…the good stuff you seem tae have less time for, and you find yourself constantly drowning in the bullshit, so ye start no tae gie a fuck about other people’s crap – it just overwhelms you if ye gie it the space – you kick back and watch Pop Idol – ironically of course, with lashings of haughty, critical disdain – and sometimes, just sometimes, it can’t quite blank oot a strange overwhelming silence, and there it is, a little hiss in the background – that’s the sound of your life force draining away –
– listeeeeeennnn –
– it’s the sound of you dying – you’re a prisoner of your own self-confirming, self-restraining algorithms, allowing Google, Facebook, Twitter and Amazon to bind you up in psychic chains and force-feed you a crappy, one-dimensional version of yourself, which you embrace as it’s the only affirmation on offer – these are your friends – these are your associates – these are your enemies – this is your life – you need chaos, an external force tae shock you oot ay your complacency – you need this because you no longer have the will or the imagination to do it yourself – when I was younger, Begbie, who has jolted himself so dramatically out ay his Leith and prison trajectory, did this for me – as bizarre as it seems, part ay me has always missed the cunt – you have to live until you die –
– so how do you live?
Later, in the airport terminal, we chat some more, waiting for our luggage tae come off the belts. I try to stretch out my lower back, as he shows me a picture on his phone of their kids, two sweet little girls. All this is profoundly disorientating. It’s almost like the sensible, normal friendship we were meant tae have, rather than me constantly trying tae find ways to deactivate his violence. He tells ays aboot his forthcoming art exhibition, inviting me along, enjoying the incredulity on my coupon that I cannae even try tae hide as my tartan wheeler bag inches towards me. — Aye, I know, he graciously concedes, — it’s a funny auld life, Rents.
— You can say that again.
Franco. A fucking art exhibition! Ye couldnae make that shit up!
So I watch him leave the LAX arrivals lounge with his young wife. She’s smart and cool and they are obviously in love. It’s a big step-up from what’s-her-name, back in the day. Grabbing a bottle of water from the vending machine, I slip another Ambien down, heading for the car hire with the unsettling sense that the universe is badly aligned. If somebody told me there and then that Hibs were going to win the Scottish Cup next season, I’d have almost fucking well believed them. The shaming, bitter truth of it: I’m jealous of the cunt, a creative artist with a gorgeous bird. I cannae stop thinking: That was meant to be me.
Part One
December 2015
Another Neoliberal Christmas
1
RENTON – THE TRAVELLING MAN
A rash ay sweat beads are forming on Frank Begbie’s forehead. I am trying no tae stare. He’s just come intae the air-conditioned building fae the heat outside, and his system’s adjusting. Pits ays in mind ay when we first met. It was warm then n aw. Or maybe no. We start idealising shit as we get older. It actually wasn’t at primary school, as I had often recounted. That tale seemed tae have slid intae that weird overstuffed volume between fact and folklore, where a lot ay Begbie stories ended up. No, it was before that: at the ice-cream van outside the Fort, probably on a Sunday. He was cairrying a big blue Tupperware bowl.
I had no long started school, and recognised Begbie from there. He was the year above me then, but that would change. I stood behind him in the queue, a bright sun in our eyes, bursting oot fae gaps between the blackened tenements. He seems a good boy, I thought, watching him dutifully hand the bowl over to the ice-cream man. — It’s for eftir dinner, he said with a big smile, on noting me observing proceedings. I recall that this impressed me greatly at the time; ah’d never seen a kid entrusted to get a bowl filled in that way. My ma just gave us tinned Plumbrose cream with our sliced peaches or pears.
Then, when I got my cone, he had stalled and was waiting for me. We walked back doon the street thegither, talking about Hibs and our bikes. We were fleet-footed, especially him, speed-walking and bursting into a trot, mindful of the melting ice cream. (So it was a hot day.) I headed to the towering council flats at Fort House; he veered across the road to a sooty tenement. Auld Reekie was just that back then, before stone cleaning removed the industrial grime. — See ye, he waved at me.
I saluted back. Yes, he did seem a good boy. But later on, I would learn different. I always told a story of how ah was seated next to him at secondary school, as if this penance was imposed on me. But it wasn’t. We sat thegither because we were already friends.
Now I cannae quite believe I’m here in Santa Monica, California, living this kind of life. Especially when Franco Begbie is sitting across the table from me, with Melanie, in this nice restaurant on 3rd Street. We are both light years away from that ice-cream van in Leith. I’m with Vicky, who works in film sales, but hails originally from Salisbury, England. We met on a dating website. It’s our fourth outing and we huvnae fucked yet. After our third would probably have been the time. We’re not bairns. Now I sense we’ve let it slide too long and are a bit tentative in each other’s company, wondering: is this going anywhere? I thought I was being cool; truth is that she’s a lovely woman and I’m aching to be with her.
So it’s tough being roond Franco and Melanie; such a bright, bronzed and healthy couple. Franco, twenty years older than her, almost seems a match for this fit, tanned, blonde Californian. They are easy and languid in each other’s company; a touch ay hand on thigh here, a sneaky wee peck on cheek there, a meaningful glance and exchange of conspiratorial smiles everywhere.
Lovers are cunts. They rub your face in it without meaning to. And that’s what I’ve had from Frank Begbie since that fucking insane day on the plane last summer. We did stay in touch, and have met up a few times. But never just us: always with Melanie, and sometimes whatever company I bring along. Strangely, this is at Franco’s instigation. Whenever we arrange a get-together for just the two of us, so I can discuss paying him back, he always finds a reason to cancel. Now here we are in Santa Monica, with Christmas looming. He’ll be here for the festive period, in the sun, while I’ll be in Leith, with my old man. Ironically able to relax, now that the guy sitting opposite me, who I thought would never leave the old port, or only for a prison cell, is no longer a threat.
The food is good and the company is pleasant and chilled out. So I should be at peace. But I’m no. Vicky, Melanie and I split a bottle ay white wine. I crave a second but stay silent. Franco doesnae drink any more. I keep saying that tae myself in disbelief: Franco doesnae drink any more. And when it’s time tae leave and head tae the apartment in the Uber with Vicky, who lives close by in Venice, I’m again pondering the implications of his transformation, and where it’s left me. I’m far from a strict temperance guy, chance would be a fine thing, but I’ve done enough NA meetings over the years tae ken that no paying him back just isnae a valid psychological option for ays. When I do compensate him – and I realise that I must, not just for him but for me – it’ll be gone, that fucking huge burden. That need to run will be forever extinguished. I can see more of Alex, maybe rebuild some kind of a relationship with Katrin, my ex. I can perhaps make a proper go ay it with Vicky here, see where it takes us. And all I need to do is tae pey this cunt off. I know exactly how much I owe him at today’s money. Fifteen thousand four hundred and twenty quid: that’s how much three thousand two hundred pounds is worth now. And that’s small beer compared tae what I owe Sick Boy. But I’ve also been putting money aside for him and Second Prize. Franco, though, is more pressing.