Ирвин Уэлш - Dead Men's Trousers

Euan McCorkindale doesn’t know at this stage whether or not he will return to his podiatrist duties at the Royal Infirmary following his career break. Everything is still up for grabs. After checking into the cheapish-but-clean budget chain hotel on the Grassmarket, his next move was to reset the Tinder app on his new phone.

And then he’s off onto the streets and into a cafe, sitting opposite Holly, thirty-four, recently divorced, two kids. She says she doesn’t want anything ‘too serious’ at this point in time. Euan finds he’s augmenting himself in such encounters, not necessarily lying – women generally find his career as a podiatrist quirkily interesting enough – but adding to himself, pushing his parameters further. He once took Spanish classes with Carlotta in preparation for a holiday. After the event, he was keen to continue, but she didn’t see the point. That tuition will be resumed and from now on he will be self-describing as a Spanish speaker . And although he’s only played a few times with a colleague from work, he is designating himself a squash player . Life is about perceptions, of the self as well as others. You can either sell yourself short or claim something, own it, and grow into it.

Holly is a strong prospect, but Euan leaves her an hour and twenty minutes later, with nothing more than a peck on the cheek. Never give it up right away, if they’re worth fucking more than once, keep them waiting for it. Then slam the very fucking soul out of them, leave them wanting more . To his complete dismay, Simon Williamson’s oddly restrained words resonate in his ear. This psychotic pig is still guiding me! Marianne was right!

Euan’s spirits sink further, despite re-emerging onto brighter, warming streets. Summer is digging in, Scotland’s most anticipated guest, who generally arrives late and is usually the first to leave. Euan was uncertain of where he was going but he instantly knows when he gets there. It’s where he was yesterday, a building down a side street with an orange sign that says TOUCHY FEELY SAUNA AND MASSAGE.

Thankfully Jasmine, whom he visited the previous evening, is working her shift again. This time she takes him to what she describes as the ‘special suite for preferred customers’. It certainly seems impressive enough. There is no bed, just piles of giant red cushions of all shapes and sizes strewn over a floor with indented lights. There’s a big TV set on one wall and, most theatrically, a red velvet curtain on the other. The cushions, though decorated with gold lace trimmings, are designed to facilitate various sexual positions; some are wedged, others rectangular, and Jasmine is skilled at the configurations they offer. Euan is excited, yet senses that something is off in her performance. He finds Jasmine tense and wary, her distracted eyes tinged with trepidation, a contrast to the highly engaged, cheerful and performative woman who serviced him yesterday in the less salubrious chamber. He wonders if it is bad protocol to visit the same girl two days in a row; if it marks him in her eyes as desperate, damaged or sleazy. Then he’s aware of another presence in the room. He turns to see a man in a suit, his face hard and weaselly, all sharp angles, standing over them. Sweating, the man rubs at his neck with a hanky, although it isn’t hot. Euan realises that he’s been behind the red curtain, which is open, indicating a small, recessed stage. — What’s… what is this…? and he ceases his activity. He looks from Jasmine to the menacing interloper.

— Sorry to interrupt, but we have enough for a special VIP tape. The man points to a security camera above the door, its red eye blinking. He hadn’t even seen it.

— What’s going on? Euan looks at Jasmine, who can’t meet his eyes. As he dismounts her, she rolls away and promptly shrinks out of the room.

— Doctor Who? Welcome tae the Tardis. The man flashes a direful, violating smile. — I’m the owner of these premises. The name’s Syme. Victor Syme.

— What do you want? Is this how you run a business –

— I want you tae go and see your brother-in-law. Up at the City Cafe in Blair Street. In half an hour. He’ll tell you all you need tae know.

The podiatrist is chopped to the quick by the sneering certainty of this man. Deathly still, it’s his piercing green eyes that do the real talking. In an attempt to grab some control of the situation, Euan finds his professional voice. — But why are you taping me? What’s it got to do with Simon?

— I don’t like repeating myself, Doc. If you make me do it again, you’d best use your inside knowledge and tell me now exactly which A&E unit you would prefer to be taken to, Syme says, so cold and inanimate. — One more time: the City Cafe in Blair Street. Now go.

Held fast in a vice of his own silence, the naked podiatrist pulls on his clothes. All the time, he feels the pimp’s eyes on him, and is relieved to get outside.

On his way up to the City Cafe, Euan’s brain is a riot of confusion. The violent knot in his gut tells him that this latest disaster has made an already-terrible situation interminably more perilous. His certainty is that this is a blackmail scenario. The concept of forgiveness from Carlotta is like an elusive radio frequency which his mind tunes in to and out of. One minute totally dead, the next blaring beautiful, infinite possibilities at him. The confusion of international travel followed by the ambivalence of the last few days, on Tinder and in the saunas, that incessant veering between elation and despair; it now merely seems training for this new horror, which has yet to fully unravel.

I should have stayed on the year’s career break, travelled round the world, whoring my heart out. Why did I come back? But indulging his baser instincts only seemed to make matters worse. Or maybe go back to work , he considers, rent a flat, be a dutiful weekend dad to Ross, and live as a single shagger , the life that he obviously felt, beneath the threshold of consciousness, was groundlessly denied him. Even with Syme’s intervention and this horrific tape, the latter still seems the most rational course of action.

But there is Carlotta, his beautiful Carra… though he’s burnt his boats there, surely. Erred fatally. Neither his wife nor his son could un-see those horrible, perverse images. They sickened even him, the loose skin on his arms, the sack of flesh across his lower gut, his beady, budgerigar eyes. Then he vanished for months off the face of the earth. And now they might be seeing even more, the model husband and father with a prostitute!

And fucking Simon!

He steps into the City Cafe, enraged as he sees, sitting at a table in the corner, the man who has occasioned all this torment and twisted liberation. Simon David Williamson looks up at him with a sad smile. He has an Americano coffee, turning the large cup in his hands, never taking his eyes off Euan.

— What the fuck is going on, Simon? Why are you here?

— Carlotta asked me to find you, Simon Williamson says. — I’ve been coming back up here every fucking weekend, he exaggerates, — when I should be running my fucking business. Colleagues London and, potentially, Colleagues Manchester. Not Colleagues Edinburgh. You know why? Because I haven’t fucking set up a Colleagues Edinburgh… He cuts himself short as he seems to really see Euan for the first time. — You look gey shelpit, he says, surprising himself with his couthie Scots affectation.

— I’ve been travelling, he says, unable to stifle a sad groan in his voice. — How are Carlotta and Ross?

— You fuck off to Thailand, and don’t call them. Disappear off the fucking face of the globe. How the fuck do you think they are?

Euan hangs his head in miserable shame.