Dead Men's Trousers Read online

  CONTENTS

  COVER

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY IRVINE WELSH

  DEDICATION

  TITLE PAGE

  PROLOGUE: SUMMER 2015, FLY BOYS

  PART ONE: DECEMBER 2015, ANOTHER NEOLIBERAL CHRISTMAS

  1. Renton – The Travelling Man

  2. Police Harassment

  3. Tinder Is the Night

  4. Spud – Here’s to You, Mr Forrester

  5. Renton – Client Confidentiality

  6. Sick Boy – In Search of Euan McCorkindale

  7. Renton – Sick Boy Payback

  8. Leith Heads

  9. Sick Boy – Expanding/Contracting

  10. Renton – Bonnyrigged

  PART TWO: APRIL 2016, A MEDICAL EMERGENCY

  11. Spud – The Butchers of Berlin

  12. Renton – DJ Shagger

  13. Begbie – Wild About Harry

  14. Sick Boy – All Thai’d Up

  15. Shagging Hoors Will Not Bring You Peace

  16. Out of the Shadows

  17. Spud – Unsupervised Meat

  18. Sick Boy – All Aboard the Renfrew Ferry

  19. Renton – Decked

  20. Sick Boy – Business Class

  21. Renton – The Charger

  22. Post-Op Blues

  23. Begbie – Chuck Ponce

  PART THREE: MAY 2016, SPORT AND ART

  24. Renton – The 114-Year-Old Party

  25. Sick Boy – Bringing It All Back Home

  26. Spud – Hospital Eyes

  27. The Auction

  28. Begbie – A History of Art

  29. Wankers at an Exhibition

  30. Sick Boy – Marital Aid

  31. Renton – The Pay-Off

  32. Taking the Shot

  PART FOUR: JUNE 2016, BREXIT

  33. Renton – Victoria’s Secret

  34. The Fort Versus the Banana Flats

  35. Begbie – Brexit

  36. Renton – Doing the Right Thing

  37. Sick Boy – Give Me Your Answer Do

  38. Renton – Don’t Beg the Beggar Boy

  39. Begbie – Hostage

  40. Sick Boy – Huckled

  41. Renton – Shedding King Lears

  42. Interrogation

  EPILOGUE: SUMMER 2016, I MET YOU IN THE SUMMERTIME

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  COPYRIGHT

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  Mark Renton is finally a success.

  An international jet-setter, he now makes significant money managing DJs, but the constant travel, airport lounges, soulless hotel rooms and broken relationships have left him dissatisfied with his life. He’s then rocked by a chance encounter with Frank Begbie, from whom he’d been hiding for years after a terrible betrayal and the resulting debt. But the psychotic Begbie appears to have reinvented himself as a celebrated artist and – much to Mark’s astonishment – doesn’t seem interested in revenge.

  Sick Boy and Spud, who have agendas of their own, are intrigued to learn that their old friends are back in town, but when they enter the bleak world of organ harvesting, things start to go so badly wrong. Lurching from crisis to crisis, the four men circle each other, driven by their personal histories and addictions, confused, angry – so desperate that even Hibs winning the Scottish Cup doesn’t really help. One of these four will not survive to the end of this book. Which one of them is wearing Dead Men’s Trousers?

  Fast and furious, scabrously funny and weirdly moving, this is a spectacular return of the crew from Trainspotting.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Irvine Welsh currently lives in Miami.

  ALSO BY IRVINE WELSH

  FICTION

  Trainspotting

  The Acid House

  Marabou Stork Nightmares

  Ecstasy

  Filth

  Glue

  Porno

  The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs

  If You Liked School, You’ll Love Work …

  Crime

  Reheated Cabbage

  Skagboys

  The Sex Lives of Siamese Twins

  A Decent Ride

  The Blade Artist

  DRAMA

  You’ll Have Had Your Hole

  Babylon Heights (with Dean Cavanagh)

  SCREENPLAY

  The Acid House

  for Sarah

  Prologue

  Summer 2015

  Fly Boys

  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 th
ose 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.

  As I talk my body involuntarily tenses further in anticipation of a violent dig, but Franco just listens patiently, drawing in firm breaths ay the sterile air. A couple of times I feel he’s fighting down the urge tae speak, as stewards and passengers jostle past us. When I finish my breathless spiel, he just nods. — Right.

  I am flabbergasted. I would back away in disbelief if there was anywhere tae go in this narrow space we find ourselves trapped in. — Right … what do you mean by ‘right’?

  — I mean that I get it, he shrugs, — I understand that ye needed tae get oot. You were fucked wi drugs. I was fucked wi violence n peeve. You got that ye had to escape fae where we were, long before I ever realised it.

  What the fuck?

  — Well, aye, is all I can say. I ought to be terrified, but I’m no getting the vibe that I’m being set up. I can scarcely believe that it’s Franco. He would never have had this mindset, or even been comfortable using those words before. — I didnae use the right escape vehicle though, Frank, I confess, both humbled and embarrassed. — I betrayed my mates. For better or worse, you, Sick Boy, Spud and Second … Simon, Danny and Rab, you were my friends.

  — Ye fucked Spud by giein him the money. He was right back oan the skag. Franco breaks out his cold, bloodless expression, that one that used to set me on edge, as it was one that generally preceded violence. But now things seem different. And there was nothing I could say about Spud. It was true. That three thousand two hundred quid hadnae helped him at all. — Had ye done the same for me, you’d have probably fucked me with the drink. He lowers his voice as another stewardess passes us. — Actions seldom have their intended consequences.

  — That’s true, I stammer, — but it’s important tae me that you know –

  — Let’s no talk aboot all that. He raises the palm of his hand, shaking his head, and half shutting his eyes. — Tell me where you’ve been, what you’ve been up tae.

  All I can dae is comply. But I’m thinking about his journey as I go through my yarn. After Franco’s attempted attack on me back in Edinburgh, even though I knew he was banged up, I became a very mobile DJ manager, rather than the landlocked club promoter I’d previously been. A manager is always on the move. He follows his clients all over the globe; dance music now has no frontiers, blah, blah, blah. But it was an excuse: a reason tae travel, tae keep moving. Aye, ripping off that poxy few grand delineated my life as much as his. Probably more.

  Then this beautiful lassie with collar-length blonde hair comes up tae us. She has a slim, athletic build, with a long, swan-like neck, and eyes that exude a sort of tranquillity. — There you are, she says, smiling at Franco and turning tae me, urging an introduction.

  What the fuck?

  — This is Mark, an old friend of mine from Leith, the cunt goes, almost sounding like fucking Sick Boy impersonating Connery’s Bond. — Mark, this is my wife, Melanie.

  I’m giddy with shock. My sweating palm reaches into my pocket tae the comforting bottle of Ambien. This is not my auld mate and deadly nemesis, Francis James Begbie. The horrible possibility dawns on me: perhaps I’ve been living ma life in fear ay a man who no longer exists. I shake Melanie’s soft, manicured hand. She stares at me in puzzlement. The cunt has obviously never even fuckin mentioned ays! I can’t believe that he’s moved on, tae the extent that the guy who ripped him off and caused him to be badly injured, his (ex) best mate, disnae even warrant being idly mooted tae his missus!

  But Melanie confirms this when she says, in an American accent, — He never discusses his old friends, do you, honey?

  — That’s cause maist ay them are in jail, and you know them, he says, at last sounding a little like the Begbie I
knew. Which is simultaneously scary and oddly reassuring. — I met Mel in prison, he explains. — She was an art therapist.

  Something flares in my mind, a blurry face, a snatch ay conversation half heard in a noisy club through an E rush or coke rant: maybe fae my veteran DJ Carl, or some Edinburgh head in the Dam on holiday. It was something about Frank Begbie becoming a successful artist. I never gave it any credence or dominion in my consciousness. Any mention ay his name ah just tuned out. And this was the maist outlandish and improbable ay the many myths circulating aboot him.

  — You don’t look the jailbird type, Melanie says.

  — I’m more of a prison warden-cum-social worker type.

  — So what you do for a living?

  — I manage DJs.

  Melanie raises her eyebrows. — Would I know any?

  — DJ Technonerd is my most famous.

  Franco looks blank at this information, but not so Melanie. — Wow! I know his stuff. She turns to him. — Ruth went to one of his gigs in Vegas.

  — Yes, we have a residency there, at the Wynn Hotel, the Surrender nightclub.

  — Steppin in, steppin out of my life, you’re tearin my heart out, baby … Melanie hums DJ Technonerd’s, or Conrad Appeldoorn’s, latest hit.

  — Ah ken that yin! Franco announces, sounding very Leith in his enthusiasm. He looks at me as if he’s impressed. — Nice one.

  — There’s another name you might recognise, I venture, — mind ay Carl Ewart? N-Sign? Was big in the nineties, or maybe more the noughties? Mates wi Billy Birrell, the boxer?

  — Aye … was he no a sort ay albino guy, a buddy ay Juice Terry? Stenhoose boy?

  — Aye. That’s him.

  — He’s still DJing? Ye never hear ay him now.

  — Aye, he moved into film soundtracks, but he split up with his missus, hit a bad patch, and let Hollywood doon wi a score for a big studio movie. He cannae get any mair film work, so ah’m masterminding his DJing comeback.

  — How’s that gaun? Franco asks, as Melanie shifts her look between us like she’s watching a tennis rally.

  — So-so, I admit, although shit would be better. Carl’s passion for music has gone. It’s aw ah can dae tae get the cunt oot ay bed and behind the decks. As soon as the gig is finished, vodka and racket takes over and I, only too often, get dragged along in the slipstream. Like in Dublin last night. When I was a promoter based in Amsterdam, I used to keep fit. Karate. Ju-jitsu. I was a machine. Not any longer.