Dead Men's Trousers

  — I’ve lost it, Mark, Carl says sadly. — I really appreciate everything that you’ve done for me, he points to his chest, — but N-Sign is finished, mate.

  Conrad, listening in, springs over, pointing at the stricken DJ. — I told you he was the drunk and the drug addict and the bag of nerves who is now of zero use, he laughs at Renton.

  Carl turns away and snivels, as if he’s going to burst into tears. It cuts through Renton, and makes him flash a reprimanding stare at his cash cow.

  Conrad laughs again, then folds over a wedge of pizza, better to cram it into his mouth. Red grease dribbles onto his top. A publicist runs forward and dabs at it with a wet cloth.

  — Well, that’s it then, Renton says, in grim resignation, talking to Carl, but taking in everybody assembled. — I’ve spent a fortune on this cunt of a gig and we won’t get paid now, and probably will get sued.

  Klaus looks on, his stern face and tight posture confirming this.

  As Sick Boy represses a mirthful shrug, Carl suddenly bursts out in loud laughter. He points at Renton. — Got ye, ya fuckin Hibs wank! Then he springs forward and addresses Conrad. — As for you, ya fucking useless fat tub ay lard, come and watch a real DJ blow this fuckin place apart! He turns to Klaus. — Hope you’ve got insurance for death by astonishment, mate, because that’s what half those cunts out there, he gestures to the crowd, — are gaunny fuckin well die of!

  — Ja, this is good!

  Conrad looks open-mouthed, dropping paper plate and pizza on the floor, then turning to Renton. — He cannot talk to me like that!

  — He’s a cunt, Renton gasps in relief. — A total cunt.

  Carl struts out into the box, nodding to the departing DJ. He thinks about Helena, how blessed he was to be with her. But now there are no tears at having fucked up. He thinks of his mum and dad, what they gave him, and sacrificed. Now there’s no sadness, only a burning flame igniting within him, a desire to do them proud. He thinks of Drew Busby, John Robertson, Stephane Adam and Rudi Skacel, as he bellows into the mike, — BERLIN! ARE YOUSE FUCKIN READY TAE HAVE IT??!!

  The crowd greets him with a wild, cacophonous roar, as he drops ‘Gimme Love’, his breakthrough hit, setting out his intentions, following up with a mesmerising set. The livewire audience are eating out of his hand, and at the end they are begging for more. As he walks off to choruses of ‘N-SIGN …’, he ignores a wide-eyed Conrad, going to Mark Renton with five fingers raised in the air on one hand, and one on the other. For once, Renton couldn’t be more delighted at this irritating gesture. — Stenhoose sex bomb, he whispers in his ear.

  — Believe, Carl retorts.

  Conrad, edgy and demoralised, follows him onto the stage, as the floor instantly thins out. He gets it partially back by throwing in his two big hits earlier than planned, but doesn’t look happy and the audience scents his desperation. It’s Renton who quietly saves the day, encouraging his star from the wings with the thumbs up, as the nervous DJ glances at him.

  Suddenly Sick Boy is on Renton’s shoulder, clutching a beer, waving a small baggie of coke and nodding to the toilets. — That cunt is shiteing it, he says. — I’d like to see him remove a kidney!

  — He’d probably eat it, Renton laughs, following him. — It’ll dae him nae harm tae play second fiddle for once. This is an older crowd of seasoned house heads. People who appreciate good music. And they remember.

  They get to the toilet. Sick Boy racks up, looking at Renton, feeling a strange love and hate he can’t explain. Both seem compromising, but also uplifting and essential. As Renton snorts up the line, Sick Boy says, — You know, I’ve been thinking of how you can pay Begbie his money back.

  — It’s nae use. The cunt has me where he fucking wants me. He’ll no take it. He knows I’m in his debt forever and that it’s fucking killing ays.

  Sick Boy takes the rolled note, arching an eyebrow. — You know how he’s having the exhibition over in Edinburgh, right?

  — Aye, we’re playing at it. Renton opens the toilet door slightly, to look out over to Conrad, and then spies Carl, now cavorting with Klaus and several women, including Chanel Hemmingworth, the dance-music writer.

  As he shuts the door, Sick Boy hoovers back a line, standing up stiffly. — And a couple of days before that, he’s auctioning the Leith Heads.

  Renton shrugs, gets on the other poodle’s leg. — So?

  — So buy the heads. Bid them up, then win the auction, pay over the odds for them.

  A smile explodes across Renton’s face. — If I bid for these heads and buy them for mair than they’re worth …

  — You’ve forced him to take the cash. Then you’ve discharged your obligation, paid the cunt back what you owe him.

  — I like it, Renton smiles, checking his phone. — Speak ay the devil, he says, showing him a text that has just come in from ‘Franco’.

  Have hospitality tickets for Cup final at Hampden for you, me, Sick Boy and Spud.

  Eyes bulging, Sick Boy says, — Now that cunt Begbie has done an unsolicited act of goodness, for the very first time in his entire life. What a fucking day!

  — Oh, but that’s him now, Mr Goody Two-Shoes, Renton says.

  23

  BEGBIE – CHUCK PONCE

  Ah minded ay meeting the boy, back in the jail. Ah wis pretty surprised that a big Hollywood star would come and see us, in the fuckin nick. But funny, he wanted me tae help him prepare for this hard-man part he’d goat. He needed tae dae the accent cause it was based on a book by some crime writer, that this European art-house director wanted tae film. Fair play, the cunt that wrote it selt a ton, but I never liked these books. Written for straight cunts: always makin the polis oot tae be the big fuckin heroes.

  The polis urnae the big fuckin heroes.

  First thing I did when ah saw this handsome but diminutive leather-jacketed young man wi the slicked-back dark hair was tell the cunt the score. I said I wisnae being wide, cause I assumed it wisnae like in America, but Chuck Ponce was a funny name in the UK. Telt him he was makin a right cunt ay ehsel ower here, wi a handle like that. Of course he kent aw that shite; telt me his real name was Charles Ponsora, and yes, he was now aware that it meant something different in the UK, but he was stuck with it. The cunt’s agent had told his name was ‘too Latin’ and would go against him for Waspish lead-man roles. Just like Nicolas Coppola became Nicolas Cage, so Charles Ponsora became Chuck Ponce.

  So we worked together in the jail, him listening tae me and some ay the boys crackin oan. We made tapes wi his dialect coach, a bools-in-the-mooth fucker that slavered pish aboot the accents ay Scotland. Cunt was fuckin useless. I telt Chuck stuff, about the jail, about enforcing for the likes ay Tyrone. Did him fuck all use but; his accent in that film was still ridic, like if ye goat that groundskeeper cunt fae The Simpsons n hud the fucker oan skag in the Kirkgate for five years. But the boy had a way about him, looked at ye like he was really listening, like ye were special. He made aw those big declarations that we’d be brothers forever. He’d see me in Hollywood!

  His words.

  Never heard fae the cunt again for six years, even after being back oot. Even after getting my agent tae send him an invite tae the exhibitions, tae my wedding, and my bairn Grace’s christening. Ah learned fae this that actors were fuckin liars, and the best liars believed their own bullshit when they spouted it. Then, a few months ago, he comes along tae one ay ma shows. Just wanders in with this wee entourage. Telt me that he wanted a heid made ay Charmaine Garrity, his ex-wife, but wi specific mutilations.

  I telt him that I liked to keep they commissions confidential. Could we meet for a wee coffee? So Chuck called and I drove tae San Pedro, and now we’re walking along the clifftops together. Although it overlooks the port, this is a private place tae talk, particularly this deserted ocean side, a sheer drop tae the grey rocks below and the incoming tide that laps them. I’m telling him how ah love the sounds ay the waves crashing, the gulls squawking. — We used to go down to Coldingha
m when I was a kid. It’s in Scotland. Cliffs, with rocks below, like here, I tell him. — My ma always told me to keep away from the edge, I smile. — Of course, I never listened.

  Chuck shimmies forward, wi that big grin on his pus. — No, I’ll bet you didn’t, dude! I was the same! I always had to dance to the brink of that goddamn cliff, and he ambles tae the verge. Shuts his eyes. Stretches out his arms. The wind whips his hair into the sky. Then he opens those peepers again and looks doon tae the rocks. — I had to do all that shit too! That’s the way we’re made, bro, we dance to the edge and then weeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaahhhhh —

  My hearty shove oan Chuck’s back sends him intae that void, squeezing his voice intae a decelerating, dissolving scream. Then nowt. I turn away fae the brink, roond tae feel the sun on my face, raising my hand tae cover my blinking eyes. I haul in a deep breath, and turn back tae glance down at the body lying broken on the rocks. It puts ays in mind ay how he was at the end ay They Call Him Assassin, as the incoming tide froths around him. — I was bullshitting ye, mate. I did listen tae my ma. You should have listened tae yours n aw.

  Part Three

  May 2016

  Sport and Art

  24

  RENTON – THE 114-YEAR-OLD PARTY

  Despite us leaving Edinburgh early, the ‘stretchy’ is crawling along the M8. It’s surely the most woeful major road between two European cities. Franco got the Cup final tickets fae a collector of his work. He claims he’s no really bothered; it’s just a freebie. Sick Boy seems the most enthusiastic, he hired the tacky limo tae take us through tae that desolate graveyard ay dreams in the south side ay Glesgey. I’m so-so about it, though concerned due to Spud’s medicated but valetudinarian form. — Widnae miss it but, he constantly says.

  Franco is the only one who doesnae ken how Spud got into this state, and he’s curious. — What the fuck’s the story, then?

  — Aw, eh, a wee kidney infection, Franco, Spud says. — Hud tae huv it removed. Still, ye just need one but, ay?

  — Too much fuckin drugs inside ye ower the years, mate.

  On that matter, Sick Boy and I are indulging in some champagne and toot, Spud and Begbie baith passing for reasons ay health and lifestyle choice respectively. The driver’s a sound enough cunt and he’s getting well bunged tae stay cool. There was something I meant tae say tae Franco, and ah suddenly remember. — That was weird about Chuck Ponce, ay, mind he was at your exhibition?

  — Aye, a shock right enough, Franco agrees.

  — Ah liked that film They Did Their Duty, Spud croaks.

  — Shite, Sick Boy contends, hoovering up a line. — Prizefight: Los Angeles, that was good.

  Spud ponders this. — That’s when eh pretended tae be an android prizefighter, but eh wis really a mutant wi superpowers …

  — Aye.

  — A guy that had everything tae live for, ah shrug, — aye, it’s a funny auld life.

  — Always seemed tae have issues tae me, Franco sais. — Ah mean actors, stardom, aw that stuff. They say if ye become famous, ye naturally freeze at that age. And he wis a child star. So eh steyed a bit ay a bairn really.

  I’m fighting down saying: like being in the jail long-term, but he looks at me wi a wee smile as if he kens what I’m thinking.

  — What the fuck was the imbecile doing with a name like Ponce? Sick Boy snaps. — Did nobody tell him he was making a royal cunt of himself?

  — It doesnae mean anything in the USA, Franco shakes his heid, — and it wis some kind ay shortening ay his real name. Then, when he broke big, everybody drew it tae his attention. But by that time he’d established himself as a ponce, so tae speak.

  — It happens, I go, telling them the story ay how a mate ay mine in the dance-music industry met Puff Daddy. — He said to him, ‘Do you realise that in England your name means homosexual paedophile?’

  — Right enough, sais Sick Boy. — Who advises those cunts?

  When we get into the stadium, I’m suddenly a suffering bag ay nerves. I realise that Hibs are like heroin. I once shot up after being off it for years, and I felt aw the horrible, nauseous withdrawal fae every hit I’d ever taken. Now I can feel every terrace and stand disappointment coming back tae haunt ays, no just previous games but fae the non-attendance ay the ones over the last two decades. And it’s the fucking Huns, ma auld man’s team.

  But I cannae believe it’s possible tae attend a big fitba game wi Begbie and feel so relaxed about the potential ay violence. Instead ay scanning the crowd, as was his auld modus operandi, his eyes are totally locked on the pitch. As the whistle blows, it’s Sick Boy who’s uptight, his patter setting my fucking nerves oan edge. He refuses to sit down, standing in the aisle in spite of grumblings behind us and looks from the stewards. — They are never going to let us walk oot ay here with that Cup. You know that, right? It just won’t happen. The ref will be under strict Masonic instructions tae ensure that – YA FUCKER!! STOKESY!!!

  We’re aw jumping aroond absolutely fuckin demented! Ah realise through a rid smoke flare behind the goal at the Rangers end that Stokes has scored. Their half ay the stadium is completely stationary. Our half is a bouncing sea ay green, apart fae poor Spud, whae cannae move, just sittin thaire crossing ehsel.

  — Git oan yir feet, ya daft cunt! a boy behind shouts, ruffling his hair.

  We are looking good. Hibs are playing nice stuff. I watch Franco, Sick Boy and Spud. We are kicking every ball with them. It’s going so well. It’s going too fuckin well: it has tae happen. Things get very fucking dark. Miller equalises and I sit in numb despair till the ref blows for half-time. I’m lamenting a life full of what-might-have-beens, thinking of Vicky and how I fucked that one up big time, as Sick Boy and I head tae the toilet. It’s rammed but we manage tae get a cubicle for the ching. — If Hibs win this, Mark, he says as he chops out two fat lines, — I’ll never be a cunt tae any woman again. Even to Marianne. She’s the one that caused aw this bother, with Euan, and through him, Syme. Funny thing is, I’ve been trying to call her. Normally she cannae wait for me to phone; her keks are aroond her ankles quicker than it took Stokesy to hit the net. Now she’s obviously had enough of my games. And the strange thing is, his dark eyes glisten sadly, — I miss her.

  I dinnae want to dwell on Marianne. Sick Boy treated her like shite over the years, but there’s always a strange proprietal reverence in his voice when he talks aboot her. — I know what you mean, I declare. — If Hibs win the Cup, I’ll try and square things with this woman I was seeing back in LA. I had real feelings for her, but I fucked it up, as you do, I lament. — And I’ll look after Alex.

  We shake on it. It seems utterly pathetic, and it is: two coked-up wankers in a toilet, planning their future actions in life oan the outcome ay a fitba game. But the world is so fucked right now that it seems as rational a course ay action as any. Then we go back down, and the coke buzz is still searing when Halliday’s strike fae naewhaire puts them in front. For the umpteenth time a guy behind us urges Sick Boy to sit down. Begbie starts breathing in a controlled manner. This time Sick Boy complies, sitting wi his heid in his hands. Spud groans, a deep pain, as injurious as any that has been physically inflicted on him lately. Only Begbie seems unconcerned, now oozing a strange, relaxed confidence. — Hibs have got this, he sais tae me wi a wink.

  A text from ma auld boy, who is watching on the telly:

  EASY! WATP ;-)

  Auld Weedgie cunt.

  — We were wrong to believe, Sick Boy groans. — I told you, it’s the lot ay Hibs tae never win that fucking thing. And they’ve still to get their obligatory late penalty. 3–1 Rangers: racing fucking cert.

  — Shut the fuck up, Begbie says. — It’s our Cup.

  I have tae admit tae being in the Sick Boy camp. It’s the way ay the world. We really are destined never tae lift it. I’m growing despondent as I’m flying tae Ibiza at 6 a.m. from Newcastle airport, tae meet Carl, who is doing a gig at Amnesia. At least ah’ll git some kip now as it’ll be an early nig
ht. He’ll be ripping the fucking pish oot ay us, wi mair 1902, 5–1 shite. And there it is, already on my phone:

  HA HA MUPPETS! SAME OLD STORY! HHGH 5–1, 1902.

  I suddenly feel very depressed. Hibs huvnae given up though. McGinn makes a couple ay tackles, playing like a man who wants tae physically drag the team back intae a contest that’s slipping away fae them. The fans aroond us are still defiant, but a little downcast. Then another chance for Stokes, but it’s saved …

  — Fucking nearly men again. How many times, Sick Boy, back on his feet, despite more protests, snarls doon towards the Hibs bench, as Henderson lines up a corner. — I’m delighted that I’ve shagged loads ay women and taken tons ay drugs because if I’d relied on a poxy fucking football team to give me ma jollies in life – STOKESY!!! YA CAAAAHHHHNNNNNT!!!!!!

  Again! Anthony Stokes wi a header fae Hendo’s cross! Game back on! — Right, I announce, — I’m dropping an E!

  Begbie looks at ays as if I’m crazy.

  — I’m doing this because I’m fucking shiteing myself, I explain. — I’ve walked oot ay this stadium a miserable cunt so many times in ma life: even if we lose I’m fucked if I’m daein that again. Anybody else in?

  — Aye, says Sick Boy, and he turns round to the guys behind us. — And don’t ask me to fucking sit again because it isn’t going to happen! He pounds his chest in aggression.

  — Sound wi the ecktos, echoes Spud. — Ah wish ah could stand …

  — Fuck off wi that shite, says Franco. — And you, he turns tae Spud, — you must be crazy.

  — Ah’m too like nervous tae git through it, Franco. Ah dinnae care if ah die … jist look eftir Toto for ays.

  Three out of four ain’t bad. They go down the hatch. I’m on my feet, standing next to Sick Boy.