Dead Men's Trousers

by Irvine Welsh

  — Ah’m his –

  — I know, his partner.

  — That’s right, Forrester says defiantly.

  — And how is it you git tae sit up in business class? Spud moans. — Ah’m the yin that’s sick!

  Mikey, and even Euan, breaking out of Tranceville across the aisle, look at me in accusation.

  — Eh, because I paid for an upgrade? Under normal circumstances I’d be delighted to spring a biz-class ticket for you boys, but the cost was prohibitive. I couldn’t put it through the company account, as you are not employees of Colleagues. I pause. — The taxman’s hackles would have been raised and I don’t want an audit from those fucking cocksuckers at HMRC right now, thank you. Besides, I look to Mikey, — as Vic Slime’s distinguished partner I would have thought you’d be joining me with the Kate Winslets, Miguel.

  Forrester has to eat that one in silence.

  I go back to biz class and the queen formerly known as flamboyant still frets in stricken silence. As this broken pansy is now of little interest to me, I opt to chat to the hostess, the one who brought the drinks. Thought I detected that spunky edge of shagger’s glint in her eye. I get a little flirty with Jenny, eventually asking her if she thinks there’s any call for a male escort agency like Colleagues, for travelling women like her. She says it certainly has possibilities, and we swap contact details. Time passes nicely, even if Jenny is forced to bunk off occasionally, to attend to the morose business bores I have to share this compartment with. Then we get an announcement that we’re landing in fifteen minutes. So I quickly head back down to steerage where I reckon it’s time to tell Spud the good news.

  Mr Murphy is zoned out. His head, leaking from rheumy eyes, snottery nose and slavering gob, rests on the shoulder of an uncomfortable-looking Forrester. I gently shake him awake, and he jumps with a start. — Daniel, mein burden, I’m afraid to say that we haven’t been quite straight with you.

  Spud blinks awake and gapes at me in confusion. — What … what dae ye mean …?

  I look to Euan, he and Forrester both tensing in grim concern, as I hunker down in the aisle. Then I turn back to Spud. — Call it poetic licence, deployed in order to keep the patient in a strong frame of mind, and gain his cooperation in expediting our task.

  — What … he touches his wound, — what did you dae?

  — We didn’t take your kidney. We aren’t butchers.

  Spud rubbernecks to Euan, who confirms, — You still have two kidneys.

  — But … but what am ah daein here? What are wi gaun tae Berlin fir? What’s that wound meant tae be fir?!

  His high, yelping voice incites a few heads on the plane to turn to us. I glance at Mikey and then Euan, leaning forward, whispering, — You see it wisnae what we took oot ay ye, it was what we had tae put in.

  — What?

  — Skag: several kilos of uncut pharmaceutical heroin. I swivel round. A fat cow who was all ears seems to have returned to her knitting. — Apparently there is a bit of a drought in Berlin right now. Something tae dae wi a big bust.

  — You put skag in me? Spud gasps in disbelief, and then looks to Euan. He lurches to me but Mikey pulls him firmly back into the seat.

  My brother-in-law can’t look at him.

  — See when we land, ah’m gaun straight hame –

  — Suit yourself, bud, but I wouldn’t recommend that course of action, I stress, scanning the locale and edging closer again. — Your body fluids will soon break down the latex bags and discharge the auld Salisbury Crag right intae your system. What a way tae go though! There was once a time we’d have thought ay that as a result! And … Toto is still in Syme’s hands, mind?

  Spud sits back, bug-eyed and open-mouthed, taking in the horror and impotence of his situation. I feel sorry for him. He was foolish to take this job, daft to bring along the dog and crazy to leave it unsupervised and underfed with the goods. The punishment, however, as it always is for those who suffer from the disease of poverty, is very excessive. — How could you dae that? he squeals at Euan. — You’re a fuckin doaktir! He lunges across the aisle and swings at my bro-in-law, swiping air.

  Mikey grabs him and pulls him back into the seat. — Chill, Spud, you’ll burst the fuckin stitches!

  The knitting munter glances from us to her shite jumper, in order to ensure that this comment doesn’t apply to her. The completed garment will go to a poor nephew or niece, securing them ritual playground beatings for retardedness.

  — This isn’t my fault! Euan pleads.

  I beg with Spud to see sense. — Do you think we wanted this mess? Syme literally had a gun to our heads, Danny. You’ve witnessed how he operates at first hand. He was going to kill us all, our fucking family members, and every cunt we ever sat beside on the 22 bus! Get real!

  Mikey turns away. — Business partner, he mutters, in a self-denying plea.

  — But this is … it’s aw wrong, and fuck me if ma auld mate poor Danny Murphy fae Leith disnae start tae fucking greet, here on the plane. — It’s jist aw-aw wrong!

  I have my arm round those pieces of bone they call shoulders. — It is, bro, it is, but we can sort it …

  — Aye, it is, but whae dragged us intae this mess by fucking up a simple delivery? Mikey suddenly barks, turning tae his broken travelling companion. — Me n Sick Boy ur jist tryin tae fix the mess!

  — Speak for yourself, I tell him, — I’m being blackmailed. Threatened. Forced into this fucking nightmare, by your business partner.

  Mikey slumps down in a wee sulk.

  — And you try to rectify this … by blackmailing me, Euan hisses.

  The stewardess, not the lovely Jenny I was chatting tae, but a low-rent, pleb-serving, varicose-veined battleaxe, bike-rode into decrepitude over decades by the few hetero pilots, without even a hint of a sparkler thrown into the mix, is right over, her crabbit pus rammed into my coupon. — Please, take your seat! We are about to begin our descent!

  I comply, thinking that my descent started a long time ago, when I was stupid enough to come back tae fucking Edinburgh for Christmas. That crazy Marianne bitch! I resolve tae pay her back with fucking interest!

  Tis a relief to be on the ground, and more so for the squawking queen who is haranguing airport officials about his dogs, as we head out to the taxi rank. In the cab I try to make light of things by telling the tale of the buftie and his labradoodles, but this backfires, only reminding Spud of Toto. — If he hurts that dug, ah’ll kill him, ah’ll no care! Spud bleats. I do believe Murphy would actually try to do this.

  The ride through a zone of shabby warehouses and dilapidated slums – I suspect the old East Berlin – hints that the clinic will be highly insalubrious. But even this scuzzy approach has failed to give myself and obviously Euan, mouth agape with incredulity, an impression of the teeming squalor that greets us.

  We’ve alighted into the car park of a three-storey disused building, its ground-floor windows smashed and boarded. Mikey, his leather manbag swinging, nods at a battered aluminium entryphone box. I press practically all its buttons before it yields a tepid buzz allowing me to shoulder open the heavy door and gain admittance. Inside, it’s almost pitch black. I bang my shins on something, and my eyes adjust to reveal a commode with the top of a packing case over the shitter. I look to Mikey who flashes sheepish confirmation that this forms the ‘wheelchair’ he contended would be available at this ‘hospital’. At his request Spud sits in it, and Mikey pushes him slowly down the empty, ghostly corridor. As we traverse it, our shoes crunch on broken glass. I wish I had a torch; the barricaded windows permit only meagre light to shoot through the spaces between the edges of the wall and the wooden panels. The building is institutional, probably an old school or insane asylum. Under his breath, Euan spraffs some gibbering nonsense. The impact is like Dick Dastardly’s sidekick, Mutley, trying tae recite Muriel Spark’s The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie.

  We get into a goods lift smelling of stagnant urine, the sort formed by cheap, acidic alcohol. Ev
en a minger like Spud is sensing this is not kosher. — This isnae a hoaspital … he plaintively whimpers as the elevator creaks upwards before coming to a sudden, jaw-rattling halt on the second floor. We walk down another long, dark, unlit corridor. The windows at this level remain largely unbroken, but are so filthy that the only light shoots through in beams from the odd breached pane. Mikey delves into his bag, producing a large T-shaped key, opening up a battered, reinforced steel door that reminds me ay Seeker’s old skag base in that top-floor tenement in Albert Street. We step intae a dirty and dingy room with a floor of cracked tiles that looks like an old industrial kitchen, except that it contains two metal-framed hospital beds. In one of them lies a fat Middle Eastern-looking man in a filthy vest, sitting bolt upright as we enter. He seems both vaguely annoyed and guilty, and I suspect we’ve interrupted a masturbation session. Then he breaks into a big smile. — I have company … he chuckles, waving his big hands at us. — I am Youssef! From Turkey.

  Mikey and I introduce ourselves to the Ottoman, obviously, by his dark, circled eyes, another patient of sorts, as Euan’s neck twists and his lamps swivel around in horror. — This is outrageous. The place is insanitary … it’s … it’s more like a medieval torture chamber than an operating theatre, he gasps, — I can’t work under these conditions!

  — Have tae, Doc, or the patient is history, I say, saluting the Youssef gadgie.

  — Just git that shite oot ay me, a bug-eyed Spud flaps, climbing out of the commode, lying out on the second bed as he removes his clothes down to his underpants. — Now!

  — See, I challenge Euan. — Danny Murphy. Balls the fucking size of Leith. Now you, step the fuck up!

  — I … I can’t … Euan pleads, looking fae me tae Mikey.

  — You … you call yirsel a medical man, likes? What sort ay doaktir are you? Spud barks, then winces in pain.

  — I’m a podiatric surgeon.

  — A what? Spud sits up.

  — A foot doctor, if you will, Euan says meekly.

  — What?! Spud looks at me. — You’ve goat a fit doaktir operating oan me? Oan a bag ay skag in ma gut?

  — Aye, Spud, but dinnae worry, I pick the skin around my nails, — Euan put it in, so he can get it back oot, I try to reassure him. I need snout badly. — Right, Euan, get Danny boy under the anaesthetic.

  — I’m not an anaesthetist, Euan snaps indignantly. — It’s a highly skilled and specialist profession! They said there would be one here!

  — I am the anaesthetist, Youssef smiles, and rises, heading tae the sink, washing his hands, then splashing some water on his face, and putting on a gown and mask, a selection of which hang fae a rack. — Shall we begin?

  Euan turns to me. — We can’t … I can’t …

  My brother-in-law is getting on my fucking nerves. — Options. Gies yin. Dinnae just say ‘we can’t’ like a fuckin fanny. I turn to the rest of them. — One thing that gets on my tits in life is cunts that just go tae fucking pieces under pressure. Yes, we’re in the shit. I suggest we work together to get the fuck out of it!

  Euan eats that one up. Glancing at Spud, he goes to the surgical gowns. As he, Mikey and I robe and mask up, Youssef starts tae administer Spud the anaesthetic. — It will be all good, my friend, his big, dark eyes laugh over the top ay the mask.

  He’s the only cunt here giving me confidence. — This is a fucking man, I shout, looking at Euan and Mikey. — Act like men!

  Mikey starts to light up a fag.

  — Are you crazy? Euan gasps.

  Mikey looks at him in seething rage for a second, then ceases his activity, as Spud turns tae me in panic and grabs my gown, drawing me close. — Promise me one thing … if ah dinnae make it, you’ll look eftir Toto.

  That’ll be right. — That fuckin mutt got us intae this mess in the first place. Mair than you. Mair than any cunt!

  — Promise, Spud urges in fear as he slumps intae the pillow and his eyes roll intae the back ay his heid before shutting. As he slips under, I say in soothing tones, — Aye … then add a crisp, — right. The torment is still etched on his face, as he drifts off into deep sleep.

  Now that he’s unconscious, Mikey gets the fags out.

  — But – Euan starts.

  — Crash the ash, Mikey.

  — Only one left. He flashes the packet with the solitary cancer stick.

  — Fuck. I suck it down, contemplating the others. — The biggest problem is that we haven’t told him exactly what Syme is making us do …

  — This is absolutely crazy! Euan suddenly bellows at the ceiling.

  That fucker is losing it. And now is not the time. — Your fanny-curious Wee Free proddy bell-end set this mess up, ya Calvinist cunt. I shake my brother-in-law by the shoulders. – Don’t fucking wimp out on us now!

  Euan breaks my grip and pushes me away. — I’m not a fucking kidney surgeon! Can’t you get that through your head?

  This cunt needs tae calm the fuck down. — The principles of surgery are generic. I lower my voice to a hush, pulling the laptop from Mikey’s bag. — We have a good YouTube video on the subject. I watch Euan’s face crumple further in disbelief. — Backup, likes.

  — A YouTube video?! Are you kidding?

  — Do not worry, my friend, Youssef smiles, — I am not really an anaesthetist either!

  As desperate as it is, I feel a snigger rupture uncontrollably from me at that one.

  — What …? Euan gasps.

  — Well, I anaesthetised animals, in Baskent slaughterhouse back in Ankara. A place of the very highest standards. It is the same principle, just a different dosage. Enough to put them to sleep a little, but not enough for good! I have done those operations before many times and never lost anybody yet!

  I haven’t a clue whether this cunt is joking or not, but he seems tae ken what the fuck he’s daein. Well, Spud looks like he’s kipping, rather than being broon breid. Mikey has the laptop fired up, and the video is on, and we’re quickly going through it on fast-forward. — I’m hoping this is ringing some fucking medical student bells, I snap at Euan.

  — But I need to see it all the way through, I need time –

  — We don’t fucking have time. The video will be playing as you’re operating, and I place the laptop on Spud’s milk-bottle white, pancake-flat chest, delighted to cover those incongruously red nipples that look like lesions. — You’ll have an ongoing tutorial.

  Euan shakes his head in resignation, as Mikey and I lay out the equipment and instruments to his specifications: the knives, clamps and swabs.

  I nod to the shiteing podiatrist, and he starts peeling off the minging bandages to expose an angry, weeping wound. I’m seriously crapping it now too, the tension rising through me, as sharp as those scalpels. I almost want to cry ‘stop’ but there’s no going back at this stage. Taking him tae a hospital isn’t an option. They wouldn’t let us keep Syme’s skag and they’d throw us in jail. And then there’s the other matter, of our real purpose here …

  As Euan opens up the stitches, I suddenly realise that the fucking laptop is running out of juice. It blinks on the emergency power indicator. — Fuck … Mikey, gies ays the fuckin mains cable, I snap. — We’re nearly oot ay Robert the Bruce.

  Mikey nods, goes into his leather bag. Then looks back up at me.

  Surely fucking not. — What …? I hear the word wheeze out. — Dinnae fuckin tell me!

  — You sais bring the laptop! Ye said nowt aboot a fuckin charger or a lead!

  — Jesus fuck!

  — I can’t do this! Euan pleads in that girly voice that is getting on my tits.

  — We will make a great team! Youssef cheers in enthusiasm.

  — Let me call Renton, I shout. — He’s here! The festival site is only twenty minutes away. He’s always got his Apple Mac with him!

  21

  RENTON – THE CHARGER

  I’m fucking stressed enough through getting the decks here, and I’m supervising a thankfully very German technician eff
iciently connecting them up to the mixer and amp, but now Carl has gone fucking AWOL. I turn round and Klaus is right in my fuckin coupon. — Where is your DJ?

  — He’ll be here, I tell him, checking my phone. I don’t believe this cunt. I try to call him, then text:

  Get the fuck here now please, mate.

  Klaus sweeps his long fringe out of his eyes to show me him rolling them in exasperation, and steps away. Conrad is across, a big smile on his face, Jensen, who arrived on a later flight, by his side. — He will have gone to pieces. Taken cocaine, alcohol and run away. Thinking of his wife who is now being fucked by another man, he says with malice, as Jensen chuckles malevolently. — He is finished. It is all over for him.

  I can do without this bullshit from that fat cunt, and AAAGGGHHH …

  … I can do withoot Sick Boy phoning ays up! I should ignore it, but for some reason, I take the fucking call. The reason being that the cunt won’t stop until I pick up or block him.

  – Mark, it’s a long story, but I’m here in Berlin. With Spud and Mikey Forrester.

  — Spud? Forrester? In Berlin? What the fuck? I hear myself exhaling sharply. — Well, the answer is aye. Youse can get on the GL. Ah’ll leave passes for the three of yis at Will Call, I say, ma tones terse and clipped. I do not need this right now.

  — That’s not what I’m after, but if it all goes okay it’ll be welcome. Right now I need you tae bring the lead fae your laptop, the power lead, fae your Apple Mac, right?

  — What?

  — Is it a Mac?

  — Aye it’s a Mac, but –

  — I need you tae bring it tae the address I’m going to text you. I need you tae bring it, right now, Mark, he stresses, adding, — Spud’s life literally depends on it.

  — What? Spud? What the fuck is up wi –

  — Mate, listen. I need you to do this and I need you to do it now. I’m no fucking aboot.

  By his tone ah ken that he isnae. What the fuck are they involved in? The text drops in with the address. By my rudimentary knowledge of Berlin, it’s pretty close. — Okay, I’m on my way.