Ирвин Уэлш - Dead Men's Trousers

Afterwards there’s a party, but I’m no much company, and I dinnae want tae get too fucked up in front of Marina, so I make my excuses and bow out early. I crash at the hotel and sleep like fuck, right through tae the next night. Then I go doon tae Leith and get a wee dram with the old boy for New Year, and he’s made a welcome pot ay stovies.

Then more kip at the hotel and I’m off the next day tae see Hibs. Surprisingly, for a relegated outfit, the club seems a much bigger and more professional operation than ah mind ay it being. The reception area looks like one ay they corporate hotels, and there are now several hospitality suites rather than just the one. — Just gies ays the most expensive package, I tell the woman, who looks at ays like I’m a clown.

— But it’s just for you, right?

I realise how pathetically nae-mates this is sounding. — I’m meeting a Mr Williamson here, it’s a last-minute thing.

— Right… Is it Simon Williamson? There’s a party of six. Would you like tae join them at that table?

— Sound.

I square up on the Visa and head for the stairs. On reaching a reasonably plush dining area, I immediately see Sick Boy, looking much the same, bar the greying locks, sitting wi what appears to be Juice Terry Lawson, still with that corkscrew hair, and four young gadges. I stare at Simon David Williamson, the cavalier shagger ay the Bananay Flats, for a few moments. Yes, the mop has maybe receded a little along with the touches of silver, but he looks well. As I gape, he suddenly rubbernecks. He stares at me in disbelief, then, rising, bellows: — What the fuck are you doing here?!

— Wee word, buddy, I say, nodding tae Terry. — Tez. You huvnae changed much! Got tae be fifteen years, easy, I consider, remembering the last time I saw Terry was when we made that dodgy scud film. He had a terrible accident where he ruptured his cock.

— Aye, he smiles, and he kens exactly what I’m thinking, — one hundred and ten per cent recovery!

We exchange pleasantries for a few moments, but I can feel the seethe of Sick Boy, who grabs my wrist and ushers me ower tae the bar. When we get there, I dump the envelope in front ay him. He has zero reticence about immediately snatching it. Snidely looking inside, he discreetly counts it, hudin it close tae his chest, eyes gaun fae the money tae me, tae the people in the vicinity, in an almost Dickensian parody ay furtive greed.

Finally he lets those blazing lamps rest on me. I’ve forgotten the hurt, questioning, accusation they permanently carry. With an injured pout, he declares, — You ripped me off not once, but twice. The cash I can get past, but you stole the film! I put my heart and soul into that movie! You and that fucking bitch Nikki and that stuck-up hoor Dianne –

— They shafted me as well. I went back tae the Dam with my tail between my legs.

— I came looking for you there!

— I figured ye might, so I moved out of town for a bit. Den Haag. It was a little dull.

— Very fucking wise, I can tell you! he hisses, but he’s looking in the package again. He’s impressed and cannae even hide it. — Never thought you’d pay me back.

— It’s all there. You should’ve been after Nikki and Dianne for most of it, but I decided tae compensate ye on their behalf.

— That doesn’t sound like you! You must be fucking off-the-charts wealthy. All that NA stuff works for rich bastards, who think they can buy their way oot ay the misery they’ve created!

This cunt has loast nane ay his natural outrage. — Well, there it is. I’m happy to take it back –

— You can get tae fuck!

— Good, cause it’s aw yours. Now you can expand Colleagues.

His eyes bulge, his voice goes to a low growl. — What do you know about Colleagues?

I decide it isnae a good idea tae mention Marianne. — Only what your impressive website tells ays. ‘Ambitious plans for expansion,’ it says.

— Well, yes, naturally. ‘We plan to tread water’ doesn’t really impress, he sneers, looking over at the fellow hospitality diners in contempt.

Ah watch Terry back at the table, taking a keen interest. Sick Boy clocks this n aw, dispensing a quick scowl, then pointedly turning his back to him. As he faces ays, I explain, — The best online calculations for sixty grand in the year 1998 range fae eighty-three thousand seven hundred and seventy quid tae one hundred thousand and nine hundred nicker. Ah split the difference at ninety-one thousand and eighty pounds using a single purchasing power calendar application.

— I could have made a lot more if I’d been allowed to invest my money my way!

— Impossible tae predict that for sure. Investments can go south as well as north.

He stuffs the envelope in his jacket. — What about the masters ay Seven Rides for Seven Brothers ?

— Fuck knows. But a fifteen-year-old scud film willnae be worth much.

— Hmmph, he grunts and looks over to his table. — Well, thank you for the money and about fucking time n aw. But this is a social occasion. He points tae the door. — Now go.

— Well, I’ll have a little roast beef and watch the game, at least the first half, if it’s all the same tae you, I smile. — I did purchase a hospitality package, and it’s been a long time since I saw the Hibbies in action. And aren’t ye just a wee bitty curious as to why I’m daein this now ?

Sick Boy rolls his eyes in concession and nods tae the group of Terry and the lads. — Yes. Okay. Just don’t expect me tae listen tae any fucking AA/NA tale of woe and step-working, debt-paying bullshit, he says, as we step ower and settle down to join the others.

That pre-emptive speech is useful as that was exactly where I had planned tae start. I’m introduced tae Sick Boy’s son and nephew, and Terry’s two lads. All of them seem nice, normal young guys. But I suppose we did at that age to outsiders. We have a decent meal, a comic tells some gags, then gaffer Alan Stubbs gives his view of the game, before we head into the stand to watch it from nice foam-cushioned seats. My back aches a little, but it’s not too bad. I’m sat next tae Sick Boy. — Well, he says, his voice low as he taps his inside pocket, — what’s the story? Why this? Why now?

I like the look ay the Hibs midfielder McGinn. Unusual running style, but keeps the baw well. — Begbie, I met him on a flight to LA. Seen him over there a few times since. We’re sort of mates again. I had him at our club night in Vegas. He invited me back to his exhibition.

It might have been ‘Begbie’ but it’s more likely ‘club night’, ‘Vegas’ and ‘exhibition’ that ensures I have his full attention. – You’re hanging out with that fuckin psycho? After what he tried tae dae… Sick Boy pauses as Hibs attack the Raith goal, orchestrated by McGinn.

— No. That’s it. He really has fucking changed.

Sick Boy cracks a high-wattage grin. He points tae a foul on a Hibs player and elbows his son. — The butchers of Kirkcaldy, he snorts. Then he turns back tae me. — This art shite he got intae? You dinnae think for a second that that headcase has genuinely rehabilitated? He’s playing you. Waiting for his moment to strike!

— Not the vibe I get.

— Then I’m delighted for him.

— Ah offered him the money. He refused. The bastard is married tae a Californian beauty. Eh’s got two lovely wee daughters, who dote on him, and whom he gets tae watch grow up. I seldom see my boy.

Sick Boy shrugs, but fixes me a look ay understanding. He drops his voice tae a whisper. — Tell me about it. So we both fell a bit short in the paternal stakes, he thieves a quick glance at his son, — what of it?

— So how the fuck did Begbie become the success story?