Ирвин Уэлш - Dead Men's Trousers

— Got it, I lie glumly. — I’ve those gigs at Christmas and New Year in Europe. But at least I’ll get back home tae spend time with the old boy.

— Wish I was going home, she says. — Especially as my sister’s making it back from Africa. But it takes too much time out of my leave. So it’ll be Christmas with some expats… again, she groans in exasperation.

Now would be the time to say it: I wish I were spending Christmas here with you . It would be a simple, honest statement. However, meeting Franco has once again discombobulated me, and the moment passes. But there are other opportunites. As we reach my building I ask Vicky if she wants to come up for a nightcap. She smiles tightly. — Sure.

We get upstairs and into the apartment. The air is thick and stale and hot. I hit the air con and it creaks and whistles into action. I pour two glasses ay red wine and slump down on the small couch, suddenly tired after all my travelling. My DJ Emily says that everything happens for a reason. It’s her mantra. I never buy into all that cosmic forces shite. But now I’m thinking: What if she’s right? What if I was meant to run into Franco, in order to pay him back? Unburden myself? Move on? After all, that’s what he’s done, and I’m the one who’s fucking stuck.

Vicky has sat down on the couch beside me. She stretches out like a cat, then slips off her shoes and pulls her tanned legs up, smoothing down her skirt. I feel blood flowing from brain to baws. She’s thirty-seven and has had a proper life, from what I can gather. Been messed around by a couple of wankers, broken a few saps’ hearts. Now she has a fire in her eye and set tae her jaw that says: Time to get serious. Shit or get off the pot .

— You think it’s time we, eh, took this to the next level? I ask.

Her eyes are slitty and alert as she touches the sun-bleached brunette-blonde hair scrapped right back off her forehead. — Oh, I think so, she says in a voice that is meant to be sexy and is.

We’re both relieved tae get the first shag out the road. Already beyond excellent, it’ll only kick on from here. It always fascinates me how, when you fancy somebody, they often look even better with no clothes on than you imagine. But the next day, she leaves early for work, and I have to get on a plane tae Barcelona. It’s for a gig that isnae important in itself, but at a club night promoted by a guy who does the Sonar Festival there. Our participation in that was sealed by agreeing to do this Christmas show. Who knows when Victoria and I will hook up again. But I travel happy and with a bit to think about, and maybe something to come back for. And that’s been a long time in happening.

So here I am, flying east, the dreaded east. Business class is essential for this one. I should lie flat but the stewardess offers a nice French wine from their selection, and before I know it I’m shit-faced at altitude again. All I’m thinking about is getting some coke. I settle for an Ambien.

Yes, it has gotten obnoxiously trendy. Aye, money has ruined it. For sure, it’s been colonised by cosmopolitan fuckers high on solvency and low on personality, their mirthless laughter from the bars and cafes echoing down its narrow streets. But for all those caveats, the simple fact remains intact: if you don’t like Barcelona, you’re a cunt, and totally lost tae humanity.

I know I still have some kind of pulse, cause I love it. Even when I’m fighting tae keep my eyes open, and shutting them jaunts me back into the hell of the sweaty nightclub I’ve either just left or am heading to. I have a constant four-four beat pounding in my brain, despite the cab driver playing tinny Latin music. I stumble out the taxi, almost falling over with fatigue. I pull my roller-wheeled case out the back, and struggle intae my hotel. The check-in is swift but seems like an age. I feel myself letting the air out my lungs in a long sigh to hurry the clerk up. I’m shiteing it in case one ay my DJs or the promoter walks in right now and wants to talk . The plastic strip that gains me entry to my room is issued. Some notes about the Wi-Fi and breakfast. I get intae the lift. The blinking green light in the lock tells me the key works, thank fuck . I’m inside. On my bed.

For how long I’m out I don’t know. But the room phone wakes me with loud burps. My mind journeys with each one; the pause long enough to give me hope I’ve just heard the last of them. Then… it’s Conrad. My most high-maintenance client has arrived. I push my bones vertical.

I’m wishing I was in LA or Amsterdam, I don’t care, watching Pop Idol , Vicky perhaps tucked into my side, but I’m a shuddering mass of jet lag and ching in this Barcelona hotel, feeling my IQ almost satisfyingly slip away as my heartbeat pumps up. I’m in the bar with Carl, Conrad and Miguel, a promoter at Nitsa, the club we’re playing. Fortunately, he’s one of the good guys. Emily enters and refuses to join us, pointedly standing at the bar, playing with her phone. She’s making a statement, one that compels me to rise and go to her.

— You get those wankers in your little boys’ club sorted out, why not me?

No much in my job disturbs me. Certainly setting up a DJ with prostitutes doesn’t even twinge my moral compass these days. But when the DJ is a young woman, who is seeking the company of another young woman, it’s outside both my skill set and comfort zone. — Look, Emily –

— Call me DJ Night Vision!

How do you react when a young lassie with wavy dark hair, a beauty-spot mole on her chin and big swimming-pool eyes looks at you as if she indeed does have night vision? She once told me that her mother was of gypsy stock. That surprised me as I’ve met her dad, Mickey, who seems pure English Defence League. I can see why that one didn’t last. Her title has become a big thing with her, since she heard me calling Carl N-Sign and Conrad Technonerd. — Look, DJ Night Vision, you’re a beautiful woman. Any guy, I correct myself, — I mean girl, or person , in their right mind, would want tae sleep with you. But you shagging a lipsticked-and-stiletto-heeled hooker will depress the fuck out of me, as I crash in the next room alone with a good book. Then it’ll do the same tae you, as you’ll have tae lie tae Starr.

Emily’s girlfriend Starr is a tall, gorgeous, raven-haired medical student. Not the sort of lassie that gets cheated on, you’d think, but nobody is too beautiful to suffer that fate. Carl’s ex, Helena, is a stunner, but it didn’t stop this weird-looking albino cunt from Stenhoose banging anything that smiled at him. Emily sweeps her hair oot ay her eyes and rocks back on her heels, looking over at the boys. Carl is animated, gesticulating, arguing with Miguel: his voice high, fuelled by powder. I hope tae fuck the cunt isnae burning this gig down. Conrad watches in detached semi-amusement, cramming some complimentary nuts intae his face. Emily turns back to me, her voice harsh and low. — Do you care about me, Mark?

— Of course I do, babe, you’re like a daughter to me, I say, a little blithely.

— Yeah, one that makes you money instead of one you have to pay college fees for, right?

Emily Baker, Night Vision, doesn’t actually make me that much money. With a few notable exceptions, female DJs don’t do that well. Back when I had the club, I booked Lisa Loud, Connie Lush, Marina Van Rooy, Daisy, Princess Julia and Nancy Noise, but for every one of them there were scores who were still worth booking but who weren’t. Female DJs more often than not have great taste and play the cool, righteous house music I like. But they generally aren’t as obsessive-compulsive as male ones. In short, they have lives. Even those who don’t are still tough to break, as the industry is extremely sexist. If they ain’t lookers, they don’t get taken seriously, ignored by the promoters. If they are lookers, they don’t get taken seriously, cruised by the promoters.