Ирвин Уэлш - Dead Men's Trousers

— She’s always been disturbed, but has now gone full-on psycho. She would fuck a minging dog in the street these days. I’ll be telling the brother-in-law tae get checked up, especially if he manages tae get back wi ma sis, he sings, as we cross the Bridge of Doom. — Remember some ay the ambushes here, back in the day? he says, as I feel a phantom itch pepper my genitals. Paranoia rips out of me. Vicky…

He’s still slavering away as we go on to Easter Road. Everywhere seems replete with rich memory. We head down Albert Street. I’m thinking of Seeker’s flat where we got the skag, the Clan Bar opposite, now shut, and we head to Buchanan Street, where Dizzy Lizzie’s pub has been resurrected as a slightly higher-end concern. It actually has drinkable beer now. The barmaid is familiar, and she greets us wi a big smile. — Lisa, my lovely, Sick Boy says, — two pints ay that wonderful Innis & Gunn lager please!

— Coming up, Simon. Hi, Mark, long time no see.

— Hi, I say, suddenly remembering where I ken her fae.

We find a corner and I ask him, — Is that what’s-her-name?

— The Ghastly Aftermath, yes, that’s her, and we share a childish chuckle. She got that name fae a TV advert for washing-up liquid. A posh, hung-over hostess facing a sink full ay dirty dishes exclaims, ‘I love parties, but I hate the ghastly aftermath.’ The Ghastly Aftermath always hung around at the end ay a party. Ye would find her crashed oan the flair, or on a couch, or sitting watching TV and drinking tea, long after every other cunt had fucked off. It wisnae like she was hanging around tae fuck any survivors, and she wasn’t peeving the dregs ay the alcohol or waiting oan new drugs tae arrive. We never quite ascertained what her motivations were.

— Lived at hame wi her ma and wanted tae stay oot as long as possible, Sick Boy decides. — Ever ride her?

— No, I say. I once snogged the Ghastly Aftermath, but that was about it. — You?

He rolls his eyes and tuts in a don’t-ask-silly-questions manner. I insist tae him that I’m no sticking around tae peeve it up, as I’m too fucked wi the jet lag. I should feel a retro loser, but it’s oddly comforting, being here in Leith with Sick Boy. — Do ye get back up the road much?

— Weddings, funerals, Christmas, so yes, loads.

— Ever hear of what happened to Nikki? Or Dianne?

His eyes widen. — So they really did dae a turn on you as well?

— Aye, I admit. — Sorry about the film. Fuck knows what they did with the masters.

— Threw them on a bonfire, no doubt, he says, then suddenly breaks oot intae gallows laughter. — There we were, two scamming Leith schemies, fuckin rinsed like daft cunts by those cold-hearted bourgeois chickies. We were never as streetwise as we imagined, he muses ruefully. — Listen… does Begbie ever mention me?

— Just in passing, I tell him.

— I’ve never telt anybody this, but I went tae see the cunt in hospital; after that car tanned him in, when he was chasing you. He clears his throat. — He was unconscious, in some kind of fucking spazzy coma, so I let rip with a few home truths in the veg’s pus. You’ll never guess what happened next?

— He came out of the coma and grabbed your throat and tore it out?

— Actually, quite fucking close. The bastard opened his eyes and seized me by my wrist. I was shiteing it. Those fucking lamps ay his were a blast ay Hades…

— Fuck sake –

— He sank back into the bed, closed his eyes. The hospital staff said it was just some reflexive action. He woke up proper a couple ay days later.

— If he’d been in a coma he wouldn’t be able tae make oot a word you said, I smile. — And if he could and he cared, you’d already be deid.

— I’m not sure, Mark. He’s a maniac. Tread carefully. I’m glad I’m no involved with him any mair. I’ve had considerable personal distress from the spunk-breathed amoeba’s poxy obsessions.

— I’ve another one for ye. He wants to make a cast of our heads. In bronze.

— No fucking way.

I take a long swig of lager and lay the glass slowly on the table. — Don’t shoot the messenger.

Sick Boy’s head rolls slowly, as his eyes half close. — I’m not going anywhere near that fucking psychopath!

As Mott the Hoople’s ‘Honaloochie Boogie’ blasts out from a small radio, none of the three men present can quite believe that they are standing in the same room. An artist friend has given Francis Begbie the use of this attic studio, located in a backstreet zone of warehouses near Broughton Street. Despite the abundant light spilling through the glass ceiling from a sliver of blue sky, two sets of untrained eyes, belonging to Renton and Sick Boy, process the space as a small, dingy factory unit. It has a kiln, and a range of industrial equipment, two large workbenches, acetylene torches and gas canisters. Racks on the wall store materials, some of which are marked poisonous and combustible.

Frank Begbie’s protracted yawn signals that, like Renton, he fights jet lag from a long-haul air journey. Sick Boy is evidently vexed, glancing intermittently from the door to the clock on his phone. He decided to come on the basis that being seen with Begbie might give him some leverage with Syme. Already it feels like a mistake. — Where’s Spud? Probably just coming fae a fucking bench in Pilrig Park, and of course, he’s the one who’s late!

Renton notes Sick Boy’s nervousness in the presence of Begbie. He hasn’t engaged with him, beyond a perfunctory handshake and nod. — Nae word fae Second Prize? Renton asks.

Sick Boy rolls his shoulders in a ‘search me’ manner.

— I had assumed he’d drunk himself to death, or, even worse, met a nice lassie, settled doon and got lost in Gumleyland, Renton smiles. — He was a bit ay a Holy Joe the last time I saw him.

— That’s a shame, Franco says, — I wis gaunny call this piece Five Boys . I wanted tae show the journey we’ve aw been on.

It is the un-Franco-like word journey that instantly compels an exchange of doubtful glances between Sick Boy and Renton. Frank Begbie catches this and seems about to say something, but then Spud walks in. Just by regarding his bedraggled, wasted figure, Renton feels his own exhaustion peeling away. Spud’s clothing is tatty, but while his face is wizened, his eyes blaze. His movements are at first deliberate, but then break into short, uncontrollable spazzy jerks. — Here we go, Sick Boy announces.

— Sick… Simon… long time. Hi, Mark. Franco…

— Hi, Spud, Renton says.

– Sorry tae be late, boys. Franco, good tae see ye. Last time wis at yir laddie’s funeral but, ay? That wis awfay sad, ay?

Renton and Sick Boy look at each other again, this obviously being news to both of them. Franco, however, remains unruffled. — Aye, Spud, good tae see you n aw. Thanks.

Spud continues rambling, with Renton and Sick Boy trying to work out what drugs he’s ingested. — Aye, ah’m sorry tae be late, man, ah pure goat involved cause ah ran intae this boy, Davie Innes, you’ll ken the boy, Franco, Jambo, but a good lad, likesay –

— Nae worries, mate, Frank Begbie cuts him off. — As ah say, I appreciate you daein this, and he turns to Sick Boy and Renton. — That goes for youse n aw.

It is unnerving for them all to hear Franco express gratitude, and an uncomfortable silence follows. — I’m kind of flattered, Franco… or, eh, Jim, Renton ventures.

— Franco’s fine. Call ays what ye want.

— Mibbe call ye Beggars, Franco, Spud laughs, as Renton and Sick Boy freeze in horror. — Wi nivir called ye that tae yir face but, ay, lads, mind we were ey too feart tae say ‘it’s the Beggar Boy!’ tae Franco’s face? Ken?