Porno (52 page)

Rejection, man.

Then ah sortay look at it again, like. Now ah’m thinkin: but wis it a rejection? Ah mean, the boy says, it took them some time tae decide tae knock it back, ‘eftir some deliberation’ which means, they thought aboot takin it, man. Then, they dinnae want it ‘at the moment’, n that reads tae me like they might want it fir defo in a few weeks’ or mibee a couple ay months’ time. Once the state ay the market changes n aw that.

So ah goes tae the phone n calls the boy up. — Is there an Alan Johnson-Hogg there?

A woman’s voice, no really posh, mair sort ay pit-oan posh, goes: — Who’s calling?

— Eh, I’m a writer he’s expressed an interest in, and I’m, eh, follayin up his correspondence . . . ken?

Well, there’s a bit ay a lull n then this really posh voice comes oan n goes: — Johnson-Hogg. Can I help you?

Posh cats make ays dead nervous if ah stoap n think aboot it, but ah jist goes, naw, n ah pure fires in. — Eh hi, man, ma name’s Murphy, Danny Murphy, bit ah git called Spud, ken? Ah sent ye a manuscript, likes. Ah jist wisnae sure aboot what the letter meant. Ken?

— Ah yes . . . eh sortay sniggers doon the phone, — the History of Leith, wasn’t it?

— Aye . . . ah ken yi’ll think ah’m daft, but ah wis jist, likesay, tryin tae work oot what ye meant in that letter ay yours, man.

— Well, I think it was fairly explicit.

— Ah beg tae differ likes, mate. Cause ye says thit ye dinnae want it
at the moment
. So tae me that means thit ye might want it later. So, likes, when is it thit ye think ye might want it?

Thir’s a sort ay coughin noise oan the line, then the boy speaks. — I’m sorry if I seemed ambiguous, Mr Murphy. To be more frank, it’s quite an immature work, and you’re not really yet up to publishable standard . . .

— What dae ye mean, man?

— Well, the grammar . . . the spelling . . .

— Aye, but are youse no meant tae sort aw that oot?

— . . . to say nothing of the subject matter being not right for us.

— But youse’ve published history books about Leith before . . . ah kin feel ma voice gaun aw high, cause it’s no fair, it jist isnae, it isnae fair, nowt’s fair . . .

— Those were serious works by disciplined writers, the boy sortay snaps, — this is a badly written celebration of yob culture and of people who haven’t achieved anything noteworthy in the local community.

— Whae’s tae say that . . .

— Sorry, Mr Murphy, your book is no good and I have to get on. Goodbye.

And the gadge just hangs up oan ays. Aw they weeks, aw they months, that ah wis kiddin masel ah wis daein somethin important, something big, n what the hell fir? Fir nowt, fir a pile ay useless shite, jist like me.

Ah grab ma original copy ay this rubbish, n stick it the fireplace n set it alight and watch that wee part ay ma life go up in smoke like the rest ay it. Lookin at the flames ah think aboot Chizzie . . . ah kilt Chizzie . . . a bad cat, but eh didnae deserve that, even though it wis Begbie really, it hud tae be Begbie . . . the state eh wis in whin eh came up tae mine that night . . . said eh wis comin fae toon, but ah dinnae believe that . . .

N ah’m pure sittin in here, the cash burnin a hole in ma pockit so ah goes
up
the street, cause Begbie never drinks past Pilrig, n intae the Old Salt, where ah sees Cousin Dode. The poor cat’s looking as doon as me.

Eh’s no as fill ay ehsel as usual, eh looks Donald Ducked. — Ah cannae understand it, Spud. Ah thoat ah hud plenty o’ cash left ower for trades; ah wis plannin tae take muh daughter away. But ah wis brassic, cleaned oot. Ah cannae even afford a week at fuckin Butlins. Now
she’ll
no even lit me see the wean. Ah cannae make the fuckin mortgage, cannae keep up the maintenance payments. Ah knew ah’d been tannin it a bit, but ah’m aboot a grand doon thit ah cannae account fir. It’s fuckin diabolical, cannae even gie the wean hur hoalidays . . .

Poor Dode . . . a good cat likesay, eywis helped ays oot . . . it wis oot ay order tae dae that tae the boy . . . the world wid be a better place withoot useless, scruffy, junky Murphy . . . killer ay Chizzie, destroyer ay Cousin Dode . . . poor Ali . . . wee Andy even . . .

Dode tries tae protest as ah slip um three hundred quid. — Naw, Spud, naw . . .

— Take it, man, ah’m flush the now n you’ve eywis helped me oot, ah say tae the boy n ah cannae look um in the eye as ah head offski.

Ah hear um sayin tae this auld boy: — See that man thair, that man’s a fuckin saint, so eh is . . .

N ah’m thinkin if only eh knew, man, if only eh knew n ah need tae dae one last good thing, man, jist one last good thing . . .

. . . n ah gits hame n the first thing ah sees is that book lyin thair, that
Crime n Punishment
.

62

Whores of Amsterdam Pt 8

I
t was strangely good to see Ali again, here, in the City Café. Strangely, because although we were in the same posse, oan the junk thegither n aw that, we never really hit it off for some reason. I think that she always saw through me, always felt that I was a hypocrite, a winner who played at being a loser. Aye, a bright, upwardly mobile cunt who would one day fuck off and leave a pile of shite behind him for everybody else to clean up. She perhaps grasped my nature before I worked it out myself.

Maybe I surprised her though, sorting out Spud like that. Never thought they’d end up together, although ‘end up’ isnae the right term because it’s no happening just now. — Mark, she says, and embraces me with a simple warmth that makes me feel awkward.

— Hiya, Ali, this is Dianne. — Dianne, this is Simon.

Dianne greets Ali warmly and Sick Boy with more reserve and I’m thinking that my tip-off about him seems to have worked, although she makes her own mind up on such matters. It’s probably more Nikki who’s turned her off him. As he almost pleaded: — Come for a drink in town, Mark, Nikki’s taken the strop. Won’t return my calls. I thought: serves you right, you cunt. It was only when he said he’d bring Ali along that I acquiesced.

— This is cosy, Sick Boy says, — more of the old crew back together. I ought to have invited François along, he sniggers, looking sideways at me. I’m trying not to react. But I’ve been realising that if Begbie’s still as radge as they say (and from what I’ve heard he’s crazier than ever), then my old pal Sick Boy, my business partner, the cunt I squared up with the money, has effectively been trying tae kill me. It goes way beyond treachery, way past revenge. And now he’s buzzing, obviously well coked-up. Ali pulls me aside, but I can hardly hear what she’s saying as I strain to listen tae Sick Boy bending Dianne’s ear. — Nikki speaks very highly of you, you know, Dianne.

— I like her a lot, Dianne says patiently, — and Lauren too.

— That, in rap parlance, is a bitch with problems, Sick Boy sniggers, his shoulders shaking, then he says: — Fancy a toot, Di? I’ll slip you this wrap and you and Ali can go into the little girly-wirlies’ room . . .

— No thanks, Dianne says in a calm, disengaged manner. She doesn’t like Sick Boy. This is fucking great, she genuinely does not like the man one little bit! And now I can see that his powers have waned. The face is fleshier, the sparkle in the eyes less evident, the decisive movements made jerkier and less fluid through . . . age? . . . cocaine?

— Fine by me, Sick Boy grins and raises his palms.

Happy that any mind games he attempts with Dianne will be easily repelled, I can now give Ali my full attention. It’s got to be said, though, that the cunt makes it difficult when I hear him say things to her like: — I don’t think that you can compare a waster like Robert Burns with the great contemporary Scottish poets of today.

Dianne’s shaking her head, staying cool, but reacting nonetheless. — That’s rubbish. Who are the great poets of today? Name me one that’s better than Burns.

Sick Boy shakes his head vigorously and waves a dismissive hand. — I’m Italian, I prefer to think in a feminine way, emotionally, rather than get into all that anal referencing thing that north European men indulge in. I can’t recall the names, don’t want to, but I read a book of modern Scottish poetry once and it shat on anything Burns has ever done.

But it’s obvious by his raised voice and sideways glances that he wants to get me involved, so I’m trying to keep concentrating on Ali and I think she’s got the same idea. — I’ve never seen you look so well, Mark, she says.

— Thanks, I give her hand a squeeze, — and you’re looking fantastic. How’s the bairn?

— Which one? Andy’s fine. The other one I’ve just given up on, she shakes her head sadly.

— Eh’s no back oan the gear again, is eh? I ask, feeling genuinely uneasy at the prospect. He seemed okay when we had that drink, well, wasted, but no skagged. Poor Spud. I’ll never meet a better guy, a more strangely vulnerable but good-hearted man; but he’s been so fucked up for so long it’s like the essence of him is harder to find now, outside of the drugs. The good intentions will still be there, lining the route of his personal journey to Hades. He really is a form of humanity that has been rendered obsolete by the new order, but he’s still a human being. Cigarettes, alcohol, heroin, cocaine, speed, poverty and media mind-fucking: capitalism’s weapons of destruction are more subtle and effective than Nazism’s and he’s powerless against them.

— I don’t know and I’m starting not to care, she says unconvincingly.

Because that’s the problem with that sick fuckin puppy, you do have to care about him, and he’ll just fuck up and fuck you up again. He’s probably caused, in his own way, more hurt than Begbie, Sick Boy, Second Prize and me all put together ever could. And even though I’ve not hung out with him properly for yonks, I know this, I know that he’ll always be the same. But Ali cares alright, that’s why she’s now crushing my hand in the two of hers and I’m seeing the lines around her brown eyes, but they’re still full of fire and she still looks beautiful, yes she does, Ali’s lovely and that should be enough for Murphy. — Speak tae him, Mark. You were his best pal. He’s always looked up to you . . . it’s always been Mark this, Mark that . . .

— Only cause I’ve been away, Ali. It’s no been me as ah am, I’ve jist been a rescue fantasy. I know how he thinks.

She doesn’t even try to contradict this, which is fuckin disturbing. Now I feel guilty that I’m undermining him when I should be sticking up for him. — He’s worse now, Mark. I don’t even think it’s the gear, that’s the saddest thing about it all. He’s just so depressed, his self-esteem is rock-bottom.

— If he doesnae have any self-esteem wi a bird like you on his airm, then he’s crazy, I say, feeling the need to keep things light.

— Exactly! Sick Boy says loudly, cutting in, then turning to her. — I’m glad you and Murphy are history, Ali.

Then, with a sudden violence of movement, he springs to his feet and bounds over to the the jukebox. To my horror he puts on Elvis Costello’s ‘Alison’ and starts looking straight over at her. It’s so fuckin embarrassing, and Dianne and I dinnae ken what the fuck tae dae.

He slides over to the bar and orders a round of brandies and we’re all looking at each other, thinking about running away. Then he moves off towards the toilet, gesturing at me, and I get up and tentatively follow him down, where he’s commandeered a cubicle. — Calm doon thaire, mate, I say as he racks up four lines on the cistern, — you’re embarrassing Ali.

He ignores me then fires back one of the lines. — I’m Italian, I’m fucking passionate. If those cunts out there, those deadbeat Pictish pricks can’t take this passion, then there are plenty pubs in Leith they can drink in. Her and me . . . he snorts another line, — ya fucker . . . her and me . . . whae-hey! . . . Her and me’s a kind of fate. C’mon, Renton, c’moan, pussy-fuckin Dutch boy, stop sticking yir fuckin fingers in a dyke and git these up yir nose . . .

Without thinking, almost by the conditioning of his voice, I snort them, one up each nostril. They are fuckin road markers of lines and I feel my heart thump in my chest like a drum. That was stupid.

— . . . cause she’s getting rode the night. Defo. What dae ye want tae bet that ah ride her? Anything you like. Bog Boy’s no been gieing her the message, another couple ay drinks n she’ll be ganting on it . . . c’mon, watch an expert in action, Rents . . . you never rode her, did ye, back in the day . . . watch this . . .

Cocaine turns men into their worst ever eighteen-year-old incarnations. I’m trying to keep it together, trying the best not to let the drug turn me into
mine
.

He heads over to the bar and I sit down with the lassies, sweating, as he comes across carrying a tray of more brandies and beers. Fuck me, I watch the terror on Dianne and Ali’s coupons as he sets down the drinks. — Ah don’t wanna get too sentimental, he croons and winks at her, — Spud and you is no-go, Ali. It was always you and me, he said, handing round the glasses.

Ali is angry but she’s trying to keep it light. — Oh aye, so ye could put me on the game?

— When did ah ever try that wi you, Ali? Always treated ye like a lady, Sick Boy grins.

Dianne nudges me. — Did you take some cocaine?

— Just a wee line tae stop him fae being a pest, I whisper lamely through clenched teeth.

— Certainly worked, she says caustically.

In the meantime, Sick Boy’s probing away at Ali, his face puppet-like. — Didn’t I? Didn’t I?

— Only cause ye kent ah’d tell ye tae fuck off, Ali says, raising her glass.

Then, with a tight smirk, he says: — Ah don’t think you ever forgave me for gittin that Lesley up the duff.

Ali and I can scarcely believe he’s saying this. Lesley’s baby daughter Dawn died of cot death years back, and this is the first time we’ve heard him admit that the bairn was his.

He seems to realise that he’s said something, and a trace of mild regret flickers across his face before it’s extinguished by a cruel sneer. — Aw aye, ah hear fae Skreel that she’s married a straight-peg. Aw intae suburban life. Two kids. Like our daughter, our wee Dawn, never even fucking existed, he spits in disgust.