Carl turns away and snivels, as if he’s going to burst into tears. It cuts through Renton, and makes him flash a reprimanding stare at his cash cow.
Conrad laughs again, then folds over a wedge of pizza, better to cram it into his mouth. Red grease dribbles onto his top. A publicist runs forward and dabs at it with a wet cloth.
— Well, that’s it then, Renton says, in grim resignation, talking to Carl, but taking in everybody assembled. — I’ve spent a fortune on this cunt of a gig and we won’t get paid now, and probably will get sued.
Klaus looks on, his stern face and tight posture confirming this.
As Sick Boy represses a mirthful shrug, Carl suddenly bursts out in loud laughter. He points at Renton. — Got ye, ya fuckin Hibs wank! Then he springs forward and addresses Conrad. — As for you, ya fucking useless fat tub ay lard, come and watch a real DJ blow this fuckin place apart! He turns to Klaus. — Hope you’ve got insurance for death by astonishment, mate, because that’s what half those cunts out there, he gestures to the crowd, — are gaunny fuckin well die of!
— Ja, this is good!
Conrad looks open-mouthed, dropping paper plate and pizza on the floor, then turning to Renton. — He cannot talk to me like that!
— He’s a cunt, Renton gasps in relief. — A total cunt.
Carl struts out into the box, nodding to the departing DJ. He thinks about Helena, how blessed he was to be with her. But now there are no tears at having fucked up. He thinks of his mum and dad, what they gave him, and sacrificed. Now there’s no sadness, only a burning flame igniting within him, a desire to do them proud. He thinks of Drew Busby, John Robertson, Stephane Adam and Rudi Skacel, as he bellows into the mike, — BERLIN! ARE YOUSE FUCKIN READY TAE HAVE IT??!!
The crowd greets him with a wild, cacophonous roar, as he drops ‘Gimme Love’, his breakthrough hit, setting out his intentions, following up with a mesmerising set. The livewire audience are eating out of his hand, and at the end they are begging for more. As he walks off to choruses of ‘N-SIGN…’, he ignores a wide-eyed Conrad, going to Mark Renton with five fingers raised in the air on one hand, and one on the other. For once, Renton couldn’t be more delighted at this irritating gesture. — Stenhoose sex bomb, he whispers in his ear.
— Believe, Carl retorts.
Conrad, edgy and demoralised, follows him onto the stage, as the floor instantly thins out. He gets it partially back by throwing in his two big hits earlier than planned, but doesn’t look happy and the audience scents his desperation. It’s Renton who quietly saves the day, encouraging his star from the wings with the thumbs up, as the nervous DJ glances at him.
Suddenly Sick Boy is on Renton’s shoulder, clutching a beer, waving a small baggie of coke and nodding to the toilets. — That cunt is shiteing it, he says. — I’d like to see him remove a kidney!
— He’d probably eat it, Renton laughs, following him. — It’ll dae him nae harm tae play second fiddle for once. This is an older crowd of seasoned house heads. People who appreciate good music. And they remember.
They get to the toilet. Sick Boy racks up, looking at Renton, feeling a strange love and hate he can’t explain. Both seem compromising, but also uplifting and essential. As Renton snorts up the line, Sick Boy says, — You know, I’ve been thinking of how you can pay Begbie his money back.
— It’s nae use. The cunt has me where he fucking wants me. He’ll no take it. He knows I’m in his debt forever and that it’s fucking killing ays.
Sick Boy takes the rolled note, arching an eyebrow. — You know how he’s having the exhibition over in Edinburgh, right?
— Aye, we’re playing at it. Renton opens the toilet door slightly, to look out over to Conrad, and then spies Carl, now cavorting with Klaus and several women, including Chanel Hemmingworth, the dance-music writer.
As he shuts the door, Sick Boy hoovers back a line, standing up stiffly. — And a couple of days before that, he’s auctioning the Leith Heads.
Renton shrugs, gets on the other poodle’s leg. — So?
— So buy the heads. Bid them up, then win the auction, pay over the odds for them.
A smile explodes across Renton’s face. — If I bid for these heads and buy them for mair than they’re worth…
— You’ve forced him to take the cash. Then you’ve discharged your obligation, paid the cunt back what you owe him.
— I like it, Renton smiles, checking his phone. — Speak ay the devil, he says, showing him a text that has just come in from ‘Franco’.
Have hospitality tickets for Cup final at Hampden for you, me, Sick Boy and Spud.
Eyes bulging, Sick Boy says, — Now that cunt Begbie has done an unsolicited act of goodness, for the very first time in his entire life. What a fucking day!
— Oh, but that’s him now, Mr Goody Two-Shoes, Renton says.
23
BEGBIE – CHUCK PONCE
Ah minded ay meeting the boy, back in the jail. Ah wis pretty surprised that a big Hollywood star would come and see us, in the fuckin nick. But funny, he wanted me tae help him prepare for this hard-man part he’d goat. He needed tae dae the accent cause it was based on a book by some crime writer, that this European art-house director wanted tae film. Fair play, the cunt that wrote it selt a ton, but I never liked these books. Written for straight cunts: always makin the polis oot tae be the big fuckin heroes.
The polis urnae the big fuckin heroes.
First thing I did when ah saw this handsome but diminutive leather-jacketed young man wi the slicked-back dark hair was tell the cunt the score. I said I wisnae being wide, cause I assumed it wisnae like in America, but Chuck Ponce was a funny name in the UK. Telt him he was makin a right cunt ay ehsel ower here, wi a handle like that. Of course he kent aw that shite; telt me his real name was Charles Ponsora, and yes, he was now aware that it meant something different in the UK, but he was stuck with it. The cunt’s agent had told his name was ‘too Latin’ and would go against him for Waspish lead-man roles. Just like Nicolas Coppola became Nicolas Cage, so Charles Ponsora became Chuck Ponce.
So we worked together in the jail, him listening tae me and some ay the boys crackin oan. We made tapes wi his dialect coach, a bools-in-the-mooth fucker that slavered pish aboot the accents ay Scotland. Cunt was fuckin useless. I telt Chuck stuff, about the jail, about enforcing for the likes ay Tyrone. Did him fuck all use but; his accent in that film was still ridic, like if ye goat that groundskeeper cunt fae The Simpsons n hud the fucker oan skag in the Kirkgate for five years. But the boy had a way about him, looked at ye like he was really listening, like ye were special. He made aw those big declarations that we’d be brothers forever. He’d see me in Hollywood!
His words.
Never heard fae the cunt again for six years, even after being back oot. Even after getting my agent tae send him an invite tae the exhibitions, tae my wedding, and my bairn Grace’s christening. Ah learned fae this that actors were fuckin liars, and the best liars believed their own bullshit when they spouted it. Then, a few months ago, he comes along tae one ay ma shows. Just wanders in with this wee entourage. Telt me that he wanted a heid made ay Charmaine Garrity, his ex-wife, but wi specific mutilations.
I telt him that I liked to keep they commissions confidential. Could we meet for a wee coffee? So Chuck called and I drove tae San Pedro, and now we’re walking along the clifftops together. Although it overlooks the port, this is a private place tae talk, particularly this deserted ocean side, a sheer drop tae the grey rocks below and the incoming tide that laps them. I’m telling him how ah love the sounds ay the waves crashing, the gulls squawking. — We used to go down to Coldingham when I was a kid. It’s in Scotland. Cliffs, with rocks below, like here, I tell him. — My ma always told me to keep away from the edge, I smile. — Of course, I never listened.