Ирвин Уэлш - Dead Men's Trousers

Just then, a text from Syme jumps in.

No word from the surgeon boy?

I groan out loud, and we both say at the same time, — What the fuck are we going to do?

Then Ben comes in from the back, contentment scored on his face. I don’t know how much he’s heard of our little shouting match, but he seems laconic about it.

— I know that look of love, I tease, as Carlotta removes herself forcibly from the room. — Who’s the lucky lady?

— I’m not a kiss-and-tell sort. The boy gives me a bashful smile. All of a sudden, I protectively want him back in Surrey, away from all the shit that’s going on around me.

It’s a clear, crisp day, as I look out onto the Royal Mile. My cup twitches and rattles as I lower it tae my saucer, like I’ve a nervous disease. I cannae keep jumping on long-haul flights, the jet lag is destructive. I’ve sacked the Ambien, Xanax and Vallies but I barely trust myself tae sugar this tea. I cannae go on like this.

It was tough leaving Vicky. We’ve amped it up; both now that hungry, excited, stupid way ye are when ye meet somebody you’re really into. I think I might have fallen in love at some point; perhaps when I said that I’ll never forgive the Muslim extremists for 9/11, because it made it so much harder to move drugs around, and consequently made my life as a DJ manager mair difficult. She looked at me sadly and said that her cousin had worked in the World Trade Center and died in the terrorist attack. I gasped in horror and coughed out apologies, before she laughed and told me she was winding me up. Hard no tae love a lassie like that.

Now she’s in LA and I’m in a cafe in cauld and frosty Edinburgh. People walk past, bleary. Global commercialism has compelled the Scots tae pretend tae like Christmas, but we’re genetically programmed tae rebel against it. Ah come oot in a rash if I’m stuck in a hoose wi family for more than two days. New Year is more our natural speed. Not that I’m looking out the windae too much, because the view inside isnae so bad. Marianne always was a very good-looking girl, a pouty, superior, willowy blonde; athletic-slim, with ersecheeks like a superhero’s biceps. She had the world at her feet, but was burdened by a fatal flaw: she was besotted with Sick Boy. Of course the cunt ruined her life. But she’ll probably ken where he is or be able tae find him. I got her number through Amy Temperley, a mutual friend fae Leith, and we hook up at this cafe on the Royal Mile.

My initial thought: fuck me, Marianne has aged spectacularly well. Those Scando-Scot genes don’t bloat and her skin has remained excellent. She’s guarded at first. No wonder. I’m fucking guarded too. I ripped Sick Boy off for a lot more than that three-point-two grand, which I paid him back during the porno-flick era. That repayment was just a set-up, tae dae him out ay sixty grand, back in 1998, which is about ninety-one grand now. But I only did this because he tried tae steer Begbie onto ays as revenge for initially ripping him off. And I also snaffled the masters of the pornographic film we made. It’s complicated. — So you want to pay him this money back? Marianne says doubtfully. — After all this time?

Ah think she’s aboot tae tell ays tae fuck off, so I add, — I just want tae let go ay the past and move on.

A light clicks on behind her eyes. — Didn’t you try Facebook?

— I’m not on social media myself, but ah did have a look. Couldnae find him.

She scrolls on her phone, and hands me it. — He’s not under his own name. This is his escort agency.

The Facebook page links tae a website. The Colleagues.com mix of nudge-nudge, wink-wink innuendo, coupled wi a corporate eighties business-speak, replete wi motivational poster sloganeering, give ays absolutely zero fuckin doubt that the copy was written personally by him. — Sick Bo — Simon, he runs this escort agency?

— Aye, Marianne says, taking her phone back and checking it.

In spite ay myself, ah feel a warm glow in my chest, followed by a surge ay excitement. The dynamic between Sick Boy and me always veered towards the destructive, but it was seldom boring. I’m inexplicably chuffed tae get the details. Marianne then says, wi a certain impatience, — Do you want to get a proper drink?

Did I want to get a proper drink? I’m thinking about Vicky. But what are we? Is the connection all in ma mind? I don’t even know whether she would be hurt and offended if I slept with somebody else, or laugh in my face for being so ridiculous. I hear my treacherous words slide out: — We can go back tae my hotel if ye fancy it.

Marianne says nothing but she gets up. We head out, and walk side by side, down Victoria Terrace, her heels gunfiring across the Grassmarket cobblestones. We pass a pub that has probably changed its name a million times, but I recall that bands used to play there in my youth.

Ripping off Sick Boy was the other reason (as well as being the cause of Begbie’s injury) that I left running a club to manage DJs. My first client, Ivan, I put everything into. Then, as soon as he broke big, a manager with even fewer scruples and a bigger Rolodex poached him. It was an important lesson, and I showed I had learned it when I saw Conrad play in a Rotterdam club. He was being sort of looked after by his friend’s older brother. I quickly realised that the cunt was a prodigy. He could do any kind ay dance music. I talked tae him and ascertained that he wouldnae consider it beneath him to try and make pop hits. Those would make me the kind of money where I could pay off big debts quite easily. And now they have.

Of course I dinnae want tae gie that hard-earned money tae Sick Boy! But if I’m consistent wi this rehabilitation and personal atonement plan, I need to see him right as well. And Second Prize, who refused payment back then. He got religion and nobody’s heard from him. Like Franco, he’s due his fifteen grand. But it’s fucking Sick Boy who is gaunny totally wipe ays oot wi his big chunk. So I deserve some compensation.

When we get tae the hotel, I make the pretence of indicating the bar, but Marianne abruptly says, — Let’s go to your room.

I can’t fucking do this, and yet I have tae do it. It’s Marianne . I recall her as a teenager; feisty and contemptuous ay me, impossibly beautiful and sexy as she hung from a lecherous Sick Boy’s arm. I had zero chance with her back then, but now she’s offering herself tae me on a plate. Maybe it’s all part ay the process; maybe ye need tae exorcise past demons before you can move on.

We take the lift and get tae the room. I’m embarrassed because the bed hasn’t been made yet and there’s a dusky smell. Ah cannae recall if ah shot my load or no last night. I never wank these days, as ah enjoy such vivid wet dreams in the waking hours. There’s also a miserable lonely ennui with masturbation after you’ve shot your duff in a hotel room, something that bothers you mair as ye get aulder. I switch on the air con, even though ah ken it’ll freeze the place within five minutes. — Do ye want a drink?

— Red wine. Marianne points tae a bottle on the desk, one of those that ye eywis open because ye subconsciously think thir complimentary, but they never are.

I open it as Marianne collapses in a sprawl on the bed, kicking off her heels. — We doing this, then? she says, looking pointedly at me. In such situations it’s best not to speak, and I start removing my clothes. She sits up and does the same. I’m thinking that outside of my ex, Katrin, Marianne is the palest-skinned lassie I’ve ever set eyes on. Of course, the fabulous architecture ay a woman never fails tae excite, and that arse is as utterly splendid as I have observed-imagined from my youth. One day this magnificent charge will go, like vision, hearing, continence, and I hope it’s the very last of them to succumb. Then I realise there’s a problem. — I don’t have any condoms…