— Doesnae make ye bezzy mates.
Forrester looks forlornly at Sick Boy. You can’t unsay the things you’ve said over the years. This only makes you look even weaker than the original running off at the mouth. — He’s a fuckin grass who steals fae his ain.
Sick Boy shouts up more drinks, this time joining Mikey in the vodka and tonic. — How about if I told you I know a way to piss off Renton and get in Begbie’s good books? he purrs. — To the extent that it would buy you more respect from Syme, and get you right back in easy street. Intae a place where you’ll be a genuine equal partner. What do you say?
Mikey is all ears. Of course, he would never be an equal partner with Syme, but Sick Boy knows that his vanity will always stubbornly allow the possibility. — What ur ye proposing?
Sick Boy tries not to register his distaste at Mikey’s sour breath. It’s like he’s been gargling menstrual blood. He idly wonders if Mikey is a pussy eater, whether he goes south on rag week, and if he brushes his teeth after. — Renton might find that Begbie’s art will cost him more than he’s bargained for, especially if some cunt is bidding against him. And he really wants it, so there is no way he’ll let anybody else win.
— So…
— So you go there and bid the cunt up. Clean the fucker right oot. Begbie gets big bucks oot ay it all and Renton is totally skint, having peyed way over the odds. All thanks to one Michael Jacob Forrester. He points at Mikey. — Once Slimeball sees that you are the fucking man, right in with the viciously repped Franco Begbie, he starts to treat you with a bit more r-e-s-p-e-c-t. Get my drift?
Mikey nods slowly. — But ah’ve nae money tae bid for art pieces.
— You lose the auction to Renton.
— Aye, but what if he pills oot n ah win?
— I cover it, he says thinking of the money Renton gave him. — But if you stop the bidding at the figure we agree, that won’t happen.
Mikey raises his glass, takes a sip. It makes sense. Or perhaps it doesn’t. But what it does do, and what Sick Boy judges correctly is utterly irresistible to him, is place Michael Jacob Forrester right at the centre of an impending commotion that the city’s underworld will talk about for years to come.
The auction takes place inside a four-pillared pseudo-Athenian temple, cast in the grey stone and with the arched windows often favoured in Edinburgh’s New Town. Regarded as one the most beautiful salesrooms in Britain, the building is tucked in a maze of backstreets between the East New Town and the top end of Leith Walk.
Inside, it is a cross between an old church and a theatre. The stage, which holds the auctioned items to the rear as well as the auctioneer’s lectern to the fore, is the centrepiece in an inverted U-bend that runs around the hall. It looks onto a wooden floor partially covered by a giant, ruby-coloured, patterned rug, with around fifty people sitting on neatly lined-up gold-and-red chairs. Above the wings are balconies, supported by black cast-iron pillars, under which sit officials, who record the proceedings.
The room is a hub of chatter and bustle. Some serious collectors are present, evidenced as recipients of hushed comments and reverential stares. The air is stuffy and slightly rank, as if some of the ageing pieces and collectors past have deposited a lingering scent. Close by those who dress and smell of ostentatious wealth, sit a few shaven-headed wideos of varying degrees of status in the local thug hierarchy. Jim Francis, the artist formerly known as Frank Begbie, stands at the back of the room with his agent Martin Crosby, looking over at them in an affectionate disdain. — The boys. Come tae have a wee neb at how much money auld Franco’s makin oot ay this art game!
Martin nods, though he’s only able to make out the bones of what Jim is saying. Back on home turf, his client’s accent has thickened up considerably. Martin flew in from LA yesterday, and prior to today claimed never to suffer from jet lag.
Then Frank Begbie can’t believe his eyes as he spies Mark Renton sitting at the front. He moves down and slips into a seat beside him. — What are you daein here? I thought you had nae interest in art.
Renton turns to face him. — I thought I’d put in a cheeky wee bid for the Leith Heids.
Frank Begbie says nothing. He rises and returns to Martin, who is talking to Kenneth Paxton, the head of the London gallery he has got Jim Francis attached to. Franco barges in without any concern for protocol. — Who’s the main man here?
Martin Crosby flashes the gallery head a look of apology that says artists… but defers to Paxton. — That guy, Paul Stroud, the gallery owner calmly announces, pointing at a bald-headed, abundantly bearded fat man sweating in a linen suit, fanning himself with a hat. — I mean, he’s not the collector, but he’s the representative and buyer for Sebastian Villiers, who is big news.
— Seb’s a major collector of Jim’s work, Martin says to Paxton, and the artist, as if to remind him. — If he wants Leith Heads, then they’re his.
Frank Begbie’s surprise is compounded when he sees Mikey Forrester standing nearby. His eyes go from Renton to Mikey, both looking decidedly uncomfortable, Mikey obviously aware of Renton’s presence, but not the other way round. What the fuck is gaun oan here?
The auctioneer, a thin man with glasses and a tapered beard, points to four heads mounted on a display sideboard. — Our first item for auction today is Leith Heads, by acclaimed Edinburgh artist, Jim Francis.
In the front row, Mark Renton stifles a guffaw that originates from somewhere in his bowels. He glances at the group of wideos, some of whom send vague bells of recognition ringing, and finds he isn’t alone in his mirth. Renton looks at the Sick Boy head. It captures him a little, but the eyes are too serene. He arches round to see if his old friend has shown up, despite his assurances he wouldn’t, doubting Sick Boy could resist succumbing to the vanity of his own image on display.
— One is a self-portrait, the auctioneer continues, — the other three representations of his boyhood friends. All are cast in bronze. They come as one lot, rather than separate items, and I’m instructed to start the bidding at twenty thousand pounds.
A paddle is raised in the air. It belongs to Paul Stroud, the agent of the collector Sebastian Villiers.
— Twenty thousand. Do I hear twenty-five?
Mark Renton slowly and tentatively lifts up his paddle, as if this action might draw a sniper’s bullet. The auctioneer points at him. — Twenty-five. Do I hear thirty?
Renton puts up his paddle again, occasioning some strange looks and a few laughs.
The auctioneer pulls his spectacles down over his nose and looks at Renton. — Sir, you cannot bid against yourself.
— Sorry… I’m a novice at this game. Got a wee bit excited.
This sets up a series of guffaws from the punters, which die out as Paul Stroud raises his paddle.
— I hear thirty thousand.
— Thirty-five. Renton raises his hand.
— A HUNDRED THOUSAND! comes a shout from the back of the room. It is Mikey Forrester.
— Now we are getting serious, the auctioneer declares, as Frank Begbie remains composed, and Martin Crosby shimmies to the edge of his seat.
You have got tae be fuckin jokin, Renton thinks. Then he sucks in some air. Fuck him. He won’t beat me this time. — ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY THOUSAND!