Dead Men's Trousers

by Irvine Welsh

  Gutted tae have missed his funeral, but this is a better wey tae pey ma respects.

  Each tae their ain.

  36

  RENTON – DOING THE RIGHT THING

  Sometimes it’s mair complex than just daein the right thing. It’s working out what the right thing is when every cunt’s dangling wrong yins in front of ye. I’ve made the call that the right thing for me is tae keep the Santa Monica gaff and stay clean. So instead of bringing out Conrad’s new track, I left it to Muchteld, while I engineered three generations ay Renton to be together.

  Taking Alex fae Amsterdam, out ay social services and the care home, tae my dad’s place at Leith, was quite an ordeal. But I decided possession was nine-tenths ay the law. Instead ay one ay our regular outings tae the Vondelpark for ice cream and coffee (that was a fucker ay a battle, autistic kids are programmed tae routine), I took him tae the passport office. Then, after dropping Alex back at the amusement park, as I call the home, I went tae the seaside tae visit Katrin and tell her ay my plans.

  — It is good you are taking this interest, she said in her usual offhand way. She obviously didnae gie a fuck, and indeed, was happy tae have him out ay the way. I couldn’t believe I’d spent so many years sleeping in the same bed as this stranger. But I suppose that’s the nature of love: we are either creatures ay the present and have tae live with the trauma and misery if it goes tits up, or doomed tae loneliness. I might no have taken much interest ower the fifteen years ay his life, but it’s still a fucking sight mair than she ever did. When it was obvious that there were issues with Alex, she had said wearily, — It is useless. There is no communication.

  Her coldness and detachment always intrigued me when it was just the two ay us. Then there was somebody else, who was totally dependent on us, and it didnae play so well. She basically fucked off and lumbered me with the kid, taking an acting job wi a touring theatre company. That was us done. I found Alex a place in a care home, so I could keep working.

  As I left her, probably for the last time, she loitered in the big doorway ay this Zandvoort mansion she shares with her architect boyfriend and their two flawless blonde Nazi children, and, in gesture and descending tone I could no longer interpret, said, — I wish you well.

  Conrad keeps phoning but not leaving messages. I need to get back to him, but I can’t bear to hear him tell me he’s signed up with some big agency. Even though not picking up makes this all the more likely. Muchteld put out his single, ‘Be My Little Baby Nerd’, quirky, dancey, pop, and it’s tearing it up.

  Of course, I had to take the auld man as well. Ordinarily there was no way the stubborn auld Hun would get on a plane to America, but Alex being in the package changed everything. On the flight tae LA I realise that ma faither is the chronic autism whisperer. He could always calm or distract my wee brother Davie, and he does the same with Alex. My son sits in silence, without any customary loud outbursts or agitation. I hear him repeat, under his breath, — I asked for one, not two.

  — One what, pal? Dad asks him.

  — It’s just something he says.

  But every single time he repeats it, my father asks the question ay him.

  Vicky meets us at the airport. She smiles and greets Alex, who looks blankly at her, mumbling stuff under his breath. Driving us up to Santa Monica, Vicky leaves us to get settled, as she puts it. Dad and Alex have the apartment’s bedrooms, while I’m on the couch. It’s too small for the three ay us, and will wreck my back. I really need tae sort something out.

  37

  SICK BOY – GIVE ME YOUR ANSWER DO

  Marianne moved down to London with me, to my new Highgate flat, courtesy of Renton’s cash. It’s a short walk from Hampstead Heath, and satisfyingly bucks my downwardly mobile trend. Ever since Offord Road in Islington, back in the eighties, neoliberal economics have been chasing me out of the city. Time, gentlemen, please, it insists, as it cock-sucks shadowy fifth-home oligarchs from Russia and the Middle East, who deign to show up two weeks in the year to get cunted in this particular one of their gated gaffs dotted throughout the globe. We treated ourselves to a hooker and some ching last night and are exhausted from our efforts. So she lies in, but I’m up early next morning, on the tube down to King’s Cross, to interview some more girls for Colleagues.

  I stand behind my raised desk in the small office that serves as the nerve centre of the Colleagues empire, a bunch of phones spread in front of me like playing cards. The buzzer goes and I press it, and several moments later can hear a woman walking up the stairs, her breath, like her expectations, falling away steadily as she comes into the office. If the landlord would get a fuckin windae cleaner in so we could see ootside, let in some light, it might make the place less dreary. I really do need to get a more salubrious suite. Maybe Clerkenwell, or perhaps even Soho. The woman looks at me, and her anxiety at the sleaze can’t wipe out the shagger’s glint in her eye and filthy set to her mouth. She’s the first of eight I have to see today.

  I’m zonked when I get home, but I still have enough juice in the tank to pummel Marianne under the beef cosh, while igniting her with the creeping love bombs of obscene speech. Keep them well shod and well shagged: the only decent advice my father ever gave me in the affairs of the heart department. The only decent advice the cunt gave me in anything.

  My mouth is dry and my head spins satisfyingly as we lie in bed. Then we shower and get dressed, heading out to dinner with Ben and his boyfriend, who have moved in together, close by in Tufnell Park. I’ve told them to forget about decent restaurants in that area. — I booked up this place, I inform Ben on the phone. — I hope Dan likes seafood.

  I’ve only met Dan once, and I like him. He seems good for Ben, who, as tough as it is to admit, is a bit fucking straight. Sadly Surrey and soul just don’t go. We rendezvous at FishWorks in Marylebone High Street. Is there anywhere else more acceptable for seafood in London? I sincerely doubt it. Despite arriving before us, the boys thoughtfully take the two chairs, leaving us the grey padded bench seating opposite.

  I order a bottle of Albariño. — I find most whites a little acidic for me these days but this works, I say. — So, how are the Surrey people reacting to my upcoming nuptials?

  Ben, wearing a black jacket and a green crew-neck top, says, — Well, Mum’s been a little quiet. He breaks into a smile. — Sometimes I think she still holds a candle for you.

  Of course she does. Batters it into her fanny every night, while thinking of the best cock she ever had or ever will have. I almost say this out loud, but check myself. After all, it’s the boy’s mother and he dotes on her. — Understandable. Once you’ve perused the goods in the Simon David Williamson emporium, I look at Marianne and drop my voice to a playful growl, — it’s very hard to shop elsewhere.

  — Copy that, Marianne grins, winking at the boys. Then she looks at my nose. — I just hope that bruising goes for the wedding photographs!

  Must this spectre be continually raised? — A cowardly attack, I explain to the lads. — I cost an old pal a bob or two as payback for some considerable emotional chaos he caused, and he can’t take it like a man.

  — Ooh er missus, Dan laughs.

  Yes, I do like this guy. — That’s the spirit, Dan. I look at Ben. — I’m glad you didn’t take up with one of those boring homosexuals, son.

  — Dad …

  — No, fuck that, I say, as the menus arrive with the white wine. — It’s just the same as a boring heterosexual. If you’re gay, just be a proper fucking poof, would be my advice. The waiter opens the bottle and pours the wine for me to taste. I take a sip, and nod in approval. While he fills the glasses, I warm to my theme. — Be a lisping, gossiping, flamboyant, outrageous, scandalous queen! Don’t be a suburban Charlie with a boyfriend called Tom, with whom you go kayaking at the weekends. Ram strangers in toilets! OD on Oscar Wilde! Get your cock sucked by rent boys in the park …

  A couple at the next table look round.

  — Simon, Marianne warns as the
waiter departs.

  Marianne and Ben are looking edgy, but Dan’s loving it, so I speak a little louder. — Seduce a straight fucker and wreck his life, then, after he’s divorced, become BFF with his ex-wife, make each other wild cocktails and gossip about what a lousy lay he is. Discover a passionate love of musical theatre. Go to underground techno nights in Berlin dressed in lederhosen.

  — We’ll bear that in mind, Dan laughs, turning to Ben. — So Germany it is for the holidays then!

  Ben blushes. He’s a couple of years younger than Dan, and it shows. I wonder if he’s getting rammed, or doing the ramming, the saucy wee devil. I suppose the benefits of poofery is that you get to mix it up. Lucky bastards. — Good! I don’t want you guys squandering your gift of homosexuality on dating apps, mortgage brokers, estate agents, architects, adoption papers, meeting with surrogate single hoors who will take you to the cleaners, and arguments about fucking fabrics!

  — There are no arguments about fabrics with us. It’s my way or the highway, Marianne says, as she rises to go to the toilet.

  — I like her, Ben says. — I’m happy for you, Dad.

  I move in close and lower my voice. — She’s either a predator or a victim. Like Churchill said about the Germans, at your feet or at your throat. It’s great living with her, it keeps me on my toes. She tries to undermine me as much as I do her. Every day is a fucking joust, I punch the table in euphoria, — I have never felt so alive in my life!

  — That doesn’t really seem like a recipe for –

  I cut him off right away. — Three words: make-up sex. Or is that two?

  The boys look at me, and giggle a little. Not in a faggy way, more a what-the-fuck-is-that-embarrassing-old-cunt-saying-now manner. It’s taboo talking sex to youth: they don’t want to envision middle-aged sleazebags banging away. I was the same at that age. Still am now.

  — Enough said, I tap my nose, and fuck me, it’s sore. Renton. That cunt.

  Ben’s voice rises to an acceptably fey pitch with the wine, and his camp mannerisms become more pronounced.

  — That’s it, lads, you can dispense with all the Hollywood closet-case stuff and let it all hang out. I’m straight, but I’m still as camp as a row of tents.

  — He is, Marianne agrees, returning from the toilet to slide back into her seat beside me.

  — That’s because I was rifling you aw weys, I laugh, enjoying the wine, as she digs me in the ribs. I look at them. — Well, why should you raving buftie boys have all the fun? No offence meant, my bellissimi bambinis!

  When they get off the tube at Tufnell Park, Marianne and I have a drunken argument. — You don’t have to try and outperform them, they’re just young lads, she says.

  I know that look, and it calls for an olive branch. — You, my darling, are exactly right as usual. I was remiss, please forgive me. I guess I’m just nervous. My boy moving in with a new partner. But he’s a nice lad.

  — They’re a great couple, she says, assuaged.

  The next day we are off to Edinburgh on the train. The journey is very pleasant; it beats flying hands down. I love the way it gets progressively more beautiful the further north you go.

  — Do you think this is a good idea? Marianne asks.

  — Not particularly. Richard Branson is a wanker and I hate giving money to him. But flying is such –

  — No, I mean this dinner!

  — Yes, I insist, thinking about that cunt Euan. A sapling whose weakness led to Danny boy’s sad demise. — I spoke to my mamma on the phone. She’s all excited, I could hear her crossing herself. ‘My-a boy finally settling doon and getting married …’

  — But she doesn’t know it’s tae me, Simon. We have history. And your sister …

  — Carlotta and Euan are fine now. They’ll just have to accept you, or we won’t be seeing any of them. Simple as, I tell her. — They have to learn that it can’t all be about them, that fucker Euan leaving a trail of devastation with his dick, then going back to playing bourgeois happy families when it suits him … I look her in the eye. — Not on my watch.

  — I just wish I hudnae … you know … Her gaze is penitent, as well it might be. A terrible slut, but I really would not have her any other way. — I was so angry with you at the time. She squeezes my hand.

  — I don’t care about that … well, only in so far as it sparked off a twisted chain of events, but it was Euan’s folly that messed it up.

  Marianne sweeps her hand through her hair. It falls back into place instantly. — But won’t they be freaked out that it doesn’t matter to you, likes, about myself and Euan?

  It only matters to me that you shagged fucking Renton. — I’m not a man prone to jealousy. It’s only a ride. I drop my voice as the trolley dolly creaks past. I consider shouting up a Stella, but decide against it. — You’re a hot vixen slag and that sort of wanton, reckless behaviour just makes me desire you more.

  She fixes me that ‘I’m game’ look and we repair to the toilet. I sit on the lavy seat, her straddling me, and we’re banging away. Suddenly the door slides open and a chunky cunt in a Sunderland strip stands looking at us, mouth open. Marianne turns round. — Fuck … Simon … I slap the shut knob and it slides back, and this time I remember to press the locking button. The bloater’s intervention has upped the horn stakes and we shit-talk each other into a joint shrieker of an orgasm.

  Staggering back to our seats, we regard the rest of the carriage in languid, superior, sex-case snide. The train rolls into Waverley, a little delayed, but I’ve texted Mamma, and we shouldn’t be too late. We jump in a cab up to the Outsider restaurant in George IV Bridge. It’s a favourite haunt of mine when I’m back in town. Great locally produced food, and a friendly but unfussy service.

  — I’m nervous, babe, Marianne says.

  — Fight through that shit, oh cherishable force. I’m proud of you, doll, and nobody is snubbing or disdaining you on my watch, I tell her. — Bring it on! Tony Stokes!

  It’s kid sis who looks up first, as her darling brother walks in arm-in-arm with his lovely fiancée. I’d decided that this would be the best entrance we could make. Carlotta’s eyes bulge in disbelief and she sits in a choking silence. Louisa notices and looks shocked, but almost pleasantly, and her man, Gerry, turns to her, trying to work out what’s going on. Then Euan, doubtlessly sensing the disturbance in the air, glances up from the menu to see us standing above them, about to sit down.

  — Cards on the table time, I announce to the aghast company, getting in my seat, Marianne following stiffly, — there’s a wee bit ay history for us all to get past, it might make your hearts go oh, oh, oh, oh … but we’re all grown-ups and we don’t care what the –

  — AH DINNAE BELIEVE IT! YOU BRING HER HERE! Carlotta wails, as diners’ heads swivel round to us. — YOU … YOU’RE GAUNNY MAIRRAY … She turns to Marianne. — AND YOU … YOU’RE GAUNNY MAIRRAY HIM?!

  — Carlotta, please, Mamma appeals, as the shocked diners tut and the maître d’ hovers nervously.

  — Sounding gey Bananay Flats thaire, sis, I smile for levity.

  Of course, it falls on unreceptive lugs. — C’MON! Carlotta grabs Euan’s hand, hauling him to his feet and pulling him through the scandalised diners towards the door. He looks briefly back, spazzing in confusion, like a lamb in an abattoir, bleating consoling inanities at his wife.

  — Typical, I shrug, — make it all about her! I turn to my mother. — Mamma, this is Marianne, the love of my life.

  Marianne glances to the door Carlotta and Euan are crashing out of, then smiles at Mamma. — It’s a pleasure, Mrs Williamson.

  — I think I remember you …

  — Yes, Simon and I went out many years ago.

  — Aye, I mind, Louisa smirks, as Marianne tenses up.

  — It’s been a rocky road but the path of true love never ran smooth, I declare, summoning the waiter. — Sorry about the fuss, brother, emotional time … I address the table: — Who’s for champers? A wee swally ay Bolly?
>
  — What happened to your nose? Mamma asks.

  — A cowardly attack, I tell her, — but it’s all good!

  — Well, this is a turn-up for the books, Louisa grins like a demented Cheshire cat with its furry balls caught in a vice.

  The waiter reappears with that thickset glass fucker in an ice bucket. He pops and pours to my unbridled delight. — Cheer up! I raise my glass. — There is absolutely nothing bad happening anywhere in this big wide world at this precise moment in time!

  38

  RENTON – DON’T BEG THE BEGGAR BOY

  On the road, the afternoon light thickens in a gaudy, retina-scorching burst. I take my shades from my shirt pocket, stick them on and floor it, as Vic Godard sings about Johnny Thunders on the stereo. I motor smoothly up the Pacific Coast Highway, the vibrant blue sky clashing with the scrub-covered brown hills. As I head to Santa Barbara, I’m aware that I’m risking it all. Happiness with Vicky, with my dad, trying to build a home over here for Alex.

  I was skint anyway but Second Prize has cleaned me out completely. I’ve zilch and my main source of income, Conrad, is as good as away to a big agency. The worthless Leith Heads: fucking Sick Boy and, most of all, that cunt Begbie. I’m not going to beg the Beggar Boy. All I can do is ask. And if he says no, then I’ll offer the cunt a square go. I feel an avalanche of rage gather in my chest. Constricting my throat. Tightening my muscles. My back throbbing in its old spot. We’ll see if the artsy poof Jim Francis is all that’s left ay Frank Begbie. At this moment, I feel the very same way he probably did when I betrayed him: like everything has been taken from me. Well, Williamson fuckin got it, and now Begbie will. And there he is, standing as a man wi a wife and two young daughters, a proper man, in the way he never was back then; one who looks after his family. Like I’m striving tae. But how much empathy does the cunt have? None. Spud’s in the fuckin groond and he couldnae even bother showing up. Never sent a wreath, a caird or fuck all.