Ирвин Уэлш - Dead Men's Trousers

I suck in a long breath, and unload. — This maybe isnae what ye want tae hear, mate, but fuck him . He’s respected by some stiff-arsed old cunts who go tae listen tae his fannybaws orchestra playing the music ay deid fuckers. You’re respected by teenage Lyrca-clad goddesses who want to suck your brains out through your dick and then fuck whatever’s left out of your head. The old cunt is jealous , mate, it’s as simple as that. If our one goal in life is to replace our fathers, and I think in guilt at the lovely old Weedgie boy down the street, — then job done, and at a precociously early age, and I raise my glass in a toast. — Nice one!

He looks at me with that same tremor of anger again, before it melts into considered deliberation, then enlightenment and finally, a hopeful, — You really think so?

— I know so, I tell him, as the two young women who have been looking over at us come across.

— It’s you, isn’t it? one of them says to Conrad. — You’re Technonerd!

— Yes, Conrad says robotically as I look at him in affirmation. This woman has dramatically underscored my point.

— Oh my God!

They want selfies with him, and Conrad is happy enough to oblige. Afterwards, they have the grace to see that we’re into something, and head back to the bar. I’m surprised Conrad didn’t ask for a phone number, it’s very unlike him.

— Now back tae this business ay the coral reef. I jab a finger at him. — I know a trainer in Miami Beach. You like it down there. She’s as tough as fuck, but she will sort out your brain and body. I hand him the card of this woman Lucy, whom Jon, a flabby promoter at Ultra (at least until she got a hold of him), recommended tae ays.

Conrad takes it in his grubby fist, and slips it into his pocket. — Now that we are being frank, he says, — there are some things I need to tell you. The first one is that you are right about Emily. She is an amazing talent. Her new stuff is very, very good. I am remixing some of her tracks. We have been working in Amsterdam, but we need to find a new studio here for the Vegas season.

— Brilliant! That’s great news! I’m totally on it with the studio. I have several options –

— The second is that we are having a relationship. Emily and myself.

— Well, that’s your business, bud…

My face must be giving away that I believe they are probably the two most fundamentally unsuited people on the planet. But maybe not, as Conrad says, — She said that you guys had been fucking. So this thing with her and me, it is not a problem for you?

— No… why should it be? It was just once… I look at him. — She told you we had sex? What the fuck… what did she say?

— That you were good in bed – creative, was the word she used – but also that you do not have the stamina of a younger man. That you can no longer fuck all night, which is what she needs, and a trace of a smile spreads across the corners ay his chops.

I can’t help but laugh at that. — Let’s just leave it there and allow me to congratulate you both. I have a bit of news too. This will be your last season at Surrender.

— They cannot fire me, he fumes, then smashes his fist on the table and my wine glass wobbles, — you cannot let them do this!

I raise my hand to silence him and cut in, — Next season you’ll be playing XS.

— Fuck! He jumps up, and shouts across to the bar, — Give me a bottle of your best champagne, then says to me, — I have the best manager in the world!

I can’t resist it. — To quote Brian Clough, I’m certainly in the top one.

— Who is Brian Clough?

— Before your time, bud, I say depressingly.

For the first time, Vicky, with Willow and Matt, joins me in Vegas. We see Calvin Harris at the Hakkasan, Britney Spears at the Axis, and, of course, Conrad, Emily and Carl at Surrender.

While Conrad is on the decks, and Carl is explaining DMT to the others, I collar Emily. — Thanks for telling him about us. I nod to the box and Conrad’s hulking back.

— Oh, it just slipped out. Sorry!

— I should think so.

— Don’t take the hump. Emily raises a brow. — It was me who helped convince him, and Ivan, that you were the main man.

The fuck… — Ivan? What about Ivan?

— Yes, Conrad and I have been hanging out with him in Amsterdam. I’ve been trying to get him back onside. It’s only gone and worked, hasn’t it? she grins. — He wants to come back to Citadel Productions. You should expect a call soon.

Fuck me. It’s not Ivan who has been trying to poach them for the big boys! It’s them who’ve been grooming Ivan-the-treacherous-Belgian to return to the Citadel camp. — Emily, I’m eternally grateful, but why are you doing this?

— I feel a bit bad, because of all the aggro I caused you.

— Look, it was just a daft wee shag and it shoul —

— Not that, you fucking idiot, she laughs and leans into me. — This one you really need to keep to yourself…

— Okay…

— …the dickhead thing wasn’t Carl, she confides, and we both start fitting with laughter.

The interview room is stark and bare. There is a Formica table, on which sits recording equipment. It’s surrounded by hard plastic chairs. Simon David Williamson has regained his composure, and part of him, as it always does, is relishing the interpersonal challenges ahead. He grinds his teeth together in a move he considers galvanising. On his arrival at the police station and prior to his placement in a holding room, he immediately insisted on calling his brief. The lawyer instructed silence until he arrived. Williamson, though, has other ideas.

He looks aloofly at the two police officers who have taken him into the room. They have sat down, one of them placing a plastic folder on the table. Williamson opts to remain standing. — Take a seat, invites one of the cops, as he turns on the recorder. This officer has cropped fair hair in quite a dramatic receding ‘V’. He has attempted to cover up an acne-ravaged chin with a beard that grows only wispy hair, therefore just emphasising the scarring more. Married the first bird that opened her legs to him is Williamson’s pitiless evaluation. In his laughing eyes and incongruously crueller, tight mouth, he reads the classic tells of the bad cop.

— If it’s all the same to you, I prefer to stand, Williamson declares. — Sitting down isn’t good for you. In fifty years from now we’ll laugh at old movies where we see people sitting at desks, in much the same way we do now when we see them smoking.

— Sit down, Bad Cop repeats, pointing to the seat.

Williamson crouches down on his hunkers. — If it’s eyeline or microphone pickup you’re concerned with, this should do it. It’s the way the creature known as Homo sapiens naturally lowers itself; we do this instinctively as bairns, then we get told to –

— In the seat! Bad Cop snaps.

Simon Williamson looks at the officer, then the chair, as if it’s an electric one, designated for his execution. — Have it on record that I was forced into sitting out of some antiquated attachment to social convention, and against my personal choice, he says pompously, before lowering himself.

My hands are steady. My nerves are cool. Even rattling on ching and alcohol withdrawal, I can still man the fuck up and function. I’m just a higher form of evolution. If I’d had the education, I would have been a surgeon. And not fannying about with stinky wee feet either. I would be transplanting hearts, even fucking brains .

As Bad Cop makes the aggressive pitch, Williamson studies the reaction of his colleague, the ironic smile of slight disdain that says: My-mate’s-a-wanker-but-what-can-I-do? We understand each other . It’s a variation on the good cop/bad cop routine. Good Cop is a tubby, dark-haired man who looks permanently startled. The harsh lights above bounce unflatteringly on his uneven, putty-like features. He keeps the grin on Williamson as Bad Cop continues. — So you were in London on the 23rd of June?