Ирвин Уэлш - Dead Men's Trousers

— Fucking hooring over there and doing the very same back here, I’ll wager.

Euan glances up at Simon. In his brother-in-law’s eyes he sees himself as old and depleted, pathetic and wretched. — And now your friend Syme has fucking filmed me with a prostitute!

Simon Williamson looks around, casting a sour eye on the premises and its patrons. The City Cafe hasn’t changed, but it now seems long past its cool heyday and the clientele has aged with it. He waves his phone. — First, he’s not my friend, he emphatically states. — But yes, he took great delight in telling me. I had asked him to look out for you, but I didn’t think you’d be so daft. Or that he’d stoop so low. I overestimated you both. You should have stayed the fuck in Thailand.

— What do you mean?

— I mean you fucked up badly. A gentleman is always discreet. And this life, Euan, it isn’t you…

— Well, it obviously is, as it’s the one I’m leading.

Williamson’s eyebrows rise. — Yes, so I’ve heard from Syme, the proverbial horse’s mouth on these matters. To paraphrase James McAvoy as Charles Xavier in X-Men: First Class , ‘Shagging hoors will not bring you peace, my friend.’

Euan meets his brother-in-law’s stare with a cold, implacable one of his own. — To paraphrase Michael Fassbender as Magneto’s reply, ‘Not shagging hoors was never an option.’

Sick Boy cackles loudly and rocks back in the chair. — Fuck me, I’ve created a Frankenstein’s monster here, he says, then leans forward, putting his elbows on the table, resting his head on his fists and letting his tone assume gravity. — I never thought I’d utter these words in a million years, but for God’s sake, think of your wife and kid.

— That’s what I’ve been doing. It’s why I couldn’t stay in Thailand. I need to see them…

— But?

— But I’m coming to terms with the sort of man I really am and I’m thinking that they are far better off without me. I’ve had those desires for years. The difference is that I’m now acting on them.

— That’s a big difference. That’s the crucial difference. So stop all the proddy bullshit.

— I don’t think I can stop seeing other women now. Euan shakes his head sadly. — Something has been unleashed.

Williamson looks around the premises again. A DJ whom he recalls playing lots of cool shit back in the day now sits slaughtered at the bar, a semi-jakey, slavering about the pomp of Pure, Sativa, the Citrus Club and the Calton Studios to a bored, younger barman. — Do what we Catholics do.

— What’s that?

— Lie. Be a fucking hypocrite, Williamson shrugs. — I never rattled as many women in my life as I did when I was married to Ben’s mother. Rode the mother-in-law, the wee sister, banjoed the fucking maid of honour on the night before the wedding; the whole shebang, for fuck sakes! I’d have rammed the old boy if he’d had a fanny. If I had my way I would have drugged that cunt, given him a gender reassignment operation, had him ganting on it, then made him my bitch and treated him atrociously, he declares, visibly warming to the thought.

Euan finds himself sharing guilty laughter, surely a measure of how far he’s fallen, before he reflects in sad resignation, — My life is a mess…

— Listen, mate, you have to go back and try to make amends.

— It’s not possible. You saw the video. You witnessed her reaction. Her fury was beyond incandescent. She was totally broken and completely disillusioned, Euan whines, refusing to drop his voice, even though two couples have sat down at the table next to them. Foam spills from the ripped leather seats between them.

— She was in shock, ya radge, Simon declares. — People are adaptable. I’m not saying you’re her pin-up boy and she’s coming round a hundred per cent, but she needs to see you. It’s been months. She’s had time to process it all.

This observation provides Euan with a smidgen of comfort. — Yes, he concedes, — I can see that.

— Well?

— Well, what?

— Do you want to return to normal family life?

— Well, yes.

— But still shag around on the side?

Euan reaches into his heart. Trembling, he looks at Simon. Nods grimly. — But thanks to your friend Syme, the first is no longer an option.

— We certainly can’t let Carlotta see that video, Simon says. — Or it’s over, and he passes his phone to Euan, who is stunned to see an image of himself, having sex with Jasmine in the sauna, only thirty minutes ago.

— How did you –

— Technology will kill us all. Williamson screws his face up, as if in edgy recall. — I can get Syme to erase those videos. But you need to work with me. That means doing him a wee favour. If not, he puts this shit online and not just Carlotta and Ross, and her friends and his classmates, but all your colleagues and patients will see this. They will form an opinion as to the type of man you are. A one-off mistake is one thing; a serial philanderer and pervert, exhibitionist hoor-monger is something else.

Euan wallows in his despair. The images with Marianne were devastating for the family. But this stuff the world would see. The credibility he’s built up over the years would be trashed and he would be humiliated in his profession, a laughing stock and a pariah… He struggles to make sense of the nightmare. — How? Why? Why me? What does Syme want with me ?

His brother-in-law swivels his eyes around the bar, and sighs. — It was my fault. I was looking for you, at Carlotta’s request, and I took that Christmas picture around the saunas. Syme heard about this, came after me, and was curious about what I wanted with you. He obviously thought I was the polis at first, then perhaps some kind of grass. I told him the situation and let slip that you had medical skills, at which point he suddenly took an interest. Then you vanish off the map for months, and I have to deal with the hassle from this murderous buffoon, who fucking well thinks we’re both at it. Then you come back and he rumbles you rifling one of his Roger Moores in the sauna. Bang to rights.

— He… this Syme character, he wants me to look at his feet ?

— He has a job for you. Simon Williamson notes a swaggering posse of lads enter the bar. He puts on a Wild West frontier accent. — Some kinda doctorin work, I’m supposin. With Euan evidently unmoved, he adds abruptly, — That is as much as I know.

— But I fail to see how – how can you do this to me?! This is blackmail! We’re family!

Simon Williamson’s features seem to turn to cold stone. He speaks in a clipped, staccato rhythm. — Let me make one thing clear: you are not being blackmailed by me. For both our sakes, I wish that were the case. We are both being fucked over by a very dangerous cunt indeed. You should not have gone to the saunas, Euan. I would have set you up with a tasty wee bit of –

— It’s your set-ups that have ruined my fucking life already!

— Look, we both fucked up. Simon suddenly slaps his own forehead. — We can point fingers at each other till the cows come home, or we can try and sort it. I’m suggesting the latter course of action. If you disagree, feel the fuck free to have this argument with yourself. I’m off.

Euan is silent in the face of Simon Williamson’s cold logic.

— It’s broken, but it can be fixed.

— What do you want me to do?

— I don’t want you to do anything. But this cunt, and I use the term advisedly, he apparently needs your medical skills. What for, I can’t even imagine.

Euan contemplates his brother-in-law. — What sort of world are you mixed up in? What kind of a person are you?