Ирвин Уэлш - Dead Men's Trousers

— FIND HIM!

What could be worse than walking those cold streets in that dead zone between Christmas and New Year? Staying here and enduring that banshee wail. I cough out my agreement and she heads off, her feet thumping up the wooden stairs. I’m putting on my coat in the hallway, with scarf and hat, as Ross comes through with a silent stare that commands a response. That laddie is perhaps his mother’s son.

— How’s Pitch and Toss? And what’s cuz Benito up to outside? Lady shenanigans, no doubt.

Then I realise that this little fucker is only balling his fists at me as if he wants a square go! — Mum said that you set Dad up with that woman, his high voice bleats.

Saucy mare, her! And cheeky little cunt, too! Well, the smart wee fucker is going head-to-head with the big boys now. I fix him in an even gaze, and lower my voice. — Maybe the blame was yours though, buddy, and I watch his mouth flap open in disbelief. — Maybe you made Euan want to prove himself, with you going on about being too much ay a pussy virgin tae git yir hole.

— What… How did you… Who said –

— You may wish tae factor that into your calculations. I flick my scarf over my shoulder and start buttoning my coat up.

His eyes blink rapidly in concert with his trembling lips. – You shouldnae… You don’t… He tries to run away, but I reach out and grab his arm. — Get off me!

— Go on, run to Mamma, I sneer. That stops his struggle in its tracks. — That’ll work, if your quest in life is to stay a virgin forever. That’ll ensure you achieve your goal, awright.

Ross’s head is hung low. It’s as if he’s looking at the imaginary Minecraft world he’s set up on the floor.

— Lift your head up, I tell him. — Be a man, for fuck sake.

He physically struggles to do this. — But… but… but…

I assist him, wrenching his chin north. Forcing him to look into my eyes. — You can’t get your hole. Fine. I get it. I understand how important it is, and I release my grasp ay his face. I note his chin dips a bit but his eyes remain set on mine. — Your mother won’t help you get laid, Ross. Your father… well, come on, I tell him, feeling a little disloyal. But nobody asked Euan to fuck Marianne or for them to get fruity with the video camera. That horny hoor… her sluttish adventurism is suddenly exciting to me. I should have ridden her, not that prick… — But I will, I tell him, watching his eyes suddenly bulge. — If you want it.

Yes, even through his despondency, something in those lamps has ignited! — You… you’d do that for me?

— Of course I will. I punch his airm. — Blood is thicker than water. I want you to have a full sex life, tae be able to talk tae women and enjoy congress with them, and I pull him into the alcove by the front door, lowering my voice. — I don’t want to see you wasting your teen years on guilty masturbation, choking whenever a girl you fancy steps into the room, I explain, enjoying the shade of Jambo maroon his coupon is bursting out into. — I had a great friend, Danny Murphy, his name was; he never got any action, I wistfully recount. — So the boy grew up wrong. I don’t want any ay that nonsense for you, good buddy.

I feel my blandishments move him, but he’s still suspicious. — What’s it to you? Why do you want to help?

— Well, I have one considerable advantage over your mum and dad.

— What?

— I don’t see you as a daft wee bairn. To me you’re a normal young guy who is just trying tae make his way in life, and I realise that this is the most important thing in your world right now.

— It is! Ross squeals in gratitude. — I’m glad somebody understands!

I nod upstairs, urging him to lower his voice by dropping mine. — Well, naturally I do. Have you any idea what I do for a living?

Ross swivels his head to check the coast is still clear. Then he faces me, sucking in his bottom lip. — I’ve heard Mum and Dad talk about it. It’s like an escort agency.

— Exactly. I’m in the business of hooking up lonely and frustrated people with desirable members of the opposite sex. It’s what I do .

— You could –

Again, I take my voice down a notch, and nod up the wooden staircase. — Shh… Yes I could, I hiss. I can hear Carlotta thrashing around in rage, slamming doors too hard, stamping across the sanded floors. I gaze out to the garden where Ben is ending his call, doubtless ready to come in and hit me for cash. The kid is a money-guzzling machine. I blame the Surreyites and their careless indulgence of him, or, perhaps more realistically, their planned humiliation of one Simon David Williamson; forcing me to compete in a game I can never win. — What you need is an experienced woman to guide you through this cherry loss.

Ross looks at me in horror. — But I fancy –

I cut him off. — I know who you fancy; some feisty, pixie-faced wee heartbreaker at school, who struts around well aware that she’s a playground supermodel. But to hunt that sort of game you need the tools, and I ain’t just talking about that cannon in your troosers, which I’m hoping is a Williamson 9.5 rather than a McCorkindale 5.5, if you get my drift.

The kid’s pained face tells me it’s closer to the latter.

— No, buddy, you need the confidence that experience gives you: social as well as sexual. That’s what Prof Unc Si from Shaggers University offers. Now think it through. And tell your mother fuck all. This is a bros’ thing. Promise?

— Right… Thanks, Uncle Simon, he squeaks in gratitude, bumping my proffered fist.

Just then, Ben appears at his shoulder, looking a little smug, but still shooting us a what-the-fuck stare.

— Benito the bandito! I’m trying to talk your piccolo cugino , Pitch and Toss here, and I place an arm around the shoodirs of the spotty boy, — into joining us at the ER hozzy.

— The ER hozzy… Ben says in his lazy, posh, suburban Home Counties accent… My God, he’s one of them. My son is one of them . — Is that something to do with Uncle Euan?

— No! ER as in Easter Road , hozzy as in hospitality . For the match of the season against the mighty Raith Rovers!

— Yeah, cool, Ben says, massively underwhelmed, but coming to some animation on noting that I’m attired in a coat and scarf. — Where are you going?

— A wee message for your auntie.

— Are you going to find Dad? Ross bleats. — I want tae come!

— Not possible, pal of mine, I contend as I hear thumping steps down the stairs.

— Ross! Carlotta barks from the doorway. — You’ll stay here with your cousin!

Ross has that what-the-fuck-have-I-done-wrong expression of hangdog bemusement.

I tip him a wee wink, which seems to console him a little. This is as opportune a time as any to make good my escape. Enough of all the family shite! This festive blight on the calendar is a headfuck, and thank Christ (literally) that it’s only once a year.

So I head out on my dispiriting search. The frosty bite of winter tingles my face, as the street lamps blink into an insipid glow. The daylight hours here are so fleeting it’s almost more of an insult inserting such meagre, murky grey slithers of shit into the total darkness. Funny, but in my younger days, I always wanted out of this city. London offered a bigger canvas. Now, unaccountably, I feel a perverse loyalty towards it. I even contemplate taking a stroll down Leith Walk, but that would only serve to invite crushing despondency. The one thing worse than hearing the words: SICK BOY YA CUNT, WHAIRE HUV YOU BEEN HIDIN YIRSEL? – delivered at maximum volume across a filthy pub – would be not hearing them at all. I set course away from town, towards the Royal Infirmary, Euan’s place of work. When I get to the reception desk, they phone personnel in response to my enquiry, before informing me, — Dr McCorkindale is on leave until the 6th of January.