Dead Men's Trousers

by Irvine Welsh

  — Fuck all, he says. — Just some vivid colours n flashin lights. Only lasted a couple ay minutes. Load ay shite.

  Renton and I look at each other. I can tell he’s thinking exactly what I am: This cunt? An artist? My fuckin baws.

  — Did you take the third hit right back? Renton asks.

  — Aye, of course I did. You fuckin gied ays it.

  — Spud?

  — Ah feel bad, man, thinkin aboot aw the chorin ah did, he says in agitation, — n that’s how ah’m aw ill now, Mark, but ah nivir –

  — It’s okay, man, take it easy, Renton tries to calm his rambling.

  I turn to Begbie. — Well, I experienced a lot more than some flashing lights, Franco. That was fucking phenomenal. I had a sense that I had fused with every member of the human race and I was moving as one with them, yet still somehow an individual.

  — Did you see the wee Lego dwarfs? Renton enquires.

  — Yes, but mine were more like spherical. Not exactly like acid-house smiley guys, but definitely from the same stable. It defies easy explanation. It was so vivid, but now it seems hard to put together in words exactly what I did see.

  — I took off, Renton says. — I stepped into these flames and shot right intae the sky. I could feel the wind oan ma face, smell the ozone in the air. Did anybody experience being present at a feast, like the Last Supper? That’s quite common.

  — No, I tell him, and look to Spud.

  — Naw, man, ah just went doon aw these stairs intae that cellar, but no scary, like aw comfortin and warm, like gaun back tae the womb.

  — Franco, nae Last Supper images? Rents presses.

  — Naw, says Franco, looking annoyed, — like ah sais, jist some flashing lights.

  Then Spud goes, — Ah’m really no feelin sae well …

  — Yir heid? Renton asks.

  — Naw … aye … but ah feel aw seek n dizzy, and then he lifts his T-shirt. The wound is damp with leakage, some sort of discharge. Spud groans, and his eyes roll into his head and he flops back into the couch and passes out.

  Fuck …

  26

  SPUD – HOSPITAL EYES

  I’m pure seek, man, really seek but, here in the hozzy, n Franco’s come tae see ays, which is an awfay surprise cause eh’s no that sort, n that isnae meant as any diss oan the cat. It’s jist that ye think eh likesay disnae care aboot folk. Ah mean, eh’s goat ehs new burd fi California and his bairns, the new yins, no the auld yins, n eh seems tae care aboot thaim. So ah suppose that hus tae count for something. Aye, ye huv tae be fair n say that cat has made the transition fae sinking fangs intae prey in the jungle, tae sittin in a comfy basket in front ay the fire n huvin a long purrrr tae ehsel. He tells ays that ah’ve been oot for twenty-four hours. — Aye, ah goes. They cleaned and dressed ma wound and ah’m oan an antibiotic drip, n ah shakes ma airm n looks at the bag hooked up. — Ah mind ay nowt, ah tell um. — Thoat it wis yon DMT.

  — Listen, mate, Franco goes, — ah ken thaire wis something dodgy that went on wi this kidney stuff. Ah’m no gaunny press ye though. But if something did happen, ye kin talk tae ays aboot it. It’s no like ah’m gaunny go oan the warpath n set aboot any cunt. Those days are long gone, that’s just no my world any more.

  — Aye … ah ken that, Franco, changed man n aw that. That wis mad the other night thaire but, ay?

  — Aye, Franco says, then eh admits, — Played aw that DMT stuff doon. It wis fuckin wild but ah didnae want Renton tae ken. Him and Sick Boy thegither: it eywis annoyed the fuck oot ay ays when they went on aboot drugs, fuckin drugs, fuckin drugs aw the time. Ah mean, take the cunts or dinnae; but dinnae fuckin talk aboot them twenty-four/seven!

  — What did ye see but, Franco?

  — Enough, mate, Franco says, like it’s a wee warnin.

  But ye kin git away wi mair now wi Franco, n ah’ve goat the licence ay invalid status, so ah pure press it a bit. — What dae ye mean, but?

  — Ah mean ah dinnae want tae talk aboot it, eh goes. — It’s personal. It’s in ma heid. If ye cannae keep what’s in yir heid private, wir aw fucked, ay.

  Ah’m gaunny say, but we telt you, but ah jist goes, — Fair dos, catboy. When ye gaun back tae the US of A?

  — Soon, mate. We’ve got the big auction comin up this week, follayed by the exhibition next weekend. Melanie’s come ower, n we’re enjoying huving time thegither withoot the bairns aboot, much as we love they wee angels. We’re steyin at ma sister Elspeth’s. It’s aw workin oot nicely.

  — How’s Elspeth?

  — Fine … he goes, — well, no that great, but ah think it’s aw jist wimmin’s stuff, ay?

  — Aye, it’s good whin yuv goat people. Ah’ve jist goat Toto but he’s at ma sister’s now. Andy, ma laddie, he’s daein well, but he’s doon in Manchester. Lawyer but likesay, ah hear the pride crack ma voice. Still cannae believe it but. Takes eftir Alison in the brains department. — Comes up tae see his ma … You mind ay Ali, aye?

  — Aye. Is she well?

  — Barry. Teacher now, ay? Got another felly eftir me, hud another bairn, a laddie again. Ah feel masel choking up. Ah did huv chances tae huv a better life. Ah loast love. That hurts, man. That hurts ye in places other things cannae. — Aye, it’s jist me n Toto now. Ah worry cause ma sister’ll no look eftir him if anything happens tae me. The doc said ma hert stoaped n that ah wis deid for four minutes.

  — This is connected tae the kidney thing?

  — Sortay naw, but aye. It weakened ays gaun through aw that n pit a strain oan the hert.

  — This kidney thing, he looks at ays again, — ye want tae tell me what happened? Ah swear it stays between us.

  Ah hus a wee idea n looks at him. — Awright, but you’ve goat tae tell ays aboot your DMT trip first.

  Franco hauls in a breath. — Awright, but likewise for your ears only, right?

  — For sure, catboy.

  Franco’s eyes sortay widen. Ah mind ay whaire ah seen um like that before. Whin we were bairns n thaire wis a deid dug oan Ferry Road: a gold Labrador. Perr animal hud been hit by a car or a lorry gaun tae the docks. Back then people didnae eywis look eftir dugs right. They wid git a dug, then jist lit it roam durin the day. Sometimes dem poor puppies wid mob up in Pilrig Park, n even go feral, till cooncil dug catchers goat them and pit them doon. We wir aw sad, at the deid dug, likesay, lyin thaire, stomach ripped open, head smashed in, gore n blood streakin ower the road. But ah mind ay Franco’s eyes, they were sort ay aw innocent and wide.

  Like now. He clears ehs throat. — I’m sitting roond a table and there’s a bunch ay us, aw eating nice grub fae these big plates. Ah’m at the top at the table. The settin is fuckin opulent, like some sort ay olde worlde stately home.

  — Like Jesus at the Last Supper? What Rents wis on aboot?

  — Aye, ah suppose so. But aw that Last Supper stuff pre-dates the Bible and Christianity. It comes fae the DMT, which humans have eaten before Christ was even thought ay.

  The cats at St Mary’s Star ay the Sea or South Leith Parish Church widnae like that. — Wow … so it’s like Christians are just nosy straightpegs that, like, watch other people get messed up oan drugs and record aw their stories …

  — Ah suppose it is, mate, Franco sais. — Anyway, the thing that struck ays was that aw the other people roond the table wir deid. He stares at ays. It’s a funny look.

  — Like zombies?

  — Naw, like people who are no longer wi us. Donnelly wis thaire. Big Seeker n aw. N Chizzie the beast …

  It’s like ah ken what eh’s sayin. Eh killed them aw. Ah kent aboot Donnelly n Seeker, n ah wis wi Chizzie just before eh goat his throat cut but they nivir caught the boy that did it … but surely thaire wisnae mair … — How many wis thaire? ah ask.

  — A few ay them, Franco carries oan. — So ah wisnae chuffed being there wi they bams, but everybody was sound. Ken what ah took fae that?

  Ah’m lookin at him, feelin aw hopeful aboot the world. — That people are okay n we should aw g
it oan?

  — Naw. Tae me it said nae cunt’s gaunny be bothered, even if ye fuck them right up. The next life is too big tae get aw het up aboot what ye dae here in this yin.

  N ah think aboot this in terms ay ma ain life. Aye, ah’ve messed things up, but mibbe it disnae matter. Ah suppose it works fir Franco, n eh could be right. — It’s mibbe a good wey ay thinkin, man, ah tells the cat.

  27

  THE AUCTION

  As the tourist crowds infest the city, Edinburgh does its habitual spring tease, providing a few glorious days. Then it’s time for the usual about-face; the deliverance of the traditional smoky clouds and sudden downpours of heavy rain. Citizens and incomers wander around pinch-faced, looking cheated, many a little lost, and perhaps in need of a friend. Nobody more so than Mikey Forrester, who is happy to take Simon Williamson’s call and meet up at an impersonal bar near Edinburgh’s Waverley Station. Mikey is aggrieved; he thinks he’s avoided the rain as he walks down Cockburn Street and Fleshmarket Close, but it suddenly teems down and he’s soaked to the skin by the time he slips into the pub.

  Williamson is already standing at the bar, looking down at his fellow occupants of the boozer in arch disdain. Mikey nods to him and heads over. Sick Boy elicits strange emotions in him. He envies his effect on women; that seemingly effortless ability he has to charm them into bed had never deserted him over the years. Mikey is burdened by a belief that if he watches people closely enough, he can identify and appropriate their abilities for his own. As a life strategy this has afforded him limited success, but having internalised it, he can’t quite shake it off.

  Sick Boy has set up a Diet Coke for himself and, without asking him, orders up a vodka and tonic for Mikey. — How goes, Miguel?

  — No bad. How’s Spud?

  — He was a wee bit dodgy, Sick Boy says, in mild understatement, accepting the proffered drink from the barman in exchange for notes, — but the hozzy say he’s going to be fine. Watch … and he steers Mikey down the bar, where he stands close to him. Mikey can smell fresh garlic on his breath. Sick Boy always ate well. Probably Valvona & Crolla, he guesses, or perhaps his mother’s or sister’s home cooking. — I have a wee proposition for you. Could be lucrative.

  — Ah’m daein awright, Mikey Forrester says defensively.

  — Ye can drop the patter, Mikey, Sick Boy responds, quickly adding, — I’m no here tae judge anybody. Let’s face it, we all shat it offay Syme, yes wi good reason, but tae our eternal shame.

  Mikey is about to intervene in protest, but no words are coming.

  Sick Boy continues. — Thing is, he’s off our backs now. I know how tae keep him away fae your wee goings-on, and also ensure that he retains his gratitude tae ye.

  — We’re partners! Mikey bellows, bunching his fists, massively overplaying his hand.

  — Easy, bud, Sick Boy whispers, urging him to drop his voice. Sick Boy thinks perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to meet in this spot. After all, there were few better places for low-life grasses to congregate than in boozers close to railway stations, and a fat semi-jakeball in a tracksuit and skinhead cut seems to be taking an interest in the conversation. Mikey acknowledges his folly with a terse nod, and stands closer to Sick Boy.

  Simon David Williamson knows never to kick away a man’s crutch unless you offer him a superior replacement. — Have it your way, but my proposition could be very advantageous to you. Obviously, this is all in confidence. Do I have your ear, or should I go?

  Eyes darting across the bar in a quick scan, Mikey Forrester takes a sip of his vodka and nods in the affirmative.

  — Let me ask you: who does Syme fear? Sick Boy raises his eyebrows. He knows how to hook Mikey, namely by placing him at the centre of a compelling drama. With that very sentence, by urging his strategic counsel, he’s hinted at Mikey having an elevated status in the city’s underworld. The expansion of Michael Forrester’s pupils and the swivel in his neck tells Sick Boy he’s pressed the correct button.

  Mikey’s voice stays low. — Naebody. No now that Fat Tyrone’s away. Nelly’ll no go up against him. Nor will the Doyles. They’ve just divided Tyrone’s wee empire up between them. The young team arenae ready, no since Anton Miller got done.

  Sick Boy maintains only a rudimentary knowledge of the Edinburgh criminal scene, and has also extricated himself from the London one. Fundamentally, he dislikes gangsters. He is solely interested in women, and finds it difficult to engage at even a cursory level with most other men for any length of time. And ones who are more interested in the shifting hierarchy of power, rather than the sweet music of romance, bore him senseless, though he is too politic to show this disdain. — I was thinking of a certain Leith psychopath we both know well.

  — Begbie? Forrester laughs, before lowering his voice again. — He’s in America, a fuckin artist now, oot ay that life. Besides, he looks around, noting that the chubby skinhead has drunk up and gone, — him and Syme are probably tight, the way they boys ey are.

  — Syme’s West Side, Begbie was always Leith and the toon, mobbed up wi Tyrone, Nelly, Donny Laing, aw that crowd. Different circles. Syme was intae scrubbers, never really Tyrone’s thing. He was always loans, debt collection, extortion, Sick Boy explains, thinking: This is obviously pish; nutters always know each other, and generally side together against the civilians they prey on.

  But it proves a convincing enough narrative for Mikey to embrace, and he nods along in conspiracy.

  — Begbie’s back in Edinburgh for this auction and an exhibition ay his art, Sick Boy offers, then advances, — You and Renton, youse were never really bosom buddies, were yis?

  Historically, Mikey Forrester hadn’t got on with Mark Renton. The reason was trivial enough. Mikey had long fancied a woman, who had been stringing him along for free drugs, and whom Renton subsequently enjoyed a meaningless copulation with. This bugged the shit out of Mikey, and he had made his hostility apparent down the years. Age, however, had given him perspective and he now bore Mark Renton no ill will for this incident. Indeed, he felt a tinge of shame that he’d made so much of this now-petty grievance. — He helped us in Berlin.

  — Doesnae make ye bezzy mates.

  Forrester looks forlornly at Sick Boy. You can’t unsay the things you’ve said over the years. This only makes you look even weaker than the original running off at the mouth. — He’s a fuckin grass who steals fae his ain.

  Sick Boy shouts up more drinks, this time joining Mikey in the vodka and tonic. — How about if I told you I know a way to piss off Renton and get in Begbie’s good books? he purrs. — To the extent that it would buy you more respect from Syme, and get you right back in easy street. Intae a place where you’ll be a genuine equal partner. What do you say?

  Mikey is all ears. Of course, he would never be an equal partner with Syme, but Sick Boy knows that his vanity will always stubbornly allow the possibility. — What ur ye proposing?

  Sick Boy tries not to register his distaste at Mikey’s sour breath. It’s like he’s been gargling menstrual blood. He idly wonders if Mikey is a pussy eater, whether he goes south on rag week, and if he brushes his teeth after. — Renton might find that Begbie’s art will cost him more than he’s bargained for, especially if some cunt is bidding against him. And he really wants it, so there is no way he’ll let anybody else win.

  — So …

  — So you go there and bid the cunt up. Clean the fucker right oot. Begbie gets big bucks oot ay it all and Renton is totally skint, having peyed way over the odds. All thanks to one Michael Jacob Forrester. He points at Mikey. — Once Slimeball sees that you are the fucking man, right in with the viciously repped Franco Begbie, he starts to treat you with a bit more r-e-s-p-e-c-t. Get my drift?

  Mikey nods slowly. — But ah’ve nae money tae bid for art pieces.

  — You lose the auction to Renton.

  — Aye, but what if he pills oot n ah win?

  — I cover it, he says thinking of the money Renton gave him. — But if
you stop the bidding at the figure we agree, that won’t happen.

  Mikey raises his glass, takes a sip. It makes sense. Or perhaps it doesn’t. But what it does do, and what Sick Boy judges correctly is utterly irresistible to him, is place Michael Jacob Forrester right at the centre of an impending commotion that the city’s underworld will talk about for years to come.

  The auction takes place inside a four-pillared pseudo-Athenian temple, cast in the grey stone and with the arched windows often favoured in Edinburgh’s New Town. Regarded as one the most beautiful salesrooms in Britain, the building is tucked in a maze of backstreets between the East New Town and the top end of Leith Walk.

  Inside, it is a cross between an old church and a theatre. The stage, which holds the auctioned items to the rear as well as the auctioneer’s lectern to the fore, is the centrepiece in an inverted U-bend that runs around the hall. It looks onto a wooden floor partially covered by a giant, ruby-coloured, patterned rug, with around fifty people sitting on neatly lined-up gold-and-red chairs. Above the wings are balconies, supported by black cast-iron pillars, under which sit officials, who record the proceedings.

  The room is a hub of chatter and bustle. Some serious collectors are present, evidenced as recipients of hushed comments and reverential stares. The air is stuffy and slightly rank, as if some of the ageing pieces and collectors past have deposited a lingering scent. Close by those who dress and smell of ostentatious wealth, sit a few shaven-headed wideos of varying degrees of status in the local thug hierarchy. Jim Francis, the artist formerly known as Frank Begbie, stands at the back of the room with his agent Martin Crosby, looking over at them in an affectionate disdain. — The boys. Come tae have a wee neb at how much money auld Franco’s makin oot ay this art game!

  Martin nods, though he’s only able to make out the bones of what Jim is saying. Back on home turf, his client’s accent has thickened up considerably. Martin flew in from LA yesterday, and prior to today claimed never to suffer from jet lag.