— Ah hud love wi Alison. N it wis good… it wis the best ever. But ah couldnae keep it, likesay. How’s it you dae that, Franco… how’s it ye keep it?
— Dunno, mate. Luck, ah suppose.
— Naw it’s mair thin luck, Franco, Spud says, his voice cracking with sudden emotion, — it’s goat tae be poppy n aw. N success. Like you stumbled oan this hidden art talent. Ken? That’s ma problem, he laments, — nae talent tae speak ay.
Frank Begbie hauls in another breath. Sees the opportunity to introduce the levity he badly needs. — You were a decent housebreaker and no a bad shoplifter.
Spud shuts his eyes, opening them after a couple of beats, and takes in the strangeness of the room. — Aye, n ye ken whaire they talents took me, he says. — But you’ve done well, Mark’s done well, though we ey kent that, he went tae university, the lot, n Sick Boy… as long as there’s chicks tae exploit, he’s ey gaunny git by. But how did it happen tae you, Frank? How did Frank Begbie… how did Frank Begbie… come oot ay aw this as the cat that goat the cream?
— Look, mate, ah told ye, Franco says impatiently, — it just happens. Meet the right person at the right time, get a bit encouragement, find something ye like daein…
He is relieved when Martin approaches them. His agent is a very composed man, but his eyes are glazed and his pupils enlarged in excitement. He points to a big canvas on one of the walls. It depicts a man tied to railway tracks. — Blood on the Tracks, it’s been bought by Marcus Van Helden for one million, Jim! One painting!
— Quid or USD?
— Well, USD. But it’s more than twice the highest amount you’ve sold a single piece for!
— Gallery gets half, so that’s half a mil. You get a hundred grand, that’s four hundred thou. Taxman gets a hundred and fifty, that’s a quarter ay a million bucks, or aboot one hundred and eighty thousand quid.
Martin’s brow furrows. He struggles to understand his client’s mentality. What others were in receipt of seems to be of far more concern to him than his own substantial remuneration. — Well, that’s life, Jim…
— Aye, it is.
— It’s a single piece and it sets the bar high for your other work. It establishes you as a premium artist in the eyes of collectors.
— Suppose so, Jim Francis says without enthusiasm, as they move across to the picture, Spud staggering along behind them. The piece depicts a bloodstained figure bound to a railway line. — That pure looks like Mark, Spud sings excitedly.
— It does a bit, Franco grudgingly concedes, looking over at Renton by the decks. — I wisnae thinking ay him, though. Must have been subconscious.
— This art gallery, man… it’s awfay posh n gies ays the heebie-geebies just gaun in. So ah’ve goat this ketamine, n that’s the only wey ah kin git through it, Spud announces to Begbie and Martin, then suddenly lurches to the steel stairs.
Franco looks at Martin in semi-apology. — An old pal, fallen on somewhat hard times.
Instead of going down the stairs to the exit, Spud, his mind now succumbed totally to a blank limbo, lurches up to the vacant top floor. The room is the same as the one below, but it’s empty.
Where is everybody…?
He is scarcely aware that he is taking a fire hose from the wall. Starts to unravel it. Looks down at it. Throws it away. Turns it on at the tap, then wanders off, oblivious to it jumping over the floor like a demented snake, shooting out a high-pressure jet of water. He stumbles back to the fire escape, then feels himself falling downwards, but not safe like the DMT trip, and a javelin of panic skewers through the drug anaesthetic as he reflexively reaches out to arrest his decline, grabbing out at an exposed pipe, using it to steady himself. He is aware of gently sliding again, as it wrenches from the wall. Then it snaps. Spud tumbles down a few steps, and a river of cold water skooshes from the burst duct into the stairwell.
Assisted by the banister railing, Spud manages to pull himself to his feet. He descends the stairs, almost blind, following the music, nearly knocking over a server with a tray. People gasp and move aside as Renton runs from the decks to intercept. — Fuck sake, Spud. He grabs his friend’s scrawny shoulders, placing a glass of champagne in his hand.
— The system, Mark… it’s beat us aw, Mark.
— No, mate. We’re the undefeated. Fuck the system.
Spud lets out a high hyena-like laugh, as Renton helps him sit down in a chair by the decks. Carl N-Sign Ewart plays smooth, soulful house as the various associates of Franco – boxers, ex-football thugs, jailbirds, construction workers and taxi drivers – start to mingle with the genuinely libertine among the artsy crowd, while the poseurs make for the cloakroom, like Titanic passengers for the life rafts.
Renton is trying to coax a bored Conrad to play for a bit. He has the big headlining SSEC gig later. — It’s still early. Do a wee turn.
— They do not pay.
— A wee favour for your manager?
Conrad looks at Renton as if he’s crazy, but gets up to play anyway, Carl happily giving way for him. The overweight young Netherlander drops the first track to cheers, promoting his manager to slap his back. — Go on, the Dutch master!
Then Conrad shouts at Renton, — There is a girl who is hot. He points to a young woman, sipping water by the side of the dance-floor area. She has killer cheekbones and hypnotic ringed green eyes.
— Play. I’ll get you an intro. Are you going to showcase the new track?
— Invite her to come with me to the SSEC gig. If she comes, you do not need to go, he says with a grin, then cuts back to a petulant, reprimanding scowl. — You, and the world, will hear the new track when I am ready!
— Sound. Renton focuses on the positive; a get-out-of-jail-free card is in the post. As Conrad gets back to work, Renton and Carl go over to Juice Terry. He greets them with hugs. — The Milky Bar Kid is back in town! And the Rent Boy tae!
— I love you, Terence Lawson, Carl says.
— Lean Lawson! Did you go tae the final? Renton asks.
— Hud a fuckin ticket, ay, but ah ended up baw-deep in this tart.
— Nice one, Tez, Carl says.
— Aye, ah wis watchin the game oan the telly while pumpin it aw weys. Hud her ower the couch, then oan the bed tied tae the metal frame wi her ain Hibs scerfs. Best ay baith worlds. When those cunts went 2–1 up, ah kept up the pressure till Stokesy equalised. Still at her whin Gray goat the winner. Final whistle, ah jist punched the air n blew ma fuckin muck right up her! Best fuckin ride ah ever hud!
Renton laughs, then nods towards the object of Conrad’s desire. — Who’s that lassie?
— Used tae be a gangster’s pump, but ah got her ootay that and intae the scud, Terry says. He starts to tell Renton about some fairly recent gang war. A young team boss had perished, as did Tyrone and Larry, two old associates of Franco.
Renton, Carl and Juice Terry are joined by Sick Boy and the Birrell brothers – Billy ‘Business’ Birrell, the ex-boxer, and Renton’s old pal Rab, who wrote the script for the porno flick they made. Spud is still in the chair, head twisted, eyes rolling, drooling out the side of his mouth. Franco is close by with Melanie, chatting to some guests. — Can’t wait tae get home, Renton hears his old pal sing in an accent more Californian that Caledonian. But, he reasons, his own one is blanded out through living in Holland. Sick Boy has also picked up a dreary, poncey metropolitan ubiquity, though Leith was seeping back into his tones. Only Spud, he looks at the mess, crumpled into the seat beside the decks, is keeping it real.
Nobody notices that the ceiling has been bellying out. Sick Boy is avoiding the substantial cleavage that is being thrust in his face, looking over her shoulder at Marianne, who is wearing a blue dress. She arrived with a younger man and woman. Terry peels off the company and is straight over to her. He’s firing a volley of questions at her, the usual Lawson technique… — Excuse me, Sick Boy says to the busty woman, moving across the room to where Terry and Marianne are in conversation.