Ирвин Уэлш - Dead Men's Trousers

As I left her, probably for the last time, she loitered in the big doorway ay this Zandvoort mansion she shares with her architect boyfriend and their two flawless blonde Nazi children, and, in gesture and descending tone I could no longer interpret, said, — I wish you well.

Conrad keeps phoning but not leaving messages. I need to get back to him, but I can’t bear to hear him tell me he’s signed up with some big agency. Even though not picking up makes this all the more likely. Muchteld put out his single, ‘Be My Little Baby Nerd’, quirky, dancey, pop, and it’s tearing it up.

Of course, I had to take the auld man as well. Ordinarily there was no way the stubborn auld Hun would get on a plane to America, but Alex being in the package changed everything. On the flight tae LA I realise that ma faither is the chronic autism whisperer. He could always calm or distract my wee brother Davie, and he does the same with Alex. My son sits in silence, without any customary loud outbursts or agitation. I hear him repeat, under his breath, — I asked for one, not two.

— One what, pal? Dad asks him.

— It’s just something he says.

But every single time he repeats it, my father asks the question ay him.

Vicky meets us at the airport. She smiles and greets Alex, who looks blankly at her, mumbling stuff under his breath. Driving us up to Santa Monica, Vicky leaves us to get settled, as she puts it. Dad and Alex have the apartment’s bedrooms, while I’m on the couch. It’s too small for the three ay us, and will wreck my back. I really need tae sort something out.

Marianne moved down to London with me, to my new Highgate flat, courtesy of Renton’s cash. It’s a short walk from Hampstead Heath, and satisfyingly bucks my downwardly mobile trend. Ever since Offord Road in Islington, back in the eighties, neoliberal economics have been chasing me out of the city. Time, gentlemen, please, it insists, as it cock-sucks shadowy fifth-home oligarchs from Russia and the Middle East, who deign to show up two weeks in the year to get cunted in this particular one of their gated gaffs dotted throughout the globe. We treated ourselves to a hooker and some ching last night and are exhausted from our efforts. So she lies in, but I’m up early next morning, on the tube down to King’s Cross, to interview some more girls for Colleagues.

I stand behind my raised desk in the small office that serves as the nerve centre of the Colleagues empire, a bunch of phones spread in front of me like playing cards. The buzzer goes and I press it, and several moments later can hear a woman walking up the stairs, her breath, like her expectations, falling away steadily as she comes into the office. If the landlord would get a fuckin windae cleaner in so we could see ootside, let in some light, it might make the place less dreary. I really do need to get a more salubrious suite. Maybe Clerkenwell, or perhaps even Soho. The woman looks at me, and her anxiety at the sleaze can’t wipe out the shagger’s glint in her eye and filthy set to her mouth. She’s the first of eight I have to see today.

I’m zonked when I get home, but I still have enough juice in the tank to pummel Marianne under the beef cosh, while igniting her with the creeping love bombs of obscene speech. Keep them well shod and well shagged: the only decent advice my father ever gave me in the affairs of the heart department. The only decent advice the cunt gave me in anything .

My mouth is dry and my head spins satisfyingly as we lie in bed. Then we shower and get dressed, heading out to dinner with Ben and his boyfriend, who have moved in together, close by in Tufnell Park. I’ve told them to forget about decent restaurants in that area. — I booked up this place, I inform Ben on the phone. — I hope Dan likes seafood.

I’ve only met Dan once, and I like him. He seems good for Ben, who, as tough as it is to admit, is a bit fucking straight. Sadly Surrey and soul just don’t go. We rendezvous at FishWorks in Marylebone High Street. Is there anywhere else more acceptable for seafood in London? I sincerely doubt it. Despite arriving before us, the boys thoughtfully take the two chairs, leaving us the grey padded bench seating opposite.

I order a bottle of Albariño. — I find most whites a little acidic for me these days but this works, I say. — So, how are the Surrey people reacting to my upcoming nuptials?

Ben, wearing a black jacket and a green crew-neck top, says, — Well, Mum’s been a little quiet. He breaks into a smile. — Sometimes I think she still holds a candle for you.

Of course she does. Batters it into her fanny every night, while thinking of the best cock she ever had or ever will have . I almost say this out loud, but check myself. After all, it’s the boy’s mother and he dotes on her. — Understandable. Once you’ve perused the goods in the Simon David Williamson emporium, I look at Marianne and drop my voice to a playful growl, — it’s very hard to shop elsewhere.

— Copy that, Marianne grins, winking at the boys. Then she looks at my nose. — I just hope that bruising goes for the wedding photographs!

Must this spectre be continually raised? — A cowardly attack, I explain to the lads. — I cost an old pal a bob or two as payback for some considerable emotional chaos he caused, and he can’t take it like a man.

— Ooh er missus, Dan laughs.

Yes, I do like this guy. — That’s the spirit, Dan. I look at Ben. — I’m glad you didn’t take up with one of those boring homosexuals, son.

— Dad…

— No, fuck that, I say, as the menus arrive with the white wine. — It’s just the same as a boring heterosexual. If you’re gay, just be a proper fucking poof , would be my advice. The waiter opens the bottle and pours the wine for me to taste. I take a sip, and nod in approval. While he fills the glasses, I warm to my theme. — Be a lisping, gossiping, flamboyant, outrageous, scandalous queen! Don’t be a suburban Charlie with a boyfriend called Tom, with whom you go kayaking at the weekends. Ram strangers in toilets! OD on Oscar Wilde! Get your cock sucked by rent boys in the park…

A couple at the next table look round.

— Simon, Marianne warns as the waiter departs.

Marianne and Ben are looking edgy, but Dan’s loving it, so I speak a little louder. — Seduce a straight fucker and wreck his life, then, after he’s divorced, become BFF with his ex-wife, make each other wild cocktails and gossip about what a lousy lay he is. Discover a passionate love of musical theatre. Go to underground techno nights in Berlin dressed in lederhosen.

— We’ll bear that in mind, Dan laughs, turning to Ben. — So Germany it is for the holidays then!

Ben blushes. He’s a couple of years younger than Dan, and it shows. I wonder if he’s getting rammed, or doing the ramming, the saucy wee devil. I suppose the benefits of poofery is that you get to mix it up. Lucky bastards. — Good! I don’t want you guys squandering your gift of homosexuality on dating apps, mortgage brokers, estate agents, architects, adoption papers, meeting with surrogate single hoors who will take you to the cleaners, and arguments about fucking fabrics!

— There are no arguments about fabrics with us. It’s my way or the highway, Marianne says, as she rises to go to the toilet.

— I like her, Ben says. — I’m happy for you, Dad.

I move in close and lower my voice. — She’s either a predator or a victim. Like Churchill said about the Germans, at your feet or at your throat. It’s great living with her, it keeps me on my toes. She tries to undermine me as much as I do her. Every day is a fucking joust, I punch the table in euphoria, — I have never felt so alive in my life!