Carra shakes her head. She’s heard versions of this over the years. — I don’t believe you, she says, her voice rising. — So all this mess is my son’s fault?
— No. It’s society’s fault. It’s the pace of technological change, I advance, but I now have a sense of her shepherding the ball harmlessly out of play for a goal kick. If I can just get a leg in… — But Ross was its conduit in inflicting pain on this family. Our social mores haven’t developed to keep pace with the Internet, the digital revolution, the iPad and the Cloud, thus our cognitive dissonance.
Carlotta takes a step back. Looks at me as if I’m a dangerous specimen on the wrong side of the zoological bars. — You are a total fucking bastard, she gasps. — You wreck people’s lives tae gie yirsel cheap thrills!
The younger Williamson lassie cannot be written off on the counter… — Look, sis, let’s not point fingers. It does naebody any good.
She steps forward, and I think she’s going to punch me. Instead she shakes her fists like maracas. — It’s always let’s no point fingers when it’s you that’s tae blame!
I have to pull something out of the hat here. Attack is usually the best form of defence. — I’m forever taking stock of my life, especially at this very reflective time of year. Am I blameless? No, very far from it. I fold my arms across my chest. Carlotta has never gotten physically violent before, but these are uncharted emotional waters. I decide to amp it up. — But please, dinnae fuckin gies it that this is aw ma fault, I say, getting into outrage mode. — Dinnae hit ays wi that pish, that old let’s-exonerate-everybody-but-Simon approach. As a tactic it must have prima facie appeal, but it’s disingenuous and waaay too convenient. The moon is not made of green cheese!
Carra’s eyes are like a Rottweiler’s balls. — What are you fuckin talkin about?! Do you even live in the same fuckin world as the rest ay us?! Her breathing is thin and she’s having palpitations.
I go to embrace her. — Carra… la mia sorellina…
She pushes me back, both her palms slapping into my chest. — MA HUSBAND IS MISSING AND MA SON IS IN PIECES, and now her fists pound me. One hits the spot below the ribcage where Syme’s well-placed thug-blow struck, and I stumble. — BECAUSE AY YOU! YOU FIND HIM! YOU BRING HIM BACK!
— Chill, sis, I’m on it, and I pick up my phone and look at my calls list and my text from Vic with the emoticon.
Then Carlotta, compulsively checking emails on her own phone, starts to suddenly shriek. — AH DINNAE BELIEVE IT! She looks at me, in shock. — It’s fae Euan…
— That’s good, I knew he’d eventually come to his senses and get in touch.
— But he’s… he says he’s in FUCKIN THAILAND!
Just then, a text from Syme jumps in.
No word from the surgeon boy?
I groan out loud, and we both say at the same time, — What the fuck are we going to do?
Then Ben comes in from the back, contentment scored on his face. I don’t know how much he’s heard of our little shouting match, but he seems laconic about it.
— I know that look of love, I tease, as Carlotta removes herself forcibly from the room. — Who’s the lucky lady?
— I’m not a kiss-and-tell sort. The boy gives me a bashful smile. All of a sudden, I protectively want him back in Surrey, away from all the shit that’s going on around me.
7
RENTON – SICK BOY PAYBACK
It’s a clear, crisp day, as I look out onto the Royal Mile. My cup twitches and rattles as I lower it tae my saucer, like I’ve a nervous disease. I cannae keep jumping on long-haul flights, the jet lag is destructive. I’ve sacked the Ambien, Xanax and Vallies but I barely trust myself tae sugar this tea. I cannae go on like this.
It was tough leaving Vicky. We’ve amped it up; both now that hungry, excited, stupid way ye are when ye meet somebody you’re really into. I think I might have fallen in love at some point; perhaps when I said that I’ll never forgive the Muslim extremists for 9/11, because it made it so much harder to move drugs around, and consequently made my life as a DJ manager mair difficult. She looked at me sadly and said that her cousin had worked in the World Trade Center and died in the terrorist attack. I gasped in horror and coughed out apologies, before she laughed and told me she was winding me up. Hard no tae love a lassie like that.
Now she’s in LA and I’m in a cafe in cauld and frosty Edinburgh. People walk past, bleary. Global commercialism has compelled the Scots tae pretend tae like Christmas, but we’re genetically programmed tae rebel against it. Ah come oot in a rash if I’m stuck in a hoose wi family for more than two days. New Year is more our natural speed. Not that I’m looking out the windae too much, because the view inside isnae so bad. Marianne always was a very good-looking girl, a pouty, superior, willowy blonde; athletic-slim, with ersecheeks like a superhero’s biceps. She had the world at her feet, but was burdened by a fatal flaw: she was besotted with Sick Boy. Of course the cunt ruined her life. But she’ll probably ken where he is or be able tae find him. I got her number through Amy Temperley, a mutual friend fae Leith, and we hook up at this cafe on the Royal Mile.
My initial thought: fuck me, Marianne has aged spectacularly well. Those Scando-Scot genes don’t bloat and her skin has remained excellent. She’s guarded at first. No wonder. I’m fucking guarded too. I ripped Sick Boy off for a lot more than that three-point-two grand, which I paid him back during the porno-flick era. That repayment was just a set-up, tae dae him out ay sixty grand, back in 1998, which is about ninety-one grand now. But I only did this because he tried tae steer Begbie onto ays as revenge for initially ripping him off. And I also snaffled the masters of the pornographic film we made. It’s complicated. — So you want to pay him this money back? Marianne says doubtfully. — After all this time?
Ah think she’s aboot tae tell ays tae fuck off, so I add, — I just want tae let go ay the past and move on.
A light clicks on behind her eyes. — Didn’t you try Facebook?
— I’m not on social media myself, but ah did have a look. Couldnae find him.
She scrolls on her phone, and hands me it. — He’s not under his own name. This is his escort agency.
The Facebook page links tae a website. The Colleagues.com mix of nudge-nudge, wink-wink innuendo, coupled wi a corporate eighties business-speak, replete wi motivational poster sloganeering, give ays absolutely zero fuckin doubt that the copy was written personally by him. — Sick Bo — Simon, he runs this escort agency?
— Aye, Marianne says, taking her phone back and checking it.
In spite ay myself, ah feel a warm glow in my chest, followed by a surge ay excitement. The dynamic between Sick Boy and me always veered towards the destructive, but it was seldom boring. I’m inexplicably chuffed tae get the details. Marianne then says, wi a certain impatience, — Do you want to get a proper drink?
Did I want to get a proper drink? I’m thinking about Vicky. But what are we? Is the connection all in ma mind? I don’t even know whether she would be hurt and offended if I slept with somebody else, or laugh in my face for being so ridiculous. I hear my treacherous words slide out: — We can go back tae my hotel if ye fancy it.
Marianne says nothing but she gets up. We head out, and walk side by side, down Victoria Terrace, her heels gunfiring across the Grassmarket cobblestones. We pass a pub that has probably changed its name a million times, but I recall that bands used to play there in my youth.