before turning around and his hostile gaze alters into a beaming smile.

— Mark . . . Mark, man . . . how ye daein?

We retire to a nearby bar for a drink. Ironically, it’s called Scruffy Murphy’s, an old nickname everybody teased Spud with. I can’t remember what it used to be. As I set up two Guinnesses, it’s hard not to think that Spud looks as big a mess as ever. We sit down and he’s telling me about this Leith history project he’s working on, which just blows me away. Not because it sounds interesting, though it does, it’s more the concept of Spud being into something like that. But he talks about it with great enthusiasm before we get round to going over old times. — How’s Swaney? He cannae still be kicking aboot surely, I ask of an old pal.

— Thailand, Spud says.

— You’re jokin, I reply, once again flabbergasted. Swaney always fantasised about going out there, but I can’t comprehend that he actually did.

— Aye, the cat made it, Spud nods, the extent of the unlikelihood seeming to hit him as well. — On one leg n aw.

We talk about Johnny Swan for a bit, but there’s one thing I really want to know, and I ask as casually as I can. — Tell me, Spud, is Begbie out of prison?

— Aye, he’s been oot for yonks, Spud informs me as I experience a sinking sensation. There’s a numbness in my face and a ringing in my ears. It becomes hard to focus on his words and my head starts to spin. — Since eftir New Year. The cat wis roond at mines the other day, likes. The boy’s radger than ever, he says seriously. — Keep away fae um, Mark, eh disnae ken aboot the money . . .

I reply in a deadpan manner: — What money was that?

Spud beams back a big, warm open smile and he throws his arms round me in an excess of enthusiasm. For a skinny guy his embrace has some strength. When he breaks off, his eyes are watering. — Thanks, Mark, he says.

— Don’t know what you’re talking about, I shrug, maintaining the silence. What you don’t know, they can’t beat out you. I don’t even ask about the state of his or Ali or the kid’s immune systems. Sick Boy is a compulsive liar and he’s a lot less good at it or entertaining with it than he used to be. I glance at the pub clock. — . . . Listen, mate, I have to go. I’m meeting my girlfriend.

Spud looks a bit sad about this and then seems to consider something. — Look, catboy, kin ye, eh, dae ays a favour?

— Aye, sure, I reluctantly nod, trying to guess how much he’ll hit me for.

— Well, Ali n me . . . we’re, eh, gittin rid ay the flat. Ah’m steyin at muh mate’s for a bit, but eh cannae take the cat. Could you take it for a while?

I’m thinking about what cat he means, then it dawns on me he’s talking about a real one. I heartily detest the creatures. — Sorry, mate . . . ah’m no a cat person . . . n it’s Gav’s place I’m in.

— Aw . . . eh sais, n eh looks that fuckin pathetic that I have tae try n do something, so I phone Dianne and ask her how she fancies looking after a cat for a bit. Dianne’s cool about it and tells me that Nikki and Lauren were talking about getting a cat so it would be a good trial for them, see if it actually worked out. She tells me that she’ll speak to them, which she does, then she calls back immediately. — The cat’s got a new temporary home, she says.

Spud’s delighted with the news and we arrange for a time to bring the creature up to Tollcross. As I leave Spud to head in that direction, I’m feeling an ugly rage through my numbness, eating at the core of me. I compose myself and call my business partner on his mobile. — Simon, how goes?

— Where are you?

— Never mind that. Are you sure that Begbie’s still in the jail? Somebody told me he was out.

— Whae telt ye that?

Pretentious Sick Boy’s slip back intae broad Scottish is very unconvincing. — Never you mind.

— Well, it’s nonsense. He’s still banged up as far as I know.

Lying cunt. I switch off the phone, heading down the Grassmarket and up the West Port towards Tollcross, fevered thoughts flying through my head, horrible emotions gnawing at my gut.

56

‘. . . with him draped over my
shoulders . . .’

I
seem to have bonded with Zappa, the cat we’re looking after. I’ve started cat-flexing with him after seeing it done on Channel Four the other week. I raise him thirty times to position one, with him draped over my shoulders and me rising from a squatting position. I move on to position two, supporting him in the stomach with the palm of one hand, holding his chest with the other, for thirty repetitions each side.

Lauren comes in looking quite surprised: — Nikki, what are you doing to that poor cat?

— Cat-flexing, I explain, now worried that she’ll think I’m into bestiality as well. — When you lead a busy life, pets tend to get neglected, so it’s a way of keeping fit and socialising with your cat. It gives you exercise plus the tactile, bonding thing. You should try it, I say, laying him down.

Lauren shakes her head doubtfully, but I’m in a hurry to leave as we’re doing the last porno scene with Terry and Mel, featuring Curtis as proxy shag. I head down to Leith and meet them at Simon’s flat.

Curtis has a simpleton’s smile on his face. The boy is coachable, in terms of shagging. He follows myself and Melanie like a sick puppy begging for food, or in this case pussy. No, that’s not fair. This boy’s looking for more. He wants love, belonging, acceptance. In fact, in his obvious, naked sincere way, he reminds us all of our own need. He genuinely wants us to like him. To love him even. For our part, we tease him, sometimes stopping just short of cruelty.

Why? Is it revelling in our power, or is it because, as Lauren might contend, we hate what we’re doing?

No, it’s as I said earlier, he’s simply an undignified version of the rest of us: a sad quester who hasn’t found what they’re looking for. But in his case, the little bastard has time. Maybe that affects our behaviour, our actions towards him. I fancy I can still feel it between my legs when he was inside me. I’ve got a small, tight fanny and I never thought I’d be able to take
that
. You can surprise yourself though.

— Do you like that? I ask, pushing my neck into his face.

— Aye, it smells barry, like.

— I’d like to teach you about perfumes, Curtis, teach you about so many things. Then when I’m old and wizened and you’re still a good-looking young man breaking in virgins all over town, girls half your age, as all ageing men of substance must go for, you won’t hate me. You’ll remember me with a kind heart and treat me like a human being.

Mel smiles as she sips a glass of red wine, perhaps unaware of just how serious I’m being.

Curtis, for his part, is horrified at the notion. — Ah’ll nivir be bad tae you! he almost squeaks.

Those young boys, so sweet and tender-hearted, how they grow into monsters. Yet they often seem to get better again as they get older; kind and gentle once more. Nobody told Sick Boy Simon that though. Curtis is as much his star pupil as he is mine. And I don’t like the lessons he’s giving him.

Rab and the crew come down and set up the cameras. But Curtis was sweet. He didn’t want to sodomise Mel. — It’s dirty, ah dinnae want tae dae that.

— Well done, Curtis, I say, while Mel stresses: — It doesnae bother me, Curtis.

Simon suddenly says: — Okay, let’s just leave it for now, he looks at his watch. — C’mon, we’re going to the pictures! I wonder what he’s playing at as Rab starts moaning, but Simon gets us out and into a cab, up to the Filmhouse where they’re showing a series of Scorsese films. It’s De Niro in
Raging Bull
.

In the bar, after the showing, Curtis turns to Simon, enthralled. — That wis brilliant!

Simon’s about to say something when I cut in. — There’s like a reason? You took us up here? I ask him.

Now Simon ignores me and says to Curtis: — You’re an actor, Curt. De Niro’s an actor. Did he want to put on loads of weight and walk around like a blob? Did he want to get battered around the ring? He glances at me. — No pun intended. No. He did it because he’s an actor. Did he turn roond tae Scorsese on set and go, ‘that’s dirty’ or ‘that’s sair’ or ‘that feels a bit cold, remote and exploitative’? No. Because he is an
actor
, he emphasises, stating: — I’m no getting at you, Mel, you’re no prima donna.

I can now see that this is as much for my benefit as it is for Curt’s. His manipulation sticks out like Terry’s hard-on. — We’re
not
actors, we’re pornography performers, I tell him. — We need to set our own . . .

— No. That’s middle-class bullshit. They’re the only ones who haven’t wakened up to the fact that porn is mainstream now. Virgin sells porn movies. Greg Dark directs Britney Spears videos. Grot mags and men’s mags and women’s mags are the same. Even repressed, censored British TV teases us with the hint of it. Young people as consumers don’t make the distinction now between porn or adult entertainment and mainstream entertainment. In the very same way they don’t between alcohol and other drugs. If you get a buzz off it, yes, if you dinnae, no. It’s as simple as that.