classification, calls me on the red mobile to say she’s coming over. I consider that skull-white face, which has seen as much sun in recent years as Nosferatu, lips big and blistered as if she’s had bad implants, her jerky frame and bug-eyed stare. Crack hoors; where the fuck do they fit in?
I stick a copy of the Great Eastern Railway timetable on my headboard and by the time she gets here, everything’s in place. She confesses to me that that shit-broker Matt Colville threw her out the bar the other night. Her big eyes crave smack, not cock. I’m telling her that she’s an ungrateful slag, that I’ve set everything up for her, and that she’d rather have her arse panelled in by some scab-baws for a bag or a rock in some shitey hovel in King’s Cross than ply her trade in a nice entertainment-industry establishment in Soho. — I try so hard for you, but it’s no good, I spit, wondering how many times she’s heard that one before from parents, social workers, care officers. She takes my rant, crumbling on the settee, her arms around herself, looking at me like her jawbone’s become detached from her skull and is just hanging loosely in the skin.
— But ee frew me aht, she moans, — Colville. Ee bleedin well frew me aht.
— No wonder, look at ye. You look like a fuckin Weedgie. This is London, you’ve got to have some fuckin standards. Am I the only person that believes in standards . . . ?
— Sorry, Simon . . .
— It’s okay, doll, I sing, and pull her up from the couch, and take her in my arms marvelling at her lightness. — I’m a bit grumpy today because it’s been a funny old week. Come and lie down beside me . . . I pull her on to the bed and look at the clock on the locker: 12.15. I’m touching her, watching her lips go into spasm, then the clothes are strewn and I’m on her and in her. Her face is fucking mangled in discomfort and I’m thinking, where’s that fuckin train?
12.21.
That fuckin train, fuckin Anglian Railways or whatever you call the privatised shit . . . 12.22, the fuckin cunts . . . should be due here by now . . . — You’re fuckin gorgeous, babes, you are fucking dynamite, I lie in encouragement.
— Eughhh . . . she’s wheezing.
Fuck me, if that’s all she puts into it she should go to work filling burgers cause she’s got nae future in the industry.
I grit my teeth and hold on another five miserable minutes till 12.27 when the bastard finally slices through the station shaking the gaff to bits and she starts screaming undying love.
— Strong finish, I explain to her. I’m trying to do a Terry Venables-coaching thing; stick to basics, remind them what they’re good at. Positive encouragement, no shouting or losing the rag. — But we need mair commitment. I’m telling you this for your own good.
— Thanks, Simon, she smiles, exposing that crownless chipped tooth.
— Now I’ll have to chase you, as I’ve business.
Her face drops a bit again, but she hauls her clothes on, almost in one miserable action. I hand her a tenner for fares and fags and she says her goodbyes and files out.
When she’s gone, I gather up the load of gay porn I picked up yesterday in Soho. I stick it in a padded envelope and address it:
FRANCIS BEGBIE
PRISONER NO: 6892BK
HMP SAUGHTON
SAUGHTON MAINS
EDINBURGH
SCOTLAND
I always take a wee stock for my old pal Begbie, which I post every time I go back to Scotland, so that he sees the local postmark on it when he receives it. I wonder who the fuck he blames for sending it, probably everyone in the Lothian region. It’s all part of my little war against my home city.
Liberally applying the Gibbs SR, I brush the scabby dregs of Tanya from my mouth and jump in the shower, scrubbing from my genitals the remnants of that diseased pot I’ve been stirring. And wouldn’t you know it, the phone goes and my weakness is that I can never, ever let it ring, and the answer machine is not switched on. I wrap a
I stick a copy of the Great Eastern Railway timetable on my headboard and by the time she gets here, everything’s in place. She confesses to me that that shit-broker Matt Colville threw her out the bar the other night. Her big eyes crave smack, not cock. I’m telling her that she’s an ungrateful slag, that I’ve set everything up for her, and that she’d rather have her arse panelled in by some scab-baws for a bag or a rock in some shitey hovel in King’s Cross than ply her trade in a nice entertainment-industry establishment in Soho. — I try so hard for you, but it’s no good, I spit, wondering how many times she’s heard that one before from parents, social workers, care officers. She takes my rant, crumbling on the settee, her arms around herself, looking at me like her jawbone’s become detached from her skull and is just hanging loosely in the skin.
— But ee frew me aht, she moans, — Colville. Ee bleedin well frew me aht.
— No wonder, look at ye. You look like a fuckin Weedgie. This is London, you’ve got to have some fuckin standards. Am I the only person that believes in standards . . . ?
— Sorry, Simon . . .
— It’s okay, doll, I sing, and pull her up from the couch, and take her in my arms marvelling at her lightness. — I’m a bit grumpy today because it’s been a funny old week. Come and lie down beside me . . . I pull her on to the bed and look at the clock on the locker: 12.15. I’m touching her, watching her lips go into spasm, then the clothes are strewn and I’m on her and in her. Her face is fucking mangled in discomfort and I’m thinking, where’s that fuckin train?
12.21.
That fuckin train, fuckin Anglian Railways or whatever you call the privatised shit . . . 12.22, the fuckin cunts . . . should be due here by now . . . — You’re fuckin gorgeous, babes, you are fucking dynamite, I lie in encouragement.
— Eughhh . . . she’s wheezing.
Fuck me, if that’s all she puts into it she should go to work filling burgers cause she’s got nae future in the industry.
I grit my teeth and hold on another five miserable minutes till 12.27 when the bastard finally slices through the station shaking the gaff to bits and she starts screaming undying love.
— Strong finish, I explain to her. I’m trying to do a Terry Venables-coaching thing; stick to basics, remind them what they’re good at. Positive encouragement, no shouting or losing the rag. — But we need mair commitment. I’m telling you this for your own good.
— Thanks, Simon, she smiles, exposing that crownless chipped tooth.
— Now I’ll have to chase you, as I’ve business.
Her face drops a bit again, but she hauls her clothes on, almost in one miserable action. I hand her a tenner for fares and fags and she says her goodbyes and files out.
When she’s gone, I gather up the load of gay porn I picked up yesterday in Soho. I stick it in a padded envelope and address it:
FRANCIS BEGBIE
PRISONER NO: 6892BK
HMP SAUGHTON
SAUGHTON MAINS
EDINBURGH
SCOTLAND
I always take a wee stock for my old pal Begbie, which I post every time I go back to Scotland, so that he sees the local postmark on it when he receives it. I wonder who the fuck he blames for sending it, probably everyone in the Lothian region. It’s all part of my little war against my home city.
Liberally applying the Gibbs SR, I brush the scabby dregs of Tanya from my mouth and jump in the shower, scrubbing from my genitals the remnants of that diseased pot I’ve been stirring. And wouldn’t you know it, the phone goes and my weakness is that I can never, ever let it ring, and the answer machine is not switched on. I wrap a
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