Ирвин Уэлш - Dead Men's Trousers

So I get the bus back into town. It’s fuckin nippy alright; my coupon is stinging with the cold air and my lips are cracking over. I head into a Boots tae buy some lip balm and condoms.

As he’s not a lost waif, there’s no sense in trawling the bus or train stations, so I opt to hang around the hotel lobbies. At least they’re warm. Euan has dosh but is too much of a penny-pinching Calvinist wanker to splash out on the Balmoral or the Caledonian. It will be a functional, clean budget chain, so I hit a few and loiter; they’re full of sales and marketing cumsplats, but no sightings of disgraced Colinton podiatrists.

Applying the same logic, I doubt Euan would have gone to a high-class escort agency. I’m betting he’s been slumming it in the saunas, loving the thrill of the transaction, and part of him excited at the potential humiliation of being rumbled by a work colleague. Yes, I reckon he subconsciously craves all this drama. I hit a couple of the Mary Tyler Moore hooses, one at the top end of Leith and the other in the New Town, showing the Christmas photo I took of Euan on my phone, without exciting any signs of recognition.

I find those tacky premises and their grubby clientele dispiriting. This place in the East New Town is like a shabby government office of the eighties. With its bland reception area, you feel as if you are here to get your passport stamped rather than your pipes cleaned. I head outside, about to call it a day and return empty-handed to face Carlotta’s wrath, when I hear somebody emerging behind me. Then a voice urges, — Hi, mate, hud on a minute.

I turn to face what can only be described as a total fuckin radge. His eyes, slitty but burning with a focused intent, announce him as big trouble. He wears an expensive-looking suit, but it somehow seems scabby on him, as if it’s gotten damp from him actually wearing it in a sauna . I know who he is; he’s the psycho cunt that runs some of these establishments, and whom Terry once did some work for. This isn’t good. When a stranger refers to you as ‘mate’ in that tone of voice, it never is.

— You’ve been gaun roond the saunas, asking about a boy?

— Aye. I take the initiative and show him the picture on my phone.

— Well, if you’re playing detective and no going tae the bizzies, it cannae be kosher, this bastard says. God forged this cunt’s pus when He was sat constipated on the toilet seat and thinking of the word ‘snide’. Not the Creator’s best work, it must be said.

— The boy’s a bit ay a sex case, I explain. — His missus is ma sister, and she caught him playing away fae hame. Chucked him oot. Now she wants him back. I thought he might have been hooring, is all.

All the time this cunt’s slanty, malicious, sweetie-wife eyes are going from the screen to my coupon. Then he suddenly says, — Ah ken you! Sick Boy, they called ye!

They presumably being his fellow retarded idiots, ones also created from the grunting congress of mongol siblings. — Ha… no heard that one for a while.

— Ayyye… you punt aboot doon in London now. Wi Leo, and the Greek cunt, what’s-his-name…

My heart skips a wee beat. This product of retard kinshafting has a long reach, and with fellow insect-brained fuckers not programmed to compromise their mechanical goals. If he’s mobbed up with them, there is no hiding place and it means I’m duty-bound to assist. — Andreas… Yes, Leo, great lads. But that’s all in the past. These days I run a respectable dating agency. We have an application –

— You’re a Leith boy, he accuses, — used tae run wi Franco Begbie.

— Aye, I concede. I hate the way these cretins use the term ‘run’, their pathetic gangster pish vexes me, and I can’t believe I’m hearing Begbie’s name now; that violent psychopathic cunt who conned his way out of jail on some bullshit art ticket. This nightmare grows bleaker by the second. It’s dark and cold and I’m hung-over and I crave that couch. Even Carlotta’s verbal assault and iciness must beat being in the uncomfortable proximity ay this fucker. Now the wind is whipping freezing fucking rain into my face.

— Well, ah dinnae care who you are, ye dinnae come intae ma premises and poke yir neb in. Got that?

— Well, I wisnae really. As I explained, I was looking for my brother-in-law. He’s a surgeon and he –

The next thing I know is the wind is battered oot ay ays by a jackknifing blow tae ma guts… I can barely breathe, as I reach out and grab the railing. There are people walking by in the rain, some at a bus stop, others smoking outside a pub. Not one of the cunts has even noticed this prick’s assault on me!

I look up at his pitiless eyes. — Ah’ll take that phone, he gestures tae the mobby in my hand.

— Ma phone… what the fuck…?

— Dinnae make ays say it again.

I hand it over, hating myself, but trying to catch my breath. The options of running away or striking back are beyond me at this point in time, and probably any. This cunt is a killer.

He casually types his number into my phone, and calls up his own, letting it ring. He hands it back to me. — We have each other’s contact info now. So ah’ll let you ken if this boy shows up. Meantime, you keep the fuck oot ay my premises, unless invited by moi . Right?

— Right. I feel my breath coming back. — Thanks… appreciated. I’m thinking to myself: If this cunt has any hoors worth thieving, they will all be working for me at an Edinburgh Colleagues, while he’ll be wearing that famous maroon jersey as he’s getting rogered daily on the beasts’ wing at Saughton. I will make that happen .

— Okay, I’m Victor, by the way, Victor Syme, this cunt says, now scarier than ever with his gossiping fishwife tones and his hand on my shoulder. — Ah’ll let ye ken if I hear anything about this… he plays with the word, —… this surgeon felly. And I’m sorry aboot the wee dig, but thaire’s a lot ay wide cunts aboot, n ye huv tae draw a wee line in the sand, he grins. — But if ye ken the likes ay Leo, and, of course, Frank Begbie, then that’s okay wi me.

I’m happy to depart this cunt’s company, although I only get round the corner before a text from him comes in.

I won’t forget. Vic S .

It’s replete with a smiley emoticon, which has never looked so sinister.

I find a grotty cafe and sit down, trying tae compose myself over a cup ay tea. This fucking town! I have to get out of here. And fuck Scottish independence: in no time at all we would be a gangster state run by scum like this cunt Syme! It’s true: you never escape old associations, no matter how tenuous you believe them to be. On that note, I’m straight on to Juice Terry. — Tezza. What’s the story with this Victor Syme cunt? Heard you did some work for him.

— Cannae talk right now, buddy boy. Where are ye?

— Broughton Street, I tell him. He must have some cunt in the back ay his cab.

— Be there in five minutes. Where aboots?

— See ye in the Basement Bar.

I retreat to the Basement, settling into the comfy seats towards the rear of the bar with two bottles of lager.

Terry is as good as his word, and swings in. Unfortunately, he leaves me waiting for such a long time while he chats to a barmaid that I have to phone him. He rolls his eyes and heads across. — You’re a cock-blocking bastard, Williamson. Seriously.

— This is important, bud. Victor Syme, I urge.

— Aye… he wis away in Spain. Terry takes a glug of lager. — The bizzies wir pittin heat oan um, but eh came back last year, Mr Fuckin Untouchable. Does that no say grass tae you? It sais it tae me.

I refuse to get enmeshed in pathetic local gangster politics. — How do you ken him?