Ирвин Уэлш - Dead Men's Trousers

— Pleased to meet you, Mark. Martin shakes my hand firmly. — I’ll catch you guys later. There’s a room that needs worked!

As Martin heads off, Franco says, — See? I’ve got everything I want, mate. There’s nothing you can dae for me. So keep yir money.

— But you’d be helping me oot if ye took it. You could do something for me .

Franco’s head turns slowly in the negative. He looks across the room, nods and smiles at some people. — Listen, you ripped me off and I forgive you, he says, his voice low. He waves at a swankily dressed couple, and the guy salutes back. It’s another actor cunt that was in a film I saw recently on a plane, but I cannae think ay the boy’s name or the movie. — The bad choices I made would have happened anyway, that was just where I was at that point in ma life. He gives me a wee smile. — But I’ve let go ay the past.

— Aye, and I want tae n aw, I tell him, fighting doon ma exasperation.

— Delighted for you, he says, not that sardonically, — but you have to find your own way, ma auld buddy. The last time you tried to dae that ah was a fucking vehicle for ye. He pauses, and the old coldness fuses intae his eyes.

It sears my insides. — Franco, I’m sorry, man, I –

— I’m no gaun there again. This time it has tae be a solo gig, and suddenly eh smiles and punches me softly on the airm, almost in a parody ay the auld Begbie. It hits ays: this cunt is taking the pish .

— Fuck sake… this is perverse! I’m offering ye money here, Frank! Money that’s yours!

— It’s no mine, it came fae a drug deal, he says, poker-faced. Then his hand is on my elbow, guiding me ower tae a painting ay Jimmy Savile, unknown in America, lying battered tae a pulp outside the Alhambra Bar. Savile’s eyes have been torn out and blood from his genitals stains his white tracksuit groin like dark red piss. Underneath it bears the title:

THIS IS HOW WE DEAL WITH NONCES IN LEITH (2014, oil on canvas)

He points tae a rid dot on it, indicating that a sale has been made. — This is mine. I used tae fuck up people’s faces and get jailed. Now I dae it and get paid.

I’m looking aroond, scanning the portraits and cast heids that he’s produced. I have tae say it, even though ah confess that ah don’t know much about art: this is the biggest pile ay shite I’ve seen in ma fuckin life. He’s totally gaming those thick, spoiled rich fuckers, whae probably think it’s cool tae collect the works ay this savage jailbird. Fair play tae the cunt, but fuck sake, casting somebody’s face and then mutilating it: that’s no fucking art. Ah observe the occupants ay the gallery, shuffling fae one exhibit tae the next, eyes screwed up, pointing, discussing. Tanned men and women with bodies honed in gyms, decorated wi nice clathes, impeccably groomed, stinking ay top cologne, perfume and wealth. — Do you know where their money comes fae? Drug trafficking? Human trafficking, for fuck sake! A few people in a proximate group turn roond in response tae ma raised voice. Fae the corner ay ma eye, a security guard cranes his neck. — You must have a charity you like, something ah can gie it tae?

— Quiet, bud. Franco now looks like he’s really enjoying this. — You’re embarrassing yourself.

I feel incredulity warp my face. — Now I’ve been told by you tae stop making a cunt ay masel in public: game, set and match! Now gies ays the name ay your favourite charity, Franco, for fuck sake!

— I dinnae believe in charity, Mark. And call me Jim, please.

— What do you believe in? So I have to gie fifteen and a bit grand tae Hibs?

— I believe in looking after my ain, mate. He nods at his postcard Californian blonde wife, as the speakers suddenly rumble and Martin the agent guy gets tae the front ay the house.

Vicky rejoins me. — All good? she asks. — What’s that? She points to the envelope in my hand.

I put it back in the bag and zip it up. — Trying to give Frank something I owe him, but he won’t take it.

— Well, I must say, it all looks very exciting cloak-and-dagger stuff. Does it come from an illicit drug deal?

Franco turns and I cannae look the cunt in the eye because I suspect neither ay us would be able tae keep a straight face. — We only deal in Provi cheques in Leith, I tell her.

As I glance back at Franco, there’s a sound ay fingers hitting the mike, causing a static crackle, hushing the crowd intae silence. Martin the agent clears his throat. — Thank you for coming along. Now I’d like to introduce the director of this gallery and great patron of the arts of the City of Los Angeles, Sebastian Villiers.

A white-heided, rid-couponed, country-club cunt, whae looks like every American politician I’ve ever seen, gets up and starts talking utter shite aboot Begbie. About how his ‘work’ is the best thing since sliced breid. I cannae listen tae this pish! All I can think ay is getting Vicky home. I thought I was saturated with sex after this afternoon. No fucking way. I look at her, and her raunchy smile tells me she’s thinking the same. As we slope away, a DJ starts playing funk, and Franco and Melanie are dancing smoothly tae that Peter Brown track ‘Do You Wanna Get Funky with Me’.

Fuck me. That cunt. Dancing. And the fucker has moves . Is that really fucking Francis Begbie? Maybe it’s me. Maybe my Begbie beliefs are inculcated from another era. Maybe I just need tae let go ay aw that shite, like Jim Francis evidently has.

Drink and drugs are a whippersnapper’s game: there is little worse than a hangover or an E comedown after you hit fifty. Even under the licence of Christmas, you just feel weak and stupid, as the facts have to be faced: the meagre, diminishing returns of fun to be squeezed out in no way justifiy the subsequent extended horror show.

So I’m half submerged in this comfy couch, in front of the big flat screen and blazing coal fire in the McCorkindale home, a pot of tea by my side. I’m channel hopping, trying tae keep in a positive frame of mind. I can see Ben, outside in the garden, talking into his mobile phone, all big smiles. I decide that I’ll hang around here a few days longer, once I get him packed off south, after the Hibs–Raith encounter. I was set against Scottish independence, believing that we’d totally fuck it up. Now I’m changing my mind: the vibe and confidence in the city suggests we’d cope better than the shit-show down south. I’m thinking of calling Jill, speculating about an Edinburgh Colleagues, maybe identifying some more raw recruits and licking them intae shape!

I’m distracted by Carlotta, man-marking her darling brother, literally looming right over me. Obviously on her agenda: a missing hubby, the disgraced man of this formerly esteemed household. Carlotta isn’t going to move, or speak, and I don’t know how long I can keep pretending she isn’t staring at the top of my head. It’s been her MO since she was a kid. Always knew how tae use the power of brooding, silent outrage to increase the air pressure. I elect tae cashie it oot. — Hi, sis. Just trying to decide on my viewing. There’s… I pick up the handset, hit the guide button and read the screen, — ‘an enchanting romantic comedy starring Audrey Tautou’ that isn’t Amélie –

— You find Euan! You find ma husband! I look up and she’s glaring at me. Her voice set in that controlled, precise way of hers.

I turn to her and spread my palms. — Sis, I really can’t take volume right now… which is the wrong thing tae say as her eyes burn with murderous Latin passion. — He’ll show up when he’s go —