Dead Men's Trousers

by Irvine Welsh

  Then Frank Begbie can’t believe his eyes as he spies Mark Renton sitting at the front. He moves down and slips into a seat beside him. — What are you daein here? I thought you had nae interest in art.

  Renton turns to face him. — I thought I’d put in a cheeky wee bid for the Leith Heids.

  Frank Begbie says nothing. He rises and returns to Martin, who is talking to Kenneth Paxton, the head of the London gallery he has got Jim Francis attached to. Franco barges in without any concern for protocol. — Who’s the main man here?

  Martin Crosby flashes the gallery head a look of apology that says artists … but defers to Paxton. — That guy, Paul Stroud, the gallery owner calmly announces, pointing at a bald-headed, abundantly bearded fat man sweating in a linen suit, fanning himself with a hat. — I mean, he’s not the collector, but he’s the representative and buyer for Sebastian Villiers, who is big news.

  — Seb’s a major collector of Jim’s work, Martin says to Paxton, and the artist, as if to remind him. — If he wants Leith Heads, then they’re his.

  Frank Begbie’s surprise is compounded when he sees Mikey Forrester standing nearby. His eyes go from Renton to Mikey, both looking decidedly uncomfortable, Mikey obviously aware of Renton’s presence, but not the other way round. What the fuck is gaun oan here?

  The auctioneer, a thin man with glasses and a tapered beard, points to four heads mounted on a display sideboard. — Our first item for auction today is Leith Heads, by acclaimed Edinburgh artist, Jim Francis.

  In the front row, Mark Renton stifles a guffaw that originates from somewhere in his bowels. He glances at the group of wideos, some of whom send vague bells of recognition ringing, and finds he isn’t alone in his mirth. Renton looks at the Sick Boy head. It captures him a little, but the eyes are too serene. He arches round to see if his old friend has shown up, despite his assurances he wouldn’t, doubting Sick Boy could resist succumbing to the vanity of his own image on display.

  — One is a self-portrait, the auctioneer continues, — the other three representations of his boyhood friends. All are cast in bronze. They come as one lot, rather than separate items, and I’m instructed to start the bidding at twenty thousand pounds.

  A paddle is raised in the air. It belongs to Paul Stroud, the agent of the collector Sebastian Villiers.

  — Twenty thousand. Do I hear twenty-five?

  Mark Renton slowly and tentatively lifts up his paddle, as if this action might draw a sniper’s bullet. The auctioneer points at him. — Twenty-five. Do I hear thirty?

  Renton puts up his paddle again, occasioning some strange looks and a few laughs.

  The auctioneer pulls his spectacles down over his nose and looks at Renton. — Sir, you cannot bid against yourself.

  — Sorry … I’m a novice at this game. Got a wee bit excited.

  This sets up a series of guffaws from the punters, which die out as Paul Stroud raises his paddle.

  — I hear thirty thousand.

  — Thirty-five. Renton raises his hand.

  — A HUNDRED THOUSAND! comes a shout from the back of the room. It is Mikey Forrester.

  — Now we are getting serious, the auctioneer declares, as Frank Begbie remains composed, and Martin Crosby shimmies to the edge of his seat.

  You have got tae be fuckin jokin, Renton thinks. Then he sucks in some air. Fuck him. He won’t beat me this time. — ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY THOUSAND!

  — What the fuck is going on here? Frank Begbie asks Martin Crosby.

  — Who cares!

  Stroud pitches in, paddle flapping. — One hundred and sixty thousand!

  Renton is back. — One hundred and sixty-five thousand!

  Forrester shouts, — One hundred and seventy thousand! Then he dies a death as Renton hesitates, blinking like a small mammal in car headlights …

  — One hundred and seventy-five thousand, Renton croaks.

  — I’m hearing one hundred and seventy-five thousand, says the auctioneer, looking at the sweating Stroud, heading to the exit, frantically trying to get a signal on his phone. — One hundred and seventy-five thousand … going … going … sold! To the gentleman down the front, and he points at Mark Renton.

  Euphoria and despondency battle in Renton. It is around five times what he wants to pay, but he has won! The Leith Heads are his. But now he is beyond broke. Had he not been on such an uncompromising mission, and known how much pain he saved a long-standing rival by his final bid, Renton might have shut up. As it is, Mikey Forrester breathes a massive sign of relief. He goes up to Renton. — Well done, Mark, the best man won, mate!

  — Mikey, what the fuck, who are ye bidding for?

  — Sorry, bud, got tae nash, Mikey smiles, making way for the advancing Frank Begbie, and dialling Sick Boy as he sharply exits.

  Renton goes to follow but is intercepted by other attendees, offering him congratulations. He looks at the heads, and for a second, he thinks the Sick Boy one is smiling. Renton maintains his push to the exit, but is stopped by Franco, who shakes his hand. — Congratulations.

  — Thanks … What the fuck was Forry daein bidding?

  — I’m as scoobied as you are.

  — Whae was the other bidder?

  — His name’s Stroud. He works for this boy Villiers, a big collector. Must have breached his agreed limit, and he was trying to call the boy to get him to up it. But you were victorious.

  — Aye, well, who was Forrester working on behalf of?

  — Somebody who loves me and wishes me a fortune. No many ay them in Edinburgh! Franco laughs, looking at Renton, then considering. — Or …

  — … some cunt that hates me and wants tae see ays broke. That’s a slightly longer list … Renton lets out a long, tight breath, glancing again to the four heads, and fixating on one in particular. — Sick Boy was the only cunt that kent how badly I wanted to buy the heads. It was the only wey I could pay you back.

  Frank Begbie shrugs. — Well, you got what ye wanted. The Leith Heids. Delighted for you, he says, lips pushing together tightly. — Now if there’s nothing else …

  — Maybe a thank-you?

  To Renton’s shock, the animation drains out of Begbie’s face, as a dark thought seems to crystallise behind his eyes. — I’ve changed my mind. I want my fuckin money back. That fifteen grand.

  — But … I … Renton stammers in disbelief, — I’m broke! I’ve peyed massively ower the odds for they heids! That was my wey ay peying ye back!

  — You bought some pieces of art, Franco’s voice, so slow and deliberate, — your choice. Now I want my money back. The money for that drug deal, back in the day.

  — I’ve no fuckin got it! No now! No after breaking the bank tae buy … He looks at the heads and stops himself from saying that load ay fuckin shite. — No after buying the heids!

  — Well, that’s too fuckin bad, for you but, ay?

  Renton can’t believe what he is hearing. — But we’re mates again, Franco, out in LA … the Cup final … we had a bonding experience … the four ay us … the DMT … he hears himself havering, as he looks into insect eyes, containing nothing but cold treachery.

  — Still a fuckin druggie, ay, mate? the unmoved Franco Begbie half sneers in Renton’s bemused face. — It stipulated in the sale that the heads would be available tae the buyer after the exhibition next week. So let Martin know where ye want tae have them shipped tae, he nods over to his agent, — and he’ll arrange it. Right now we’ve got a wee table booked for lunch at the Café Royal. I’d invite ye tae join us, but let’s keep things on a business footing till ye pey me back the money ye owe ays. Till then, he smiles, turning to his advancing agent and high-fiving him.

  Renton is in a daze as he exits and heads down the Walk. He registers a red disabled mobility scooter coming towards him. A small dog sits in the basket on the front. It’s being driven by Spud Murphy.

  — What the fuck …

  — Nifty, ay, catboy? Pride Colt Deluxe. Up tae eight miles an ooir. Ah got a hire a
y it fae the social. Was headin up the toon tae the hotel tae see ye. He hands Renton a tan Hugo Boss bomber jacket. — You left that up the hoaspital when you brought ays in.

  — Thanks … Renton takes the garment, looks across at an Italian cafe. — A wee cup ay char, bud?

  28

  BEGBIE – A HISTORY OF ART

  The cunt stands in front ay the big, grey, marble fireplace. He raises an eyebrow, then his gless, and looks at me. Melanie, sitting next tae ays, wears a light brown backless dress, and a nice lavender-scented perfume. — A highly successful auction, Iain Wilkie, the well-known Glasgow painter, now ‘exiled’ in the New Town, as the cunt puts it, sais tae us. His wife, Natasha, curves trying tae burst oot ay a short black party dress, gies ays a wee smile. The ride pours some mair San Pellegrino intae ma gless. They’re Mel’s mates, here in the art world, n you’ve got tae make a wee effort. Ah’d rather be at the boxing club wi the boys … well, maybe no. It’s a big myth that ye move intae a new world when ye leave the auld yin. What ye usually move intae is fuckin limbo.

  What ah miss is being in the studio, daein ma stuff. Aw this exhibitions n auctions shite n dinner parties, they dae ma heid in. Ah jist want tae work oan ma paintins n sculpture, n hing oot wi Mel n the bairns. Gaun for walks doon the beach, wee picnics, aw that sort ay stuff. That wee Eve is a scream. Cracks ays up the things she comes oot with. Grace n aw, but she’s mair like her mother. When aw that good stuff, my work and my girls, when that gets taken away fae ays, then that’s when ah git tempted by the auld diversions. I feel the fuckin urge tae hurt some cunt.

  This Wilkie gadge is rabbitin shite aboot how he needs tae drink, has tae get fucked up tae express his creativity. It’s a veiled dig at me being the only sober cunt here: anybody can see that. Natasha fills up ma gless wi more sparkling mineral water. If it had been peeve in that gless her man would be up the Royal by now, gittin a fuckin tanned jaw reset.

  — I like life better without it, I smile at him, — it only takes me places I don’t want to go.

  Natasha grins again. I ken I could ride her nae bother. These people are like that. It’s the wey they are. That’s how she sees me; savage, untamed Frank Begbie, the real fucking deal, no like the poofy ‘bad boy’ of Scottish art, the title they gied tae that poseur. Or used tae. Before ah came along. Now he’s aw keen tae be best mates.

  — We’re running a little dry here, Wilkie goes, draining the last ay the wine.

  — I’ll nip out for a couple of bottles, I tell them. — I’ll get decent stuff, I’m quite au fait with vino now, Mel always sends me oot, ah wink at her.

  So ah slip oot doon tae the offie. It’s a posh fuckin shoap in a basement. Ah picks oot some Napa Valley Cabernet that seems dear enough, n it’s what Mel and her mates drink back in California. While ah’m inside, settling up, ah hears a bit ay a commotion gaun oan fae the street. Ah peys up n gits ootside swiftish, right up the steps, intae the dark road, tae see two young gadges, early twenties, shoutin at each other. One boy roars: — Ah’ll fuckin take ye any time! Think ah’m fuckin feart ay you?

  The other gadgie seems cooler, mair in control, n a bit less pished. — Moan then, doon thaire, n eh points tae the wee lane. They head off, and I’m thinking: Yes, ya fuckin beauty … two juicy flies gaun right intae the spider’s fuckin parlour …

  Ah follays them doon and sure enough, thir tradin blows n then the less pished gadge has got the loudmouth oan the deck. He’s oan him n batterin the fuck oot ay him, pounding um in the coupon. The loudmouth’s goat his hands raised n screamin, — FUCKIN LIT AYS UP, AH’LL KILL YE, YA CUNT!

  Ah pits the bag ay wine doon against the waw, n ah’m right up behind them. — Nae sense in him littin ye up, if yir gaunny kill um, ya daft cunt.

  The mair sober boy turns roond, looks up at ays n goes, — What’s it tae dae wi you? Fuck off or you’ll git some n aw!

  Ah gies him a grin, n ah sees the cunt’s expression change, as ah steps past him n boots his grounded mate right in the chops. The boy screams oot. The other boy jumps right off him, springing tae his feet n squarin up tae me. — What ye fuckin daein? This isnae your bus —

  Ah kick him in the baws a beauty and the cunt yelps oot. He’s bent ower n trying tae crawl oot ay the dark lane, back oantae the lit-up street. — Uh-uh-uh, you’re gaun naewhaire … n ah grabs him by the hair and drags him ower tae the decked cunt oan the cobblestanes. — Apologise tae yir mate.

  — But you … you kicked him in the face!

  Ah bangs the cunt’s heid oaf the waw, twice, n his heid bursts open on the second bang. — Apologise.

  The cunt looks fuckin spangled, n ah’m twistin his hair away tae keep the blood offay ma clathes. — Darren … ah’m sorry, mate … eh groans oot.

  The Darren boy’s tryin tae stand, pillin ehsel up the waw. — What’s the fuckin story …?

  — Take a fuckin shot at this cunt’s pus, ah tell him, ma grip still oan the other gadge’s hair.

  — Nup …

  Ah batters the other boy’s heid oaf the waw again. The cunt’s shitein it. He’s beggin the boy he was just batterin a minute ago. — Aw … dae it, Darren … just dae it!

  The Darren boy’s jist standin thaire. He takes a look back doon the alley. — Dinnae think aboot fuckin runnin, ah warn the radge. — Hit the cunt!

  — Dae it! Jist dae it n wi’ll git doon the road! the other boy begs.

  The Darren felly punches ehs mate. It’s no much ay a dig. Ah steps forward n hooks the Darren boy in the pus. It’s a beauty n eh topples doon oan his erse. — Git up! Git up n hit um right, ya fuckin mongol!

  Darren gits tae ehs feet. Eh’s greetin, n ehs jaw’s aw swollen. The other boy, ah kin feel um shakin like a fuckin leaf, ma grip’s still tight oan his hair.

  Ah looks at the Darren boy. — C’mon, ya cunt, wiv no goat aw fuckin night! The Darren boy looks at his mate aw sad and guilty. — Git oan wi it, ah’m fuckin well runnin oot ay patience here!

  Ah loosens ma grip as the Darren felly panels his mate, goodstyle, fuckin droaps the other boy wi a solid smack tae the chops. Ah jumps forward, rams the fuckin nut oan this Darren cunt, whae faws in a heap beside his mate. Ah’m bootin baith cunts. — Back each other up, ya fuckin poofs! Ah immediately think ah shouldnae have said that, cause it might be construed as homophobic. Nae time for aw that nonsense these days. Tons ay gay friends in California. Ye get back intae bad habits ower here though, right enough.

  Thir lying thaire, groaning, burst mooths, and ah sees the other boy look oot through a bloody, crusted eye tae the Darren yin.

  — Shake, ah goes. — Ah hate tae see mates faw oot. Shake each other’s hands.

  — Okay … please … sorry … the less drunk cunt goes. His hand reaches oot n grabs Darren’s. — Sorry, Darren … he goes.

  The Darren boy, baith his eyes slits in purple bulbs now, dinnae ken if that wis me or his mate; he’s moanin, — S’awright, Lewis, s’awright, mate … let’s just go hame …

  — DMT, boys, if yis huvnae tried it, gie it a go. This disnae matter, this is jist transitional, ah tell the cunts.

  When ah leave the alley, thir groanin away thegither, tryin tae help each other tae thair feet. Aw mates again! That’s ma fuckin good deed for the day!

  As ah make to leave the alley, ah pick up the bag wi the boatils ay wine, breathin nice and even. Thaire was rain earlier, n the bushes are wet, so ah rub the bloodied hand on them, removing as much ay it as ah kin. By the time ah’m oot the alley ah’m no Frank Begbie any more. I’m the celebrated artist Jim Francis, and I get back to the palatial New Town home of my friends Iain and Natasha, and my wife, Melanie.

  — There you are, we were wondering what was keeping you, Mel sais, as I come through the door.

  — You know, I just couldn’t make up my mind, I’m afraid, and I put the bottles on the kitchen worktop and look at Iain and Natasha. — That’s an amazing selection ay wines they’ve got, considering it’s a local shop.

  — Yes, the guy who
opened it, Murdo, he’s got another branch in Stockbridge. Him and his wife Liz, they go on wine-tasting holidays every year, and they only stock from a vineyard they’ve personally sampled, Iain goes.

  — Is that right?

  — Aye, and it makes a big difference, that attention to detail.

  — Well, I’ll take your word for it. I’m pretty boring these days, having shed all my vices.

  — Poor Jim, this Natasha hoor goes, aw pished. If I didnae love my wife and daughters, I’d probably bang it. But I dinnae hud wi that sort ay behaviour, no when you’re mairried. Some people, it means fuck all tae thaim. But it disnae mean fuck all tae me. Ah puts my airm roond Melanie, as if tae tell this Natasha yin tae git tae fuck.

  Then ah heads through for a pish, n gies ma hands a proper wash, in case anybody notices. Knuckles a bit scraped, but nowt else is a problem. Ah goes back through n curls up oan the couch, aw contented eftir ma wee fix. But the only thing that’ll pit this right is getting intae the fuckin studio and back tae work. Cause ye cannae go around battering the fuck oot ay cunts. It isnae very nice, and ye can git yersel intae bother.

  29

  WANKERS AT AN EXHIBITION

  Edinburgh’s art cognoscenti are uncharacteristically nervous and self-conscious, filing into the prestigious Citizen Galleries in the Old Town. Within a gutted Victorian exterior with decorative facade, this functionally modern, three-storey space, with its high ceilings, white walls and pine floors, central lift and steel fire-escape stairways, is more than comfortable. But it’s their fellow clientele, rather than the premises, which is the source of the artsy crowd’s discomfort. They are in the novel situation of rubbing shoulders with the shaven-headed, tattoo-covered, Stone Island-bedecked hordes they perhaps distastefully spy from their estate cars, swaggering their way to Easter Road and Tynecastle stadiums, or to Meadowbank or the Usher Hall for a big boxing event.

  These two Edinburghs rarely dally in the same zone too long for any serious cross-cultural pollination to occur, but here they are, moving through the gallery to the middle floor, united, to witness the exhibition of the work of one of Leith’s most infamous sons, Jim Francis, better known locally as Franco Begbie. Surprisingly, it’s the toffs, on their home turf, who make the early running for the complimentary drinks, the baseball caps standing back, perhaps a little unsure of the protocol. Then Dessie Kinghorn, a CCS veteran, ambles up to the bar, looks at the nervous server, and asks, — This free, mate?