Dead Men's Trousers Page 6

  — Ehm, if you don’t mind me asking, which way are you going? I’m going to bow out too.

  — Liberton, Marianne responds in a vague tone, tucking her hair behind one ear. — Any good?

  — Yes. Great.

  In the back of the cab, the relative heat gives Euan another set of E-rushes. They head up the Bridges towards the Commonwealth Pool. It isn’t that far from his house. But he can’t go home in this state.

  She picks up on his agitation. — Are you okay?

  — Not really. Simon spiked my drink with MDMA powder. It was apparently his idea of a big festive joke. I’m not used to drugs … these days, he feels the need to add, worried that she’ll find him a little straight and dull. He suddenly glances at her feet; small, dainty and strapped into heels. — You have very beautiful feet.

  — Kinky that way, are you?

  — No, but perhaps a little obsessed. I’m a foot doctor, a podiatrist, he explains, as they pass his employ at the Royal Infirmary.

  Jill has gone to the toilet with Katy to do some powder, leaving Simon the opportunity to get back on Tinder. However, he sees Terry advancing towards him. — Where have you been?

  — Took that yin in the green toap roond tae Thistle Street Lane in the cab. Thanks tae your daft wee MDMA ah jist chowed at her fanny till she went bananas. Didnae even ram it. Now she wants tae see ays again, the lot. Thinks ah’m like that aw the time. Telt her tae git the fuck oot ay ma cab!

  — You’re a gentleman, Tez.

  — N ah saw your brar-in-law, that Euan cunt, sneakin oaf wi that Marianne bird, Terry declares, his eyes dancing in front of Simon. — How come ah nivir rattled that yin back in the day? Fit as.

  — Knobbed her aw weys fir years. First her faither threatened me, then her fucking husband. Obviously I was still banging her when she got married, and at her instigation. But I was a gent. I told her I found it inherently ungracious breaching a pussy bequeathed to another chap, so I always jacksie-rammed her eftir that. Taught her how to orgasm on anal, the lot.

  — Gap oan the CV for lean Lawson, n thaire’s no many ay thaim, he says, put out. — Cunt, if she wis that much ay an imposition, ye should’ve slipped me her phone number, ah’d have got ye oaf her mind. Or mibbe that’s what ye wir feart, ay!

  — That. Will. Be. The. Fucking. Day.

  — Shoatie, Terry glances at the two young women returning from the toilet, — here’s the fanny back: time fir the fuckin charm offensive!

  The first to rise in the McCorkindale household on Christmas Day is Simon Williamson. He hasn’t been able to sleep, as is always the case when he’s done loads of alcohol or drugs. He regards this wanton consumption as a weakness, but as it’s Christmas, and pretty much a rarity for him these days, he resists beating himself up about it. Euan soon joins him in the kitchen, still looking a little blitzed from the night before. – That was some stuff, he gasps, his voice low. — That powder. I couldn’t sleep.

  — Ha! Welcome to my world. Try doing some ching and base on top of it, like me –

  — You are on your own! I had to get back to Carlotta. Luckily she’s a heavy sleeper. I lay awake beside her the entire night, all sweating and stiff like a drug addict!

  — On that note, how was Marianne? Did you go to hers?

  Euan seems to think about lying, before realising the futility of it. — Yes, I really needed to get myself together before going home. I had an interesting chat with her. She’s a very complicated woman.

  Simon Williamson raises a solitary brow. — The untrained eye would certainly see it that way.

  — What do you mean?

  — She’s not complicated at all. Complicated is good. Complicated is interesting. She’s neither.

  — Well, she seemed that way to me.

  — A damaged simpleton can appear complicated because their personal behaviour is erratic and they have no impulse control. But that is not good. Damaged simpletons are merely exasperating and tiresome. I told her several fucking decades ago that she’d gotten obsessed with me and that I wanted nothing more to do with her. But no, she kept coming back, demanding to see me. The spoiled daddy’s girl used to getting everything she wants. Simon Williamson stares brutally at his brother-in-law. — Her faither, first gaunny kill ays for riding her, then gaunny kill ays for no riding her! He shiver-shrugs, as if literally casting off a chilling cloak of injustice. — The entire family is a bunch ay controlling nutters.

  — Keep it down, Euan shushes him, as he hears the toilet flush from a bathroom upstairs.

  Simon nods and drops his voice. — So muggins here kept dutifully slamming it up her, with, I hasten to add, increasing reluctance. In her defence it has to be said that she’s a terrific ride, though I have to take some credit for that: she flourished under my selfless tutelage. Then, when she vanished over a decade ago, I thought: good riddance. But I genuinely hoped she had found happiness. He says the word in a French accent, making it sound like a penis. — But no, the dopey prick who took her on board, he’s seen the light. Voilà, she’s back in my face, hassling me by text, castigating me for chasing minge that is a) younger, and b) not her. He shrugs. — So what about you, did you give her the message?

  — Don’t be ridiculous, Euan splutters. Whoever had used the upstairs bathroom seemed to go back to bed. — I went to her place to compose myself and let that MDMA you gave me wear off. Thankfully, Carlotta was fast asleep when I got in. She wasn’t charmed when she briefly stirred this morning, but she was, in her words, ‘glad we’d bonded’.

  Suddenly there is activity. Ross comes down the stairs, with Ben following. — Here’s the gadges! Simon announces. – Merry Christmas, you handsome young bucks! A pair of heartbreakers, huh, Euan? That vintage Italian-Scots genetic and cultural combination: it devastates the girls. Leaves them senseless, heaving wreckages.

  His son and nephew look at him, both deeply embarrassed by his proclamation, and each more than a little doubtful.

  — Anyway, I’m going to check out some morning telly, Simon declares. — In fact I’m not going to move from that couch until it’s time for my Christmas dinner. This is breakfast, and he unwraps the gold foil and bites the ear off a Lindt chocolate teddy bear, pointing to the heart on its chest. – Take that, ya Jambo bastard, and he decants to the living room.

  Carlotta comes downstairs and starts on the meal preparations. Euan wants to help but his wife insists she has it all planned and that he should sit down with Simon and the boys and watch TV. Ross and Ben are less than enthralled at the prospect and retreat upstairs, while Euan complies, to find Simon enjoying an Innis & Gunn lager with the chocolate teddy, watching a rerun of White Christmas.

  — A little early, Euan says, looking at the tin of beer.

  — It’s Christmas, for fuck sake. And this lager is amazing. Who would have thought that the Scots could produce the best lager in the world? It’s what I would imagine Sleeping Beauty’s sweet douched-out fanny to taste like!

  This extreme sexualisation of everything, Euan ponders, does he ever stop? Then he considers that it might not be a bad idea to have a couple of beers. Still woozy from the MDMA, they might provide a covering excuse for his lassitude. Fortunately, Carlotta seems too caught up in the Christmas dinner preparations to notice. Euan can hear his wife singing, the Eurythmics ‘Thorn in My Side’, melodic and sweet. He feels his heart swelling in his chest.

  His mother-in-law and sister-in-law arrive, with Louisa’s husband and three children, all between the ages of seventeen and twenty-four. The house is busy and presents are swapped and unwrapped. Ross and Ben receive identical PS4s, and immediately head upstairs to download a favoured game from the Internet.

  The Innis & Gunn lager is settling nicely into Euan, producing a satisfying, mellow cheer. He vaguely thinks something is off-kilter about his son as Ross suddenly reappears in the hallway, cornering Carlotta as she goes into the kitchen, urging his busy mother to follow him upstairs.

  He cranes his neck over th
e back of the settee to watch them and is about to speak, when Simon shakes his arm, and mother and son ascend the stairs behind them. — I love this bit when Crosby makes that speech to Rosemary Clooney about the knight falling off his silver charger … he says, tears welling in his eyes. — That’s the story of my life with women, and he chokes, as if something is breaking in his chest.

  Euan observes this in mounting unease. Simon appears to be absolutely genuine in his sentiments. It dawns on him that his brother-in-law is so dangerous to women due to his ability to totally immerse in, and believe, those self-cast fantasy roles.

  Eventually, they are shouted through to the dining area at the rear of the kitchen for the meal. Photographs are taken with an air of ceremony. Simon Williamson snaps the family, then, individually, his mother Evita, who looks vacant, Carlotta, Louisa, Gerry and kids, Ben, a sullen Ross, and even Euan. Throughout this process, both Simon and Euan feel a strange tension in the air, but they’re now hungry and looking through mild intoxication’s fug, as they take their seats. Carlotta is whispering urgently to her mother and sister. Mindful of the weight of the Christmas dinner, she has prepared a light starter; small prawn cocktails, with a minimal lemon-based dressing, sit on the table.

  Euan sits back appreciatively, and is about to speak, when he sees the tears streaming down his wife’s cheeks. Clutching her mother’s hand, she doesn’t meet his concerned eyes. And Evita is looking daggers right at him. Instinctively, he and Simon glance at each other in puzzlement.

  Before Euan can say anything, his son stands up and slaps him hard across the face. — You’re a fuckin dirty old bastard! Ross points at Carlotta. — That’s my mum!

  Euan can’t react, or even open his mouth, as his eyes go to his wife. Carlotta is now sobbing in heavy despair, her shoulders shaking. — You should be ashamed of yourself, Louisa screeches at him, as Evita curses in Italian.

  The overwhelming sense that the world is crumbling to dust sucks every piece of energy and, indeed, sentience out of Euan.

  And then Ross turns on his iPad, holding it up to his shocked father’s face. There he is, yesterday, with that Marianne woman, and they are naked, on her bed, and he is pushing his cock into her lubed-up arsehole, as he strokes her clitoris. She is coaching him through her groans, telling him what to do. And then he looks, in trauma, at his brother-in-law, realising that the words coming out of her mouth are really Simon David Williamson’s.

  It flashes through his mind in a storm, as the faces gape in shock and disgust at him: Marianne has emailed him the tape they made. It must have gone to the family iCloud. Ross has accessed it by accident when trying to download the video game for his PlayStation 4. Now they are all watching it, as a family, literally over their Christmas dinner; Euan’s first ever drug-induced infidelity. His sister-in-law and her husband glare in disgust. His mother-in-law is crossing herself. Simon, genuinely shocked, looks at him in a phantom admiration. But in his son and wife, Euan can sense nothing on their shattered and wrecked faces but a deep, uncomprehending betrayal.

  Euan McCorkindale can find no words. But he is speaking them, obscenely and deliciously, on the screen, which Ross grips with outstretched arms, firmly, unbendingly, in front of him.

  It is Carlotta who finds her voice. — You are fucking out of here. You are fuckin oot ay here right now, and she points to the door.

  Euan rises, with his head bowed. He is mortified in the sense of almost turned to actual stone by his shock, beyond even embarrassment. His limbs are heavy and his ears ring, as a rock the size of a black hole fills his stomach and chest cavity. Looking to the door, which seems so far away, he feels himself move towards it. He doesn’t know where he is going and it is only instinct that makes him pick up his coat from its hook in the vestibule, as he leaves his family home, quite possibly forever.

  Closing the door behind him and stepping out into the cold, gloomy streets, all he can think of is that Christmas will never be the same again. But his hand goes to the iPhone, and plucks it out of his pocket. Euan McCorkindale doesn’t google hotel accommodation. Instead he hits the Tinder icon, the application he downloaded after leaving Marianne’s in crippling, joyous guilt, in the wee small hours of Christmas Day morning. Already, his cold fingers are quickly scrolling a new future.

  4

  SPUD – HERE’S TO YOU, MR FORRESTER

  A soft Sqezy-boatil heartbreak whine leaks ootay the wee gadge. He needs tae git a trim likesay, ye kin barely see they sparkly wee eyes through yon fur. — Freezin the auld hee-haws oaf here, Toto. Ah’m sorry aboot this, pal, but wi you bein likesay a West Highland terrier, you’ve goat the fur coat, man, ah tells ma boy, curled up at ma feet. Ah feel ehs neb, it’s stane cauld awright, but that’s meant tae be a sign ay canine health. Sometimes ah feel pure bad though, man, like ah’m one ay they gadges thit only gits a dug as an accessory for ma beggin pitch, a sympathy gambit, likesay. N they see Toto n say, — Spud, ah thoat you wir intae cats, man, n ah say, — Aw animals, likesay. N ah tell ye but, it’s pure done ays nae herm huvin Toto. For the beg, n that, ay. People hate tae see animals suffer.

  — Bit that wisnae the reason ah goat ye, Toto, it wis mair fir the companionship, ay, pal, ah goes tae um. Ah ken animals cannae make oot what yir sayin, bit they kin detect the vibe, man, they wee bits ay negative body lingo ye gie oot whin yir voice or even think they bad thoats. It’s how the world’s sick, man: that media run by the corporations, spreadin that virus ay bad vibes. That Rupert Murdoch cat in that Sun. Every time ah see a headline in that paper ah just go: aw, man. Ah dinnae like subjectin Toto tae that sortay deal. It’s true but, ye need a wee four-legged buddy tae go through life wi, now that aw the two-legged yins have aw waltzed oaf intae the sunset, ken?

  The beg’s gaun no too bad but, the festive period is eywis decent. Cats aw fill ay good cheer n booze, and wi the weather bein that cauld, it sort ay turns aw they indifferent herts, ken?

  So ah’m happy wi ma twelve quid sixty-two pence bounty. Four hours in the cauld, still below minimum wage, even if ye do git peyed fir jist standin aroond. It’s funny, but whin ye start the John Greig, ye pit oan that coupon: that sad, baleful pus that screams ‘help ays’ tae the world. By the end ay the mooch, whin the cauld has crept intae yir bones, ye dinnae need tae fake it any mair. So ah’m aboot tae pack up whin ah realise thaire’s a figure standin ower ays. Likesay lingerin, no makin any attempt tae chip a coin intae the auld styrofoam. Ah pure dinnae want tae look up, cause sometimes ye git a radge or a wideo giein ye hassle. But ah hears the friendly tone, — Awright, Spud, so ah raises ma heid.

  Man, it’s Mikey Forrester starin doon at ays. — Mikey! How goes? ah asks. Cause ah’ve goat tae say that Mikey boy seems a wee bit doon at heel n aw, wearin a tatty fleece, jeans n trainers. Ah’m kinday surprised, man. The last time ah seen him, the Forrester gadge seemed tae be daein well; aw tin flutes n long coats fae wannabe gangster central.

  — Good, Spud, Forrester goes, but ye kin sortay tell the cat’s tryin tae summon as much enthusiasm as he kin, ken? — Ah’ve got a wee bit ay graft, if yir interested. Involves good food and travel. Fancy a pint?

  Ah’m aw lugs in this situ, man. — You’ll have tae be the cat in chair, like, Mikey. Ah’m a bit short ay the hirey’s gadgie, ah tells a wee fib. Cannae afford tae use that twelve quid oan beer, man: thaire’s beans n toast fir me n dug food fir Toto tae come ootay yon haul.

  — I gathered that.

  — They let ye in wi dugs in that place ower the street there, ah points tae the pub.

  Mikey nods and we head ower the cobblestanes intae that awfay welcome howf. Ken whin the heat jist blasts oot? Ye cannae beat that, man, even though it’s like the maist miserable time for a wee while, while the body pure adjusts. It’s like that fulum ah saw once whin they wir in space n hud tae wrap up in likesay tinfoil n jump fae one ship tae another, wi nae suits oan or nowt. Even jist a few seconds ay that cauld. It’s the decompression time. Git they hands n taes warmed up. It helps wi Toto
curlin up oan ma feet as Mikey shouts up two pints ay San Miguel lager.

  When eh sets thum doon oan the table, eh goes, — I’ve gone intae a wee partnership wi Victor Syme, then eh adds in a low voice, — Vic’s back, like.

  Ah’m pure no sae keen oan this gig now, man, cause Syme’s well kent as a bad cat, n ah dinnae think it’ll be Mikey that’s runnin the show here. So the wee alarm in ma heid’s gaun: aw-aw, aw-aw …

  — Thaire’s decent spondoolays in this, and it’s a piece ay pish.

  But, well, let the cat ootline the deal but, man. Does nae herm tae listen tae what the boy’s goat tae say, ay. — Is thaire any chance ay a wee poppy advance oan the fee fir this joab, man? Things been a bit slow, likesay.

  — I’m sure we kin work something oot. No want tae hear my proposition first but?

  — Eh, aye, ah goes, suppin mair ay the pint. But ah’m awready jumpin aheid ay masel, thinkin thit things are lookin up but, n it’s aboot time the boy Murphy caught a wee brek. Everybody else, even the maist marginalised kittens in the basket, seems tae huv left ays behind. Boot in the hee-haws fir the auld self-esteem, man. No kiddin ye. But tae be wanted again, for anything, it feels barry.

  So the Forrester felly is tellin ays that aw ah need tae dae is pick up a wee package and droap it oaf. If ah wis tae git a cash advance ootay Mikey, thaire’s mibbe some new troosers, n a pair ay trainers wi some tread oan thum oot ay it. Ah dinnae ken aboot Mikey but; likesay whether the dude is trustworthy or no. Goat tae dae the fieldwork here, man. — The delivery but, it’s no collies, man, is it? ah asks um. — Cause ah’m no like one ay they drug smugglers, no way, Jose.

  Mikey shakes that shaved dome, then runs a hand ower it. It’s like eh tries tae copy aw they gangsters, the likes ay Fat Tyrone n that. — Ah swear, bud, it’s nowt like that, the Forrest Fire explains. — Aw ye need tae dae is fly tae Istanbul and a boy’ll pick ye up at the airport and gie ye a boax tae take tae Berlin oan the train. You git the package thaire, ye gie it tae another boy. Under nae circumstances, and the cat looks awfay, awfay serious, — dae ye try n open the boax.