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Nikki smiles, squeezes Terry’s love handles and says: — Knowing you, Terry, you’d want to do a lot more? Than just worship?

— Too right. And on that subject, what aboot a stag night? Ah wis at the hoaspital and ah goat the complete discharge.

— In your keks? I ask. — Must have been ward 45, the clap clinic.

— So ah’m ready, willing and able, he says, ignoring me again.

— Well, Terry, we’ve got a wee problem. I explain about the
News
and how I want to keep a low profile until the movie comes out.

— Huv tae be ma flat then, ah suppose. Still, lit’s drink tae Cannes. That’ll be a cracker! Pleased for yis, he smiles in a way that chills me. Then he puts an arm on my shoulder. — Sorry ah took the strop earlier, mate. Jist a bit jealous. Still, ye cannae grudge an old buddy success.

— Couldnae have done it withoot you, Tel, I say, quite gobsmacked by his magnanimity. — Good of you to be so Graceful in Gracemount about the whole deal. It’s purely down to money, mate. It costs a fortune to take somebody to Cannes, even for a few days. I’ll see you right when the cash comes in but.

— Nae bother. Ah’ve goat one or two wee things ah need tae dae roond yon time anywey. Rab’s no bothered either. Talked tae um the other day. Too busy wi the bairn n ehs college n that, eh.

— How is Roberto? I ask.

— Seems fine. Couldnae be daein wi a life ay borin domesticity masel but, he waxes. — Tried it once. Nah, it wisnae fir me.

— Me neither, I concede, — I’m temperamentally unsuited for the long haul. Responsibility I can handle, in fact I thrive on it in sustained bursts, but no for the long haul.

— He’s conned us all from time to time, Nikki rumbles contentedly, the drink going to her head, along with the fucking dope she’s smoked all day long. A stoner, and she wonders how she never made it as a gymnast! — And we love him for it still.

— Well, sometimes, Terry says.

— Yes. Why is he like that? Why is he so manipulative? I think it’s growing up in a household full of doting women. Yes, it’s the Italian thing. He can bring out a dormant maternal instinct in women, she says loudly.

Nikki is starting to grate. There’s no two ways about it. I don’t know, this tendency to psychoanalyse wears thin after a while. My ex-wife did all that, and for a time, I used to like it. It made me feel as if she cared. Then I realised that it was just something she did to everybody, a habit. After all, she was a Hampstead Jewess whose family worked in the media, so what could you expect? So eventually it vexed me.

And now Nikki rankles too. Now I’m starting to find reasons not to be with her. I know the danger signs; when I start to look at uglier, less poised, less graceful, less intelligent birds, but with a massive horn. I’m realising that it’s only a matter of time before I jettison Nikki for somebody I’ll hate in five minutes. And she’s not as good a fuck as she thinks, with all that gymnastics shit. She’s a lazy cow, for one thing. Always fast asleep, lying in all day, a typical fucking student, while I’m up with the lark. Never was one for sleeping: two or three hours a night does me fine. I’m sick of waking up in the night with a hard-on and having to poke a warm sack of spuds.

But she looks so beautiful; why is it that I’d rather do almost anything right now than take her home and fuck her? It’s only been a few months. Have I had my fill of her already? Is my threshold really that low? Surely not. If that’s the case I’m fucking well doomed.

We go back to hers and she has me looking at some pictures in one of those near wankboy men’s mags, the ones that have become indistinguishable from the top shelvers. This other ex-gymnast chick, that Carolyn Pavitt, she’s on the cover. The one that Nikki knew, the one that she’s obsessed with.

— She’s ugly, I dismissively remark. — It’s just cause she was in the Olympics and she’s on the telly that a lot of guys want to ride her. A trophy fuck, that’s all.

— You’d fuck her though. If she walked through that door now? You’d ignore me and be all over her, she says, with real bile in her voice.

I can’t handle this bullshit. She’s fucking jealous, accusing me of having designs on somebody I can’t remember consciously seeing a fucking image of until she stuck it in my face a few seconds ago. I get up and make to leave. — Get control, I muse as I depart. She slams the door shut behind me and I can hear a quite impressive string of curses from the other side of it.

69

POLIS

Ah’m awake in bed n her heid’s oan ma airm n it’s jist a fuckin dream, bit that fuckin bangin’s still gaun oan, n aye, it’s a knockin oan the door, n she’s wakin up n ah goes: — Goan git that . . .

N she gits up, aw sleepy likes, bit whin she comes back she’s aw fuckin alert n worried n she goes in a fuckin whisper: — Frank, it’s the polis, fir you.

THE FUCKIN POLIS . . .

Some cunt’s fuckin blabbed aboot the beast . . . Murphy . . . mibee that cunt died in the hoaspital or that fuckin Alison grassed ays up . . . Second fuckin Prize . . . they auld cunts . . .

— Right . . . ah’m jist gittin ready, you stall the cunts, ah tell ur, n she goes back oot.

Ah pills oan ma clathes as quick as ah kin. Aye, that cunt Second Prize’s gabbed aboot the beast! Thou shalt not fuckin kill or some shite . . . or Murphy . . . he seemed tae fuckin ken the loat . . .

CUNT . . . CUNT . . . CUNT . . . CUNT . . .

Ah looks at the droap fae the windae, ah could git doon that drainpipe intae the back n through another stair. Bit thir might be mair ay thum in the van ootside . . . naw, if ah dae a runner ah’ll be fucked . . . could still brass it oot . . . git Donaldson the fuckin lawyer . . . whaire’s that fuckin mobby? . . .

Ah reaches intae muh jaykit poakit . . . the mobby’s deid, ah nivir fuckin charged the cunt up . . . fuck . . .

Thir’s a tap oan the door. — Mr Begbie?

It’s the fuckin polis awright. — Aye, hud oan the now.

If they cunts say anything, ah’m sayin nowt, ah’m right oan the fuckin phone tae Donaldson. Ah take a deep breath and walk oot. Thir’s two coppers: a guy wi ears thit stick oot under the hat, n a lassie. — Mr Begbie, the lassie goes.

— Aye.

— We’re here about an incident in Lorne Street earlier this week.

Ah’m thinkin: Chizzie wisnae near Lorne Street . . .

— Your ex-wife, Ms June Taylor, made a complaint against you. You are aware that there is an interim restraining order which has been served on you until this can be dealt with in court, the polisman burd goes, aw fuckin snooty.

— Eh . . . aye . . .

Ah look at this bit ay paper she hands ays. — This is a copy of the conditions of that order. You should have been issued with one. To remind you of its contents, this polis burd now sort ay sings, — you are expressly forbidden to make any contact with Ms Taylor.

The other cop butts in. — Ms Taylor claims that you approached her in Leith Walk, shouted at her and pursued her down Lorne Street.

THANK FUCK!

It wis jist that cunt June! Ah’m fuckin that relieved here, ah jist starts laughin, n thir lookin at ays like ah’m a fuckin dipstick, then ah says: — Aye . . . sorry, officer. Ah jist ran intae her in the street n ah wanted tae apologise fir the wey ah behaved tae hur, tell hur it wis aw a misunderstandin, eh. Ah goat the wrong end ay the stick, that’s how ah acted over the top. Mind you, ah sais, liftin up muh shirt n showin the wound, — she chibbed me wi a knife, n she’s goat the fuckin cheek tae complain.

Kate’s noddin away n she goes: — That’s right! She stabbed Frank. Look at that!

— Ah nivir complained but, ah shrugs, — for the sake ay the bairns, ken.

The lassie polisman goes: — Well, if you wish to complain about your wife, you can. In the meantime, you have to comply with those terms and keep away from her.

— Dinnae worry aboot that, ah jist laughs.

The other cop wi the stickin-oot ears tries tae be aw fuckin hard, like eh’s tryin tae impress the fuckin lassie polisman. — This is serious, Mr Begbie. You could be in a lot of trouble if you harass your ex-wife. Do I make myself clear?

Ah’m thinkin thit ah should jist look this fuckin dippit streak ay pish in the eye, watch thum water n him look away as ah ken eh would, but ah dinnae want thum taggin ays as a fuckin wide cunt n pittin heat oan, so ah jist smiles n goes: — Ah’ll keep well away fae her, dinnae you worry aboot that, officer. Wish yis hud been here tae tell ays that ten years ago, wid’ve saved a loat ay soapy bubble!

They jist keep lookin aw serious at ays. Ah mean, ye try n huv a fuckin sense ay humour, but some miserable cunts jist dinnae well fuckin git it. Ah’ll stey away fae that June awright, bit thir’s some cunts ah’ll no be keepin away fae.

70

Driving

A
li’s been great man, it hus tae be said, up every day. Wi telt the wee boy that ah wis in a car crash n ‘Uncle Frank’ saved ays. She went roond n spoke tae Joe, Franco’s brar, n telt um thir wis nae prospect ay anybody daein any grassin up aboot anything. Should go withoot sayin, but Franco’s that para. Ah telt Ali tae take the money n stick it in her bank account. It’s for her n the bairn, she kin spend it how she wants tae.

Ah’ve goat a broken jaw, it’s aw wired up n ah pure cannae eat any solids, three cracked ribs, a broken nose n a fracture ay the femur. Ah’ve also goat severe bruisin n eighteen stitches in the heid. It
is
like ah’ve been in a car crash.

Ah’m gittin oot soon, n Ali’s talkin aboot comin back. But ah’m pure no wantin her n Andy roond ays wi Begbie oan the warpath. Ah’ve goat tae sort things oot wi him first. It’s a mess, a total mess, but the weird thing is, it did teach ays something, man. Ah feel mair focused now. Ah telt Ali in ma soft, daft voice: — Ah want ye back mair thin anythin, but you’re right. Ah’ve goat tae sort masel oot, start tae learn tae cope, soas thit ah dae things aroond the hoose n cook n aw that sortay stuff whin yis come back. Ah’d like tae be able tae come roond n see the wee man n you first, likesay take ye oot oan a hot date n that.

She laughed, n kissed ma battered face. — That’d be great. Ye cannae go hame oan yir ain though, Danny, no like that.

— It’s aw sortay superficial but. Eywis thoat Franco wis a bit ay a pussycat really, ah mumble through the wired Denis Law.

Ali hus tae go n git the wee man, bit whin ah git discharged muh ma, n oor Shauna n Liz ur here n they git ays hame. They make up a fire n some grub, then they git ready tae leave ays, aw sortay reluctant likesay. — This is silly, Danny, Liz says, — come n stay at oors.

— Aye, come hame wi me, son, muh ma says.

— Naw, ah’m sound, ah tell thum, — nae worries.

They head away, n as it happens it wis a pure good call, cause later oan that night, thir’s a rap at the door. Nae wey ah’m ah gaunnae answer it. — You fuckin well in thaire, Murphy? the cat shouts, openin the letter boax. Even though ah’m sittin wi the lights oaf, ah kin pure feel they eyes ay evil scannin doon the passagewey. — Better fuckin no be, cause see if you are n ye urnae answerin the fuckin door . . .

Ah’m shitin it, but ah’m thinkin, that’s Franco aw ower. What would happen if ah
did
open the door? Eh disnae stick around but.

Ah sleep in the chair, cause ah goat comfy, but eftir a while ah stagger through tae ma bed n ah dinnae wake up till the next mornin whin the door goes again. Ah think it’s him, back again, but it isnae. — Spud . . . ur ye thair?

It’s Curtis. Ah open the door, half expecting tae see Begbie standin wi a knife at the perr wee gadge’s throat. — Eh, awright, Curtis man, ah’m eh, pure lyin low the now.

— It’s that B-B-Begbie, eh? Ah ken cause Ph-Philip sortay hings aboot wi um.

— Naw, man, it wis some bad dudes that ah owed dosh tae. Franco wis the yin thit sorted it oot fir me, likes, ah tell um, n eh kens thit ah’m a crap liar but eh kens thit ah’m lyin tae protect him, tae keep him oot ay things. — So, ah goes, ah hear yir oaf tae that Cannes Film Festival. No bad.

— Aye, eh goes, aw enthusiastic, mind, it’s no the real yin, jist the porn yin . . . eh adds, but good luck tae the boy. Curtis is a good wee cat. Ah mean, the boy wis up regular tae the hoaspital, ken. Eh’s been huvin the time ay ehs life wi that knob ay his, but eh disnae forget ehs buddies n that says a loat tae me, likes. Too many people jist forget whair they come fae, like Sick Boy. Aye, eh thinks eh’s a big success now, but ah’d better no say nowt aboot that, cause Curtis likes Sick Boy. Some life eh’s goat now though; shaggin good-lookin lassies, n gittin peyed fir it. No a bad deal, whin ye think aboot it. Ah mean, thir’s worse weys tae earn a livin, it’s goat tae be said. Then eh goes: — Come oot, ah’ve goat a motor. C’moan for a drive. It’s no choried or nowt.

So wir drivin doon the Al tae Haddington n this auld car, n ah’m tellin um tae go faster, n eh does, n ah’m thinkin thit ah could jist clip oaf the seat belt n slam ma fit oan they brakes n fly through that windscreen. But wi ma luck, ah’d jist be paralysed for life or something. It widnae be fair tae Curtis, and ah pure want tae sort masel oot cause ah’ve goat Ali n Andy, or at least a chance ay gittin back wi thum. Dostoevsky. Insurance scams. What a load ay nonsense, likes.

Wi goes oot tae this wee country pub, only really a few miles fae Leith, but a different world aw thegither. Couldnae hack it oot here but, man. Sometimes ah think: the three ay us in a wee cottage, how peachy would that be, but then ah realise thit ah’d be bored, no wi Andy n Ali, but the lack ay general stimulus, likesay.