Porno (44 page)

We get into the warm, inviting Caley, with its open fire, and I set up a couple of pints and brandies as we find a quiet corner. — So what are these mates ay yours gittin oan yir case for?

— It’s cause ah’m a bit shy . . . n muh s-stammer . . .

I contemplate this problem for a while, finding it so hard to contain my indifference, before I venture: — Is it yir stammer that makes ye shy, or are ye shy cause yuv got a stammer?

This Curtis laddie shrugs. — Ah went tae see aboot it, n they said it wis jist ni-nerves . . .

— What are you so nervous about? You don’t seem any different from the rest of your mates. You’ve no got two heids or nowt like that. Youse aw dress the same, take the same drugs . . .

The wee guy bows his heid and it’s like there’s nothing going on under that baseball cap. Then he says in a tormented whisper: — B-b-but . . . no when you’ve no di-di-done it n they aw hu-hu-hu-huv . . .

I can say nothing here. I just nod as sympathetically as I can. With mounting unease, I realise that these cunts are in many cases not old enough to legally fuck, never mind drink. Thank God for Chief Constable Lester’s certificate of peace above the bar.

— That Philip thinks ehs the b-b-big hard man cause ehs knockin aboot wi B-B-Begbie. Eh used tae be ma beh-beh-best mate n aw. Ah might be shy wi lassies, but ah’m no a p-p-p-poof. Danny . . . Spud, he understands that ye kin git shy in front ay bi-bi-bi-burds ye like.

— So you’ve never been oot wi any ay they lassies youse muck aboot wi thaire?

The wee cunt’s face flushes red-raw. — Naw . . . naw . . . eh naw . . .

— Jist as well fir thaime. Ye’d split thum in two wi thon, I nod downstairs. — Couldnae help but notice, mate. Bet you wir breastfed! Any Italian blood? I ask.

— Naw . . . eh Scottish, eh. Then he looks at
me
as if
I
might be a dodgy arse-bandit.

This cunt is a total pacifist in the sex war. Just as well for the chicks, cause with a weapon like that he’d have won it single-handed by now.

— You surely must have had some opportunities, I ask.

The wee guy’s really flustered now, his eyes watering as he’s spluttering and stammering out a past humiliation. — Ah wis wi . . . wi . . . this lassie one time n she sais it wis too bi-bi-big, thit ah wis a f-f-freak.

Jist that poor cunt’s luck that his first shagging opportunity was with a dipstick. — No way, mate. She wis the freak, the fuckin dozy cow, I shake my head, setting him right. Now, he’s got stooped shoodirs, shifty, nervous eyes, breath that would make any woman rather snog his ringpiece, and a horrifically bad stammer. I’ll wager, too, that it’s aw because of some daft wee troll who simply did not have the sense to realise that her ship had come in. — Listen, dae ye ken Melanie?

The young chappie’s eyes ignite a little. — Her that makes they stag movies wi you up the stairs?

— Fuck! Naebody’s supposed tae know aboot that, I curse, pulling in a sharp intake of breath and resisting the temptation to ask him who told him about our club. — Yes, that’s her, I say quietly.

— Eh, aye, ah’ve s-s-seen her, like.

— Dae ye like her?

The wee gadge breaks into a thoughtful smile. — Aye, everybody does . . . and the other yin, the nice-s-s-spoken yin . . . he says wistfully.

Let’s just get this wee cunt walking before he can run. — Good, cause she likes you. Both of them do.

The poor wee fucker blushes.

— Naw, gen up.

— Naw . . . y-y-you’re takin the pi-pi-pi . . .

There are simply not enough hours in the day to get a result with this boy. — Listen, pal, I’m half-Italian, on my mother’s side. Are you a Catholic?

— Well, aye, b-b-but ah never go tae chu . . .

I silence him with a wave. — Not important. I am, and I swear on my mother’s life that Melanie fancies you and would like you to have a go with her in one of the stag movies, I stand up, deadpan as I walk to the bar and order another round. Leave the cunt to think about that. When I come back, he’s about to say something, but being time-conscious I cut in. — And ye get peyed. Ye get peyed tae gie Melanie the message, and other birds n aw. N no just in stag, in a proper porno flick. What dae ye say?

— You’re j-j-jokin . . .

— Do ah look like ah’m jokin? My main man Terry’s incapacitated and we need new blood. You’re the man. Gittin peyed tae ride Mel? C’mon, mate!

— Ah jist like Candice, he sniffs defensively.

Another fuckin closet romantic. How sad. That wee hairy back in the Sunshine. — Listen, pal, ah ken they take the pish oot ay ye thaire, I point outside, — but they’ll no be takin the pish when you’re the porn star ridin the top-drawer fanny. Think aboot it, I wink, and drinking up, I leave the wee cunt tae do just that.

When I get back to the Sunshine, Spud’s sitting in the corner being ignored by Ali. After a bit he gets up and tries to give her some money and she tells him to go. He’s off his tits and he looks a fucking disgrace. It’s a real speed-jakey look; unkempt hair with enough grease in it to supply every chippy in Leith, eyes so hooded that they look permanently shut, black rings like washers around them, flaming blood vessels, all housed in a fibrous skin the colour and texture of stale chapatti. Why, hello, handsome! Here comes hubby, Ali doll, wow, what a catch! I let you out my sight for a few years, n look what happens. You don’t so much lower your standards as become a total fucking comedienne. But no funny-fanny from Marti Caine to French and Saunders to Caroline Aherne ever got the laughs that you did walking into a bar with that on your arm. He’s raising his voice now and I sense that my presence would only inflame things, so I catch Ali’s eye and I signal for her to get him out.

I see Curtis coming back in and wilfully ignoring his mates, one of whom, that Philip, is brushed off as he tries to put a friendly arm round the boy’s shoulders. Instead, he goes over to Spud to help him out and down the road. My new leading man. The new Juice Terry!

Mo and Ali look to be coping to the extent that they hadn’t even noticed my departure. I decide to ride my luck further and slip back out the side door and head round the corner and back upstairs to the flat. I’m about to stick on a Russ Meyer video for inspiration when I catch a look at myself in the mirror on my wall. The cheekbones strike me as more prominent. Yes, I’m losing a bit of weight okay.

Why, shank you, Sean. Pornography hash never really been my shing, but I appreeshiate a well-crafted movie, to shay nothing of a nisch piesch of ash.

Everything is coming up roses. Almost everything. I mind of Mo telling me that Francis Begbie was in again asking after me.

Sure enough I check the green mobile’s messages and there’s a text one from him, or ‘Frank’ as he signs himself:

NEED 2 C U RIGHT AWAY ABOUT

SOMEONE WHO WILL SOON SEAS 2 EXIST

I can visualise it right enough, ‘Frank’. Fuckin twat. It has to be Renton. Renton will soon ‘seas’ to exist. There’s another text message from Seeker. If ever a communication system was made for a man, it’s text messages for him:

READY ANY TIME

Drugs. Good. I’ve only a small amount left. I produce the wrap and chop it up, taking a healthy line, which fair hits the mark. I really need a cigarette now, and I light one up, the smoke feeling so clean and fresh in my lungs with the ching.

I look in the mirror, deep into the mirror. — Listen, Franco, it’s about time you and I had a wee heart-to-heart, a wee clear-the-air session. It’s about this obsession you have with Renton. I mean, let’s face it, it’s got to be said, Franco, and I’m sure you’ll appreciate my candour on this, that this goes way beyond the cash from yon time. You’re like a spurned lover. Of course, that’s all over Leith. Okay, let’s accept that you’re obviously crazy about him. All the boys in the jail, as you made love to them, did you imagine that they were him? I’m only sorry that it didn’t work out for you two guys. Funny, but I used to think that it was you that gave it, and Rents who took it. Now, though, I doubt it. I can just tell that you’re the crying, bleating, ginger-whipped bitch in the dress bending over with tears in your eyes while he talks dirty to you and prepares your greased arse for him, and when he gives you it, you simper and mew like the filthy little fucking lady-boy hoor that . . .

The doorbell.

I open up and he’s there. Just standing there in front of me.

— Franco . . . ah wis jist thinkin aboot ye . . . come in, mate, I stammer, sounding like the young Curtis boy I’ve just left.

And by the reaction in his eyes it’s like this bastard has read my mind. How fucking loud was I talking? . . . surely not . . . but if he had the letter box held open to spy in first . . . and he heard me from jist doon the hallway . . .

— Fuckin Renton . . . he hisses.

Aw fuck, sweet Jesus, please don’t do this to me . . . — What? I manage to bark out.

Begbie’s sensing something’s wrong. He looks at me in that nasty, appraising way and says softly: — Renton’s fuckin well back here. Eh’s been spotted.

And something in my brain, as I look into that five-mile stare and freeze, some primal essence is screaming: Act, Simon, act. Act for Scotland, no, make that Italy. — Renton? Whaire? Whaire the fuck is that cunt! And I’m looking into hell, that solitary black spot behind the pupils of his mad eyes, with a hateful stare of my own which I feel is like trying to put out a blast furnace with a Woolies water pistol. I’m waiting for him to strike like a cobra, almost praying: for fuck sakes do it now, put me out my misery, cause even chinged up I can’t keep this going any longer.

Begbie holds my gaze, and thankfully his voice climbs down to a low hiss. — Ah wis hopin you could fuckin well tell me.

I slap my head and turn away and start pacing, thinking back to the agony Renton caused us, caused me. I stop suddenly and point at Franco, and yes, it’s in accusation, cause it was that fucker’s folly that caused the bag to be nicked, he was the one that was meant to be in charge of it. — If that cunt is back here, I want my fuckin money . . . then I start to think of how Begbie would perceive me, and add, digging my forehead with my palm: — I’m trying to make a fuckin movie here, on a fucking shoestring!

An excellent pitch. Franco seems just about satisfied with that. His eyes narrow further. — You’ve goat ma fuckin mobile number. If Renton gets in touch wi you, you fuckin bell me straight away.

— And vice versa, Franco, I tell him, basking in the outrage now, the charlie working as one with it, feeling the power and purity of my disdain, the sheer strength of my front. — And don’t fucking well touch that cunt until I’ve got my money, plus compensation, and then you can do what you want to with him . . . so long as I get to lend a helping hand, of course.

I must have seemed suitably tumultuous because Begbie says: — Right, then he turns and starts to exit.

Renton. I can’t believe I’m protecting that cunt. Not for much longer though. The bank accounts are all set up. Once the film’s in the can, we go our separate ways.

I’m following Franco out down the stairs, and he turns to me and asks: — Whaire the fuck ur you gaun?

— Eh . . . back to the pub, I just nipped out and I’m due back.

— Barry, we’ll git a peeve, he says.

So the asinine specimen follows me there and I have to stand drinking at the bar with him. One bonus: he punts me a wrap of ching, which will at least tide me through until I can get up to Seeker’s. Still, it’s a far from ideal situ. At least Spud’s gone, but not before he’s upset Alison who’s obviously been crying. That Paddy fleabag is now undermining my fuckin staff’s morale.

Begbie’s still stuck in paranoia central, going on about packages, which makes my pulse race with excitement, how Renton’s a twisted poof, which is all music to my ears. Oh, I want Renton to meet him, basically just to see, for my own curiosity, how far Franco will go. Surprisingly, he asks me about the film.

— Well, I go, playing it down, — it’s just a bit of fun really, Frank.

— They porn stars n that, the gadges like, is thir like . . . ah mean, huv they goat tae be a certain fuckin length?

— Not really, I mean the bigger the better, obviously, I tell him.

Franco gives his crotch an orangutan-like grapple, which makes me feel queasy. — So ah’d be awright then!

— Aye, but the maist important thing is the ability tae find wid. A lot ay boys wi big dicks just cannae find wid on camera, when it comes doon tae it. The ability tae find wid is the key thing, that’s why Terry was so good . . . I run down, suddenly aware that Franco’s looking at me in a hateful rage. — Are you awright, Frank?

— Aye . . . it’s jist whin ah think aboot that cunt Renton . . . he says, then he’s throwing back the drink and he’s into a rant, going on about his kids, about how June doesn’t look after them properly. — The fuckin state ay her, like a fuckin Belsen horror. She looks like she’s fuckin wastin away . . .

— Aye, Spud was saying she’s in a bad way. The pipe does that though. Ah mean, ah dae a fair old bit ay ching, Frank, but aw ah’m sayin is that the pipe really takes it oot ay ye, I explain to him, relishing dropping Murphy right in it.

Begbie looks at me in shock, and his fingers go white on the glass. I take in a deep breath as this cunt is ready to explode. — The pipe . . . crack . . . June . . . WI MA FUCKIN BAIRNS?!

I see my chance here and move in. — Look, Spud says eh wis washin up wi her, ah’m only tellin ye this cause ye should ken, wi the kids n that . . .

— Right, he says, looking over at Alison who looks totally bedraggled. — YOUR MAN IS A CUNT! EH’S A FUCKIN USELESS JUNKY CUNT! THEY SHOULD TAKE YOUR FUCKIN BAIRN INTAE CARE!

Then Franco charges out the bar as Alison stands in disbelief for a second or two, then explodes into racking sobs, only to be comforted by Mo. — What . . . she bubbles, — what is he fucking saying . . . what hus Danny done . . . ?