A stampede follows, the bourgeois mob melting to the side of the room in a manner some CCS vets haven’t seen since the nineties. As if on cue, the man of the moment, the artist Jim Francis, enters with his wife, Melanie. The artsy crowd pounce on them, offering congratulations, as the thug element look at Begbie’s mounted heads and paintings in doubtful bemusement, checking out the price tags and the positions of the security cameras and guards.
Mark Renton arrived earlier with Carl Ewart and Conrad Appledoorn, who is now following the silver-tray-carrying servers. Despite nodding to a few old faces, Renton feels safer behind the makeshift DJ booth, set up for the after-show party. The bank was broken to own the Leith Heads, displayed to the rear of the gallery, now it’s to be disastrously trampled by Franco for a further fifteen grand that isn’t there. The useless bronze heads stare back at him from their plinths. The expression on each, even his own, screams: mug.
— Do I really look as snidey as that heid?
— Got ye tae a tee, buddy, Carl Ewart says, observing the milling crowds. — Stacks ay fanny at these art dos but, Rents, he says, taking the words out of his manager’s mouth. Both men have lived too much of their lives in clubs, surrounded for too long by women too young, sexy and beautiful for their rougher male cohorts to ever believe in any form of social justice. Yet Renton has discerned, within the ranks of Edinburgh’s female artsy bourgeoisie, a serenely arrogant poise and entitlement, which might have been expected at a bigger urban centre, like New York or London.
— When you get this amount of stuck-up, quality birds on a Tuesday night, it can only mean that independence is in the offing.
— It isnae the Busy Bee or the Cenny, for sure, Carl acknowledges. — I’m surprised Sick Boy isnae networking… he begins, stopping instantly as he sets eyes on Simon David Williamson, raffishly at the centre of a posh-frocked squad of beauties. — Scratch that thought. And look…
Renton cannot bear to set eyes on Sick Boy, who has made no attempt to engage with him since the successful but catastrophic auction. All that money. All that travel. Hotel rooms. Clubs. Tinnitus. All for fucking Frank Begbie! All because of fucking Williamson, the cunt.
Carl has spotted Juice Terry, chatting up one of the female catering staff. — Terry isnae aspirational socially, just sexually, Carl ruminates. — He walks into a room, and he just sees fanny, full stop. He fastens on to one and if she tells him tae fuck off, he moves on to the next…
—… Whereas Sick Boy, Renton interjects, warming to Carl’s theme, — sees a woman’s minge as essentially a device, a conduit to the greater prize: the control ay her mind and, ultimately, her purse. Fanny, mind, purse, that’s always been his trajectory. Getting them into bed is the end ay the line for Terry, but only stage one for sly Si. He is a cunt. Renton focuses back on his old friend.
I gave that prick ninety-one thousand quid and he set ays up tae be shafted for Begbie’s bronze heids for another one hundred and seventy-five. And that fucker Begbie wants another fifteen four hundred and twenty on top ay that!
Renton feels giddy, almost physically sick. His nausea rises further as he overhears a sincere Sick Boy contending, — Classic Motown, classic Motown and classic Motown, in response to a question regarding his musical preferences. — Note the words classic and Motown, he adds, just in case there is any ambiguity.
— The boy’s a fuckin bastard, Renton begins, before he feels Carl’s elbow banging his ribs. His client is pointing to an apparition standing in the doorway, looking inside in spooked awe.
— God sake, says Renton, — that fucker should be in his kip.
Spud Murphy staggers towards them, taking a glass from a waiter’s tray, looking at the young man as if expecting it to be snatched away at the last second. — Mark… Carl… ah feel shite, man. This kidney, it’s pure no workin right. It’s like it’s hard tae pish…
— Ye shouldnae drink, Spud, you’ve only got one tae take the burden now. Time tae ease up, mate. Renton looks at his old friend in concern. — You seem out ay it. Ye taken anything?
— Ah’ll come clean, mate, that jaykit ye left at the hozzy, thaire wis a bit ay how’s-yir-faither in thaire n ah sortay taxed it… Ah just snorted some lines the now… rough as fuck but, man…
— Fuck… that’s no ching, Spud, it’s K, Renton turns to Carl, — the stuff you gied ays, mind?
— You’re welcome to it, Spud, Carl says.
— Right… ah’d better git back hame then, left the pavey scooter ootside… Spud turns to Renton. — Sub ays, mate…
Renton despondently pulls out a twenty from his wallet.
Spud gratefully snatches it. — Ta, mate. Will replace it and the collies whin… well… later… His head jerks round. — No gaunny go withoot sayin goodbye tae Franco but… legs awfay heavy though, man, like ah’m pure wadin through treacle, he says, then lurches away from them.
Renton makes to follow, but Carl says, — Naw, leave um. Let Franco sort him oot. You have a needy client. Tell me about this Barça deal again.
Mark Renton cracks a smile and watches, with a malicious glee, as Spud Murphy lumbers, zombie-like, across the floor, towards Francis Begbie. The artsy entourage fussing over the star scatter like pins in a bowling alley, as Spud finds his target.
Franco greets him through clenched teeth. — Hi, Spud. Nice to see ye here. You sure ye feel good enough tae be oot though?
— Ah’m gaun hame now… ah just wanted tae see… this exhibition. This is likesay weird, Franco, Spud says, stroke-victim mouth flapping open, — like Hibs winnin the Cup or me losin ma kidney. It’s mental…
— The world throws up shocks, bud, Franco agrees. — The plates are shifting. It’s aw up for grabs, mate.
— Ah’m pleased fir ye though, Franco, dinnae git ays wrong…
— Ta, bud. Appreciate it.
—… Cause you’ve really changed, man… and you’ve likesay goat everything n ye pure deserve it.
— Thanks, Spud, nice ay ye tae say so, mate. The artist hauls in a deep breath, battling a fundamental resentment at being cast as Franco Begbie, fighting to keep grace in his voice. He was the artist Jim Francis, from California, here with his wife and his agent, for fuck sake. Why couldn’t they just let him be that? What the fuck was it to them?
— Aye, you’ve changed awright, Spud insists.
— Thanks, Franco repeats. He scans around the milling, chattering crowds, all their eyes on his paintings and pieces of sculpture. Except the doolally set in front of him. He looks for a potential upgrade on the company, and a sucker to entrust Spud to.
— Aye, you’ve no goat the same eyes, mind they killer’s eyes ye used tae huv? Spud demonstrates by trying to force his bug-eyes into slits. — Thaire’s just pure love in they eyes now.
— Again, thanks, Franco says through a locking jaw, waving to Melanie.
— Ah see it when ah see ye look at yir wife… n she’s tidy, Franco, if ye dinnae mind ays sayin likes. Spud feels a roll under his feet like the wooden floor is uneven, but he steadies himself. — She looks like she’s a kind person n aw, Franco… Great thing whin ye git a good-lookin lassie… that’s a kind person n aw. Did she make you a kinder person, Franco? Is that the answer? Love?
— I suppose it is, Spud. Frank Begbie feels his fist tighten on the glass of sparkling water in his hand.