Dead Men's Trousers

  Spud howls out in a primal shriek, overwhelmed by a surge of nausea and the most terrible pain, as if his skull is cracking open, like a nail is being driven into the centre of his brain. This thankfully only lasts for a couple of seconds, and he feels his own vomit spill from him, as the floor ascends to meet him.

  Toto starts to yelp, and then licks at Spud’s head. Mikey’s face takes on a rubicund flush, his bottom lip trembling. Spud’s rolling eyes have receded into his skull, his breath emitting in soft but audible pants. Syme picks up the dog, who whines in misery. — Never was much ay a dug man, he says to Mikey, whose countenance is now a funereal grey.

  A red velvet curtain dominates the largest suite in the basement premises that Victor Syme uses for his trade. The rest of the windowless room, uplit by a series of floor-mounted spotlights, is festooned with scarlet cushions, bordered with gold lace. These litter a sandblasted floor of varnished timbers. One other feature of the room: a large flat-screen television, fixed on a wall.

  A handset held by Victor Syme snaps the images on the screen dead. The proprietor has just played Euan McCorkindale the video of him engaged in sexual congress with Jasmine, forcing him to view it in silent purgatory. — Why make me watch that? the podiatrist groans.

  — Tae bring home tae ye, dear Doctor, Syme’s slimy fake Morningside tea-room accent making Euan shudder, — that you are in fucking shit street. Well, Doc, you can get out of it, if you play your cards right.

  Euan can’t arrest his returning drift to a deep, beaten silence.

  Sick Boy, sitting in the corner, his perusing of the video punctuated by the odd disdainful sigh that added insult to Euan’s injuries, suddenly rises. — Great. Well, I’ll just head off and allow you fine fellows to negotiate your own deal, as my services are now superfluous.

  A shaky plea tears from Euan’s throat, — You can’t leave –

  — Aw naw, you wait here, Syme snaps in accord. — Ah’ve heard aw aboot you, mate. You take ownership ay this problem, he demands of Sick Boy. — Ah found yir brother-in-law here.

  — Aye, but now you’re blackmailing him. So I’d say we’re even.

  — Disnae work that wey. Syme almost presents himself as a reluctant enforcer of oppressive rules devised by another party. — Youse need tae square this wi your sis, he looks at Sick Boy, — and your wife. Euan is treated to a creeping, diseased wink. — And yis urnae gaunny dae that wi this vid in circulation.

  — Please … how much do you want for it? Euan pleads.

  — Shhh, Victor Syme urges. — Your bro-in-law understands this world, Doc. You’re a fuckin tourist here.

  — Fuck off, Sick Boy says defiantly, — I don’t work for you.

  — Oh yes you do, Syme sings, Christmas-panto style, drawing open the velvet curtain behind them. It reveals, hung upside down, a bound and gagged Spud Murphy.

  Sick Boy gasps and takes a step back.

  – Now it’s up to you two. Syme’s tongue darts across thin, bloodless lips. — Youse can walk oot ay here. But if yis do it’s endy story for this boy.

  Euan’s head jerks back. — I haven’t got a clue who that is.

  Then Victor Syme waves the embossed Colleagues business card, the one he removed from Spud’s pocket, forcing Simon Williamson to admit, in a pappy voice, — I do.

  — But you’ll get to know him, Doc, Victor Syme’s lofty tone pledges to Euan, as his pasty, noxious smirk freezes the souls of both brothers-in-law. – Oh aye, you will get tae know him most intimately. Because right now you have work tae dae.

  17

  SPUD – UNSUPERVISED MEAT

  Ah’m walkin through this graveyard but it’s aw covered in mist. Ah kin see heidstanes, but no make oot anything oan them. Toto’s lying doon by a grave, his wee paws ower his eyes, like he’s greetin. Ah go acroass n try tae talk tae him but he doesnae move they paws. Ah read the inscription on the stane. DANIEL MURPHY …

  Aw man …

  Then Toto’s paws go doon n ah see it isnae him, it’s a demon wi a reptile heid n it’s lookin right at ays …

  Ah turns tae run n these radges wi big bulbous faces grab ays n one slams a chib intae ma gut …

  NAWWWWW!!!!!

  When ah comes to, it’s pure like the bad dream’s still gaun oan, cause it’s naewhaire ah’ve been before, yit still sortay ken, but ah kin hardly breathe. A sharp smell ay pish tickles ma nostrils. Ah huv tae fight through this pain, and a seek feelin in ma gut, tae make ma napper obey basic commands. Keep they blurry eyes open. Git that chokin tongue offay the roof ay the mooth …

  Aw man … ah’m in a bed n shiverin like a kitten. Ma eyes are bleary like thir fill ay gunge n ah keep blinkin n the vision finally pills intae focus. Thaire’s a plasma bag on a metal stand, wi a tube coming fae it …

  What the fuck, man …

  I can hardly believe that this tube’s gaunny lead intae ma boady, even if ma brain’s sayin it’s a cast-iron cert! Ah lift up the thin covers n trace the tube under thum, tae track it gaun intae a bandage in the side ay ma stomach. Ah jump up in shock. Ah’m seek and sair and ah raise ma heid, tryin tae gain mair focus. Thaire’s stale lime-green waws, painted over auld patterned wallpaper that shows through. A stained maroon carpet. The room is pure seventies, a time warp ay aw the bedsits and shabby flats that have been the stages for aw the dramas ay the boy Murphy’s life …

  That sickening feeling in ma tremblin boady: aw man, that’s awfay familiar. The air aw rank n fusty.

  Ah hears a coughin n ah suddenly realises that thaire’s other cats in the room! Mikey Forrester’s there, so is that Victor Syme boy. Ah think he banjoed ays. That evil pus, man, it pure fills the room. — You ruined ma property. Destroyed it. Made it fuckin worthless.

  — It wis an accident … ah find my voice, still croaking aw sair like ah’ve gargled broken gless. — What have you done …?

  Syme looks at Mikey, then at two other gadges whae step forward ootay the shadows. One’s Sick Boy! The other yin’s the boy ah saw when ah wis hingin upside doon, aw trussed up. — Si! What happened? ah’m raspin. — What happened, Si?!

  Sick Boy comes forward wi a gless ay water. — Here, Danny, drink this, pal. He helps ays sit up n huds it tae ma mooth. The tepid water seems tae roll ower the caked slime and scum in ma gob n throat. His beak twitches, n ah ken it’s cause ay ma breath. — Slowly, he says.

  — I’ll leave you tae fill him in wi the details, Syme sais tae Sick Boy, and heads fir the door. Eh turns the handle and pulls it open, but stoaps n looks at Forry. — And get the rest ay this sorted oot! It’s on you, Mikey. Dinnae disappoint me again.

  Mikey goes tae say something, but the cat’s words seem tae stick in his craw, just like mine, as Syme swaggers out ay the room.

  Ah’m fuckin shitein masel, n ah pushes the beaker away. This isnae right. No at aw. N whaire’s the dug? — Si … Mikey … what happened? ah goes.

  Sick Boy n Mikey look at each other. Sick Boy stands back n Mikey shrugs n goes, — Syme wanted payback for the kidney you’d ruined, so he felt he was entitled tae take one ay yours.

  Ah touch the bandaged wound. Look at the tube. — Naw …

  — It was either that, or, Sick Boy runs his hand ower his throat, — Finito. It took aw ay our joint powers ay persuasion, believe me. He looks tae Mikey. — He’ll tell ye!

  — Aye, Mikey nods. — Ye were very lucky that Syme thoat he had a recipient that matched ye. It’s goat tae match, see?

  — Whaaaat … Ah dinnae believe this! Ah try tae sit up proper, but ma whole boady is in pain n ah’ve nae strength in ma airms …

  — Shhh, dinnae distress yourself, mate, Sick Boy sort ay coos, easing ays back doon intae the bed, makin ays sip mair water. — It was removed by Euan here, eh nods at the other gadge, — who is my brother-in-law, Carlotta’s man, and a qualified doctor. You were in the best possible hands, buddy boy!

  Ah’m just glarin at this boy, but eh cannae look ays in the eye. Eh’s just shuffling aboot, eyes shiftin fae flair
tae waws. Ah raises ma hand and points at um. — You, you took ma kidney? In here? Ah looks around at the pure squalor. — You’re a butcher!

  — I’ve been dragged down a sewer, the boy sais, shakin his heid, but it’s no like he’s talkin tae anybody. — I only went out for a fucking drink at Christmas, on my birthday …

  — IT’S YOUR FAULT! ah screams, pointin at Mikey, and then Sick Boy. — Youse two! Supposed tae be mates! Supposed tae be ma-hay-haytes … n ah feel the tears streamin doon ma face …

  This is like, fucked …

  Mikey turns away in shame, but no Sick Boy. Aw naw, no him. — That’s right, blame me! That cunt Syme was gaunny kill us all! I only got roped intae this because he wanted revenge and payback after you cost him thirty grand with that kidney! IT’S FUCK ALL TAE DAE WI ME! He pummels his ain chist in outrage, as his eyes protrude and his Adam’s aypil bobs. — NANE AY IT!

  — Ah didnae ken … ah goes, — … it wis the dug, ah mean it wisnae his fault, jist an animal … didnae understand …

  — What were you thinking, taking the fucking dug with you?! Leaving meat, unsupervised, wi a dug?

  — Wisnae meant tae go doon like this, Spud, n Forrester backs Sick Boy up. — You sais nowt aboot bringing yir daft wee dug oan the trip.

  — Ah couldnae git anybody tae look eftir him, my voice screeches oot. Then ah gits a surge ay pure fear n ah’m lookin aroond, in panic. — Where is he? Whaire’s Toto?!

  — He’s fine, Sick Boy goes.

  — WHAIRE?!

  — Syme has him at one ay the saunas. The lassies are dug-sittin. They’ll be spoiling him, taking him oot for walks.

  — Ye cannae leave a perr wee dug wi that cruel bastard! He’d better no hurt Toto!

  — Toto’s insurance, Mikey goes.

  — For what? For what?! What ye sayin, Mikey?!

  Mikey says nowt but looks at Sick Boy, whae raises his palms. — It was me, well, me and Mikey here, that convinced him to spare us wi this eye for an eye thing. It took some daein, that cunt is a fucking animal. His heid weaves fae side tae side, then he breks intae a smile. — But, throughout this fucking mess, there’s at least some good news!

  Ah cannae believe this. — What? What’s good aboot this?!

  — The kidney Shictor Schlime took, Sick Boy goes in that annoyin Bond voice, like it’s aw a joke, — for a client … it turns out that it was incompatible with his recipient after all.

  — What … ye mean it didnae need tae come oot?! Ah hear ma ain voice, whimperin. — Yis took it oot fir nowt!

  — Aye, but it can go back in again.

  — Where … where is it?

  — Back in Berlin. Sick Boy reaches intae his jaykit and pills oot some plane tickets, hudin them in ma face. — So we need to fly there, post-haste, and get you refitted. You’ll be as good as new, apart fae the Mars bar.

  — As good as new, ah’m mutterin aw tae masel in misery, as Sick Boy shares a raised eyebrow with Mikey Forrester and this doaktir boy Euan turns away, sayin something under his breath ah dinnae catch.

  — What’s he sayin? Ah points at him. — What’s yir doaktir boy sayin?!

  The Euan felly turns n goes, — It’s crucial to move quickly.

  Ah just groan, aw feverish n seek. Ah’m burnin in hell here, man. Ah feel that ill, ah ken ah’m no gaunny make it oantae that plane tae Berlin.

  18

  SICK BOY – ALL ABOARD THE RENFREW FERRY

  I accompany a furrowed-browed Euan back to his hotel, issuing the caution, — Nae hooring tonight, bud, plenty feather and flip, a big day the morn.

  He departs, ghoulish and jerky, to the lift and his lonely room in silence. I head back to the McCorkindales’ sprawling well-appointed Colinton villa, sans the man of the house. Crackers Carra is giving me a hard time, her saucer eyes protruding as if the lids have been ripped off, her jaw grinding fiercely, her pus reminding me of the time I ran into her and her mates at Rezerection. Fuck me, how long ago was that? — But how do you ken he’s back? Have ye seen him?

  — No, I fib, deciding that telling her would only compromise an already-desperate enterprise. — But he’s definitely been sighted, by reliable sources.

  — Who? Tell me who’s seen him!

  — A few people. He was in my mate Terry’s cab. I spin another harmless wee white lie. — Coming out the Filmhouse. Look, that’s why I’m here, to find him.

  A matt finish to her popping lamps shows me that Carlotta is doped up on something or other. Her black hair is greasy and shows grey roots, something she’d never tolerate before. — This is tearin us apart … she pleads, in a voice like a coffin creaking open.

  — Look, you’re stressed, go and lie doon.

  Her lip curls south and she bursts intae tears. I take her in my arms and she collapses like a puppet with the strings cut. I have to practically carry her up the stairs and put her to bed, kissing her sweated brow. — I’m on it, sis, I tell her. Although drug-stunned, Carlotta still has a face on her like a well-skelped bahooky and glances at me from under the duvet like a small, cornered animal, as if ramping up for some aggro. I’m happy to make my escape. Why the drama? Fuck me, she’s still a fine-looking woman who will get paired up easily. She’ll get the hoose, and child support for the boy, till he leaves home with a good degree to secure exciting work in the retail sector. Then she can downsize and get a comfy pad and a young lover, with perhaps the annual lumb-sweeping sex-tourist holiday in Jamaica flung in, just tae keep the buck on his toes.

  As I get downstairs Ross immediately ambushes me, his imploring eyes igniting through a forest of spots. Every time I see him, the wee bastard asks me when he’s getting his hole. If the laws of natural selection were properly applied, he’d remain a virgin for life. Like Renton should have done. This is what I get for fucking with nature. — You sais the next time you were up!

  Saved by the bell! The phone goes, and I wave him into silence, taking my call out in the garden. Talk about timely! Syme’s at least had the decency to offer to help me with this issue. — Your wee problem is soon going to be sorted, he declares as I go behind the shed, away from the prying eyes of the hapless wee runt staring out through the windae at me.

  — Thank you, Vic, I tell the pus bag, as I shiver in the cold, — but let me get back to you. I might be able to complete the job in-house. I’m a little out of the Edinburgh scene, but I still have an address book I can work, I declare, as the meaty-titted hoor from next door flings open a back-bedroom windae, allowing Tiffany’s ‘I Think We’re Alone Now’ to spill out into the air. Is this a come-on?

  I sniff the creosote on the hut as Syme growls something indecipherable. It could have been scorn or tribute; I know not and care less.

  So I succumb to my debt of honour. I’ve got Ross in a cab – not Terry’s, the man has zero discretion where other people’s sexual affairs are concerned – and we’re heading for the same hotel Rents used, where I book a room online and call Jill to meet us there.

  We wait for a bit before she appears in a wrap-around pencil skirt, black-and-white-striped top and bobbed haircut with purplish-black lippy. I intro them, and Ross’s eyes have a hard-on, but she’s underwhelmed to the point of disgust.

  — No fucking way, she says, pulling me aside and hissing in my ear, — he’s not a businessman!

  Ross does look like a pizza-faced prepubescent Aled Jones on meeting his new adoptive parents, Fred and Rose West. — He’s a prodigy, a youthful high-flyer: a sort of junior William Hague at the Tory Party Conference type of character.

  — I’m no a paedophille, she snaps, as Ross’s lips tremble.

  — Lassies can’t be nonces, I tell her. — It’s no like there’s a beastesses’ wing at Cornton Vale. You’d just be popping the boy’s Renfrew Ferry. A social service, really.

  — Fuck off …

  — C’mon, babe … unprofessional behaviour, I tell her, as poor wee Pitch and Toss’s eyes flick from me to her.

  — Aye, on your part. I thoug
ht Colleagues was a high-end escort agency, no about daft wee bairns wanting laid, and she turns on those high heels and heads off.

  — Fair enough, I tell her retreating figure, — we can work something out, but she’s no listening. She is so fucking out ay there.

  So I’m compelled to dive back into the swamp, and take Syme up on his offer. It’s the only way to shut wee squeaky baws up. Ironically, he sends Jasmine along to the hotel, the very bird that did Ross’s old man. I suppose there’s a certain symmetrical poetry to it all!

  Jasmine looks Ross over. He’s like a refugee being shown to his dormitory in Auschwitz.

  — Gonna leave you guys alone for a bit, I grin.

  Ross goes to say something, but Jasmine takes his hand. — It’s okay, honey. Tell me about yourself.

  This lassie has got the goods. I split and hit the bar downstairs.

  Well, thirty-five minutes later, as I’m just about halfway through my third Stella and the Guardian, Jasmine comes down alone. — He’s sorted, she says. — He’s just getting dressed.

  — Great, I tell her, slipping her another twenty over and above the agreed tariff. She looks at me in mild disappointment before she departs. If I’d gied her a hundred, I’d have gotten the exact same look. I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was the son of the guy she made the sex tape with, whom her boss is now blackmailing.

  Pitch and Toss arrives downstairs a few minutes later, very dazed and confused. I swear it’s as if his face has been steeped overnight in a vat of Clearasil. The pus seems to have been sucked out his spots like the spunk from his baws.

  — Job done?

  He nods blankly, stuffing his hands into the pocket of his hoodie.

  I get him outside, down George IV Bridge, and we take a stroll across the Meadows. It’s a beautiful spring day. — So how did it go, pal?

  — It was okay … no like I thought but. I was nervous at first, but then she started kissing me and then … his eyes light up as his voice drops and he glances over to a football game, — … she sooked my cock. She said it was really big!