— Ah’m sorry, man, Spud desperately blurts out, taking a backward step, as Forrester slides in and shuts the door behind them, — it wis an accident, likes. The dug knocked ower the ice boax and ate the kidney! Ah jist pure panicked, ay, but ah’ll make it up tae ye –
— For fuckin sure, Victor Syme says, before turning to Forrester. — So this is the boy you vouched for. He struts down the hallway, scanning its squalor in disgust. — A fuckin jakey.
— Tae be honest, ah didnae ken he’d fallen on such hard times, Vic, I thought –
— Shut the fuck up, Mikey. Syme dismisses Forrester with a raised hand, closing his eyes, as if not trusting himself to even look at his supposed business partner.
Mikey’s plummet into screaming silence sets off a sickening confirmation deep inside Spud that this isn’t going to end well. Victor Syme moves towards him, seeming to glide as if on castors, and ushers him over to the window. — Nice view. He gazes outside to street activity barely visible through the grime on the panes.
— Eh, aye… Spud says, his head bobbing and jerking. Blood pours from the side of his mouth. He sees Syme register it. — It’s aw the speed, ah need it tae distract ays fae the peeve.
— Aye, no such a nice view in here, the brothel-keeper smiles, looking at an implausible stack of old Pot Noodle containers.
— Ah ken that Pot Noodles urnae good for ye and ah shouldnae be eatin thum –
— Nonsense, you’ve got everything ye need in them. Chinese folk live for ages. He turns to Mikey. — Think ay the Master in Kung Fu.
— Ah suppose thaire is that, Spud smiles wanly.
— What dae ye see oot there, mate? Syme asks, attempting to envision what it would be like occupying the mind of a man like Daniel Murphy, trying to comprehend how it would feel to see the world through his hollowed, veering squirrel eyes. This exercise fills him with corrosive distaste and a sense that obliterating such weakness would constitute a service to humankind. He puts one arm around Spud’s thin, trembling shoulder as he smoothly slips a cosh out of his pocket with his free hand.
— Ah dunno… likesay buildins and shoaps n that…
In one violent predatory movement, Victor Syme jumps back and batters Danny Murphy over the head. Mikey Forrester, forced to bear witness, cringes in guilt and revulsion as the assailant hisses through clenched teeth, — What do ye see now?!
Spud howls out in a primal shriek, overwhelmed by a surge of nausea and the most terrible pain, as if his skull is cracking open, like a nail is being driven into the centre of his brain. This thankfully only lasts for a couple of seconds, and he feels his own vomit spill from him, as the floor ascends to meet him.
Toto starts to yelp, and then licks at Spud’s head. Mikey’s face takes on a rubicund flush, his bottom lip trembling. Spud’s rolling eyes have receded into his skull, his breath emitting in soft but audible pants. Syme picks up the dog, who whines in misery. — Never was much ay a dug man, he says to Mikey, whose countenance is now a funereal grey.
A red velvet curtain dominates the largest suite in the basement premises that Victor Syme uses for his trade. The rest of the windowless room, uplit by a series of floor-mounted spotlights, is festooned with scarlet cushions, bordered with gold lace. These litter a sandblasted floor of varnished timbers. One other feature of the room: a large flat-screen television, fixed on a wall.
A handset held by Victor Syme snaps the images on the screen dead. The proprietor has just played Euan McCorkindale the video of him engaged in sexual congress with Jasmine, forcing him to view it in silent purgatory. — Why make me watch that? the podiatrist groans.
— Tae bring home tae ye, dear Doctor, Syme’s slimy fake Morningside tea-room accent making Euan shudder, — that you are in fucking shit street. Well, Doc, you can get out of it, if you play your cards right.
Euan can’t arrest his returning drift to a deep, beaten silence.
Sick Boy, sitting in the corner, his perusing of the video punctuated by the odd disdainful sigh that added insult to Euan’s injuries, suddenly rises. — Great. Well, I’ll just head off and allow you fine fellows to negotiate your own deal, as my services are now superfluous.
A shaky plea tears from Euan’s throat, — You can’t leave –
— Aw naw, you wait here, Syme snaps in accord. — Ah’ve heard aw aboot you, mate. You take ownership ay this problem, he demands of Sick Boy. — Ah found yir brother-in-law here.
— Aye, but now you’re blackmailing him. So I’d say we’re even.
— Disnae work that wey. Syme almost presents himself as a reluctant enforcer of oppressive rules devised by another party. — Youse need tae square this wi your sis, he looks at Sick Boy, — and your wife. Euan is treated to a creeping, diseased wink. — And yis urnae gaunny dae that wi this vid in circulation.
— Please… how much do you want for it? Euan pleads.
— Shhh, Victor Syme urges. — Your bro-in-law understands this world, Doc. You’re a fuckin tourist here.
— Fuck off, Sick Boy says defiantly, — I don’t work for you.
— Oh yes you do, Syme sings, Christmas-panto style, drawing open the velvet curtain behind them. It reveals, hung upside down, a bound and gagged Spud Murphy.
Sick Boy gasps and takes a step back.
– Now it’s up to you two. Syme’s tongue darts across thin, bloodless lips. — Youse can walk oot ay here. But if yis do it’s endy story for this boy.
Euan’s head jerks back. — I haven’t got a clue who that is.
Then Victor Syme waves the embossed Colleagues business card, the one he removed from Spud’s pocket, forcing Simon Williamson to admit, in a pappy voice, — I do.
— But you’ll get to know him, Doc, Victor Syme’s lofty tone pledges to Euan, as his pasty, noxious smirk freezes the souls of both brothers-in-law. – Oh aye, you will get tae know him most intimately. Because right now you have work tae dae.
17
SPUD – UNSUPERVISED MEAT
Ah’m walkin through this graveyard but it’s aw covered in mist. Ah kin see heidstanes, but no make oot anything oan them. Toto’s lying doon by a grave, his wee paws ower his eyes, like he’s greetin. Ah go acroass n try tae talk tae him but he doesnae move they paws. Ah read the inscription on the stane. DANIEL MURPHY…
Aw man…
Then Toto’s paws go doon n ah see it isnae him, it’s a demon wi a reptile heid n it’s lookin right at ays…
Ah turns tae run n these radges wi big bulbous faces grab ays n one slams a chib intae ma gut…
NAWWWWW!!!!!
When ah comes to, it’s pure like the bad dream’s still gaun oan, cause it’s naewhaire ah’ve been before, yit still sortay ken, but ah kin hardly breathe. A sharp smell ay pish tickles ma nostrils. Ah huv tae fight through this pain, and a seek feelin in ma gut, tae make ma napper obey basic commands. Keep they blurry eyes open. Git that chokin tongue offay the roof ay the mooth…
Aw man… ah’m in a bed n shiverin like a kitten. Ma eyes are bleary like thir fill ay gunge n ah keep blinkin n the vision finally pills intae focus. Thaire’s a plasma bag on a metal stand, wi a tube coming fae it…
What the fuck, man…
I can hardly believe that this tube’s gaunny lead intae ma boady, even if ma brain’s sayin it’s a cast-iron cert! Ah lift up the thin covers n trace the tube under thum, tae track it gaun intae a bandage in the side ay ma stomach. Ah jump up in shock. Ah’m seek and sair and ah raise ma heid, tryin tae gain mair focus. Thaire’s stale lime-green waws, painted over auld patterned wallpaper that shows through. A stained maroon carpet. The room is pure seventies, a time warp ay aw the bedsits and shabby flats that have been the stages for aw the dramas ay the boy Murphy’s life…