Frank Begbie’s protracted yawn signals that, like Renton, he fights jet lag from a long-haul air journey. Sick Boy is evidently vexed, glancing intermittently from the door to the clock on his phone. He decided to come on the basis that being seen with Begbie might give him some leverage with Syme. Already it feels like a mistake. — Where’s Spud? Probably just coming fae a fucking bench in Pilrig Park, and of course, he’s the one who’s late!
Renton notes Sick Boy’s nervousness in the presence of Begbie. He hasn’t engaged with him, beyond a perfunctory handshake and nod. — Nae word fae Second Prize? Renton asks.
Sick Boy rolls his shoulders in a ‘search me’ manner.
— I had assumed he’d drunk himself to death, or, even worse, met a nice lassie, settled doon and got lost in Gumleyland, Renton smiles. — He was a bit ay a Holy Joe the last time I saw him.
— That’s a shame, Franco says, — I wis gaunny call this piece Five Boys. I wanted tae show the journey we’ve aw been on.
It is the un-Franco-like word journey that instantly compels an exchange of doubtful glances between Sick Boy and Renton. Frank Begbie catches this and seems about to say something, but then Spud walks in. Just by regarding his bedraggled, wasted figure, Renton feels his own exhaustion peeling away. Spud’s clothing is tatty, but while his face is wizened, his eyes blaze. His movements are at first deliberate, but then break into short, uncontrollable spazzy jerks. — Here we go, Sick Boy announces.
— Sick… Simon… long time. Hi, Mark. Franco…
— Hi, Spud, Renton says.
– Sorry tae be late, boys. Franco, good tae see ye. Last time wis at yir laddie’s funeral but, ay? That wis awfay sad, ay?
Renton and Sick Boy look at each other again, this obviously being news to both of them. Franco, however, remains unruffled. — Aye, Spud, good tae see you n aw. Thanks.
Spud continues rambling, with Renton and Sick Boy trying to work out what drugs he’s ingested. — Aye, ah’m sorry tae be late, man, ah pure goat involved cause ah ran intae this boy, Davie Innes, you’ll ken the boy, Franco, Jambo, but a good lad, likesay –
— Nae worries, mate, Frank Begbie cuts him off. — As ah say, I appreciate you daein this, and he turns to Sick Boy and Renton. — That goes for youse n aw.
It is unnerving for them all to hear Franco express gratitude, and an uncomfortable silence follows. — I’m kind of flattered, Franco… or, eh, Jim, Renton ventures.
— Franco’s fine. Call ays what ye want.
— Mibbe call ye Beggars, Franco, Spud laughs, as Renton and Sick Boy freeze in horror. — Wi nivir called ye that tae yir face but, ay, lads, mind we were ey too feart tae say ‘it’s the Beggar Boy!’ tae Franco’s face? Ken?
— Aw ye did, did yis? Frank Begbie says, turning to Renton and Sick Boy who stare at the floor for an excruciating moment. Then he laughs loudly, a blustering guffaw, which shocks them in its hearty joviality. — Aye, ah could be a wee bit uptight back then!
They look at each other and explode into a joint, cathartic laughter.
When it dies down, Renton asks, — But why do ye want tae make casts ay our ugly mugs?
Franco sits back on one of the workbenches and looks wistful. — Us and Second Prize, we aw grew up thegither. Wi Matty, Keezbo and Tommy, who are obviously oot the picture.
Renton feels a lump in his throat at the mention of those names. Sick Boy’s and Spud’s gleaming eyes tell him that he’s not alone.
— My art stuff’s in demand right now, Frank Begbie explains, — so I wanted tae dae a kind ay early autobiographical piece. Aye, I was gaunny call it Five Boys, but I think Leith Heads should dae it.
— Sound, Renton nods. — Mind way, way back in the day, there was a chocolate called Five Boys?
— Ye nivir git that Five Boys chocolate any mair. No seen it for donkey’s years, Spud says, his mouth flapping open. He brushes some saliva off his chin with his sleeve.
Sick Boy addresses Franco directly for the first time. — Will this take long?
— About an hour ay yir time, all in, Franco replies. — I know you all have busy lives, and that you and Mark are only here for a short break and probably have family stuff tae dae, so ah’ll no keep youse long.
Sick Boy’s head bobs in accord, and he checks his phone again.
— It’ll no be sair, likesay? Spud asks.
— No. Not at all, Frank Begbie declares, handing them overalls, which they put on, then sitting them down on a set of small swivel stools. He inserts two shortened straws up Spud’s nostrils. — Just relax and breathe easily. This will be cold, he explains, as he starts to paint latex onto Spud’s face.
— It is. N aw sort ay tickly, Spud laughs.
— Try no tae speak, Danny, ah want this tae set right, Frank urges, before repeating the procedure on Renton and Sick Boy. Then he fits a five-sided Perspex box over the head of each man, the edge of the receptacle sitting about an inch shy of any part of the face, lining up the protruding straws to slip through small holes in the front of the box. Through grooves at the bottom, he slides in two adjustable convex-indented leaves. Those join together, forming a base with a hole that fits snugly around each man’s neck. — This is the bit that people get edgy aboot, it’s like a guillotine, Franco cackles, to be met with three tight smiles. Checking that each man can breathe freely, he then secures the gaps with putty, and opens the top of the box and starts to pour a preprepared mixture in. — This might feel a bit cauld. There’s a bit ay weight in it, so try and sit up and keep your back straight so that it isnae straining on your neck. It’ll just be on for fifteen minutes, but if ye experience any difficulty breathing, or any discomfort, just raise yir hand and ah’ll open it up.
As the boxes fill up and the compound begins to set, the sounds from outside – the cars in the street, the radio, Franco’s own activities – all fade out in the consciousness of Renton, Sick Boy and Spud. Soon each man can sense only the air entering their lungs through their nostrils, via the straws that poke out from the plaster-filled blocks.
The amalgam solidifies quickly, and Franco removes the Perspex casings and contemplates his old friends: three literal blockheads, sitting next to each other on their stools. Suddenly aware of a tug in his bladder, he heads to the toilets. On the way back, his phone displays MARTIN on caller ID, and he picks up. — Jim, we might have to change venue for the London show. I know you liked that one, but the gallery has suffered some structural problems and the council need them to do work before it’s suitable for the public… Martin’s soft American voice is hypnotic after the grating Scots ringing in his ears, and Franco thinks of Melanie. He finds himself loitering in the corridor, looking out through a dirty window at the narrow cobbled streets below, and the random foot traffic cutting between Leith Walk and Broughton Street.
I put my hand onto my lap to rearrange the erection I feel burgeoning. I don’t want Begbie – a closet homo if ever there was one, this art thing shocks me far less than it does the others – getting the wrong idea! In my mind’s eye, I’m going back to Marianne, pleading undying love, winning her round, setting her up to be fucked by a gang of strap-on-wearing schoolies from her alma matter, Mary Erskine. Ah, the sweet narratives of pornography. I miss them so. That’s creativity, Begbie…