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— It’s no oan, Simon, she says shaking her heid, but I’m trying to get offski before Begbie and his bum-chum clock me. But it’s too late, he sees me and he’s over.

— No steyin fir a fuckin peeve? he more or less commands.

— I’d love to, Frank, but I’m visiting a sick buddy in the hossy before catching a train through to Glasgow. Bell me on the mobby in the week and we’ll hook up for a gargle.

— Aye . . . what’s your fuckin number again?

I spit out the green number and Begbie punches it into his phone, obviously noting that it’s not the one that the text message came from. — Is that the only mobile you’ve fuckin goat?

— No, I’ve another one for business. Why? I enquire. Actually, I’ve three mobiles, but the ones for chicks are nobody’s business but mine.

— Ah goat a fuckin text message fae some cunt tryin tae git wide. It wis like oan an abroad number. Didnae work whin ah called it back.

— Aw aye? Abusive phone calls, eh? You’ll be getting stalked next, Franco, I joke.

— What’s that fuckin well supposed tae mean? Begbie glowers.

I feel my blood run cold and I’d almost forgotten the sheer depth of the man’s paranoia. — It’s a joke, Frank, lighten up, buddy, for fuck sakes, I quip, closing my fist and making a matey but flimsy contact with his shoulder.

There’s a pause of about two seconds, which seems about ten minutes, as I see a huge black hole opening up and my life spilling into it. Then, just when I think I’ve taken too much licence, he seems to calm down, and he even makes a joke himself. — Nae cunt’s fuckin stalkin me, every cunt’s keepin oot ma fuckin road it seems. Ma so-called fuckin mates n aw, he says, now looking at me hopeful and hard.

— Like ah sais, Frank, we’ll hook up in the week. I’ve been a bit busy recently, learning the ropes here, but I’ll be in the clear soon, I tell him.

That Larry looks at me with a sly grin. — Ah’ve heard thit yuv been busy oan other things n aw, mate.

A cold nick tweaks my spine as I wonder who’s been blabbing, but I nod enigmatically and head off, smiling at Franco and Larry. As I go, I turn to Morag. — A beer for the boys Mo, on my tab. Cheers, chaps! I sing, and when I’m out of sight I fairly skip up the Walk, legs as light as a child’s, delighted to have extricated myself from the mess in the bar.

44

‘. . . record-breakers . . .’

I
t must be the company I’m keeping, but I find myself starting to think like a local. Life is sweet; it’s a warm spring day so there’s a bounce in my step and I take some builders’ wolf whistles with a casual, snooty contempt, feeling like a nasty, hot, arrogant bitch. I can do it wholeheartedly now that the coursework is over. I’m heading through the increasingly tourist-clogged city streets to get up to the hospital to see Terry. Poor Terry.

The air has a cold, fresh sting, but with a jumper on it’s not unpleasant. I realise that I really am enjoying myself with the movie. Surprisingly, not so much the sex. I’m up for it but it’s never as good as I anticipate. It’s too much like work, too much like playing to the camera, and because of that it’s often dull and uncomfortable. Sometimes you feel like those record-breakers, that one hundred people in a mini sort of shit, and Simon’s stop-starting seems to go beyond the needs of the film, it’s like a way he exercises power over us. But the main thing is being part of something, being involved, that’s what makes you feel alive.

Yesterday we shot the castle scene, one of the potentially most difficult, down at Tantallon in North Berwick. Simon had a joiner friend make up a pair of false stocks. He got Ronnie with his glasses on and Ursula done up to the nines in a short white skirt and T-shirt, showing the blonde hair and sunbed tan to best effect. Early morning we filmed Ronnie getting on a tour bus, with her stalking him. Then we headed down to the bus station. The bus to North Berwick was almost empty. We filmed Ronnie inside sitting down, looking a nerd with glasses, notebook and camera. Rab was outside in the back of a van driven by Craig, shooting the exteriors.

Inside the bus we shot Ursula saying to Ronnie: — Mind if I sit here? I am from Sweden.

Ronnie’s had the most benefit from the acting lessons, and Derek reckons he’s a natural. — Not at all, he explained. — I’m exploring old castles.

Then we did the stocks scene, where he sees her and she explains that she’s stuck. That’s when he can’t help but take her from behind. Thus the third brother bites the dust.

As I get up to the ward, I note that the arguments between Rab and Terry haven’t stopped just because Terry’s laid up. I think Rab is secretly enjoying Terry’s predicament, although Terry himself seems in better spirits now. His bedside locker is piled up with fruit, which you can tell won’t be eaten, and all sorts of tinned foods and takeaway cartons. There’s a frame around his hips which bulges out under the bedclothes to protect his damaged penis. — This fascinates me. Is it in plaster? Or a splint? Or what? I ask him.

— Naw, it’s just like a bandage.

Simon breezes in looking around the hospital like it’s a piece of property he’s just purchased. It’s warm in here and his jersey is off, not tied to his waist in the conventional sense, but around his neck like a toff cricketer. He smiles at me, then turns to the patient, — So, how are they treating you, Terry?

— Thir’s some barry nurses in here, tell ye that, but it’s fuckin killing ays. Whenever I get a stiffer it’s agony.

— Ah thoat they gied ye some medicine tae stoap ye gitting hard, like, Rab speculates.

— That kind ay stuff might work on the likes ay you, Birrell, but thir’s nae wey anything kin stoap me gittin hard. The doc’s worried n aw, eh says tae me, you’ve goat tae stoap gittin a fuckin root oan or it’s no gaunnae heal.

Simon looks glumly at him, dispatching some bad news. — We can’t put back the shooting now, Terry. We’ll need to find a stand-in. Sorry, mate.

— You’ll never find anybody tae replace me, Terry says to us in a matter-of-fact way, beyond arrogance, just what he saw as a wholly neutral appraisal.

— Well, the shooting’s going great, Simon enthuses. — Ronnie and Ursula were brilliant yesterday, and Derek and his girlfriend were great in the lift.

Terry contemplates Simon, obviously determined to deflate him. — By the way, Sicky, what huv ye goat that jumper roond yir shoodirs fir, like a poof?

Responding with a tetchy, icy look, Simon rubs the lambswool between thumb and forefinger. — This is a Ronald Morteson sweater. If you knew anything at all about clothes, then you would understand what that means and why I choose to wear it in this manner. Anyway, he looks at me, then back to Terry. — I’m glad that you’re okay and that things are on the mend. Nikki, we have business to attend to.

— We certainly do, I smile.

And Rab looks daggers at Simon, dying to ask where we’re going but his chance is gone as we leave together and head downtown to the station and the Glasgow train.

On the train Simon’s briefing me about our intended prey, and it all seems exciting but at the same time strangely worrying that we’re putting all this effort into tracking this guy. As he describes him, I can see our man. Simon, in his clipped delivery, done without irony, makes me feel that we’re MI5. — A nae-mates, stay-at-home-type, a model-railway enthusiast, who’s slightly overweight. There’s a breed whose parents try to keep them at home, either consciously or subconsciously, by making them unattractive to the opposite sex by forcing them to eat implausibly large and disgustingly frequent meals. In this case our subject also has some rather bad skin, caused by the kind of rampant seventies-style acne which modern diet and skin-care products have all but eradicated. You still see one or two East European footballers, on the telly and that, with that kind of pallor, but it’s very rare here in the West, even in Glasgow. Our boy must be a traditionalist. What we need from him is a list of customers; names, addresses and account numbers. Just one printout, or better still on disc.

— What if he doesn’t fancy me? I ask him.

— If he doesn’t fancy you he’s a fag, it’s that simple. And if that proves to be the case I’m on him, he says, his face breaking into a smile. — I can do queen if I have to, he grins wholesomely, — the flirty bit that is, his face twists in distaste, — not the sex.

— What you say is rubbish though, not every straight man fancies me, I shake my head.

— Of course they do, or they’re gay or in denial or . . .

— Or what?

His face creases in an even broader grin. I see the crow’s-feet spread. But he really does look Italian, there’s such character in that face. — Stop fishing.

— Or what? I urge.

— Or don’t want to mix business with pleasure.

— Hasn’t stopped you, I smile.

Simon pulls an exaggeratedly sad face. — That’s my point. I’m powerless to resist you and he will be too, mark my words. Then he says softly: — I believe in you, Nikki.

I know what he intended with his words and they have the desired effect. I’m raring to go. And we get off the train and find the pub and I see him at the bar alone, the man of my sweaty little persecution nightmares. Simon nods, then vanishes, as I swallow my pride and make my move.

45

Easy Rider

M
y heid’s, likesay, well fucked; basically cause ah got oot oan the Lou Reed n took a few jellies tae come doon, so ah wisnae thinkin right when Chizzie the Beast phoned ays. Never thought much ay the cat, a bad gadge really, but eh sort ay latched oantae ays in jail. Didnae ken eh wis oot. Thing wis ah wis desperate for company n Chizzie hud the name ay this hoarse which wis a tip thit came fae a mate called Marcel, whae never gies oot a loser. So Benny at Slateford takes the bet and we go back tae the cabin cruiser tae watch our boy, the 8–1 outsider, Snow Black, romp hame at Haydock in the 2.45.

Ah couldnae believe it, man. Right fae the off our boy makes the runnin. By the halfway stage eh’s way oot oan ehs ain. A couple ay other gee-gees narrow it a bit ower the last furlong, but our boy’s cruisin, pure cruisin. In fact, it’s the maist one-sided race ah’ve ivir seen. No that we’re moanin or nowt like that, man, we are very far fae complainin. Wir gaun: — YEEAAAHHHSSSS!!! n wir in a big hug under the telly in the bar n ah suddenly freeze fir a second, thinkin aboot whae else’s been in they airms n how they must huv felt. Ah pulls away makin the excuse thit ah’m gaunnae hit the bar n git in mair drinks tae celebrate. In ma pocket, as ah’m diggin oot the notes, ah find some mair ah they jellies.

When wi git back intae the cream cookies, Benny’s face is tripping him. — Hot tip, eh grumbles.

— Too true, catboy, ah smile.

— Goat tae keep yir eyes n ears open, eh, Chizzie grins. — Luck ay the draw, chavvy. Win some, lose some.

N it’s the best feelin ever, man, cause ah’m oan four fuckin grand, man, and Chizzie’s on eight n a half. Four grand! Ah’m gaunnae take Ali n Andy oan hoaliday, Disneyland, Gay Paree! Nice one, Marcel, and aye, nice one, Chizzie, fir sharin it wi ays, it hus tae be said!

Wi go back tae the boozer and down a few beers tae celebrate, then decide tae hit the toon. Ah want tae dump the Chisholm felly as soon as, but the gadge’s done awright by ays, n ah owe um, so it seems right tae tag along fir a bit. We’re waiting on a taxi, or a bus even, but nowt’s doin; Scottish man, just totally Scottish Fitba Association in the passenger-cairryin motorised road-vehicle stakes. Chizzie then disappears intae the car park ay S&N Breweries. Ah thoat eh wis jist gaun tae take a slash, but eftir a bit a blue Sierra pulls up and who should be at the wheel but the cat-beast known as Gary Chisholm.

— You carriage awaits, chavvy, Chizzie says, gold tooth glintin like a tiger’s fang.

— Eh aye . . . ah go, climbin in . . . N ah suppose, man, they politician cats say it’s a classless society, so it disnae really matter whose motor ye take. Everything fir everybody, ken?

— Goat tae git intae toon n git a lash oan fir the witchin hour, ya cunt, eh goes, n eh breks intae this weird high laugh which could jist sortay tear strips ay flesh oaf ay ye.

We leave the motor in Johnston Terrace and bounce round tae the Mile and hit upstairs at Deacon’s. Nod tae a few faces whae’ve jist come fae the Court. Eftir a bit the beer’s gaun for ays, ah jist cannot take it much now, ah wis eywis mair ay an other-drugs cat.

Chizzie starts talking about old acquaintances: jail boys, wideos n the like. It’s no the kind ay conversation ah like, man, cause it’s always, likesay, the damaged cats eh minds ay. Ah goes tae the lavvy n ah’m thinkin aboot this money in ma poakit, man, thit wi this money ah could pure git a lassie, n fir some reason ah buy a packet ay spunkbags fae the machine n poakit thum. Ah feel the jellies, burnin a hole in they troosers, man. They’re gittin necked soon.

Whin ah gits back oot ah sees thit Chizzie’s thinkin along the same lines as me, n that makes ays nervous. — Gantin oan a fuckin shag, eh, eh tells ays. Then eh explains: — This is a good time fir the fanny, between four n six. Ye git they fucked-up slags thit’ve been oan the pish aw eftirnin n dinnae ken whaire they are. Well, Chizzie’s oan the prowl.

And right now, ye dinnae huv tae look very far. Thir’s this lassie wi red hair in the bar. Her white leggings are aw stretched n baggy, like the elasticity’s gone and they seem tae have what looks like a lump of shite in them. She is just totally pished, man, like ye widnae go near her, but fuck, Chizzie’s straight ower. Eh buys her a drink, says something and she comes ower tae sit wi us. — Awright, pal? she asks ays. — Ah’m Cass, she sais. Fuckin hell, this lassie’s sortay a near-jakey. She’s laughing loudly, n she pills her face close up tae mine, n her hand rests briefly oan ma baws then settles intae a grip oan ma thigh. This big, rid face, aw bloated n flushed wi alcohol is right next tae mine, n ur teeth ur aw yellaw n rotten. Mind you, ma teeth ur shite, n, thinkin aboot it ma face is probably like hers wi the drink, cause Chizzie’s gittin that Belisha beacon wey n aw. Ah dinnae git a rid kip whin ah drink but, cause wi me it jist sortay drains oot aw the colour n ah pure go white. She’s made a bit ay an effort, cause she’s goat loads ay eyeliner n lippy oan, n she’s asking us what star signs we are and aw that kinday bird stuff.