Ирвин Уэлш - Dead Men's Trousers

Ah’m cruisin along the freeway, breathin nice and easy, but cursin my bad luck. Fuckin woodworm! Ye think yuv planned for everything, stakin the place oot since fuckin Christmas! Now aw ah’ve done is made a dangerous enemy even mair motivated tae take ays doon.

But lookin oan the bright side, ah’ve just gied masel even mair encouragement tae fuck that cunt right up. It’s him or me now. N it’s no fuckin well gaunny be me, tell ye that for nowt.

Ah haul in ma breath. Nice n slow. Breathe…

That’s the fuckin game. Suddenly ah feel masel shakin wi laughter. Thinkin aboot that cunt’s pus when eh wis gittin throttled by that noose: it wis a fuckin treat! Goat tae enjoy what ye dae: ye dinnae enjoy it, dinnae fuckin dae it.

In the rear-view mirror, the sun’s in the background, fawin ower that range ay hills. It’s no been such bad day, at least weatherwise. Ye cannae really feel shite for long in this climate.

I emerge from the building site at Tottenham Court Road, and a skyward glance shows darkening clouds bunching together. There’s a sharp chill in the air, as I dig oot my phones from the inside pocket of my Hugo Boss leather jacket. All messages to be disregarded, except the one from Ben:

Just got here, will get them in .

I’ve been steadfastly avoiding Edinburgh, but it hasn’t been avoiding me! I’m ruing that festive day I put the MDMA powder in that self-indulgent, weakling sex case’s drink. I couldn’t have envisaged that my playful alchemy would have meant fucking months of fielding correspondence from a heartbroken Carlotta and the weaselly brothel-keeper Syme.

There is fuck all I can do to bring their boy back from Thailand. Pompous Presbo shit with his fucking round-the-world plane ticket and his career break. It’s something I have to do , said the prick in his last ludicrous email, before going completely offline. Leaving his missus and son distraught, punishing them for his nefarious misdeeds! What a cunt! I fight through the blocked-off roads into Soho. The IRA or ISIS never created anything like as much chaos and demoralisation in London as the neoliberal planet-rapists with their corporate vanity construction projects. Sure enough, a steady rain is beginning to fall in cold splatters.

My son has asked me to meet him for a drink in a public house of zero repute, a bland haunt of office workers and tourists. It dawns on me that I’ve spent practically no time with him recently. I’m feeling guilty, as I enter a busy bar. He’s already gotten a seat in a corner, where two pints of Stella fizz on a wooden table. We are close to an imitation fire with a low grate. A pleasing smell of polish fills the air.

We exchange greetings and Ben, who looks troubled, suddenly fixes me in a gaze. — Dad, there’s something I need to say to you…

— I know, I know, I’ve been a self-absorbed wanker. I’ve just had so many things on, this mess back in Scotters, with your uncle freaking out and your aunt being in pieces, it means I’ve had to –

— This isn’t about you ! Or them! he snaps, like he’s at the end of his tether. His neck is red and his eyes glisten.

This startles me. Ben has always been a cool, taciturn lad, more placid Englishman, or even stoical Scot, than tempestuous Italian.

— I told you I was seeing somebody.

— Aye, this wee bird you’re knocking off, you sly –

— It’s not a bird … he pauses, — it’s a bloke. I’m gay. I have a boyfriend, and he spits the word out, indicating how he resolves a certain issue I now presume he has to contend regularly with. He’s looking at me with a belligerent counter-aggressive set to his chin, as if he expects me tae freak out and gie him the shit he probably got from those cunts in Surrey.

But all I feel is a warm, relieved glow. While I never saw this coming I’m absolutely delighted, as I’ve always secretly hoped for a gay son. I would have hated to have that hetero-shagger competitive thing that my dad had with me. — Excellent! I sing. — This is great! I’ve got a gay son! Good on you, bud! I punch his arm.

He looks at me in shock, his brows rising. — You… you’re not upset?

I jab a finger at him. — We’re talking gay, totally gay, not bi, right?

— Yeah, I’m only into guys. Not girls at all.

— Brilliant! This is the fucking best news ever! Cheers! I raise my glass in a toast.

He looks flabbergasted, but clinks it with his own. — I thought you’d, well…

I take a gulp of Stella back, smacking my lips together. — I would probably have been a bit jealous if you were bi, as you’d have more shagging options than me, I explain. — You see, I always wanted tae be bisexual. Could never get it on with men, though. But I do like a lassie to put on a strap-on and give it tae me up the –

Ben starts flapping and cuts me off. — Dad, Dad, I’m delighted you’re taking this well, but I don’t want to hear all this stuff!

— Fair enough. But it’s no skin off my nose; we’re Hull v Wasps, different codes, union v. league. You’re not likely to bring in some hot wee torpedo-titted vixen, to make me jealous, like I did with my father. What about the Surrey people?

— Mum is pretty upset, while Gran is just inconsolable. She can barely bring herself to look at me, he says, genuinely saddened.

I shake my head slowly in disgust, as old bile, dredged up, ferments in my gut. Fuckin old boiler. Wisnae shy aboot taking a Jocko-Eyetie portion, back on that Tuscan holiday, yet would deny her first grandchild the same pleasure . — Fuck those bigots: it’s the twenty-first century. I don’t care who you shag, as long as you shag with a vengeance!

His face lights up at that one. — Oh we do. In every conceivable way. I’m moving into his flat in Tufnell Park, and already the neighbours have been complaining about the noise!

— That’s my boy, and I punch his arm affectionately again. — Right, you fucking raving arse bandit, up to that bar and make mine a double Macallan’s!

He complies and we both end up in a bit of a state. My son is gay! What a fucking blessing!

As I’m on my way home in a cab, I look at my phone and there’s a text from Victor Syme:

Get your arse up here. I’ve found your boy .

What the fuck? Either Syme wants me urgently, or Euan really has returned to Edinburgh. A year of absence my hairy hole, he’s only been away a few months! I type a response:

Euan McCorkindale is in Edinburgh?!

Aye. Get your arse up here .

Jumping on a shuttle first thing in the morning. See you .

A reply from that maggot would have been too gracious.

He realises that he hasn’t dodged the lines between the paving stones since he was a child. Now he’s avoiding them in an even stride, enjoying the rhythm of his feet on the cold slab. The brogues: always a good stout shoe for this sort of weather. Trainers – those incubators of foot disease – not so much. He’s lost count of the number of times he’s told Ross not to constantly wear them. The strange dislocation he feels, that sense of being completely in touch with the other , one of the multitude of alternative characters we repress in order to complete our chosen daily life; it makes him sick and giddy with fear and exhilaration. To walk this familiar city as a man without a home is just like walking new streets in a new world.

On his return to Edinburgh, he got a new phone and email address. He wanted to call Carlotta, but couldn’t face the further humiliation of having only been able to stick less than four months in Thailand, after his declaration that he would be away for a year. At first he felt fabulous out there. He was free. The break, the new place, and Naiyana, the girl he’d taken up with. But the novelty quickly wore off, supplanted by an emotional downer. He missed Carlotta and Ross, craved the order of his old life. Now he is home.