Ирвин Уэлш - Dead Men's Trousers

Simon Williamson looks at him in injured disdain. — I’m as desperate as you, and I’ve been pulled into this world by you shagging about!

— You gave me that fucking drink spiked with MDMA! Your drugs started –

— Fuck you and your First World problems! If every cunt that had taken their first ecky committed adultery by jacksie-rifling the first psycho fucker who smiled at them, not one worthwhile relationship in Britain would still exist! Either you man the fuck up and we sort this shite out, or everything, your family, your job, your reputation, are all down the fucking swanny!

Euan sits trembling in the seat. His hand fastens around the glass of vodka and tonic. He downs it in a oner. Asks Williamson, — What do I have to do?

For some time anonymous shapes and shadows, their identities almost but not quite discernable, have haunted Danny Murphy. They swagger out of Leith Walk’s pubs for cigarettes, sprawl in duos or groups to the next howf, or stare out as menacing smudges from behind dirty bus windows. His heart jumps beats in anticipation as echoing footsteps in the stair outside intensify, only to die out on the floor below, or slap past his door bound for the top-floor flats. But as the days roll by, he finds himself reacting less. The unlikely scenarios of comfort he’s formulated and magnified start to achieve dominion in his mind. Perhaps the biker crashed and the box somehow opened, and it was presumed that had ruined the kidney. Maybe he was in the clear.

One evening, all this changes. Indoors with the dog, watching TV, he hears the familiar steps on the stair. This time there is something about them, perhaps their weight or rhythm, that indicates a dread purpose. This sense is shared by Toto, who looks poignantly up at his master and lets out a sad, barely audible whine. Danny Murphy sheds a skin, and he almost breathes a sigh of relief at the bang on the door, which he opens up to the inevitability of Mikey Forrester. — Mikey, he says.

Forrester’s face has been pulled an inch south. His hands are clasped together in front of him. — You fucked this one up big time. You’ve cost my partner, Victor Syme, a great deal of money and –

As if on cue, a man pushes past Mikey, who, in timid deference, gives way for him. Whereas Mikey is all performance, Victor Syme carries an overwhelming air of reptilian menace, speaking with the certainty of a man already privy to the conversation he is about to have. — You, he points at Spud, — you tried tae take the fuckin pish!

— Ah’m sorry, man, Spud desperately blurts out, taking a backward step, as Forrester slides in and shuts the door behind them, — it wis an accident, likes. The dug knocked ower the ice boax and ate the kidney! Ah jist pure panicked, ay, but ah’ll make it up tae ye –

— For fuckin sure, Victor Syme says, before turning to Forrester. — So this is the boy you vouched for. He struts down the hallway, scanning its squalor in disgust. — A fuckin jakey.

— Tae be honest, ah didnae ken he’d fallen on such hard times, Vic, I thought –

— Shut the fuck up, Mikey. Syme dismisses Forrester with a raised hand, closing his eyes, as if not trusting himself to even look at his supposed business partner.

Mikey’s plummet into screaming silence sets off a sickening confirmation deep inside Spud that this isn’t going to end well. Victor Syme moves towards him, seeming to glide as if on castors, and ushers him over to the window. — Nice view. He gazes outside to street activity barely visible through the grime on the panes.

— Eh, aye… Spud says, his head bobbing and jerking. Blood pours from the side of his mouth. He sees Syme register it. — It’s aw the speed, ah need it tae distract ays fae the peeve.

— Aye, no such a nice view in here, the brothel-keeper smiles, looking at an implausible stack of old Pot Noodle containers.

— Ah ken that Pot Noodles urnae good for ye and ah shouldnae be eatin thum –

— Nonsense, you’ve got everything ye need in them. Chinese folk live for ages. He turns to Mikey. — Think ay the Master in Kung Fu .

— Ah suppose thaire is that, Spud smiles wanly.

— What dae ye see oot there, mate? Syme asks, attempting to envision what it would be like occupying the mind of a man like Daniel Murphy, trying to comprehend how it would feel to see the world through his hollowed, veering squirrel eyes. This exercise fills him with corrosive distaste and a sense that obliterating such weakness would constitute a service to humankind. He puts one arm around Spud’s thin, trembling shoulder as he smoothly slips a cosh out of his pocket with his free hand.

— Ah dunno… likesay buildins and shoaps n that…

In one violent predatory movement, Victor Syme jumps back and batters Danny Murphy over the head. Mikey Forrester, forced to bear witness, cringes in guilt and revulsion as the assailant hisses through clenched teeth, — What do ye see now?!

Spud howls out in a primal shriek, overwhelmed by a surge of nausea and the most terrible pain, as if his skull is cracking open, like a nail is being driven into the centre of his brain. This thankfully only lasts for a couple of seconds, and he feels his own vomit spill from him, as the floor ascends to meet him.

Toto starts to yelp, and then licks at Spud’s head. Mikey’s face takes on a rubicund flush, his bottom lip trembling. Spud’s rolling eyes have receded into his skull, his breath emitting in soft but audible pants. Syme picks up the dog, who whines in misery. — Never was much ay a dug man, he says to Mikey, whose countenance is now a funereal grey.

A red velvet curtain dominates the largest suite in the basement premises that Victor Syme uses for his trade. The rest of the windowless room, uplit by a series of floor-mounted spotlights, is festooned with scarlet cushions, bordered with gold lace. These litter a sandblasted floor of varnished timbers. One other feature of the room: a large flat-screen television, fixed on a wall.

A handset held by Victor Syme snaps the images on the screen dead. The proprietor has just played Euan McCorkindale the video of him engaged in sexual congress with Jasmine, forcing him to view it in silent purgatory. — Why make me watch that? the podiatrist groans.

— Tae bring home tae ye, dear Doctor, Syme’s slimy fake Morningside tea-room accent making Euan shudder, — that you are in fucking shit street. Well, Doc, you can get out of it, if you play your cards right.

Euan can’t arrest his returning drift to a deep, beaten silence.

Sick Boy, sitting in the corner, his perusing of the video punctuated by the odd disdainful sigh that added insult to Euan’s injuries, suddenly rises. — Great. Well, I’ll just head off and allow you fine fellows to negotiate your own deal, as my services are now superfluous.

A shaky plea tears from Euan’s throat, — You can’t leave –

— Aw naw, you wait here, Syme snaps in accord. — Ah’ve heard aw aboot you, mate. You take ownership ay this problem, he demands of Sick Boy. — Ah found yir brother-in-law here.

— Aye, but now you’re blackmailing him. So I’d say we’re even.

— Disnae work that wey. Syme almost presents himself as a reluctant enforcer of oppressive rules devised by another party. — Youse need tae square this wi your sis, he looks at Sick Boy, — and your wife. Euan is treated to a creeping, diseased wink. — And yis urnae gaunny dae that wi this vid in circulation.

— Please… how much do you want for it? Euan pleads.

— Shhh, Victor Syme urges. — Your bro-in-law understands this world, Doc. You’re a fuckin tourist here.

— Fuck off, Sick Boy says defiantly, — I don’t work for you.