Dead Men's Trousers

by Irvine Welsh

  The student, gamely paying off loans with a quarter-dozen jobs, is not going to argue details, and nods in accord. Kinghorn grabs a full wine bottle and a fistful of beers, turning to a group of hovering, emboldened faces and shouting: — Free fuckin ba-ar, ya cunts!

  A stampede follows, the bourgeois mob melting to the side of the room in a manner some CCS vets haven’t seen since the nineties. As if on cue, the man of the moment, the artist Jim Francis, enters with his wife, Melanie. The artsy crowd pounce on them, offering congratulations, as the thug element look at Begbie’s mounted heads and paintings in doubtful bemusement, checking out the price tags and the positions of the security cameras and guards.

  Mark Renton arrived earlier with Carl Ewart and Conrad Appledoorn, who is now following the silver-tray-carrying servers. Despite nodding to a few old faces, Renton feels safer behind the makeshift DJ booth, set up for the after-show party. The bank was broken to own the Leith Heads, displayed to the rear of the gallery, now it’s to be disastrously trampled by Franco for a further fifteen grand that isn’t there. The useless bronze heads stare back at him from their plinths. The expression on each, even his own, screams: mug.

  — Do I really look as snidey as that heid?

  — Got ye tae a tee, buddy, Carl Ewart says, observing the milling crowds. — Stacks ay fanny at these art dos but, Rents, he says, taking the words out of his manager’s mouth. Both men have lived too much of their lives in clubs, surrounded for too long by women too young, sexy and beautiful for their rougher male cohorts to ever believe in any form of social justice. Yet Renton has discerned, within the ranks of Edinburgh’s female artsy bourgeoisie, a serenely arrogant poise and entitlement, which might have been expected at a bigger urban centre, like New York or London.

  — When you get this amount of stuck-up, quality birds on a Tuesday night, it can only mean that independence is in the offing.

  — It isnae the Busy Bee or the Cenny, for sure, Carl acknowledges. — I’m surprised Sick Boy isnae networking … he begins, stopping instantly as he sets eyes on Simon David Williamson, raffishly at the centre of a posh-frocked squad of beauties. — Scratch that thought. And look …

  Renton cannot bear to set eyes on Sick Boy, who has made no attempt to engage with him since the successful but catastrophic auction. All that money. All that travel. Hotel rooms. Clubs. Tinnitus. All for fucking Frank Begbie! All because of fucking Williamson, the cunt.

  Carl has spotted Juice Terry, chatting up one of the female catering staff. — Terry isnae aspirational socially, just sexually, Carl ruminates. — He walks into a room, and he just sees fanny, full stop. He fastens on to one and if she tells him tae fuck off, he moves on to the next …

  — … Whereas Sick Boy, Renton interjects, warming to Carl’s theme, — sees a woman’s minge as essentially a device, a conduit to the greater prize: the control ay her mind and, ultimately, her purse. Fanny, mind, purse, that’s always been his trajectory. Getting them into bed is the end ay the line for Terry, but only stage one for sly Si. He is a cunt. Renton focuses back on his old friend.

  I gave that prick ninety-one thousand quid and he set ays up tae be shafted for Begbie’s bronze heids for another one hundred and seventy-five. And that fucker Begbie wants another fifteen four hundred and twenty on top ay that!

  Renton feels giddy, almost physically sick. His nausea rises further as he overhears a sincere Sick Boy contending, — Classic Motown, classic Motown and classic Motown, in response to a question regarding his musical preferences. — Note the words classic and Motown, he adds, just in case there is any ambiguity.

  — The boy’s a fuckin bastard, Renton begins, before he feels Carl’s elbow banging his ribs. His client is pointing to an apparition standing in the doorway, looking inside in spooked awe.

  — God sake, says Renton, — that fucker should be in his kip.

  Spud Murphy staggers towards them, taking a glass from a waiter’s tray, looking at the young man as if expecting it to be snatched away at the last second. — Mark … Carl … ah feel shite, man. This kidney, it’s pure no workin right. It’s like it’s hard tae pish …

  — Ye shouldnae drink, Spud, you’ve only got one tae take the burden now. Time tae ease up, mate. Renton looks at his old friend in concern. — You seem out ay it. Ye taken anything?

  — Ah’ll come clean, mate, that jaykit ye left at the hozzy, thaire wis a bit ay how’s-yir-faither in thaire n ah sortay taxed it … Ah just snorted some lines the now … rough as fuck but, man …

  — Fuck … that’s no ching, Spud, it’s K, Renton turns to Carl, — the stuff you gied ays, mind?

  — You’re welcome to it, Spud, Carl says.

  — Right … ah’d better git back hame then, left the pavey scooter ootside … Spud turns to Renton. — Sub ays, mate …

  Renton despondently pulls out a twenty from his wallet.

  Spud gratefully snatches it. — Ta, mate. Will replace it and the collies whin … well … later … His head jerks round. — No gaunny go withoot sayin goodbye tae Franco but … legs awfay heavy though, man, like ah’m pure wadin through treacle, he says, then lurches away from them.

  Renton makes to follow, but Carl says, — Naw, leave um. Let Franco sort him oot. You have a needy client. Tell me about this Barça deal again.

  Mark Renton cracks a smile and watches, with a malicious glee, as Spud Murphy lumbers, zombie-like, across the floor, towards Francis Begbie. The artsy entourage fussing over the star scatter like pins in a bowling alley, as Spud finds his target.

  Franco greets him through clenched teeth. — Hi, Spud. Nice to see ye here. You sure ye feel good enough tae be oot though?

  — Ah’m gaun hame now … ah just wanted tae see … this exhibition. This is likesay weird, Franco, Spud says, stroke-victim mouth flapping open, — like Hibs winnin the Cup or me losin ma kidney. It’s mental …

  — The world throws up shocks, bud, Franco agrees. — The plates are shifting. It’s aw up for grabs, mate.

  — Ah’m pleased fir ye though, Franco, dinnae git ays wrong …

  — Ta, bud. Appreciate it.

  — … Cause you’ve really changed, man … and you’ve likesay goat everything n ye pure deserve it.

  — Thanks, Spud, nice ay ye tae say so, mate. The artist hauls in a deep breath, battling a fundamental resentment at being cast as Franco Begbie, fighting to keep grace in his voice. He was the artist Jim Francis, from California, here with his wife and his agent, for fuck sake. Why couldn’t they just let him be that? What the fuck was it to them?

  — Aye, you’ve changed awright, Spud insists.

  — Thanks, Franco repeats. He scans around the milling, chattering crowds, all their eyes on his paintings and pieces of sculpture. Except the doolally set in front of him. He looks for a potential upgrade on the company, and a sucker to entrust Spud to.

  — Aye, you’ve no goat the same eyes, mind they killer’s eyes ye used tae huv? Spud demonstrates by trying to force his bug-eyes into slits. — Thaire’s just pure love in they eyes now.

  — Again, thanks, Franco says through a locking jaw, waving to Melanie.

  — Ah see it when ah see ye look at yir wife … n she’s tidy, Franco, if ye dinnae mind ays sayin likes. Spud feels a roll under his feet like the wooden floor is uneven, but he steadies himself. — She looks like she’s a kind person n aw, Franco … Great thing whin ye git a good-lookin lassie … that’s a kind person n aw. Did she make you a kinder person, Franco? Is that the answer? Love?

  — I suppose it is, Spud. Frank Begbie feels his fist tighten on the glass of sparkling water in his hand.

  — Ah hud love wi Alison. N it wis good … it wis the best ever. But ah couldnae keep it, likesay. How’s it you dae that, Franco … how’s it ye keep it?

  — Dunno, mate. Luck, ah suppose.

  — Naw it’s mair thin luck, Franco, Spud says, his voice cracking with sudden emotion, — it’s goat tae be poppy n aw. N success. Like you stumbled oan this hidden art t
alent. Ken? That’s ma problem, he laments, — nae talent tae speak ay.

  Frank Begbie hauls in another breath. Sees the opportunity to introduce the levity he badly needs. — You were a decent housebreaker and no a bad shoplifter.

  Spud shuts his eyes, opening them after a couple of beats, and takes in the strangeness of the room. — Aye, n ye ken whaire they talents took me, he says. — But you’ve done well, Mark’s done well, though we ey kent that, he went tae university, the lot, n Sick Boy … as long as there’s chicks tae exploit, he’s ey gaunny git by. But how did it happen tae you, Frank? How did Frank Begbie … how did Frank Begbie … come oot ay aw this as the cat that goat the cream?

  — Look, mate, ah told ye, Franco says impatiently, — it just happens. Meet the right person at the right time, get a bit encouragement, find something ye like daein …

  He is relieved when Martin approaches them. His agent is a very composed man, but his eyes are glazed and his pupils enlarged in excitement. He points to a big canvas on one of the walls. It depicts a man tied to railway tracks. — Blood on the Tracks, it’s been bought by Marcus Van Helden for one million, Jim! One painting!

  — Quid or USD?

  — Well, USD. But it’s more than twice the highest amount you’ve sold a single piece for!

  — Gallery gets half, so that’s half a mil. You get a hundred grand, that’s four hundred thou. Taxman gets a hundred and fifty, that’s a quarter ay a million bucks, or aboot one hundred and eighty thousand quid.

  Martin’s brow furrows. He struggles to understand his client’s mentality. What others were in receipt of seems to be of far more concern to him than his own substantial remuneration. — Well, that’s life, Jim …

  — Aye, it is.

  — It’s a single piece and it sets the bar high for your other work. It establishes you as a premium artist in the eyes of collectors.

  — Suppose so, Jim Francis says without enthusiasm, as they move across to the picture, Spud staggering along behind them. The piece depicts a bloodstained figure bound to a railway line. — That pure looks like Mark, Spud sings excitedly.

  — It does a bit, Franco grudgingly concedes, looking over at Renton by the decks. — I wisnae thinking ay him, though. Must have been subconscious.

  — This art gallery, man … it’s awfay posh n gies ays the heebie-geebies just gaun in. So ah’ve goat this ketamine, n that’s the only wey ah kin git through it, Spud announces to Begbie and Martin, then suddenly lurches to the steel stairs.

  Franco looks at Martin in semi-apology. — An old pal, fallen on somewhat hard times.

  Instead of going down the stairs to the exit, Spud, his mind now succumbed totally to a blank limbo, lurches up to the vacant top floor. The room is the same as the one below, but it’s empty.

  Where is everybody …?

  He is scarcely aware that he is taking a fire hose from the wall. Starts to unravel it. Looks down at it. Throws it away. Turns it on at the tap, then wanders off, oblivious to it jumping over the floor like a demented snake, shooting out a high-pressure jet of water. He stumbles back to the fire escape, then feels himself falling downwards, but not safe like the DMT trip, and a javelin of panic skewers through the drug anaesthetic as he reflexively reaches out to arrest his decline, grabbing out at an exposed pipe, using it to steady himself. He is aware of gently sliding again, as it wrenches from the wall. Then it snaps. Spud tumbles down a few steps, and a river of cold water skooshes from the burst duct into the stairwell.

  Assisted by the banister railing, Spud manages to pull himself to his feet. He descends the stairs, almost blind, following the music, nearly knocking over a server with a tray. People gasp and move aside as Renton runs from the decks to intercept. — Fuck sake, Spud. He grabs his friend’s scrawny shoulders, placing a glass of champagne in his hand.

  — The system, Mark … it’s beat us aw, Mark.

  — No, mate. We’re the undefeated. Fuck the system.

  Spud lets out a high hyena-like laugh, as Renton helps him sit down in a chair by the decks. Carl N-Sign Ewart plays smooth, soulful house as the various associates of Franco – boxers, ex-football thugs, jailbirds, construction workers and taxi drivers – start to mingle with the genuinely libertine among the artsy crowd, while the poseurs make for the cloakroom, like Titanic passengers for the life rafts.

  Renton is trying to coax a bored Conrad to play for a bit. He has the big headlining SSEC gig later. — It’s still early. Do a wee turn.

  — They do not pay.

  — A wee favour for your manager?

  Conrad looks at Renton as if he’s crazy, but gets up to play anyway, Carl happily giving way for him. The overweight young Netherlander drops the first track to cheers, promoting his manager to slap his back. — Go on, the Dutch master!

  Then Conrad shouts at Renton, — There is a girl who is hot. He points to a young woman, sipping water by the side of the dance-floor area. She has killer cheekbones and hypnotic ringed green eyes.

  — Play. I’ll get you an intro. Are you going to showcase the new track?

  — Invite her to come with me to the SSEC gig. If she comes, you do not need to go, he says with a grin, then cuts back to a petulant, reprimanding scowl. — You, and the world, will hear the new track when I am ready!

  — Sound. Renton focuses on the positive; a get-out-of-jail-free card is in the post. As Conrad gets back to work, Renton and Carl go over to Juice Terry. He greets them with hugs. — The Milky Bar Kid is back in town! And the Rent Boy tae!

  — I love you, Terence Lawson, Carl says.

  — Lean Lawson! Did you go tae the final? Renton asks.

  — Hud a fuckin ticket, ay, but ah ended up baw-deep in this tart.

  — Nice one, Tez, Carl says.

  — Aye, ah wis watchin the game oan the telly while pumpin it aw weys. Hud her ower the couch, then oan the bed tied tae the metal frame wi her ain Hibs scerfs. Best ay baith worlds. When those cunts went 2–1 up, ah kept up the pressure till Stokesy equalised. Still at her whin Gray goat the winner. Final whistle, ah jist punched the air n blew ma fuckin muck right up her! Best fuckin ride ah ever hud!

  Renton laughs, then nods towards the object of Conrad’s desire. — Who’s that lassie?

  — Used tae be a gangster’s pump, but ah got her ootay that and intae the scud, Terry says. He starts to tell Renton about some fairly recent gang war. A young team boss had perished, as did Tyrone and Larry, two old associates of Franco.

  Renton, Carl and Juice Terry are joined by Sick Boy and the Birrell brothers – Billy ‘Business’ Birrell, the ex-boxer, and Renton’s old pal Rab, who wrote the script for the porno flick they made. Spud is still in the chair, head twisted, eyes rolling, drooling out the side of his mouth. Franco is close by with Melanie, chatting to some guests. — Can’t wait tae get home, Renton hears his old pal sing in an accent more Californian that Caledonian. But, he reasons, his own one is blanded out through living in Holland. Sick Boy has also picked up a dreary, poncey metropolitan ubiquity, though Leith was seeping back into his tones. Only Spud, he looks at the mess, crumpled into the seat beside the decks, is keeping it real.

  Nobody notices that the ceiling has been bellying out. Sick Boy is avoiding the substantial cleavage that is being thrust in his face, looking over her shoulder at Marianne, who is wearing a blue dress. She arrived with a younger man and woman. Terry peels off the company and is straight over to her. He’s firing a volley of questions at her, the usual Lawson technique … — Excuse me, Sick Boy says to the busty woman, moving across the room to where Terry and Marianne are in conversation.

  Renton watches him detach Marianne from an irate Terry, and lead her to the fire escape. Just as they disappear, the ceiling collapses and water cascades down.

  — Save the work, screams Martin, pulling a painting from the wall.

  Everybody freezes in amazement, then they rush to avoid the water and falling ceiling debris, or try to move the artwork. Frank Begbie remains impassive. �
�� If there was a fire in a flat at Wester Hailes, wi a family trapped in a blaze, and the chance tae save them, the services would be called here tae save the art first. Ah dinnae git that.

  — Jambo scheme, Renton says, — I get it.

  While Franco laughs, Renton takes his opportunity. — One question, Frank, he coughs out exigently, — this money … the fifteen grand, why now? Why do ye want it back now?

  Frank Begbie pulls Renton out of earshot from Melanie, who is helping Martin and an attendant remove Blood on the Tracks. — Well, after a bit ay mature reflection, I think you’re right. It’ll help us all move on. Get rid ay aw this shite aboot the past, ay?

  — But … surely … ah boat they heids. For way ower the odds. That’s us mair than square.

  — Naw, mate, you bought some art. It says so on the bill of sale. That’s goat fuck all tae dae with our debt.

  — You’re no gaunny hit me with that … please, Frank, I’m struggling, mate, ah’ve got –

  — I’m no hittin ye wi anything. I don’t do that any more. You stole fae us all; you eventually offered to pey it back. You peyed back Spud. You peyed back Sick Boy, only tae rip him off again.

  — But I peyed him back again! Renton cringes at his own voice, a high, infantile shriek.

  — Anyway, I decided that I didnae want tae touch that money. Then you tried tae manipulate me by buying the heids, which ye hud nae real interest in.

  — I was trying tae get ye tae take what wis due tae ye!

  — That wisnae the motive, Franco says, as sirens wail from outside. — You wanted tae feel better aboot yirsel. Tae square the account. The usual AA or NA shite.