Dead Men's Trousers

by Irvine Welsh

  I want every cunt in the world tae be right in on this. Then Carl hands me a wrap of cocaine. — I’m not wanting fucking ching, Carl. No after this.

  — It isnae ching, it’s K. I have tae play later and I don’t want tae start hitting this, so you take it.

  — Fuck sake, you no got any willpower?

  — Nup, he says.

  I pocket the wrap.

  25

  SICK BOY – BRINGING IT ALL BACK HOME

  I don’t want this staggering trip to end. It has changed life as we know it. — It’s time to put everything you think you were sure about in this whole wide world to one side, sis, I tell Carlotta, as the Hibernian team bus approaches so slowly, inching through the hysterical, dancing and shell-shocked but appreciative crowds that bellow out ‘Super John McGinn’ and ‘Stokesy’s On Fire’. — You need to be with him, I implore, looking over at Euan, who stands a few feet away on the corner of the side street, by the cherry-popped Ross and his spazzy wee mate whom he is doubtlessly now lording it over.

  The favour I’ve done that whingy little cunt cannot be overstated. Early on in life, I sussed out that this gig was all about impressing women. The hard man, the joker, the intellectual, the culture vulture, the moneymaker; all of them trying so hard, but ultimately just aspiring to be the shagger. So much easier tae simply be that guy from the off, and cut out all the other wearisome pish. I passed that knowledge on to a gormless little spunker, gratis. Now Ross and his dippit comrade are standing there with their fresh glory-hunter Hibs scarves on, chin spots rashing, eyes scanning the lassies in the crowd.

  But poor Crackpot Carlotta, la mia sorellina, has tears in her eyes. — He did me wrong, she sobs, sounding straight outta Nashville, but she’s now at last permitting the wound, rather than talking from inside a fuddled suit of antidepressant armour.

  — I spiked him with MDMA powder, sis, and I tuck some of her inky hair behind her ear, letting soul seep into my eyes. — All Euan talked about was you, and then he was cynically seduced by that maniac, who was just trying to get back at me. I place my hands on her shoulders.

  — Cheer up, hen, shouts a nearby half-pished unhelpful fat cunt in a Hibs strip that clings to him like a body stocking in a chubster’s sex club, — we won the thing!

  I half acknowledge the blob with a weary smile. I hate to see an overweight Hibs fan: fuck off to Tynecastle if you’ve no self-control or self-respect. — You mind of Marianne? I urge her to recall. — She came to the door with her old man, back in the day, up the duff, throwing accusations around. Of course, she got rid ay it.

  Carlotta looks at me in scorn, but isn’t pushing me away. — I think so. Another one you treated like shite.

  I’m not loosening my grip, just letting it dissolve into an easy kneading of her tense shoulders. — Heyyy … I wasn’t blameless, far from it, but it cut both ways. So anyway, let her take it out on me, I implore, — not a reliable pillar of the Edinburgh medical community. I drop my hands, ending my massage, lifting up her fallen head. — That’s her level of spite though. She knows family is the only thing I care about.

  Carra hauls in a deep breath, glances over to where Euan stands, then faces me with her wild eyes. — But he was fucking her up the arse on a video recording, Simon, she shouts, as a few Hibby heads turn round. Somebody shouts something about Stokesy and Tavernier, which I have to stifle a giggle at. I crack an appreciative smile at the nearby group, but they are quickly distracted as the chants intensify with the bus edging nearer. With the crowds trying to get closer, a crush is developing, so I steer Carlotta back down the side street, more proximate to where Euan stands. — It’s just genital interaction and drugs. There’s no love on display. All I saw there was – I’m about to say ‘the tentative technique of the amateur’ but manage, — somebody having a glorified wank. Go to him, Carra, I beg, nodding to Euan. — He’s hurting as much as you. He’s had his life wrecked too. Heal. Heal together!

  Carlotta purses her lips, her eyes stockpiling tears. Then she turns and heads over to him, and as David Gray holds up the cup to ecstatic acclaim, before passing it to Hendo, she takes her beleaguered hubby’s hand. He contemplates her, also displaying impressive waterworks, as I signal to Pitch and Toss and his daft sidekick to stand over by me. Ross looks at his sobbing parents in awe. — It’s a funny old life, buddy, I ruffle his hair.

  This wee cunt shouldnae be riding hoors! He’s barely mature enough to have stopped climbing trees! Maybe Renton was right, and I made a mistake inducting him into the world of minge, projecting my own teen vices onto an obvious novice. I was differently made: at his age I had testicles as vicious and hairy as the heads of two ferrets.

  This Sunday Cup parade is the best! The crowd is an endearing mix of families and the many casualties who have carried on through the night, and for whom probably the only respite from alcohol in the last thirty-six hours was that beautiful ninety-four minutes of football!

  There are loads of old faces around. The Exercise Bike (every cunt has pumped it and it doesnae move) approaches me. Her face is set in the tentative slouchiness of Leith Academy days. A cigarette dangles from her 22 bus and the bag slung over her shoulder has a frayed strap, which, in combo with her vacant eyes, suggests that they might be strangers by the end of the day. Not that one can conceive of this day ever ending. — Funny tae see ye back up here in Leith, Sihmin, she says. I can’t for the life of me recall the Exercise Bike’s first name, but do recollect that I was the only one in that goods yard train of scurrilous villains who treated her with r-e-s-p-e-c-t.

  — Hi, gorgeous, I say, in lieu of her moniker, pecking her on the cheek.

  — Crazy here, ay? she declares, in a high, shrill sound. I swear the aroma of rancid spunk from every diseased cock she’s ever sucked wafts into me like a cosmic force, setting up home in some decrepit credenza of my psyche. But even though I’ve absolutely zero intention of slipping her a length, I’m excited to see her – this Cup win heightens every experience – and text Renton:

  How is Ibiza? Exercise Bike on the prowl in the Walk! Blast from the past! Not with yours, matey!!

  I’m looking at her company, seeing if any of them register on the fanny Rolodex, but that familiar toxic need is dripping out of her like radiation from stricken Chernobyl victims, and I have to get the fuck away. As she becomes distracted by the trivial intervention of a cohort, I take the opportunity to slip my marker and get talking to a lassie with a pretty, oval-shaped face who seems on the fringe of the group. Despite being obviously up the duff, she’s quite steaming drunk, wearing a ludicrously tight, sexy minidress. Showing like that, this woman is a nutty raver. — Your dress is perfect. It leaves little to the imagination, yet demands a great deal of attention. That’s a winning combo.

  — It’s a special day, she says, holding my gaze and dispensing a big, toothy smile.

  It sets off a twinge in the baws. — Did you go?

  — Naw, never had a ticket.

  — Too bad. Great day out.

  — I’ll bet, she smiles again, eviscerating my libido’s guard with her dazzling white teeth and keen, dark saucer eyes. — I watched it on telly.

  — You know, that’s what I’d love to dae now, just chill with a couple of tins of beer and watch it again on the box. I’m pretty much done with crowds, I state, looking around at the chaos, avoiding the hungry eyes of the Exercise Bike.

  She half glances to her lump. — Aye. Me as well.

  — I’d invite you back to mine, but I live in London. Been up for the game and visiting family.

  — Come tae mine if you like, ah’m just in Halmyres Street. She points down the Walk. — Ah’ve got some beer and the whole game is up on YouTube. Ah can play it through my telly.

  I nod to her lump. — Won’t your felly be a bit miffed?

  — Who says I’ve got a felly?

  — Didnae get there by itself, I grin.

  — Might as well have done, she says with a shrug. — One-night stand in
Magaluf.

  So we slip away from the Exercise Bike’s mob and slither through the crowd back tae hers. She’s not letting me ride her at first, though if Jimmy Dyson could emulate her suction power in his next model, the cunt would make a second fucking fortune. We watch Stokesy’s first goal, then fast-forward to that last ten minutes of euphoria. I’m patting her belly, but stop when I recall my words at my old man’s similar fascination with the lump of Amanda, my ex, when she was carrying Ben. I told the cunt tae at least have the decency to wait till the bairn was born before he started fucking noncing it.

  However, we’re snogging in celebration and eventually she relents, and we hit the bedroom. I’ve got her splayed forward on the bed and I’m rifling her from behind. Haven’t rode such a heavily pregnant bird since the ex-missus, and I have to confess that I’m enjoying the novelty. There’s something grotesquely beautiful about the form. We crash out afterwards and I’m glad of the kip, but I snap into consciousness that way you do when a whole swathe of peeve has left you in a oner, and you’re suddenly wide awake. She’s lying on her side, and I slip out the kip and leave a note, slightly concerned that I never got her name. I mean, she did tell me, but it’s been an emotional time.

  You’re wonderful x

  Defo worth another bang after she pops. Also, potential Edinburgh Colleagues personnel if she can dump the bairn with her mother.

  Unfortunately, she springs awake. Sits up in the bed. — Hiya … you going?

  — That was great, it was really lovely meeting you, I say, lowering my weight onto the bed, taking her hand in mine and stroking it gently as I look into her eyes.

  — Will I see you again?

  — No. You’ll never see me again, I tell her, sad and honest. — But it’s for the best.

  She starts to cry, then she apologises. — Sorry … it’s just that you were so nice … my life’s going tae total shit. I’ve had to stop working. I dunno what I’m going to do. She looks at her lump.

  I lift up her chin and kiss her softly on the lips. My hand rests on her swollen belly. I gaze into her wet eyes, letting my own mist up, through recounting childhood injustices visited upon me. — First World problems. You’re a beautiful woman and you’ll get through this bad patch and off this scary path that you’re on. Somebody will love you, cause you’re the sort of person who gives out love. You’ll soon forget me, or I’ll only be a nice but fuzzy memory.

  She shakes in my arms, and the tears are streaming down her face. — Aye … well, maybe, she bubbles.

  — Tears are the beautiful, sparkling jewellery of the feminine soul, I tell her. — Men should cry more, I never, ever cry, I lie. — But it’s good to cry together, and I feel my own tears come on cue; gritty and thick, along with ching snotters. I stand up, wiping them away. — This never happens to me … I have to go, I tell her.

  — But … this is … I thought we made some kind of …

  — Shh … it’s all good, I coo, slipping on my jacket, and stepping out the room, as she erupts in loud sobs.

  I leave the flat with a jaunty step, bouncing down the stairs, pleased with my work. A memorable entrance is fair enough, but the best thing to do is provide the emotional exit that breaks the other party in two with a crippling sense of loss. That’s what leaves them wanting more.

  Through the chaos I have to walk towards Meadowbank before I find a cab and get back to Carlotta and Euan’s. I hit the hay again about 6 a.m. Monday morning, but, unable to sleep, I watch the entire game twice. I do one on BBC, and one on Sky, with the latter by far the best. The British imperialist state broadcaster is full of wet-eyed Unionists, with no pretence of impartiality, bleating because their chosen outfit got severely rogered. I phone up two women in Edinburgh, one of them Jill, and three in London, to tell them that I’m madly in love with them and we need to talk about our feelings for each other. I scour Tinder’s constant stream of headshots while watching Stokesy’s brace and skipper Sir David Gray’s winner again and again. The best thing about it all is the Huns taking the strop and not coming out for their losers’ medals, nor doing any interviews. It means that the coverage is just solid Hibs, our sheer joy uninterrupted by the unwanted, though probably hilarious, intrusion of sourpusses. The pundits and commentators just don’t get it: every time I hear a bitter, snidey, sweetie-wife tone deploying the term ‘tarnished’ to reference the pitch invasion, I just feel the entire occasion being massively further enhanced. This is a victory for class, for Leith, for the Banana Flats, for the Italian-Scots. I say this because I regard Hibs as essentially an Italian rather than Irish outfit. Hibernia may mean Ireland, but it means it in Latin. So the club’s real origins pre-date both Scotland and Ireland.

  Renton calls and I pick up. — Unless you have decent drugs, end this conversation now, I tell him, as I’ve arranged to meet Jill for a ride. Spunk is already trickling back intae the baws from some factory in that little annexe of heaven deep within my life force. I also need to start phoning round for some more ching. Could handle a belt up the Vespa scooter.

  — I don’t want to end the conversation, Renton says. — Prepare to be astonished.

  — Hibs just won the Cup after one hundred and fourteen years. What the fuck is going to astonish me now?

  The answer comes a couple of days later when Renton is back in town. He has summoned myself, Begbie and Spud up to his spacious, well-designed hotel suite with its soft lights and luxury furnishings (and this is a cunt who says he isn’t rich). He has the paraphernalia spread out across a low-slung Arabian coffee table, and I cannae believe what the fuck he’s up tae. Does the cunt want us to hit a fucking crack pipe?

  — What does DMT stand fir? Spud asks, still looking like shit.

  — Danny Murphy’s a Twat, I tell him. — I should have pummelled that gash in your gut when you were under. Would have at least then have gotten a fuckin ride out of you, and I dry-hump his wound, perhaps a little robustly.

  — Get off, it’s sair. Spud pushes me away as I catch a stare from Begbie. It goes from me to Spud and back to me again. Not quite as psychotic as of old, but still with enough reprimand in it to calm me down. Ching. It can compromise one!

  — Frank, are you up for this? Renton asks.

  — I’ve telt ye, ah stoaped aw that shite, Franco says. — Ching n bevvy were the only drugs ah did, n ah’m done wi aw that now.

  — Honest, Frank, this isn’t a drug. It’s not a social thing. It’s an experiment, Renton stresses.

  — You’re an artist, Frank, I volunteer, trying to subtly get at the cunt, — see it as a new frontier to explore. I’ve heard it’s an incredibly visual experience.

  — The Leith heids, Renton smiles.

  All eyes are on Begbie. He cracks a low, reptilian grin. — Awright. But only for art’s sake.

  — Top man. Renton starts preparing the DMT, as tutored apparently by that fucking Jambo drug apparition Ewart. — This will blow your mind, but at the same time, you’ll be totally relaxed. My theory is that it takes us back tae a time before we were born, or after our death, and in the process exposes human mortality as just a sliver in between, and, I think –

  — Shut the fuck up, Renton, I tell him, — I’ve done every drug except this one. Listening to you is like working through the box set ay Breaking Bad, getting tae the final season, then having some cunt tell us what happens in the last episode.

  — Aye, Mark, lit’s huv this convo eftir the collies, catboy, Spud agrees.

  I’m first on that fucking bottle. It’s not that hard on a smoker’s lungs …

  ONE …

  TWO …

  THREE …

  FUCK THIS SHIT! AVANTI!!

  I’m sitting back and dissolving into somewhere else …

  I sense the drug is leaving me and it’s over. When I exit the trip, I’m still on the couch. Renton, Spud and Begbie are all in the 4-D vision Mark was havering on about; it’s sharper with dramatically greater depth perception. In fact, they seem like translucent
computer windows, stacked in front of each other. Renton looks at me like a scientist does a chimp he’s just given a new drug to.

  I look over at Spud, whose eyes are blinking, trying to find focus.

  — Whoa, man … Spud gasps, — how mad was that!

  — That was pretty fucking phenomenal, I concede. Most times in your life you have to be cool, even blasé. Call it dignity. But there are others, where you just need to surrender to the power of the situation. These are very few. But, like the appearance of your first – wee Dawn no – child, and Hibs winning the Cup, this is certainly one of them.

  What the fuck just happened to me?

  — Too fucking right, Renton says, and we start to swap experiences, focusing on the similarities: the geometric shapes and colours, the little people, the positivity and lack of threat, the sense of being welcome and guided by a higher intelligence. Then we move on to the differences; me sliding face first through snow down the side of mountain, then rocketing upwards, and Spud elaborating about a very warm, womb-like chamber, conscious that he was heading down steps, that notion of descent being his overriding sense of things …

  … I can’t help smugly think that it’s typical of fannybaws Murphy to be consigned to a fucking dungeon, while Super Si explodes up mountainsides and surfs the blue skies. Begbie remains silent, starting into space. Renton, his sly rattishness enhanced by my special eyesight, says, — See, oan ma trip wi Carl, the walls fell away like boards, opening up intae a clear blue sky. I soared intae this flame, which blasted ays intae the stratosphere. He blows out air he’s compressed in his cheeks.

  We look at Begbie, who has opened his eyes, and is rubbing at them. He obviously has the layered vision, like I still do, though it’s less pronounced and settling down now. — What did you get out of it, Franco? I ask him.