— Oh fuck off, Simon –
— Look, you don’t want to hear it and I don’t fucking well blame you. I know what you’re saying to yourself: how has he suddenly got the balls to man up, and act on his fucking feelings? I look at her. — Well, the answer is you. You’ve stayed the course. You’ve believed in me. You’ve shown me love over the years, when I was too scared to give you it back. Well, no any more. Now I’m done with running and hiding, and I fall to my knees at her feet and whip out the ring. — Marianne Carr… I know you’ve changed your name, I add, forgetting her current moniker, — but you’ll always be that to me, will you marry me?
She looks down at me in total shock. — Is this for real?
— Yes, I tell her, and I break into a sob. — I love you… I’m sorry for all the hurt I’ve caused you. I want to spend the rest of my life making it up to you. This is as real as real ever gets, I say, imagining her repeating that line to a mate in some George Street wine bar. He sais that this is as real as real ever gits. — Please say yes.
Marianne gazes into me. Our souls melt together like pastels in a hot mouth – her hot mouth – and I’m thinking of the first time we fucked, when she was fifteen and I was seventeen (at that age classed as stoat rather than noncing), and all the decades I’ve seduced her – and been seduced by her – since then.
— God… the fucking mug I am but I believe you… Yes! Yes! she sighs, as a torrent of water comes tumbling down the stairs, soaking my legs and her feet.
— What the fuck? I stand up and there’s Renton. I glance down at the wetness on my trousers and then outstretch my arms. — Mark! Guess what! I just –
His head flies into my face –
31
RENTON – THE PAY-OFF
My forehead connects wi a sweet, satisfying crack oantae the bridge ay the cunt’s nose. He slams a hand on the railing, which rings like a gong doon the stairwell, but cannae prevent his fall. Watching the wanker tumble doonstairs, like one ay those auld toy slinkies, almost in instalments, is a beautiful sight. He comes tae rest in a crumpled heap oan the cold metal ay the fire-escape stair bend, soaked by the water cascading doon the steps. For a few seconds ay fear grips ays: I’m scared he’s been badly hurt in the fall. Marianne is doon tending tae him, hudin his heid up, as blood gushes fae his bent, cartoon-like nose, oantae his blue shirt n beige jacket. — Fuck sake, Mark, she screams up at ays, her eyes crazy wi rage.
I take a step forward. I’m bordering on penitence, till I hear him protest, — A cowardly attack… so undignified…
— That’s what a hundred and seventy-five grand feels like, ya cunt!
Marianne, teeth barred, nose tip red, roars at ays, — How could you do that?! I’ve no fucking feelings for you, Mark! That was a one-off! And after what you gave me?!
— I don’t… I –
Sick Boy staggers tae his feet. His nose looks crooked and misshapen. I feel uneasy again, as if I’ve found and then ruined a hidden treasure; in its newly-mangled state, it’s easy tae discern that formerly noble proboscis as a major source ay his charisma. Now the mess spills thick droplets ay claret down his garments and oantae the dimpled metal floor. His glassy eyes brim with focused rage, switching from me tae Marianne. — WHAT THE FUCK IS AW THIS ABOOT?
A bunch ay art worshippers tiptoe past us, tense and sheepish.
Does Marianne mean that I gave her… Vicky… fuck sake, I’ve probably gied Sick Boy a Bonnyrigg! It’s time tae make masel scarce. — I’ll leave you lovebirds tae work it all oot, I tell them, heading back intae the chaos. The door flies open, almost smacking ays in the face, as another school ay punters pass me, their feet splashing in the water.
Back in the exhibition space, everybody appears concerned but Begbie, who seems no tae gie a fuck about the possibility ay his artwork being damaged. Water still cascades doon the walls, but he’s standing back wi that satisfied smile he used to deploy eftir he’d just caused carnage in a pub or on the street. He’s gone fae being the uptight cunt who goes radge at nothing, tae the fucker who doesnae gie a toss aboot anything. I look for Conrad, only to have it confirmed that the obese young Dutch master did indeed vanish into the limo with the scud model, and down the M8 to his gig. Then I’m oot ay there, heading acroass tae the other exit, in order tae avoid Sick Boy and Marianne. I get oot through the departing crowds, into the still night, and walk back tae the hotel. I pass Spud, parked on the pavement, slumped over the handles and basket of his mobility scooter. He’s in a deep sleep. If I woke him now, I would put him in greater jeopardy as he’d try and drive the thing hame. Best to leave him, and I weave up and down the city’s medieval steepness tae my hotel room.
After a profound, satisfying slumber, I rise the next morning tae see Conrad sitting wi the green-eyed honey at the hotel breakfast. Anybody who thinks that wealth and fame are not aphrodisiacs should look at this wee beauty wi that blobby mess. I gie them a nod and smile, and sit alone, a couple ay tables apart from them. I loathe hotel buffet breakfasts, and order some porridge and berries off the menu. I get on the phone tae ma bank in Holland, checking on ma finances in increasingly exasperated Dutch and English, getting transferred between various specialist staff. I’m watching Conrad, as he leaves his girl three times during my convo to refuel; scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, black pudding, tattie scones (my fault, I oversold them tae him), beans, tomato, toast and bakery goods – pain au chocolat, croissant – and, almost perversely, a portion ay fresh fruit and yogurt. Then, as the model lassie slavers on aboot addiction, he’s horsed the lot and I’m still oan the line, trying tae work oot how they can pey me ma cash. Well, not just mine any more. I’m three grand short and have tae arrange an overdraft, but they gie ays the clearance on the money I’m owing Franco.
Now I need tae head ower tae the Scottish bank, where the wire transfer has been placed, quickly telling Conrad I have an emergency and will meet him back here in an hour tae get the Amsterdam flight. The bank is a trek down tae the New Town, and there’s nae cabs till the Mound, when I’m practically already there. They issue the poppy, the fifteen grand four hundred and twenty that Franco changed his mind aboot. This on top ay the other money I shelled oot for those fucking heids, soon tae be en route tae Amsterdam. It’s this smaller amount that’s cleaned ays oot. And for this yin, Franco refused tae gie bank details, demanding a cash payment. So I’m totally skint, and ma only assets are the Amsterdam and Santa Monica pads, one ay which I’ll probably now have tae sell. But Frank Begbie, or Jim Francis, or whatever the cunt calls himself, has issued the fucking challenge, and I’m rising tae it.
At my request I meet him at a cafe on George IV Bridge. He’s already there when I arrive, wearing shades and a blue Harrington, nursing a half-finished black coffee. I sit down wi my tea and slide the envelope across the table tae him. — It’s all there: fifteen grand, four hundred and twenty quid.
For a second ah think he might just laugh it off, n tell ays he wis takin the pish. But naw. — Nice one, he sais, pocketing the cash and rising. — I think this concludes our business, he goes, like a twat in a bad soap opera, and the cunt just walks oot the door withoot looking back.