Ирвин Уэлш - Dead Men's Trousers

Fae the school. Fuckin nowt in they days, we aw used tae caw um the Poof, that wis ehs nickname. Every cunt battered the wee creep back then; eh wis a late developer. Now eh thinks eh’s Mr Big cause ay Tyrone bein deid –

— Tyrone? Potted heid? This was news to me. Tyrone had been around since I was a boy. — So what happened tae the fat man?

— Burnt tae death in a fire in his hoose. He hud some war wi the young team. One ay them got done doon Leith Docks. A lot ay people are thinkin the Poof took advantage and moved in oan thum baith: Tyrone and the young gadge. Rumour is eh’s connected; goat Police Scotland, East Europeans, cunts in London and Manchester aw owin um tons ay favours, or so they say, ay? Might be shite, might no. But ah ken one thing, the cunt wis oan the lam in Spain cause the polis wir lookin for him in connection wi the disappearance ay this bird that worked in the saunas. Cowped it masel, but as a mates’ thing, nivir peyed for it. Terry looks at me in sombre insistence.

— I’ve no doubt that you could charm a prostitute into sleeping with you without a cash transaction, Terry. But you said Syme was on the run?

— Cunt hud fuck all gaun for um. He wis oot the sauna game, hidin in Spain. Then eh jist waltzes back ower like nowt’s happened. Terry looks around. Lowers his voice. — Thinks ah’m at his beck n call. ‘A wee favour, Terry mate…’ and he does a passable imitation of Syme’s snidey tones. — But he’ll git his, Terry says in empty belligerence. — Cunt’s a heidcase, keep away fae um, he warns. — Anywey, how did yir Christmas turn oot? Usual borin family stuff?

— You ken how it goes, I tell him, thinking of that cretinous brother-in-law and his imbecile son, the bother their blood-filled cocks and bloodless brains are causing me, and I idly pick up a discarded magazine on a chair. It shows an image of the actress Keira Knightley, half naked and in a sultry pose, advertising perfume.

— Fuckin ride yon, Terry announces.

— Knightley, I muse.

— Aw fuckin ooirs if she wis game.

We chat for a while, and Terry drops me off in the cab at Carlotta’s. It’s so pitch black I can’t believe that it’s only just after 8 p.m., it feels like two in the morning. I see Ben, once more in the garden, on the phone, illuminated by a trip light. Probably talking to some bird; he tells me fuck all, which I totally admire. Of course, the fact that I’m without Euan is enough tae send Carlotta into another rage. I tell her I checked the hospital and the hotels, omitting the saunas. It seems to calm her down a bit, before another bolt of fury suddenly sears her. — What did you say to Ross?

— Nothing, I protest, rubbing my gut, still tender as I lower myself onto the couch, considering that Syme might actually be able to do me a favour. Sometimes radges need to be assimilated – the Borg in Star Trek strategy – rather than opposed or ignored. The pain brings back a memory of being bullied by Begbie at school, before I became friends with Renton, who was his best mate. This was purely in order to get that psycho cunt off my back. My head is spinning. Carlotta’s eyes are batty. — Just urged the wee man to try and learn a lesson from Euan. Where is he? I see Ben out there –

— At Louisa’s, she spits, then these lamps narrow. — A lesson fae Euan? What the fuck do you mean?

I don’t know what baked beans that spineless little twat has spilled, but he’s going to get some shit back from me, via his beloved mammy. — Look, what Ross saw was quite traumatising, I concede, — but perhaps not as much as it should have been.

Carlotta’s looking at me with the big Eyetie peepers both of us inherited from Mamma, firing on full tilt. Poor Louisa: she got the old boy’s vicious, furtive Jockoid slits. — What are ye trying tae say?

— He’s my nephew and I love him, so I don’t want to grass him up, but I have good reason to believe that Ross has been watching extreme pornography.

— What?! Ross? Pornography? Online?

Oh, sis! After all those years, still making schoolgirl errors: the mistake of admitting the possibility. When defenders back off, keep running at them, twisting and turning like a squat Argentinian. Think Lionel. Think Diego. — Furthermore, I believe Euan discovered this and it unhinged him a little. Being a lad from the country and sexually inexperienced before he hooked up with you –

— Wait! Euan told you this?

— Well, in a blokish roundabout sort of way, yes, but it was more that I deduced it. No names were dropped or details offered, but I kind ay worked out it was a Taylor Swift–Michael Gove courtship with you guys, I smile. — Vamp–nerd scenario.

That teases a confirming bitter-sweet smile out of her.

— I think he was vulnerable, turning fifty n all, and that crazy harridan Marianne took advantage of the situation tae get at me , by hurting the one thing I care about, I look at her with all the intensity I can summon, — family.

Carra shakes her head. She’s heard versions of this over the years. — I don’t believe you, she says, her voice rising. — So all this mess is my son’s fault?

— No. It’s society’s fault. It’s the pace of technological change, I advance, but I now have a sense of her shepherding the ball harmlessly out of play for a goal kick. If I can just get a leg in… — But Ross was its conduit in inflicting pain on this family. Our social mores haven’t developed to keep pace with the Internet, the digital revolution, the iPad and the Cloud, thus our cognitive dissonance.

Carlotta takes a step back. Looks at me as if I’m a dangerous specimen on the wrong side of the zoological bars. — You are a total fucking bastard, she gasps. — You wreck people’s lives tae gie yirsel cheap thrills!

The younger Williamson lassie cannot be written off on the counter… — Look, sis, let’s not point fingers. It does naebody any good.

She steps forward, and I think she’s going to punch me. Instead she shakes her fists like maracas. — It’s always let’s no point fingers when it’s you that’s tae blame!

I have to pull something out of the hat here. Attack is usually the best form of defence. — I’m forever taking stock of my life, especially at this very reflective time of year. Am I blameless? No, very far from it. I fold my arms across my chest. Carlotta has never gotten physically violent before, but these are uncharted emotional waters. I decide to amp it up. — But please, dinnae fuckin gies it that this is aw ma fault, I say, getting into outrage mode. — Dinnae hit ays wi that pish, that old let’s-exonerate-everybody-but-Simon approach. As a tactic it must have prima facie appeal, but it’s disingenuous and waaay too convenient. The moon is not made of green cheese!

Carra’s eyes are like a Rottweiler’s balls. — What are you fuckin talkin about?! Do you even live in the same fuckin world as the rest ay us?! Her breathing is thin and she’s having palpitations.

I go to embrace her. — Carra… la mia sorellina …

She pushes me back, both her palms slapping into my chest. — MA HUSBAND IS MISSING AND MA SON IS IN PIECES, and now her fists pound me. One hits the spot below the ribcage where Syme’s well-placed thug-blow struck, and I stumble. — BECAUSE AY YOU! YOU FIND HIM! YOU BRING HIM BACK!

— Chill, sis, I’m on it, and I pick up my phone and look at my calls list and my text from Vic with the emoticon.

Then Carlotta, compulsively checking emails on her own phone, starts to suddenly shriek. — AH DINNAE BELIEVE IT! She looks at me, in shock. — It’s fae Euan…

— That’s good, I knew he’d eventually come to his senses and get in touch.

— But he’s… he says he’s in FUCKIN THAILAND!