The Cutting Room by Louise Welsh Page B

giggler behind the bad fairy’s skirts urging her on to more wickedness. At forty he has a face that reflects his life.
    Deep-set, heavy-lidded eyes, high cheekbones, a slender nose just the right side of hooked, and a wide, thin-lipped mouth.
    As faces go it’s too much, overdone, as if he has one feature too many. But dressed, from a distance, he can be anyone you want him to be. He coughed again, a sixty-a-day grandmother’s cough, rich and textured.
     
    `Rose just phoned looking for you. She sounded in a right
    state. I told her I’d not seen you for days. I’m not sure if she believed me, so you better call her and dial 141 while you do it. I don’t want that mad bitch coming round making a scene.’
    `I thought you two liked a scene.’
     
    He twisted his mouth. `Outclassed, dear boy. When it
    comes to scenes, Rose wins every time. Feel like a beer??
    ‘Aye, all right. What happened here??
    ‘Ach, what do you think?
     
    He pulled himself from the couch, awkward, rubbing his
    hands over the small of his back, straightening stiffly as if he had been sitting there for a long time. Chaos continued in the kitchen, jars of food tipped across the floor, oats and cereal merged with lentils, rice and pasta, drawers upturned,
     
    contents scattered, pots and pans tumbled into crockery.
    Leslie skirted the mess as best he could, reached into the
    fridge and handed me a chill can.
    `I was busted last night. They took the place apart in their usual half-arsed way - you know, books out the bookcase,
    clothes out the closet, drawers on the floor.’
    `Did they find anything??
    ‘No, of course not. I wouldn’t be talking to you if they
    had, would I? No.’ He started to laugh, `It was in a tartan
    shopper hooked on the pulley. A fucking bar. Three coppers
    pulling the place apart and one giving me the once-over:
    Where is it? they know I’ve got it; I’m an intelligent guy,
    why not save us all a lot of time and do myself a favour. He was so embarrassed. I was in a frock. He couldn’t even look
    at me, and all the time it’s hanging there above their heads.
    They had this dog with them, a big German shepherd. It
    was going crazy, jumping up, whining, practically baying,
    the poor beast was in torture. Its handler kept on shoving it down telling it to sit and shut up. It was the only one there with brains, I’m telling you, man. Christ, it was all I could do to stop myself looking up. A fucking red tartan bag. I
    swear I thought it was going to start talking to them, open
    up its zip mouth and shout, “Here I am, here I am, how do
    you do?!” ‘
    `Where is it now? He jerked his head at the ceiling, no, at
    the red tartan bag swaying slightly on the pulley. `Leslie. It’s still there??
    ‘Well, I didn’t know what to do with it. I’ve not been over
    the doorstep all day. I tell you, man, it’s a real worry. That’s why I was pleased when you phoned.’ I let that one ride.
    `Anyway, what’s on your mind? You looking to score? ‘Cos
    I’m well supplied.’ He laughed until the coughing took over.
     
    `Jesus. La dame aux camelias, right enough. It’s not the cough that carries you off, it’s the coffin they carry you off in.’
    `It’s a matter of contacts.’
    `Oh yes??
    ‘Leslie, you know a lot of people.’
    `Nature of the business.’
     
    `I need to meet someone who knows a bit about the skin
    trade.’
    He sat himself down at the kitchen table, motioned for me
    to do the same, and took a sip from his can.
    `You buying or selling?’
    ‘Buying.’
    `Well that’s a relief. I thought for a moment you were
    wanting to get your skinny shanks on celluloid.’ He took out the makings and began to roll a joint. `What kind of stuff are you after??
    ‘I need some informarion.’
    `Rilke, that’s the worst thing you can say to a guy in my
    game. Information? Now, you can say it to me because we’ve
    known each other a long time and I know you can be trusted,
    but drugs and porn, big-money low-scruples