Porno (60 page)

Second Prize pulls the wad from his pocket and brandishes it in front of my face. — This! This is what’s wrong! Ye think ye can buy me off wi this rubbish? That ye can buy my silence, you n Begbie? Thou shall not kill! he says, eyes burning, then he screams in my face, shredding my nerves as he splatters it with slaver: — THOU SHALL NOT KILL!

He throws the money into the air and the notes swirl in the wind. The crowd suddenly realise what’s happening. One dirt-encrusted man in a filthy overcoat grabs a fifty-pound note and holds it up to the light. A crustie dives onto the cobblestones and soon eveybody’s in a greed frenzy, ignoring the old preacher, who, seeing the cash fluttering in the air forgets his sermon and is rummaging around with the rest of them. I back away and grab a couple ay fistfuls ay notes and stick them in ma pockets. I reason that ah gave them tae him tae do what he wanted tae do but if he opted for a pooroot, then ah wis gaunnae be right in. I head up the alley and out the Close mouth, into the Mile, reflecting that I’ve probably just wiped out half the jakey population of the city and smashed up the wagon of every rehab case.

I go back tae Dianne’s and ah see Sick Boy’s still there, all wet and wearing a towel wrapped around him. — Cannes tomorrow, he smiles.

— I can’t wait to catch you up, I tell him. — It’s a fuckin bummer about the Dam, but I have to do it. When’s your flight?

He tells me it’s at eleven o’clock, so the next day I arrange to share a cab with him and Nikki to the airport. Over breakfast he snorts cocaine, and takes another hit in the back of the cab, jabbering away about Franck Sauzee. — The man’s a fucking god, Renton, an absolute fuckin god. I saw him coming out of Valvona and Crolla the other day with an expensive bottle of wine and I thought, this is what we’ve fuckin lacked at Easter Road for years, that sort of class, he rants, his eyes doolally and his jaw grinding. Nikki’s so stoned and full of Cannes fever, she hardly seems to notice the state he’s in. I see them off, telling them I’m on the twelve thirty to Amsterdam. But I’m actually going to Frankfurt, to get a connecting flight to Zurich.

Switzerland is a fucking boring place. I lost all respect for Bowie when I heard he lived there. But the banks are excellent. They really do ask no questions. So when I sign the form to transfer the funds from the Bananazzurri account into one I’ve set up at the Citibank, nobody bats an eyelid. Well, the rotund, suited, bespectacled bank guy queries: — Do you still want to keep this account open?

— Yes, I tell him, — it’s because we need immediate access to the monies as we’re going into film production. However, the funds will soon be replenished as we have investors on line for our next feature.

— We have some expertise in film financing. It might be useful to you or your partner Mr Williamson to speak to Gustave, next time you’re over, Mr Renton. We can set up a film-production account from this company account, enabling you to write cheques instantly and pay off creditors.

— Hmm . . . that’s interesting. It would certainly save us a lot of bother if we could do it all under one roof, so to speak, I say, looking at the clock, not wanting to arouse suspicions but anxious not to be detained. — We need to talk about this, but in the short-term I do have a flight to catch . . .

— Of course . . . forgive me . . . he says, and the transaction is hurried through.

And it was as easy as that. All I can think about is Sick Boy in Cannes as I get back to Edinburgh.

72

‘. . . surging waves . . .’

W
e head by British Airways Business Class to the Cote d’Azur on the direct flight from Glasgow. As we approach Nice airport, there’s a clear blue sky and I can see the surging waves of the Med lap against the golden sand. The seat-belt signs for landing are on, but Simon’s repaired for the fourth time to the toilet and left it, as they say, flushed with excitement and intrigue. — This is it, Nikki, this is it. You want to see hustling, ducking and diving, wheeling and dealing?

— Not particularly . . . I say, gazing up from
Elle
, watching his nostrils flare. I can see bits of cocaine on the hairs.

— Those cunts won’t know what’s hit them. They’ve never met the real deal before, he sniffs, rubbing at his nose. Then he looks at me almost painfully and kisses me softly on the cheek. — You are art, hen, he says before his chameleon eyes swivel and he spots a girl with long, curled locks, who’s wearing shades pasted onto her head and dressed in a Prada jacket. — Look at that, he says loudly and points, — all that effort spoiled by a bad Manchester perm. Bet she’s in publicity. She should sack her hairdresser . . . no, she should shoot the cunt! he says as his jaw slides out challengingly and a couple of people tut and look away.

I smile benignly, knowing that it’s useless to tell him to keep his voice down. Now he’s ranting at me, telling me his life story.

— Begbie threw a glass, split a lassie’s heid open . . . I used tae shoot cunts wi an air rifle . . . Renton was cruel to animals as a kid, there was something about him . . . you’d have thought he’d’ve grown up into a serial killer . . . Murphy stole my Coventry City Subbuteo team . . . I found it in his house and he
just happened
to have bought it after mines went missing . . . my parents weren’t rich . . . that was a big purchase . . . my mother, a decent, saintly woman, she goes, ‘Where’s that nice new team we bought you, son?’ . . . What can I say? ‘It’s in the scruff’s hoose, Mother. Even as we fucking well speak those players are sliding across the old, battered linoleum in the hoose of a thieving scruff, being crushed underfoot by careless, drunken gyppos who stagger into bedrooms looking for children to abuse . . .’ How could I say that to my mother? That hoose of Murphy’s, what a fuckin midden . . .

I’m delighted to get off the plane. We pick up our bags and Simon’s headed straight to the taxi rank. — Aren’t we going to wait for the others coming in on easyJet? I enquire.

— Don’t think so somehow . . . he says warily. — Listen, Nikki, the eh, Carlton was full, so I had to get them into the Beverly. It’s still central.

— Is it less expensive?

— You could say that, he grins. — Our suite’s about four hundred quid a night and their rooms are twenty-eight quid a night each.

I shake my head in mock disgust, hoping he fails to register my artifice.

— But I need a smart gaff for business . . . he protests. — It presents the wrong image to be seen in a rat-hole . . . not that the Beverly is a rat-hole, of course.

— I’ll bet it is, I say. — This is very divisive, Simon, we’re meant to be a team.

— We’re talking Lochend and Wester Hailes here. It’ll be luxury to them! I’m thinking of them, Nikki, they’d feel like fish out of water. Could you honestly see Curtis in the Carlton? Mel, with her tattoos? No, I wouldn’t embarrass them or myself, he says snootily, head in the air, shades on, as we wheel our luggage trolley to the taxi rank.

— You’re such a snob, Simon, I inform him, chortling loudly.

— Nonsense! I come from Leith, how can I be a snob? If anything I’m a socialist. I’m just playing the politics of the business world, that’s all, he snaps, then repeats: — Renton better not fuck me about, cause it’ll be a total waste of a room . . . just as well I had the foresight to cancel his at the Carlton and get him into the Beverly as well . . . that cunt’s up to no good . . .

— Mark’s okay. He’s going out with Dianne and she’s a sweetheart.

— Granted, he’s as plausible as fuck when he wants. But you don’t know him like I do. Mind, I grew up with Rents. I know him. He’s scum. We all are.

— Such low self-esteem, Simon! I’d never have thought it.

He shakes his head like a dog coming out of the sea. — I mean that in a positive sense, he says. — But I know his nature. If that Dianne’s your mate, I’d tell her to watch her purse.

We take a taxi to the Carlton, travelling down the packed coast road. — I was going to plump for the Hotel du Cap, Simon explains, — but it’s too far from the centre of things and would have meant loads of taxi rides. This is right on La Croisette, he informs me as he berates the languid, Latin taxi driver in impressive French. —
Vite! Je suis très presse! Est-ce qu’il y a un itinéraire de dégagement?

Eventually we get there and climb out the taxi. Two porters are straight onto our bags. — Checking in, Monsieur, Mademoiselle?

—
Oui, merci
, I respond, but Simon’s standing still outside, looking out to sea, watching the busy crowds milling along La Croisette and then turning back to the great, white gleaming structure of the Edwardian hotel. — Simon, you okay?

He takes off his Ray-Bans and sticks them into the top pocket of his yellow linen jacket. — Just let me have this moment, he sniffs, squeezing my hand and I see that there are tears welling up in his eyes.

We step into the hotel foyer, which exudes a breathtaking opulence, dominated by black and gold pillars. Three shades of marble are evident; grey, orange and white, all of them finished with bountiful gold-leaf mouldings. Those chandeliers of crystal hanging imperiously on huge brass chains, the marble floor, the white walls and arched gateways, they just scream wealth and class.

Up in the room, a thick pile of carpet makes you feel as if you’re walking through treacle. The bed is colossal and we have a fifty-channel television. The huge bathroom is packed with all sorts of toiletries and there’s a complimentary bottle of Rosé de Provence in an ice bucket, which Simon opens, pouring us a glass each and taking them to the balcony with the sea view. I’m looking out and you can see that people are well impressed by this hotel. They walk along the seafront gaping up at us. Simon, his shades back on, gives some people-watching tourists a tired wave and they start nudging each other and snapping us with their cameras! I just wonder who they think we are!

We relax on the balcony, at the centre of the world, full of contentment, drinking the rosé, the heat combining with the liberation I’ve had on the plane and last night’s wine at Gavin’s to make me feel very drowsy.

But we’re here. I’m here. I’m an actress, a fucking star, here, in Cannes. — I wonder who else’ll be staying here now? Tom Cruise? Leonardo DiCaprio? Brad Pitt? In the very next room to us maybe!

Simon shrugs and snaps open his mobile phone. — Whoever. They’ll all have to fit in with our plans, he says idly as he punches in a number. — Mel! You’re in . . . excellent. Curtis behaving himself? . . . good . . . amuse yourselves and we’ll call for you at seven. After the screening there’s a party on and I’ll blag some invites . . . don’t get too pissed . . . aye, right . . . well, go to the beach or watch some telly . . . I’ll see you in your lobby at seven . . . Right, he says, clicking the phone shut. — Such an ingrate, he moans, then impersonates Mel. — Me n Curtis huvnae goat money Si-min, how kin wi shoap wi nae money?

I’m starting to feel very tired. — I’m going to get my head down for an hour, Simon, I tell him, heading through to the room.

— Aye, he says, following me through.

Simon puts on a porn film from a list that comes up on the screen under adult channels. He selects one called
Rear Entry: In Through the Out Door
. — That’s wild, I never realised that that Led Zeppelin album was a reference to anal sex before. Confirms my feeling that Page was a bit of a visionary, you know, the Crowley stuff and aw that shite.

— Why are we watching this? . . . I murmur drowsily.

— One, get us horny, two, check out the opposition. Look at that!

A woman is lying on her back getting fucked. As we pull away we see that the guy has her legs pinned over his shoulders. The implication is that he’s forcing her back to access her arsehole and he’s fucking her up it, but it’s impossible to tell at that angle whether it’s going in her bum or her cunt. The thing I notice is that the woman has deep bruises on her wrists, some of them yellowing. This isn’t so much disturbing as tacky, and makes me lose what vague interest I have in the film and I start to doze. The truth is, I don’t really care to watch other people fucking, it bores me. This mattress is comfortable, as is the hotel gown, and I drift off . . .

I wake up slightly chilled, my dressing gown has been opened, the cord undone, and I find Sick Boy crouching over me on the bed, masturbating furiously. I urgently pull the gown to me.

— Fuck . . . you’ve spoiled it now, he gasps bitterly.

— What . . . you’re wanking over me!

— Aye?

I sit up in bed, alarmed. — Why don’t I just put on blue lipstick and play dead for you?

— Oh no, he says, — it’s not a necrophilia thing, it’s far more innocent. I meant it as a tribute! You never heard of
Sleeping Beauty
for fuck sakes?

— You won’t make love to me, but you’ll sit and wank and watch crappy porn. What kind of a fucking tribute is that, Simon?

— You don’t understand . . . he grumbles and snorts, his nose streaming, then snaps, — I need some . . . some fucking perspective.

— What you need is to do less fucking coke, I shout, but half-heartedly because I
really
need to get some sleep.

And as I try to drift off, I hear his voice droning on. — Heyyy . . . you smoke too much dope and talk shit, he says, — but I love you for it. Don’t ever change. Pot’s a great drug for chicks, pot and E. I’m so glad that you don’t do coke. It’s a boy’s drug, girls can’t take it. I know what you’re going to say, that’s sexist. But no, it’s an observation underpinned by an acknowledgement of the differences between men and women which is an acknowledgement of woman’s autonomy, which is a feminist stance. So applaud, baby, applaud . . . he says as he leaves the room.

As I hear the door crash, I think to myself: thank fuck for that.

73

Scam # 18,752

I
’m weaving through the narrow backstreets, returning to La Croisette, scrutinising everything, burning indelible prints of the layout of the town into my brain. I’m appraising the manto like a highly experienced farmer at Ingliston’s Royal Highland Show does with cattle. Hear the clucking of the chicks in the sexual marketplace, a searching glance enough to form a comprehensive assessment and valuation. PRs spitting tersely through paralysed grins into mobile phones, haughty shoppers and hopeful backpackers, they’re all subject to a ‘casual’ voracious gaze.