Like now. He clears ehs throat. — I’m sitting roond a table and there’s a bunch ay us, aw eating nice grub fae these big plates. Ah’m at the top at the table. The settin is fuckin opulent, like some sort ay olde worlde stately home.
— Like Jesus at the Last Supper? What Rents wis on aboot?
— Aye, ah suppose so. But aw that Last Supper stuff pre-dates the Bible and Christianity. It comes fae the DMT, which humans have eaten before Christ was even thought ay.
The cats at St Mary’s Star ay the Sea or South Leith Parish Church widnae like that. — Wow… so it’s like Christians are just nosy straightpegs that, like, watch other people get messed up oan drugs and record aw their stories…
— Ah suppose it is, mate, Franco sais. — Anyway, the thing that struck ays was that aw the other people roond the table wir deid. He stares at ays. It’s a funny look.
— Like zombies?
— Naw, like people who are no longer wi us. Donnelly wis thaire. Big Seeker n aw. N Chizzie the beast…
It’s like ah ken what eh’s sayin. Eh killed them aw. Ah kent aboot Donnelly n Seeker, n ah wis wi Chizzie just before eh goat his throat cut but they nivir caught the boy that did it… but surely thaire wisnae mair… — How many wis thaire? ah ask.
— A few ay them, Franco carries oan. — So ah wisnae chuffed being there wi they bams, but everybody was sound. Ken what ah took fae that?
Ah’m lookin at him, feelin aw hopeful aboot the world. — That people are okay n we should aw git oan?
— Naw. Tae me it said nae cunt’s gaunny be bothered, even if ye fuck them right up. The next life is too big tae get aw het up aboot what ye dae here in this yin.
N ah think aboot this in terms ay ma ain life. Aye, ah’ve messed things up, but mibbe it disnae matter. Ah suppose it works fir Franco, n eh could be right. — It’s mibbe a good wey ay thinkin, man, ah tells the cat.
27
THE AUCTION
As the tourist crowds infest the city, Edinburgh does its habitual spring tease, providing a few glorious days. Then it’s time for the usual about-face; the deliverance of the traditional smoky clouds and sudden downpours of heavy rain. Citizens and incomers wander around pinch-faced, looking cheated, many a little lost, and perhaps in need of a friend. Nobody more so than Mikey Forrester, who is happy to take Simon Williamson’s call and meet up at an impersonal bar near Edinburgh’s Waverley Station. Mikey is aggrieved; he thinks he’s avoided the rain as he walks down Cockburn Street and Fleshmarket Close, but it suddenly teems down and he’s soaked to the skin by the time he slips into the pub.
Williamson is already standing at the bar, looking down at his fellow occupants of the boozer in arch disdain. Mikey nods to him and heads over. Sick Boy elicits strange emotions in him. He envies his effect on women; that seemingly effortless ability he has to charm them into bed had never deserted him over the years. Mikey is burdened by a belief that if he watches people closely enough, he can identify and appropriate their abilities for his own. As a life strategy this has afforded him limited success, but having internalised it, he can’t quite shake it off.
Sick Boy has set up a Diet Coke for himself and, without asking him, orders up a vodka and tonic for Mikey. — How goes, Miguel?
— No bad. How’s Spud?
— He was a wee bit dodgy, Sick Boy says, in mild understatement, accepting the proffered drink from the barman in exchange for notes, — but the hozzy say he’s going to be fine. Watch… and he steers Mikey down the bar, where he stands close to him. Mikey can smell fresh garlic on his breath. Sick Boy always ate well. Probably Valvona & Crolla, he guesses, or perhaps his mother’s or sister’s home cooking. — I have a wee proposition for you. Could be lucrative.
— Ah’m daein awright, Mikey Forrester says defensively.
— Ye can drop the patter, Mikey, Sick Boy responds, quickly adding, — I’m no here tae judge anybody. Let’s face it, we all shat it offay Syme, yes wi good reason, but tae our eternal shame.
Mikey is about to intervene in protest, but no words are coming.
Sick Boy continues. — Thing is, he’s off our backs now. I know how tae keep him away fae your wee goings-on, and also ensure that he retains his gratitude tae ye.
— We’re partners! Mikey bellows, bunching his fists, massively overplaying his hand.
— Easy, bud, Sick Boy whispers, urging him to drop his voice. Sick Boy thinks perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to meet in this spot. After all, there were few better places for low-life grasses to congregate than in boozers close to railway stations, and a fat semi-jakeball in a tracksuit and skinhead cut seems to be taking an interest in the conversation. Mikey acknowledges his folly with a terse nod, and stands closer to Sick Boy.
Simon David Williamson knows never to kick away a man’s crutch unless you offer him a superior replacement. — Have it your way, but my proposition could be very advantageous to you. Obviously, this is all in confidence. Do I have your ear, or should I go?
Eyes darting across the bar in a quick scan, Mikey Forrester takes a sip of his vodka and nods in the affirmative.
— Let me ask you: who does Syme fear? Sick Boy raises his eyebrows. He knows how to hook Mikey, namely by placing him at the centre of a compelling drama. With that very sentence, by urging his strategic counsel, he’s hinted at Mikey having an elevated status in the city’s underworld. The expansion of Michael Forrester’s pupils and the swivel in his neck tells Sick Boy he’s pressed the correct button.
Mikey’s voice stays low. — Naebody. No now that Fat Tyrone’s away. Nelly’ll no go up against him. Nor will the Doyles. They’ve just divided Tyrone’s wee empire up between them. The young team arenae ready, no since Anton Miller got done.
Sick Boy maintains only a rudimentary knowledge of the Edinburgh criminal scene, and has also extricated himself from the London one. Fundamentally, he dislikes gangsters. He is solely interested in women, and finds it difficult to engage at even a cursory level with most other men for any length of time. And ones who are more interested in the shifting hierarchy of power, rather than the sweet music of romance, bore him senseless, though he is too politic to show this disdain. — I was thinking of a certain Leith psychopath we both know well.
— Begbie? Forrester laughs, before lowering his voice again. — He’s in America, a fuckin artist now, oot ay that life. Besides, he looks around, noting that the chubby skinhead has drunk up and gone, — him and Syme are probably tight, the way they boys ey are.
— Syme’s West Side, Begbie was always Leith and the toon, mobbed up wi Tyrone, Nelly, Donny Laing, aw that crowd. Different circles. Syme was intae scrubbers, never really Tyrone’s thing. He was always loans, debt collection, extortion, Sick Boy explains, thinking: This is obviously pish; nutters always know each other, and generally side together against the civilians they prey on.
But it proves a convincing enough narrative for Mikey to embrace, and he nods along in conspiracy.
— Begbie’s back in Edinburgh for this auction and an exhibition ay his art, Sick Boy offers, then advances, — You and Renton, youse were never really bosom buddies, were yis?
Historically, Mikey Forrester hadn’t got on with Mark Renton. The reason was trivial enough. Mikey had long fancied a woman, who had been stringing him along for free drugs, and whom Renton subsequently enjoyed a meaningless copulation with. This bugged the shit out of Mikey, and he had made his hostility apparent down the years. Age, however, had given him perspective and he now bore Mark Renton no ill will for this incident. Indeed, he felt a tinge of shame that he’d made so much of this now-petty grievance. — He helped us in Berlin.