Ирвин Уэлш - Dead Men's Trousers

That queasy admixture ay sad embarrassment and rip-roaring affirmation kicks in as I feel that presence ay another in the kip. And it’s somebody that shouldnae be there. And we are, like, where? Amsterdam–Berlin–Ibiza–London… No fuckin Edinburgh, please no fuckin Edinburgh, and oh fuck… there she is; so young, and ma lines, jowls, n burst blood vessels are gaunny get the full treatment fae the wrecking sun flooding in through the half-open blinds. She’s looking right at ays, her heid propped on her elbow, smiling, eyes hungry and rapaciously mocking, raven locks tumbling, that beauty-spot mole oan her chin. — Mor-ning! You were snoring!

What the fuck tae say? Why Edinburgh? Ewart’s birthday bash at Cabaret Voltaire. Conrad, who seems happier about the new track, though he won’t let me hear it, tae my amazement, volunteered tae come over and play. Of course I realised too late that his purpose was tae play a shit-hot deep-house set and blow everybody away, thus humiliating Carl in front ay his ain people. It worked. The young Dutch maestro took all the plaudits while Carl, coke-fuelled and sour, sloped off with his mate Topsy and their crew, into a dull night and a party in some west Edinburgh rat trap. Rab Birrell stuck around. So did Juice Terry. And Emily was there and did a great set too… Then I remember her swinging her hips on her cork wedge pumps, saying something vampish like ‘I think I’m enticing all the Scottish boys…’ I said something cheesy in retort and her lips were on mine, and then… for fuck sake.

Ching. Voddy. E: I fucking hate ye. She’s tons younger than me. She was pretty dirty, and I lost myself. Fuck sake, I huvnae done some ay they things since ah was thirty!

I got the three-month all-clear a few weeks ago. Huvnae heard fae Vicky since the incident, though I’ve been tempted tae get back tae her and apologise. She’s due that, even if she’ll have long moved on by now. But it’s no been easy tae pick up the phone: I just cannae let ‘sorry about giving you the clap’ be my last interaction wi her.

So now I’ve done what I excel the fuck oot ay: compound a bad situation wi another stupid decision. Emily is my fucking client . I slide oot ay the bed, and pull a hotel robe, thankfully close tae hand, round me.

— Where are you going? she asks. — Let’s order some breakfast on room service. All that shagging has given me an appetite!

— I’m truly flattered that I’m your son of a preacher man, Emily, but we cannae go any further wi this –

— What the fuck are you talking about?

— Dusty Springfield: ‘Son of a Preacher Man’. It was about the only boy who could get this lassie who swang the other way onside.

Emily flicks her dark curls. Her expression is incredulous. — You really believe that’s what that song’s about?

— Yes. It’s about a lesbian having a secret heterosexual affair with ‘the only man who could ever teach her…’

Loud, derisive laughter erupts fae somewhere deep inside her. — Yeah, well, you taught me zero. Fuck sake, Mark, I have had boyfriends before! Don’t flatter yourself that you’re some kind of Henry Higgins of cock, she sniggers. — Starr is only the second girl I’ve gone out with, and her bottom lip quivers a little as her guilt kicks in.

Fuck yes. Ah’ve jumped ahead ay myself again. Ah still believe – despite all the contrary evidence – that every woman in the world has the capacity tae fall in love wi ays. And that they maybe have to fight quite hard against doing so. That mindset, call it a delusion if ye will, is one ay the greatest gifts I possess. Of course, the downside ay this is that I tend to overreach. — So it’s a phase?

— Oh fuck off, Mark. How old are you? Sixteen? It’s called life. It’s called 2016. I don’t see the choice of sexual partners as binary. If I find somebody attractive, then I’ll sleep with them. You’re an interesting man, Mark, don’t devalue yourself, you’ve done a lot. Luxury was one of the best clubs in Europe. You always booked female DJs. You brought big-time success to Ivan.

— Yes, but he fucked off as soon as he broke huge, I remind her.

— You need to start talking more about music again, Mark. You were really passionate about it. Now you just listen to any mixes some arsehole with half a following sends you. You’re looking for the next big thing, rather than letting the music lead you.

She’s so on the money it’s fucking scary. — I know that. But I’m an old cunt and I look silly lurking in the shadows of a nightclub full of kids.

— You think of me as a kid?

— No, of course not. But I’m still ages with your dad and I’m your manager, and you’re in a relationship, I say, suddenly thinking of not Starr, but Vicky, then trying not to.

— Oh, don’t give me that buyer’s regret shit.

— What do you expect me to say? I’m glad our slivers of existence intersected in a Venn diagram between the crushing slabs of oblivion on either side of them, but –

Emily’s finger shoots over my lips, silencing me. — Please, Mark, not the old guy’s mortality speech; always that sad and tiresome conversion of sex into death.

— How many older guys have you slept with? I instantly regret asking that.

— However many, it’s a damn sight fewer than the young club girls I’ve seen you slope off with.

— Not for a while now. And never with a client: that’s just wrong, I contend, unwisely adding, — And Mickey would kill me.

— What the fuck has my dad got to do with it? I’m twenty-two, for fuck sake! You’re as weird as he is!

Jesus fuck, that is much mair than half my age. — Quite a lot if he finds out, I should imagine, and I go into the bathroom and pick up my electric shaver.

— Don’t tell him then, she shouts through, — and I won’t tell your dad. You do have a dad – I mean, is he still alive? He must be like, ancient!

I drag ma shaver ower ma coupon. I stare back at masel in the mirror: a hollow fool who has learned fuck all. — Yes. My dad’s a bit older and frailer than he used tae be; he has a dodgy pin, but he’s hanging on in there.

— What would he say if he knew you were sleeping with somebody young enough to be your daughter?

— Did sleep wi, once, in a drunken accident, I stress. — He wouldnae think very highly of it, but he’s way past bothering about anything I do.

— And my dad should be too. It’s creepy.

— He only wants the best for ye because he cares, I tell her. I cannae believe the pathetic words stumbling weakly from my mouth, or that I’m defending Mickey, who seems tae heartily dislike me. I’ve just banged the lassie aw weys, now I’m almost telling her she should study hard or she’s grounded.

I emerge from the bathroom as thankfully my phone is going again and I have tae take this call as it’s Donovan Royce, a promoter for Electric Daisy Carnival in Vegas, who never returns calls. — Mark! The fuck, bro!

— Hey, Don. So what’s the story on a slot for my boy? In the hallway mirror, I watch Emily bristle. But I have tae work for my guys too.

— I’ll be straight, EDC, the Ultra EDM crowd thing… they just ain’t for N-Sign. They’re too young, too musically uneducated for his sophistication.

— Don, come on. He’s putting a lot intae this comeback.

— Mark, it’s N-Sign Fucking Ewart! I grew up fucking chicks at high school under his poster! The man is a house-music legend to me! It’s not me you have to sell N-Sign to. It’s me who has to sell him to kids who have goldfish attention spans. Who don’t even wanna dance, just want to punch the air and go ‘yay’ and grind up against each other as another small segment of a pop hit comes on. They don’t wanna go on a journey with an old maestro. It’s apples and oranges.