Dead Men's Trousers

by Irvine Welsh

  — Does there need to be a dichotomy … a separation … Renton stammers, — a difference between the two, do they need to be apart?

  — Ah ken what a fuckin dichotomy is, Franco snaps. — I told ye, I got past the dyslexia in the jail, and huvnae stopped reading since. Did ye think ah wis bullshitting ye?

  Renton swallows his own patronising silence. — Naw … he manages.

  — Prove that was your motive then. Prove that I entered intae yir calculations. Franco cocks his head to the side. — Make it right. Pey me my money back!

  And Frank Begbie walks away, leaving Renton’s mind unspooling through time and across continents, as he stands in the chaos that Spud has created. The gallery owner looks on in a helpless loathing as Martin runs around with staff, removing the last of the pieces. Conrad is upset about the water in the DJing equipment, and is shouting loudly. Carl can’t get why, all that’s his are the headphones and the USB card. Firemen and plumbers arrive in almost indecent haste, as maintenance men go about their business and guests gasp, moan and chatter. Outside, a screeching drama queen of a fire alarm continues its beseeching appeal long after everything seems in hand. Renton is rooted to the spot, with one thought burning in his mind: Begbie knows I’m skint. He’s beaten me again. I can’t let that happen.

  And then there is Sick Boy, who has cost him everything, egressing with Marianne. Begbie would have been happy with twenty grand for those heads, but Sick Boy, through Forrester, had set him up to clean him out. That was not acceptable.

  30

  SICK BOY – MARITAL AID

  Begbie’s ridiculous exhibition was a must. I so craved seeing Renton’s upset pus, knowing that I had primed Mikey to fuck his finances by bidding up Franco’s useless work. Of course, the bronze head looks nothing like me. Yes, the defined cheekbones, solid chin and noble nose are present, but it fails to capture those swashbuckling pirate eyes. But Franco provided the bonus ball of the icing on the cake: the temperamental artiste decided that he wanted the drug money back after all! Salt in the Rent Boy wounds, and a deft touch I’d never have associated with Frank Begbie. Mikey informed me that Renton’s treacherous ginger pus was a treat! Pity I missed that.

  At the gallery Renton keeps his distance, fronting nonchalance, but not trusting himself around me. He slopes about the decks with Ewart and his fat Dutch kid. But all this is just a welcome prelude to the main reason for turning up, the presence of Marianne, who floats into the exhibition like a willowy ghost in a blue dress. Mazzer is in the company of a young guy and woman; two good-looking but shallow and disposable cunts to be found behind the velvet rope in any overpriced George Street hole. Whether the young boy is a lover or the girl’s beau, he is effortlessly elbowed aside when Juice Terry hones in on her.

  Time, therefore, suddenly becomes of the essence. I leave my unsavoury associates, and saunter over to them. — Terry … if you’ll excuse us a wee second. Marianne, we really need to talk.

  — Oh, do we? She shoots me that look of cold derision, the one that always gets me right behind the baws. — You can fuck off.

  — Aye, this can wait, ya cunt. Terry gies me the evil eye.

  But Marianne isn’t taking hers off me. She’s heard my deceitfully seductive lines so often before. How many times can I do this? How many times can I make her believe? I’m feeling that power of pathos mashing me up inside, as I envision both of us being stricken down by a terminal disease, each with just months to live. A farrago of Bobby Goldsboro’s ‘Honey’ and Terry Jacks’s ‘Seasons in the Sun’ plays in my head as my voice goes low and deeply resonant. — Please, I say in a deathly plea, — this really is important.

  — It had better be, she snaps, but I’m in the fucking game!

  — Too right it better, Terry says in rage, as I take a reluctant Marianne by the hand and we depart for the fire escape. Lawson! Cock-blocked by Williamson! The rampant Stenhouse forward was through in on goal and seemed certain to score, but the Italian central defender, the Leith Pirlo, came from nowhere with that well-timed tackle!

  On the fire-escape stairwell, she’s looking pointedly at me. — Well? What the fuck do you want?

  — I can’t stop thinking about you. When you threw that drink in my face at Christmas –

  — You fucking deserved it. And more! Treating me like shite!

  I suck in more air and let myself shiver with cocaine withdrawal. — You know why I do that, don’t you? Why I’m drawn to you and then push you away?

  She remains silent, but her eyes are popping like she’s been jacksie-rammed. Not by Euan’s paltry Presbyterian penis, but by a proper monster, the size of the Holy Papa’s staff. By an Italian stallion!

  — Because I’m crazy about you, I say soberly. — Always have been, always will be.

  — Well, you’ve got a funny way ay showin it!

  Sloppy defending – presents a scoring opportunity! I raise my hand to her face, pushing aside the static hair to stroke her cheek, as I stare deeply into her eyes with my own moistening ones. — Because I’m fucking scared, Marianne! Scared of commitment, scared of love, and I let my hand fall to her shoulder and start to kneed. — You know that 10cc song ‘I’m Not in Love’? Where the guy sings that song, because he’s desperately in love, but vigorously trying to deny it? That’s my song for you, and I watch her face involuntarily ignite. — I’m that guy! Scared ay the intensity of the feelings I have for you.

  — Oh fuck off, Simon –

  — Look, you don’t want to hear it and I don’t fucking well blame you. I know what you’re saying to yourself: how has he suddenly got the balls to man up, and act on his fucking feelings? I look at her. — Well, the answer is you. You’ve stayed the course. You’ve believed in me. You’ve shown me love over the years, when I was too scared to give you it back. Well, no any more. Now I’m done with running and hiding, and I fall to my knees at her feet and whip out the ring. — Marianne Carr … I know you’ve changed your name, I add, forgetting her current moniker, — but you’ll always be that to me, will you marry me?

  She looks down at me in total shock. — Is this for real?

  — Yes, I tell her, and I break into a sob. — I love you … I’m sorry for all the hurt I’ve caused you. I want to spend the rest of my life making it up to you. This is as real as real ever gets, I say, imagining her repeating that line to a mate in some George Street wine bar. He sais that this is as real as real ever gits. — Please say yes.

  Marianne gazes into me. Our souls melt together like pastels in a hot mouth – her hot mouth – and I’m thinking of the first time we fucked, when she was fifteen and I was seventeen (at that age classed as stoat rather than noncing), and all the decades I’ve seduced her – and been seduced by her – since then.

  — God … the fucking mug I am but I believe you … Yes! Yes! she sighs, as a torrent of water comes tumbling down the stairs, soaking my legs and her feet.

  — What the fuck? I stand up and there’s Renton. I glance down at the wetness on my trousers and then outstretch my arms. — Mark! Guess what! I just –

  His head flies into my face –

  31

  RENTON – THE PAY-OFF

  My forehead connects wi a sweet, satisfying crack oantae the bridge ay the cunt’s nose. He slams a hand on the railing, which rings like a gong doon the stairwell, but cannae prevent his fall. Watching the wanker tumble doonstairs, like one ay those auld toy slinkies, almost in instalments, is a beautiful sight. He comes tae rest in a crumpled heap oan the cold metal ay the fire-escape stair bend, soaked by the water cascading doon the steps. For a few seconds ay fear grips ays: I’m scared he’s been badly hurt in the fall. Marianne is doon tending tae him, hudin his heid up, as blood gushes fae his bent, cartoon-like nose, oantae his blue shirt n beige jacket. — Fuck sake, Mark, she screams up at ays, her eyes crazy wi rage.

  I take a step forward. I’m bordering on penitence, till I hear him protest, — A cowardly attack … so undignified …

  �
� That’s what a hundred and seventy-five grand feels like, ya cunt!

  Marianne, teeth barred, nose tip red, roars at ays, — How could you do that?! I’ve no fucking feelings for you, Mark! That was a one-off! And after what you gave me?!

  — I don’t … I –

  Sick Boy staggers tae his feet. His nose looks crooked and misshapen. I feel uneasy again, as if I’ve found and then ruined a hidden treasure; in its newly-mangled state, it’s easy tae discern that formerly noble proboscis as a major source ay his charisma. Now the mess spills thick droplets ay claret down his garments and oantae the dimpled metal floor. His glassy eyes brim with focused rage, switching from me tae Marianne. — WHAT THE FUCK IS AW THIS ABOOT?

  A bunch ay art worshippers tiptoe past us, tense and sheepish.

  Does Marianne mean that I gave her … Vicky … fuck sake, I’ve probably gied Sick Boy a Bonnyrigg! It’s time tae make masel scarce. — I’ll leave you lovebirds tae work it all oot, I tell them, heading back intae the chaos. The door flies open, almost smacking ays in the face, as another school ay punters pass me, their feet splashing in the water.

  Back in the exhibition space, everybody appears concerned but Begbie, who seems no tae gie a fuck about the possibility ay his artwork being damaged. Water still cascades doon the walls, but he’s standing back wi that satisfied smile he used to deploy eftir he’d just caused carnage in a pub or on the street. He’s gone fae being the uptight cunt who goes radge at nothing, tae the fucker who doesnae gie a toss aboot anything. I look for Conrad, only to have it confirmed that the obese young Dutch master did indeed vanish into the limo with the scud model, and down the M8 to his gig. Then I’m oot ay there, heading acroass tae the other exit, in order tae avoid Sick Boy and Marianne. I get oot through the departing crowds, into the still night, and walk back tae the hotel. I pass Spud, parked on the pavement, slumped over the handles and basket of his mobility scooter. He’s in a deep sleep. If I woke him now, I would put him in greater jeopardy as he’d try and drive the thing hame. Best to leave him, and I weave up and down the city’s medieval steepness tae my hotel room.

  After a profound, satisfying slumber, I rise the next morning tae see Conrad sitting wi the green-eyed honey at the hotel breakfast. Anybody who thinks that wealth and fame are not aphrodisiacs should look at this wee beauty wi that blobby mess. I gie them a nod and smile, and sit alone, a couple ay tables apart from them. I loathe hotel buffet breakfasts, and order some porridge and berries off the menu. I get on the phone tae ma bank in Holland, checking on ma finances in increasingly exasperated Dutch and English, getting transferred between various specialist staff. I’m watching Conrad, as he leaves his girl three times during my convo to refuel; scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, black pudding, tattie scones (my fault, I oversold them tae him), beans, tomato, toast and bakery goods – pain au chocolat, croissant – and, almost perversely, a portion ay fresh fruit and yogurt. Then, as the model lassie slavers on aboot addiction, he’s horsed the lot and I’m still oan the line, trying tae work oot how they can pey me ma cash. Well, not just mine any more. I’m three grand short and have tae arrange an overdraft, but they gie ays the clearance on the money I’m owing Franco.

  Now I need tae head ower tae the Scottish bank, where the wire transfer has been placed, quickly telling Conrad I have an emergency and will meet him back here in an hour tae get the Amsterdam flight. The bank is a trek down tae the New Town, and there’s nae cabs till the Mound, when I’m practically already there. They issue the poppy, the fifteen grand four hundred and twenty that Franco changed his mind aboot. This on top ay the other money I shelled oot for those fucking heids, soon tae be en route tae Amsterdam. It’s this smaller amount that’s cleaned ays oot. And for this yin, Franco refused tae gie bank details, demanding a cash payment. So I’m totally skint, and ma only assets are the Amsterdam and Santa Monica pads, one ay which I’ll probably now have tae sell. But Frank Begbie, or Jim Francis, or whatever the cunt calls himself, has issued the fucking challenge, and I’m rising tae it.

  At my request I meet him at a cafe on George IV Bridge. He’s already there when I arrive, wearing shades and a blue Harrington, nursing a half-finished black coffee. I sit down wi my tea and slide the envelope across the table tae him. — It’s all there: fifteen grand, four hundred and twenty quid.

  For a second ah think he might just laugh it off, n tell ays he wis takin the pish. But naw. — Nice one, he sais, pocketing the cash and rising. — I think this concludes our business, he goes, like a twat in a bad soap opera, and the cunt just walks oot the door withoot looking back.

  Whatever’s in my chest cavity crystallises intae rock and sinks doon intae my gut. I feel mair than just betrayed. I realise that this was how Franco felt all these years ago, and he wanted me tae experience it: that total and complete sense ay rejection. Spurned. Disposable. Worthless. I really thought we were mair than that. But he did too, back then, in his ain fucked-up wey. So the cunt has beaten me, and he’s emerged victorious by confronting me with the shallow twat that I once was, or maybe still am. I don’t even know any mair. Ah ken fuck all.

  Except the realisation that there’s nae wey I could ever have won. As well as my fear, it was my guilt: it bugged the fuck oot ay me ower the years. Franco’s willnae even exist tae gie him any sleepless nights. That cunt doesn’t care about other people. He’s still a psycho, just of a different type. No physically violent, but emotionally cold. That’s poor Melanie’s cross tae bear. At least I’m done with him. I’ve totally fucked masel in the process, but I’m finished with the cunt for good.

  I sit back, aw hollowed oot but finally free, and check the emails on my phone. There’s one from Victoria’s friend, Willow …

  willowtradcliffe@gmail.com

  Mark@citadelproductions.nl

  Subject: Vicky

  Hi Mark,

  It’s Willow here, Vicky’s friend. If you recall, we met on a couple of occasions in LA. Just to say that Vicky is going through a bad time at the moment. I don’t know if you heard, but her sister died last week in a road accident in Dubai. Vicky is back in England now, and the funeral is the day after tomorrow in Salisbury. I know you guys had some sort of falling-out – what over, I don’t know – but she really does miss you and I know she’d appreciate you getting in touch at this very difficult time for her.

  I hope you don’t think it too presumptuous or inappropriate of me contacting you like this.

  Hope you are well. Matt says hi, he’s taken your advice and signed up for the screenwriting program.

  Best wishes,

  Willow

  Jesus fuck almighty …

  I call Conrad, citing a personal emergency. He’s surly about it, but that’s just too fucking bad, he’ll have tae travel alone back tae Amsterdam. I book a flight tae Bristol and a rail ticket tae Salisbury.

  32

  TAKING THE SHOT

  It’s job done and the enriched and satisfied Jim Francis allows himself to relax, enjoying his debut first-class flight. They certainly spoil you. It will be hard now to go back to economy. But he refuses the complimentary drinks proffered by the smiling air hostess. He thinks about how free bevvy could turn any occasion into a potential bloodbath. The bloated, tomato-faced businessman sitting in front of him, obnoxious and entitled, so demanding of the stewardess. A face that would burst open under just one punch. And those capped, whitened teeth, so easily loosened by a well-executed hook to the jaw. Maybe a chiv, like a conductor’s baton, rammed into that liver-spotted neck, drinking the shock in his bulging eyes as that rich blood jetted across the cabin from his carotid artery. The screams and shrieks of raw panic, that orchestra Jim Francis, no, Francis Begbie, would extol to such efforts by his deeds.

  Sometimes he misses a peeve.

  It’s still a long flight, though. Protracted and exhausting as always. A first-class seat makes it more bearable, but it doesn’t change what it is. He feels its reductive power. Drying him out. The jail was healthier. How do peopl
e live like this? Renton: never off fucking planes.

  Melanie, sitting next to him, is uncharacteristically edgy. This concerns Jim Francis, as he both admires and draws strength from his wife’s natural calm and serenity. While he watches his movie, he feels her eyes going from her Kindle to his profile. — What are you thinking about, Jim?

  — The kids, Jim turns to her. — Looking forward to seeing them. I don’t like being away from them, even for a few days. I feel that I want to drink in every second of them growing up.

  — I’m scared shitless about bringing the girls back home from Mom’s, knowing that he’s still stalking us.

  — He’ll have calmed down, Jim says evenly, as a vision of the purple-faced Harry, swinging from the hose-noose, tongue protruding obscenely, flashes through his brain. — Besides, we still have the tape. He’ll behave himself, see the error of his ways, get some treatment. I thought he said he was doing AA.

  — I’m not so sure.

  — Hey! You’re the liberal, meant to see the best in people, he laughs. — Don’t let one pathetic, weak radge undermine your belief system!

  But Melanie isn’t in the mood to be teased. — No, Jim, he’s obsessed! He’s mentally ill. Her eyes widen. — We could move down to LA. New York even. Miami. There’s a great art scene there …

  — Naw, he’s no gaunny make us run, Jim Francis says coldly, in a voice that concerns them both, as it’s one from a past that they both know so well. He quickly switches to bland transatlantic, contending, — We’ve done nothing wrong, I’ve done nothing wrong. Santa Barbara is your home. It’s my home.

  It certainly has been an eventful trip back to Scotland. Renton, trying to be fucking wide by purchasing the Leith Heads. Well, he got them alright, at a price! Be careful of what you wish for, Rent Boy! Jim permits his triumphant relaxation to meld into drowsiness through his in-flight entertainment choice, Chuck Ponce’s Gulf War movie, They Did Their Duty, the one Spud recommended.