Ирвин Уэлш - Dead Men's Trousers

— Aw ye did, did yis? Frank Begbie says, turning to Renton and Sick Boy who stare at the floor for an excruciating moment. Then he laughs loudly, a blustering guffaw, which shocks them in its hearty joviality. — Aye, ah could be a wee bit uptight back then!

They look at each other and explode into a joint, cathartic laughter.

When it dies down, Renton asks, — But why do ye want tae make casts ay our ugly mugs?

Franco sits back on one of the workbenches and looks wistful. — Us and Second Prize, we aw grew up thegither. Wi Matty, Keezbo and Tommy, who are obviously oot the picture.

Renton feels a lump in his throat at the mention of those names. Sick Boy’s and Spud’s gleaming eyes tell him that he’s not alone.

— My art stuff’s in demand right now, Frank Begbie explains, — so I wanted tae dae a kind ay early autobiographical piece. Aye, I was gaunny call it Five Boys , but I think Leith Heads should dae it.

— Sound, Renton nods. — Mind way, way back in the day, there was a chocolate called Five Boys?

— Ye nivir git that Five Boys chocolate any mair. No seen it for donkey’s years, Spud says, his mouth flapping open. He brushes some saliva off his chin with his sleeve.

Sick Boy addresses Franco directly for the first time. — Will this take long?

— About an hour ay yir time, all in, Franco replies. — I know you all have busy lives, and that you and Mark are only here for a short break and probably have family stuff tae dae, so ah’ll no keep youse long.

Sick Boy’s head bobs in accord, and he checks his phone again.

— It’ll no be sair, likesay? Spud asks.

— No. Not at all, Frank Begbie declares, handing them overalls, which they put on, then sitting them down on a set of small swivel stools. He inserts two shortened straws up Spud’s nostrils. — Just relax and breathe easily. This will be cold, he explains, as he starts to paint latex onto Spud’s face.

— It is. N aw sort ay tickly, Spud laughs.

— Try no tae speak, Danny, ah want this tae set right, Frank urges, before repeating the procedure on Renton and Sick Boy. Then he fits a five-sided Perspex box over the head of each man, the edge of the receptacle sitting about an inch shy of any part of the face, lining up the protruding straws to slip through small holes in the front of the box. Through grooves at the bottom, he slides in two adjustable convex-indented leaves. Those join together, forming a base with a hole that fits snugly around each man’s neck. — This is the bit that people get edgy aboot, it’s like a guillotine, Franco cackles, to be met with three tight smiles. Checking that each man can breathe freely, he then secures the gaps with putty, and opens the top of the box and starts to pour a preprepared mixture in. — This might feel a bit cauld. There’s a bit ay weight in it, so try and sit up and keep your back straight so that it isnae straining on your neck. It’ll just be on for fifteen minutes, but if ye experience any difficulty breathing, or any discomfort, just raise yir hand and ah’ll open it up.

As the boxes fill up and the compound begins to set, the sounds from outside – the cars in the street, the radio, Franco’s own activities – all fade out in the consciousness of Renton, Sick Boy and Spud. Soon each man can sense only the air entering their lungs through their nostrils, via the straws that poke out from the plaster-filled blocks.

The amalgam solidifies quickly, and Franco removes the Perspex casings and contemplates his old friends: three literal blockheads, sitting next to each other on their stools. Suddenly aware of a tug in his bladder, he heads to the toilets. On the way back, his phone displays MARTIN on caller ID, and he picks up. — Jim, we might have to change venue for the London show. I know you liked that one, but the gallery has suffered some structural problems and the council need them to do work before it’s suitable for the public… Martin’s soft American voice is hypnotic after the grating Scots ringing in his ears, and Franco thinks of Melanie. He finds himself loitering in the corridor, looking out through a dirty window at the narrow cobbled streets below, and the random foot traffic cutting between Leith Walk and Broughton Street.

I put my hand onto my lap to rearrange the erection I feel burgeoning. I don’t want Begbie – a closet homo if ever there was one, this art thing shocks me far less than it does the others – getting the wrong idea! In my mind’s eye, I’m going back to Marianne, pleading undying love, winning her round, setting her up to be fucked by a gang of strap-on-wearing schoolies from her alma matter, Mary Erskine. Ah, the sweet narratives of pornography. I miss them so. That’s creativity, Begbie…

This is so relaxing… in fact it’s the most relaxing time I’ve spent in fucking years! Just doing nothing, letting your thoughts slowly unravel and meander .

Vicky… how uncharacteristically quiet she’s been the last few days… no emails or texts returned… like I’ve somehow upset her. What the fuck did ah dae? She can’t be up the kite after the flunky burst, cause she had her period on, and in any case, she scoffed that morning-after pill straight away .

Does she know about Marianne? Could she tell?

Marianne lied about no shagging anybody, cause she defo rode Sick Boy’s brother-in-law. And obviously Sick Boy himself. Who else?

Fuck, they thin wisps ay air coming through that straw… I cannae hear or see anything…

BEGBIE!

I’m at his mercy! He could just cut off ma fuckin air supply right now!

What the fuck… cool it…

As they say in the movies: if the cunt wanted ays deid I’d already be deid…

Stay fucking calm .

Fuckin itchy knob, but I cannae scratch it cause I dinnae fuckin ken whae the fuck’s watching…

Funny but this sortay staeted oaf as barry at first but it’s gaun aw sortay messed up cause one ay ma nostrils is jist pure seizen up, like, then it pure shuts, like wi aw the ching n snotters… oh man… the second yin… ah pits muh hand up in the air… ah cannae breathe!

Help ays, Franco!

Ah cannae breeeethe…

Frank Begbie is still on the phone with Martin, but has shifted the discussion from suitable London exhibition venues onto his own area of interest. — If Axl Rose saw that fuckin catalogue, he’d be right in for that yin ay Slash. Just get it oot tae his people.

— Right, I’ll send it to his management, and also the record company.

— Call Liam Gallagher’s lot, and Noel Gallagher’s n aw. And they boys in the Kinks, the Davies brothers. There’s a huge market in the music business we huvnae even started to tap intae.

— I’m on it. But, Jim, I’m conscious of your time, and the commissions are rolling in.

— Ah’ve plenty time.

In the workshop, Danny Murphy, rendered blind, deaf and anosmatic, rises from his stool in terror, tearing at the set block of wet plaster-concrete mix that encases his face. He stumbles over Mark Renton. Alarmed by the weight on him, the sensation of tipping off the stool and tumbling to the floor, Renton reflexively grabs out, striking at something. Feeling a walloping blow to his side, Simon Williamson panic-strickenly raises his hands, trying to pull the heavy object from his face.

Frank Begbie hears the banging, thrashing sounds, and abruptly ends the call. He returns to find the studio in chaos. Spud, arms and legs spreadeagled, lies immobile, on top of a flailing Renton, while Sick Boy has collapsed across a trolley. Franco grabs a huge set of stainless-steel cutters and tears north from the side of Sick Boy’s neck, pulling open the block, exposing his grateful face as he fills his lungs. — Fuck… fuck sake… what happened?