Dead Men's Trousers

by Irvine Welsh

  Harry nods slowly. He knows what will fly with her. — I’ve been in rehab for alcohol addiction, and I’m attending meetings regularly. It’s important for me to make amends. Can I buy you a coffee? Please? It would mean a lot to me. His tone’s pleading and emotional. Liberals liked to hear that people are basically good and trying to be better. Why shouldn’t I make the same play on her as that criminal psycho asshole she married?

  Melanie flicks her hair back, sighs and gestures wearily to the food court. They head over, finding seats at the Starbucks, close to the counter. As Harry joins the line and orders two skinny lattes, Melanie starts talking on her phone. His ears prick. Is she talking about him? No, it sounds like harmless banalities, dispatched to a friend. Yes, we’re back … The kids are fine … Yes, Jim too. I think it did us both good to get away. Last year was all about reconnecting with family … Sicily was wonderful. The food – I need to hit the gym, big time.

  Harry lowers the coffees to the table, slides one across to her as he gets into the seat opposite. Melanie picks up her cup, takes a tentative sip, mumbles some thanks. Her phone sits on the table in front of her. He has to broach this carefully. She’ll still have the recording made of his message from last summer, when he was drunk, stupid and weak. That cunning monster she married would see to that. But Melanie had to know that she’s hitched to a psychotic killer. And Harry will prove it. He will show that Jim Francis murdered those two men.

  At first they talk blandly of old college and high-school days, and mutual acquaintances. It’s going smoothly, Harry reckons, straight from the cop’s interpersonal playbook. Establish normality. Build trust. And it seems like it’s working. Hell, Harry even draws a smile out of Melanie, through recounting a tale of one of their buddies. It excites him, as it has always done. It allows him to glimpse possibilities. So he talks about himself a little. How Mom didn’t last long after Dad passed, kind of just gave up. How he inherited that lovely old house up in the woods. It’s a bit isolated, but he doesn’t mind that. But then something goes wrong. The part of him that so desperately still wants her to be with him, in that house, it suddenly emerges, and Harry jumps topic too quickly. Can’t hold back. Can’t stop the cop in him coming out. — You’re in serious trouble, Melanie. He shakes his head in tense gravity. — Jim is not the man you think he is!

  Melanie rolls her eyes and picks up her phone, putting it back in her bag. She looks at him evenly, speaking in a slow, deliberate tone. — Keep the fuck away from us. From me, my husband and our children. Her voice rises, to pull nearby patrons into referencing the drama. — You’ve been warned!

  Harry draws in a breath, shocked at the depth of her loathing. — I’ve been suspended from the department. I’ve lost everything, but I’m never going to let him hurt you!

  — Jim isn’t hurting me, you are! I’m telling you, if you approach me again, I’m making a formal complaint, through an attorney, and giving your department a copy of the tape, and Melanie rises, swinging her bag over her shoulder. — Now stay away from my family!

  Harry pouts, his bottom lip involuntarily trembling, but then he turns away, facing two women who have been eavesdropping. — Ladies, he says in a slow, sardonic seethe of acknowledgement, before sipping at the latte. He looks forlornly at the lipstick mark around the rim of the other cup. It seems to belong to a ghost he has been chasing most of his life. Sure enough, by the time he turns back, Melanie has gone, vanished into the throng of shoppers. Harry can scarcely believe that she was ever sitting so close to him.

  When Melanie returns home she finds Jim in the kitchen, making a sandwich. It is an elaborate, layered effort, involving lean turkey breast, avocado slices, tomatoes and Swiss cheese. Her husband’s ability to immerse himself so fully in the most mundane of tasks, as well as the most complex, never fails to amaze her. The still intensity he brings to everything. Through the window, she sees the girls playing in the yard with the new puppy, which is out of sight, but Melanie can hear its excited barking. Jim looks at up her, cracking a smile. It slides south as he quickly senses that something is wrong. — What’s up, honey?

  She extends her arms and grips the countertop, leaning back to stretch the tension out of her. — Harry. I ran into him at the mall. I suspect he engineered it. He was apologetic and sensible at first, so I had a coffee with him at Starbucks. Then he started coming out with that same delusional bullshit about you killing those two guys on the beach! I threatened him with the tape and he backed off.

  Jim hauls in a deep breath. — If this happens again we might have to take action. Get ourselves a lawyer and file a harassment suit against him.

  — Jim, you’re a resident alien and a convicted felon. Melanie looks glumly at him. — The authorities don’t know a lot about that part of your life.

  — Those two guys, I blew up their van …

  — If all this comes out, you could be deported.

  — To Scotland? Jim suddenly laughs. — Ah don’t know if I could handle the girls growing up talking like me!

  — Jim …

  Jim Francis steps forward, filling the space between him and Melanie, taking his wife in his arms. Over her shoulder he can see their daughters playing with Sauzee, the recently acquired French bulldog. — Shhh, it’s okay, he coos, as much to himself as to her. — We’ll sort it all out. Let’s just enjoy Christmas.

  Christmas in the sun, Jim thinks, then considers Edinburgh and lets a phantom chill race up his spine.

  3

  TINDER IS THE NIGHT

  Euan McCorkindale examines himself in the bathroom mirror. He prefers what he sees when he removes his glasses, this act sending his features into a satisfying blur. Fifty years. A half-century. Where had it all gone? He replaces the spectacles to contemplate an increasingly skull-like head, apexed by a silver buzz-cut bristle. Euan then looks down at his bare feet, pink plates on the heated black-tiled floor. It is what he does, in the same way others study their faces. How many pairs of feet has he seen in his life? Thousands. Perhaps even hundreds of thousands. Flat, twisted, broken, fractured, crushed, burned, scarred, pitted and infected. But not his own: those have lasted better than the rest of him.

  Moving through from the en suite bathroom, Euan dresses quickly, nagged by a mild envy of his still-sleeping wife. Carlotta has the best part of a decade of youthful advantage on him and is handling middle age well. She bloated in her mid-thirties, and Euan was secretly looking forward to her gaining some of her mother’s upholstery; he likes women who tend towards the plump. But then a dedicated diet-and-gym regime seemed to make Carlotta go backwards in time: not only approximating her youthful self, but in some ways even surpassing it. She never had muscles like that when they first got together, and yoga has given her a suppleness and range of motion previously beyond her. Now Euan is experiencing the acute return of a withering sensation, which he hoped age would completely vanquish: that he’s massively punching above his weight in this relationship.

  Euan, however, is a devoted husband and father who has spent his married life happily indulging his wife and son. This is especially the case around Christmas. He loves Carlotta’s Italian social extravagance and wouldn’t have wished his own austere background on anybody. A birthday that fell on Christmas Eve, in a Wee Free family – it was a recipe for privation and neglect. But Euan’s enjoyment of the festive period is generally ring-fenced around Carlotta and Ross. His bonhomie tends to dissipate when others are brought into the mix, and tomorrow he is expected to host Christmas dinner for her family. Carlotta’s mother Evita, her sister Louisa, Lou’s husband Gerry and kids: they are all fine. It’s her brother, Simon, who runs a dubious-sounding escort agency in London, whom he isn’t so sure about.

  Thankfully, Ross and Simon’s son Ben seem to get on. It’s just as well. Simon has seldom been around the last two days. After arriving from London with the young man, he unceremoniously dumped poor Ben on them, and took off. It wasn’t on, really. No wonder Ben is such a quiet young chap.
r />   He finds Ross down in the kitchen, still in his pyjamas and dressing gown, sat at the table, playing a game on his iPad. — Morning, son.

  — Morning, Dad. Ross looks up, bottom lip protruding. No ‘Happy birthday’. Ah well. It’s obvious that his son has something on else his mind.

  — Where’s Ben?

  — Still asleep.

  — Everything okay with you guys?

  His son pulls a face Euan can’t interpret, and snaps his iPad shut. — Aye … it’s just that … Then Ross suddenly explodes, — I’m never gaunny get a girlfriend! I’ll be a virgin till I die!

  Euan cringes. Oh God, he’s sharing a bedroom with Ben. He’s a nice lad, but he’s older and he’s still the son of Simon. — Has Ben been teasing you about girls?

  — It’s no Ben. It’s everybody at school! They’ve all got girlfriends!

  — Son, you’re fifteen. There’s still time.

  Ross’s eyes at first widen in horror then narrow into slits, as he contemplates his father. It isn’t a comfortable expression for Euan to witness. It seems to say: you can either be a god or a joke depending on how you answer this next question. — How old were you when … the boy hesitates, — when you first done it with a girl?

  Fuck. Euan feels something hard and blunt strike him inside. — I really don’t think that’s the sort of question you ask your father … he nervously offers. — Ross, look –

  — How old?! his son commands, in real distress.

  Euan regards Ross. The boy often seems the same tousle-headed little rogue of old. However, a certain ranginess and rash of spots, as well as a more sullen demeanour, testify to puberty’s ongoing assault, and therefore the inevitability of this conversation in some form. But Euan grimly assumed that today’s boys and girls would be watching extreme pornography online and hooking up on social media sites, doing despicable things to each other, then filming and posting the grotesque and humiliating results. He anticipated dealing with the psychological problems of post-capitalist abundance, yet here he is, confronted with traditional scarcity. He clears his throat. — Well, son, those were different times … How can he tell the boy that school sex was out of bounds in his village, as it would invariably have meant shagging a blood relative? (Not that this stopped some of them!) That he was twenty-two and at university by the time he enjoyed full congress with a woman? That Ross’s mother, Carlotta – then eighteen to his twenty-five and infinitely more experienced – was only his second lover? — I was fifteen, son. He opts to embellish an incident where he got the tit from a cousin’s visiting friend into an episode of penetrative, mind-blowing, no-holds-barred sex. This isn’t such a difficult step as this masturbatory bejewelling has taken place countless times in his imagination. — I remember it like yesterday, as it was around this time, a few days after my birthday, he says, pleased that he’s got in the reminder. — So don’t worry, you’re still a young chap. He ruffles the boy’s hair. — Time is on your side, trooper.

  — Thanks, Dad, Ross sniffs, mildly reassured. — And happy birthday, by the way.

  With that Ross runs back upstairs to his room. No sooner has he departed than Euan hears a key in the front-door lock. Moving out to the hallway to investigate, he witnesses his brother-in-law creeping in. Simon’s eyes are wild, rather than bleary, with his shock of grey-black hair, shaved at the sides, sprouting from a still-angular face, all cheekbones and wedged chin. So he’s stayed out again, hasn’t used the spare room they made up for him. It’s ludicrous: he’s worse than a teenager. — You’re in, Euan, Simon David Williamson says with puckish enthusiasm, instantly disarming Euan by pushing both a card and a bottle of champagne into his hands. — Happy five-zero, buddy boy! Where’s kid sis? Still in the Maggie Thatcher?

  — She has a lot to do for tomorrow, so I expect she’ll lie in, Euan declares, heading back to the kitchen, lowering the champagne to the marble worktop and opening the card. It features a cartoon depicting a wily, sophisticated man, dressed like an orchestra conductor, holding a baton, and linking arms with a young buxom woman on each side, both of whom hold violins. The caption: THE OLDER THE FIDDLE, THE BETTER THE TUNE, SO GET YOURSELF FIDDLING ABOUT REAL SOON! HAPPY 50TH BIRTHDAY!

  Simon, his gaze burningly intense, drinks in Euan’s study of his offering. Euan looks up at his brother-in-law and house guest, feeling himself surprisingly moved. — Thanks, Simon … It’s nice somebody remembered … My birthday tends to get forgotten in all the Christmas hullabaloo.

  — You were born one day before that daft hippy on the cross, Simon nods, — I mind of that.

  — Well, it’s appreciated. So what did you get up to last night?

  Simon Williamson’s face screws up as he reads a text message that has jumped onto his screen. — It’s what I didn’t get up to that seems to be the problem, he snorts. — Some women, mature women, will not take no for an answer. Life’s crazy casualties … Otherwise, old acquaintances. You need to keep in touch; it’s only good manners, Simon insists, popping the champagne, the cork smacking the ceiling, as he pours the bubbling elixir into two flutes he’s taken from the glass display unit. — If somebody gives you champagne in a plastic vessel … no class. Here’s a story that will interest you, professionally speaking, he snaps in a way that permits no dissent from this contention. — I was in Miami Beach last month, at one of those hotels where they strictly adhere to glass. That’s Florida, you aren’t allowed to do anything there unless it’s potentially hazardous to others; guns in waistbands, cigarettes in bars, drugs that make you cannibalise strangers. Of course, I love it. I was ogling some poolside lovelies, cavorting in their skimpy wee two-pieces, when a bit of drunken horseplay resulted in the breaking of a glass. One of the said lovelies stood on the shards. As her blood plumed in the blue water at the edge of the pool, to the consternation of all in the vicinity, I was straight over, taking a leaf out of your book and doing my ‘I’m a doctor’ thing. I demanded that the staff brought me bandages and plasters. As they were swiftly procured, I wrapped the girl’s foot and helped escort her back to her room, reassuring her that although it didn’t need stitches, it would be best if she lay down for a bit. He breaks off his tale to hand Euan a glass, and toasts him. — Happy birthday!

  — Cheers, Simon. Euan takes a drink, enjoying the fizz and rush of the alcohol. — Was it bleeding heavily? If so –

  — Aye, Simon continues, — the poor lassie was a bit worried that the blood was seeping through the bandages, but I told her that it would soon clot.

  — Well, not necessarily –

  But Simon is allowing no interruptions. — Of course she started asking about the Connery accent and how I became a doctor. Obviously, I was giving it the old chat, inspired by you, buddy. I was even telling her the difference between a podiatrist and a foot surgeon, for fuck sakes!

  Euan can’t help but feel the balm seep into his ego.

  — To cut a beautifully long story crassly short, his brother-in-law’s large eyes blaze as he necks the remains of the flute, urging Euan to do the same before topping them up, — soon we were riding away. I’m on top, banging her senseless. In response to Euan’s raised brows, he helpfully adds, — Young thing, fit as a butcher’s dug, on holiday fae South Carolina. But when we’re done, I’m concerned to note that the bed is covered in blood, and the poor poolside lovely, on also noting this, starts going into shock. I told her we’d best call an ambulance in order to be safe rather than sorry.

  — God … it might have been the lateral plantar, or perhaps one of the dorsal metatarsals –

  — Anyway, the ambulance arrived post-haste and they took her away and kept her in overnight. Just as well I was off the next morning!

  Simon continues his tales of his recent Florida holiday, every one of which seems to Euan to involve sex with different women. He stands and listens patiently, drinking his glass of champagne. By the end of the bottle, he feels satisfyingly heady.

  — We should slip out for a beer, Simon suggests. — My
mother will be round soon and I’ll get the usual shit from her about where my life is going, and we’ll just be under Carra’s feet as she prepares the meal. Italian women and kitchens, you know the drill.

  — What about Ben? You haven’t really seen much of him since you’ve been up here.

  Simon Williamson rolls his eyes in contempt. — That lad is spoiled tae fuck by her side: rich, Tory, Surrey, cock-sucking, hound-wanking, House of Lords- and monarchy-worshipping paedophile bastards. I’m taking him to the Hibs–Raith game at New Year. Yes, he’ll pine for the Emirates, but the boy needs to experience the real world, and we’re in the hospitality suite, so it’s not like I’m exactly throwing him in at the deep end … Anyway … He makes a drinking gesture. — El peevo?

  Euan is swayed by Simon’s logic. Down the years stories about his brother-in-law have abounded, but as Simon lives in London, they have never done anything as a duo. It would be nice to get out for an hour or so. Perhaps if they bonded a little it would make for a more pleasant Christmas. — The Colinton Dell Inn has a really nice guest ale from –

  — Fuck the Colinton Dell Inn and its guest ales all the way up their petit bourgeois rectums, Simon says, eyes up from fiddling around on his phone. — A cab is on its way right now to whisk us into town.

  A couple of minutes later they emerge into brisk and squally weather and climb into a hackney cab, driven by a loud, brash man, his hair a mop of corkscrew curls. He and Simon, whom he calls Sick Boy, seem to be arguing about the merits of two dating sites. — Slider’s the best, the driver, whom Simon refers to as Terry, argues. — Nae fuckin aboot, jist get right doon tae it!

  — Bullshit. Tinder rules. You need at least the veneer of the romance. The intrigue of seduction is the best part of the whole enterprise. The hump at the end of it is just simple bag emptying. The process of allurement and inveigling always provides the bulk of the magic. Not that I generally use Tinder for sexual purposes, it’s more of a recruitment tool for the agency. You know, I’m thinking of opening a branch of Colleagues in Manchester. Well, with the BBC now in Salford … Simon has his phone out and is skimming through what appears to Euan to be headshots of women, and mainly young ones.