Porno (15 page)

So ah heads oot, gits the fish supper n flags doon a fast black. The cunt gies ays a wide look like eh’s no that chuffed aboot ays eatin in the back ay ehs fuckin cab, bit ah stares the cunt doon n eh fuckin well shites it.

So ah’m intae the Hailes n Larry sets up the drinks. Eh’s wi a couple ay boys, whae eh gies the nod tae n they melt away intae the fuckin corner. So ah’m crackin oan wi Larry, catchin up. Larry’s a good fuckin mate, dinnae care what any cunt says aboot um. At least the cunt came tae see ays in the fuckin jail. Bit the cunt kin be a sneaky fucker n ah wanted tae see what him n fuckin Donny wir up tae, fuckin surein ah did. Goat tae watch ah no git too pished but, wi Lexo’s wad burnin a fuckin hole in this poakit here. Larry’s look tells ays thit mibee they fuckin threads uv goat oan ur a bit oot ay date. That cunt likes a fuckin peeve, but eh wants tae sort oot some business first.

Wi downs oor drinks n heads doon that auld track thit runs through the scheme, the yin thit they went oan aboot bein the new fuckin Princes Street whin it wis built. Now it’s jist a concrete path thit leads fae the shoapin centre doon tae the flats, wi two banks ay gress oan either side. Build a new Princes Street in a scheme? That’ll be the fuckin day.

Larry’s as fuckin shifty as ever. Eh’s lookin at they wee lassies thit ur skippin ootside ay the block ay flats. — Must mind tae come doon here in a few years’ time, eh smiles.

The wee lassies ur singing: —
Mystic Meg said tae me, whae ma boyfriend’s gaunnae be
 . . . n that fuckin Larry sais tae ehsel: — W-Y-L-I-E, spellin oot ehs ain name.

— Get tae fuck, ya dirty cunt, ah goes.

— Jist jokin, Frank, eh smiles.

— Ah dinnae like that kind ay fuckin jokin, ah tells um. The cunt hud better be fuckin well jokin. Larry eywis acts cheerful enough, but eh’s a fuckin ruthless cunt under it aw. At least until ehs cock gits in the fuckin road. Fell oot wi the Doyles whin eh goat one ay the sisters up the stick. That’s how eh wis gled tae git in wi me n Donny. Eh’s tellin ays aboot the lassie wir gaunnae be seein. — This Brian Ledgerwood cunt, eh went awol. Completely fuckin vanished, eh. Left ehs burd n bairn wi the debts. Gamblin debts, like.

— That’s oot ay order, ah goes.

— Aye, sais Larry, — feel sorry for the wee burd. Fuckin tidy n aw. Business but, eh. What kin ye dae? Mind you, they tell me she’s no shy. Melanie, eh sais aw that fuckin fond, smarmy wey. — That Terry Lawson’s meant tae be knobbin it. Mind ay that cunt?

— Aye . . . ah goes, bit ah’m strugglin tae pit a face tae the name as Larry raps oan the door.

This Melanie lassie comes tae the door, n she looks a fuckin ride awright. Larry was well fuckin impressed. She stood thair, her hair damp, like she’d just fuckin washed it, n it was aw curling in long ringlets oantae her fuckin shoodirs. She’s goat oan this fuckin green V-neck sweater and jeans n it wis likes she’d jist fuckin pilled thum oan tae answer the door. She wisnae wearin a bra n ye kin tell Larry’s clocked that n ehs probably wonderin if she’s wearin fuckin knickers n aw. — Look, ah’ve telt ye. Brian’s debts huv goat nowt tae dae wi me.

— Can ah come in soas we kin talk aboot this? eh goes. Ah’m thinkin now, aye, ah mind ay Terry Lawson, him n me goat done thegither ages ago, jist wee laddies, like. The fitba.

This Melanie folds her airms. — Nowt tae talk aboot. Yi’ll need tae see Brian.

— We would if we kent whaire eh wis, Larry goes, pittin oan that fuckin smile.

— Ah dinnae ken whaire eh is, she tells um.

Jist then another young lassie, about the same age, quite wee, wi black hair, comes along, pushing a bairn in a go-kart. She sees us n stoaps. — What’s wrong, Mel? she asks.

— The debt collectors huv come tae git the money Bri owes thum, she goes.

This wee lassie wi the black hair turns tae me. — Bri left her wi these debts n took some ay her money. She’s no seen um, that’s the truth. It’s nowt tae dae wi her.

So ah jist shrugs n starts tellin the wee burd thit
ah’m
no a fuckin debt collector, ah’m jist here wi Larry cause uh ran intae um in the street. Ah notices this wee yellaw bruise under her eye. Ah’m askin hur what they fuckin well call her, n she’s gaun Kate, n wir jist fuckin bletherin away as Larry’s comin oot wi ehs fuckin spiel tae other yin. — This is the rules ay the game, doll. Yuv been telt before. The contract states that, just like the community charge, it’s the household, rather than the individual that incurs a loan debt.

This Melanie’s shitein it, bit shi’s tryin no tae fuckin show it. That Kate lassie looks at me aw pleadin, like she wants ays tae stoap um. That Melanie’s wee toddler’s come oot n ehs droaped this toy n she bends doon tae pick it up n catches that clarty cunt lookin at her erse. Credit tae hur but, she’s starin aw hard at the cunt.

— Hi, hi! What’s that look fir? Larry goes. — Ah’m oan your side, doll.

— Aye. That’ll be right, she goes, but ye kin hear the fuckin fear in her voice.

This wee Kate’s still lookin at ays, n ah’m thinkin, ah could fair go fir this fuckin piece right enough, been that fuckin long . . . n that Larry, eh’s a fuckin bully n the cunt’s startin tae git oan muh tits. — Look, ah goes, this isnae the wey tae settle this, Larry.

— It’s tough, ah ken, Larry sais, aw soothingly, lowering ehs fuckin voice, like eh’s spotting the opportunity. — Listen . . . ah’m no promisin nowt, but ah’ll huv a word wi the man, see if he kin gie ye a wee bit mair time, eh smiles.

This Melanie looks at the cunt and forces oot a tight smile and a grudgin thanks. — Ah ken it’s no you, yir jist daein yir joab . . .

Larry huds the gaze a second, then goes: — But listen the now, ah’m wonderin if we could go fir a wee drink n discuss this in a mair civilised wey, like the night?

— No thanks, she says tae him.

Ah steams right in. — What aboot you, Kate? Git a sitter fir the bairn!

— Cannae, she smiles, — ah’m skint.

Ah jist winks n goes: — N ah’m auld-fashioned. Ah dinnae like a lassie tae pey fir anythin. Eight o’clock awright?

— Well, aye . . . but . . .

— Whaire dae ye stey?

— Jist doonstairs, the hoose below this yin.

— Ah’ll pick ye up at eight, ah goes. Then ah turns tae Larry. — Right, c’moan . . . n ah grabs um n pills um away.

Wir gaun doon the stairs n eh’s fuckin moanin. — Fuck sakes, Franco, she would’ve fuckin come oot if ye hudnae uv dragged ays away!

Ah tells um straight. — The lassie’s no fuckin well interested in you, ya mingin cunt. What aboot me but, wi that wee Kate!

— Aye, they burds are easy meat, thir eywis skint n thill go fir a boy wi a wad.

— Aye, bit they didnae fuckin well go fir you, ya cunt, ah tells um. The cunt’s no too pleased but thir’s nowt eh kin fuckin well say. Ye kin see thit the stiff cock’s run-doon n the cunt’s fuckin shitein ehsel as tae what ehs gaunnae tell Donny.

That’s
his
fuckin problem. Oot ay the nick fir jist a few fuckin ooirs n ah’m oan muh fuckin hole awready. Wi a tidy young burd n aw! The fuckin world record, ya cunt, ah’ll be makin up fir loast time right enough!

19

Mates

S
ick Boy’s sniffin away, that cat’s beak is streaming mair than mine, ken. It’s like a brook, man, the wey it runs, meanderin doon ontae his top lip. Every so often eh pills out a Kleenex but it does nae good, the cat’s conk is still like a brook. N what else dae brooks dae? They babble, man, they jist pure babble, ken. Which disnae bother me, well, normally it disnae, but it does now cause Ali’s listenin tae aw ehs crap. Pure hingin oan every word, ken. It wis her idea tae come intae the Port Sunshine n see him, no likesay mine. Mibee ah wis daft comin in here the other day, n mibee ah wis a bit short wi the cat, but the nerves wir pure shredded n he’s been thaire enough tae ken and show some sympathy tae an auld mucker, surely. But naw, that boy has ey been aboot ehsel. Eh’s that full ay ehself it’s surprising thit thir’s room fir any ching, likes. Now eh’s blabbin on aboot movies n the industry n aw that cack. The thing is though, that cause she’s impressed n cause thir’s history thaire, ah feel . . .

. . . Jealous . . . Useless . . . Both, man, both.

And the Sick Boy felly doesnae really change much, man; no, no, no, the cat most certainly does not, cause eh’s gaun oan aboot ehs favourite subject again, him, him, him, and aw ehs big schemes and plans.

We get a bit ay peace when the bar gets crowded and the perr old girl, strugglin tae cope oan her ain shouts: — Simon! Eftir ignorin her twice, eh finally gets up and goes ower tae lend a reluctant hand. Alison goes tae me when eh hits the bar: — It’s great tae see Simon again, and she starts gaun oan aboot the auld crowd, aboot Kelly and Mark and Tommy, poor Tommy, man.

— Aye, Ali, ah really miss Tommy, ah tell her, and ah pure want tae talk aboot Tommy cause it’s sometimes like the boy’s just forgotten aboot, n that’s no right. See, sometimes when ah try tae talk aboot him, people go aw stroppy and accuse ays ay bein sortay morbid but it isnae like that, ah jist want tae remember the boy, ken?

Ali’s been tae the hairdresser’s the day and hud her hair cut shorter but wi the fringe still long. Preferred it the wey it wis if the truth be telt, man, but ah dinnae want tae say nowt. Wi lassies, if yir jaykit’s awready oan the shaky, shaky peg, making a point like can likesay tip the scales, for defo. — Aye, she says, lighting up a fag, — Tommy was a lovely guy. Then she turns tae me, and exhales and there is frost in my baby’s eyes. — But eh wis a smackheid.

So ah just sit there, man, no able tae say Scottish Fitba Association, ken. Ah should huv said that Tommy wisnae that much ay a smackheid really, jist unlucky, cause the rest ay us, in fact aw ay us, pure yazed mair, but ah cannae cause now
he’s
back ower beside us, likes, wi some mair drinks, and it’s aw him again. Aw Sick Boy.

It’s jist playin ower n ower in ma heid again: LONDON . . . MOVIES . . . THE INDUSTRY. . . LEISURE . . . BUSINESS OPPORTUNITIES . . .

And ah jist cannae resist it, man, sitting here aw fucked, listening tae this shite, n a bit ay pure nastiness comes ower me and ah jist say: — So it, eh, didnae work oot fir ye in London, likesay? Sick Boy straightens up, ehs spine coke-rigid, n sits and looks at me like ah jist telt um ehs Italian ma sucks polismen’s cocks. Oh aye, there’s real hate in the cat’s eyes, but eh’s saying nowt, jist sortay starin aw coldly, ken.

It makes ays nervous, n ah sortay huv tae talk again. — Naw, man, it’s jist that ah thoat wi you bein back here n that, likesay . . .

A tightness comes ower ehs face. Sick Boy n me: we used tae wind each other up, but we were close. Now we jist wind each other up. — Let’s get one thing straight, Spu . . . Daniel. I came back here for opportunity: to make movies, to run a bar . . . this, eh sweeps ehs hand around in that dismissive wey, — this is just the start.

— Ah dinnae really call a grotty pub in Leith n showin some stag-porno stuff big-time opportunity, man.

— Don’t
you
fuckin start. He shakes ehs heid. — You’re a fuckin loser, mate. Look at ye! He turns tae Ali. — Look at him! Sorry, Ali, but it has tae be said.

Ali’s lookin aw gravely at him. — Simon, we’re all meant tae be friends.

Now this gadge is daein what eh does best, shiftin blame, justifyin ehsel and pittin other people doon at the same time. — Look, Ali, ah come back here and all I get is negative energy from losers, he tells us, — and I just can’t operate in that way any more. Everything I say, I get cold water poured on it. Friends? I expect encouragement from so-called friends, he sniffs. Then eh sortay points at ays aw accusin. — Did he tell you that he came in here the other day? The first time I’d seen him in yonks?

Ali’s likesay shakin her heid and lookin right at ays.

— Ah wis gaunnae . . . ah try tae explain, but that Sick Cat talks ower me.

— What did I get? No even a ‘hiya, Simon, how are ye, long time no see’, ehs sais tae her, actin aw hurt. — Naw, no him. Straight away eh tries tae pit the bite intae me, no even a ‘hello, how are you’ first!

Alison sweeps her fringe back and looks at ays. — Is that right, Danny?

Well, then it’s just like one ay they horrible scenes when yir Donaldo’d and sick and ye can sortay see it happening before it does. It’s like that, man. Like ah jist
see
masel standin up, aw shaky n jerky like in one ay they early black-n-white films shot at funny speed n whaire the frames are aw badly spliced thegither. Ah sortay see ma mooth flappin open n ma finger pointin at um aboot a second before it does. Then, aye, ah’m up oan ma feet pointin at the radge, n telling him: — You were never a mate, never a
real
mate like Rents wis!

The Sick Felly’s face twists intae a sneer and ehs boatum jaw shoots oot, sortay like the drawer ay the till at Kwik Save. — What the fuck are ye talkin aboot! That cunt ripped us off!

— He never ripped me off! Ah shout back, pointin at masel.

Sick Boy goes quiet, a real deathly quiet, man, but the cat’s stare never left ays. Aw naw, ah’ve done it now. Blabbed. N Alison’s lookin at ehs n aw. The pair ay thum, man, two sets ay big eyes, aw screamin betrayal.

— So, he says harshly, — you were in on it with him, eh looks at Ali, whae lowers her heid n stares at the flair. Ali’s great at keepin secrets but she’s bad at lyin.

Ah dinnae want his accusin lamps oan her, so ah spill the beans. — Nup, ah kent nowt aboot it, n that’s oan Ali n Andy’s life.

The Sick Cat’s stare is as intense as ever, but eh kens thit ah’m no lyin. Eh kens thit thir’s mair but.

Ah cough it oot, ma nails scrapin oan the soggy beer mat. — But later oan ah goat some money, sent through the post. Jist ma share, nae mair. Sick Boy’s big eyes ur still screwin intae me, and ah ken right now that even tryin tae lie wid be useless cause this cat would jist ken. — It had a London postmark, and it came aboot three weeks eftir ah goat back up here. Thir was nae note. Ah’ve never seen or heard fae um since, but ah kent it wis him that sent the cash, it couldnae huv been anybody else, ah telt um. Then ah goes, a bit boastful likes: — Mark sorted me oot!