Getting her off the phone feels like the psychic version of doing a pish you’ve long been bursting for. I open the window to let the cold air seep in, then move to my raised standing desk to check my emails and the website. A few lassies have left notices and shots. I’m enjoying their portfolios, and phoning to make appointments, when VICTOR SYME flashes up on caller ID, providing not so much a sinking feeling, as a bitter, rancorous surge of nausea, convincing you that the world is fucking finished.
The snide-couponed sex offender is talking about his urgent desire to meet ‘this surgeon felly’. Of course, I have to spill the disturbing news. Inevitably, he’s far from chuffed. — Call me as soon as he’s back! Ah dinnae like surprises, he whinges.
That’s a cliché all arseholes use: Ah dinnae like surprises. Fucking soulless control freaks. And gangsters are just the politicians of the schemes. Now the psychotic fishwife Syme thinks that I’m some kind of PA for this vanishing podiatrist! Fuck me, that cunt’s feet must be in bad shape! — He’s fled the country, Vic, on a hooring expedition, I’m wagering.
— Well, you’d better git um fuckin well back!
When you’re as much of a cunt as Syme, you don’t need to be logical, far less reasonable. — Well, Vic, if I knew where the fucker was I’d be right over there, dragging him back myself. But he’s gone off the radar.
— As soon as ye hear fae him, ah want tae ken aboot it!
— You’ll be the second to know, after my sis, his wife.
— Ah dinnae dae second, Syme says, and I can feel the spiteful malice down the line. Fuck sake, this is one creepy imbecile!
— Did I say second? I meant my sister will be second, I say, examining the profile of Candy from Bexleyheath, 20, student at Middlesex University, tweaking the head of my cherry through black brushed denim and boxers. — You, of course, will be numero uno.
— Count oan it, he snaps. — And dinnae think you’re oot ay ma range doon there in London, he says, in that queasy, smug voice that chills me. — Be seein ye.
I cough a goodbye into a dead line.
10
RENTON – BONNYRIGGED
I cannae ignore it any longer; that itching and the watery, milky discharge fae my cock every time I take a single fish. That tenderness around the hee-haws, and now augmented by those sharp abdominal pains. A present from Edinburgh. One that Marianne probably got fae fucking Sick Boy!
The Sexually Transmitted Infections Outpatient Clinic is on the Weesperplein. I inform Muchteld, sitting opposite me, peering over her specs into her laptop, that I have tae nip out for a couple ay hours. There’s no reaction from her, as nothing is suspicious about this. She’s been with me long enough. When we worked together on my club night, Luxury, I was always sneaking away to pay people off in cash, or even meeting associates tae get fucked up.
We’re (appropriately) based in the heart of the red-light district, which retains a strange sleaze during the day. I stroll in the welcome brisk air towards Nieumarket, planning to jump on the Metro 54. I shuffle past two young holiday jakeballs fae the north ay England, preoccupied with ogling a hefty black lass in a window, as their mates urge them tae come doon the street. — This is where Jimmy Savile started out, I tell one. A salty retort comes my way, which I miss as a shivering junky asks ays for cash, and I slip him a two-euro coin. He tears off without recognition, sick wi need. I dinnae take offence, I’ve been there, and however his condition compels him tae act, he’ll be glad ay it. Weaving off tae the sounds ay a hurdy-gurdy, I head underground. The station is calm and sterile compared tae the chaos above it. As I board the chunky train to ride the two stops I’m thinking of Vicky and there’s an ominous tug in my chest.
When I get off, I emerge into bright sunlight. I’ve always liked this part of town, without realising that the clap clinic was based here. The Nieuwe Achtergracht is one ay ma favourite canals tae walk. It’s full ay quirky things to look at, and a real houseboat community; as it’s outside ay the four horseshoes in the centre ay toon, tourists rarely meander it. The clinic is housed in an ugly 1970s precast structure oan the corner. It’s joined to a block ay purple-bricked eighties-style apartments, which at least try tae nod tae Amsterdam’s nautical heritage with a few porthole windaes, aw looking oantae the bustling street. There’s a twisted dark canopy ay shame, which ironically looks like a vagina wi open piss flaps, urging ‘Come in, big boy!’ as ye walk through the doors below. I think ay aw the scabby cocks and putrid fannies of shaggers, innocent and prolific, who have walked underneath it, tae – often temporary – salvation.
The doctor’s a young woman, which is embarrassing, but the tests are nowt like the auld Ward 45 ay Edinburgh popular culture, where the wire test-tube brush soaked in Dettol is rammed down the cock hole. Nothing more than blood and pish samples, and a swab of the discharge. But she kens what it is straight away. — It looks likes chlamydia, which the tests will no doubt confirm in a couple of days. Do you wear condoms when you have intercourse?
Fuck sake …
I’ve picked up a fuckin Bonnyrigg Rose, for the second time in my life. At my fucking age, it feels beyond embarrassing, just totally ridiculous. — Generally, yes, I tell her. — Though there has been a recent exception, and I’m thinking ay Marianne.
— The risk, with chlamydia, as with all sexually transmitted diseases, is greatly decreased by use of a condom, but not eliminated. Condoms aren’t foolproof, for many reasons, and you can still get sexually transmitted infections despite using one. They sometimes break, she says.
Fuckin tellin me … I’m now thinking aboot bein wi Vicky and my cock bursting through the tip ay the rubber, and her scrambling in panic for the morning-after pill. For fuck sake.
They sometimes break.
It’s all I can hear as she goes on about how the chlamydia infection can spread if you have vaginal, anal or oral sex or share sex toys … Though the woman is detached and professional, I feel like a chastened adolescent who should know the fuck better.
Afterwards, I sit at the Café Noir on the corner ay Weesperplein and Valckenierstraat. I decide against a beer and have a koffie verkeerd, and contemplate the shambles ay a life oscillating between extreme social boldness and cowardice, neither ay them ever deployed at strategically optimum times.
I dinnae even need the test results tae confirm it, as the next day the email comes in:
From:
[email protected] To:
[email protected] (No subject)
Mark,
I’ve had some bad and very embarrassing news. I’m assuming you know what it is, as it directly affects you too. Under the circumstances I think it’s best we don’t see each other again, as it clearly isn’t going to work out now. I’m so sorry.
Wish you well,
Vicky
Well, there it is. You fucking blew it again. A great woman, who was so into you, and you give her a fucking dose because you cannae keep it in your troosers and have tae bareback ride some slag just because fucking Sick Boy humped her for years and you were jealous. Ya stupid, pathetic, useless and irredeemably weak bag ay shite.
I look at the email again, and feel something inside ays fold in two. My body seems tae go intae shock, and ma eyes water. I slump in front ay the TV in my apartment, letting my emails and calls pile up before deleting them all. If it’s important they’ll get back to me.
A couple ay days later, Vicky’s grim correspondence is confirmed by the test scores. I go back tae the clinic and they put ays on antibiotics for seven days, no sexual contact tae be had within this time. I have tae return in three months tae confirm that I’m all clear. The doctor asks about sexual partners, who I’m likely to have goat it fae, and who I probably gave it tae. I tell her I travel a lot.
I’m sitting back in my flat, smoking dope, feeling sorry for myself. Getting even more depressed through knowing exactly what I’ll do tae handle this setback: get wrecked, then sober up and fling masel into my graft. Repeat till death. This i
s the trap. There isnae a later. There’s no fucking place in the sun. There is no cunting future. There is only now. And it’s shite and getting worse.
The following evening and Muchteld comes tae the door, wi her partner Gert. He’s also been wi ays since the early days of Luxury, and they carry big bags ay shopping. Muchteld starts cleaning up the apartment, while Gert skins up and starts cooking a meal. — I have tickets for the Arena tomorrow.
— I don’t want to watch football. It just makes me miserable.
Muchteld, throwing takeaway cartons into a black bin liner, looks up and says, — Fuck you, Mark, football will not make you worse. We go to Ajax, then we eat and we talk.
— Okay, I concede, as a capitalised text pops in from Conrad.
WHY ARE YOU NOT ANSWERING MY CALLS AND TEXTS? THERE IS AN ISSUE AT THE STUDIO WITH KENNET. HE IS AN ASSHOLE! I WANT HIM FIRED AND I NEED A PROPER SOUND ENGINEER LIKE GABRIEL!
— You guys, I smile at them, hudin up the phone, — and this spoiled fat cunt, who has never stopped for a second tae think about anyone other than himself, you might have just saved ma life.
— Yet again, klootzak! Muchteld laughs. — You must speak to him, Mark, he is bombarding the office with calls. He thinks you do not care about this track he is making.
— Yeah, okay … I say, without enthusiasm.
Gert gets me in a headlock, aggressively rubs my scalp. I can’t break free, he’s a bear of a man.
— Hey, honey, easy on my boy! Who manages the manager, right, Mark?
I love those cunts.
Part Two
April 2016
A Medical Emergency
11
SPUD – THE BUTCHERS OF BERLIN
People kin be awfay funny, man. Ah mean, ah goat hassle fae Mikey cause ah nivir hud a passport. So the cat made ays git yin, n ah’m thinkin: it pure shouldnae be that wey, needin passports, cause wir aw Europe, likesay. Wis a lot ay hassle n aw, man, hud tae go through tae Glesgey n fill in tons ay forms. N they needed the photaes tae be jist right. Then, whin the passy finally comes through the door, n ah’m ready tae rock, Mikey’s naewhaire tae be seen! Took ays ages tae track um doon, but finally found the feral gadge in Diane’s Pool Hall, hingin wi some jungle cats. — It’s no happenin right now, mate, eh sais.
— Ye mean … yuv cancelled the gig? Ah’ve pure sortay spent the deposit, man, ah goes, pointin tae ma new trainers.
— Ah widnae say cancelled, Spud, ah’d say mair postponed. That’s how ah wid pit it. Postponed at this stage ay time, is what ah wid say. Then eh goes, raisin ehs voice a bit soas the other gadges kin hear, — Vic Syme n me huv tae sort oot some details, that’s aw. Ah ken whaire tae find ye.
So ah goes hame again, n looks at the passport. N it wis like that fir weeks n weeks. Me aw excited, then Mikey sayin: still no go.
Ah cannae stoap gittin the passy oot ay the drawer. It’s barry, cause ah’ve nivir had yin before. It says Great Britain and Northern Ireland and European Community. But wi Britain mibbe headin oot ay Europe and Scotland mibbe headin oot ay Britain, ah’ll probably huv tae get a new yin before long! Mind you, a Scottish passport wid be barry, wi a thistle oan the front mibbe, instead ay that Her Britannic Majesty requests stuff which seems awfay auld-fashioned, and a rip-off offay the Stones, likesay. The Brian Jones cat that’s potted heid.
It makes ays feel like ah’m the man though: DANIEL ROBERT MURPHY. A subject ay Her Majesty the Queen. Even though ah’m likesay a pape ay Paddy stock, ah’m just as much ay a subject as any west Edinburgh Jambo or west coast Sticky Bun. Aye, they cats’ll no like that but, ay!
The thing is the weeks rolled by n ah nearly forgot aw aboot this big secret-squirrel hush-hush Berlin joab, cause ah gits sorted oot wi part-time casual work, daein forklift drivin in a warehouse. Peys sweeties but it’s guid tae graft n git a wage again but, ay. N still gies ays time tae go oan the John Greig doon at the Grassmarket. Spring isnae bad for the mooch cause cats ur aw optimistic n ah kin fantasise that aw they cool office lassies walkin past wid be impressed if they kent ah wis makin a top-secret delivery ay stuff behind the auld Iron Curtain n doon tae the mystic East ay Istanbul. N mibbe it would be pure exotic love in foreign climes, like that Sean Connery cat as Bond. In the aulder Bond fulums, likesay.
Then, one eftirnin, Mikey comes along tae ma pitch. — It’s time, eh goes. N man, ah’m pure sortay nervous, cause eh disnae look happy, eh’s goat that serious face oan.
— Ah’m ready, bud, ah goes, standin up. But ah wisnae really, cause ah’m sortay happy, ken? Things ur gaun a bit better now. But ah pure took the five hundred up front. — Bring ays yir kidney, Sydney, ah sais oot ay nerves. Mikey isnae chuffed but.
— Shut it. Eh looks around, gesturing ays tae follay him ower tae the pub. — This is fuckin serious. Ah never want tae hear that word comin oot your mooth again. Goat that?
— Aye, sorry, man, ah tell um, n ah git Toto leashed up n wir walkin ower the street.
— Ah pit masel oan the line gittin ye this work, Spud. Dinnae fuck it up. Dae the business n it’ll be a regular thing.
So ower in the boozer eh slips ays a wallet wi the plane tickets. A few days later ah’m at the airport, and Toto’s wi ays! Ah goat ma sis Roisin tae go oan that Internet thing n check eh wis wee enough tae take oan ma lap. Turns oot ah kin pure take um in this thing called a Sherpa bag, n ah dinnae huv tae pit um in the hold. Ah try tae keep um under eighteen poonds, but ah’ve let it creep up a bit, so ah’m tryin tae make sure eh disnae drink sae much in case eh disnae make the weight. Ah think aboot the bag, mindin how as a sprog ah used tae watch that Owen, M.D. oan telly aboot the Welsh country doaktir boy, n his dug was called Sherpa. But the bag couldnae be named after that canine gadge cause he was a huge dug, n wid never have goat in one ay these boys. Ah pure need the company, man, cause ah’ve nivir flew before n ah’m excited but dead nervous that mibbe some sneaky terrorist gadge might be oan the plane thinkin aboot another 9/11! Wid jist be ma luck tae be comin up in the world, then git blawn tae fuck by some boy whae wis worried aboot they Molly Malones zappin ehs faimlay. N ah dinnae trust naebody else tae look eftir the dug right.
But oan the plane they gie ye stuff tae eat n a wee peeve, so ah’m sittin back, sayin tae Toto, whae’s in the bag at ma feet, — This is the life, pal, but eh’s sayin nowt, just wee whines, which the lassie sittin next tae ays picks up oan n tries tae comfort the wee gadge. — He’s lovely! What’s his name?
— Toto, ah goes. Thinkin barry tae git some convo oan the airy, ken?
— Oh, how sweet, after The Wizard of Oz!
— Naw, it wis pure eftir that band Toto whae did that song aboot Africa. Thaire’s a barry remix ah heard and ah just thoat: name the dug that. Then ah goat telt by ma gay mate, Poofy Paul, aboot The Wizard ay Oz connection, ken?
— Well, I hope you both follow the Yellow Brick Road!
— That wis that Elton John boy though, no Toto, ah goes.
The lassie jist smiles at that. Goat her thaire but, pure bambozzled the dude-ess wi cultural science, man.
— He’s … ah bends ma wrist, — that wey n aw. Nowt against anybody, mind you, live n let live, aw love is beautiful, but ah’m a straight shooter, if ye git ma drift.
Overcooked that chick, man. That’s me aw ower. Some gadges ken how tae talk tae a lemon, no me but, ay? She gies a smile that sais ‘yir a radge, but hermless enough’ which is the worst smile a lassie kin gie ye. — He’s certainly a cute one, she goes, pattin the dug’s wet beak through the mesh ay the bag again.
So we lands in Turkey n me n the dug gits oot ay the David Narey, n jumps a sherbet tae Istanbul, and it’s mental! Man, the place is fair bustling, wi aw they people bouncing aboot. Cause ah’m a fair-skinned gadge wi a dug ah wid sort ay stick oot a bit here, but ah’m in the taxi n wir drivin through the streets. It’s like thaire’s tons ay guys but hardly any lassies. Rents went ages ago as a student n ah mind um sayin it wis like Leith, but that’s aw changed. Ye git tons ay lassies wal
kin around in Leith now. Ah sort ay thoat thit aw the burds here wid huv veils, n look through thum aw seductively at ye wi big eyes, like in they auld Turkish Delight adverts, full ay Eastern promise, but it isnae like that, likesay. Shame but, ay? How barry wid that be?
But this is good, it’s the best wey tae make money, like, bein a middleman. See, ah cannae dae the tea-leafin any mair. Whin ye git aulder, ye git too much ay a moral compass, and it ey points in the ‘dinnae rip cats oaf’ direction. Can not dae it any mair, man. Just cannae be in some dude’s hoose takin thair stuff, n it disnae matter how much thuv goat. It still might be something that means a loat tae them, like a deid relative’s trinkets. Could not huv that oan ma conscience, man. Nup. The auld ‘feast ay Stephen’ jist isnae happinin fir ays any mair.
So ah’m at the station, huvin boat some food, waitin by platform 3 like they sais, n this boy comes up tae me, leathers n a helmet, n looks at the dug. Eh hands ays a cardboard boax wi a plastic handle stickin oot ay it. It’s aboot the same size as Toto. The boy sais nowt, just hands ays the boax n a ticket for the train, then eh’s away. The boax is heavier thin it looks, cause inside the cardboard thaire’s another boax.
The train leaves at nine, but ah lets Toto oot n takes um fir a walk n tae dae his business, so the time goes quick. Ah heads back as it gits dark n huv tae bag the dug up tae git him oan the choo-choo, but ah’m chuffed cause it’s a nice wee carriage aw tae ourselves, so ah let him oot. There we are sittin back, bound fir Berlin. Toto’s oan the seat opposite, his wee heid bobbin away like a noddin toy dug in the back ay a car windae, as we go past stuff at speed. Ah opens the cardboard boax, n see that the other boax inside is white, n looks like a mini fridge or a microwave cooker. It’s goat aw controls n things oan it. Yon kidney’ll be inside. Ah dozes off for a bit n wakes up when ah hears the ticket wifie comin. Wir in Bucharest, so ah gits Toto back in the Sherpa bag. It steys thaire for ages. The train disnae seem too busy though.