— Typical, I shrug, — make it all about her! I turn to my mother. — Mamma, this is Marianne, the love of my life.
Marianne glances to the door Carlotta and Euan are crashing out of, then smiles at Mamma. — It’s a pleasure, Mrs Williamson.
— I think I remember you…
— Yes, Simon and I went out many years ago.
— Aye, I mind, Louisa smirks, as Marianne tenses up.
— It’s been a rocky road but the path of true love never ran smooth, I declare, summoning the waiter. — Sorry about the fuss, brother, emotional time… I address the table: — Who’s for champers? A wee swally ay Bolly?
— What happened to your nose? Mamma asks.
— A cowardly attack, I tell her, — but it’s all good!
— Well, this is a turn-up for the books, Louisa grins like a demented Cheshire cat with its furry balls caught in a vice.
The waiter reappears with that thickset glass fucker in an ice bucket. He pops and pours to my unbridled delight. — Cheer up! I raise my glass. — There is absolutely nothing bad happening anywhere in this big wide world at this precise moment in time!
38
RENTON – DON’T BEG THE BEGGAR BOY
On the road, the afternoon light thickens in a gaudy, retina-scorching burst. I take my shades from my shirt pocket, stick them on and floor it, as Vic Godard sings about Johnny Thunders on the stereo. I motor smoothly up the Pacific Coast Highway, the vibrant blue sky clashing with the scrub-covered brown hills. As I head to Santa Barbara, I’m aware that I’m risking it all. Happiness with Vicky, with my dad, trying to build a home over here for Alex.
I was skint anyway but Second Prize has cleaned me out completely. I’ve zilch and my main source of income, Conrad, is as good as away to a big agency. The worthless Leith Heads: fucking Sick Boy and, most of all, that cunt Begbie. I’m not going to beg the Beggar Boy. All I can do is ask. And if he says no, then I’ll offer the cunt a square go. I feel an avalanche of rage gather in my chest. Constricting my throat. Tightening my muscles. My back throbbing in its old spot. We’ll see if the artsy poof Jim Francis is all that’s left ay Frank Begbie. At this moment, I feel the very same way he probably did when I betrayed him: like everything has been taken from me. Well, Williamson fuckin got it, and now Begbie will. And there he is, standing as a man wi a wife and two young daughters, a proper man, in the way he never was back then; one who looks after his family. Like I’m striving tae. But how much empathy does the cunt have? None. Spud’s in the fuckin groond and he couldnae even bother showing up. Never sent a wreath, a caird or fuck all.
The ride gets good when I hit Ventura as the road hugs the coastline, the breaking waves lapping up along the shore. My shades are on, the window is rolled down and I’ve keyed Begbie’s address into the GPS. This hire drives nicely, responsive tae my touch on the wheel, as I weave smoothly in and out of traffic.
I need that money. I need it tae be able to build a life here, and I need it right now. No in six months’ time when Conrad’s royalties come in, cause that will be my last payday there. He’s building up tae say something; he’ll be off tae a bigger manager, like Ivan did.
So this is how it has to happen. Franco’s beaten me at what I value most – art – and now I have tae have this dash wi the cunt; face him on his home turf of violence. If I stand over him, the battered artist, I’ve won the duel. If he beats ays tae a pulp, I’ve also won: I’ve shown the cunt up for what he is, and what he’ll always be. And me? What am I? Spud, God rest his soul, is more creative than me. He produced something more detailed, clever and meaningful about our life on skag than anything that was in my diaries. I’m glad I sent it off to that publisher.
I play my messages back over the car speaker. Conrad first:
What is going on? I need you to phone me! I am in Los Angeles! There are things we need to talk about! Where are you?!
Muchteld:
Mark. This is not good. You have been been absent with the track coming out. Conrad is pissed off. You need to deal with this and everything else at Citadel. Call me.
Fuck them all. I’ve bigger fish to fry. I’m fighting for my future, and also my son’s and my dad’s.
When I get on the turn-off for Santa Barbara, I pass fresh roadkill by the side of the highway. It looks like a domestic pet; a cat or a small dog. I think ay Begbie, and how one ay us is fucking getting it.
39
BEGBIE – HOSTAGE
It’s just got dark. There’s the cool breeze coming oafay the ocean, and that scent ay eucalyptus fae the trees in the garden. Mel is in the hoose, putting the kids tae bed, and I’ve just stepped out tae take the trash tae the dumpster in the alley at the back ay the yard. Have tae gie the cunt his due, he’s fuckin quiet enough. Hear nowt till I feel the gun barrel. Naebody’s stuck one ay them in the back ay ma neck before, but ah ken what it is right away. — Just walk back in here, he sais, pushing it harder against ays.
So we cross the yard and enter the kitchen through the back door. Probably this is where I should pivot and ram the nut on the cunt. But he might pull the trigger. Aw I’m thinking of is Melanie and the girls, through in their beds. So when ah realise we’re gaun intae my workshop, which is attached tae the house, ah’m no resisting, as it’s the furthest point fae the bairns’ bedroom. Ye sometimes get a chance, one chance, in a situ like this. Ah made a mistake ay no striking right away, but ah didnae git a sketch ay the cunt tae tipple how gone he was. — You… he turns me round, — put your arms behind you.
The cop cunt. Harry the fuckin Hammy Hamster.
Ah comply, as I’ve nae doubt he’ll pull the trigger. His voice is tellin ays he’s fucking away wi it. That he’s gone tae a place in his heid where he’s set out the path ay action and willnae deviate fae it. Clipped, precise and certain. What d’ye dae at times like these? Obey and hope something turns up, n if it does, grab the fucking opportunity.
He gets me tae sit in one ay the metal chairs ah keep for visitors. They replaced a couch, as I didnae want people getting too comfy in ma place ay work and distracting me. He moves behind ays. — Put your hands through the back of the chair.
As I comply I feel the metal harshly clasping ma wrists. A long time since I’ve known that sensation. Nowt like it for making yir guts sink. Ah kin hear the bats squeakin ootside in the trees.
Then he’s got a length ay rope and I’m thinkin This cunt is gaun for a revenge hingin, but he’s winding it roond ays, securing me tae the chair. He heads tae the door. Ah’m about tae scream: Get the fuckin bairns oot and run like fuck, now, but he turns tae me, his eyes hidden in shadow. Under that slash ay darkness, ah see his lips, set tight. — Don’t fucking move or shout out or you will hear gunshots. I guarantee it.
And he goes away. The bats are silent now. Amazing how they settle so quickly. This is the hardest bit. Every fuckin fibre ay ays wants tae roar oot a warning, but this cunt really does look ready tae start shootin. Ah think aboot they two wee lassies, lying dead, lifeless, in their ain blood, smashed by bullets. Mel the same wey. My knives are by my workbench, attached tae the waw by a magnetic strip. I start tae inch the chair back in that direction. Suddenly the sound ay tense whispering, and ah’m thinking: dinnae let the cunt get tae the point where he’s left himself nae option but tae shoot ays. Save ays for the fuckin payback. Then, thank fuck, eh’s back in wi Melanie. Her hands are cuffed behind her back, but she doesnae seem injured. Tears are running doon her cheeks as she looks at ays, imploring through her shock, but ah kin dae nowt, except concentrate like fuck on ma breathin, as she’s pushed intae the identical chair next tae mine. It’s aw ah can dae tae look at her, for the shame I feel aboot no being able tae protect her and the bairns.