The deal done, he says, — Where is that cokehead bum N-Sign? Why do you persist with him?
— History, mate, I shrug. I should tell Conrad to mind his own business, but I’m desperate he doesn’t go the way of Ivan. And it is his business, as I’m booking Carl gigs on his undercard.
As we wait for our luggage to come onto the belt, a text from the cunt himself: no Carl, but Begbie.
When r u next in Embra?
You never know if he’s being ironic or dyslexic.
Hogmanay. N-Sign playing.
Would you, Spud, Sick Boy and Second Prize be up for an art project? I want to make casts of your heads.
Can’t speak for them, but count me in. Saw Spud, hoping to see Sick Boy Hogmanay.
Sound. Can u do 3 Jan?
Aye.
Conrad gets an Uber to the hotel, on his own, after I explain that I’m meeting my girlfriend. — Dude, he smiles.
When I get back to the apartment to hook up with Vicky, she’s so pleased to see me, and me her. I’m thinking about Marianne and what the fuck was I doing? Maybe it was something that had to happen. To get it out my system, so I can move on with her now.
After we go out for a meal with her friends Willow and Matt, we head home and are at it like knives. I feel a sort of twang and Vicky feels it too, but we only pause for a second, before finishing. We find that the condom has split. It has rolled down the shaft of my cock, splattered in a mix of spunk and thick menstrual blood; her period has started. I’m relieved but she nonetheless goes for the morning-after pill. — I want to be double-treble sure, I’m just so not a mother, Vicky smiles cheerfully.
We fall back into the bed, and for a brief second I hear Marianne’s nagging voice: I don’t shag around. I haven’t fucked anyone in months. With her being privy to Sick Boy’s movements, I’m just not convinced. But it’s drowned out by Vicky’s appreciative contentions. — It’s great being with you. I’ve dated boys, nice boys, but boys. It’s good to be with a man.
I feel the vice of guilt. I’ve always enjoyed boyishness, never striven for maturity. Manhood is an ill-fitting cloak on my shoulders, like being dressed by somebody else. But my euphoria breaks its constraints: there is more than one type of man. — You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long, long time, I confess to her. We share a wow look; acknowledgement that we’re spinning into something and it feels good and right.
Then, of course, I have to leave her. When I get back to Edinburgh, without the smoothing pills, my fatigue is jaggy and acute. Thankfully Carl has not too bad coke, and the home crowd inspires him to play a decent set at Hogmanay. As well as Marina and her boyfriend Troy, I have a twitching Spud and a jovial Gavin Temperley with me in the main guest box. One is skeletal, the other now a fat bastard. In the next box my auld pal Rab Birrell, with his brother Billy, who used to be the boxer. Both look well. It’s good to see them.
Afterwards there’s a party, but I’m no much company, and I dinnae want tae get too fucked up in front of Marina, so I make my excuses and bow out early. I crash at the hotel and sleep like fuck, right through tae the next night. Then I go doon tae Leith and get a wee dram with the old boy for New Year, and he’s made a welcome pot ay stovies.
Then more kip at the hotel and I’m off the next day tae see Hibs. Surprisingly, for a relegated outfit, the club seems a much bigger and more professional operation than ah mind ay it being. The reception area looks like one ay they corporate hotels, and there are now several hospitality suites rather than just the one. — Just gies ays the most expensive package, I tell the woman, who looks at ays like I’m a clown.
— But it’s just for you, right?
I realise how pathetically nae-mates this is sounding. — I’m meeting a Mr Williamson here, it’s a last-minute thing.
— Right… Is it Simon Williamson? There’s a party of six. Would you like tae join them at that table?
— Sound.
I square up on the Visa and head for the stairs. On reaching a reasonably plush dining area, I immediately see Sick Boy, looking much the same, bar the greying locks, sitting wi what appears to be Juice Terry Lawson, still with that corkscrew hair, and four young gadges. I stare at Simon David Williamson, the cavalier shagger ay the Bananay Flats, for a few moments. Yes, the mop has maybe receded a little along with the touches of silver, but he looks well. As I gape, he suddenly rubbernecks. He stares at me in disbelief, then, rising, bellows: — What the fuck are you doing here?!
— Wee word, buddy, I say, nodding tae Terry. — Tez. You huvnae changed much! Got tae be fifteen years, easy, I consider, remembering the last time I saw Terry was when we made that dodgy scud film. He had a terrible accident where he ruptured his cock.
— Aye, he smiles, and he kens exactly what I’m thinking, — one hundred and ten per cent recovery!
We exchange pleasantries for a few moments, but I can feel the seethe of Sick Boy, who grabs my wrist and ushers me ower tae the bar. When we get there, I dump the envelope in front ay him. He has zero reticence about immediately snatching it. Snidely looking inside, he discreetly counts it, hudin it close tae his chest, eyes gaun fae the money tae me, tae the people in the vicinity, in an almost Dickensian parody ay furtive greed.
Finally he lets those blazing lamps rest on me. I’ve forgotten the hurt, questioning, accusation they permanently carry. With an injured pout, he declares, — You ripped me off not once, but twice. The cash I can get past, but you stole the film! I put my heart and soul into that movie! You and that fucking bitch Nikki and that stuck-up hoor Dianne –
— They shafted me as well. I went back tae the Dam with my tail between my legs.
— I came looking for you there!
— I figured ye might, so I moved out of town for a bit. Den Haag. It was a little dull.
— Very fucking wise, I can tell you! he hisses, but he’s looking in the package again. He’s impressed and cannae even hide it. — Never thought you’d pay me back.
— It’s all there. You should’ve been after Nikki and Dianne for most of it, but I decided tae compensate ye on their behalf.
— That doesn’t sound like you! You must be fucking off-the-charts wealthy. All that NA stuff works for rich bastards, who think they can buy their way oot ay the misery they’ve created!
This cunt has loast nane ay his natural outrage. — Well, there it is. I’m happy to take it back –
— You can get tae fuck!
— Good, cause it’s aw yours. Now you can expand Colleagues.
His eyes bulge, his voice goes to a low growl. — What do you know about Colleagues?
I decide it isnae a good idea tae mention Marianne. — Only what your impressive website tells ays. ‘Ambitious plans for expansion,’ it says.
— Well, yes, naturally. ‘We plan to tread water’ doesn’t really impress, he sneers, looking over at the fellow hospitality diners in contempt.
Ah watch Terry back at the table, taking a keen interest. Sick Boy clocks this n aw, dispensing a quick scowl, then pointedly turning his back to him. As he faces ays, I explain, — The best online calculations for sixty grand in the year 1998 range fae eighty-three thousand seven hundred and seventy quid tae one hundred thousand and nine hundred nicker. Ah split the difference at ninety-one thousand and eighty pounds using a single purchasing power calendar application.