— This does not look good, Tommy muses, as Renton’s other choice, ‘White Lines’ by Grandmaster Flash and Melle Mel strikes up on the jukebox.
— Cause ah ken it’s yours! they hear her screech on top of the beat in high, adenoidal tones, as, on-screen, Platini sweeps a silent effort over the bar.
— Aye, so you fuckin well say, Begbie retorts, sitting back in the seat, composed, now evidently enjoying himself. And the rest of them are too; they are all ears.
— It could only huv been you!
Begbie thinks of the silky distraction of the girl’s clothes that night, the delicacy with which she stepped out of her shoes. How those fleeting memories held sovereignty in his head over any images of her nakedness. He liked her in clothes. Although it was summer, it had gotten nippy outside. She shouldn’t have come out without a jacket. It could get cold down in the port. — Listen, if ye go oot withoot a fuckin jaykit whin thaire’s fuckin snaw flying aboot, ye kin git a fuckin cauld, right?
She stares at him, agog, then bursts into an incredulous shriek: — What the fuck ur ye talking aboot? Jaykit? Snaw?
On the television, Dominique Rocheteau deflects a free kick which sails just past the post. Renton glances from the screen back to Begbie and the girl.
As the record urges Get Higher Baby, so too Begbie’s voice rises. — Ye go oot without a fuckin pill whin thaire’s fuckin spunk flyin aboot, ye git up the fuckin stick!
Lesley raises an eyebrow to Renton as she pretends tae clean the glasses. Mickey Aitken looks over at a couple of curious customers who turn back to the other TV.
The girl examines Begbie in silence for a spell, biting on her bottom lip. Eventually she urges, — So?
— So fuckin well deal wi it. It’s your fuckin problem, no fuckin mine, and Franco Begbie shakes his head, takes a long drink, then sets his glass down carefully on the table. He thinks that the flecks in the Formica look similar to those on an egg he recalled finding in a bird’s nest as a kid. — Ah said tae ye: ‘Gie’s a fuckin ride.’ Ah nivir sais: ‘Gie’s a fuckin bairn.’ How? Cause ah’m intae rides n ah’m no intae fuckin bairns!
The girl stands up, shouting, pointing at him: — YOU’VE NO FUCKIN WELL HEARD THE LAST AY THIS, SON! Then she turns n heads across the pub for the exit as the half-time whistle goes on-screen and the players troop off the field. So far the Spaniards have given a good account of themselves, but it’s France who’ve come the closest.
— HI! Begbie, on his feet, roars back. — YOU’RE FORGETTIN THAT AW THE BOYS WIR THAIRE N AW! He gestures to the others. — THAT FUCKIN LINE-UP THIT YE DID!
The lassie stops abruptly. She turns and looks at them in horror, then shouts to Lesley at the bar in appeaclass="underline" — HE’S TALKIN SHITE! Lesley looks to Mickey and shrugs, as the girl turns back to Begbie. — YOU’RE FUCKIN WELL GITTIN IT, SON!
— AWREADY FUCKIN HUD IT! he shouts back at her, making the cross with his arms. — N IT WIS FUCKIN SHITE N AW!
Renton watches her cringe in humiliation as she exits through the swinging doors of the bar, her thin, white shoulders the barest he’s ever seen, as if they would only ever need the night as a shawl. He imagines another world, where she was not impregnated with the seed of Begbie, and going after her, walking with her, perhaps placing his jacket over her lissome, delicate back.
Frank Begbie downs his pint, shouts up another round and comes over to rejoin his company. — If this yin goes up tae the fuckin coort ah’ve goat youse boys tae back us up n say youse wir fuckin well in thaire n aw. Every cunt kens thit wi share n share alike doon the fuckin port!
— They kin tell wi blood tests, Franco, Tommy goes.
Renton is tempted to mention what he’d read about this new DNA testing in the Scientific American, up the Central Library, but then remembers that he’s in a pub on the Walk, not the students’ union at Aberdeen, where a smart cunt’s conjectures are less likely to be appreciated.
Begbie’s lips pull back over his teeth. — Ah ken aw that, Tam, fir fuck’s sake, he snaps, then his expression warms, — but it’ll keep the slag away fae the fuckin coort if she thinks half ay fuckin Leith’s gaunny be aboot, claimin thuv been in thaire pumpin away oan Franco’s sloppy fuckin seconds, ya cunt!
Through their laughter, the rest of them are starting to feel sorry for the girl. Particularly Spud. Too many Bicardi n Cokes, a horny flush, one slip-up and yir bringing up a Begbie for the rest ay yir life. Doesnae matter if the burd’s a wee bit dippit, naebody deserves that.
The second half resumes and Platini, with an air of inevitability, puts the French ahead. The pub goes crazy, at least the other corner does, and Begbie is visibly riled by the commotion, casting silencing glances down the narrow bar. Tommy wonders if he would ever stand up to Franco again, considers what circumstances might compel him to do so.
The afternoon spins by in another couple of rounds of drinks. Up on the screen, Platini has reached a personal sporting pinnacle, and in triumph holds aloft the European Nations Cup. Renton and Keezbo are surprised to see that it was two — nil; they hadn’t noticed the other goal. Amphetamine, adrenalin and their own dramas had got in the way.
— Dinnae even ken her fuckin name, Begbie sais meaning it in a barbed, disparaging way, but it somehow coming out, to his surprise and that of the others, as something between an accusation and a lamentation. For a few moments he thinks of that flecked bird’s egg: unsure of whether he smashed it or left it alone in the nest.
First Shot: Just Say ‘Aye’
PERVERSITY AND OBSTINACY are integral tae the Scottish character. Since ah said ‘no’ tae these cunts back in Manchester, ah’ve been obsessed wi heroin. Ah sometimes wish ah’d said ‘aye’, then ah might be mair inclined tae leave it alaine. Also, it’s meant tae be a good painkiller, n this back still nips, especially at night. The doaktir thinks ah’m at it, n they paracetamols are fuckin useless.
It’s an open secret in oor circle that Matty, whae gets maist ay oor speed, has been skag-happy for donks. Through him ah ken that Johnny Swan, an auld fitba mate ay mine, gets good gear. Ah huvnae really hung oot wi Johnny in ages, no since we played thegither fir Porty Thistle. He wis a decent player. Ah wis shite but applied masel like fuck tae get oot ay gaun tae the boxing club wi Begbie n Tommy.
It’s time that friendship was re-established.
In the flat in Monty Street, ah tell Sick Boy aboot it and he’s in. — Sounds fuckin excellent. Ah fancy some ay that shit, have for ages. He starts crooning the seminal Velvet Underground song, about sticking the spike into ma vein … come to Simone, he says, his jaw juttin oot, as he puts doon the dictionary he’s been thumbing through.
— But jist a wee bit tae try, cause mind wir meetin Franco up toon the night.
Sick Boy batters his heid wi the palm ay his hand. — I am pig-sick tae the back teeth ay that cunt making arrangements on my behalf. I just don’t need it. Having tae listen aw night tae whae’s gittin killed and whae’s gittin stabbed …
— Aye, but a wee bit ay smack’ll mellow us oot, n then we’ll go n see him up in Mathers.
A shrug ay the shoodirs, and he gets up and yanks the cushions oaf the couch, prospectin for coins and shoving the meagre booty deep intae his poakit. — I should get a bigger allowance from the state, he grumbles. — I’m tired ay mooching oaffay chicks tae supplement my income.
We head oot and dive oantae a 16, bound fir Johnny’s pad at Tollcross. It’s a blindin hot day so we sit doonstairs at the back for a better view ay the passin fanny. Back top deck wi Begbie, tae intimidate wideos, back bottom wi Sick Boy tae leer at lassies. Life has its simple codes.