by Irvine Welsh
It’s fairly obvious that they are both fine with me going right out again. I head to the Speakeasy and Conrad’s parked up in the street outside, slumped over the dashboard like an activated airbag. I tap the window and he springs awake. We go into the bar and he orders a Diet Pepsi. Fuck me, the revolution has started. I order a nice bottle of California Pinot. The Speakeasy wine bar is almost empty tonight. Two young women sit at one table, and a group of executives at another, their loud chatter telling the world that they’re in TV. Conrad declines a glass of my plonk, but then augments his soft drink with a beer, as we settle down at a corner table. — I thought you were here to sack me, I confide.
— No, and he looks shocked, — do not be stupid! You are family to me, he says, as I quickly work through a glass, then refill. — Sometimes it feels like you are the only one who has ever taken an interest in me.
Fuck sake, now it’s me fighting back the King Lears here! This has been an emotional day. I rescue Begbie and Mel, and pummel some bent psycho copper half to death, get back the fortune I’d lost, and now this Dutch cunt is breaking my fucking heart! So I cope by letting the manager in ays kick in, the sudden intimacy between us giving me an opening. — The family thing, I look at him gravely, — I feel the same way about all you guys, mate … and that’s why it’s killing me to see you letting yourself go.
— What …?
— The timber, bro; it needs to be shed, and I punch his airm. — This weight is killing you, and it shouldn’t be that way. You’re a young guy, Conrad, it’s not right.
There’s a brief flash ay hostility in his eyes. Then they soften, moistening as he starts telling me about his old man. The dude is a classical musician with the Dutch National Orchestra, who has never respected his son’s love of electronic dance music. This lack of acknowledgement and credibility in his dad’s eyes depresses the fuck out of Conrad.
I suck in a long breath, and unload. — This maybe isnae what ye want tae hear, mate, but fuck him. He’s respected by some stiff-arsed old cunts who go tae listen tae his fannybaws orchestra playing the music ay deid fuckers. You’re respected by teenage Lyrca-clad goddesses who want to suck your brains out through your dick and then fuck whatever’s left out of your head. The old cunt is jealous, mate, it’s as simple as that. If our one goal in life is to replace our fathers, and I think in guilt at the lovely old Weedgie boy down the street, — then job done, and at a precociously early age, and I raise my glass in a toast. — Nice one!
He looks at me with that same tremor of anger again, before it melts into considered deliberation, then enlightenment and finally, a hopeful, — You really think so?
— I know so, I tell him, as the two young women who have been looking over at us come across.
— It’s you, isn’t it? one of them says to Conrad. — You’re Technonerd!
— Yes, Conrad says robotically as I look at him in affirmation. This woman has dramatically underscored my point.
— Oh my God!
They want selfies with him, and Conrad is happy enough to oblige. Afterwards, they have the grace to see that we’re into something, and head back to the bar. I’m surprised Conrad didn’t ask for a phone number, it’s very unlike him.
— Now back tae this business ay the coral reef. I jab a finger at him. — I know a trainer in Miami Beach. You like it down there. She’s as tough as fuck, but she will sort out your brain and body. I hand him the card of this woman Lucy, whom Jon, a flabby promoter at Ultra (at least until she got a hold of him), recommended tae ays.
Conrad takes it in his grubby fist, and slips it into his pocket. — Now that we are being frank, he says, — there are some things I need to tell you. The first one is that you are right about Emily. She is an amazing talent. Her new stuff is very, very good. I am remixing some of her tracks. We have been working in Amsterdam, but we need to find a new studio here for the Vegas season.
— Brilliant! That’s great news! I’m totally on it with the studio. I have several options –
— The second is that we are having a relationship. Emily and myself.
— Well, that’s your business, bud …
My face must be giving away that I believe they are probably the two most fundamentally unsuited people on the planet. But maybe not, as Conrad says, — She said that you guys had been fucking. So this thing with her and me, it is not a problem for you?
— No … why should it be? It was just once … I look at him. — She told you we had sex? What the fuck … what did she say?
— That you were good in bed – creative, was the word she used – but also that you do not have the stamina of a younger man. That you can no longer fuck all night, which is what she needs, and a trace of a smile spreads across the corners ay his chops.
I can’t help but laugh at that. — Let’s just leave it there and allow me to congratulate you both. I have a bit of news too. This will be your last season at Surrender.
— They cannot fire me, he fumes, then smashes his fist on the table and my wine glass wobbles, — you cannot let them do this!
I raise my hand to silence him and cut in, — Next season you’ll be playing XS.
— Fuck! He jumps up, and shouts across to the bar, — Give me a bottle of your best champagne, then says to me, — I have the best manager in the world!
I can’t resist it. — To quote Brian Clough, I’m certainly in the top one.
— Who is Brian Clough?
— Before your time, bud, I say depressingly.
For the first time, Vicky, with Willow and Matt, joins me in Vegas. We see Calvin Harris at the Hakkasan, Britney Spears at the Axis, and, of course, Conrad, Emily and Carl at Surrender.
While Conrad is on the decks, and Carl is explaining DMT to the others, I collar Emily. — Thanks for telling him about us. I nod to the box and Conrad’s hulking back.
— Oh, it just slipped out. Sorry!
— I should think so.
— Don’t take the hump. Emily raises a brow. — It was me who helped convince him, and Ivan, that you were the main man.
The fuck … — Ivan? What about Ivan?
— Yes, Conrad and I have been hanging out with him in Amsterdam. I’ve been trying to get him back onside. It’s only gone and worked, hasn’t it? she grins. — He wants to come back to Citadel Productions. You should expect a call soon.
Fuck me. It’s not Ivan who has been trying to poach them for the big boys! It’s them who’ve been grooming Ivan-the-treacherous-Belgian to return to the Citadel camp. — Emily, I’m eternally grateful, but why are you doing this?
— I feel a bit bad, because of all the aggro I caused you.
— Look, it was just a daft wee shag and it shoul —
— Not that, you fucking idiot, she laughs and leans into me. — This one you really need to keep to yourself …
— Okay …
— … the dickhead thing wasn’t Carl, she confides, and we both start fitting with laughter.
42
INTERROGATION
The interview room is stark and bare. There is a Formica table, on which sits recording equipment. It’s surrounded by hard plastic chairs. Simon David Williamson has regained his composure, and part of him, as it always does, is relishing the interpersonal challenges ahead. He grinds his teeth together in a move he considers galvanising. On his arrival at the police station and prior to his placement in a holding room, he immediately insisted on calling his brief. The lawyer instructed silence until he arrived. Williamson, though, has other ideas.
He looks aloofly at the two police officers who have taken him into the room. They have sat down, one of them placing a plastic folder on the table. Williamson opts to remain standing. — Take a seat, invites one of the cops, as he turns on the recorder. This officer has cropped fair hair in quite a dramatic receding ‘V’. He has attempted to cover up an acne-ravaged chin with a beard that grows only wispy hair, therefore just emphasising the scarring more. Married the first bird that opened her
legs to him is Williamson’s pitiless evaluation. In his laughing eyes and incongruously crueller, tight mouth, he reads the classic tells of the bad cop.
— If it’s all the same to you, I prefer to stand, Williamson declares. — Sitting down isn’t good for you. In fifty years from now we’ll laugh at old movies where we see people sitting at desks, in much the same way we do now when we see them smoking.
— Sit down, Bad Cop repeats, pointing to the seat.
Williamson crouches down on his hunkers. — If it’s eyeline or microphone pickup you’re concerned with, this should do it. It’s the way the creature known as Homo sapiens naturally lowers itself; we do this instinctively as bairns, then we get told to –
— In the seat! Bad Cop snaps.
Simon Williamson looks at the officer, then the chair, as if it’s an electric one, designated for his execution. — Have it on record that I was forced into sitting out of some antiquated attachment to social convention, and against my personal choice, he says pompously, before lowering himself.
My hands are steady. My nerves are cool. Even rattling on ching and alcohol withdrawal, I can still man the fuck up and function. I’m just a higher form of evolution. If I’d had the education, I would have been a surgeon. And not fannying about with stinky wee feet either. I would be transplanting hearts, even fucking brains.
As Bad Cop makes the aggressive pitch, Williamson studies the reaction of his colleague, the ironic smile of slight disdain that says: My-mate’s-a-wanker-but-what-can-I-do? We understand each other. It’s a variation on the good cop/bad cop routine. Good Cop is a tubby, dark-haired man who looks permanently startled. The harsh lights above bounce unflatteringly on his uneven, putty-like features. He keeps the grin on Williamson as Bad Cop continues. — So you were in London on the 23rd of June?
— Yes, I believe so. Easy to verify. There will be phone calls, probably a withdrawal from the NatWest cashpoint at King’s Cross Station, which I visit regularly. And of course, there’s the sandwich bar on Pentonville Road. Tell your colleagues at the Metropolitan Police to ask for Milos. I’m a weel-kent face there, as you like to say back up here, he smiles, starting to enjoy himself. — I always travel by tube, my Oyster card transactions should show a confirming pattern, and of course, my fiancée would be with me … So, what happened to Victor Syme?
— Friend of yours, was he? Bad Cop tugs at his ratty beard.
— I wouldn’t say that.
— You’re on his calls list enough.
— We explored the possibility of doing business together, Simon Williamson declares, voice now set in the authoritative cast of the tetchy businessman having his time wasted by incompetent public servants. — I run a reputable dating agency, and I was talking to him about the possibility of expanding into Edinburgh.
Bad Cop, aware that Williamson is pointedly examining his facial ministrations, lowers his hands. — So you didn’t do business together?
Simon Williamson envisions him having eczema in his genital region and trying in vain to pass it off as an STD in the dressing room of the police football team. It amuses him to think of the flakes of skin nestling in the law enforcement officer’s pubes, sticking with sweat to the face of his wife as she grimly performs fellatio duties. — No.
— Why?
— To be quite frank, Syme’s operation struck me as very low-rent and sleazy, and the girls were obviously common prostitutes – not that I make moral judgements, he adds in haste, — just not what I was looking for as a business model. I’m focusing more on MBAs, the premium market.
Bad Cop says, — You do know that prostitution is illegal?
Williamson looks at Good Cop in faux amazement, then turns to his interrogator, speaking patiently to him as one would a child. — Of course. As I say, we’re an escort agency. Our girls, or partners as we call them, accompany executives to meetings and dinners, they host events and parties. This is the legal framework within which I operate.
— Since when? You’ve had two court appearances for living off immoral earnings.
— One was when I was a very young man, addicted to heroin. My girlfriend and I were extremely desperate, driven by the dictates of that horrible drug. The second one was related to an enterprise I had absolutely nothing to do with –
— The Skylark Hotel in Finsbury Park –
— The Skylark Hotel in Finsbury Park. I happened to be visiting those premises when they were being investigated by the Metropolitan Police vice squad. There was a lazy association and some nonsense, trumped-up charges, which I was proven innocent of. Totally exonerated. That was well over a decade ago.
— So you’re Mr Snow White, Bad Cop scoffs.
Simon Williamson allows himself a highly audible exhalation. — Look, I’m not going to insult your intelligence and claim that sort of thing doesn’t go on, but, as I say, we are an agency selling escort services. Prostitution is nothing to do with us, and if any of our partners get involved in that and we find out about it, they’re off the books straight away.
— Us?
— My fiancée is now a company director.
Good Cop comes in with a complete change of emphasis. — Do you know Daniel Murphy?
To avoid seeming wrong-footed, Simon Williamson attempts to think of the great injustices Spud visited on him; concentrating on his snowdropping of a much loved Fair Isle jersey from the concrete drying greens of the Banana Flats. But all he sees in his mind’s eye is the Oor Wullie smile on a younger Spud, and he feels something in his heart melt. — Yes, and may his soul rest in peace. An old friend.
Bad Cop is back in the chair. — Do you know how he died?
Shaking his head, Williamson composes himself. An expression of genuine grief would be a good reveal, don’t panic. I tried to save him. — Some sort of illness. Danny, God love him, well, he led a very marginal life, I’m afraid.
— Somebody ripped out his kidney. He died from complications resulting from that, Bad Cop snaps. The air in the room seems to lose half of its oxygen.
— I really think I need to wait till my lawyer gets here before answering any more questions, Williamson declares. — I’ve tried to cooperate as a concerned citizen, but –
— You can do that, Bad Cop cuts him off, — but you might find it’s to your advantage to cooperate with us informally if you don’t want to be charged with the murder of Victor Syme, and he takes a photo from the plastic file in front of him, throwing it under Simon Williamson’s nose. He examines the picture in morbid fascination. It shows Syme lying in a pool of blood, which seems to have come from multiple wounds, most of it a gash in his stomach.
Then Bad Cop shows him a closer image, and two maroon bean-shaped things seem to be sticking out the sockets where Syme’s eyes once were. It gives the impression of a comic Photoshopped set-up and Williamson laughs.
— Is this for real?
— Oh, it’s real alright. Those are his kidneys, Bad Cop says.
Williamson lowers the photograph. Feels his hand tremble. Knows Bad Cop has noticed it. — This isnae fucking well on, I know my rights –
— Yes, so you say, Bad Cop mocks. — Okay, come with us.
The officers rise and take him next door into an adjoining anteroom. On one side, through a one-way plate glass, Williamson can see the empty interview room they’ve just vacated. On the other side is an identical room. But there, at the table, sits his brother-in-law, Euan McCorkindale. The disgraced podiatrist seems beyond catatonic; it’s as if he’s been lobotomised.
— He’s basically told us about your part in the removal of Daniel Murphy’s kidney, Good Cop announces in sad compassion. He looks as if he’s genuinely going to burst into tears on Williamson’s behalf.
But Williamson remains composed. — Aw aye, he says disparagingly, — which was?
Good Cop nods in stagy reluctance to Bad Cop, who takes over. — That you removed it, under his supervision, with another man, in unsanitary conditions, at a location in Berlin.
> Williamson hits back with a dismissive tirade so contemptuous, the police officers unprofessionally swither between visible anger and embarrassment. — Under his supervision? Williamson thumbs at the man through the mirror. — Is he on fucking drugs? I’m not qualified to remove a kidney! Wouldn’t even know where to fucking find it! Do I look like a surgeon? Simon Williamson tosses his head back, openly revelling in his performance. Then he looks from one cop to the other, sensing their unease. He says softly, — He’s the doctor, and he points back to the glass again, — that fucking balloon there. So work it out for yourselves.
Good Cop slips back into the driving seat. — He said he was being blackmailed by Victor Syme, over a sex tape, into performing this surgery –
— That I can believe –
— But couldn’t go through with the removal of the kidney. He said that you took it out, assisted by a YouTube video and a man named Michael Forrester –
— Now we’re delving into the realms of fantasy, Williamson snorts.
— Are we, Simon? Are we really? Good Cop pleads.
— Mikey Forrester? YouTube kidney-removal videos? What the fuck are youse boys on? Simon Williamson laughs loudly, shaking his head. — That one will amuse the fuck out of the magistrates when this goes to court!
The cops look at each other. To Williamson they now give off the underlying desperation that they are grown men playing a silly child’s game they can no longer believe in. But then another sudden change of tack blindsides him, as Good Cop’s face takes on a cuntish hue. — Can you explain a deposit of ninety-one thousand pounds in cash into your bank account on the 6th of January?
