Dead Men's Trousers

by Irvine Welsh

  As the guy vacates the toilet, Melanie goes inside. I try tae no even think about how lovely she is, as I’m certain that Franco will read my mind. — Listen, buddy, I drop ma voice, — it’s no how I thought this would play out, but we have a wee bit ay catching up to do.

  — Do we?

  — Aye, cause there’s that issue that needs tae be resolved in your favour.

  Franco looks oddly bashful, then shrugs and says, — We should swap numbers.

  As we’re exchanging contact details, Melanie reappears, and we return to our respective seats. I sit back down, apologising effusively to the corpulent cunt, who ignores me but wears a scandalised perma-pout, passive-aggressively rubbing his beefy thigh. I shudder in the sort ay fear and excitement I huvnae experienced for years. The nervous flying drunk looks at me in bleary, jittery empathy. Meeting Frank Begbie under those circumstances is telling me the universe has gone arse-over-tit.

  I pop another Ambien, and drift off into a half-sleep, my mind restless and looping on life’s themes. Thinking about how it hardens and stultifies you …

  … the good stuff you seem tae have less time for, and you find yourself constantly drowning in the bullshit, so ye start no tae gie a fuck about other people’s crap – it just overwhelms you if ye gie it the space – you kick back and watch Pop Idol – ironically of course, with lashings of haughty, critical disdain – and sometimes, just sometimes, it can’t quite blank oot a strange overwhelming silence, and there it is, a little hiss in the background – that’s the sound of your life force draining away –

  – listeeeeeennnn –

  – it’s the sound of you dying – you’re a prisoner of your own self-confirming, self-restraining algorithms, allowing Google, Facebook, Twitter and Amazon to bind you up in psychic chains and force-feed you a crappy, one-dimensional version of yourself, which you embrace as it’s the only affirmation on offer – these are your friends – these are your associates – these are your enemies – this is your life – you need chaos, an external force tae shock you oot ay your complacency – you need this because you no longer have the will or the imagination to do it yourself – when I was younger, Begbie, who has jolted himself so dramatically out ay his Leith and prison trajectory, did this for me – as bizarre as it seems, part ay me has always missed the cunt – you have to live until you die –

  – so how do you live?

  Later, in the airport terminal, we chat some more, waiting for our luggage tae come off the belts. I try to stretch out my lower back, as he shows me a picture on his phone of their kids, two sweet little girls. All this is profoundly disorientating. It’s almost like the sensible, normal friendship we were meant tae have, rather than me constantly trying tae find ways to deactivate his violence. He tells ays aboot his forthcoming art exhibition, inviting me along, enjoying the incredulity on my coupon that I cannae even try tae hide as my tartan wheeler bag inches towards me. — Aye, I know, he graciously concedes, — it’s a funny auld life, Rents.

  — You can say that again.

  Franco. A fucking art exhibition! Ye couldnae make that shit up!

  So I watch him leave the LAX arrivals lounge with his young wife. She’s smart and cool and they are obviously in love. It’s a big step-up from what’s-her-name, back in the day. Grabbing a bottle of water from the vending machine, I slip another Ambien down, heading for the car hire with the unsettling sense that the universe is badly aligned. If somebody told me there and then that Hibs were going to win the Scottish Cup next season, I’d have almost fucking well believed them. The shaming, bitter truth of it: I’m jealous of the cunt, a creative artist with a gorgeous bird. I cannae stop thinking: That was meant to be me.

  Part One

  December 2015

  Another Neoliberal Christmas

  1

  RENTON – THE TRAVELLING MAN

  A rash ay sweat beads are forming on Frank Begbie’s forehead. I am trying no tae stare. He’s just come intae the air-conditioned building fae the heat outside, and his system’s adjusting. Pits ays in mind ay when we first met. It was warm then n aw. Or maybe no. We start idealising shit as we get older. It actually wasn’t at primary school, as I had often recounted. That tale seemed tae have slid intae that weird overstuffed volume between fact and folklore, where a lot ay Begbie stories ended up. No, it was before that: at the ice-cream van outside the Fort, probably on a Sunday. He was cairrying a big blue Tupperware bowl.

  I had no long started school, and recognised Begbie from there. He was the year above me then, but that would change. I stood behind him in the queue, a bright sun in our eyes, bursting oot fae gaps between the blackened tenements. He seems a good boy, I thought, watching him dutifully hand the bowl over to the ice-cream man. — It’s for eftir dinner, he said with a big smile, on noting me observing proceedings. I recall that this impressed me greatly at the time; ah’d never seen a kid entrusted to get a bowl filled in that way. My ma just gave us tinned Plumbrose cream with our sliced peaches or pears.

  Then, when I got my cone, he had stalled and was waiting for me. We walked back doon the street thegither, talking about Hibs and our bikes. We were fleet-footed, especially him, speed-walking and bursting into a trot, mindful of the melting ice cream. (So it was a hot day.) I headed to the towering council flats at Fort House; he veered across the road to a sooty tenement. Auld Reekie was just that back then, before stone cleaning removed the industrial grime. — See ye, he waved at me.

  I saluted back. Yes, he did seem a good boy. But later on, I would learn different. I always told a story of how ah was seated next to him at secondary school, as if this penance was imposed on me. But it wasn’t. We sat thegither because we were already friends.

  Now I cannae quite believe I’m here in Santa Monica, California, living this kind of life. Especially when Franco Begbie is sitting across the table from me, with Melanie, in this nice restaurant on 3rd Street. We are both light years away from that ice-cream van in Leith. I’m with Vicky, who works in film sales, but hails originally from Salisbury, England. We met on a dating website. It’s our fourth outing and we huvnae fucked yet. After our third would probably have been the time. We’re not bairns. Now I sense we’ve let it slide too long and are a bit tentative in each other’s company, wondering: is this going anywhere? I thought I was being cool; truth is that she’s a lovely woman and I’m aching to be with her.

  So it’s tough being roond Franco and Melanie; such a bright, bronzed and healthy couple. Franco, twenty years older than her, almost seems a match for this fit, tanned, blonde Californian. They are easy and languid in each other’s company; a touch ay hand on thigh here, a sneaky wee peck on cheek there, a meaningful glance and exchange of conspiratorial smiles everywhere.

  Lovers are cunts. They rub your face in it without meaning to. And that’s what I’ve had from Frank Begbie since that fucking insane day on the plane last summer. We did stay in touch, and have met up a few times. But never just us: always with Melanie, and sometimes whatever company I bring along. Strangely, this is at Franco’s instigation. Whenever we arrange a get-together for just the two of us, so I can discuss paying him back, he always finds a reason to cancel. Now here we are in Santa Monica, with Christmas looming. He’ll be here for the festive period, in the sun, while I’ll be in Leith, with my old man. Ironically able to relax, now that the guy sitting opposite me, who I thought would never leave the old port, or only for a prison cell, is no longer a threat.

  The food is good and the company is pleasant and chilled out. So I should be at peace. But I’m no. Vicky, Melanie and I split a bottle ay white wine. I crave a second but stay silent. Franco doesnae drink any more. I keep saying that tae myself in disbelief: Franco doesnae drink any more. And when it’s time tae leave and head tae the apartment in the Uber with Vicky, who lives close by in Venice, I’m again pondering the implications of his transformation, and where it’s left me. I’m far from a strict temperance guy, chance would be a fine thing, but I’ve done enou
gh NA meetings over the years tae ken that no paying him back just isnae a valid psychological option for ays. When I do compensate him – and I realise that I must, not just for him but for me – it’ll be gone, that fucking huge burden. That need to run will be forever extinguished. I can see more of Alex, maybe rebuild some kind of a relationship with Katrin, my ex. I can perhaps make a proper go ay it with Vicky here, see where it takes us. And all I need to do is tae pey this cunt off. I know exactly how much I owe him at today’s money. Fifteen thousand four hundred and twenty quid: that’s how much three thousand two hundred pounds is worth now. And that’s small beer compared tae what I owe Sick Boy. But I’ve also been putting money aside for him and Second Prize. Franco, though, is more pressing.

  In the back of the Uber, Vicky’s hand fastens around my own. She has big paws for a woman of around five-six; they’re almost the same size as mine. — What are you thinking about? Work?

  — Got it, I lie glumly. — I’ve those gigs at Christmas and New Year in Europe. But at least I’ll get back home tae spend time with the old boy.

  — Wish I was going home, she says. — Especially as my sister’s making it back from Africa. But it takes too much time out of my leave. So it’ll be Christmas with some expats … again, she groans in exasperation.

  Now would be the time to say it: I wish I were spending Christmas here with you. It would be a simple, honest statement. However, meeting Franco has once again discombobulated me, and the moment passes. But there are other opportunites. As we reach my building I ask Vicky if she wants to come up for a nightcap. She smiles tightly. — Sure.

  We get upstairs and into the apartment. The air is thick and stale and hot. I hit the air con and it creaks and whistles into action. I pour two glasses ay red wine and slump down on the small couch, suddenly tired after all my travelling. My DJ Emily says that everything happens for a reason. It’s her mantra. I never buy into all that cosmic forces shite. But now I’m thinking: What if she’s right? What if I was meant to run into Franco, in order to pay him back? Unburden myself? Move on? After all, that’s what he’s done, and I’m the one who’s fucking stuck.

  Vicky has sat down on the couch beside me. She stretches out like a cat, then slips off her shoes and pulls her tanned legs up, smoothing down her skirt. I feel blood flowing from brain to baws. She’s thirty-seven and has had a proper life, from what I can gather. Been messed around by a couple of wankers, broken a few saps’ hearts. Now she has a fire in her eye and set tae her jaw that says: Time to get serious. Shit or get off the pot.

  — You think it’s time we, eh, took this to the next level? I ask.

  Her eyes are slitty and alert as she touches the sun-bleached brunette-blonde hair scrapped right back off her forehead. — Oh, I think so, she says in a voice that is meant to be sexy and is.

  We’re both relieved tae get the first shag out the road. Already beyond excellent, it’ll only kick on from here. It always fascinates me how, when you fancy somebody, they often look even better with no clothes on than you imagine. But the next day, she leaves early for work, and I have to get on a plane tae Barcelona. It’s for a gig that isnae important in itself, but at a club night promoted by a guy who does the Sonar Festival there. Our participation in that was sealed by agreeing to do this Christmas show. Who knows when Victoria and I will hook up again. But I travel happy and with a bit to think about, and maybe something to come back for. And that’s been a long time in happening.

  So here I am, flying east, the dreaded east. Business class is essential for this one. I should lie flat but the stewardess offers a nice French wine from their selection, and before I know it I’m shit-faced at altitude again. All I’m thinking about is getting some coke. I settle for an Ambien.

  Yes, it has gotten obnoxiously trendy. Aye, money has ruined it. For sure, it’s been colonised by cosmopolitan fuckers high on solvency and low on personality, their mirthless laughter from the bars and cafes echoing down its narrow streets. But for all those caveats, the simple fact remains intact: if you don’t like Barcelona, you’re a cunt, and totally lost tae humanity.

  I know I still have some kind of pulse, cause I love it. Even when I’m fighting tae keep my eyes open, and shutting them jaunts me back into the hell of the sweaty nightclub I’ve either just left or am heading to. I have a constant four-four beat pounding in my brain, despite the cab driver playing tinny Latin music. I stumble out the taxi, almost falling over with fatigue. I pull my roller-wheeled case out the back, and struggle intae my hotel. The check-in is swift but seems like an age. I feel myself letting the air out my lungs in a long sigh to hurry the clerk up. I’m shiteing it in case one ay my DJs or the promoter walks in right now and wants to talk. The plastic strip that gains me entry to my room is issued. Some notes about the Wi-Fi and breakfast. I get intae the lift. The blinking green light in the lock tells me the key works, thank fuck. I’m inside. On my bed.

  For how long I’m out I don’t know. But the room phone wakes me with loud burps. My mind journeys with each one; the pause long enough to give me hope I’ve just heard the last of them. Then … it’s Conrad. My most high-maintenance client has arrived. I push my bones vertical.

  I’m wishing I was in LA or Amsterdam, I don’t care, watching Pop Idol, Vicky perhaps tucked into my side, but I’m a shuddering mass of jet lag and ching in this Barcelona hotel, feeling my IQ almost satisfyingly slip away as my heartbeat pumps up. I’m in the bar with Carl, Conrad and Miguel, a promoter at Nitsa, the club we’re playing. Fortunately, he’s one of the good guys. Emily enters and refuses to join us, pointedly standing at the bar, playing with her phone. She’s making a statement, one that compels me to rise and go to her.

  — You get those wankers in your little boys’ club sorted out, why not me?

  No much in my job disturbs me. Certainly setting up a DJ with prostitutes doesn’t even twinge my moral compass these days. But when the DJ is a young woman, who is seeking the company of another young woman, it’s outside both my skill set and comfort zone. — Look, Emily –

  — Call me DJ Night Vision!

  How do you react when a young lassie with wavy dark hair, a beauty-spot mole on her chin and big swimming-pool eyes looks at you as if she indeed does have night vision? She once told me that her mother was of gypsy stock. That surprised me as I’ve met her dad, Mickey, who seems pure English Defence League. I can see why that one didn’t last. Her title has become a big thing with her, since she heard me calling Carl N-Sign and Conrad Technonerd. — Look, DJ Night Vision, you’re a beautiful woman. Any guy, I correct myself, — I mean girl, or person, in their right mind, would want tae sleep with you. But you shagging a lipsticked-and-stiletto-heeled hooker will depress the fuck out of me, as I crash in the next room alone with a good book. Then it’ll do the same tae you, as you’ll have tae lie tae Starr.

  Emily’s girlfriend Starr is a tall, gorgeous, raven-haired medical student. Not the sort of lassie that gets cheated on, you’d think, but nobody is too beautiful to suffer that fate. Carl’s ex, Helena, is a stunner, but it didn’t stop this weird-looking albino cunt from Stenhoose banging anything that smiled at him. Emily sweeps her hair oot ay her eyes and rocks back on her heels, looking over at the boys. Carl is animated, gesticulating, arguing with Miguel: his voice high, fuelled by powder. I hope tae fuck the cunt isnae burning this gig down. Conrad watches in detached semi-amusement, cramming some complimentary nuts intae his face. Emily turns back to me, her voice harsh and low. — Do you care about me, Mark?

  — Of course I do, babe, you’re like a daughter to me, I say, a little blithely.

  — Yeah, one that makes you money instead of one you have to pay college fees for, right?

  Emily Baker, Night Vision, doesn’t actually make me that much money. With a few notable exceptions, female DJs don’t do that well. Back when I had the club, I booked Lisa Loud, Connie Lush, Marina Van Rooy, Daisy, Princess Julia and Nancy Noise, but for every one of them there were scores who were still worth
booking but who weren’t. Female DJs more often than not have great taste and play the cool, righteous house music I like. But they generally aren’t as obsessive-compulsive as male ones. In short, they have lives. Even those who don’t are still tough to break, as the industry is extremely sexist. If they ain’t lookers, they don’t get taken seriously, ignored by the promoters. If they are lookers, they don’t get taken seriously, cruised by the promoters.

  I’m not going to mention the track or the studio though, that will set Emily off; it’s great but she lacks confidence in it and I cannae give anybody lessons in how tae live. I have more hassles with my DJs than I do with my own kid, the difference being that I try harder tae make a difference with them. When I tell people what I do for a living, the daft cunts actually see it as glamorous. Is it fuck! My name is Mark Renton and I’m a Scotsman who lives between Holland and America. Most ay ma life is spent in hotels, airports and on phones and email. I have around $24,000 in an account at Citibank in the USA, and €157,000 in the ABN AMRO in the Netherlands, and £328 in the Clydesdale Bank in Scotland. If I’m no in a hotel, my head rests on a pillow in a flat overlooking a canal in Amsterdam or a balcony-less condominium in Santa Monica, a good half-hour walk from the ocean. It’s better than being on the dole, stacking shelves in a supermarket, walking some rich cunt’s dug, or cleaning some slavering fucker’s arse, but that’s about it. It’s only in the last three years I’ve started making serious money, since Conrad has broken big.

  We’ve caned it a little at the hotel and get taxied to the club. Conrad seldom does coke or E but smokes a ton of weed and eats like a beer-titted horse. He’s also narcoleptic and has fallen into his customary deep sleep in the anteroom off the green room, which is a busy space, full of DJs’ managers, journos and hangers-on. I head to the bar with Miguel to talk business, and when I go to check on my superstar DJ around forty minutes later, something isn’t quite right.