Renton watches him detach Marianne from an irate Terry, and lead her to the fire escape. Just as they disappear, the ceiling collapses and water cascades down.
— Save the work, screams Martin, pulling a painting from the wall.
Everybody freezes in amazement, then they rush to avoid the water and falling ceiling debris, or try to move the artwork. Frank Begbie remains impassive. — If there was a fire in a flat at Wester Hailes, wi a family trapped in a blaze, and the chance tae save them, the services would be called here tae save the art first. Ah dinnae git that.
— Jambo scheme, Renton says, — I get it.
While Franco laughs, Renton takes his opportunity. — One question, Frank, he coughs out exigently, — this money… the fifteen grand, why now? Why do ye want it back now?
Frank Begbie pulls Renton out of earshot from Melanie, who is helping Martin and an attendant remove Blood on the Tracks. — Well, after a bit ay mature reflection, I think you’re right. It’ll help us all move on. Get rid ay aw this shite aboot the past, ay?
— But… surely… ah boat they heids. For way ower the odds. That’s us mair than square.
— Naw, mate, you bought some art. It says so on the bill of sale. That’s goat fuck all tae dae with our debt.
— You’re no gaunny hit me with that… please, Frank, I’m struggling, mate, ah’ve got –
— I’m no hittin ye wi anything. I don’t do that any more. You stole fae us all; you eventually offered to pey it back. You peyed back Spud. You peyed back Sick Boy, only tae rip him off again.
— But I peyed him back again! Renton cringes at his own voice, a high, infantile shriek.
— Anyway, I decided that I didnae want tae touch that money. Then you tried tae manipulate me by buying the heids, which ye hud nae real interest in.
— I was trying tae get ye tae take what wis due tae ye!
— That wisnae the motive, Franco says, as sirens wail from outside. — You wanted tae feel better aboot yirsel. Tae square the account. The usual AA or NA shite.
— Does there need to be a dichotomy… a separation… Renton stammers, — a difference between the two, do they need to be apart?
— Ah ken what a fuckin dichotomy is, Franco snaps. — I told ye, I got past the dyslexia in the jail, and huvnae stopped reading since. Did ye think ah wis bullshitting ye?
Renton swallows his own patronising silence. — Naw… he manages.
— Prove that was your motive then. Prove that I entered intae yir calculations. Franco cocks his head to the side. — Make it right. Pey me my money back!
And Frank Begbie walks away, leaving Renton’s mind unspooling through time and across continents, as he stands in the chaos that Spud has created. The gallery owner looks on in a helpless loathing as Martin runs around with staff, removing the last of the pieces. Conrad is upset about the water in the DJing equipment, and is shouting loudly. Carl can’t get why, all that’s his are the headphones and the USB card. Firemen and plumbers arrive in almost indecent haste, as maintenance men go about their business and guests gasp, moan and chatter. Outside, a screeching drama queen of a fire alarm continues its beseeching appeal long after everything seems in hand. Renton is rooted to the spot, with one thought burning in his mind: Begbie knows I’m skint. He’s beaten me again. I can’t let that happen.
And then there is Sick Boy, who has cost him everything, egressing with Marianne. Begbie would have been happy with twenty grand for those heads, but Sick Boy, through Forrester, had set him up to clean him out. That was not acceptable.
30
SICK BOY – MARITAL AID
Begbie’s ridiculous exhibition was a must. I so craved seeing Renton’s upset pus, knowing that I had primed Mikey to fuck his finances by bidding up Franco’s useless work. Of course, the bronze head looks nothing like me. Yes, the defined cheekbones, solid chin and noble nose are present, but it fails to capture those swashbuckling pirate eyes. But Franco provided the bonus ball of the icing on the cake: the temperamental artiste decided that he wanted the drug money back after all! Salt in the Rent Boy wounds, and a deft touch I’d never have associated with Frank Begbie. Mikey informed me that Renton’s treacherous ginger pus was a treat! Pity I missed that.
At the gallery Renton keeps his distance, fronting nonchalance, but not trusting himself around me. He slopes about the decks with Ewart and his fat Dutch kid. But all this is just a welcome prelude to the main reason for turning up, the presence of Marianne, who floats into the exhibition like a willowy ghost in a blue dress. Mazzer is in the company of a young guy and woman; two good-looking but shallow and disposable cunts to be found behind the velvet rope in any overpriced George Street hole. Whether the young boy is a lover or the girl’s beau, he is effortlessly elbowed aside when Juice Terry hones in on her.
Time, therefore, suddenly becomes of the essence. I leave my unsavoury associates, and saunter over to them. — Terry… if you’ll excuse us a wee second. Marianne, we really need to talk.
— Oh, do we? She shoots me that look of cold derision, the one that always gets me right behind the baws. — You can fuck off.
— Aye, this can wait, ya cunt. Terry gies me the evil eye.
But Marianne isn’t taking hers off me. She’s heard my deceitfully seductive lines so often before. How many times can I do this? How many times can I make her believe? I’m feeling that power of pathos mashing me up inside, as I envision both of us being stricken down by a terminal disease, each with just months to live. A farrago of Bobby Goldsboro’s ‘Honey’ and Terry Jacks’s ‘Seasons in the Sun’ plays in my head as my voice goes low and deeply resonant. — Please, I say in a deathly plea, — this really is important.
— It had better be, she snaps, but I’m in the fucking game!
— Too right it better, Terry says in rage, as I take a reluctant Marianne by the hand and we depart for the fire escape. Lawson! Cock-blocked by Williamson! The rampant Stenhouse forward was through in on goal and seemed certain to score, but the Italian central defender, the Leith Pirlo, came from nowhere with that well-timed tackle!
On the fire-escape stairwell, she’s looking pointedly at me. — Well? What the fuck do you want?
— I can’t stop thinking about you. When you threw that drink in my face at Christmas –
— You fucking deserved it. And more! Treating me like shite!
I suck in more air and let myself shiver with cocaine withdrawal. — You know why I do that, don’t you? Why I’m drawn to you and then push you away?
She remains silent, but her eyes are popping like she’s been jacksie-rammed. Not by Euan’s paltry Presbyterian penis, but by a proper monster, the size of the Holy Papa’s staff. By an Italian stallion!
— Because I’m crazy about you, I say soberly. — Always have been, always will be.
— Well, you’ve got a funny way ay showin it!
Sloppy defending – presents a scoring opportunity! I raise my hand to her face, pushing aside the static hair to stroke her cheek, as I stare deeply into her eyes with my own moistening ones. — Because I’m fucking scared, Marianne! Scared of commitment, scared of love, and I let my hand fall to her shoulder and start to kneed. — You know that 10cc song ‘I’m Not in Love’? Where the guy sings that song, because he’s desperately in love, but vigorously trying to deny it? That’s my song for you, and I watch her face involuntarily ignite. — I’m that guy! Scared ay the intensity of the feelings I have for you.