— I could have made a lot more if I’d been allowed to invest my money my way!
— Impossible tae predict that for sure. Investments can go south as well as north.
He stuffs the envelope in his jacket. — What about the masters ay Seven Rides for Seven Brothers?
— Fuck knows. But a fifteen-year-old scud film willnae be worth much.
— Hmmph, he grunts and looks over to his table. — Well, thank you for the money and about fucking time n aw. But this is a social occasion. He points tae the door. — Now go.
— Well, I’ll have a little roast beef and watch the game, at least the first half, if it’s all the same tae you, I smile. — I did purchase a hospitality package, and it’s been a long time since I saw the Hibbies in action. And aren’t ye just a wee bitty curious as to why I’m daein this now?
Sick Boy rolls his eyes in concession and nods tae the group of Terry and the lads. — Yes. Okay. Just don’t expect me tae listen tae any fucking AA/NA tale of woe and step-working, debt-paying bullshit, he says, as we step ower and settle down to join the others.
That pre-emptive speech is useful as that was exactly where I had planned tae start. I’m introduced tae Sick Boy’s son and nephew, and Terry’s two lads. All of them seem nice, normal young guys. But I suppose we did at that age to outsiders. We have a decent meal, a comic tells some gags, then gaffer Alan Stubbs gives his view of the game, before we head into the stand to watch it from nice foam-cushioned seats. My back aches a little, but it’s not too bad. I’m sat next tae Sick Boy. — Well, he says, his voice low as he taps his inside pocket, — what’s the story? Why this? Why now?
I like the look ay the Hibs midfielder McGinn. Unusual running style, but keeps the baw well. — Begbie, I met him on a flight to LA. Seen him over there a few times since. We’re sort of mates again. I had him at our club night in Vegas. He invited me back to his exhibition.
It might have been ‘Begbie’ but it’s more likely ‘club night’, ‘Vegas’ and ‘exhibition’ that ensures I have his full attention. – You’re hanging out with that fuckin psycho? After what he tried tae dae… Sick Boy pauses as Hibs attack the Raith goal, orchestrated by McGinn.
— No. That’s it. He really has fucking changed.
Sick Boy cracks a high-wattage grin. He points tae a foul on a Hibs player and elbows his son. — The butchers of Kirkcaldy, he snorts. Then he turns back tae me. — This art shite he got intae? You dinnae think for a second that that headcase has genuinely rehabilitated? He’s playing you. Waiting for his moment to strike!
— Not the vibe I get.
— Then I’m delighted for him.
— Ah offered him the money. He refused. The bastard is married tae a Californian beauty. Eh’s got two lovely wee daughters, who dote on him, and whom he gets tae watch grow up. I seldom see my boy.
Sick Boy shrugs, but fixes me a look ay understanding. He drops his voice tae a whisper. — Tell me about it. So we both fell a bit short in the paternal stakes, he thieves a quick glance at his son, — what of it?
— So how the fuck did Begbie become the success story?
Sick Boy openly scoffs, in that imperious disdain, which nobody else I’ve run into in life has ever been able tae emulate. — You must have money! You wouldnae be handing this over if ye wirnae extremely flush. He taps inside his pocket. — Clubs? Vegas? Dinnae come oot wi aw that shite and plead poverty!
So I tell him about my job and DJ Technonerd’s breakthrough.
— So you’re coining it in fae they fucking shit EDM DJs? These drum machine and stylophone wankers?
— Not really. Only one ay them makes serious dough. One is a charity case, call me sentimental, but I’ve always liked his shit. The other is a speculative punt, which doesnae look like coming off. That duo cost me practically everything I earn with the big payer and I’m too much ay a sap tae drop them. I’m looking for a fourth and fifth one. I thought, instead ay being a DJ myself, if I managed five at twenty per cent each, it would be just the same. I’ve got three so far.
Sick Boy is unmoved by my disclosure. He evidently thinks my penury pleas are simply about avoiding any mair hassle n hustle. — I read about that Dutch fucker, Technonerd. That cunt’s minted. If you’re on twenty per cent ay his earnings…
— Okay, I’ve a place in Amsterdam and an apartment in Santa Monica. I’m not starving. I’ve a few bob in the bank that I haven’t spunked on guilt money for you, treatment and care for the boy.
— What’s wrong wi the laddie?
— He’s autistic.
— Wee Davie… the spazzy gene? he thinks out loud, in reference tae ma deceased younger brother. His son and nephew turn round briefly.
Anger rises in ays and I fight it doon and look disparagingly at him. — You’re already making me regret this, I nod tae the envelope bulging in his pocket.
— Sorry, he says, and it seems semi-gracious, — can’t be an easy gig. So why are ye sorting me out now?
— I want tae live. As in live, I emphasise, and Vicky’s face, laughing, toothsome and blue-eyed, sweeping back stray strands of sun-bleached blonde locks that have escaped their penning, pops into my brain. — Not just exist, I contend as the half-time whistle goes. — Clear away aw the shit fae the past.
— So it is all about rehab case atonement.
— In a sense, yes. It gets too much carrying the burden of cuntishness around.
— Advice: Catholicism. Confession, he says. — Better a few quid on a collection plate than ninety grand, and he tips me a wink, tapping his pocket.
We head back inside for our half-time cups of tea and beers and decent meat pies. Sick Boy and I again hit the bar tae blether in conspiracy. — You seem to be doing okay. Better than me, he moans. — Fucking travel everywhere. I never get out ay London unless it’s on holiday.
— If you have loads ay girls working for you…
— They make the big bucks, no me. I just hook them up on the app. Dinnae come it, Renton. You’re the one with the dosh.
— Stuck on planes, in airports and in hotels, with nowt tae dae but lament how life’s passing ays by. I’m wasting that most finite resource: time, chasing the dream that fucking Begbie is living! I suddenly erupt. — He’s refusing tae take his money, what the fuck is aw that about?
— He’s no changed, Sick Boy spits. — He’s just fucking with you. Begbie is incapable ay change. He’s a warped specimen of humanity.
— I don’t even care what he is. I just want tae morally discharge ma obligations.
— You’ll never morally discharge your obligation tae me, Renton. He taps his pocket. — This shite doesnae even start tae cover it.
— The film is completely worthless.
— I’m talking about Nikki. You ruined my chances of getting together with a girl I was nuts about!
Nikki was a con artist who took the pish out ay us both. And I dinnae believe for a second that he still gies a toss aboot her. It’s aw leverage for future manipulation. — Wake up, mate. She fucked us both over.
Sick Boy seems tae swallow a moothfae ay something that’s unpleasant, but perhaps no quite as putrid as he anticipated. We go back tae our seats for the second half.
— Listen, I’ve goat some business fir ye. I need an escort, I tell him, watching his eyes widen. — Not for me, I hasten tae add. I’m trying to be un-sleazy.
— I’m sure that’s working for you.
— It’s for my young Dutch boy. The DJ.
He looks towards his young nephew. — Can these retards not get a fucking ride for themselves?