— Tell me about it, I’m his manager. I elaborate on the problem. — Guys like Conrad have nae social skills. They smoke weed and masturbate tae pornography. They can’t talk tae a girl or have sex with a real person.
— Cyberwanking little creeps. These fuckers are mentally ill, Sick Boy whispers, looking again at his nephew, now playing a video game on his phone, — made so by the world we live in.
What he’s saying resonates. The match isnae that bad, and there is something fundamentally wrong about the way the kids are looking at screens instead ay watching what’s going on live.
— Even we’re tainted enough by our immersion into that world, his elbow digs into my ribs, — although we were schooled up the goods yard!
I cannae even say her name tae myself, but I wince as I think ay ma cherry popping inside her piggy-bank fanny. Unable to look her in the face as ah pushed and shoved through her dryness, tae the low-key encouragement of Sick Boy. Ma eyes watering as they focused on the broken glass and gravel around us. The blue sleeve ay her cagoule we lay on blowing up in my face in the wind. A dug barking in the distance, and a disgruntled growl of Dirty wee cunts fae a passing jakey. — Aye… the goods yard.
— You’d have still been a virgin now but for me taking you under my wing, he laughs, picking up on my discomfort.
I’m now favourably recalling the banging I gave Marianne, as the nephew’s head spins round. He meets my eyes, then turns away. I lean in to Sick Boy. — Oh, I’m sure I’d have found a way oot ay that maze, but thank you for inappropriately sexualising me at a tender age.
For some reason, this stings him. — Ye never complained back then!
— But I was sensitive. Sixteen, seventeen, would have been ideal for me. Fourteen was way too young.
— Sensitive… as in thieving-cunt-who-rips-off-his-mates sensitive? That kind of sensitive?
There isnae a great deal I can say tae that. The final whistle blows and Hibs have won 1–0, tae keep the promotion bid on course. Sick Boy shepherds the young lads intae the back ay Terry’s taxi. — You chaps go on ahead, the advance party. Tell Carlotta no tae bother expecting me for dinner, I’ll grab a bite with ma auld mucker here.
The boys, especially Ben, look disappointed, but not surprised, as Sick Boy slams the cab door shut and hands Terry a tenner. — Fuck off, ya daft cunt, it’s oan ma wey, Terry says, then leans out the windae, and oot ay earshot fae the young gadges, whispers, — Anywey, be nice tae check oot your sister again, bud. No seen her in years. Still a looker, ah’m bettin, and now that she’s back oan the market… He tips a wink, leans back and starts up the car.
Sick Boy’s eyes protrude. — She’s no oan –
Terry pulls away, as his horn blares triumphantly.
— Cunt, says Sick Boy, then laughs, — but good luck tae him. Maybe a Lawson length would help sort her heid out. Her husband’s been kicked oot the hoose. He was caught Christmas Day, check this, on video, banging Marianne. Mind ay Maid Marianne, fae back in the day?
I haven’t fucked anyone in months. Fucking bullshit. — Aye… I nod meekly, as we walk across the car park, through the crowds.
— She’s always been disturbed, but has now gone full-on psycho. She would fuck a minging dog in the street these days. I’ll be telling the brother-in-law tae get checked up, especially if he manages tae get back wi ma sis, he sings, as we cross the Bridge of Doom. — Remember some ay the ambushes here, back in the day? he says, as I feel a phantom itch pepper my genitals. Paranoia rips out of me. Vicky…
He’s still slavering away as we go on to Easter Road. Everywhere seems replete with rich memory. We head down Albert Street. I’m thinking of Seeker’s flat where we got the skag, the Clan Bar opposite, now shut, and we head to Buchanan Street, where Dizzy Lizzie’s pub has been resurrected as a slightly higher-end concern. It actually has drinkable beer now. The barmaid is familiar, and she greets us wi a big smile. — Lisa, my lovely, Sick Boy says, — two pints ay that wonderful Innis & Gunn lager please!
— Coming up, Simon. Hi, Mark, long time no see.
— Hi, I say, suddenly remembering where I ken her fae.
We find a corner and I ask him, — Is that what’s-her-name?
— The Ghastly Aftermath, yes, that’s her, and we share a childish chuckle. She got that name fae a TV advert for washing-up liquid. A posh, hung-over hostess facing a sink full ay dirty dishes exclaims, ‘I love parties, but I hate the ghastly aftermath.’ The Ghastly Aftermath always hung around at the end ay a party. Ye would find her crashed oan the flair, or on a couch, or sitting watching TV and drinking tea, long after every other cunt had fucked off. It wisnae like she was hanging around tae fuck any survivors, and she wasn’t peeving the dregs ay the alcohol or waiting oan new drugs tae arrive. We never quite ascertained what her motivations were.
— Lived at hame wi her ma and wanted tae stay oot as long as possible, Sick Boy decides. — Ever ride her?
— No, I say. I once snogged the Ghastly Aftermath, but that was about it. — You?
He rolls his eyes and tuts in a don’t-ask-silly-questions manner. I insist tae him that I’m no sticking around tae peeve it up, as I’m too fucked wi the jet lag. I should feel a retro loser, but it’s oddly comforting, being here in Leith with Sick Boy. — Do ye get back up the road much?
— Weddings, funerals, Christmas, so yes, loads.
— Ever hear of what happened to Nikki? Or Dianne?
His eyes widen. — So they really did dae a turn on you as well?
— Aye, I admit. — Sorry about the film. Fuck knows what they did with the masters.
— Threw them on a bonfire, no doubt, he says, then suddenly breaks oot intae gallows laughter. — There we were, two scamming Leith schemies, fuckin rinsed like daft cunts by those cold-hearted bourgeois chickies. We were never as streetwise as we imagined, he muses ruefully. — Listen… does Begbie ever mention me?
— Just in passing, I tell him.
— I’ve never telt anybody this, but I went tae see the cunt in hospital; after that car tanned him in, when he was chasing you. He clears his throat. — He was unconscious, in some kind of fucking spazzy coma, so I let rip with a few home truths in the veg’s pus. You’ll never guess what happened next?
— He came out of the coma and grabbed your throat and tore it out?
— Actually, quite fucking close. The bastard opened his eyes and seized me by my wrist. I was shiteing it. Those fucking lamps ay his were a blast ay Hades…
— Fuck sake –
— He sank back into the bed, closed his eyes. The hospital staff said it was just some reflexive action. He woke up proper a couple ay days later.
— If he’d been in a coma he wouldn’t be able tae make oot a word you said, I smile. — And if he could and he cared, you’d already be deid.
— I’m not sure, Mark. He’s a maniac. Tread carefully. I’m glad I’m no involved with him any mair. I’ve had considerable personal distress from the spunk-breathed amoeba’s poxy obsessions.
— I’ve another one for ye. He wants to make a cast of our heads. In bronze.
— No fucking way.
I take a long swig of lager and lay the glass slowly on the table. — Don’t shoot the messenger.
Sick Boy’s head rolls slowly, as his eyes half close. — I’m not going anywhere near that fucking psychopath!
8
LEITH HEADS
As Mott the Hoople’s ‘Honaloochie Boogie’ blasts out from a small radio, none of the three men present can quite believe that they are standing in the same room. An artist friend has given Francis Begbie the use of this attic studio, located in a backstreet zone of warehouses near Broughton Street. Despite the abundant light spilling through the glass ceiling from a sliver of blue sky, two sets of untrained eyes, belonging to Renton and Sick Boy, process the space as a small, dingy factory unit. It has a kiln, and a range of industrial equipment, two large workbenches, acetylene torches and gas canisters. Racks on the wall store materials, some of which are marked poisonous and combustible.