— You won’t say that I fucked you to get this gig?
— Don’t be silly: I’m your manager. It’s my job to get metaphorically fucked in order to get you gigs. And if you want to sleep your way to the top, fuck promoters, not somebody who’s already into twenty per cent of you.
Emily flops back, thinking about this, then springs up abruptly. — I’ve a theory about you, Mark Renton, she says, arching a teasing brow. Here we go: every woman in her early twenties must buy handbags with a Penguin Freud stitched intae the lining. — That you were a young guy who was self-conscious about your ginger hair and pubes, and hung out with a mate who was a bit better looking, maybe had a bigger cock, who was more confident with girls… How am I doing?
— Way way waaay off the mark, as in distinctly not Renton, babe, I tell her, pulling on my shoes, as Sick Boy’s name flashes up on my phone. — Si… right. On my way.
— Where are you going? says Emily.
— Working for you lot twenty-four/seven, sweetheart, I tell her, tapping the phone and heading for the door. I invited Sick Boy along tae our show. He appeared and is now helping ays oot wi a management problem. The recurring one: getting Conrad laid. Since I’ve squared Simon David Williamson up, we’ve become online buddies. Sharing links ay old band videos, new songs, humorous news items about sexual disasters and mutilations, the usual psychotic shit people bandy about nowadays.
In the hotel lobby Sick Boy is waiting wi an escort girl who scrutinises something on her mobile. She’s a pretty enough brunette, though with a flinty-eyed professional hardness. Sick Boy’s talking on one phone, while trying tae text on another. — Yes, I know what I said, Vic, but I didn’t expect the cunt tae abscond tae fucking Thailand… No indication when he’s due back, he won’t answer any emails or texts, has gone offline… Yes, he’s a surgeon, Vic… Yes, I’m still in Edinburgh. I can’t stay up here, I have a business tae run in London! Yes, okay! Right. He ends the call, evidently distressed. — Fuckin mongols! Surrounded by them! The lassie looks pointedly at him, and he composes himself. — Not you, my darling, you are the one shining light in an otherwise permanently murky scenario. Mark, meet Jasmine.
— Hi, Jasmine. I hand her the key to Conrad’s room. — Be gentle with him!
She silently takes the key and vanishes into the lift.
— Don’t be such a smarmy sleazebag, Sick Boy reprimands. — That woman is providing a service, so treat her with respect. I plan to recruit her for a possible Edinburgh operation. Most of our girls are MBAs.
If that lassie was awarded an HND in secretarial studies at Stevenson College, then Spud is professor of global finance at Harvard Business School. — Being given a lesson by you on sexism. Next week, Fred West on patio building. Or Franco on art.
— Don’t, Sick Boy says, pushing index fingers into a throbbing temple. — Just don’t.
— You seem stressed.
— So do you, he snaps back in defensive truculence.
— Well, apart fae being still jet-lagged tae fuck, oan an Amsterdam–LA–Vegas–Ibiza circuit for the last five months, having this birthday gig for Ewart, then flying tae Berlin for the big show at the Flughafen tomorrow, with a DJ I can’t find, him now lost in Jamboland somewhere, and I’m tempted to add plus ditched by my girlfriend because of you, ya cunt, — I’m perfectly fine. And you?
— First World problems, he says pompously. — My brother-in-law, who is being hassled by a psycho to do work for him, has fucked off tae Thailand, left Carlotta and the kid. Guess who’s been stalked by the nutter, and the sister, for months? He slaps his head in the manner of old. — When did I become the radge designated tae sort oot other cunts’ problems?
— Sortin oot other people’s crap is the shittiest, most thankless deal you’ll ever get, I empathise.
— And while we’re running around like daft fuckers, Begbie is lying in the Californian sun, Sick Boy spits bitterly. — But you know what? I think you could be right about him. From deadly psychopath to arty wee pussy!
13
BEGBIE – WILD ABOUT HARRY
The cunt got a fuckin shock when he came intae his hoose n pit oan the light. There wis me sitting in the chair behind ehs desk, pointing ehs ain fucking shooter right at him. Had it in his top right-hand drawer, the fuckin spazwit! Polis? That cunt? Seen fuckers in Edinburgh that would pit that wanker tae shame.
— What the fuck… How did you get in here?
— Do you really want the boring details? ah ask him. Ah wave the gun a wee bit. The cunt properly registers it for the first time. Disnae like it. — Now give me one good fucking reason, after you harassing my wife, why I shouldn’t shoot you now.
— You’re a murdering scumbag and she should know that! N eh points the finger at ays.
This cunt isnae wise. — That’s another good reason why I should shoot you. I was asking for one why I shouldn’t.
The prick faws silent at that yin: did not fuckin like that at aw.
— Thought we’d just have a wee chat. About you bugging my missus.
With his slitty black eyes, he looks angry rather than scared. Fair fucks tae him.
— Hear you like a peeve. Ah point tae the bottle ay whisky that ah’ve placed between us on the desk. — Take a wee drink.
He looks at me, then the bottle. He wants it awright. Hesitates for a few seconds, then pours a gless. Knocks it back slowly but steadily.
— Go on, have another! Sit doon. Ah gesture tae the chair. — I’d join ye but I’ve stopped. Never leads tae good places.
That scoobies the cunt. He stares at the empty gless. He’s fucked his life up, his shite cop life, wi the auld Christopher Reeve. That boy isnae bothered whether yir polis or a villain: he just wants tae send ye tae hell. Ah’ve done aw that shite. This Harry cunt seems tae make a calculation that there’s nae wey oot for him, so he pours anyway, n takes a seat, oan ma second promptin, wi the pointin ay the shooter. He looks at ays, eyes narrowing that accusing wey. — You killed those drifters, and the cunt tries tae stare ays oot.
I glower back at the cunt, my lips sealed. Gaze intae that cop soul. They’re aw the same, despite the TV shows that portray them as the big heroes. Ah jist see the gossiping, sweetie-wife, fussy essence ay a wanker programmed tae serve others.
Harry blinks first. Clears his throat. — They were pieces of shit, but you murdered them in cold blood. The two that threatened Mel and the kids, he contends, tryin the fuckin stare again.
Cheeky cunt. Breathe. One… two… three…
These wee black beady eyes. Like a fuckin hamster looking at ye fae its cage. Like the yin we hud at school. The raffle tae see whae got tae take it hame for the holidays. Aw the oohs and aahs and the trepidation oan the teacher’s face when they saw whae fuckin won. Poor Hammy, he’s going to Begbie’s for the summer! Last we’ll see of him! N it wisnae misplaced. The poor wee golden bastard never came back. It wis natural causes – the fuckers just last a year – though nae cunt ootside our hoose believed that. They aw thought some cunt had stuck him between two slices ay breid.
— You couldn’t let it go, could you? Couldn’t leave us… the police… to deal with it, this Hammy, sorry, Harry cunt goes. — Because that’s who you are… that’s what you do. You’ve done… you’ve… you… The cunt’s speech slows tae a mumble as ehs eyes get aw heavy.