Dead Men''s Trousers 1 RENTON - THE TRAVELLING MAN A rash ay sweat beads are forming on Frank Begbie''s forehead. I am trying no tae stare. He''s just come intae the air-conditioned building fae the heat outside, and his system''s adjusting. Pits ays in mind ay when we first met. It was warm then n aw. Or maybe no. We start idealising shit as we get older. It actually wasn''t at primary school, as I had often recounted.

That tale seemed tae have slid intae that weird overstuffed volume between fact and folklore, where a lot ay Begbie stories ended up. No, it was before that: at the ice-cream van outside the Fort, probably on a Sunday. He was cairrying a big blue Tupperware bowl. I had no long started school, and recognised Begbie from there. He was the year above me then, but that would change. I stood behind him in the queue, a bright sun in our eyes, bursting oot fae gaps between the blackened tenements. He seems a good boy, I thought, watching him dutifully hand the bowl over to the ice-cream man. -- It''s for eftir dinner, he said with a big smile, on noting me observing proceedings.

I recall that this impressed me greatly at the time; ah''d never seen a kid entrusted to get a bowl filled in that way. My ma just gave us tinned Plumbrose cream with our sliced peaches or pears. Then, when I got my cone, he had stalled and was waiting for me. We walked back doon the street thegither, talking about Hibs and our bikes. We were fleet-footed, especially him, speed-walking and bursting into a trot, mindful of the melting ice cream. (So it was a hot day.) I headed to the towering council flats at Fort House; he veered across the road to a sooty tenement. Auld Reekie was just that back then, before stone cleaning removed the industrial grime.

-- See ye, he waved at me. I saluted back. Yes, he did seem a good boy. But later on, I would learn different. I always told a story of how ah was seated next to him at secondary school, as if this penance was imposed on me. But it wasn''t. We sat thegither because we were already friends. Now I cannae quite believe I''m here in Santa Monica, California, living this kind of life.

Especially when Franco Begbie is sitting across the table from me, with Melanie, in this nice restaurant on 3rd Street. We are both light years away from that ice-cream van in Leith. I''m with Vicky, who works in film sales, but hails originally from Salisbury, England. We met on a dating website. It''s our fourth outing and we huvnae fucked yet. After our third would probably have been the time. We''re not bairns. Now I sense we''ve let it slide too long and are a bit tentative in each other''s company, wondering: is this going anywhere? I thought I was being cool; truth is that she''s a lovely woman and I''m aching to be with her.

So it''s tough being roond Franco and Melanie; such a bright, bronzed and healthy couple. Franco, twenty years older than her, almost seems a match for this fit, tanned, blonde Californian. They are easy and languid in each other''s company; a touch ay hand on thigh here, a sneaky wee peck on cheek there, a meaningful glance and exchange of conspiratorial smiles everywhere. Lovers are cunts. They rub your face in it without meaning to. And that''s what I''ve had from Frank Begbie since that fucking insane day on the plane last summer. We did stay in touch, and have met up a few times. But never just us: always with Melanie, and sometimes whatever company I bring along.

Strangely, this is at Franco''s instigation. Whenever we arrange a get-together for just the two of us, so I can discuss paying him back, he always finds a reason to cancel. Now here we are in Santa Monica, with Christmas looming. He''ll be here for the festive period, in the sun, while I''ll be in Leith, with my old man. Ironically able to relax, now that the guy sitting opposite me, who I thought would never leave the old port, or only for a prison cell, is no longer a threat. The food is good and the company is pleasant and chilled out. So I should be at peace. But I''m no.

Vicky, Melanie and I split a bottle ay white wine. I crave a second but stay silent. Franco doesnae drink any more. I keep saying that tae myself in disbelief: Franco doesnae drink any more. And when it''s time tae leave and head tae the apartment in the Uber with Vicky, who lives close by in Venice, I''m again pondering the implications of his transformation, and where it''s left me. I''m far from a strict temperance guy, chance would be a fine thing, but I''ve done enough NA meetings over the years tae ken that no paying him back just isnae a valid psychological option for ays. When I do compensate him -- and I realise that I must, not just for him but for me -- it''ll be gone, that fucking huge burden. That need to run will be forever extinguished.

I can see more of Alex, maybe rebuild some kind of a relationship with Katrin, my ex. I can perhaps make a proper go ay it with Vicky here, see where it takes us. And all I need to do is tae pey this cunt off. I know exactly how much I owe him at today''s money. Fifteen thousand four hundred and twenty quid: that''s how much three thousand two hundred pounds is worth now. And that''s small beer compared tae what I owe Sick Boy. But I''ve also been putting money aside for him and Second Prize. Franco, though, is more pressing.

In the back of the Uber, Vicky''s hand fastens around my own. She has big paws for a woman of around five-six; they''re almost the same size as mine. -- What are you thinking about? Work? -- Got it, I lie glumly. -- I''ve those gigs at Christmas and New Year in Europe. But at least I''ll get back home tae spend time with the old boy. -- Wish I was going home, she says. -- Especially as my sister''s making it back from Africa. But it takes too much time out of my leave.

So it''ll be Christmas with some expats.again, she groans in exasperation. Now would be the time to say it: I wish I were spending Christmas here with you. It would be a simple, honest statement. However, meeting Franco has once again discombobulated me, and the moment passes. But there are other opportunities. As we reach my building I ask Vicky if she wants to come up for a nightcap. She smiles tightly.

-- Sure. We get upstairs and into the apartment. The air is thick and stale and hot. I hit the air con and it creaks and whistles into action. I pour two glasses ay red wine and slump down on the small couch, suddenly tired after all my travelling. My DJ Emily says that everything happens for a reason. It''s her mantra. I never buy into all that cosmic forces shite.

But now I''m thinking: What if she''s right? What if I was meant to run into Franco, in order to pay him back? Unburden myself? Move on? After all, that''s what he''s done, and I''m the one who''s fucking stuck. Vicky has sat down on the couch beside me. She stretches out like a cat, then slips off her shoes and pulls her tanned legs up, smoothing down her skirt. I feel blood flowing from brain to baws. She''s thirty-seven and has had a proper life, from what I can gather. Been messed around by a couple of wankers, broken a few saps'' hearts. Now she has a fire in her eye and set tae her jaw that says: Time to get serious. Shit or get off the pot.

-- You think it''s time we, eh, took this to the next level? I ask. Her eyes are slitty and alert as she touches the sun-bleached brunette-blonde hair scrapped right back off her forehead. -- Oh, I think so, she says in a voice that is meant to be sexy and is. We''re both relieved tae get the first shag out the road. Already beyond excellent, it''ll only kick on from here. It always fascinates me how, when you fancy somebody, they often look even better with no clothes on than you imagine. But the next day, she leaves early for work, and I have to get on a plane tae Barcelona. It''s for a gig that isnae important in itself, but at a club night promoted by a guy who does the Sonar Festival there.

Our participation in that was sealed by agreeing to do this Christmas show. Who knows when Victoria and I will hook up again. But I travel happy and with a bit to think about, and maybe something to come back for. And that''s been a long time in happening. So here I am, flying east, the dreaded east. Business class is essential for this one. I should lie flat but the stewardess offers a nice French wine from their selection, and before I know it I''m shit-faced at altitude again. All I''m thinking about is getting some coke.

I settle for an Ambien. -- Yes, it has gotten obnoxiously trendy. Aye, money has ruined it. For sure, it''s been colonised by cosmopolitan fuckers high on solvency and low on personality, their mirthless laughter from the bars and cafes echoing down its narrow streets. But for all those caveats, the simple fact remains intact: if you don''t like Barcelona, you''re a cunt, and totally lost tae humanity. I know I still have some kind of pulse, cause I love it. Even when I''m fighting tae keep my eyes open, and shutting them jaunts me back into the hell of the sweaty nightclub I''ve either just left or am heading to. I have a constant four-four beat pounding in my brain, despite the cab driver playing tinny Latin music.

I stumble out the taxi, almost falling over with fatigue. I pull my roller-wheeled case out the back, and struggle intae my hotel. The check-in is swift but seems like an age. I feel myself letting the air out my lungs in a long sigh to hurry the clerk up. I''m shiteing it in case one ay my DJs or the promoter walks in right now and wants to talk. The plastic strip that gains me entry to my room is issued. Some notes about the Wi-Fi and breakfast. I get intae the lift.

The blinking green light in the lock tells me the key works, thank fuck. I''m i.