Dead Men's Trousers

by Irvine Welsh

  — Sortin oot other people’s crap is the shittiest, most thankless deal you’ll ever get, I empathise.

  — And while we’re running around like daft fuckers, Begbie is lying in the Californian sun, Sick Boy spits bitterly. — But you know what? I think you could be right about him. From deadly psychopath to arty wee pussy!

  13

  BEGBIE – WILD ABOUT HARRY

  The cunt got a fuckin shock when he came intae his hoose n pit oan the light. There wis me sitting in the chair behind ehs desk, pointing ehs ain fucking shooter right at him. Had it in his top right-hand drawer, the fuckin spazwit! Polis? That cunt? Seen fuckers in Edinburgh that would pit that wanker tae shame.

  — What the fuck … How did you get in here?

  — Do you really want the boring details? ah ask him. Ah wave the gun a wee bit. The cunt properly registers it for the first time. Disnae like it. — Now give me one good fucking reason, after you harassing my wife, why I shouldn’t shoot you now.

  — You’re a murdering scumbag and she should know that! N eh points the finger at ays.

  This cunt isnae wise. — That’s another good reason why I should shoot you. I was asking for one why I shouldn’t.

  The prick faws silent at that yin: did not fuckin like that at aw.

  — Thought we’d just have a wee chat. About you bugging my missus.

  With his slitty black eyes, he looks angry rather than scared. Fair fucks tae him.

  — Hear you like a peeve. Ah point tae the bottle ay whisky that ah’ve placed between us on the desk. — Take a wee drink.

  He looks at me, then the bottle. He wants it awright. Hesitates for a few seconds, then pours a gless. Knocks it back slowly but steadily.

  — Go on, have another! Sit doon. Ah gesture tae the chair. — I’d join ye but I’ve stopped. Never leads tae good places.

  That scoobies the cunt. He stares at the empty gless. He’s fucked his life up, his shite cop life, wi the auld Christopher Reeve. That boy isnae bothered whether yir polis or a villain: he just wants tae send ye tae hell. Ah’ve done aw that shite. This Harry cunt seems tae make a calculation that there’s nae wey oot for him, so he pours anyway, n takes a seat, oan ma second promptin, wi the pointin ay the shooter. He looks at ays, eyes narrowing that accusing wey. — You killed those drifters, and the cunt tries tae stare ays oot.

  I glower back at the cunt, my lips sealed. Gaze intae that cop soul. They’re aw the same, despite the TV shows that portray them as the big heroes. Ah jist see the gossiping, sweetie-wife, fussy essence ay a wanker programmed tae serve others.

  Harry blinks first. Clears his throat. — They were pieces of shit, but you murdered them in cold blood. The two that threatened Mel and the kids, he contends, tryin the fuckin stare again.

  Cheeky cunt. Breathe. One … two … three …

  These wee black beady eyes. Like a fuckin hamster looking at ye fae its cage. Like the yin we hud at school. The raffle tae see whae got tae take it hame for the holidays. Aw the oohs and aahs and the trepidation oan the teacher’s face when they saw whae fuckin won. Poor Hammy, he’s going to Begbie’s for the summer! Last we’ll see of him! N it wisnae misplaced. The poor wee golden bastard never came back. It wis natural causes – the fuckers just last a year – though nae cunt ootside our hoose believed that. They aw thought some cunt had stuck him between two slices ay breid.

  — You couldn’t let it go, could you? Couldn’t leave us … the police … to deal with it, this Hammy, sorry, Harry cunt goes. — Because that’s who you are … that’s what you do. You’ve done … you’ve … you … The cunt’s speech slows tae a mumble as ehs eyes get aw heavy.

  — GHB, mate. Sodium gamma-Hydroxybutyrate, a designer drug with anaesthetic properties. The sex offender’s game. Dinnae worry, ah stifle a wee chuckle, — you’re no getting rattled. Or even hurt. I’m just removing you from the game.

  — What …? His eyes are closing, his neck heavy as his heid faws forward. He grips the rests oan the chair.

  And the cunt looks at the hosepipe, which ah pick up by the nozzle and fling ower the ceiling beam. I’m making a noose at the end ay it. His weary eyes trace back tae where it comes in fae the gairdin, via the windae. Dib dib dab, ya polis bastard. Boy’s spangled now, just aboot able tae show a slab ay fear through the confusion in his glazed eyes.

  — Disgraced alco cop suicide, ah explain tae the cunt. — I never liked the fuckin polis, mate. I thought it was just back hame, in Scotland, and that American cops would be different. But naw. I hate all polis. Everywhere.

  Eh tries tae stand, but faws oot the chair, tumbling oantae the rug. Ah bend ower him and slap his chops. Nowt. The cunt is out for the count. Ah wipe the gun clean n pit it back in the drawer. I get the noose aroond his neck and pull him back up on the chair; thankfully, he’s no that heavy, aboot five-eight, 150 pounds, a welterweight, would be ma guess. The makeshift rope, gaun over the beam and oot through the windae, is attached tae the hose reel, which is bolted oantae the garage wall. I’d staked it out earlier. It should make a strong enough wrench.

  I open the windae and step ootside. Ah go tae the reel n start winding it in. Looking inside ah kin see the cunt starting tae revive, his mooth flapping n his eyes doolally under heavy lids he struggles tae keep open. I’m yanking the fucker tae his feet, as his tired airms reach up, groping at the rope, trying tae loosen it. The daft cunt falls nicely intae ma trap by getting oan the chair, tae try and get some slack on the rope that’s throttling him, but that’s exactly where I want um! Fucker jist gets one shot tae try and pull the noose off before I furiously wrench it up, baith hands on the handle, tae take the slack and tighten it again, forcing the dopey polis bastard oantae his toes.

  — Ye dinnae fuck aboot wi me n what’s mine, mate, ah say as ah climb back in and blooter the chair oot fae under his taes. The cunt’s swinging there, eyes popping oot, tongue hingin oot his heid, n ah’m gled ay the croakin sounds as ah’ve heard mair than enough words fae a snide copper mooth. Then a tearing, screeching noise, but comin fae ootside, n ah look tae the hose wheel, starting tae fuckin buckle under the weight.

  I step back ower tae the windae and slam the cunt tight, tae take the strain offay the reel. Then ah’m back tae this Hammy the fuckin hamster cunt; watching his spazzy eyes bulge as he gropes and splutters, swinging and kicking away, but fair play tae the cunt, he’s still pittin up a fight.

  Hurry up and die, ya fuckin polis bastard!

  Ootside ah sees the hose wheel’s bending, so ah tries tae push the windae frame’s edge even tighter against the rope tae jam it in, n tae relieve the pressure oan it. But then, as ah’m concentrating oan shuttin the windae, there’s a creaking and snapping noise fae behind ays. Ah turns tae a huge fuckin crash fae above and the whole fuckin ceiling caves in! The fuckin beam’s broken in two, and this cop cunt’s oan his hands n knees covered in dust and plaster, scrambling across the flair tae his desk, trying tae pill the noose oaffay his neck. Aw fours, jist like that fuckin hamster! There’s no wey I’m gaunny get there before him so ah grab the hose and pull it wi baith hands, tryin tae reel this cunt in like a fish, but thaire’s too much slack oan the fuckin rope. He’s goat tae his feet n eh’s reaching across the desk, fastening one hand oantae the edge ay it, n the other’s gaun tae the drawer where I put the gun back … Ah’ve goat tension oan the hose now n ah’m tryin tae pull him back … but ya cunt, eh’s goat the fuckin drawer open …

  Ah lits go ay the hose, so the cunt faws forward acroass the desk, but his hand’s in the drawer! Ah’m no gaunny git there quick enough, n thaire’s nae time tae open the windae so ah dives right through the fucker, shatterin the gless, landin oantae the gress, and I’m oan my feet and fuckin offski, cursing this gammy leg Renton gied ays, as I bombs ower the fuckin yard.

  Ah hears a rasping cry and a shot ring oot and ricochet, hitting against the fuckin garage or one ay the other outbuildings. Ah gits roond the corner and thaire’s a second shot; thankfully the fucker sound
s further away, no that ah’m stallin tae find oot. This place is isolated up here in the woodland hills, which means it’s good for what ah planned tae dae, but nae use when it aw goes fuckin tits-up and you’re the cunt hunted by a bam wi a fuckin shooter!

  The motor’s parked on a dirt track windin up the bank, by an overhanging bush. It seems like there’s nae pursuit, but ah jump in and get the fuck away, no easin oaf the gas till ah git doon the slip road n oantae the freeway. At first ah worry that this fucker is gaunny grass me right up, but if he does, Mel’s tape comes oot, and anywey, it’s that cunt’s word against mine.

  Ah’m cruisin along the freeway, breathin nice and easy, but cursin my bad luck. Fuckin woodworm! Ye think yuv planned for everything, stakin the place oot since fuckin Christmas! Now aw ah’ve done is made a dangerous enemy even mair motivated tae take ays doon.

  But lookin oan the bright side, ah’ve just gied masel even mair encouragement tae fuck that cunt right up. It’s him or me now. N it’s no fuckin well gaunny be me, tell ye that for nowt.

  Ah haul in ma breath. Nice n slow. Breathe …

  That’s the fuckin game. Suddenly ah feel masel shakin wi laughter. Thinkin aboot that cunt’s pus when eh wis gittin throttled by that noose: it wis a fuckin treat! Goat tae enjoy what ye dae: ye dinnae enjoy it, dinnae fuckin dae it.

  In the rear-view mirror, the sun’s in the background, fawin ower that range ay hills. It’s no been such bad day, at least weatherwise. Ye cannae really feel shite for long in this climate.

  14

  SICK BOY – ALL THAI’D UP

  I emerge from the building site at Tottenham Court Road, and a skyward glance shows darkening clouds bunching together. There’s a sharp chill in the air, as I dig oot my phones from the inside pocket of my Hugo Boss leather jacket. All messages to be disregarded, except the one from Ben:

  Just got here, will get them in.

  I’ve been steadfastly avoiding Edinburgh, but it hasn’t been avoiding me! I’m ruing that festive day I put the MDMA powder in that self-indulgent, weakling sex case’s drink. I couldn’t have envisaged that my playful alchemy would have meant fucking months of fielding correspondence from a heartbroken Carlotta and the weaselly brothel-keeper Syme.

  There is fuck all I can do to bring their boy back from Thailand. Pompous Presbo shit with his fucking round-the-world plane ticket and his career break. It’s something I have to do, said the prick in his last ludicrous email, before going completely offline. Leaving his missus and son distraught, punishing them for his nefarious misdeeds! What a cunt! I fight through the blocked-off roads into Soho. The IRA or ISIS never created anything like as much chaos and demoralisation in London as the neoliberal planet-rapists with their corporate vanity construction projects. Sure enough, a steady rain is beginning to fall in cold splatters.

  My son has asked me to meet him for a drink in a public house of zero repute, a bland haunt of office workers and tourists. It dawns on me that I’ve spent practically no time with him recently. I’m feeling guilty, as I enter a busy bar. He’s already gotten a seat in a corner, where two pints of Stella fizz on a wooden table. We are close to an imitation fire with a low grate. A pleasing smell of polish fills the air.

  We exchange greetings and Ben, who looks troubled, suddenly fixes me in a gaze. — Dad, there’s something I need to say to you …

  — I know, I know, I’ve been a self-absorbed wanker. I’ve just had so many things on, this mess back in Scotters, with your uncle freaking out and your aunt being in pieces, it means I’ve had to –

  — This isn’t about you! Or them! he snaps, like he’s at the end of his tether. His neck is red and his eyes glisten.

  This startles me. Ben has always been a cool, taciturn lad, more placid Englishman, or even stoical Scot, than tempestuous Italian.

  — I told you I was seeing somebody.

  — Aye, this wee bird you’re knocking off, you sly –

  — It’s not a bird … he pauses, — it’s a bloke. I’m gay. I have a boyfriend, and he spits the word out, indicating how he resolves a certain issue I now presume he has to contend regularly with. He’s looking at me with a belligerent counter-aggressive set to his chin, as if he expects me tae freak out and gie him the shit he probably got from those cunts in Surrey.

  But all I feel is a warm, relieved glow. While I never saw this coming I’m absolutely delighted, as I’ve always secretly hoped for a gay son. I would have hated to have that hetero-shagger competitive thing that my dad had with me. — Excellent! I sing. — This is great! I’ve got a gay son! Good on you, bud! I punch his arm.

  He looks at me in shock, his brows rising. — You … you’re not upset?

  I jab a finger at him. — We’re talking gay, totally gay, not bi, right?

  — Yeah, I’m only into guys. Not girls at all.

  — Brilliant! This is the fucking best news ever! Cheers! I raise my glass in a toast.

  He looks flabbergasted, but clinks it with his own. — I thought you’d, well …

  I take a gulp of Stella back, smacking my lips together. — I would probably have been a bit jealous if you were bi, as you’d have more shagging options than me, I explain. — You see, I always wanted tae be bisexual. Could never get it on with men, though. But I do like a lassie to put on a strap-on and give it tae me up the –

  Ben starts flapping and cuts me off. — Dad, Dad, I’m delighted you’re taking this well, but I don’t want to hear all this stuff!

  — Fair enough. But it’s no skin off my nose; we’re Hull v Wasps, different codes, union v. league. You’re not likely to bring in some hot wee torpedo-titted vixen, to make me jealous, like I did with my father. What about the Surrey people?

  — Mum is pretty upset, while Gran is just inconsolable. She can barely bring herself to look at me, he says, genuinely saddened.

  I shake my head slowly in disgust, as old bile, dredged up, ferments in my gut. Fuckin old boiler. Wisnae shy aboot taking a Jocko-Eyetie portion, back on that Tuscan holiday, yet would deny her first grandchild the same pleasure. — Fuck those bigots: it’s the twenty-first century. I don’t care who you shag, as long as you shag with a vengeance!

  His face lights up at that one. — Oh we do. In every conceivable way. I’m moving into his flat in Tufnell Park, and already the neighbours have been complaining about the noise!

  — That’s my boy, and I punch his arm affectionately again. — Right, you fucking raving arse bandit, up to that bar and make mine a double Macallan’s!

  He complies and we both end up in a bit of a state. My son is gay! What a fucking blessing!

  As I’m on my way home in a cab, I look at my phone and there’s a text from Victor Syme:

  Get your arse up here. I’ve found your boy.

  What the fuck? Either Syme wants me urgently, or Euan really has returned to Edinburgh. A year of absence my hairy hole, he’s only been away a few months! I type a response:

  Euan McCorkindale is in Edinburgh?!

  Aye. Get your arse up here.

  Jumping on a shuttle first thing in the morning. See you.

  A reply from that maggot would have been too gracious.

  15

  SHAGGING HOORS WILL NOT BRING YOU PEACE

  He realises that he hasn’t dodged the lines between the paving stones since he was a child. Now he’s avoiding them in an even stride, enjoying the rhythm of his feet on the cold slab. The brogues: always a good stout shoe for this sort of weather. Trainers – those incubators of foot disease – not so much. He’s lost count of the number of times he’s told Ross not to constantly wear them. The strange dislocation he feels, that sense of being completely in touch with the other, one of the multitude of alternative characters we repress in order to complete our chosen daily life; it makes him sick and giddy with fear and exhilaration. To walk this familiar city as a man without a home is just like walking new streets in a new world.

  On his return to Edinburgh, he got a new phone and email address. He wan
ted to call Carlotta, but couldn’t face the further humiliation of having only been able to stick less than four months in Thailand, after his declaration that he would be away for a year. At first he felt fabulous out there. He was free. The break, the new place, and Naiyana, the girl he’d taken up with. But the novelty quickly wore off, supplanted by an emotional downer. He missed Carlotta and Ross, craved the order of his old life. Now he is home.

  Euan McCorkindale doesn’t know at this stage whether or not he will return to his podiatrist duties at the Royal Infirmary following his career break. Everything is still up for grabs. After checking into the cheapish-but-clean budget chain hotel on the Grassmarket, his next move was to reset the Tinder app on his new phone.

  And then he’s off onto the streets and into a cafe, sitting opposite Holly, thirty-four, recently divorced, two kids. She says she doesn’t want anything ‘too serious’ at this point in time. Euan finds he’s augmenting himself in such encounters, not necessarily lying – women generally find his career as a podiatrist quirkily interesting enough – but adding to himself, pushing his parameters further. He once took Spanish classes with Carlotta in preparation for a holiday. After the event, he was keen to continue, but she didn’t see the point. That tuition will be resumed and from now on he will be self-describing as a Spanish speaker. And although he’s only played a few times with a colleague from work, he is designating himself a squash player. Life is about perceptions, of the self as well as others. You can either sell yourself short or claim something, own it, and grow into it.

  Holly is a strong prospect, but Euan leaves her an hour and twenty minutes later, with nothing more than a peck on the cheek. Never give it up right away, if they’re worth fucking more than once, keep them waiting for it. Then slam the very fucking soul out of them, leave them wanting more. To his complete dismay, Simon Williamson’s oddly restrained words resonate in his ear. This psychotic pig is still guiding me! Marianne was right!