Ирвин Уэлш - Dead Men's Trousers

I sit back, aw hollowed oot but finally free, and check the emails on my phone. There’s one from Victoria’s friend, Willow…

willowtradcliffe@gmail.com

Mark@citadelproductions.nl

Subject: Vicky

Hi Mark,

It’s Willow here, Vicky’s friend. If you recall, we met on a couple of occasions in LA. Just to say that Vicky is going through a bad time at the moment. I don’t know if you heard, but her sister died last week in a road accident in Dubai. Vicky is back in England now, and the funeral is the day after tomorrow in Salisbury. I know you guys had some sort of falling-out – what over, I don’t know – but she really does miss you and I know she’d appreciate you getting in touch at this very difficult time for her.

I hope you don’t think it too presumptuous or inappropriate of me contacting you like this.

Hope you are well. Matt says hi, he’s taken your advice and signed up for the screenwriting program.

Jesus fuck almighty…

I call Conrad, citing a personal emergency. He’s surly about it, but that’s just too fucking bad, he’ll have tae travel alone back tae Amsterdam. I book a flight tae Bristol and a rail ticket tae Salisbury.

It’s job done and the enriched and satisfied Jim Francis allows himself to relax, enjoying his debut first-class flight. They certainly spoil you. It will be hard now to go back to economy. But he refuses the complimentary drinks proffered by the smiling air hostess. He thinks about how free bevvy could turn any occasion into a potential bloodbath. The bloated, tomato-faced businessman sitting in front of him, obnoxious and entitled, so demanding of the stewardess. A face that would burst open under just one punch. And those capped, whitened teeth, so easily loosened by a well-executed hook to the jaw. Maybe a chiv, like a conductor’s baton, rammed into that liver-spotted neck, drinking the shock in his bulging eyes as that rich blood jetted across the cabin from his carotid artery. The screams and shrieks of raw panic, that orchestra Jim Francis, no, Francis Begbie, would extol to such efforts by his deeds.

Sometimes he misses a peeve.

It’s still a long flight, though. Protracted and exhausting as always. A first-class seat makes it more bearable, but it doesn’t change what it is. He feels its reductive power. Drying him out. The jail was healthier. How do people live like this? Renton: never off fucking planes .

Melanie, sitting next to him, is uncharacteristically edgy. This concerns Jim Francis, as he both admires and draws strength from his wife’s natural calm and serenity. While he watches his movie, he feels her eyes going from her Kindle to his profile. — What are you thinking about, Jim?

— The kids, Jim turns to her. — Looking forward to seeing them. I don’t like being away from them, even for a few days. I feel that I want to drink in every second of them growing up.

— I’m scared shitless about bringing the girls back home from Mom’s, knowing that he’s still stalking us.

— He’ll have calmed down, Jim says evenly, as a vision of the purple-faced Harry, swinging from the hose-noose, tongue protruding obscenely, flashes through his brain. — Besides, we still have the tape. He’ll behave himself, see the error of his ways, get some treatment. I thought he said he was doing AA.

— I’m not so sure.

— Hey! You’re the liberal, meant to see the best in people, he laughs. — Don’t let one pathetic, weak radge undermine your belief system!

But Melanie isn’t in the mood to be teased. — No, Jim, he’s obsessed! He’s mentally ill. Her eyes widen. — We could move down to LA. New York even. Miami. There’s a great art scene there…

— Naw, he’s no gaunny make us run, Jim Francis says coldly, in a voice that concerns them both, as it’s one from a past that they both know so well. He quickly switches to bland transatlantic, contending, — We’ve done nothing wrong, I’ve done nothing wrong. Santa Barbara is your home. It’s my home.

It certainly has been an eventful trip back to Scotland. Renton, trying to be fucking wide by purchasing the Leith Heads . Well, he got them alright, at a price! Be careful of what you wish for, Rent Boy! Jim permits his triumphant relaxation to meld into drowsiness through his in-flight entertainment choice, Chuck Ponce’s Gulf War movie, They Did Their Duty , the one Spud recommended.

Ponce plays a Navy Seal who bursts out of an Iraqi prison, coming across an encampment in the desert where a team of aid workers are held hostage by the enemy. He infiltrates the stockade, only to find out that the elusive weapons of mass destruction are stored there. He falls for one of the aid workers, played by Charmaine Garrity. There follows a strong action sequence with the actor depicted hanging from the wing of a plane, proving Chuck had a head for heights. But in real life it was essential to have those green screens, safety harnesses and stunt doubles. Jim dozes off just after Chuck’s most memorable line, where he drawls to an Iraqi general, — You can tell your boss, Mr Saddam Hussein, that this American does not like sand in his turkey and has kinda got his heart set on getting these good people home for Thanksgiving!

At the airport, they retrieve the station wagon from the long-stay park, and Jim takes the wheel on the two-hour stretch out to Santa Barbara. Picking up their daughters and Sauzee, the French bulldog, from Melanie’s mother’s place, they gratefully continue on. Melanie drives this leg, with Jim in the front passenger seat. Grace is delighted to be with them, as is the younger Eve, but she fixes Jim in a reprimanding stare. — I don’t like it when you go away, Daddy. It makes me angry.

Jim Francis looks round at his daughter. — Hey, Snottery Sleeve! When things make you angry, you know what you do?

Eve shakes her head.

— Pull in a very deep breath and count to ten. Can you do that?

The child nods, closing her eyes and aggressively filling her lungs with air. Melanie and Jim exchange a smile as the station wagon leaves Highway 101.

That night, after they put the kids to bed, and fatigue begins to creep up on them, Melanie, sitting with her husband on the couch, squeezes his hand and declares, — I’m so proud of you. You’ve come so far. It’s not the money, even though it opens doors for us. We really can go anywhere now.

— I like it here, Jim stresses. — Santa Barbara’s a great town. The kids love it. They love to see your folks. Grace is getting on great at the school, Eve will be there soon. Don’t worry about Harry, he’ll come to his senses. And we’ve got the tape.

Harry was good at stakeouts. He’d felt anxious and excited in equal measure when he learned that the Francis family had returned. He hadn’t dared to go back to the house, but had waited outside the older girl’s school till it was finally Melanie, not the kid’s grandmother, who picked her up. Harry drove back to circle the neighbourhood, where he found that Jim was also present. He risked a glimpse in the rear-view mirror as he passed, and saw him, deathly still, as he supervised a shitting puppy on the front lawn. Turning onto the slip road that snaked above the block of houses where the Francis home was situated, Harry then pulled up. Vaulting over the barrier, into the forested verge that sloped towards the backyard of the target dwelling in that cul-de-sac, he scrambled down the bank, the leather bag containing the assault rifle slung across his back. From above, he could still hear the rumble of the traffic on the freeway. Keeping his distance behind a small oak, shielded in some thick foliage, he found an ideal station.