Porno (49 page)

— Naw, ah cannae drink, Frank, the doctor’s said, eh goes, ehs daft wee eyes aw that dippit sortay brainwashed wey they cunts go wi what they call the light ay they Lord in thum. Light ay the fuckin Lord ma erse.

Baws tae aw this shite. — What the fuck dae they cunts ken? They telt muh ma tae stoap smokin. She smokes sixty a day. Shi says tae ays, ‘What um ah gaunnae dae, Frank, ah need a fag fir ma nerves. It’s the only thing thit works, they pills ur nae good.’ Ah jist turns roond n sais tae hur, ‘If ye pack in the fags yi’ll ken aw aboot it.’ Shi’d go intae fuckin shock n that wid fuckin kill hur. Ah telt ur, ‘If it isnae fuckin broke, thir’s nae need tae fuckin well fix it.’ So ye kin manage one fuckin pint.

— Naw, ah cannae . . .

— Look, ah’m gittin ye a fuckin pint up n that’s aw thir is tae it, ah tells um n goes ower tae Charlie behind the bar, n gits up two pints ay lager. Cunt better fuckin drink it n aw; ah’m no wasting fuckin money oan bevvy fir nowt. As ah takes the pints back ah sees a cunt comin intae the bar, but it isnae fuckin Spud. Ah goes tae Second Prize tae rack up at the pool. — Right, prepare tae git fuckin slaughtered, ya cunt.

Ah’m thinkin aboot muh fuckin ma n how ah tried tae dae her a favour. No thit it makes a fuckin bit ay difference tae her. As long as she’s goat hur fuckin bingo. Ah’d shut they places doon if it wis up tae me; waste ay fuckin time n money. It’s no like the hoarses, it’s no as if thir’s any fuckin enjoyment in it.

Anywey, Second Prize’s gittin it now. Ah does um one game, n wi sterts another yin, n ah’m lookin at the door. Thir’s still nae sign ay Murphy. — Yuv no touched that pint, ya cunt, ah goes tae Secks.

— Aw, Franco . . . ah cannae, man . . .

— Cannae or willnae, ah goes, lookin right intae the cunt’s eyes. Then, for some reason, ah looks behind ays at the boy standin thaire at the bar, readin the racin section ay the
Record
. Something aboot him. Ah kent the cunt fae inside, or kent
ay
the cunt. Eh wis a fuckin beast. Ah kent aw ay they cunts, made it ma business tae mind faces. They’d aw try n hide fae me, cause they kent ah wanted tae look thum in the fuckin eye. What wis it thit eh’d done again? Was he the yin that took the bairn, or that raped the blind lassie, or goat a hud ay the wee boy? Cannae fuckin mind. Aw thit matters here is thit this fuckin thing, this thing here, is a fuckin beast. Ah see the cunt, sittin thaire, in the same pub as me n Second Prize, jist sitting thair at the fuckin bar wi the fuckin
Record
.

Charlie at the bar, servin that cunt ehs fuckin pint, like eh wis normal, n they auld cunts, sittin in the corner, lookin at me. Aw cheery smiles n that, but thir lookin at me in the same wey as they look at yon cunt. Aw they see is some bad cunt fae the fuckin jail. Well, ah’m no like yon cunt n ah nivir fuckin well will be. This cunt, drinkin thaire, jist as eh fuckin well pleases! Walkin the fuckin streets, hingin roond the schools, waitin fir wee bairns n follyin thum hame . . .

Aye, thaire it was, grazing at its fuckin watering hole,
ma
fuckin pub. A fuckin beast. Takin the fuckin pish! — Thir’s a fuckin beast through thaire, ah goes tae Second Prize whae’s rackin up, — a fuckin beast oan the loose, eh, ah tell um.

Second Prize’s looking at ays like eh isnae even gaunnae dae nowt. Aw that fuckin Christianity n forgiveness shite’s went n turned ehs heid. Every cunt’s fuckin well loast the fuckin plot back here. — Boy’s jist in fir a bevvy, Frank, leave um alaine, eh. C’moan, eh goes, splittin the pack, aw quick like eh kens ah’m gaunnae go up tae the cunt.

N ehs starin up at me n blinkin, like eh’s seen the look in ma eyes n eh lowers ehs heid n goes: — You’re stripes, Frank, but ah’m no really listenin cause ah’m still giein this cunt at the bar the eye.

— A beast, ah goes tae Secks, dragging out the ssss in beast, then ah goes tae take ma shot n ah gits this pain whin ah bend doon, whaire that June cunt chibbed ays. Ah grimace n fuckin well hammer a green stripe doon, imaginin thit it’s that beast cunt’s heid. Ah’m runnin oot ay fuckin patience here.

— Nice one, Franco, Second Prize says or somethin like that, but ah cannae hear the cunt cause ah’m lookin back up tae the fuckin bar.

— Could be oan the lookoot fir a bairn. Ma fuckin bairn mibee, eh, ah sais, n now ah’m movin up tae the bar.

Second Prize is gaun aw whingey n eh goes: — Franco . . . c’moan . . . n eh picks up the untouched pint n says: — Lit’s huv that drink, but it’s too late for that shite now, eh kens ah’m no listenin, n ah jist goes ower n moves up n ah’m standin right behind the nonce cunt.

— Six fuckin six fuckin six. The number ay the beast, ah whispers aw softly in the cunt’s ear.

The boy turns round sharply. Eh looks wide, like ehs heard aw this before. Then ah’m starin right intae um, like um pokin aroond in ehs soul, seein aw the fuckin fear now, but seein somethin mair, the rottenness in it, the fuckin dirty rank rottenness in this cunt, but it’s like eh kin see the same in me, like we’re fuckin sharin somethin. So ah’ve goat tae act, before the rest ay the cunts see it n aw, cause ah’m no the same as that, no fuckin wey.

What kin ah see in this cunt . . .

Naw . . . naw . . . stoap this noncey shite . . .

Naw . . . the cunt goes tae speak, n ah cannae lit um fuckin speak. Ah feel muh eyebrows raise a wee bit, jist as muh gless is risin up tae this beast’s . . . what’s it they call him? . . . this Chizzie cunt’s neck.

The cunt fuckin well yelps n huds ehs neck n the blood’s spurtin oot aw ower the bar. Must have goat a vein or an artery. Thing is, ah didnae even fuckin well mean tae dae that tae the cunt, it wis jist a fuckin lucky bonus. Lucky fir him, cause ah wanted it tae be slower. Wanted tae hear um fuckin squeal, n plead n beg, like they bairns eh beasted probably did. But the only screamin ah hear comes fae that daft cunt Second Prize as the beast’s blood pumps oot, n one ay the auld cunts goes: — Jesus Christ.

Ah spins aroond n tans Secs acroass the fuckin jaw tae stoap um wailin like a fuckin daft wee lassie. — Fuckin shut it, you!

Now the beast’s staggerin against the bar and fawin doon, its blood pumpin oot ower the lino flair. Second Prize is standin back by the jukeboax, recitin some daft fuckin prayer.

— Ootay order, Franco, Charlie goes, shakin ehs head, — beast or nae fuckin beast, this is ma pub.

Ah jist looks at the cunt, n points a finger. Second Prize is still sayin a fuckin prayer, the radge. — Listen, ah says tae Charlie n the two auld boys, — that cunt’s a beast. Could have been your bairn or mine next, ah goes, n the cunt kicks oot n dies n it feels aw sortay peaceful, n ah feel like ah’m a fuckin saint or somethin. — So, Charlie, ah goes, — gie ays ten minutes, then phone the polis. It wis two young cunts that topped the boy, ah tells every cunt. — Any cunt grasses . . . n grasses ower a beast, well, it’ll no jist be thaime thit gits it, it’ll be every cunt they fuckin well ken. Goat that?

Charlie goes: — Naebody’s grassin up nae cunt ower a fuckin beast, Franco. Aw ah’m sayin is thit ah’m tryin tae run a fuckin business. Mind, it’s only been five or six years since that Johnny Broughton shot that boy deid in this very fuckin bar. How does that look fir me?

— Ah fuckin ken that, Charlie, bit it cannae be fuckin well helped. Ah’ll see ye awright, ye ken that, ah sais, headin ower n boltin the front door shut. Dinnae want Spud or any other cunt walkin in here the now.

Ah gits a cloth fae behind the bar n wipes the edge ay the table n the cue n aw the baws. Ah empties oor pint glesses n washes thum. Ah turns back tae Second Prize. — Rab, we’re oot the back. C’moan. Mind, Charlie, ten minutes, then the phone call. We wirnae here, right?

Ah gaze roond at the two auld cunts. One’s Jimmy Doig, the other’s Dickie Stewart. They’ll no say nowt. N Charlie’s miffed aboot the fuckin mess wi the polis n that, but he’s nae grass. — Ah’d gie the place a good dustin, Charlie, ah goes, — ah mean, a beast’s been in here, eh. Dinnae ken what’s fuckin infected, ah says, turnin tae the auld boys. One ay them’s cool, the other cunt’s shakin. — Youse awright?

— Aye, Frank, aye, son, nae bother, the cool boy, Jimmy Doig says. Auld Dickie twitches a bit, but manages tae git oot: — Awright, Frank son.

Then we’re oot the back, oot through a wee yard gaun intae a side alley, makin sure thit nae cunts ur in the street or lookin oot fae the flats above.

Gittin oot, wi head up tae Spud’s n ah’m hopin thit that late cunt’ll still be in the hoose. Ah tells Second Prize tae fuck off back up the toon cause eh’s shakin like that Shakin Stevens, the boy thit fuckin did they bad Elvis impersonations oan
Top ay the Pops
.

Spud’s oan the stairs, oan ehs wey oot, aw worried whin eh sees ays. — Eh, Franco . . . sorry ah’m late, man, ah goat stuck oan the phone wi Ali . . . tryin tae sort things oot. Ah wis jist oan ma wey doon tae Nicol’s.

— Ah’ve no even been doon masel yit. Ah wis jist up the toon wi Second Prize, cunt didnae want tae come doon tae Leith, eh no, ah goes. — Says eh’d git involved wi the peeve again.

Eh jist looks at ays n says: — Aw. Then eh asks ays: — Ye wanted tae ken somethin . . . aboot June?

— Fuck it, it’s nowt, ah goes, then sais tae um: — Listen, ah cannae come wi ye doon tae Nicol’s. Ah’ve hud a bit ay an argument wi the bird n ah need tae go back n see hur, but ah’ve goat tae go roond ma brar Joe’s first.

— Right . . . eh, ah’m jist gaunnae go doon the Port Sunshine fir one then, see Ali n that.

— Aye, ah goes, — fuckin burds, eh? N ah leaves um at the boatum ay the stair n heads roond tae Joe’s, hopin thit that nosey hoor ay a wife ay his isnae in as a fuckin ambulance n two polis cars head screechin doon the fuckin Walk.

3

Exhibition

59

Whores of Amsterdam Pt 7

I
’m back in Amsterdam, but it doesnae feel like home any more. I’m wondering if that’s because I’m not with Dianne, or cause I am with that lying cunt Sick Boy. Either way, pull or push, the Dam’s not the refuge it once was.

I could hardly pull myself away from her to get on that plane with him. The way her love made me fearless; even my Begbie paranoia was waning dangerously. The cunt could have been stalking me with an axe during those leafy walks along the Colinton Dell, for all I knew or cared. When I first met her she was just a hip, precocious schoolie, which is a lot more than I was. I was just a wanker. Dianne now but, she’s a woman; cool and intelligent, not really the mad raver I thought she’d be, but smart, bookish and therefore sexier than ever.

Dianne.

I’m no daft enough to think that it’s fate or destiny. Looking back to then, if I’m being honest, I can’t distinguish her from any other lassies I went with. It’s the now I’m interested in. The way she puts her glasses down her nose and looks over them when I’ve said something she finds doubtful. The way I call her ‘owl eyes’ and she refers to me as ‘ginger nuts’ which really is a terrible sign. Even more frightening is the fact that I quite like it. Have we been together long enough for that kind of nonsensical intimacy? Evidently.

I love her, and I think she feels the same way about me, she says she does, and I think that she’s honest enough both to know her own heart and not to lie about things like that. You can’t lie to your soul.

I’ve left messages for Katrin, asking when would be the best time to pick up some stuff. She hasn’t replied. I see Martin and we go over to the flat in Brouwersgracht and I let myself in. We load up some of my personal stuff into his van, which I’ll store at the office. The rest she can keep. As the last box is loaded up I feel great, like I’ve got away with everything.

Sick Boy, whom I left in the hotel, has been harassing me on the mobile. We get to Miz’s editing suite and he’s already sitting there going through the rushes with a techy guy called Jack, who’s a mate of Miz’s. Sick Boy is using Miz’s facilities, yet being completely offhand and unpleasant to the guy. It’s embarrassing. In order to salvage the situation, I take Miz out for some lunch. Sick Boy seems happy at that, yet when he arrives at an appointed Brown Bar later, his face is still tripping him.

Miz has been nothing but enthusiastic about the film and is going on about how we should give a copy to his friend Lars Lavish, the top gonzo porn operator. — Lars will be at the Cannes Adult Film Festival, he sings, — we will get together with him.

When I collar Simon at the bar, I ask him: — What have you got against Miz? Would you rather edit the video in Niddrie? Cause that’s where we’ll be if you don’t sort your fuckin attitude oot.

— That sleazebag makes my flesh creep, he snorts. — No way is he connected with a main player like Lars Lavish . . .

— He’s not bullshitting. He can help us get exhibited at top porn festivals, like Cannes.

— Aye, right, Sick Boy says under his breath. — I don’t need his help to get my movie exhibited anywhere. And if he thinks he’s swanning around on the Bananazzurri ticket he can wank right off now. Aye, we need the cunt at the moment, but that Dutch prick annoys me and his ching isn’t very good. With my luck I’d be the first cunt to get done for smuggling a bit of percy
into
Amsterdam.