Ирвин Уэлш - Dead Men's Trousers

I telt him that I liked to keep they commissions confidential. Could we meet for a wee coffee? So Chuck called and I drove tae San Pedro, and now we’re walking along the clifftops together. Although it overlooks the port, this is a private place tae talk, particularly this deserted ocean side, a sheer drop tae the grey rocks below and the incoming tide that laps them. I’m telling him how ah love the sounds ay the waves crashing, the gulls squawking. — We used to go down to Coldingham when I was a kid. It’s in Scotland. Cliffs, with rocks below, like here, I tell him. — My ma always told me to keep away from the edge, I smile. — Of course, I never listened.

Chuck shimmies forward, wi that big grin on his pus. — No, I’ll bet you didn’t, dude! I was the same! I always had to dance to the brink of that goddamn cliff, and he ambles tae the verge. Shuts his eyes. Stretches out his arms. The wind whips his hair into the sky. Then he opens those peepers again and looks doon tae the rocks. — I had to do all that shit too! That’s the way we’re made, bro, we dance to the edge and then weeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaahhhhh —

My hearty shove oan Chuck’s back sends him intae that void, squeezing his voice intae a decelerating, dissolving scream. Then nowt. I turn away fae the brink, roond tae feel the sun on my face, raising my hand tae cover my blinking eyes. I haul in a deep breath, and turn back tae glance down at the body lying broken on the rocks. It puts ays in mind ay how he was at the end ay They Call Him Assassin , as the incoming tide froths around him. — I was bullshitting ye, mate. I did listen tae my ma. You should have listened tae yours n aw.

Despite us leaving Edinburgh early, the ‘stretchy’ is crawling along the M8. It’s surely the most woeful major road between two European cities. Franco got the Cup final tickets fae a collector of his work. He claims he’s no really bothered; it’s just a freebie. Sick Boy seems the most enthusiastic, he hired the tacky limo tae take us through tae that desolate graveyard ay dreams in the south side ay Glesgey. I’m so-so about it, though concerned due to Spud’s medicated but valetudinarian form. — Widnae miss it but, he constantly says.

Franco is the only one who doesnae ken how Spud got into this state, and he’s curious. — What the fuck’s the story, then?

— Aw, eh, a wee kidney infection, Franco, Spud says. — Hud tae huv it removed. Still, ye just need one but, ay?

— Too much fuckin drugs inside ye ower the years, mate.

On that matter, Sick Boy and I are indulging in some champagne and toot, Spud and Begbie baith passing for reasons ay health and lifestyle choice respectively. The driver’s a sound enough cunt and he’s getting well bunged tae stay cool. There was something I meant tae say tae Franco, and ah suddenly remember. — That was weird about Chuck Ponce, ay, mind he was at your exhibition?

— Aye, a shock right enough, Franco agrees.

— Ah liked that film They Did Their Duty , Spud croaks.

— Shite, Sick Boy contends, hoovering up a line. — Prizefight: Los Angeles , that was good.

Spud ponders this. — That’s when eh pretended tae be an android prizefighter, but eh wis really a mutant wi superpowers…

— Aye.

— A guy that had everything tae live for, ah shrug, — aye, it’s a funny auld life.

— Always seemed tae have issues tae me, Franco sais. — Ah mean actors, stardom, aw that stuff. They say if ye become famous, ye naturally freeze at that age. And he wis a child star. So eh steyed a bit ay a bairn really.

I’m fighting down saying: like being in the jail long-term , but he looks at me wi a wee smile as if he kens what I’m thinking.

— What the fuck was the imbecile doing with a name like Ponce? Sick Boy snaps. — Did nobody tell him he was making a royal cunt of himself?

— It doesnae mean anything in the USA, Franco shakes his heid, — and it wis some kind ay shortening ay his real name. Then, when he broke big, everybody drew it tae his attention. But by that time he’d established himself as a ponce, so tae speak.

— It happens, I go, telling them the story ay how a mate ay mine in the dance-music industry met Puff Daddy. — He said to him, ‘Do you realise that in England your name means homosexual paedophile?’

— Right enough, sais Sick Boy. — Who advises those cunts?

When we get into the stadium, I’m suddenly a suffering bag ay nerves. I realise that Hibs are like heroin. I once shot up after being off it for years, and I felt aw the horrible, nauseous withdrawal fae every hit I’d ever taken. Now I can feel every terrace and stand disappointment coming back tae haunt ays, no just previous games but fae the non-attendance ay the ones over the last two decades. And it’s the fucking Huns, ma auld man’s team.

But I cannae believe it’s possible tae attend a big fitba game wi Begbie and feel so relaxed about the potential ay violence. Instead ay scanning the crowd, as was his auld modus operandi, his eyes are totally locked on the pitch. As the whistle blows, it’s Sick Boy who’s uptight, his patter setting my fucking nerves oan edge. He refuses to sit down, standing in the aisle in spite of grumblings behind us and looks from the stewards. — They are never going to let us walk oot ay here with that Cup. You know that, right? It just won’t happen. The ref will be under strict Masonic instructions tae ensure that – YA FUCKER!! STOKESY!!!

We’re aw jumping aroond absolutely fuckin demented! Ah realise through a rid smoke flare behind the goal at the Rangers end that Stokes has scored. Their half ay the stadium is completely stationary. Our half is a bouncing sea ay green, apart fae poor Spud, whae cannae move, just sittin thaire crossing ehsel.

— Git oan yir feet, ya daft cunt! a boy behind shouts, ruffling his hair.

We are looking good. Hibs are playing nice stuff. I watch Franco, Sick Boy and Spud. We are kicking every ball with them. It’s going so well. It’s going too fuckin well: it has tae happen. Things get very fucking dark. Miller equalises and I sit in numb despair till the ref blows for half-time. I’m lamenting a life full of what-might-have-beens, thinking of Vicky and how I fucked that one up big time, as Sick Boy and I head tae the toilet. It’s rammed but we manage tae get a cubicle for the ching. — If Hibs win this, Mark, he says as he chops out two fat lines, — I’ll never be a cunt tae any woman again. Even to Marianne. She’s the one that caused aw this bother, with Euan, and through him, Syme. Funny thing is, I’ve been trying to call her. Normally she cannae wait for me to phone; her keks are aroond her ankles quicker than it took Stokesy to hit the net. Now she’s obviously had enough of my games. And the strange thing is, his dark eyes glisten sadly, — I miss her.

I dinnae want to dwell on Marianne. Sick Boy treated her like shite over the years, but there’s always a strange proprietal reverence in his voice when he talks aboot her. — I know what you mean, I declare. — If Hibs win the Cup, I’ll try and square things with this woman I was seeing back in LA. I had real feelings for her, but I fucked it up, as you do, I lament. — And I’ll look after Alex.

We shake on it. It seems utterly pathetic, and it is: two coked-up wankers in a toilet, planning their future actions in life oan the outcome ay a fitba game. But the world is so fucked right now that it seems as rational a course ay action as any. Then we go back down, and the coke buzz is still searing when Halliday’s strike fae naewhaire puts them in front. For the umpteenth time a guy behind us urges Sick Boy to sit down. Begbie starts breathing in a controlled manner. This time Sick Boy complies, sitting wi his heid in his hands. Spud groans, a deep pain, as injurious as any that has been physically inflicted on him lately. Only Begbie seems unconcerned, now oozing a strange, relaxed confidence. — Hibs have got this, he sais tae me wi a wink.