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Ali snaps at him: — What are you saying? It’s the first time I’ve heard
you
admit that that baby existed! You treated Lesley like shit!

— She was fucking shit . . . couldnae look eftir a bairn, Sick Boy says, shaking his head.

Ali sits in open-mouthed incredulity as I struggle myself tae think ay something tae say.

Sick Boy looks at her as if ready to dispatch an important lesson. — Tell you what but, Ali, I’m no trying tae be wide, but you’re the fucking same. If ye stey wi Murphy that bairn ay yours’ll be taken intae care, nowt surer. That’s if the poor wee cunt’s no already crawling wi the vir . . .

— FUCK OFF, YA RADGE! Alison screams, throwing the brandy in his face. He blinks and wipes himself with his shirtsleeve. She stands above him for a moment or two, curling her fists into balls, and then she storms out the door, Dianne rising and following her.

A girl from behind the bar, the one who poured the brandies, comes over with a cloth to help Sick Boy. — She’ll be back, he says, and there’s almost sadness in his voice. Then he adds with a smile: — She works for me and she needs the money!

He knocks back the brandy. In a bizarre fear that makes me queasy, I keep looking to the door, waiting for Franco to come in. The situation is so desperate that his appearance seems almost inevitable. I was scared, not for myself, no with all this ching in me, but for Dianne. That fuckin Forrester creep and his arse-licking mooth. Just seein that cunt at the Port Sunshine set ma fuckin teeth oan edge. Odds on he’ll be hunting for Begbie to blab to him about me being around. Then I’m thinking that if Sick Boy’s powers have waned, Franco’s might have too. In my mind’s eye I see the upturned palm of my hand, rocketing into Franco’s nose, pushing it up into his brain.

Dianne comes back in but without Alison. — She jumped in a taxi, she explains, adding, — I’d like to go now.

— Sure, I said, knocking back the short. As I looked at her, she appeared not so much uncomfortable or disapproving as bored, and I was impressed by that. I thought about how she didn’t need this shite. I cough out my excuses and we make to leave. Sick Boy doesn’t protest at our departure. — Tell Nikki to bell me, he urges, his teeth white and prominent, a grinning caricature of himself.

We get out and over to Hunter Square and into a waiting taxi. My pulse throbs uncomfortably with the gear. I’m as high as a kite and we’re going nowhere. I know that I’ll lie in bed next to her like a surfboard, or sit up watching crap telly all night at Gav’s till the rushes run down.

Dianne’s not saying anything but I realise that, for the first time, I’ve fucked her off. I’m not getting into that habit. After a while the silence becomes uncomfortable and I’m moved to break it. — Sorry, love, I say.

— Your mate’s a cunt, she tells me.

I’ve never heard her use that word before, and somehow it doesn’t sound right coming from her lips. Fuck me, I’m getting old. This gear used to make me feel invincible, like there was an iron rod running through me. That rod’s still present, it’s just that now it also seems to highlight the condition of the flesh around it: old, chicken-scraggy, crumbling and, above all, mortal.

The taxi cruises past the Meadows and I see Begbie at least three times before we get to Tollcross.

63

‘. . . if only you’d ease up a little . . .’

H
ere I am, at the sauna I said that I wouldn’t go back to. And here Bobby is, hassling me again. That’s the thing with them, the predators, whether old or young, handsome or ugly; they are fucking relentless or, rather, relentless about fucking. He’s keeping me on because he likes me, he tells me. It’s true; my massage technique is rudimentary and I still can’t give a decent handjob, but most of the clients are too desperate to notice my apathy and my lack of technical ability. But now Bobby reckons that it’s time I was graduating from jerking off cock to sucking it.

— The customers like you. Ye should be makin proper money, hen, he tells me.

It’s too strange to try to explain that I do more than that with boyfriends and I do it occasionally with strangers in front of cameras. Why the reticence about a quick blow job behind closed doors at ‘Miss Argentina’? Firstly, I don’t want the areas of my life which are free from commercial sex transactions to recede any further than they already have. Everything in its place and a place for everything, as my dad says. There’s other things to do and to think about doing all day besides sucking cock.

Secondly, sad but true, most of the clients are fucking dogs, and even the thought of putting their genitals in your mouth is way beyond repulsive.

Bobby, to his great credit, seems to have enough aesthetic and business sense to know that his own presence at what he calls ‘the front of the house’ lowers the tone. On the subject of lowered tones, I mention that I know Mikey Forrester. His countenance takes on a hostile hue and he replies: — He’s a clart. A villain, a junky. He runs a knocking shop, a cesspit, no a sauna. Tars us aw wi the same brush.

— I’ve never seen his massage parlour.

— Massage parlour, ma arse! He’s nae discretion, thir’s no even any attempt tae gie massages. The lassies thaire widnae ken whit a massage wis! Deals drugs openly, cocaine. If ah hud ma wey scum like that wid be closed doon. Naw, they’d be jailed! Then he drops his voice in grave, confidential seriousness. — You shouldnae be hinging aboot wi that crowd, nice lassie like you. Yir askin fir bother. Thir’s one thing aboot that bunch: sooner or later thi’ll drag ye doon tae thair level. Tell ye that fir nowt.

I think:
they already have
, as I smile politely. Nobody seems to like Mr Forrester and I’m sure it’s deserved. When I get back home, I mention this to Mark, who’s in the kitchen with Dianne cooking a pasta dish. He throws his head back and laughs. — Mikey . . .

— Is this the pimp? Dianne asks.

— He runs a sauna, I say. — Not the one I work at, I add hastily.

— Could I talk to him sometime? For my dissertation? she asks.

Mark can’t hide his distaste at the very thought of it. — I don’t really know him, I tell her. Then I turn to Mark. — I recall that there seemed to be a bit of a clash between you two back at the pub?

— Mikey and I will never be on each other’s Christmas card list, Mark grins, scooping some chopped onions, garlic and peppers into a frying pan and stirring frantically as they sizzle. He turns to Dianne and me, and, as if reading our thoughts, laughs: — If you could conceive of either of us ever having one.

I don’t think Mikey, or any of my new friends for that matter, are likely to figure on Bobby’s Christmas shopping list. I probably will though. With Simon now
persona non grata
, I’ve been spending more time at the sauna, working as many shifts as I can get, trying to get more cash together. I don’t want to ask Simon, as his ostracism since the film debacle has been complete and all-embracing: in Wildean terms, he’s been eating his chop alone. To show solidarity with my fellow sex workers, I’ve been ignoring his phone messages: strange, disturbing affairs, which indicate that he’s becoming slightly unhinged. Of course, the unspoken pact between Mark and me is how we have to limit our estrangement from him. After all, we are partners in the scam.

Mark and him have such a strange relationship, friends, yet who seem to openly despise each other. While we’re eating the lasagne – me, Dianne, Lauren and Mark – I can’t help sounding off about him. I’m ranting about his tightness with money and his duplicitousness. Mark just says quietly, in the face of my rage: — It’s always better to get even than angry.

He has a point, but I have to admit though, that for all my bluster, my hostility to Simon is waning dangerously. I miss the intrigue. Lauren, by contrast, still lets her hatred for him rage like a furnace. — He’s a user, Nikki, I’m glad you’re not getting back to him. He’s deranged, listen to him when he leaves those strange messages on the voicemail. Don’t call him, she coughs, in a terrible, rasping hack. Lauren sounds and looks, awful.

Even Dianne, who never criticises anybody or interferes in their business, is moved to remark: — I don’t think that’s such a bad idea, then turning to Lauren asks: — Have you got the flu?

— It’s just a cough, Lauren says, then turns to me and says: — You’re too good for him, Nikki.

After a bit Lauren takes some Lemsip and goes to her bed, really looking terrible, and then Mark and Dianne head off, I don’t know where, probably back to Mark’s for a shag. As the evening draws in I’m reading, for pleasure, rather than labouring at the sausage machine of academia. I’m so relieved to have finished those exams. As I enjoy
Captain Corelli’s Mandolin
, stroking Zappa who’s curled onto my lap, I’m trying not to think about Simon when I reread the passage where Corelli makes his first appearance. It’s stupid, the character is nothing like him . . . it’s just . . . it’s been a week now.

There’s a bang on the door and I start, making poor Zappa fly off me in fright. I’m nervous and elated because I know it’s him. It has to be. I head down the hallway to the door, playing daft games with myself, ‘if it is him we’re meant to be together’ games, hoping it is and it isn’t at the same time.

It is. His eyes widen as I open the door, but his lips stay tight. — Nikki, I’m sorry. I’ve been a bit selfish. Can I come in?

It seems to me that in my sexual life of a decade or so, I’ve been through this a million times. — Why, I say coldly, — I suppose you just want to talk?

He stuns me with his reply. — No. I don’t want to talk, he says, shaking his head emphatically. It strikes me that Simon looks good; figure quite trim, sunbed tan prominent, with that slightly crinkled look which can be acceptable in the mature man, if he’s well groomed. — I’ve talked enough, he says, and he wears that hurt, wounded look which you know is a manipulative shield, but . . . — and it’s all been bullshit, he states roundly. — I want to listen. I want to hear you talk. That’s if you think I’m worth talking to, and, to be frank, I wouldn’t blame you at all if you didn’t.

I look back at him, saying nothing.

— Okay, he raises his hands and smiles sadly. — I just wanted to say I’m sorry for all the mess I’ve caused. But I genuinely believed at the time that I was doing everything for the best, he states balefully, before turning and heading back down towards the stairs.

A panic grips me in the chest and I can’t control what I’m about to say. My head’s buzzing, my expectations have been inverted. — Simon . . . wait . . . come in for a bit. I open the door fully and he shrugs and turns around and stands in the doorway, but he makes no attempt to come into the flat.

Instead he raises his hand like a kid at school trying to attract the teacher’s attention. The thing is that it works, I can’t believe it, but this fucking prick actually makes me feel like I want to cuddle him and say ‘there, there, sonny: come to bed, let me fuck you’. — Nikki, I’m trying to straighten myself out, he says, eyes twinkling sadly. — I’m no good to you until I do. I thought that I was further down the road to getting myself sorted than I thought, but I can tell by the look in your eyes that I’ve still got a long way to go.

— Simon . . . I can hear myself bleat, the sound seeming to come from somebody else, — if only you’d ease up a little? Like on the cocaine? It always brings out the worst side of you?

I think about what I’ve just said and it occurs to me in horror that I’ve never known him when he
wasn’t
on the cocaine.

Now is evidently no exception. — Exactly correct, he suddenly barks. Then his eyes go big and soulful again and he says: — Nikki, I’m drowning here. You make me want to be a better person, and with your love, I know I could be that person, he says softly, as I note the beads of drug sweat on his brow.

There’s that horrible-beautiful moment, that bitter-sweet impasse where you know that somebody is bullshitting you but they’re doing it with such panache and conviction . . . no, it’s because they say exactly what you want to hear, need to hear, at that point in time. He’s standing framed by the doorway, his arm extended, with his full weight on it. He’s not like Colin, not like the rest. He’s not like the rest because he’s fucking irresistible. — Come in, I almost whisper.

64

Just Playing

T
he hangover’s pure kickin in n ah’m takin a walk intae toon tae clear the nut. Up past St Andrew’s, whir thir buildin a new bus station. The auld one wis a dump, n the last time ah wis in it wis ages ago. In fact, it wis whin me, Rents, Sick Boy, Franco n Second Prize wir gaun doon tae London, wi aw that smack oan us. Pure paranoia, man, pure paranoia. Healthy stretch fir that yin if collared, too right!

Nae sun, man; the punters are aw wrapped up against the dull drizzle n the cauld wind, but they seem tae be comin at ye fae aw angles wi thir shoapin bags. Aye, that shopping-greed fever is pure in evidence up here the day, man.

Ah’m walkin tae think, man, tae think aboot thon Dostoevsky cat, how it wis the perfect crime. The nippy auld moneylender thit naebody liked, or missed, jist like the dirty nonce Chizzie. Pure baws that wis in the paper, ken, two young boys, Charlie at Nicol’s Bar goes. Bet ye Begbie pure pit the fangs intae ehs neck, man. Naw, Chizzie’ll no be missed, no a beast, jist like a junky willnae. Cause that’s whair the Raskolnikov cat messed up. Eh wis still aroond, still in the basket n ready tae crack under the psychological pressure, cause eh killed somebody else. Bit ah’ll no be aroond tae crack up, this crime’ll no benefit me, it’ll benefit the nearest n dearest.

Ah finds masel in Rose Street n ah sees um; eh’s aw excited, ehs hands ur swingin aboot n ehs heid goes back in a big horsey laugh. Now eh’s hudin ehs side wi one hand n the other’s gaun roond this lassie’s shoodir.

Been tryin tae contact the boy oan ehs mobby, git a beer, tell um thit ah need Zappa back cause ah miss the gadge. Rents’ bird and that lassie Sick Boy’s hinging out wey; they’ve got him. Aye, they’re a really close foursome n aw that shite. Mind you, ah cannae see Rents n ehs bird gaun in fir aw that swingin stuff, but ye never know. Rents mibee, aye, bit the lassie seems a bit straight fir that. Ye think: mibee aye, mibee naw. Thing is, Rents kent this wee honey back in the day, ah’m sure ay it. Now thir walkin airm in airm thegither. Rents disnae seem tae care, or believe the danger aboot the Beggar. Probably disnae even ken the rumours aboot what happened tae Chizzie.