— Ye git grief, aye?
— Aye, the usual shite, bit ah’m thinkin, time ah hud a place ay ma ain anywey, n she’s no a bad ride, n thaire’s nae sense in cuttin oaf yir cock tae spite yir baws, that’s whit ah eywis sais. You fuckin listenin?
— Aye. Nae sense cuttin off yir cock, no jist tae spite yir baws, ah repeat back doon the line. He does eywis say that.
— Too fuckin right. So ah phones Monny, n wir movin intae that fuckin place in Buchanan Street next week. Hope the cunt kin fuckin well cook as good as it rides! Telt her tae watch muh ma; for the cookin likes, no the fuckin ridin! Aye, so that’s me sorted oot wi ma ain pad, n a fuckin ride every night. Now ah’ve jist goat tae git it tae shut its fuckin mooth n ivraything’s fuckin barry, ya cunt.
— Sound …
— Right, ah’ve goat tae nash. Cannae sit here bletherin wi you aw day, ya daft cunt! Runnin up ma fuckin phone bill, ya muppet!
— Sorry tae keep ye, Frank.
— So ye fuckin well should be. Ah’m a man ay business now, ya cunt. So when ye back up?
— New Year …
— Barry. That’ll be a classic. See ye, buddy.
— See ye, Franco, mate.
Eftir that psychic shafting ah need another dunt ay yon gear. Sick Boy comes in, rubbing sleep fae his eyes. — You drug perverts getting loaded now? What aboot the interview for the boats?
The state ay that cunt. Methinks the laddie doth protest too much. Nicksy and me look at each other wi wasted grins. — Medicinal … ah hud tae talk tae Begbie on the phone, eh? Ah push the pipe at Sick Boy.
He waves it away. — Just because he’s a socially retarded psychopath doesn’t mean that youse arenae fuckin irresponsible cunts, he goes, taking a dab at the speed. Then his eyes soften. — Forgoat tae tell ye, Alison’s ma died the other week. Think the funeral wis yesterday.
— Fuck … that’s fucked, man. Wish ye’d have sais, Simon. Ah’d’ve went up fir it!
Begbie nivir even sais nowt. Cunt.
— Aye, right. He looks doubtfully at us, wi the pipe in ma hand. Mibbe it wis a bit optimistic. — If anybody should have been there, it should have been me. Her and I are close, he says gravely.
— She went tae ma wee brar’s funeral n aw, ah sais. Aw this shite: the wey life can jist go fae a constellation ay possibilities tae a scabby dirt track lined wi potholes.
— Yes. She went tae support you n Billy. She’ll understand though, London n that, n we’ll see her the week eftir next at New Year, he says. He looks tae Nicksy, who’s staring meaningfully at the waw, lost in skag contemplation, — We should get Nicksy up there, it’ll dae him good, he observes, turning pointedly back tae me. — Listen, Marco, I need a teensy-weensy favour. I’ve some fences tae mend with Lucinda … said I’d meet her at noon in Dirty Dick’s pub opposite Liverpool Street Station.
He spills the details, n ah’m no too happy, but he’s a mate, so ah huv tae back him up.
It takes an age tae git washed, dressed and doon tae Hackney Downs Station, but we git a train right intae Liverpool Street and cross ower tae the boozer. Dirty Dick’s is packed wi lunchtime City workers, and even in what’s supposed tae be interview wear, we still look chronically miscast, no that we gie a fuck. Me n Sick Boy have made an effort wi our Leith Provi Co-op funeral suits, but Nicksy’s sporting purple hair teased intae a Mohawk, a pink-and-white-hooped fluffy jersey, thankfully covering up The Queen Gives A Good Blow Job T-shirt, n while his black Sta-Press are acceptable enough, the red nine-inch lace-up Doc Martens sortay catch the eye. Funny how he’s shed the soul boy look n got back into being an unreconstructed punk. As he finds a stool up at the bar, Sick Boy spies the Lucinda lassie in a seat at a corner table, and pulls me ower. He briefly introduces us, then they spark up an animated conversation, during which his chest swells out, like a mating pigeon’s, as she crumbles. — You’re obviously upset, he disdainfully concedes as he drums on the big wooden table. — It’s no good us talking when you’re in this state. I mean, it’s like you’re hearing me but you’re not hearing me, if you catch my drift.
This perr lassie wi her fair Anglo-Saxon skin sits on her hands, her jaw locked tight. Seething tae the point ay implosion in that frightfully decent, repressed English middle-class way. Ah feel uncomfortable being stuck here and want tae go.
— It’s wasting your time and it’s wasting my time, Sick Boy, features stiff, expands in his gruff and formal manner, before offhandedly turning tae me. — Get them in, Rents.
Ah’m happy tae leave them n join Nicksy at the bar. Ah ain’t in a big hurry ordering up the drinks either. But Nicksy looks fuckin shite; like the weight ay five ay the stinkiest London Boroughs is sittin oan his thin shooders. Wi the garish dye through his cartoon punk Mohawk, he looks just like that wankstain on the postcairds they sell at Piccadilly Circus. It reminds us ay that Les Dawson quote aboot punks: ‘All blue hair and safety pins: just like the mother-in-law.’ But Nicksy’s telt us the tourists still flock tae git snapped wi him doon the West End, n it’s good for a beer or a quid, even an occasional ride.
Despite aw his scamming he’s totally brassic aw the time. London’s an expensive habit, and pretty much a pointless yin unless ye huv dosh; if ye live in somewhere like Dalston or Stokie or Tottenham or the East End, it’s mair like steyin in Middlesbrough or Nottingham. The economics ay the postcode prison make the West End good life just as inaccessible. Not one cunt in our local boozer, bar us, ever drinks in the West End.
Ah get him a pint ay lager, which he sips the top ay and turns tae the telly above the bar, no meeting ma eye. This Marsha lassie’s really fucked him up. Ah’ve never seen a boy so down eftir a bird’s elbayed him. She must be some ride. He looks ower tae Sick Boy n this Lucinda lassie. — He’s some cunt, ain’t he? With the gels. Now he’s got a Sloaney bird in tow!
One thing London does offer, even in its marginal areas, is hope for the aspirational predator. — Don’t ah jist fuckin know it, ah acknowledge. Then ah survey Nicksy’s attire again; a wee bit full-on for our purposes. — Ye might have toned doon the look. It’s meant tae be a fuckin interview!
— It’s what I am, innit? he shrugs, as Sick Boy gestures us ower. Ah deliver his pint and Lucinda’s gin. He glances tae me, ready tae make his move, but he’s still addressing her. — If I may say so, Lucinda, I’m pretty disappointed. I told you the God’s honest truth, and you obviously don’t believe a word I’ve said. Fine. If that’s the level of trust we’re operating on, then I just don’t see the point in all of this.
Lucinda sits bolt upright in her seat and glares at him. Her eyes are red. — But you’re forgetting that I saw you with her. Don’t you fucking well understand that? I saw you both in the bed with my own eyes!
Letting oot a sharp exhalation ay breath, Sick Boy goes, — I’ve explained this until I’m blue in the face. The lassie was Mark’s girlfriend, Penelope. He looks at me.
Lucinda does the same, and ye can see her thinking: this skinny, ginger-heided Scottish schemie jist isnae the sort that shags birds called Penelope. A weight seems tae faw through us, n ah briefly toy wi the idea that it might be conscience before it quickly dissolves as the buzz ay deceit hits me. — I was paralytic drunk, Sick Boy’s eyes widen, — and I got into this bed. I didn’t have a fucking clue she was in there until you came in and started shouting the fucking odds.
— But come on! You must have known!