Ирвин Уэлш - Dead Men's Trousers

Williamson knows that his face will register little, but he feels something die inside of him. Renton. I’m going to be done by fucking Renton . — How do you know about that money?

— We contacted your bank. You’re part of an investigation, so they were obligated to let us know any substantial recent deposits made.

— This is fucking outrageous, Williamson booms. — Since when did the fucking banks, who have ripped off and exploited every citizen in this country, become… he blusters. — That was a payback from a business deal!

Good Cop delivers the line like a soap-opera actor. — The business of organ harvesting?

— No! It was… Look, talk to Mikey Forrester. He’s Syme’s business partner. They had a bad falling-out.

Both police officers stare at him in silence.

Williamson wonders where the fuck his brief has got to, but in this anteroom no recording device is in evidence, so this is probably off the record. He glances again through the mirror, at the immobile and miserable Euan. He counts to ten slowly in his head, before speaking. — Okay, cards-on-the-table time. I was in Berlin, at Spud’s request, to look after him. I learned that Euan was being blackmailed by Syme, he explains, wondering whether to throw Forrester under the bus, and deciding against it. Mikey would manage that easily enough himself, and it would be far more convincing coming from the horse’s mouth. — I was there to make sure my old mate was okay. A hand-holding exercise. I obviously suspected it was a dodgy deal, but that wasn’t my business. Ask Mikey!

Bad Cop looks to Good Cop. — Mr Forrester has gone to ground; he’s not returning our calls. His phone is switched off, and we’re trying to trace it. I would suspect that it isn’t on his person.

Simon David Williamson decides it’s time to stop busking it. — I’m saying nothing more till my lawyer gets here. He shakes his head. — I have to say I’m very disappointed in the attitude displayed by you officers today. There’s nobody more pro-police and law and order than me. I try to cooperate and assist you and I’m treated like a common criminal, subjected to all sorts of snidey innuendo. So where’s my brief?

— He’s on his way, Good Cop says. — Tell us about Syme.

— No comment.

— You sure you want to do time? For these bams? Syme? Forrester? Not easy at your age, Bad Cop says, then leans forward and drops his voice to a whisper. — Somebody else will be drilling that hot bitch of a fiancée of yours soon, mate.

— Somebody probably already is, Williamson replies.

Good Cop seems to chastise Bad Cop’s crassness with a disagreeable pout. — Go easy on yourself, Simon, he softly urges. — Just tell me, can you think of anybody, other than Forrester, who might have done this to Syme?

Sick Boy couldn’t see Mikey perpetrating such violence on Victor Syme. But he can’t think of anybody else other than diffuse and shadowy East Europeans who must have been his sauna and organ-harvesting associates. — No. I can’t. But Syme was obviously mobbed up with some dodgy people, he states as Bad Cop opens the anteroom door. Williamson immediately sees what looks like a lawyer, coming down the corridor, trying to get his bearings. The man walks past the anteroom, then double-backs and looks in.

— I’m Colin McKerchar, from Donaldson, Farquhar, McKerchar, he says to Good Cop. Then he nods to his client. — Simon David Williamson?

— Yes, Williamson says and looks at the policemen. — So for any future questioning I will have a lawyer present. And I will fucking well exercise my human rights and stand on my feet. But right now, I think I want to leave.

— No charges? McKerchar fixes a searching, professional gaze on the cops. — Then let’s do just that.

— Of course, says Good Cop. — Thank you so much for your assistance, Mr Williamson.

— The pleasure was all yours, Williamson snorts, turning on his heels and exiting, followed by his brief.

We make an odd quartet, me, Vicky, Alex and the old boy. Fishing off Santa Monica Pier, catching zero wi our solitary cheapo rod, compared tae the mair dedicated anglers with their specialist equipment and bait. But this is about nothing mair than being together. There will be a good eighteen months of fannying about with documentation for my father and son. Social services in Holland are being cunty, and lawyers will get richer, but we’re no going anywhaire.

Alex obviously reminds the old man ay Wee Davie. He’s indulgent with him, more than I am, certainly more than I ever was ay my wee brother. I hated all the gob, snot, shit, pish, sound and general radge behaviour that emanated from him; saw Davie as little mair than a human excrement factory, designed tae facilitate ma constant social embarrassment on the streets of Leith. Never got how the old man could stand it. Well, that’s one ay the benefits ay developing a thick skin. I’ve learned to accept it all, even love it, in my own kid, not that he’s as clarty or as full spectrum as my brother was. He’s never gaunny play for Hibs, though, or front a happening band, or, saddest of all, know the rapture ay making love wi somebody. But he’s never gaunny be a skagheid, or spend his adult life having tae babysit DJs. Most of all, he’ll live wi the sun in his face as long as there’s a breath in my body.

I catch Vicky correcting her hair, the Pacific breeze constantly whipping out strands across her face. She likes my old boy, and seems fond ay Alex. Even when he looks at her and says for the zillionth time, — I asked for one, not two.

It’s not all roses, though. She’s made it very clear that she doesnae want kids, which I totally get and suits me tae fuck, but the idea of living wi somebody else’s teenaged handicapped one is something she never considered signing up for. We’re talking about how complicated our lives are and it’s no the time tae discuss moving in together. But we’re talking about no talking about it a lot. And will continue tae do so.

Life isnae so bad. Conrad has settled into the Vegas residency, with his eager eye on his forthcoming upgrade to XS, and has Emily and Carl as regular guests. No, it didn’t last between Conrad and Emily, but they’ve stayed close, and their collaboration raised her status and profile. Maybe that was her plan all along. Conrad moved his permanent base to Miami, after I hooked him up with the personal trainer there. I thought he’d run like fuck, as she has a pretty fearsome rep, but they get on and he’s stuck with the programme. The results have been spectacular. He’s gone from 354 to 226 pounds and is still shedding. I don’t have to help him get laid now. Post-Conrad, Emily has moved to New York. She’s in the studio a lot more and the results have been highly encouraging. The Vegas residency will mean less travelling, and neither she nor Conrad is as clingy now. They’re just growing up, I suppose, but a lot quicker than I ever did. And I have Ivan, the Belgian-formerly-known-as-treacherous, still tearing it up, back on my books.

Carl has moved tae LA; the cunt is in West Hollywood, but I don’t think he’s given up on Helena yet, and I sense that might only set him up for more hurt. However, ye never can tell a windae-licking Jambo cunt anything.

And here, walking through the hazy tendrils ay heat, under the pale blue sky, comes the other odd quartet, though the rest ay the world would see them as normality squared. Heading towards us, along the sand, is the artist-formerly-known-as-psychopathic, his wife and his two wee girls, one ay whom – the youngest yin – has a definite Daughter-ay-Begbie edge. At her urging, probably for the umpteenth time, he hoists her into air, to her rapture. The older one, Grace, a very bright kid, is chatting tae her mum, who embraces Vicky, as my dad shakes hands with Franco. Sauzee, their dog, bounds over tae Toto, and they sniff each other, deciding that they get along.