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Authors: Tony Black
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eyes widening a little. ‘Still … couldn’t have been happy: hanged himself, didn’t he?’
I shook my head. ‘Official verdict was misadventure … erotic asphyxiation gone wrong.’
She didn’t bat a lid. ‘Yeah, right …’
‘What do you mean?’
She turned to face me. ‘You buying that? He was probably out his tits and nursing the realisation that everyone thought he was a complete prick.’
I could see I’d come to the right place. Amy was just the girl I needed to do a bit of digging around.
‘Ben’s friends and the like … you know them?’
‘Christ no … bunch of dicks. Posh twats with big ideas about themselves.’
‘But, you could get to know them … ?’
Amy slit her eyes, crossed her legs again, towards me now, and leaned in. ‘Is this going where I think it is, Gus?’
‘Where’s that?’
A smile, wide white teeth beneath red lipstick. Fair dos to the girl – she knew how to play up. ‘Hopefully all the way.’
I coughed into my fist, suppressed a laugh.
‘Let’s not get too carried away, eh, Amy.’
‘You’re right … There’s time enough for that, sure.’
Chapter 9
I WATCHED AMY TEETER UP the street on vertiginous heels. As she got to the corner, she turned, winked, then took off quick-style, shaking her hips and putting out that peach of an ass. All for show. But, hey, what a show. Somewhere along the track Amy had developed some sense of self-awareness. She’d matured into the kind of chick who was secure enough in herself to laugh at what she was, take the piss, even. I had to hand it to her: she was quite the package. In a lesser mortal there’d be nothing but ego and entitlement. The kind that get tagged ‘hard work’. Amy was above all that, she was all about the fun of it, laughing herself up. She had the right idea … But who was I to say? Christ, morose was my middle name. Lachrymose my last.
I put out for Holyrood, schlepped along by the Cameo and crossed Lothian Road. At the Art School a shower of jakies were supping on Cally Special tins. One of them had a head start, pissed himself and propped head on a lamp post. His buddies were rifling his pockets for coin and snout. Two baggy-jumper-wearing students shuffled past, eyes south, trying hard to ignore the scene. As they reached the steps they legged it, rapid-style, for the swing doors. Once safely inside they shook heads and giggled. The city streets were no more than a source of amusement for them; a wry tear welled in my eye. This would be our artists of the future then … theTracey Emins and Damien Hirsts. Little middle-class careerists. What happened to conviction? I had heard the Scots genius John Byrne deriding the new wave once. He said art had always been about what was in the heart … but to the new crew it was all about what was in their heads. Were we all so corporate now, I wondered? Was there a vestige of soul left in this city, this world? I’d flunked college. Did it bother me? Did it fuck. This education racket was no loss to me. It was a conveyor belt, processing boardroom fodder. A nice little change of scene for the county set brats; bit of life skill polishing before the gap year in South East Asia, building up the alco-tolerance before hitting the Bundaberg rum. Jesus, wasn’t life sweet. Almost felt a sense of relief for Ben Laird’s passing. Lucky little fucker had managed to skip the entire Lego-bricked road that leads to full-on vacuity.
Was having real difficulty finding a note of sympathy for our Ben. Sure, he was a young lad, a life cut tragically short … but I couldn’t see it in me to feel for him. Going on Amy’s vague description, the boy was hardly one in a million; quite the opposite. He was the worst of a bad type. Yes, he was young, might have matured. But you live in Edinburgh, you watch the fuckwits dragging their knuckles to Murrayfield on match day, you start to question Darwin’s theory of evolution. I could see Ben at thirty, forty even,
I shook my head. ‘Official verdict was misadventure … erotic asphyxiation gone wrong.’
She didn’t bat a lid. ‘Yeah, right …’
‘What do you mean?’
She turned to face me. ‘You buying that? He was probably out his tits and nursing the realisation that everyone thought he was a complete prick.’
I could see I’d come to the right place. Amy was just the girl I needed to do a bit of digging around.
‘Ben’s friends and the like … you know them?’
‘Christ no … bunch of dicks. Posh twats with big ideas about themselves.’
‘But, you could get to know them … ?’
Amy slit her eyes, crossed her legs again, towards me now, and leaned in. ‘Is this going where I think it is, Gus?’
‘Where’s that?’
A smile, wide white teeth beneath red lipstick. Fair dos to the girl – she knew how to play up. ‘Hopefully all the way.’
I coughed into my fist, suppressed a laugh.
‘Let’s not get too carried away, eh, Amy.’
‘You’re right … There’s time enough for that, sure.’
Chapter 9
I WATCHED AMY TEETER UP the street on vertiginous heels. As she got to the corner, she turned, winked, then took off quick-style, shaking her hips and putting out that peach of an ass. All for show. But, hey, what a show. Somewhere along the track Amy had developed some sense of self-awareness. She’d matured into the kind of chick who was secure enough in herself to laugh at what she was, take the piss, even. I had to hand it to her: she was quite the package. In a lesser mortal there’d be nothing but ego and entitlement. The kind that get tagged ‘hard work’. Amy was above all that, she was all about the fun of it, laughing herself up. She had the right idea … But who was I to say? Christ, morose was my middle name. Lachrymose my last.
I put out for Holyrood, schlepped along by the Cameo and crossed Lothian Road. At the Art School a shower of jakies were supping on Cally Special tins. One of them had a head start, pissed himself and propped head on a lamp post. His buddies were rifling his pockets for coin and snout. Two baggy-jumper-wearing students shuffled past, eyes south, trying hard to ignore the scene. As they reached the steps they legged it, rapid-style, for the swing doors. Once safely inside they shook heads and giggled. The city streets were no more than a source of amusement for them; a wry tear welled in my eye. This would be our artists of the future then … theTracey Emins and Damien Hirsts. Little middle-class careerists. What happened to conviction? I had heard the Scots genius John Byrne deriding the new wave once. He said art had always been about what was in the heart … but to the new crew it was all about what was in their heads. Were we all so corporate now, I wondered? Was there a vestige of soul left in this city, this world? I’d flunked college. Did it bother me? Did it fuck. This education racket was no loss to me. It was a conveyor belt, processing boardroom fodder. A nice little change of scene for the county set brats; bit of life skill polishing before the gap year in South East Asia, building up the alco-tolerance before hitting the Bundaberg rum. Jesus, wasn’t life sweet. Almost felt a sense of relief for Ben Laird’s passing. Lucky little fucker had managed to skip the entire Lego-bricked road that leads to full-on vacuity.
Was having real difficulty finding a note of sympathy for our Ben. Sure, he was a young lad, a life cut tragically short … but I couldn’t see it in me to feel for him. Going on Amy’s vague description, the boy was hardly one in a million; quite the opposite. He was the worst of a bad type. Yes, he was young, might have matured. But you live in Edinburgh, you watch the fuckwits dragging their knuckles to Murrayfield on match day, you start to question Darwin’s theory of evolution. I could see Ben at thirty, forty even,
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