Ирвин Уэлш - Dead Men's Trousers

Sick Boy openly scoffs, in that imperious disdain, which nobody else I’ve run into in life has ever been able tae emulate. — You must have money! You wouldnae be handing this over if ye wirnae extremely flush. He taps inside his pocket. — Clubs? Vegas? Dinnae come oot wi aw that shite and plead poverty!

So I tell him about my job and DJ Technonerd’s breakthrough.

— So you’re coining it in fae they fucking shit EDM DJs? These drum machine and stylophone wankers?

— Not really. Only one ay them makes serious dough. One is a charity case, call me sentimental, but I’ve always liked his shit. The other is a speculative punt, which doesnae look like coming off. That duo cost me practically everything I earn with the big payer and I’m too much ay a sap tae drop them. I’m looking for a fourth and fifth one. I thought, instead ay being a DJ myself, if I managed five at twenty per cent each, it would be just the same. I’ve got three so far.

Sick Boy is unmoved by my disclosure. He evidently thinks my penury pleas are simply about avoiding any mair hassle n hustle. — I read about that Dutch fucker, Technonerd. That cunt’s minted. If you’re on twenty per cent ay his earnings…

— Okay, I’ve a place in Amsterdam and an apartment in Santa Monica. I’m not starving. I’ve a few bob in the bank that I haven’t spunked on guilt money for you, treatment and care for the boy.

— What’s wrong wi the laddie?

— He’s autistic.

— Wee Davie… the spazzy gene? he thinks out loud, in reference tae ma deceased younger brother. His son and nephew turn round briefly.

Anger rises in ays and I fight it doon and look disparagingly at him. — You’re already making me regret this, I nod tae the envelope bulging in his pocket.

— Sorry, he says, and it seems semi-gracious, — can’t be an easy gig. So why are ye sorting me out now?

— I want tae live. As in live , I emphasise, and Vicky’s face, laughing, toothsome and blue-eyed, sweeping back stray strands of sun-bleached blonde locks that have escaped their penning, pops into my brain. — Not just exist, I contend as the half-time whistle goes. — Clear away aw the shit fae the past.

— So it is all about rehab case atonement.

— In a sense, yes. It gets too much carrying the burden of cuntishness around.

— Advice: Catholicism. Confession, he says. — Better a few quid on a collection plate than ninety grand, and he tips me a wink, tapping his pocket.

We head back inside for our half-time cups of tea and beers and decent meat pies. Sick Boy and I again hit the bar tae blether in conspiracy. — You seem to be doing okay. Better than me, he moans. — Fucking travel everywhere. I never get out ay London unless it’s on holiday.

— If you have loads ay girls working for you…

— They make the big bucks, no me. I just hook them up on the app. Dinnae come it, Renton. You’re the one with the dosh.

— Stuck on planes, in airports and in hotels, with nowt tae dae but lament how life’s passing ays by. I’m wasting that most finite resource: time, chasing the dream that fucking Begbie is living! I suddenly erupt. — He’s refusing tae take his money, what the fuck is aw that about?

— He’s no changed, Sick Boy spits. — He’s just fucking with you. Begbie is incapable ay change. He’s a warped specimen of humanity.

— I don’t even care what he is. I just want tae morally discharge ma obligations.

— You’ll never morally discharge your obligation tae me, Renton. He taps his pocket. — This shite doesnae even start tae cover it.

— The film is completely worthless.

— I’m talking about Nikki. You ruined my chances of getting together with a girl I was nuts about!

Nikki was a con artist who took the pish out ay us both. And I dinnae believe for a second that he still gies a toss aboot her. It’s aw leverage for future manipulation. — Wake up, mate. She fucked us both over.

Sick Boy seems tae swallow a moothfae ay something that’s unpleasant, but perhaps no quite as putrid as he anticipated. We go back tae our seats for the second half.

— Listen, I’ve goat some business fir ye. I need an escort, I tell him, watching his eyes widen. — Not for me, I hasten tae add. I’m trying to be un-sleazy.

— I’m sure that’s working for you.

— It’s for my young Dutch boy. The DJ.

He looks towards his young nephew. — Can these retards not get a fucking ride for themselves?

— Tell me about it, I’m his manager. I elaborate on the problem. — Guys like Conrad have nae social skills. They smoke weed and masturbate tae pornography. They can’t talk tae a girl or have sex with a real person.

— Cyberwanking little creeps. These fuckers are mentally ill, Sick Boy whispers, looking again at his nephew, now playing a video game on his phone, — made so by the world we live in.

What he’s saying resonates. The match isnae that bad, and there is something fundamentally wrong about the way the kids are looking at screens instead ay watching what’s going on live.

— Even we’re tainted enough by our immersion into that world, his elbow digs into my ribs, — although we were schooled up the goods yard!

I cannae even say her name tae myself, but I wince as I think ay ma cherry popping inside her piggy-bank fanny. Unable to look her in the face as ah pushed and shoved through her dryness, tae the low-key encouragement of Sick Boy. Ma eyes watering as they focused on the broken glass and gravel around us. The blue sleeve ay her cagoule we lay on blowing up in my face in the wind. A dug barking in the distance, and a disgruntled growl of Dirty wee cunts fae a passing jakey. — Aye… the goods yard.

— You’d have still been a virgin now but for me taking you under my wing, he laughs, picking up on my discomfort.

I’m now favourably recalling the banging I gave Marianne, as the nephew’s head spins round. He meets my eyes, then turns away. I lean in to Sick Boy. — Oh, I’m sure I’d have found a way oot ay that maze, but thank you for inappropriately sexualising me at a tender age.

For some reason, this stings him. — Ye never complained back then!

— But I was sensitive. Sixteen, seventeen, would have been ideal for me. Fourteen was way too young.

— Sensitive… as in thieving-cunt-who-rips-off-his-mates sensitive? That kind of sensitive?

There isnae a great deal I can say tae that. The final whistle blows and Hibs have won 1–0, tae keep the promotion bid on course. Sick Boy shepherds the young lads intae the back ay Terry’s taxi. — You chaps go on ahead, the advance party. Tell Carlotta no tae bother expecting me for dinner, I’ll grab a bite with ma auld mucker here.

The boys, especially Ben, look disappointed, but not surprised, as Sick Boy slams the cab door shut and hands Terry a tenner. — Fuck off, ya daft cunt, it’s oan ma wey, Terry says, then leans out the windae, and oot ay earshot fae the young gadges, whispers, — Anywey, be nice tae check oot your sister again, bud. No seen her in years. Still a looker, ah’m bettin, and now that she’s back oan the market… He tips a wink, leans back and starts up the car.

Sick Boy’s eyes protrude. — She’s no oan –

Terry pulls away, as his horn blares triumphantly.

— Cunt, says Sick Boy, then laughs, — but good luck tae him. Maybe a Lawson length would help sort her heid out. Her husband’s been kicked oot the hoose. He was caught Christmas Day, check this, on video, banging Marianne. Mind ay Maid Marianne, fae back in the day?

I haven’t fucked anyone in months. Fucking bullshit . — Aye… I nod meekly, as we walk across the car park, through the crowds.