Porno Read online

  The looseness of his tongue, particularly when on cocaine, does cause concern, but the gusto of his performance is infectious. — Tidy, I acknowledge.

  — They couldnae handle the skunk but. First, the wee specky yin hus a whitey, then the really shaggable yin, that Nikki, she passes oot n aw. This dirty cunt takes hur hame tae his hoose n rides hur, he says, nodding at me.

  I shake my head. — Did I fuck ride her. Gina took her tae the bogs then we got her back tae mine and put her tae bed. I was a perfect gent, on my best behaviour, well, with Nikki anyway. I did shag Gina back at hers.

  — Aye, then ah bet ye went back n rode that Nikki n aw, ya cunt!

  — Nooo . . . I had tae get up early for a delivery so I was straight back tae the pub in the morning. When I went tae the flat Nikki was away. Even if she’d been there, I would’ve been a model gentleman.

  — Ye expect me tae believe that?

  — That’s the wey it wis, Tel, I smile. — There’s some lassies you need tae play the long-ball game wi. I’m not interested in poking a puking corpse.

  — Aye, it wis a fuckin waste, Terry curses, — cause this wee yin wanted it awright, he says to this N-Sign boy, or Carl, as he calls him. — Here, Carl, you should git yirsel doon tae the pub, bring some ay that fanny fae yir club along n aw. Wi eywis need fresh blood, Terry teases.

  This DJ boy’s okay though. We’re getting a bit mashed sharing a wrap and he says something to me which makes my heart race even faster than this off-the-rock line I’ve just done. — I was out in the Dam the other week. I saw that boy who runs this club oot there. Used tae be a mate ay yours. Renton. Youse fell oot, they telt me. Did ye ever get back in touch?

  What is he saying here?

  Renton? RENTON? FUCKING RENTON!

  I’m thinking to myself, well, maybe I fucking well could do with getting over to the Dam. Check out the porn scene. Why not? A bit of R&R. And I could also get some fucking cash that’s owed me!

  Renton.

  — Aye, we’re aw sweet now, I lie. — What’s his club called again? I casually remark.

  — Luxury, this Carl N-Sign Ewart guy says innocently as my heart pounds in my chest.

  — Aye, I agree, — that’s the one. Luxury.

  I’ll show that fucking treacherous ginger-heided cunt luxury.

  21

  Whores of Amsterdam Pt 3

  The canal’s got a green hue today; can’t work out if it’s the reflection of the trees on the surface of the water, or some effluent spillage. The fat, bearded cunt in the houseboat below is sitting, his top off, contentedly smoking a pipe. A good ad for the baccy. In London, he’d be a worried man, shiteing his keks that somebody else would be trying to get what he’s got. Here though, he couldn’t give a toss. Someway along the line the British went from being the cunts who had it sussed out to being the biggest wankers in Europe.

  I turn into the room, and Katrin’s in a short, blue, imitation-silk gown, sitting on the brown leather sofa, filing her nails. Her bottom lip rolls tightly down, her brow set in a concentrated frown. I used to be able to sit and watch her do things like that for hours. Appreciate her just being there. Now we irritate each other. To me now, it’s fuckin stupid. — You got that seven hundred guilders fir the rent then?

  Katrin idly gestures to the table. — In my purse, she tells me, before standing up and discarding her robe with a slightly stagey flourish and going to the shower room. I hesitate, watching her very thin, white nakedness depart, strangely both arousing and slightly creepy.

  I look at her purse lying there on the big oak table. The gleaming eye of its clasp winking at me, like a dare. There’s something about going through a woman’s purse. In my junk days, I screwed hooses, shops and did people over to get what I needed, but the strongest taboo, the one that hurt the most tae brek, wis my ma’s purse. It’s easier tae stick yir fingers in a strange woman’s fanny than in a familiar one’s purse.

  Still, a roof over the head is certainly required, and I snap it open and skim off the notes. I can hear Katrin singing in the shower, or trying to. Germans cannae sing a fuckin note, like the Dutch, in fact like all Europeans. What she can do is do my head in. Aye, merciless needling, appalling rows, stormy sulks; Katrin can do those with panache. But her strongest card is the bitter interventions that occassionally punctuate her stony silences. Our wee flat overlooking the canal has developed an atmosphere highly conducive to paranoia.

  Martin’s right. It’s time to move on.

  22

  BIG FUCKIN FLATS

  Ye look at they fuckin trees here, they yins thit are strugglin in the shadows cast by the big fuckin flats. Undernourished, that’s what they are, that’s the fuckin word, like the bairns, like they fuckin auld cunts, that fuckin cowed and apologetic wey, shitin it as they pass a group ay young cunts ootside the shoppin centre.

  Bit ah’m fuckin gaun past thair now n ah’m fuckin lookin at the young cunts n ye kin hear thir voices startin tae fuckin well droap cause aye, ah’m lookin at thaim awright. Bit a shark disnae bother chasin fuckin minnows cause that’s no gaunnae fuckin well satisfy. Aye but they wee cunts are smellin fear awright n thir lookin shocked cause it’s thir fuckin ain.

  Some cunt’s fuckin gittin it . . . muh heid is fuckin nippin . . . even the fuckin Nurofen’s no workin right . . .

  So ahm thinkin aboot whin it started, this moarnin, right early doors, before ah went tae muh fuckin ma’s. It aw started at Kate’s, me n hur in bed. She looked that fuckin barry whin ah woke up wi hur. Ah’d made the fuckin excuses wi the last two times, sais tae hur thit ah wis pished. Bit now, eftir aw this time, she wis fuckin lookin at ays, like thir wis somethin fuckin wrong wi me. Like ah wis one ay they sick cunts in that stuff thit that fuckin bastard sent ays in the nick.

  Bit it’s burds ah like, burds ah fuckin well want. Aw ah fuckin did wis wank masel oaf thinkin aboot burds whin ah wis inside, now thit ah’m oot n ah’ve goat a bird ah like, ah cannae even . . .

  THAT CUNT THIT WIS FUCKIN SENDIN AYS THAT FUCKIN STUFF

  Ah’m no a fuckin sick queer buftie . . .

  AH CANNAE FUCKIN WELL GIT IT UP.

  N see if she’d jist said that, said, ‘What the fuck’s up wi ye?’ ah widnae huv bothered like. But she fuckin well goes, ‘Is it me? Dae ye no fancy ays?’ So ah jist tells ur the fuckin loat, aboot the jail, n aboot how the first thing ah wanted whin ah goat oot wis a fuckin ride, n how ah cannae fuckin git it up now.

  N she jist cuddled intae muh side, me aw fuckin tense, n she wis tellin ays again aboot that cunt she wis wi, the boy thit used tae batter hur, thit gied her that eye she hud whin ah first met hur. N ah’m thinkin, ah need tae fuckin git oot ay here, cause muh heid is fuckin well nippin. So ah telt her ah wis gaun tae muh ma’s.

  Ma fuckin breathin’s gaun aw yon wey as ah go intae the shoapin centre. Ah feel like a fuckin prisoner here; trapped by the fuckin need tae jist huv some cunt. It’s like a fuckin addiction . . .

  It’s mibee jist bein here, oot here, ootside. It’s like ah fuckin well dinnae belong, dinnae fit in. Muh ma, muh brar Joe, muh sister Elspeth. Muh mates: Lexo, Larry, Sick Boy, Malky. Aw aye, thir aw fuckin well pleased tae see ye, but it’s like the cunts only fuckin tolerate yir presence for a while. Then they fuckin go. Aw aye, thir aw fuckin nice aboot it, but thuv aw goat things tae dae, eywis fuckin things tae dae. N what is it thit they huv tae fuckin well dae? Everything except what we used tae fuckin well dae thegithir, that’s fuckin what. We’ll get a proper blether later on. And it makes ays fuckin rage inside, makes ays feel that fuckin addiction aw the stronger, that need tae jist hurt some cunt. When the fuck is later oan?

  N Lexo. What the fuck wis that cunt up tae, wi that bird and ehs fuckin Chinky restaurant-cum-café. A fuckin Chinky in Leith! Thir’s tons ay fuckin Chinkies in Leith! A tie restaurant, eh fuckin well goes. Well, nae cunt in Leith’s gaunnae come oot fir a meal n wear a tie tae a fuckin Chinky, especially no when it’s a fuckin scabby wee café durin the fuckin day. />
  Aye, Lexo, doon at muh ma’s hoose, stuffing that envelope intae ma fuckin hand. Two grand. Buying ehs oaf. And aye, ah’d taken it cause ah fuckin well needed the money, bit Lexo’s thinkin through his fuckin erse if he thought thit him n that wee slag eh was wi wis elbawin ays oot, just like that. Lexo’ll fuckin get it.

  Bit thir’s one cunt, one fuckin face thit burns in ma heid brighter thin any ay thum.

  Renton.

  Renton hud been muh mate. Muh best mate. Fae school. And eh’d taken the fuckin pish. It’s aw been Renton’s fault. Aw this fuckin rage. N it’s nivir gaunnae stoap until ah kin git that cunt back. It’s his fuckin fault ah goat the fuckin jail. That Donnelly goat wide, bit ah widnae huv done um sae bad if ah hudnae been fuckin crazy about bein ripped oaf. Ah left um in that fuckin car park in a pool ay ehs ain blood, dyin, n stuck muh sherpened screwdriver in ehs hand. Then ah went hame n plunged masel twice, once in the fuckin gut, once in the ribs, yazin another screwdriver. Then ah bandaged masel n staggered up tae the A&E. That goat ays manslaughter instead ay murder. If ah hudnae hud form n goat done for two GBH charges inside, ah’d huv been oot years ago. It’s a fuckin joke, n it’s aw doon tae that fuckin thievin cunt Renton.

  Aye, ah hud tae git oot, tae git away fae Kate, cause ah couldnae be fuckin held responsible fir whit ah might huv done otherwise. Hur ex-boyfriend was a cunt, eh battered hur, n that was oot ay order. Thir’s some cows thit deserve a fuckin punchin, lassies whae wirnae satisfied till some cunt shut their mooths wi a fist. No Kate but, she isnae like that, it was a liberty treating a lassie like her that wey. Bit muh heid wis thrashin, it’s like ah wis ready tae fuckin go, so ah goat the fuck oot.

  Bit then, doon at muh ma’s, ah wis gaun through some fuckin auld stuff; a couple ay auld holdalls worth ay fuckin personal possessions. Found an auld fuckin picture; me n that cunt Renton in Liverpool at the fuckin Grand National. Ah fuckin well held it that long ah thought ah could see that cunt’s smile grow as eh fuckin well looked at ays. Aye, ah could see that fuckin grin become broader and aye, ah could see they fuckin cartoon asses’ ears coming oot ay the toap ay ma fuckin heid. Tae trust a cunt like that . . .

  The guts really started manufacturin fuckin acid, the heid wis buzzing, n it wis like muh boady wis gaun intae fuckin spasms. Ah kent thit ah could jist keep fuckin well starin at that picture, jist fuckin well kill masel daein that, just keep that stare oan that picture until ah blew every fuckin gasket. Aye, the blood boiling up and popping in ma fuckin veins under the pressure and me bein stretched away; blood streaming fae muh ears n muh nostrils. Ah held it but, tae prove thit ah wis stronger thin that cunt, then ah nearly passed oot before ah flung it away, n jist sat oan the couch, fuckin breathin aw that heavy wey, muh hert beatin like fuck.

  Muh ma came intae the room, saw ays aw that fuckin agitated wey. She goes: — What’s wrong, son?

  Ah jist says nowt.

  Then she goes: — When ur ye gaun roond tae June’s, tae see the bairns?

  — In a bit, ah goes. — Business tae sort oot first.

  Ah heard hur talkin away in the background, jist fuckin well blabbering away tae hersel, that wey where she disnae fuckin really want or expect ye tae say nowt back, like she’s singing a fuckin song or something. Thir’s some new names gittin bandied aboot, as if ah should ken whae the fuck she’s talkin aboot.

  So now ah’m back up tae Wester Hailes n ah’m takin Kate oot. So wir up the toon in a taxi. Ah slips her some notes tae pay the boy whin wi gits ootside this club, cause ah recognises an auld fitba mate Mark, working oan the door, n ah goes up tae huv a word.

  So ah’m fuckin bletherin tae Mark in the street n ah looks back n sees her squarin up n the taxi pillin away. Then this cunt comes up tae her n goes: — Is that you oot hoorin, ya dirty fuckin slag, he fuckin hisses at ur, like a fuckin viper, pittin ehs hand up as she cowers away.

  — Dinnae, Davie, she pleads in this sortay high fuckin shriek n ye kin see wi that big satisfied look oan ehs face eh’s heard that noise fae hur before. Ah kent right away whae it wis. Mark the bouncer fuckin steps forward, but ah stoap um. Then ah walks aw slow up tae the cunt, cause ah’m fuckin savourin every step ay this fuckin journey. The cunt’s goat Kate by the wrist now, and eh sees ays stridin casually up tae thum.

  — What you fuckin wantin? You fahkin well wantin some n aw, ya cunt! You fuckin well . . . eh fuckin screams at ays, but ehs gittin mair n mair desperate. Right away eh kens thit this noise jist bothers amateurs and ah kin see the fight sinking oot ay the cunt awready. Right away this cunt kens eh’s fucked; ehs bottle had gone long before ah’d goat tae within five strides ay um! The thick veins through that fuckin paper-thin neck, the throat spotting up, like a fuckin rash. N me, ah’m jist that fuckin relaxed.

  Gied the cunt the slow smile n the fuckin stare, lit um cook nicely fir a second or two before pittin the fucker oot ay ehs misery n breakin ehs beak wi a flick ay the heid. A punch knocks um over, ontae the cobblestanes, n fir Kate’s sake, n cause thir’s that many cunts around, ah jist blootered um three times in the heid, face n small ay the back. Ah bend doon n whispers tae the shitein cunt: — The next time ah see you, ye fuckin well die.

  Eh lits oot somethin between a fuckin plea and a whimper.

  Ah tells Kate thit that boy’ll nivir bother her again. Wi nivir steyed long in the club but, cause ah wanted tae git hame early. Wi gits intae bed n ah fuckin well rides her ragged aw night. She tells ays she’d seen nowt like it before! Ah’m lying in bed wi her, ma thoats racin then gridlockin, n ah see her barry face n ah’m thinking: this lassie might jist fuckin well save ays.

  23

  Scam # 18,739

  We are at the hub of a great load of shite: me and him, Simon and Mark, Sick Boy and Rent Boy, here in Amsterdam. Away from it all. I got the location of Luxury from N-Sign and he and I, along with Terry, Rab Birrell and his brother, the ex-boxer, separated from the rest of them very quickly. Some old football faces with us are pretty dodgy. Lexo, for example, is an old mate of Begbie’s; makes things interesting indeed. Terry is the main one I’ll stick with, as a man so single-minded about women as he is, is always good to have in tow. His chat-up methods are relatively unsophisticated, but he’s relentless and he gets results.

  We come across Renton’s club and I ask the boy at the door if he’s around. Hearing that he left about half an hour ago, I look disappointed, and the guy, with a cockney accent, says that he’ll be trawling around the clubs, and to try Trance Buddah. He said it in that exasperatedly affectionate manner which is like, ‘Good old Mark, you know how he is.’ I know orlroight, yew farking wenkah, but you obviously don’t. So evidently the cunt can still be plausible, still pull the wool over people’s eyes. But that sums up the naffness of Renton: run a club night and then piss off to somebody else’s.

  Shite. I steer the crew back along to the red-light district. The Juice man grumbles: — What’s wrong wi that place then, Sicky?

  That corkscrew-heided tossbag, not content with calling me ‘Sick Boy’ instead of Simon, in front of strangers, has upped the stakes further and abbreviated it to Sicky, which is even more cringe-inducing. I keep silent about my distaste for this, hoping it will pass. Show the likes of Lawson weakness and he’ll exploit it unmercifully; it’s almost what I love most about the man.

  Renton. Here in Amsterdam. I’m wondering what the fuck he’s like now. What modifications he’s made to himself over the years. You have tae try tae work out who is and isnae you. That’s our quest in life. There’s what you leave behind when you come away, and what you always take with ye. And I’m E’d up, trying to work out what it is that I take with me, wherever I go, whatever state I get into. We get into this Trance Buddah place in the red-light district. It’s a standard dance floor, chill-out space and bar club comprising locals, tourists and Brit ex-pats. I have my Renton agenda of course, but Terry and I are on instinctive minge alert and separate ourselves from the mob. Ewart gets stopped by these two birds and he’s turning on the
charm, and Big Birrell, the boxer, and Rab are hanging around him. I buy a couple of pills from this Dutch guy who promises that they’re the business. Fuck it. I’m not in the mood to do charlie, I’ll be in the fucking bogs all night. I want to get off with a Dutch bird, the good skin and all that, but Terry’s got in conversation with these two English lassies and I buy them a drink and we’re sitting beside them in a quiet corner. The music’s getting on my tits; it’s that Dutch fairground school-disco techno and it’s doing my nut in. Another reason to hate Renton: having to endure this pish.

  I’m with this lassie Catherine from Rochdale (dirty-blonde shoulder-length hair, strangely arresting mole on chin), and she’s telling me that techno’s no her thing, it’s too heavy for her liking. When she’s talking, I’m looking at her dark made-up eyes and I’m thinking ‘Rochdale’ and my thoughts go roughly, very roughly, like this: Gracie Fields from Rochdale singing ‘Sally, Salleee, pride of our alley’, and me fucking Catherine in an alleyway. Then, sticking to the Rochdale theme, Mike Harding singing ‘The Rochdale Cowboy’ and I’m thinking of Catherine as the Rochdale Cowgirl, wondering about her in the reverse cowgirl position, the classic porn shot invented to display genital penetration for the camera. What I’m saying out loud, though, is: — So, Catherine, Rochdale, eh. Juice Terry, who’s got this lassie, who I think is a mate of Catherine’s, tucked into his side, registers this comment and flashes me a telepathic look which is like he’s completely read my thoughts and aye, these pills are not bad.

  I’m happy to chill out here, as I can’t dance to monotonous techno. Like running the London Marathon, that shit. Boom-boom-boom. Where’s the funk, where’s the soul? Where’s the fucking clathes? Jambo music. These spazzy Dutch and holiday types seem tae be mad for it though; each to their own. One boy’s off it, doing a strange wee step routine with two lassies and another guy, and there’s something about this cunt. I kent the boy. He has a daft hat on, which is going over his eyes, but I recognise the way he moves about: engrossed in the DJ’s mix, but occasionally looking at the floor to throw his arms in the air in recognition at some fucker in the club. It’s the detached energy, the languid movements totally at odds wi the bristling commitment. No matter how involved he seems, there’s a part of the bastard always on the outside, taking everything in.