Porno (65 page)

My heart almost jumps out of my mouth. Mark . . . — What’s happened!

Simon clicks off the phone. —
Renton
has done
Begbie
! He’s hospitalised the cunt. Begbie’s in a coma from which they reckon he won’t wake up. Spud told Ali, he saw it, at the fit ay the Walk last night!

— Thank God Mark’s okay . . . I say aloud and Simon’s eyes suddenly screw me in ghastly intent. — Well, Simon, I whisper, — he’s got our money . . .

— What money’s this then? Terry asks, his ears pricking up.

— Just some cash I lent him, Simon shakes his head. — Anyway, Terry, here’s the hotel keys. He quickly produces them from his pocket, throws them to him and says bitterly: — Enjoy.

— Cheers, Terry says, grabbing Carla’s waist. — Dinnae you worry aboot that, he winks. Then he considers. — Funny aboot Mark sortin oot Begbie. A dark hoarse awright. Ah ey reckoned that kung fu stuff wis shite n aw. Jist goes tae show ye but, eh. Still, he smiles, — see yis, and skips away across the forecourt with his porn star shag. I watch him shuffle off, a fly-in-shit with all his needs met, having the time of his life, while Simon, who should be the same, has a pained, ulcerated expression. Terry on his tab in Cannes for two days gives him yet something else to worry about.

During the flight, Simon’s full of rancour for the world, and is still seething as we come into land at Edinburgh airport. — Now you still don’t know that Mark’s ripped us off, so take it easy. We had an amazing time? The film went down well? That’s positive.

— Hummph, he coughs, his shades perched on top of his head, his neck craning, looking around anxiously as we pick up our luggage and head through passport control and customs.

Then he stops in his tracks, because just about fifty yards away Mark and Dianne are standing there, preparing to go through the departure gates.

Dianne goes past first and as Mark’s showing his documents to the airline official, Simon screams at the top of his voice: — REHHNNNTUHNNN!

Mark looks at him, smiles faintly and waves, and then steps through the gates. Simon goes sprinting towards him and tries to run right through the gates, but the official and the security man won’t let him past. — STOP THAT THIEF! he screams as Mark and Dianne’s backs recede. I’m following, looking at her wondering if she’ll turn around but she doesn’t. — TELL THEM, NIKKI! Simon beseeches me.

I stand there in breathless shock. — What can I say?

He turns back to the official and the security guard. More of them are appearing now. — Listen, he pleads, — you have to let me through the departure gates.

— You need a valid boarding card, sir, the clerk informs him.

Simon’s heaving, trying to control his breathing. — Listen, that man has stolen something that belongs to me. I have to get through that fucking gate.

— That’s surely a matter for the police, sir. If I can radio the airport police . . .

Simon’s grinding his teeth together and shaking his head. — Forget it. For-ge-tit! He spits and he’s walking away. I follow him to the departures board. — Fuck me, they’re all boarding now: London Heathrow, London City, Manchester, Frankfurt, Dublin, Amsterdam, Munich . . . where could they be going . . . RENTON AND THAT FUCKING DEVIOUS LITTLE COW! he screeches, setting aside some more of that special time he reserves to humiliate himself in public, then he crouches down in the middle of the busy concourse, his head in his hands, perfectly still.

I put my hand on his shoulder. Somebody, a woman with an orangey perms asks: — Is he alright? I smile at her in appreciation for her concern. After a bit I whisper to him: — We have to go, Simon. We’re drawing too much attention.

— Are we? he says in a small, little boy’s voice. — Are we? Then he stands up and strides towards the exits, clicking on the mobile phone.

We head towards the taxi queue as he clicks off the phone and looks at me with a tight smile on his lips. — Renton . . . he breaks into a spluttering sob and slaps his own face, — . . . Renton has taken my money . . . he’s cleaned out the bank . . . Renton had his own masters in Amsterdam, all the finished copies in that Miz’s warehouse. Who owns the masters owns the film. He has the masters and the money! How did he get the information? he wails disconsolately.

I call Lauren to find that Dianne’s packed her bags. We climb into an airport taxi and I say sadly: — Leith.

Simon rests his head back against the seat. — He’s got our fuckin money!

It’s all been the money. I have to know where he’s coming from. — What about the film? I ask.

— Fuck the film, he snaps.

— But what about our mission? I hear myself ask. — What about the revolutionary role pornography has in —

— Fuck all that. It was always just a load of shite for wankers who can’t get a bird to pull off tae and a way for the rest of us hitting our sell-by dates to keep firing into young, fit fanny. You’ve got two categories. Category one: me. Category two: the rest of the world. You can divide the others up into two sub-groups: those who do as I say, and the superfluous. It was sport, Nikki, just a bit of sport. It’s the money we need. THE FUCKIN MONEY! FAHHKIN RENTUNN!

Later, we’re in Simon’s flat reading the
Evening News
which Rab has brought down. He tells us that they seized all the video stock and the tapes at the pub, as well as the bar accounts. The article says that both the police and HM Customs and Excise are looking for him and that charges may follow. An accompanying piece has an unflattering profile of him and his ‘drugs and pornography scandal’, and mentions a police investigation into his affairs.

— I’m the only fucking one they want! Me! What about youse cunts?

— Might have something to do with the credits on the box, Rab quips, and I struggle to stifle a snigger.

Simon seems a broken man as he cracks open a bottle of whisky. Rab wants to fight in court. — I’m intae sticking thegither. I’m gaunnae prepare a speech, he slurs as the drinks go down. I realise Rab’s been out on the piss and he’s feeling it. — What aboot you, Nikki? he asks.

— I want to see how things go? I tell them, nursing my drink.

Simon snatches the paper from me and still has the pomposity to take exception to being described as a pornographer. — A pretty crass term for somebody who’s made the artistic decision to work creatively within the sphere of adult erotica, he says with forced bluster. Then he looks abjectly miserable as he moans: — This is going to kill my mother.

With an expression of sheer dread, he checks the phone messages. There’s one from Terry. — Some good news n some bad news, folks. Curt won best male newcomer. Eh’s away oot celebratin. But some French boy goat best new director. A lassie in Carla’s fillum goat best bird.

I feel a deflated sag of disappointment and Simon shoots me a tense glance that says ‘I told you ye should have done anal’. Terry rambles on. — But it’s no aw bad news, cause it wis Carla’s film
A Butt-Fucker in Pussy City
that won top prize. Thir a sound crew n aw, ah’m well in thaire. Simon spits bitterly and is about to say something, but the next message silences him. It’s his mother, and she’s very upset, breaking down over the phone. He gets up and throws on his jacket. — I’ve got to square this one with my ma.

— You want me to come? I ask.

— Naw, it’s better if I go alone, he says, as he heads out with Rab, who’s anxious to get back to his wife and kid, following behind.

I’m relieved and I sit on the couch, my head bursting and I’m almost physically shaking as I think of what I’m about to do.

80

Scam # 18,753

I
’m in shock. It’s like everything good’s gone, and the rest’s been turned upside down. My mother’s crying on the answer machine, asking how the paper could get away with telling all those horrible lies about her son. Rab calls round, obviously enjoying himself, but I’m too fucked to bother. But I call round at my mother’s and manage to just about convince her that it’s all jealous fabrication and is now in the hands of my solicitors.

It was some performance, my outrage requiring reserves of energy that I didn’t know I had. I head away thinking about Franco, how that wanker fucked things up so badly for me and himself.

I’m heading back home to Nikki, thinking of who could have grassed me up. The list in my head keeps growing: Renton: SO FUCKIN OBVIOUS; Terry: THAT CUNT, CAUSE I DROPPED HIM! Paula: FAT COW HAD BEEN TIPPED OFF TO WHAT I WAS UP TO; Mo: WANTED THE PUB; Spud: JEALOUS JUNKY FUCKER; Eddie: NOSEY OLD CUNT; Phillip and his team: LITTLE BASTARDS! Begbie: ‘AH’M NO A FUCKIN GRASS’ METHINKS THE LADY DOTH PROTEST TOO MUCH; Birrell: THE FIRST DOWN HERE TO GLOAT; Renton again: AN EVIL PARTING SHOT FROM THAT WICKED CUNT . . .

I call Mel and Curtis in Cannes, telling them that I’ll get something together again soon, I just need a bit of time to lick my wounds and pay back some scum who’ve fucked me over. — Then I’ll be in touch. But until then, go for it and take it where ye can get it. Just watch what you sign, I warn them.

At the foot ay the Walk, I buy some flowers for Nikki and think about taking her to the Stockbridge Restaurant for a meal tonight, because she’s been a rock, before we do a runner for London. She’s gone when I get back, must be at the shops getting something to cook a meal. No way, fuck the polis and the customs, I want to go out, to show them all I’m not beaten. This is just a temporary setback.

I see a note on the coffee table.

Simon,

I’m off to visit Mark and Dianne. You won’t find us, that I guarantee. We promise to enjoy the cash.

Love, Nikki

PS: When I said you were the best lover I ever had, I was exaggerating, but you weren’t bad when you tried. Remember, we’re all faking it.

PPS: As you said about the British, watching people get fucked has become our favourite sport.

I read it twice. I stare silently at myself in the mirror on the wall. Then, with all the force I can muster, I headbutt the reflection of the fool I see in it. The glass breaks and falls out of the mounting, crashing to the floor. I look down at its broken pieces and can see the blood pouring like splatters of rain onto it. — Is there a stupider cunt alive than you? I ask slowly at the bloodied face in the shattered fragments. — Now it’s seven years’ bad luck, I laugh.

I sit down on the couch and pick up the note again, let it tremble in my hand, then crush it and hurl it across the room.

Is there a stupider cunt alive?

Then a face comes into my head.

— François is hurt, I say cruelly to myself, imitating a treacherous Hollywood Roman senator from
Spartacus
, — I must go to him.

I wrap a bandage round my head and tie an old bandanna over it. Then I head up to the Royal Infirmary to find the intensive-care wards. Outside, I pass a hospital stationery shop and think about a card, but instead buy a big, black Magic Marker.

I’m going down a long, deserted corridor, in this Victorian part of the building, thinking about all the misery and torment which has taken place in this house of pain. There’s a heaviness in my chest and the place feels cold. They’ve built a modern replacement out at Little France and they’re running this place down. The lights seem to have dimmed badly in this section of the hospital, and as I mount the staircase, my shoes squeaking loudly on each step, I realise that I feel afraid. Things are churning around in my head and I’m terrified that he’ll have come to.

When I get up to the ward, I feel easier. There only seems to be one nurse on duty on a ward that holds six people, five old boys who seem fucked, and Franco who is lying there unconscious. He looks inert and waxy, as if he’s already a corpse. He’s not on a respirator, but it’s hard to detect any breathing with the naked eye. There’s three tubes hooked up to him. Two seem to be going in, for saline and blood, one coming out for his piss.

I’m his only visitor. I take a seat close to him. —
Pauvre, pauvre, François
, I say to the dormant figure, clad in bandage and plaster. Somewhere, in all that, is Begbie.

He’s fuckin well gone. I’m reading his charts. — Looks pretty bad, Frank. The nurse said, ‘He’s very poorly, it’ll take a lot of spirit for him to pull through.’ I told her, ‘Frank’s a fighter.’

I look at that plasma sachet going into the tube, which goes into his veins. Stupid cunt. I should piss in a milk bottle and attach it to the tube. Instead, I take the Magic Marker and write some affectionate graffiti on his stookie as I chat to him. — He did me again, Frank. I fucked up, forgot an important lesson: ye never go back. Move on. You’ve got tae move on or ye end up like . . . well, like you, Frank. It’s good for me tae see you like this, Franco. It is good tae know that there’s always some sad fucked-up cunt worse off than yourself, I smile, admiring my handiwork:
FAGGOT ASS
.

— Mind when I first met you, Frank, when you first spoke to me? I mind. I was playing fitba on the Links with Tommy and some other boys fae the flats. Then this bunch of youse came over. I think Rents and Spud were there. We were still at primary. It was the weekend after Hibs had got beaten 4–2 at Easter Road by Juventus. Altafini grabbed a poacher’s hat-trick. You came up and asked me if I was a fuckin Eyetie. I telt you I was Scottish. Then Tommy, trying tae help goes, ‘It’s only his ma that’s Italian, eh, Simon? You grabbed my hair and twisted it, said something witty like ‘Scotland fuckin rules’ and ‘This is what we dae wi durty wee Tally bastards’, as you pulled me aroond taking me on a humiliating walk, shouting in my face, ‘Shat it in the fuckin war,’ aw that stuff. I was trying to scream that I was Hibs, I’d been cheering them on, doing my nut when Stanton put us 2–1 in front. It was useless, I had to take it, your brutish, sensless bullying, until you became bored and picked another target. And guess who was winding you up then, encouraging you to be the bad bastard, cruelty gleaming in his eyes? Aye, Renton’s grin was as wide as Victoria Dock, the cunt.