Ирвин Уэлш - Dead Men's Trousers

— Let’s educate them then, Don. You used to be a true believer. l glance ower at Emily who has stretched forward in the bed, her long, thin frame almost in a yoga pose.

Loud laughter erupts down the phone. — You gotta be desperate to pull that old number. It’s business, bro, as in ‘regrettably in this instance we cannot get it on and do any’.

The conversation is depressing as fuck. But it’s the basic truth: Carl will never get on the bill for an EDC or Ultra unless he has another pop hit. Ironically, the cunt is capable ay daein just that. But first I have to get him back into a place he now hates: the studio. I look back at Emily. — What about my girl, Emily, DJ Night Vision?

— I like her shit, but she isn’t that sexy.

— I disagree, I say, genuinely stung. My ravaged baws say otherwise .

— Okay, seeing as it’s you; the Upside-down House, an afternoon slot. Tell her to show some skin. Maybe a bit of cleavage. She has a pair of titties, right?

For fuck sake. Who is this cunt? The Upside-down House too; it’s the smallest stage . — Early evening. Wasteland. It’s right up her street.

— Wasteland is booked solid with reserves in place. I can do her a Quantum Valley slot, provided she can do trance.

— She fucking is trance, mate, I wink at Emily, who is nodding fifty to the dozen.

— Four till five.

— An evening slot, mate, help a brother out.

A loud sigh down the phone, then, — I can do 7.15 p.m. till 8.30.

— Done. You are a fucking man-ride and you are getting rammed till your eyes pop out your head on stalks and swing so far doon your body they are like all-seeing testicles, I tell him. The fucker is getting objectified and sexualised right back .

— Wow… thanks, I think, he says.

As I click off, Emily shoots tae alertness. — What the fuck was that?

— Got you a slot at EDC, I say, keeping it low-key, pulling on my clathes. I find wi DJs, well, mine anyway, if ye fist-pump the air aboot a gig, bristling wi enthusiasm, the cunts will moan about it no being good enough. But play it low-key, and they squeal with excitement.

— EDC! That’s a big deal!

— It’s only Quantum Valley, early evening, and you’ll have to load it with a trance vibe, I say in fake dreariness.

— But that’s fucking great! Quantum Valley is the best space at EDC! You rock, Mark Renton!

It’s aw about expectation management. — Thanks, I smile, as the phone goes again.

— Switch that thing off and come back to bed!

— I cannae, babe, this isnae a good idea for either of us. If I shag one ay my DJs I have to shag them all. It’s called democracy. And I was always useless at swinging the other way. Let’s leave it at that and discuss later, I offer, as the phone rings off.

— You won’t say that I fucked you to get this gig?

— Don’t be silly: I’m your manager. It’s my job to get metaphorically fucked in order to get you gigs. And if you want to sleep your way to the top, fuck promoters, not somebody who’s already into twenty per cent of you.

Emily flops back, thinking about this, then springs up abruptly. — I’ve a theory about you, Mark Renton, she says, arching a teasing brow. Here we go: every woman in her early twenties must buy handbags with a Penguin Freud stitched intae the lining. — That you were a young guy who was self-conscious about your ginger hair and pubes, and hung out with a mate who was a bit better looking, maybe had a bigger cock, who was more confident with girls… How am I doing?

— Way way waaay off the mark, as in distinctly not Renton, babe, I tell her, pulling on my shoes, as Sick Boy’s name flashes up on my phone. — Si… right. On my way.

— Where are you going? says Emily.

— Working for you lot twenty-four/seven, sweetheart, I tell her, tapping the phone and heading for the door. I invited Sick Boy along tae our show. He appeared and is now helping ays oot wi a management problem. The recurring one: getting Conrad laid. Since I’ve squared Simon David Williamson up, we’ve become online buddies. Sharing links ay old band videos, new songs, humorous news items about sexual disasters and mutilations, the usual psychotic shit people bandy about nowadays.

In the hotel lobby Sick Boy is waiting wi an escort girl who scrutinises something on her mobile. She’s a pretty enough brunette, though with a flinty-eyed professional hardness. Sick Boy’s talking on one phone, while trying tae text on another. — Yes, I know what I said, Vic, but I didn’t expect the cunt tae abscond tae fucking Thailand… No indication when he’s due back, he won’t answer any emails or texts, has gone offline… Yes, he’s a surgeon, Vic… Yes, I’m still in Edinburgh. I can’t stay up here, I have a business tae run in London! Yes, okay! Right. He ends the call, evidently distressed. — Fuckin mongols! Surrounded by them! The lassie looks pointedly at him, and he composes himself. — Not you, my darling, you are the one shining light in an otherwise permanently murky scenario. Mark, meet Jasmine.

— Hi, Jasmine. I hand her the key to Conrad’s room. — Be gentle with him!

She silently takes the key and vanishes into the lift.

— Don’t be such a smarmy sleazebag, Sick Boy reprimands. — That woman is providing a service, so treat her with respect. I plan to recruit her for a possible Edinburgh operation. Most of our girls are MBAs.

If that lassie was awarded an HND in secretarial studies at Stevenson College, then Spud is professor of global finance at Harvard Business School. — Being given a lesson by you on sexism. Next week, Fred West on patio building. Or Franco on art.

— Don’t, Sick Boy says, pushing index fingers into a throbbing temple. — Just don’t.

— You seem stressed.

— So do you, he snaps back in defensive truculence.

— Well, apart fae being still jet-lagged tae fuck, oan an Amsterdam–LA–Vegas–Ibiza circuit for the last five months, having this birthday gig for Ewart, then flying tae Berlin for the big show at the Flughafen tomorrow, with a DJ I can’t find, him now lost in Jamboland somewhere, and I’m tempted to add plus ditched by my girlfriend because of you, ya cunt , — I’m perfectly fine. And you?

— First World problems, he says pompously. — My brother-in-law, who is being hassled by a psycho to do work for him, has fucked off tae Thailand, left Carlotta and the kid. Guess who’s been stalked by the nutter, and the sister, for months? He slaps his head in the manner of old. — When did I become the radge designated tae sort oot other cunts’ problems?

— Sortin oot other people’s crap is the shittiest, most thankless deal you’ll ever get, I empathise.

— And while we’re running around like daft fuckers, Begbie is lying in the Californian sun, Sick Boy spits bitterly. — But you know what? I think you could be right about him. From deadly psychopath to arty wee pussy!

The cunt got a fuckin shock when he came intae his hoose n pit oan the light. There wis me sitting in the chair behind ehs desk, pointing ehs ain fucking shooter right at him. Had it in his top right-hand drawer, the fuckin spazwit! Polis? That cunt? Seen fuckers in Edinburgh that would pit that wanker tae shame.

— What the fuck… How did you get in here?

— Do you really want the boring details? ah ask him. Ah wave the gun a wee bit. The cunt properly registers it for the first time. Disnae like it. — Now give me one good fucking reason, after you harassing my wife, why I shouldn’t shoot you now.

— You’re a murdering scumbag and she should know that! N eh points the finger at ays.