Dead Men's Trousers

by Irvine Welsh

  I’ll bet she did.

  — When I sort of … got it … more up than in, really, she said that she couldnae believe it was ma first time, that I was a natural!

  I’ll bet she did.

  The sun is hotting things up, burning off the meagre cloud cover. It’s now more like summer. I pull some Ray-Bans out my pocket and stick them on. Ross havers in unbridled enthusiasm. — That she couldnae believe how good it felt for her, and that ah made her come, he squeals, turning to me, wide-eyed, looking for confirmation, as a woman passes us pushing a pram. — That ah really knew how tae make love tae a lassie and ah would give any girl the time ay her life!

  Jesus fuck, whatever Syme is paying this yin isnae enough!

  — Did she get ye licking her oot?

  Ross’s jaw seems to spasm a little, as if in muscle memory. – Aye, he blushes, — she showed me that bit that’s sort ay at the top ay the fanny. Ye never hear aboot that in the online sites.

  — You’re going on the wrong ones, I tell him. — Fuck that dude stuff. Try lesbian sites instead. Here’s a tip: there are three keys tae being a good lover: fanny-licking, fanny-licking and fanny-licking. Tip two: surround yourself with women, women and more fucking women. Work with them. Become a hairdresser, a bingo caller, a cleaner, do those sorts of jobs. Shagging is a disease of association. Tip three: don’t speak; just listen to them. If you do speak, ask politely about them, what they think of this or that. As he goes to comment, I wave a silencing finger. — Just listen. Tip four: don’t go near other guys; they are the fucking useless stupid enemy. They are not your brothers. They are not your mates. They are obstacles at best. They will teach you less than nothing, and get in your way with their fucking stupid pish.

  I watch him trying to take this in.

  Fuck me, that Jasmine is getting so poached for Edinburgh Colleagues.

  We stop off at a store and to his delight I buy him some decent trainers. — The cover story for your mamma, when she asks you where we were. And also a reward for being a top shagger. I give him a playful nudge.

  — Thanks, Uncle Simon, squeaks the dazed Colinton gigolo.

  When we return to the ranch, Carlotta is up and we tell her about the trainer shopping. But she’s still going on about Euan, lost in her own despair. This problem will hopefully be sorted out soon. I check my phone. Sure enough, there’s an email from Syme with an e-ticket in the attachment for myself and Euan. Economy class. I get onto the airline and upgrade mine to business, using the Colleagues account. Of course Carlotta is clucking, hovering over me, trying to see what I’m doing. — I have a lead, which I’m following up first thing tomorrow morning, I tell her.

  — What kind ay a lead?

  — Just some people I’ve been talking to. I don’t want to get your hopes up, Carra, but I’m giving this everything I’ve got.

  — You cannae keep me in the dark like this!

  I pat her softly on the cheek. — As I say, something or nothing, and I head up the stairs, opting to retire early.

  After a decent kip, I rise the next brisk morning, and taxi to the airport. Yes, I’m meeting Euan, among others, to make the direct flight to Berlin. I text Renton:

  When did you say you were going to Berlin?

  An almost instant reply:

  Here now. Big gig at Tempelhofer Feld tonight.

  Life’s ironies: when I was hunting for Renton, I couldn’t find the bastard anywhere. Now our stars are so aligned that I can’t get rid of the cunt.

  Espied timeously in the departure area: Mikey Forrester, clad in semi-decent Hugo Boss brown corduroy jacket, carrying an Apple Mac in a leather shoulder bag. He’s with Spud, who looks like he’s been rejected as an extra from The Walking Dead for being too decrepit. Murphy sports a crappy old green dress jacket and a Ramones Leave Home T-shirt, through which seeps a stain of blood and something else, even though he’s well bandaged. Then I catch Euan, the obtuse cunt, standing apart from us, looking anxiously at his watch. As we clear security, Mikey picks up his cue and moans something about time.

  — Relax, boys, I tell them, even though I’m anything but, in fact absolutely shiteing it about what we’re about to try and pull off. Fear, though, is an emotion best not expressed. Once acknowledged, it spreads like a virus. It’s ruined our politics: the controllers have been dripping it into us for decades, making us compliant, turning us against each other, while they rape the world. You let em in, you let em win. I cast an eye over at my motley cohorts. — Looks like the gang’s all here!

  Mikey drops his passport and I pick it up. As I hand it to him I see his full name: Michael Jacob Forrester. — Michael Jakey Forrester! You kept that quiet!

  — It’s Jacob, he protests belligerently.

  — Whatever you say, I grin, throwing my bag on the belt and heading through security.

  19

  RENTON – DECKED

  Never work wi a Jambo cunt fae the west side ay Edinburgh. Being steeped in a broth of Gumley mediocrity, schemes too drab tae be offensive, snobby-but-shite bungalows and that dark tumour on the city that is Gorgie-Dalry tenementland, serves to leave an indelible stain of moral weakness. Carl vanished after his birthday bash and finding him was a nightmare. I eventually tracked him down at the BMC club yesterday, where he helpfully introduced me as a ‘Hibs cunt, but awright’ tae the ching-snorting, crap-beer-guzzling occupants ay this seedy blood-relative-battering shithole. It gets even worse as I have Conrad and Emily ootside in the limo on Gorgie Road. When I manage tae get Carl, who apart from his two fucking heavy record flight cases has nothing but the clathes on his back and whae smells like a cross between a blocked lavy and the local brewery, intae the vehicle, the Dutch maestro roars, — You smell bad! I must sit up front!

  So fat boy moves up beside the driver, leaving me sitting bitch between minging Ewart and Emily, who keeps groping my thigh. Carl can smell nothing outside the rancid chemicals clogging his ravaged nostrils and sinuses, but he witnesses her actions through a drunken, sleepy haze and gies ays a creepy, licentious smirk. Then he bursts intae ‘Happy Birthday to Me’ which segues intae ‘Hearts, Hearts, Glorious Hearts’, before he passes out.

  — Fuckin B-side cunt, I laugh. The limo driver is Hibs and gets the joke.

  When we arrive in Berlin, Carl, comatose on the flight, is suddenly animated again. I pick him out a couple ay T-shirts fae the Hugo Boss shop at the airport. — Cool, he sais aboot one, and, — My ma wouldnae dress me in that shite, Renton, regarding the other. He cheers up when we meet Klaus, the promoter, at the hotel bar. A dance-music veteran, he makes a big fuss ay Carl, immediately sorting us both out with ching. — N-Sign is back! I was at that party outside Munich, many years ago. The crazy one. Your friend … he climbed onto the roof!

  — Aye, says Carl.

  — How is that guy?

  — Deid. He jumped off a bridge back in Edinburgh, shortly after that.

  — Oh … I am sorry to hear this … Was it the drugs?

  — Everything is the drugs, mate, Carl says, signalling for another lager. The first never touched the sides, and you can see it flooding back into the toxic reservoir inside him, recharging it. This could be a shit gig.

  Conrad starts moaning about his room being too small. The cunt is acting out because my old homie is getting the star treatment from Klaus. Then Emily’s all nippy, because my little boys’ club is sooo much more important than her. I’m fucking exhausted and we’ve only just got here. This will be a shit gig.

  The Tempelhofer Feld is on the site of the old Berlin Flughafen, which shut down several years back. They plan to make it into a refugee camp. Now the youthful, colourful ravers are cultural émigrés from the old, clapped-out, straight society of capitalism that can’t pay them a living wage and exists solely to suck the wealth of their parents into its coffers through debt.

  The Nazi-era terminal, said to be the biggest listed building in the world, is stark, imposing, gloomy and beautiful. Its giant hangars curve out implaus
ibly under a column-free cantilevered roof. In its flightless era it’s mostly leased out, and one of the biggest tenants are the Polizei. Two cops with machine guns look stonily at us as we head into the building, our pockets stuffed with wraps of cocaine. We find the offices, in a glass-fronted control centre overlooking the big arena and its stages. Besides the cops, Berlin’s traffic-control authority and the central lost-property office are based here. There’s also a kindergarten, a dancing school and one of the city’s oldest revue theatres. We watch the out-of-town ravers, milling about, gaping in awe at this strange utopia the locals casually accept. — This is some gaff, I concede to Klaus, who practically ignores me. Now that the festival is under way, he seems tae have ditched sociable and turned intae a narky fascist cunt, snapping orders at stressed underlings. I go off to check things out as the arena fills up, shimmying through the revellers. A skinny young guy I’ve never heard ay plays an interesting set. I’m getting into it. I head for the DJ box, wondering if I can get a word when he’s done, when I see that there are no decks there. Ewart. The place does not have record decks. Fuck. I realise that I forgot to arrange for turntables to be there.

  I hurry back to the control centre, flustered. I’ve stated repeatedly tae Carl that he needs to move with the fucking times. All I get in response is a shrug and him muttering about how ‘we’ll sort something out’, usually as he chops oot another line ay coke. Emily and Conrad probably wouldnae remember their SD cards and headphones if I wisnae constantly chasing them up, but they are of a different era. The culpabilty is mine, though: I ought to have mentioned this on the rider.

  I’ve haven’t had dealings with Klaus before, and tell him about our decks problem. He laughs in my face. — We have not had record turntables in here for over a decade!

  — Is there nothing around, on any of the other stages?

  He looks at me as if I’m tapped, shakes his head slowly.

  — Fuck. What can we do? Exasperation has made me publicly air my concern. Big mistake. Ye never show your doubts or fears in this game. Suck it all up.

  The promoter shrugs. — If you cannot play, we cannot pay. Somebody else will do the slot.

  Carl, loitering at the long Formica-topped bar, has caught this exchange and comes over. The bastard is already ablaze with ching. At least that makes my next question to Klaus superfluous. — Mark, you’re a manager, aye?

  I ken exactly where this is gaun, but my lot in life is tae play this tedious game out. — Aye.

  — So fucking manage. Find a set ay turntables. Should not be mission impossible here in Berlin. Still plenty time before the gig. Now I’m going tae wander the festival site, have a few drinks, and try and get ma cock sucked. I’ve always liked German birds.

  I’m sucking down my wrath, at him, yes, but also at myself. There’s little tae be gained in protesting impotently and I’ve been here before. As galling as it is to admit, the cunt is right. It is my job tae solve problems and right now we have a big yin. But I cannot believe this fuckin doss cunt. — DJs huvnae used vinyl since John Robertson was a Hibby. If you’d spun since fuckin 9/11 you’d fuckin well realise that. That’s why you have airms like a fucking ape, cartin they boaxes aboot. A fuckin USB, that’s aw you need. You dump your set into the Pioneer, press play and pump your fists in the air like a daft cunt. That is DJing now. Get teckied up, no eckied up!

  Conrad and Emily seem friendlier; they’ve been working together in the studio, which is good news. I’m concerned with his secrecy about this track, though. I hope the fat fuck isn’t cutting a deal with somebody else. He comes over, drawn to our conflict, and wobbles his head, sniggering in derision. — So unprofessional.

  Carl responds in haughty disdain. — Others might get doon wi aw that shite, bro, he says to me, not even looking at my Dutch star, — that’s no fucking DJing but, no tae me, he sings in defence. But he’s covering up the fact that he’s embarrassed. Carl is more like a fish out ay water every day and I ken exactly how the poor bastard feels.

  So I’m off, oot ay the site, intae the street, trying tae get a fucking signal on the mobby tae find music-equipment stores, which is almost impossible with the crowds milling around, all on their phones. Eventually, the bars pop up and I’m scrolling around, looking for some kind ay shopping district, but there seems to be nothing around for miles. The sky is blackening and it’s starting to drizzle. I wander despondently for a bit, heading through a big flea market.

  I can’t believe it.

  I’m normally as blind as a Scottish referee over long distances, but desperation has given me X-ray vision. Literally fifteen minutes outside the site, in this market, is an electrical goods stall. I still have to walk closer to confirm that jumping the fuck out at ays among knock-off fridges, freezers, amps and stereos, there really are two old-school Technics decks! My heart is pounding, and even more uncannily: THEY HAVE NEEDLES AND CARTIDGES! Thank you, God! Thank you, God of Edinburgh dance music …

  I approach a young Middle Eastern-looking kid in an Everton FC football top. — The decks, do they work?

  — Yes, of course, he says. — As if they are new.

  — How much?

  — Eight hundred euros. His expression is gravely serious.

  — These are ancient, I scoff. — Two hundred.

  — They are vintage, he says coolly, brows arching, lips riding back to display a set of dazzling white choppers. — Seven hundred and fifty.

  — No way. They probably don’t even work. Three hundred.

  The kid’s face does not change one reflexive muscle. — They work as new. I can only go to seven hundred. You look anxious, as if you need them urgently. You must think of this as a favour I am doing you, mister.

  — Fuck … I delve intae ma pockets and count out the poppy. Thankfully, a manager eywis needs a wad. There’s eywis some cunt – drug dealer, hotel doorman, taxi fucker, hanger-on, security, polisman – who wants paying off or needs a bung. The wee cunt is now smiling, serenading me with a chorus ay — As new, my friend, as new …

  — You’re a manipulative, unscrupulous, little fucker. I hand the boy the cash and issue him ma embossed card. — Ever contemplated a career in the music business?

  20

  SICK BOY – BUSINESS CLASS

  Sitting up in business class is an unmitigated delight. It’s not so much the benefits of the actual service; more knowing you’ve got your status over the plebs officially confirmed for the next three hours. From my seat, I pull an obligatory face of impatient disdain as they pass by me, on their walk of shame to steerage. That aside, it gives me the luxury of territory and time to think things through.

  Across the aisle, there’s a gay bastard; blond hair, tight trews, blue round-collar T-shirt, and he’s being outrageously loud. I kind of wish Ben was like that. What’s the point of having a buftie-boy son who isn’t outrageously effete? Who just wants to live a boring hetero life? Oppression breeds struggle, which engenders culture, and it would be shite if swashbuckling camp was to vanish from the globe just because some uptight cunts have finally discovered that the world is round. This boy, mid-thirties, is a bit of a star. Even the stewards – outrageous ferrets to a man – are all cast as Ernie Wise in face of his swaggering affectation. In the name of sport, I decide to compete with him to see who can be the most mincing, self-indulgent, attention-seeking cunt on the plane. — Try-ing to get a drink on this death trip. I shake my hand enough to indicate nerves, but also to suggest that the wrist is a bit rubbery.

  This ploy backfires spectacularly when the raving arse bandit takes a massive shine to me, seeing my narcissistic Olympiad as a form of buftie seduction. — I dee-tect Celt in that brogue! the queen squeals in excitement.

  — Oh you do, I storm back, — courtesy of me being back this side of Hadrian’s Wall for the first time in a long time. And there was me thinking that my inner Mel Gibson was a dormant force!

  — Oh no, I assure you he’s alive and kicking, but sans the fetching plaid!

>   Suddenly a stewardess is upon us, bearing glasses of champagne. — An angel of mercy. I down one instantly as my hand reaches to another. — May I?

  She smiles indulgently.

  — You’ll have to forgive me, I hold the spare glass of champers to my chest, — I am such a nervous flyer!

  — Oh stop, says the queen, taking his glass, — I am so anxious as I have my dogs in the hold, two labradoodles, and they aren’t used to travelling.

  As I quaff the extra champers, and we taxi, then take off, I tell the frantic buftie a horror story about two pit bulls in a plane hold, one of whom ripped off the other’s bottom jaw. — They turned on each other after the luggage shifted and crushed against them. I lean over and drop my voice. — They don’t look after animals on these flights. You do have insurance, yes?

  — Yes I do, but –

  — But that doesn’t bring those gadges back. I get it.

  He gasps in fear as the plane levels out and the seat belt sign goes boing, and I rise to investigate the lower orders, leaving him to chew on the nightmare his trip has now become.

  The economy portion of the plane is essentially a scheme in the sky. Spud is crammed into the window seat. Fuck me, that South Leith scruffbag literally does look like death warmed up. Mikey sits tensely next to him, while Euan is somnolent across the aisle in his grim and depressive thoughts. Amazing this world that we live in, where poking your cock in a hoor’s erse for ten minutes can wreck your life.

  — How are the men? The real men, I roll my eyes, still in camply-cruising-at-thirty-thousand-feet mode, — the foot soliders, toughing it out back here in economy class?

  — Dinnae you talk tae me! Spud shouts.

  Da fellah Morphy won’t be after bein told, sure now he won’t. — I saved your bacon, ya daft muppet! Once again: it was you whae fucked up a simple task for that psychopath, Syme. And you, I snap at Forrester.