Ирвин Уэлш - Dead Men's Trousers

— But you can disappoint us , right?

— Des, I’m sorry, mate. You know the score.

— Mark…

— Yes, Des?

— You’re a cunt.

— I’m not going to fight you on that one, Des. I stand up, walk over to the parapet and look across at the freeway traffic, moving slowly towards the beach. Up ahead, the rumbling ay a new metro train on the downtown Santa Monica stop, at last connecting the beach towns with LA and Hollywood. There was a time when I’d have been excited about that; now I realise I haven’t even been on it, and tae ma horror, I can’t think ay when I’d need tae. Instead I’ll charge around in rental cars on choked freeways, looking for parking validation in hotel and office underground lots. Fuck sake.

— Wise move, Mark. Fuck you, you double-crossing motherfucker! If you knew the hassle I had to get your washed-up druggie homeboy on that fucking bill!

— C’mon, Des, let’s take it down a notch.

He sighs. — Fair enough, but fuck you anyway.

— I love you, Des.

— Yeah, sure you do, he says and hangs up.

I do feel like an absolute cunt, but as soon as ah acknowledge this, it just fades away. Back in the day, I never had that much ay a thick skin, even though ah pretended tae. Then, suddenly, it was just there. Like ah was a fuckin Tony Stark whae’d invented a psychic Iron Man suit. The upside ay developing that armour is the obvious one: fuck all bothers ye that much. The downer? Well, it’s like antidepressants. You dinnae get the lows, but ye sure as fuck miss the euphoria ay the highs.

The last few days have been so disorientating. Travel, time zones, sleep deprivation. I seem to be on the phone constantly, without making any inroads. Muchteld in the office back in Amsterdam, calling in various states ay alarm about it all. All this pish about online banking: it disnae work so smoothly when you’re between countries. Ah’ve spent most ay the eftirnoon talking tae ma bank in Holland, the ABN AMRO, to get them tae transfer money intae ma Citibank account here in the USA. Of course, trying tae withdraw cash is still a fucking hassle because… just fucking banks.

As is trying to withdraw fae Ambien. My eyeballs feel full of grit and my pulse trashes in them. Thankfully Vicky helps, coming round and dragging me tae bed. She tells me no more pills, just sex. After we make love I fall intae the deepest sleep I’ve had in months. In the morning, I’m delighted tae find that she’s stayed over. It feels great tae wake up with her. Even though it’s criminally early for me, I feel rested for the first time in ages. She even talks me into going for a run down the beachfront. Although she’s taking it easy, I’m struggling tae keep up, sweat surging and lungs burning. I dig in, pride at no being perceived as a past-it cunt propelling ays on. Afterwards we get some brunch then go back tae the apartment and bed. As Vicky stretches out, a big yawn, her sun-bleached locks sprawling over my pillow, it hits me through my ain exhaustion that I’ve no been this happy as I am at this precise moment in years.

In the evening we head tae Franco’s exhibition, or ‘Jim Francis’ as he now professionally styles himself. I suggest we take the metro. At first she looks doubtful, then agrees, and we glide in jocular relaxation towards downtown LA. Vicky is wearing a knockout glittering black dress and pumps, her hair pinned up. I feel an exalted, lucky bastard.

The gallery is in a single-floored warehouse conversion about fifteen minutes’ walk from Pershing Square in a neighbourhood full of cool street art. We chat to Melanie, with whom Vicky has already struck up a fine rapport. Although Vicky is English and shorter, there is a galling similarity in the way they talk and move. It seems bizarre that Franco and I can have similar tastes in women. Wearing chinos and a V-necked T-shirt, he stands a bit apart from everyone. He still gives off something that makes strangers reticent about approaching him, but it’s now more of a weary aloofness than naked aggression. Melanie provides the charm, excusing herself as she greets some more visitors, who are probably potential buyers.

We head over to Franco who welcomes Vicky and myself warmly. I haven’t told her his backstory (and mine) other than he was a bit rough and ready in the bad old days, doing some jail time before discovering art. As he chats to her about a painting depicting the crucifixion of Cameron, Miliband and Clegg, I look over at a grinning, charismatic wee guy with dark hair, who is being fussed over by an entourage. — Is that Chuck Ponce?

Franco nods, and Vicky remarks, — I’m working on the overseas sale of his latest film for Paramount. Not that I’ve met him!

The enthusiastic, slightly autistic star beams at Jim Francis, the artist formerly known as Begbie, and rushes over to us. Vicky and I get a nod and a cheesy smile, before he focuses on Franco. — Jimbo! My man! Long time no see!

— Yes it is, Franco concedes, his face immobile.

— I need a head! I need you to give me head, bro, he laughs. Franco remains stoical. — Charmaine, my ex… he drops his voice, as Vicky excuses herself and heads for the restroom, and I pretend to look at the art hung on walls and mounted on plinths. I pick up that Ponce is obviously trying tae get Franco tae dae a head ay Charmaine Garrity, his ex-wife and fellow Hollywood star. I grab a gless ay red wine fae a server’s tray and inch closer, hearing him urge, — Help a brother out, dude.

— I did already. The Hunter Strikes , mind?

— Yeah, man, pity about that movie. I had real problems with the accent. But you’ve been doing great work, and I want an original Jim Francis!

— Shut up, I hear Franco say, as I look at the crucifixion painting, — I like these sort ay commissions to be confidential.

— You got it, bro. How do I get in touch?

— Give me your digits and I’ll get in touch with you, Franco goes. I’m looking at Cameron’s greetin baw pus. It’s pretty good, as is Miliband, hapless and nerdy, but that looks fuck all like Clegg.

— Sure thing, pal, Ponce beams, reciting his number as Franco keys it into his phone. — You ain’t still sore at me, huh, dude?

— No. Not in the slightest, Franco replies.

Ponce play-punches him on the shoulder. — Cool. Get in touch, bro! Name your price. I gotta have one while I can still afford you!

As the grinning Chuck leaves, heading back to his crew, tracked aw the wey by Franco, I slip back ower to the artist’s side. — So you’re big mates with Hollywood idols and rock stars?

— Naw, he says, looking at me soberly, — they urnae your friends.

Vicky returns from the restroom – I hate myself for calling the lavy that – but is intercepted by Melanie and they start talking to two other women. I take my chance, delving into my bag and thrusting an envelope at Franco. — Here it is, buddy.

— Naw… naw… yir awright, mate. He pushes it away like I’m trying to gie him dog shit.

— It’s yours, bud. The money at today’s value. It comes tae fifteen thousand four hundred and twenty quid sterling. We can quibble on the method ay calculation –

— I dinnae need it. He shakes his head. — You have tae let go ay the past.

— This is me doing that right now, Franco. I hold out the envelope — Take it, please.

Suddenly this guy wi black-framed glasses, whom I’m assuming is his agent, rushes across tae us. He’s obviously excited and says to Franco, — Sam DeLita has just bought a piece for two hundred thousand dollars! The Oliver Harbison head!

— Tidy, Begbie says, completely unmoved, as he scans the crowd. — Axl Rose no here?

— I’m not sure, the guy says, puzzled at the crushing anticlimax, — I’ll check. Rumours abound, and he looks at me. Franco reluctantly introduces us. — This is my agent, Martin. This is Mark, a pal from the old country.