— What the fuck is going on here? Frank Begbie asks Martin Crosby.
— Who cares!
Stroud pitches in, paddle flapping. — One hundred and sixty thousand!
Renton is back. — One hundred and sixty-five thousand!
Forrester shouts, — One hundred and seventy thousand! Then he dies a death as Renton hesitates, blinking like a small mammal in car headlights…
— One hundred and seventy-five thousand, Renton croaks.
— I’m hearing one hundred and seventy-five thousand, says the auctioneer, looking at the sweating Stroud, heading to the exit, frantically trying to get a signal on his phone. — One hundred and seventy-five thousand… going… going… sold! To the gentleman down the front, and he points at Mark Renton.
Euphoria and despondency battle in Renton. It is around five times what he wants to pay, but he has won! The Leith Heads are his. But now he is beyond broke. Had he not been on such an uncompromising mission, and known how much pain he saved a long-standing rival by his final bid, Renton might have shut up. As it is, Mikey Forrester breathes a massive sign of relief. He goes up to Renton. — Well done, Mark, the best man won, mate!
— Mikey, what the fuck, who are ye bidding for?
— Sorry, bud, got tae nash, Mikey smiles, making way for the advancing Frank Begbie, and dialling Sick Boy as he sharply exits.
Renton goes to follow but is intercepted by other attendees, offering him congratulations. He looks at the heads, and for a second, he thinks the Sick Boy one is smiling. Renton maintains his push to the exit, but is stopped by Franco, who shakes his hand. — Congratulations.
— Thanks… What the fuck was Forry daein bidding?
— I’m as scoobied as you are.
— Whae was the other bidder?
— His name’s Stroud. He works for this boy Villiers, a big collector. Must have breached his agreed limit, and he was trying to call the boy to get him to up it. But you were victorious.
— Aye, well, who was Forrester working on behalf of?
— Somebody who loves me and wishes me a fortune. No many ay them in Edinburgh! Franco laughs, looking at Renton, then considering. — Or…
—… some cunt that hates me and wants tae see ays broke. That’s a slightly longer list… Renton lets out a long, tight breath, glancing again to the four heads, and fixating on one in particular. — Sick Boy was the only cunt that kent how badly I wanted to buy the heads. It was the only wey I could pay you back.
Frank Begbie shrugs. — Well, you got what ye wanted. The Leith Heids. Delighted for you, he says, lips pushing together tightly. — Now if there’s nothing else…
— Maybe a thank-you?
To Renton’s shock, the animation drains out of Begbie’s face, as a dark thought seems to crystallise behind his eyes. — I’ve changed my mind. I want my fuckin money back. That fifteen grand.
— But… I… Renton stammers in disbelief, — I’m broke! I’ve peyed massively ower the odds for they heids! That was my wey ay peying ye back!
— You bought some pieces of art, Franco’s voice, so slow and deliberate, — your choice. Now I want my money back. The money for that drug deal, back in the day.
— I’ve no fuckin got it! No now! No after breaking the bank tae buy… He looks at the heads and stops himself from saying that load ay fuckin shite. — No after buying the heids!
— Well, that’s too fuckin bad, for you but, ay?
Renton can’t believe what he is hearing. — But we’re mates again, Franco, out in LA… the Cup final… we had a bonding experience… the four ay us… the DMT… he hears himself havering, as he looks into insect eyes, containing nothing but cold treachery.
— Still a fuckin druggie, ay, mate? the unmoved Franco Begbie half sneers in Renton’s bemused face. — It stipulated in the sale that the heads would be available tae the buyer after the exhibition next week. So let Martin know where ye want tae have them shipped tae, he nods over to his agent, — and he’ll arrange it. Right now we’ve got a wee table booked for lunch at the Café Royal. I’d invite ye tae join us, but let’s keep things on a business footing till ye pey me back the money ye owe ays. Till then, he smiles, turning to his advancing agent and high-fiving him.
Renton is in a daze as he exits and heads down the Walk. He registers a red disabled mobility scooter coming towards him. A small dog sits in the basket on the front. It’s being driven by Spud Murphy.
— What the fuck…
— Nifty, ay, catboy? Pride Colt Deluxe. Up tae eight miles an ooir. Ah got a hire ay it fae the social. Was headin up the toon tae the hotel tae see ye. He hands Renton a tan Hugo Boss bomber jacket. — You left that up the hoaspital when you brought ays in.
— Thanks… Renton takes the garment, looks across at an Italian cafe. — A wee cup ay char, bud?
28
BEGBIE – A HISTORY OF ART
The cunt stands in front ay the big, grey, marble fireplace. He raises an eyebrow, then his gless, and looks at me. Melanie, sitting next tae ays, wears a light brown backless dress, and a nice lavender-scented perfume. — A highly successful auction, Iain Wilkie, the well-known Glasgow painter, now ‘exiled’ in the New Town, as the cunt puts it, sais tae us. His wife, Natasha, curves trying tae burst oot ay a short black party dress, gies ays a wee smile. The ride pours some mair San Pellegrino intae ma gless. They’re Mel’s mates, here in the art world, n you’ve got tae make a wee effort. Ah’d rather be at the boxing club wi the boys… well, maybe no. It’s a big myth that ye move intae a new world when ye leave the auld yin. What ye usually move intae is fuckin limbo.
What ah miss is being in the studio, daein ma stuff. Aw this exhibitions n auctions shite n dinner parties, they dae ma heid in. Ah jist want tae work oan ma paintins n sculpture, n hing oot wi Mel n the bairns. Gaun for walks doon the beach, wee picnics, aw that sort ay stuff. That wee Eve is a scream. Cracks ays up the things she comes oot with. Grace n aw, but she’s mair like her mother. When aw that good stuff, my work and my girls, when that gets taken away fae ays, then that’s when ah git tempted by the auld diversions. I feel the fuckin urge tae hurt some cunt.
This Wilkie gadge is rabbitin shite aboot how he needs tae drink, has tae get fucked up tae express his creativity. It’s a veiled dig at me being the only sober cunt here: anybody can see that. Natasha fills up ma gless wi more sparkling mineral water. If it had been peeve in that gless her man would be up the Royal by now, gittin a fuckin tanned jaw reset.
— I like life better without it, I smile at him, — it only takes me places I don’t want to go.
Natasha grins again. I ken I could ride her nae bother. These people are like that. It’s the wey they are. That’s how she sees me; savage, untamed Frank Begbie, the real fucking deal, no like the poofy ‘bad boy’ of Scottish art, the title they gied tae that poseur. Or used tae. Before ah came along. Now he’s aw keen tae be best mates.
— We’re running a little dry here, Wilkie goes, draining the last ay the wine.
— I’ll nip out for a couple of bottles, I tell them. — I’ll get decent stuff, I’m quite au fait with vino now, Mel always sends me oot, ah wink at her.
So ah slip oot doon tae the offie. It’s a posh fuckin shoap in a basement. Ah picks oot some Napa Valley Cabernet that seems dear enough, n it’s what Mel and her mates drink back in California. While ah’m inside, settling up, ah hears a bit ay a commotion gaun oan fae the street. Ah peys up n gits ootside swiftish, right up the steps, intae the dark road, tae see two young gadges, early twenties, shoutin at each other. One boy roars: — Ah’ll fuckin take ye any time! Think ah’m fuckin feart ay you?