Ирвин Уэлш - Dead Men's Trousers

Fuck me, it’s no the fucking cleaners…

The party literally crumbles as two men burst in, flashing IDs, wearing shite cop clothes and expressions of dumb, crass entitlement. They stop in their tracks as they take in the scene, speechless and bemused for a couple of seconds but not leaving. Then one says, — You’ve got two minutes to get dressed, we’ll be waiting outside!

They depart, one saying something I don’t catch and the other responding with a deep, throaty laugh, then slamming the door behind them.

— What the fuck, Lily squeals.

Marianne looks at me and haughtily says, — I dinnae mind ay ordering those boys…

I’m so buzzed, shocked, tired, relieved and fucking rich , I shouldnae be driving back to Santa Monica. My knuckles are ripped and my hands are swollen on the wheel, stubbornly reminding me that it happened. That fucking weirdo was going to shoot Franco and Melanie! And I saved the cunt! Me!

I’ve strayed into the wrong fucking lane and a horn blares out, a trucker giving me the finger as he passes. I’ve just beaten a cop to a pulp with my bare hands, and now I would shite it from my own shadow. I can’t concentrate; I’m wondering how much the Leith Heads will really fetch and whether I should play hardball with that collector cunt, as Conrad is going to jump ship and I’ll make fuck all from Emily or Carl.

This isn’t working. I pull off at some services and drink shit black coffee at Arby’s. It only burns a volatile stomach that feels like a nest of squirming maggots. I eat half a burrito and throw the rest away. Begbie explained that I was just suffering an amateur’s stress reaction to perpetrating violence. I’m beset with the idea that dark consequence and terrible reprisal lurk around every corner. In spite of the cops totally believing our story and the lawyer’s assurances that I’m in the clear, the paranoia is ripping out of me. I consider turning on my phone, but I know that would be the worst thing to do right now, even if the urge is almost irresistible. It’s always just bad news, anyway. Conrad is ramping to jump ship, just when I hear from the Wynn that he’s got the big gig at XS, on the back of his latest big hit. Now some other cunt will reap the benefits. Fuck it.

I get back in the rental, driving like a learner, conscious of every move, never so relieved to get off the 101 onto the 405. The jammed city traffic slows things down, composing me, giving ays time to think. I decide it’s good. I did a virtuous thing and got payback from it. I fantasise about the likely and unlikely rewards. A mystical healer or breakthrough wonderdrug for Alex, that miraculously connects him to the world. But no amount of money will make that happen. It will, however, get me an essential three-bedroomed apartment. Then I’m onto the 10 to Santa Monica, then coming off it, and parking in my underground lot. I get out the car and hold my hand in front of my face. It’s shaking, but I’m home in one piece.

Then, from the periphery of my vision, I see a figure step out of a car. It moves between two parked vehicles, and starts walking towards me, still obscured by darkness and shadow. It’s big, and powerful-looking, though, and I feel my pulse kick up and my sore fists ball. I’m ready to go again but, fuck me, it’s Conrad, now lit from a yellow lamp in the roof above.

— You are okay! the fat bastard sings in delight, tears welling in his big eyes as he grabs me in an awkward embrace. I’m nervously patting his back, totally scoobied. I never expected this. — You should phone, text, email… he gasps, — it is not like you not to return calls! For many days! I was worried, we all were!

— Thanks, pal… Sorry about that, loads to sort out, congrats wi the track, I lamely hear myself say, as he releases me.

— I know there are money problems with you, Conrad whispers. — Anything you need, you must tell me, and I will give it to you. My money is your money. This you know, right?

Well, no, I never had a fucking inkling that he was anything other than a tight, selfish cunt. And I thought that this was the fucking bullet coming. That Conrad would surely be signing for a rival, moving tae Ivan’s stable. I certainly never imagined we had this kind ay stuff going on. — That is incredibly generous of you, pal, but I’ve been out of the loop, attending tae this personal and financial stuff, I explain, adjoining, — to my extreme satisfaction, I might add.

— That is good. I am pleased to hear this. But we need to talk, there have been developments, he adds an ominous tone.

— Right, well, first I have to go upstairs and check on my dad and my boy. Meet me in the Speakeasy on Pico in twenty.

— Where is this? he asks.

— Wouldn’t it be great if there was this device called the Internet, whereby you could type in Speakeasy and Pico Boulevard , and the directions would come up as if by magic?

Conrad looks at me, and laughs disparagingly. — I think I know this device. It is in something called a phone, which you can also talk into when it rings. But I’m not sure that my manager has a fucking clue as to what it is!

— Point taken, bud, see you in a bit.

So I go up to the apartment, a bit trepidatious at the reception I’ll get from my dad, for taking off and leaving him and Alex, and now having to head straight back out. I’ve been leaning heavily on the poor old bastard. Since the two funerals, Vicky and I have been hanging out a lot, and I’ve stayed more than a few nights at hers down in Venice. Dad doesn’t seem to mind, agreeing that the couch won’t do my back any good, though I suppose I’ve been taking the piss a bit. But when I get in he’s sitting on the couch, playing video games with Alex. He points to the Xbox and the pile of games. — Just been stocking up, he says, neither one of them averting their eyes from the screen to me.

It’s fairly obvious that they are both fine with me going right out again. I head to the Speakeasy and Conrad’s parked up in the street outside, slumped over the dashboard like an activated airbag. I tap the window and he springs awake. We go into the bar and he orders a Diet Pepsi. Fuck me, the revolution has started. I order a nice bottle of California Pinot. The Speakeasy wine bar is almost empty tonight. Two young women sit at one table, and a group of executives at another, their loud chatter telling the world that they’re in TV. Conrad declines a glass of my plonk, but then augments his soft drink with a beer, as we settle down at a corner table. — I thought you were here to sack me, I confide.

— No, and he looks shocked, — do not be stupid! You are family to me, he says, as I quickly work through a glass, then refill. — Sometimes it feels like you are the only one who has ever taken an interest in me.

Fuck sake, now it’s me fighting back the King Lears here! This has been an emotional day. I rescue Begbie and Mel, and pummel some bent psycho copper half to death, get back the fortune I’d lost, and now this Dutch cunt is breaking my fucking heart! So I cope by letting the manager in ays kick in, the sudden intimacy between us giving me an opening. — The family thing, I look at him gravely, — I feel the same way about all you guys, mate… and that’s why it’s killing me to see you letting yourself go.

— What…?

— The timber, bro; it needs to be shed, and I punch his airm. — This weight is killing you, and it shouldn’t be that way. You’re a young guy, Conrad, it’s not right.

There’s a brief flash ay hostility in his eyes. Then they soften, moistening as he starts telling me about his old man. The dude is a classical musician with the Dutch National Orchestra, who has never respected his son’s love of electronic dance music. This lack of acknowledgement and credibility in his dad’s eyes depresses the fuck out of Conrad.