Ирвин Уэлш: Dead Men's Trousers

A disquieting rivulet of sweat trickles down my back. Nerves jangling; fucking teeth slamming together. Sitting bitch in economy class, crammed in between a fat cunt and a jumpy pissheid. Couldnae get a business seat at short notice and now my chest and breathing are constricted as I pop another Ambien and avoid the eye ay the drunkard next tae me. My troosers are too fucking tight. I can never find ones tae fit me. Ever. The thirty-twos I’m wearing now constrict, while thirty-fours hang awkwardly and look shite. Few places do my optimum thirty-three.

To distract myself, I pick up my DJ Mag and my shaky hands turn the pages. Too much fucking booze and ching at the Dublin gig last night. Again. Then, flying intae Heathrow, a heated exchange with Emily, the solitary female in the trio of DJs I manage. Me wanting her back in the studio tae master this demo I love, her having zero confidence in it. I pushed it and she kicked off, causing a bit ay a scene, as she sometimes does. So I left her at the airport, boarding my connecting flight tae Los Angeles.

I’m fucked, my back playing up, on the verge ay a massive panic attack and the piss artist next tae ays is rambling on, transmitting his fear through the plane. I sit scanning my mag, gasping, praying for the pills tae kick in.

Then the boy suddenly goes quiet, and I’m aware ay somebody standing over me. I lower the magazine and look up.

My first thought is no .

My second is fuck .

He’s standing in the aisle, his airm hanging casually on the seat top, above the terrorised drunkard’s heid. Those eyes. They fry my insides. Make the words I want tae speak evaporate in the desert ay ma throat.

Franco. Francis James Begbie. What the fuck?

My thoughts cascade in a fevered torrent: It’s time. Time tae concede. No tae run, because there’s naewhaire tae run tae. But what can he dae, up here? Smash ays? Destroy the plane in a suicide mission, taking everybody doon wi him? It’s over, for sure, but how will he take his revenge?

He just looks at me with an even smile, and says: — Hello there, my old buddy, long time no see.

That does it, this fucking psychopath is being too reasonable no tae be ready to dae something! I spring up, scrambling over the fat cunt, him letting out a yelp as my heel skites down his leg, and I topple intae the aisle, battering my knee, but quickly scurry upright.

— Sir! an oncoming stewardess screeches, blonde hair lacquer-stiffened, as the fat fuck behind me howls something in outrage. I push past her and tear into the lavy, slamming and locking the door. Wedging my body against the flimsy barrier between me and Franco Begbie. My heart is pounding like a fucking drum as I rub my throbbing kneecap.

There’s an insistent tap from outside. — Sir, are you okay in there? It’s the stewardess, in a casualty-nurse voice.

Then I hear it again, this subverting, reasonable tone, a flavourless transatlantic version of the one I ken so well. — Mark, it’s me… He hesitates. —… It’s Frank. Are you okay in there, pal?

No longer is Frank Begbie an abstract article, some phantom generated fae harrowing memories in a chamber ay ma mind, whiffling invisibly in the air around ays. He’s been rendered flesh and blood in the most mundane of circumstances. He’s on the other side ay this biscuit-ersed door! Yet I’m thinking about his expression. Even through those brief glances I sensed something markedly different about Franco. About more than how he’s aged. Quite well, I consider, but then the last time ah saw the cunt he was laid out bleeding oan the pavement at the foot of Leith Walk, smashed by a speeding car, purely due tae his reckless pursuit ay me. That doesnae bring oot the best in anybody. Now he has me trapped in this box, six miles in the air.

— Sir! The stewardess raps again. — Are you sick?

I feel the soother of Ambien, taking my panic down a notch.

He can do nothing up here. If he kicks off they will taser the cunt and restrain him as a terrorist .

With trembling hand, I click the door open. He stands facing me. — Frank…

— Is this man with you? the stewardess asks Franco.

— Yes, he says, and with an air of controlled authority, — I’ll look after him, and he turns tae me, in apparent concern. — You okay, buddy?

— Aye, just a wee panic attack… thought I was gaunny be sick, I say to him, briefly nodding to the hostess. — I’m a bit of a nervous flyer. Eh, good to see you, I venture to Francis James Begbie.

The hostess warily peels away as I’m thinking, Don’t leave me . But as well as looking tanned and lean in his white T-shirt wi a funny red wine stain on it, Franco is so unbelievably calm. He’s standing there, smiling at me. Not in a nutter-keeping-his-powder-dry way, bristling wi suppressed menace, but as in not angry .

And tae ma utter fuckin astonishment, I realise that not only have I been waiting for this day, but now that it’s arrived part ay me fuckin welcomes it. A heavy mass levitates fae ma creaky shoodirs, and I’m sick wi a terrifying, giddy liberation. It could be the Ambien. — I think I maybe owe you some money, Frank… is all I can say, as a boy squeezes past us into the bogs. There is fuck all else that will suffice.

Franco keeps his smile on me, raises an eyebrow.

Make no mistake, there’s owing some cunt money, then there’s ripping off a violent nutjob who’s spent most ay his life in jail. Whom you’ve known through the grapevine has been looking for ye for donks, and who several years ago almost caught ye, brutally self-wrecking in the process. Owing him money doesnae even fucking begin tae cover it. And all I can dae is stand here with him, in the limited space by the lavies. Surging through the sky in this metal tube, its engines roaring around us. — Look… I know I need tae pay ye back, I say, feeling my teeth chatter. And by saying this, I not only consciously realise that I do , but also that this might now be possible without him fucking killing me.

Frank Begbie maintains that relaxed grin and easy bearing. Even his eyes seem serene, no at all manic or threatening. His face is mair creased, which surprises me, as they look like laughter lines. Begbie seldom displayed mirth, unless it was at the misfortune ay others, usually occasioned by his actions. His arms are still strong; tight cables of muscle spilling out fae that strangely marked T-shirt. — The interest might be pretty high. He raises a brow again.

It would be fucking astronomical! It was more than just the monetary debt. More, even, than his self-injury by running blindly in front ay a careening motor in his manic pursuit of me. There was that bond ay twisted friendship dating way, way back. It was something that I’d never be able to fathom, but come tae believe had played some part in defining me.

Before ah ripped him off for that cash.

We’d done a dodgy drug deal. I was young, and a junky, and I just needed to get the fuck away fae Leith and the quicksand I was sinking intae. That money was the ticket oot.

Now ah cannae even begin tae address what the fuck this cunt is daein on an LA flight, as I’m the one who needs tae be offering the explanations. I figure he deserves at least an attempt at a reason, so ah tell him why. Why I ripped off him, Sick Boy, Second Prize and Spud. Well, no, Spud was different. I compensated Spud, and, much later, Sick Boy, before being party to stinging that cunt for even more, in another disastrous scam. — I was ready to pay you back too, I contend, trying to keep my jaw from rattling, — but I kent ye were after ays, so I thought it best tae avoid ye. Then we had that accident… I wince, recalling him being thrown in the air by that Honda Civic, coming to rest in a crumpled heap on the tarmac. Me supporting him, as the ambulance came and he drifted into unconsciousness. At the time, I genuinely thought he was deid.