Porno (57 page)

Wir watchin the Hibs match oan Sky. A good fuckin run thir oan now, n they nivir fuckin lose oan Sky. That Zitelli scores wi a barry overheid kick. Three–one, too fuckin easy. Everybody still seems tae be talkin aboot yon beast cunt but. N there’s me jist sittin thaire, wishin thit they could talk aboot something else, but at the same time ah’m fuckin lovin it.

— Ah bet ye it wis one ay the young team, they boys drippin wi the sovies, Malky goes. — The bastard probably touched one ay thum up or something like that whin eh wis a wee laddie, eh’s filled oot n grown up now, n it’s bang! Take that, ya clarty beast cunt!

— Mibee, ah goes, lookin ower at Larry, whae’s goat a big, daft smile oan ehs face. Fuck knows what that cunt’s sae fuckin happy aboot.

Now the cunt tells everybody a fuckin joke. — This grocer in Fife is in ehs shoap n it’s freezin cauld n ehs standin ower the electric-bar fire. A wifie comes in, looks at the counter n goes tae um, is that yir Ayrshire bacon? The grocer looks at her n says, naw, ah’m jist warmin ma hands.

Ah dinnae git that cunt’s sense ay humour at aw. Malky’s the only cunt thit laughs.

Nelly turns roond n says: — See, if ah met the cunt thit did that fuckin beast, ah’d buy the cunt a fuckin pint right now.

Funny, the wey eh says it makes ays want tae shout: git yir fuckin hand in yir poakit then, ya cunt, cause eh’s right fuckin here, bit mates or nae mates, the fewer people thit ken the better. Ah keep thinkin aboot Second Prize. See, if he’s gone back on the pish n started blabbin . . . Larry’s still smilin away, n ah’m gittin nipped here, so ah goes ben the bog n hus a fuckin line.

Whin ah comes back ah sits masel doon, n some cunt’s goat another round ay lager in. Malky points at the full gless. — That’s yours thaire, Frank.

Ah nods tae the cunt, n takes a gulp, lookin ower the toap ay the pint at Larry, whae’s starin at ays, wi that fuckin daft smirk oan ehs face.

— What the fuck ur you lookin at? ah asks the cunt.

Eh shrugs ehs shoodirs. — Nowt, eh goes.

Fuckin well jist sittin thair lookin at ays like eh kens everything thit’s gaun oan in ma fuckin heid. Nelly’s picked it up as well as ah hands um the wrap ay ching under the table. — What the fuck’s up here? eh asks.

Ah nods ower at Larry. — Cunt’s jist fuckin well sittin thair wi a daft fuckin look oan ehs face, starin at me like ah’m some fuckin daft cunt, ah goes.

Larry shakes ehs heid n raises ehs palms up n goes: — What? as Nelly’s eyes go aw hard. Malky looks aroond, across at the bar. Sandy Rae n Tommy Faulds are drinkin up thaire, n thir’s a couple ay wee cunts oan the pool table.

— So what ur ye fuckin sayin then, Larry, eh? ah asks um.

— Ah’m no sayin nowt, Franco, Larry goes, lookin aw innocent. — Ah’m jist thinkin aboot that goal, n eh nods tae the screen behind ays as a replay comes oan.

So ah’m thinkin, awright, ah’ll lit it go, but sometimes that cunt kin be too fuckin wide fir ehs ain good. — Right, well, dinnae fuckin sit lookin at ays wi that daft fuckin wee smile oan yir face, like some fuckin dippit cunt. If yuv goat anything tae say tae ays, jist fuckin well say it.

Larry shrugs n turns away, as Nelly heads fir the bogs. That’s no bad ching, nowt but the best offay Sandy. For me it’s nowt but the best anywey. Cunts ken better thin tae sell me gear that’s cut tae fuck.

— Your mate Sick Boy’s some cunt, eh, Franco? The dirty movies n that, Larry grins.

— Dinnae mention that cunt’s name tae me. Cunt’s goat a few wee fuckin hairies gittin rode upstairs in ehs pub n the cunt thinks eh’s a fuckin big Hollywood producer. Like that fuckin Steven Spielberg cunt or whatever they call the fucker.

Nelly comes back fae the bog n Malky looks at um n goes: — Whaes fuckin shout is it?

But Nelly ignores um cause ye kin tell eh’s aw that wey whin yuv been in the bogs thinkin aboot somethin n ye want tae talk tae every cunt aboot it. — Ken what gits oan ma fuckin wick, eh goes, then before any cunt kin say what, eh says: — Every cunt here’s done time, n eh takes a big sup ay lager. A bit’s dripped oantae ehs blue Ben Sherman, but eh disnae notice. Clarty fuckin cunt.

We’re aw lookin at each other n noddin away.

— Ken whae nivir does time? You ken, eh looks at me, — ah ken, eh points at ehsel, — you ken, eh looks at Malky, — n you ken, eh sais tae Larry, whaes face breks intae that fuckin smile again.

N the thing is, ah’m thinkin aboot that big cunt Lexo, the first cunt thit came intae ma mind right away, but Nelly surprises ays by gaun: — Alec Doyle. What’s he done? A year? Eighteen months? Fuck all. That cunt leads a charmed life.

Malky looks aw seriously at Nelly. — So what ur ye sayin then? Ur ye tryin tae say that Doyle’s a grass?

Nelly’s eyes are set aw that hard wey. — Aw ah’m sayin is thit the cunt leads a charmed life.

Larry’s face goes aw serious. — Yir no wrong, Nelly, eh says softly.

— Fuckin surein ah’m no wrong, Nelly says, lookin annoyed tae fuck.

Malky turns roond tae me n asks: — What d’ye reckon then, Frank?

Ah look aroond the table at them aw, n right intae thir eyes, Nelly’s n aw. — Doyle’s eywis been awright in ma fuckin book. Ye dinnae jist call some cunt a grass unless ye kin back it up. N that means wi facts. Wi hard fuckin facts.

Nelly disnae like that, but the cunt’s no sayin nowt. Naw, eh’s no happy at aw. Yuv goat tae watch that cunt, cause eh kin jist fuckin well kick oaf like that, but ah’m fuckin well watchin um awright.

— Good point, Frank, Larry goes, nodding away aw sly, — but Nelly’s goat a point n aw, eh sais, takin the wrap fae Nelly n gaun tae the bogs.

— Ah nivir called any cunt a grass, Nelly sais tae me as Larry heads oaf, — but think aboot what ah sais, eh goes, then turns n nods tae Malky.

Aye, Larry hud better think aboot things n aw. Fuckin stirrin cunt. Thir’s eywis somethin gaun oan wi that cunt, n eh’d better make sure ah dinnae fuckin well find oot what it is.

Well, wir aw wired oan the fuckin ching n wi opt fir movin oan. Wi huv one in the Vine, then a couple in Swanney’s. It’s still the real Leith doon here, but everything is fuckin well changin. What gits me is what they done tae the Walk Inn. Cannae believe that, ah hud some great nights in thair. We hit another couple ay boozers, then end up back where wi started.

That wee Philip cunt’s hingin aboot n aw. Here, in this fuckin pub. Dinnae want that wee cunt n his mates hingin aboot a boozer ah use. — You, fuckin blow, ah tells um.

— Eh, ah’m waitin oan Curtis, eh’s comin doon wi the motor, eh goes. Then eh says, aw fuckin hopeful: — Eh, ye couldnae git ays some coke, could ye?

Ah looks at the wee cunt. — Whaire ur you gittin the fuckin dosh fir ching?

— Offay Curtis.

Aye, that fuckin well figures. That fuckin crew ay Sick Boy’s, they cunts eywis seem tae be in the dosh. A couple ay people huv said that Renton’s been seen aboot again, up the toon n that. See, if Sick Boy’s seen um n husnae fuckin telt ays . . .

But this wee Philip cunt’s still hingin aboot. Ah nods ower tae Sandy Rae, whae’s sittin wi Nelly at the bar. Larry n Malky are pished, playin the bandit. Sandy comes ower. Sorts the wee cunt oot wi a couple ay gram wraps. The big, gangly wee cunt wi the tadger comes in, then they go ootside intae the motor n ah hear it tearin up the road.

Nelly comes ower, n wir lookin acroass at Larry n Malky. — That Wylie cunt’s been windin ays up aw fuckin night, Nelly sais.

— Aye, ah goes.

— Ah’ll tell ye, Franco, eh’s lucky eh’s your fuckin mate, or ah’d’ve fuckin well panelled the cunt by now. Eh looks acroass at Larry. — Fuckin wide-erse.

— Dinnae lit that stoap ye, ah tells um.

So Nelly gits up n walks ower n smashes Larry’s heid oaf the fruit machine a couple ay times. Then eh turns um roond n fuckin melts the cunt a beauty. Larry goes doon n Nelly stomps um. Malky pits ehs hand oan Nelly’s shoodir n goes: — Enough.

Nelly stoaps n Larry’s bein helped up by Malky, whae gits um ootside. Eh looks aroond at Nelly n sais something, raises a wasted hand n tries tae point the finger, but Malky’s draggin um oot the pub.

— Fuckin wideo, Nelly says, lookin at me.

Ah’m thinkin, me n Nelly’s mates, but it’s gaunnae be him n me soon, that’s for sure. — The cunt wis fuckin askin fir it aw night, ah nods. Malky soon comes back in. — Stuck um in a taxi wi a tenner, telt um tae git tae fuck. Nowt wrong wi um, jist a bit fuckin dazed, eh.

— Wis eh giein oot fuckin lip? Nelly asks. — Cause eh kin huv a square go any time eh wants.

— Aye, watch the cunt but, Nelly, Malky goes, — cause eh’s a fuckin blade merchant n eh nivir forgets.

— Ah dinnae fuckin well forget either, Nelly goes, but ye kin see thit eh’s fuckin thinkin aboot that. Then the morn whin eh wakes up it’ll be ‘aw fuck, ah hud too much ching n that n ah ended up daein Larry’. Cause the likes ay that cunt needs ching n a few bevvies tae dae that. That’s the difference between me n him.

68

Scam # 18,751

E
very time I go up to see Nikki at her place, he’s always there, hanging about, sniffing around that Dianne like a lovesick fool. It’s bizarre, us seeing two lassies who share the same flat. A bit like the old days. Now the Rent Boy’s lying on the couch, waiting on Ms Dianne getting ready, reading a book about pornography and sex workers, whatever they are. He’s found the right bird; I can imagine them sitting around intellectually discussing fucking, but never actually doing any. I offered him and his new minge a chance of some action with the real players and he says, ‘I love my girlfriend. What do I want any of that shit for?’ Excuse me, Mr High and Shitey.

He props that silly ginger head up on his elbow. — Listen, Si, I’m looking to get in touch with Second Prize. Have you seen him around?

I’m quite aghast at this. Second Prize is to be avoided at all costs. — Why in the name of suffering fuck would you want to see him?

Rents sits up, leans forward, then seems to consider, then decides against lying. You can see the wheels moving. — I want tae sort him oot wi the cash. From that time back in London. I’ve sorted everybody oot now, well, except him and you-know-who.

Renton is an idiot. Any grudging respect I once had for the man is diminishing rapidly. Me, ripped off by a mug like that? No, he was simply a desperate, foolish junky who lucked out once. — You’re fuckin mad. It’s a waste of cash. Just write a cheque made payable to Tennent Caledonian breweries.

Rents stands up, as Dianne and Nikki come through. — I’ve heard he’s clean. They say he’s a Bible-basher.

— I can’t see it. Try the mission or the lodging houses. Or the churches. They aw gather up at Scrubber’s Close, aw they religious jakeys, dae they no?

I have to admit that Dianne looks sexy, though obviously not in Nikki’s league. (Well, she’s going out with Renton.) — Looking gorgeous, ladies, I smile. — We must have been good little boys in a previous life to deserve them, eh, mate? I smirk at Rents.

Renton responds with a slightly pained look and goes over to Dianne and kisses her. — Right then . . . ye fit?

— Aye, she says, and as they leave, I shout: — As a butcher’s knife. Use the evidence of your eyes, Renton!

I get no response. That Dianne chick does not like me at all and she’s turning Rents against me. I look at Nikki. — That pair seem a real item, I observe, struggling to keep the grace in my voice.

— Oh God, she goes all dramatically, — they are just so in L-O-V-E?

I feel like telling her, watch your friend around that slimy, cold-skinned North European rattlesnake. But it seems a spiritless ploy, one must strive to be graceful in Gracemount. Nikki’s been so full of herself since the Cannes news, sweeping around theatrically, like she’s an old-style Hollywood star. It’s been noticed. Terry’s started to refer to her as Nikki Fuller-Shit.

So besotted by herself is she that she elects to change again, putting on a blue and black number I haven’t seen before. It’s not quite as fetching as what she just changed out of but I feign massive enthusiasm, just to prevent us being here all fucking night. She’s wittering on about Cannes. — God knows who we’ll meet! Me! So I nip into that Dianne’s room and have a sniff around. I see this report thing she’s been working on and I read a bit.

with increasing consumerism the sex industry, like all others, is now catering for specialist market needs. While it is true that there is still a link between poverty, drug abuse and on-street prostitution, this represents a very small part of what is now one of the biggest and most diverse industries in the UK. Nonetheless, our popular images of sex workers are still largely formed by the ‘street-corner tart’ stereotype.

What the fuck are they teaching them at the uni now? Degrees in the theory of hooring? I should get up there myself and claim my honorary doctorate.

We go out for a drink at the City Café, and I spy Terry, trying to chat up a student barmaid. It seems that he’s adopted the place as his haunt. I go to signal Nikki that we should get out and over to EH1, but she hasn’t noticed and now Lawson’s caught our eye.

— Sicky n Nikki! he shouts, then turns to the barmaid. — Bev, whatever ma two good auld buddies want, he smiles then grabs Nikki’s arse. — Solid as a fuckin rock, doll, you’ve been workin oot. No even a trace ay overhang.

— Actually, I’ve been rather lazy lately, she says, in that dozy stoner way. What’s she fucking doing letting him paw her like that? Next she’ll be letting him thrust his knob up her twat as he says: ‘Mmm, firm vaginal walls. Been doing pelvic exercises?’ I’m looking at Terry as if to say: this is my fucking bird, Lawson, you onanistic cunt.

He doesn’t even see me. — Well, it disnae show on the boady, ah’ll tell ye that. Ah jist want tae git doon oan ma hands n knees n worship at that arse ay yours. So if this lucky cunt here, he deigns to give me a cursory nod, — gies ye grief, ye ken whae tae call.