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Curtis rips off the paper to reveal the gaudy, ghastly blonde head of a blow-up sex doll. Simon says: — Her name’s Sylvie. She’s for practice during those lonely nights, although I don’t think there’ll be many of them in the future. Welcome to
Seven Rides
!

Poor Curtis doesn’t know quite what to make of Sylvie, as they head down to the Port Sunshine. Simon urges me to stall for a bit as he’s keen to discuss progress on what he calls ‘the scam’.

We had got the two lists, both on different discs. Rab’s dad helped to reconcile them and put them in the same format. There are 182 Rangers season-ticket holders who have accounts at the Merchant City Clydesdale Bank branch. Out of that number, 137 have 1690 as their pin number. I can’t think how Simon possibly knew his, and he did patiently explain it to me, as has Mark, but I still don’t get it. Despite McClymont’s Scottish studies programme, I’ve come nowhere near to understanding the Scottish mentality or culture. Of that number, eighty-six have Internet banking facilities.

The important thing is that the money in those eighty-six accounts ranges from an overdraft of £3,216 to a credit of £42,214. Simon explains that he and Mark had got into the online banking system for Clydesdale. Using the 1690 pin number, they removed a total of £62,412 from the bigger accounts, depositing them in a general account they’ve set up in Zurich at the Swiss Business Bank, he informs me, as he racks up two lines of coke.

— Not my tipple, I say, taking my skins, blow and tobacco from my shoulder bag.

— Oh, I know that. These are both for me. I’ve two nostrils, he explains, — Well, for the time being anyway. Aye, three days later the bulk of the money, except £5,000, will be transferred into a production account we’ve set up in Switzerland at the Banque de Zurich for Bananazzurri Films.

— So now we go down the pub to celebrate?

— Nooo . . . Simon says, — the fund-raisers are you, me and Rents. We’re the only ones who know about this. Never mention it to anybody, he warns, — or we all go to jail for a long time. We keep the money in those accounts, it’s way in excess of what we need to make our movie. We’ll catch up with the others later. Right now, me, you and Rents are celebrating in private.

And I’m elated, excited and more than a little scared wondering just what we’ve got into. So we head up to meet Mark at the Café Royal restaurant, where the three of us enjoy oysters and bottles of Bollinger. Mark pours the champagne into the glasses and whispers: — You did brilliantly.

— You two did alright as well, I say, quite aghast, but now really concerned at the extent of our fraud. — This is our business, strictly between us, I nervously implore, and Mark nods in serious agreement. — That means Dianne can know nothing about it?

— Too right, Mark replies sombrely. — They throw away the key for shit like this. But listen, what about Rab? he adds in sudden concern. — He must know something as he got the info about the computer programmes from his old man.

— Rab’s sound, Simon says, — but he can be a bit puritanical and he’d shit his pants if he knew the scale of the fraud. But he thinks it’s just some dippo’s credit card. I’ve squared him up for his services. Let’s just not talk about it again, he smiles, then breezily sings a song: a strange ditty I’ve never heard before.

— I love Scotland, Simon says, sipping his champagne. — There’s so many fucked-up cunts who believe in total shite, it’s such easy money. This whole Celtic–Rangers FC thing is the best scam ever invented. It’s not just a licence to fleece morons, it’s a licence to fleece their children and their children’s children. The franchise goes on and on; Murray, McCann, those boys know what they’re doing alright.

Mark smiles at me, then he turns to Simon. — Now that we’re all rich-ish, I’m taking it that your commitment to making this picture hasn’t wavered?

— Not a bit, Simon replies. — This isn’t about money, Rents, I realise that now. Any fucking arsehole can make money. This is about creating something that is
going
to make money. This is about expression, about self-actualisation, about living, about showing pampered rich cunts who’ve had silver spoons in their gubs that we can do anything those fuckers can, and better.

— Mmm, says Mark, — I’ll drink to that, raising his glass in yet another toast.

Simon’s looking at me, saying nothing but pursing his mouth in pained sincerity. Then he says chidingly: — No spending sprees, Nikki, I’ll keep a hold of the purse strings. If you get skint, just ask.

I don’t know if I trust Simon and I don’t think that he and Mark even trust each other. But I hardly care about the money or the other embellishments. I love this. I feel alive.

— Anyway, if we get done, all you have to do is roll your eyes at the judge and tell him that you were duped by a pair of evil schemies and you’ll walk while Rents and I swing, right, Mark?

— Defo, he says, pouring out some more champagne.

Afterwards we head round to Rick’s Bar in Hanover Street. — Isn’t that Mattias Jack? Simon asserts, pointing to a guy in the corner.

— Possibly, Mark contemplates, ordering another bottle of champagne.

Simon and I go back to his place in Leith and spend the night shagging like animals. The next day I go home satisfyingly tired, sore and raw, and go through my coursework and my stint at the sauna. When I get home from my shift Mark’s in the flat, talking to Dianne. He greets me briefly and leaves.

— What’s all this then?

— He’s an old friend. We’re going out for a drink again tomorrow.

— Just for old times’ sake, eh?

She smiles coyly and raises an eyebrow. There’s a glow to her and I’m wondering if she’s shagged him yet.

Later on, Simon, Rab and I are down at the editing suite in Niddrie, where he took me before. I didn’t know places like this existed in Edinburgh, in fact I’ve never seen anywhere like it. The guy that runs Vid In The Nid is an old pal of Rab’s from the days when he used to go to football with a hooligan gang. A lot of them now seem to be entrepreneurial types, and this guy Steve Bywaters seems more like a social worker than an ex-football thug. They seem as close-knit as the Masons when it comes to sharing skills and resources. — We’ve got the lot, we can do it all here, he says, looking clean-cut and born-again Christian.

As we’re heading away, Rab says: — Great, eh.

Sick Boy’s shaking his head. — Aye, but we can do it in the Dam. The OPA, Rab, mind?

— Right enough, Rab says, but I suspect that Simon has another agenda.

54

Scam # 18,749

T
he City Café is busy with pre-clubbers, as Curtis and his wee mates come in and ask me to join them. We’re sitting beside some student types who are full of their dull conspiracy theories, all excited as they debate who isn’t really dead: Elvis, Jim Morrison, Princess Di. Too full of their own sense of youthful immortality to believe anybody really leaves the gig. Stuck in a life-affirming, death-denying bourgeois dreamworld.

Some of the scheme kids like Philip are sneering and laughing at their foibles; they know it’s all bullshit. From an early age here, they’ve seen enough death in the schemes and inner city through the Aids epidemic of the eighties to be robbed of such innocent notions. Funny, but I’m sure our generation used to feel the same as the suburban kids. Not any more though, and certainly not me. — All those fuckers are as dead as they’re ever going to be, I tell one student, and the sovied kids all guffaw and join in, ripping the piss out of them.

While this is going on I get Curtis’s attention. — Watch your mates there, taking the pish out of those students. He dips his head slowly. — Now fast-forward fifteen years: who’s going tae have the nice hoose, the job, the business, the cash, the motor and who’s gaunnae be stuck in a slum on a giro?

— Right . . . Curtis nods.

— Ken how?

— Cause they’ve goat the education n that?

Not bad. — Yes, that’s part of it. Any other reasons?

— Cause they’ve goat rich mas n dads who kin gie them the cash tae git started? N the contacts n that?

This boy isnae quite as dippit as I thought. — Sharp, Curt, sharp. But you put these two thegither and what dae ye get?

— Dunno.

— Expectation. They’ll have those things cause they expect to have them. How could they expect anything else? The likes of you and me don’t expect those things. We know we have tae graft like fuck tae earn them. Now for me, an over-educated, yet under-qualified man, there’s no real point of entry into that life. Why dae you think I piss around in the black economy on the margins of society? Cause I like the amusing characters? Because bams and hoors and junkies and dealers are my kind of people? No fucking chance. I’ve done pimping, housebreaking, theft, credit-card fraud and drug dealing, not because I like them but because I can’t break into legitimate business at a level, status and remuneration that I regard as commensurate with my knowledge and skills. I’m a tragic mess, Curt, a tragic mess. But that can and will change, I explain looking at my watch, as it’s time to meet the others. — Listen, I attack my drink, — did you ever get any use out off that blow-up doll?

— Eh naw . . . he says, all embarrassed. — Ah wis jist playin wi it n it went doon on me . . .

— It went doon oan ye! Fuck me, if I kent it wis gaunnae dae that ah’d’ve goat one myself! I laugh at his distraught coupon.

We drink up and head into N-Sign’s spot to shoot some footage of clubbers in action. Curtis is dancing with his mates and Rab’s camera is on him. Then it tracks Nikki, who’s been talking to Mel, heading towards him. She dances in front of him for a bit, then takes his hand and leads him into the office in the club, which Carl’s emptied for us.

Then, when the club is shut down, we get into the real work and prepare to shoot one of our key scenes. Rab and his pals are setting up the equipment in the office.

— Dae ye think Melanie n Nikki r-r-really like me? Curtis asks.

— What do you mean?

— Well, ah think thir jist nice tae me cause you s-s-say so.

— Dinnae turn they puppy-dug lamps on a chick and expect her no tae cook, mate. You’ve got the power, I explain.

— Bit l-l-lassies dinnae f-f- . . . his face goes into a spazzy twitch — . . . f-f-fancy ays.

— The dippit wee tarts, aye. They arenae wimmin ay the world but. The chick who’s been past Pilrig, she learns how tae distil things doon tae brass tacks, especially if that auld pot’s got a wee bit stretched. Then it’s aboot the width of a circle, I smile, and I dehl-dehl, dehl-dehl-dehl-dehl-dehl . . . the opening refrain from that Bowie classic. It fails to cut much ice with Curt though. While he’s away for another nervous pee, I approach Nikki. — Try and make Curt feel desired, his self-esteem is rock-bottom.

As he returns from the toilet, Nikki goes over to him and I hear her say: — Curtis, I can’t wait for you to fuck me.

The slack-jawed young fool just blinks and flushes. — S-s-s-so what are ye tryin tae s-s-say?

I can’t help it, I laugh my head off. — You’re a comic genius, Curtis! That’s going in the fuckin script! And I start scribbling like fuck on my draft of the screenplay.

After I pep-talk my stars, Rab gives me the nod and we’re ready to rock.

— Right, folks, this is the key scene in the movie. This is where ‘Joe’ wins the bet from ‘Tam’. Curtis, this is where your character ‘Curt’ pops his cherry for the first time in the film. So don’t worry about being nervous, you’re
supposed
to be nervous. I just want you both to say what you said before. So, Nikki, you lead him into the office, slam the door shut, stand behind it and say . . .

— I’d love to fuck you, Nikki drawls lecherously, looking at Curtis.

— And you say, Curt, I nod at him.

— S-s-so what ur ye tryin tae say . . .

— Brilliant. Then you get him across the desk, Nikki. Let Nikki take the lead, Curtis. Right, let’s try it out.

Of course, it’s nothing like as good as the spontaneous original, but after many attempts we get a couple of usable takes. We’ve got our six brothers shagged now, the only problem being that Terry’s damaged cock still isn’t strong enough for an arse-fuck. Not to worry, I’ve an idea.

55

Whores of Amsterdam Pt 6

I
informed Martin and Nils that I needed a break from the club. I told Katrin that I had to go home and see my folks for a bit. But whatever I thought might have been requisite for my state of mind,
this
is what it really was. It was all I could do to tear myself away from her. Dianne Coulston.

We made love most of the night, in Gav’s spare bed. Just wanting her, aching for her, spent seemingly beyond exhaustion, yet soon aroused again. Experience tells me that this is nothing to do with love or emotion, it’s just the reaction of two strange bodies in proximity to each other. That it’ll wear off. But fuck experience.

This morning she’s wearing my T-shirt, and that always feels good, a girl doing that, and we’re in the kitchen making ourselves some toast and coffee. Gav comes in, ready to go to work. He sees her, raises his eyes, and skulks out. I shout after him, as I don’t want him to feel like a stranger in his own house. — Gav! C’mere!

He sheepishly comes back in. — This is Dianne, I tell him.

Dianne smiles and extends a hand. He shakes it and he has some tea and toast with me and, aye, with my girlfriend. But I’ve been thinking about Katrin and about what to tell Dianne. It’s still on my mind as I leave her and head into town.