Dead Men's Trousers

by Irvine Welsh

  — JIM, NO! Mel screams.

  — Sorry, doll. Ah move away, nodding tae her and then Renton. — Fuckin polis it is then, ay, n ah pits ma hands on her trembling shoodirs. — I know it’s primitive, but there’s no way he’s touching you without me getting a lick in. Wis never gaunny happen.

  — Enough now, she commands.

  — Of course.

  Renton is connected tae 911 right away. — Hello, I’d like to report a break-in, kidnapping, assault and possibly attempted murder.

  Then Mel’s calling the lawyer, the boy who has a copy ay the tape and whae’s been pit in the picture. Wi Hammy bein filth it’s the smart move. We sit there, Hammy shackled wi his ain cuffs, lying on the floor, face bleeding over the concrete. The visible side is misshapen and reddish black, both his eyes slits in swollen red bulbs. Aye, Renton fuckin well pummelled the cunt pretty good. Wisnae fuckin aboot wi they elbays. Could have done wi that style fae the shitein cunt up the toon in our youth, instead ay daftie here huvin tae sort everything oot. Still, fair play, better late than never. I envy the cunt every single fuckin lick he goat in. If it was doon tae me, ah’d set aboot the cunt wi the tools, n pit in a steady shift till thaire wis nowt left.

  The lawyer gets here aboot a minute before the polis and the first thing he does is supervise them gettin that cunt oot ay the hoose. The Hammy Hamster fucker goes quietly, like he’s in shock, mutterin tae ehsel. It’s Mel whae’s daein maist ay the talkin tae the polis. Ah just sits doon n speaks whin spoken tae. Ah tells them that he was obsessed wi her, and seemed tae think that ah wis some kind ay serial killer. — It’s utterly bizarre stuff, ah tell them, thinking ay how Iain, the bad boy ay Scottish art, back in the New Town, would respond in such a situation. Ah’m sucking in ma breath at times, but ah’m as polite as fuck tae they cunts. If your instincts are bad, ye train yersel by acting counter-intuitive, daein the reverse ay what ye feel like daein. Mel and Rents are as plausible as fuck. He eywis wis a smart cunt. He’s goat that managerial tone, that in control shite gaun oan. The lawyer sits thaire, looking intently, occasionally nodding but no really saying anything, but ye know that just wi him being there the polis play by Queensberry rules n dinnae overstep the mark. This is how coppers should be, but ah’ve never hud them like this before.

  When the polis leave, the lawyer debriefs us before he goes n aw, and then Mel goes tae check oan the bairns, whae, eftir sleepin through aw the aggro, got woken up by the cop car sirens. Like there was any need for aw that fuckin fuss when the cunt had been taken care ay!

  It leaves me and Renton in the front room. Ah take him tae the kitchen and make him a cup ay tea. — Dinnae keep peeve in the hoose, ah tell him when he pills a wee face. — So, what’s aw this aboot?

  — They cannae fuck aboot wi the YLT, mate, he sais, half laughin, the bones ay his face defined in the moonlight comin through the windae. Always was a skinny cunt.

  Ah hus a wee giggle at that, as ah pours, intae they Hibs commemorative Scottish Cup mugs ah goat fae Terry. — I meant what brought ye here?

  — You wouldnae believe this, he smiles, — but ah came here tae have a row wi ye aboot the money. Was even gaunny offer tae fight ye for it! Seems a bit pointless now.

  — You’d huv fuckin done me now, mate, ah laughs, taking another sip ay tea. — Violence just isn’t my bag any more. Never led me anywhere but jail. Ah looks him up and doon. — But when did you git tae be such a tidy cunt?

  — That’s thanks tae you as well, Renton sais, his sly eyes burning away. — Was practising for you coming for me. Then it happened and a car got in the way first. Just as well, cause I fuckin froze!

  — Well, thank fuck ye never this time. Come wi me, ah tell him, and pick up the pot, milk n mugs, n stick them on a tray. We go back intae the studio, and tae my desk in the recess, where ah set it down. Ah pull an envelope out the drawer. It’s his money, the fifteen grand, still in UK dosh. — Ah wis gaunny gie ye it back, ah tell um, although that’s no exactly true. Fact is, it was gaunny sit in my desk forever, tae remind ays that there’s other ways ay getting even wi a smart cunt. — Jist wanted tae hud oantae it for a while, teach ye a wee lesson aboot rippin yir mates oaf. How it feels, ay?

  — Thanks. He takes the envelope and slaps it against his thigh. — Helps me out a bit. Means a lot. And, aye, lesson learned, he goes.

  Ah sortay realise that ah’ve been a bit hard oan the cunt, cleaning him oot wi the Leith Heads, cause eh came through big time. And ah suppose eh really did just want tae make things right, even if ah wisnae struck oan the wey eh went aboot it. — Good, cause ah’ve found a buyer who’s interested in the Leith Heads. If ye ever fancy sellin them, like.

  — Seriously?

  — One ay ma regular collectors. Boy named Villiers. Very wealthy. If you’re of a mind to sell I’ll get you what ye peyed plus twenty-five per cent on top.

  — I’ll sell, the cunt goes, a bit too fucking quickly, then adds, — … no offence tae the works, Frank, but I really do need the money. But ah don’t get it, ah mean …

  — Why is he peying that much for a pile a shite I’ve just cast, and huvnae even given ma signature mutilation?

  Renton looks at me for a wee bit, raises the mug, takes a sip. — Well, aye.

  Ah huv a wee laugh at that wi the cunt. — You dinnae get how art works, mate. It has zero value other than what people are prepared to pay for it. By paying what you did for it, you gied it that value. You also outbid a cunt whae doesnae like to be outbid. Ever.

  — So why was he?

  Ah pour us some mair tea fae the pot. — He instructed his agent tae go tae a certain price, thinking, like every cunt else, that the bidding would fall way, way under it. Then you come along and scooby every fucker. The agent, this boy Stroud, that cunt bidding against you, he was huvin kittens trying tae get the radge on the mobby before that hammer came doon.

  — And he would have paid …

  — Whatever it took. It fucks his heid that he didnae even ken who you were. Nae social media presence or nowt. Ah sits back oan the workbench. — He probably thought you were working on behalf ay some rival whae wis tryin tae stiff the cunt! But what ah want tae ken is, what the fuck was Mikey Forrester daein biddin it up?

  Renton blows on the top ay his mug ay tea. — That was our auld buddy Sick Boy’s doing. I think he felt I needed a bigger financial hit. He was daein you a favour and me a bad turn. And Mikey and I never got on since back in the day. I rode this bird fae Lochend he was intae. He smiles in memory.

  It sounds plausible enough. Everything in life is distorted by wee irrational jealousies and daft impulses. Ye huv tae get control ay these cunts or they destroy ye. So best thing tae dae – n aw they politicians n business cunts get this – is fuck up people that have nae real connection tae ye.

  Renton looks around the studio. — I’m in the wrong game. All those years fannying around in music wi nae talent for it.

  — Talent is way, way overrated, mate. Timing is all. And that’s maistly luck, and a wee bit ay intuition and savvy. I point tae him. — And thank fuck you’ve got that, bud. Ah owe ye big time. That cunt would have made ma bairns orphans.

  — Ah’ll settle for us being square. Finally, he smiles.

  Ah extend ma hand. — Square it is.

  He gies a cheeky wee smile, which reminds me ay the way he looked as a kid. — And you were always quite good at art, back at school, before ye got flung out the class!

  — That was the only class ah minded getting bounced oot ay. Ah lower ma voice cause ah kin hear Mel talking tae the bairns. — The best rides were in the art class.

  — They still comprise twenty-five per cent ay ma wanking material, he grins.

  — That’s quite low.

  — I’ve been working in clubs for years. That’s steadily reduced it.

  We just laugh, the baith ay us, like we used tae dae comin hame fae school. Doon Duke Street, along Junction Street, towards the Fort, pishin ourselves, just talkin aboot some daf
t shite or other. — Ken the funniest thing? We’re now both rich enough tae never let money come between us again.

  It’s probably the nerves but Renton starts laughing like a fucking loony. Ah join in. Then he suddenly goes aw serious. — Ah want ye tae come down tae LA sometime, tae meet somebody.

  Fuck knows whae, but it’s the least ah kin dae. — Sound.

  40

  SICK BOY – HUCKLED

  The meal was eaten in stilted circumstances, but the job was done. Euan is, hopefully, once again isolated from Carlotta. That was just phase one: next that bastard is out of my family for good. This town ain’t big enough for the both of us! Then Marianne and I head back to the hotel to celebrate, and I’m straight online.

  I thought it might be a bitty unwise to get Jill along to the room tae help Marianne and me celebrate our love. That somewhat unedifying bit of history from Christmas. Best make those accessories purely business ones. Jasmine, sadly, seems to have vanished. I was almost even tempted to call Syme to pull a favour, but I’m staying away from that grotbag. Instead, I get on to a wannabe Colleagues agency, and I’m ogling their app. My preference is for an African princess, black as coal, or even a raven-haired, dusky-skinned Romany maiden, in order to provide a contrast to Marianne’s Nordic Nazi. She looks over my shoulder and pulls a face. — Why can’t we get a guy? I want to be done by you and another guy! I want an uncircumcised dick with a big fat cherry bursting onto the scene.

  I feel my brow crinkle in distaste, and lower the phone. — But, darling, I hate men. I can’t look at another man’s naked body without feeling sick. I can barely talk to them, I insist, as I’m psychologically scythed by a horrible image of Renton, fucking her, my soon-to-be wife.

  — Maybe you need desensitivity training. C’mon, let’s get a guy!

  I shake that Treacherous Ginger Bastard out of my head.

  — It won’t work, honey. I’ve tried to tell you that over the years. I once went to an orgy and got a sweaty bawbag and hairy arse-crack in my face. Way too traumatising, and I’m far from the squeamish sort, I explain, shuddering in recall of a terrible incident in Clerkenwell. — I envy the fuck out of you, as I’ve always aspired to be bisexual.

  — I’m no bisexual, she protests.

  — Well, if you prefer, ‘a-woman-who-knows-how-to-pulverise-another-woman’s-clitoris-until-she-explodes’?

  — I dinnae like labels, she says, then commands, — Suck my clit.

  — Try stopping me, babes, just you try stopping me, I grin, — but only after you’ve picked a lassie, I nod to the phone.

  Tutting and rolling her eyes, Marianne takes the iPhone off me, scrolling the profiles. She settles on Lily, another blonde who looks like a younger version of her. Fucking narcissists everywhere. It’s not a great contrast, and I stress the need for visual variety, but as she’s getting a bit twitchy, I decide it’s best not to push it. I call the agency and Lily will be at the hotel within the hour.

  I get to work and multiple-orgasm Marianne, deploying fingers, tongue, cock and, most of all, speech play that would make a death-row sex offender blush. Fucking her down the years has been like reading that leather-bound Collected Works of William Shakespeare I ordered ages ago – you find something new each time you pick it up. She’s a feisty opponent, but I’ve hammered her into a dopey state of lassitude by the time the hooker arrives. I’ve taken care not blow my own wad, this was just a starter before the main dish of the day.

  Lily comes up and I’m a bit despondent as her shots flatter her. Like extremely, like in an Exercise-Bike’s-Facebook-Page sort of way, where the posted snaps stop at around 1987, but no point in quibbling, as time is money. We go through only the rudimentary courtesies before getting down to business. Lily has a huge strap-on which she works into the arse of Marianne, who is crouched on the edge of the bed. I assume a similar position in front of Marianne, in order to take my fiancée’s lubed dildo up my hole. It’s going in with slow relief, like shitting in reverse, Marianne screaming as the base of the device is grinding against her clit like a demented Italian waiter on speed with a pepper cellar. I feel my soul being eye-wateringly spiked as Marianne gasps and shouts, — That’s my boy, take it right up ye … this is the faggot bitch I’m gaunny fuckin mairray …

  I’m moving my hips to try and accommodate more dildo, while watching all this in the mirror, drinking in Marianne’s demented scowl and Lily’s gum-chewing detachment (at my instigation, all part of the set-up). Meanwhile, I’m chugging at my lubed penis in long strokes, feeling the pressure steadfastly building, like Hibs on the Rangers goal in the closing phase of the Hampden final. I’m thinking this is what married life will be like, when the door opens and the fucking cleaner …

  Fuck me, it’s no the fucking cleaners …

  The party literally crumbles as two men burst in, flashing IDs, wearing shite cop clothes and expressions of dumb, crass entitlement. They stop in their tracks as they take in the scene, speechless and bemused for a couple of seconds but not leaving. Then one says, — You’ve got two minutes to get dressed, we’ll be waiting outside!

  They depart, one saying something I don’t catch and the other responding with a deep, throaty laugh, then slamming the door behind them.

  — What the fuck, Lily squeals.

  Marianne looks at me and haughtily says, — I dinnae mind ay ordering those boys …

  41

  RENTON – SHEDDING KING LEARS

  I’m so buzzed, shocked, tired, relieved and fucking rich, I shouldnae be driving back to Santa Monica. My knuckles are ripped and my hands are swollen on the wheel, stubbornly reminding me that it happened. That fucking weirdo was going to shoot Franco and Melanie! And I saved the cunt! Me!

  I’ve strayed into the wrong fucking lane and a horn blares out, a trucker giving me the finger as he passes. I’ve just beaten a cop to a pulp with my bare hands, and now I would shite it from my own shadow. I can’t concentrate; I’m wondering how much the Leith Heads will really fetch and whether I should play hardball with that collector cunt, as Conrad is going to jump ship and I’ll make fuck all from Emily or Carl.

  This isn’t working. I pull off at some services and drink shit black coffee at Arby’s. It only burns a volatile stomach that feels like a nest of squirming maggots. I eat half a burrito and throw the rest away. Begbie explained that I was just suffering an amateur’s stress reaction to perpetrating violence. I’m beset with the idea that dark consequence and terrible reprisal lurk around every corner. In spite of the cops totally believing our story and the lawyer’s assurances that I’m in the clear, the paranoia is ripping out of me. I consider turning on my phone, but I know that would be the worst thing to do right now, even if the urge is almost irresistible. It’s always just bad news, anyway. Conrad is ramping to jump ship, just when I hear from the Wynn that he’s got the big gig at XS, on the back of his latest big hit. Now some other cunt will reap the benefits. Fuck it.

  I get back in the rental, driving like a learner, conscious of every move, never so relieved to get off the 101 onto the 405. The jammed city traffic slows things down, composing me, giving ays time to think. I decide it’s good. I did a virtuous thing and got payback from it. I fantasise about the likely and unlikely rewards. A mystical healer or breakthrough wonderdrug for Alex, that miraculously connects him to the world. But no amount of money will make that happen. It will, however, get me an essential three-bedroomed apartment. Then I’m onto the 10 to Santa Monica, then coming off it, and parking in my underground lot. I get out the car and hold my hand in front of my face. It’s shaking, but I’m home in one piece.

  Then, from the periphery of my vision, I see a figure step out of a car. It moves between two parked vehicles, and starts walking towards me, still obscured by darkness and shadow. It’s big, and powerful-looking, though, and I feel my pulse kick up and my sore fists ball. I’m ready to go again but, fuck me, it’s Conrad, now lit from a yellow lamp in the roof above.

  — You are okay! t
he fat bastard sings in delight, tears welling in his big eyes as he grabs me in an awkward embrace. I’m nervously patting his back, totally scoobied. I never expected this. — You should phone, text, email … he gasps, — it is not like you not to return calls! For many days! I was worried, we all were!

  — Thanks, pal … Sorry about that, loads to sort out, congrats wi the track, I lamely hear myself say, as he releases me.

  — I know there are money problems with you, Conrad whispers. — Anything you need, you must tell me, and I will give it to you. My money is your money. This you know, right?

  Well, no, I never had a fucking inkling that he was anything other than a tight, selfish cunt. And I thought that this was the fucking bullet coming. That Conrad would surely be signing for a rival, moving tae Ivan’s stable. I certainly never imagined we had this kind ay stuff going on. — That is incredibly generous of you, pal, but I’ve been out of the loop, attending tae this personal and financial stuff, I explain, adjoining, — to my extreme satisfaction, I might add.

  — That is good. I am pleased to hear this. But we need to talk, there have been developments, he adds an ominous tone.

  — Right, well, first I have to go upstairs and check on my dad and my boy. Meet me in the Speakeasy on Pico in twenty.

  — Where is this? he asks.

  — Wouldn’t it be great if there was this device called the Internet, whereby you could type in Speakeasy and Pico Boulevard, and the directions would come up as if by magic?

  Conrad looks at me, and laughs disparagingly. — I think I know this device. It is in something called a phone, which you can also talk into when it rings. But I’m not sure that my manager has a fucking clue as to what it is!

  — Point taken, bud, see you in a bit.

  So I go up to the apartment, a bit trepidatious at the reception I’ll get from my dad, for taking off and leaving him and Alex, and now having to head straight back out. I’ve been leaning heavily on the poor old bastard. Since the two funerals, Vicky and I have been hanging out a lot, and I’ve stayed more than a few nights at hers down in Venice. Dad doesn’t seem to mind, agreeing that the couch won’t do my back any good, though I suppose I’ve been taking the piss a bit. But when I get in he’s sitting on the couch, playing video games with Alex. He points to the Xbox and the pile of games. — Just been stocking up, he says, neither one of them averting their eyes from the screen to me.