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  — 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

  Sick 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 ther
e, 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!

  — The full share? eh asks, ehs eyes bulgin oot.

  — Every penny, man, ah tell um wi a bit ay glee, then ah sit back doon in the seat cause ah’m fucked. Ali looks accusingly at ays, and ah kin only shrug, and hur heid droaps again.

  Ye kin see Sick Boy’s dome’s pure spinnin. Ah’m thinkin that the inside ay that cat’s nut must be like one ay they things wi aw the baws that they yaze fir the lottery or the Scottish Cup draw. Eh looks really hurt, no jist pretend hurt, but then eh suddenly smiles, ehs grin imitatin the logo oan the gadge’s blue Lacoste shirt. — Aye? Well, a lot of fuckin good it did ye n aw. Ye really sorted yirself oot, eh. Really invested the money well.

  Ali raises hur heid, looks at me. — That money, when ye goat that stuff for the bairn . . . that was aw fae Mark Renton?

  Ah say nowt.

  Looking at ehs gless ay whisky, Sick Boy picks it up and drains it, then starts tappin the empty gless oan the table. — Aye, that’s right, just sit thair in a fucking stupor, eh sneers at ays. — You dinnae dae anything, you never will dae anything, eh’s tellin me.

  And ah cannae help it, ah just blurt it oot; ah tell him that ah do, that ah’m writing a history ay Leith.

  Sick Boy starts sniggering. — That should be fucking riveting, eh bellows acroass the bar, and a few heids turn roond.

  Now Ali’s lookin at me like I’m daft n aw. — What are ye talkin aboot, Danny? she asks. Ah’ve jist goat tae git away, oot ay here. Ah stand up n head oaf. — Negative energy, eh, ah’ll mind ay that yin, likesay. Right, see yis.

  Sick Boy raises ehs brows but Ali follays me tae the door and we go ootside. — Where are ye goin? she asks, wrapping her airms roond herself.

  — Ah’ve goat ma meeting, ah tell her. It’s nippy, and she’s cauld, shivering, even though she’s goat that navy-blue cardigan oan.

  — Danny . . . she starts, rubbing the zipper oan ma jaykit between her finger and thumb, — ah’m gaunnae go back in thaire n talk tae Simon.

  Ah jist look at her in pure disbelief.

  — Eh’s upset, Danny. If eh says anything aboot that money n it gits back tae the likes ay Second Prize . . . she hesitates fir a wee bit, — . . . or Frank Begbie . . .

  — Aw aye, go n see Simon. We cannae huv him upset, kin we, likesay? ah snap, but fuck aye, that still registers. It wis me, Rents, Sick Boy, Second Prize n Begbie aw in London, n Rents pure ripped us off. Bit eh peyed me back. Eh obviously nivir peyed Sick Boy back, bit ah dinnae ken aboot the others. Probably no Begbie, cause he went mental, killed that boy Donnelly n goat sent doon, even though Donnelly wis a bad bam as well, it’s goat tae be said.

  — You’d better no be late, she sais, kissin ma foreheid, then she turns and she’s gone back through the door.

  She’s gone.

  So that wis what done it, likesay, ah wis aw charged up wi excitement n worry but whin ah went along tae the meeting ah jist told them aw aboot it, this history ay Leith. The thing is, man, that that Avril lassie, she was jist so happy, ken, jist so fuckin happy. It made it worthwhile, likes, just tae see the smile oan the chick’s face. So now ah’ve done it, ah’ve blabbed n pure created this expectation ay masel as a man ay letters. A dude movin oan up, a distinguished local historian, a mover, a shaker.

  But it isnae me, likes. That boy oan the telly, the one that goes oan aboot ancient civilisations n aw that, ye cannae really see him gaun: Hey, man, ah’d better watch this gadge fae Leith, this new kid oan the block. If ah dinnae mind ma
sel, this radge’ll be prowling roond aw ma Pyramids, giein it big licks aboot aw they Egyptian dudes. Nah, ah dinnae think so somehow.

  Ah’ve goat tae make a stab at it but, ken, goat tae try, mibee prove tae Ali that ah’m mair than she thinks. Mibee prove it tae aw ay them.

  When ah first met Alison she was a weird and wonderful kind ay lassie, wi that great sortay tanned skin, the long, dark wavy hair n the big white set ay pearly choppers. She wis ey a bit ay an intense chick but, it was like sometimes there wis an invisible vampire attached tae her neck, jist drainin the energy oot ay her.

  Never really took that much notice ay me, likes. She wis eywis intae him. Then ah mind one day she jist smiled at me and ma hert blew tae smithereens in ma chist. Whin we goat thegither ah thoat it wis jist wasters stuff, man, and that once we cleaned up, she’d want tae move on. But then came the bairn n she jist sortay stayed. That’s probably it, man, the wee yin, maist likely the only reason she’s stuck aroond sae long.

  But now she’s back tae being that vampire-sucked Ali, and guess whae the vampire is? It’s me, man. Me.

  Eftir the gig at the group ah wonder if Ali’ll still be doon the road at the Port Sunshine. Naw bit, ah cannae handle seein that Sick Boy again right now. Instead, ah turns the other wey n heads up intae toon where ah runs intae Cousin Dode, comin oot the Old Salt, n wi goes up tae his flat in Montgomery Street fir a blaw. Quite a cool wee pad tae; a bit oan the titchy side, the rooms like, a wee tenement rather thin one ay the big yins. Eh’s goat it aw done up nice n aw, man, except fir the big Huns picture, the Souness era, framed oan the waw above the fireplace. Thir’s a nice leather couch which ah pure collapse right intae.

  Ah quite like Cousin Dode, even if eh does sortay go oan a bit, n eftir a couple joints n a beer ah’m tellin um aboot ma women problems.

  — Never mind, mate, Omnia vincit amor, love conquers all. If yis love each other, it’ll work oot, if yis dinnae, it’s time tae move oan. End aff, Dode says.

  Ah’m tellin um thit it’s no that easy. — See, it’s likes thir’s a boy that used tae be a good mate, n him n her wir like an item, n now eh’s back in toon, back oan the scene, like, man, ken? The guy wis a bit fill ay ehsel, so ah said a few things, telt um something ah shouldnae huv, ken?