by Irvine Welsh
Beverly had gone to a lot of trouble with the food and had put her new dress on, even if it was black like all her others, Skinner noted. Her disapproval at Kay’s non-show hung heavily in the air, and she knew who was to blame, whatever he said.
She went back to the oven to switch it off, pointing at the cat, lying in front of the fire. — Dinnae let Cous-Cous up on that couch, he’s moulting.
As soon as she was in the recess, the blue Persian stood up and stretched, arching its body. Then it jumped on to the couch beside Skinner. It walked over his legs then turned and repeated this act. He picked the lighter out of his pocket and singed the fur on the beast’s belly. It crackled and gave off a smell, and the cat sprang away into a corner of the room. Skinner stood up and knocked over a lit candle, which was on the coffee table, spilling the wax.
Beverly stood back out from the kitchen area, a dish full of sprouts in her hands. Her nose wrinkled at the odour of burning fur. — What was that?
— The cat. He pointed at the coffee table. — Daft fucker knocked over the candle.
— Aw, Cous-Cous, ye didnae . . . She scolded the animal as she put the sprouts on the table.
Mother and son went through the twisted rigmarole of pulling a cracker each and sticking paper hats on their heads. The hollow, shabby frivolity of the gesture seemed to mock them both, as the day was already a tense disappointment to each. Skinner munched his way tentatively through the dinner, trying to get into the Bond movie on the telly, yet keeping himself braced for the inevitable verbal assault to come. When it did, it was initially low-key. — Stinking of drink again. Nae wonder that wee lassie bolted, Beverly remarked observationally, arching her eyebrows as she poured herself another glass of Chardonnay.
— She never bolted, Skinner protested, going over his rehearsed lie. — Ah telt ye, her mother’s no well so she went to her family’s to help with the dinner. Besides, she cannae stuff her face over the festive period, she’s got a big audition in the new year. Les Miserables. And the drink you smell was from last night. I had just one pint before I came here, that’s all. It’s Christmas! I’ve been working all year!
But Beverly just glowered at him. — It makes nae difference tae you what time ay the year it is, it’s just another lost weekend, she snapped.
Skinner said nothing but sensed that his mother was in the mood for a row and wouldn’t be satisfied until she had had it.
— You . . . that wee lassie . . . ah cannae blame her, no wantin tae spend Christmas wi a waster!
A kernel of anger blazed in Skinner’s chest. — Must be a family trait, he smiled cruelly.
His mother met his gaze with a combative expression of her own, so cold it made Skinner wish he hadn’t responded in that manner. The hangover, it made you jumpy. He hated coming here when he was hung-over. You just couldn’t deal with people who weren’t hung-over, they were a hostile race; demonic predators who wanted to rip your soul out. They smelt the weakness from you, sensed the dirtiness, the otherness of you. And his mother was formidable at any time. — What’s that meant tae mean? Beverly’s words slowly corkscrewed into Skinner.
Even as he thought that he’d better move on to the back foot, Skinner inexplicably found himself saying, — My dad. He didnae stick aroond long, did he?
Beverly’s seething face reddened, clashing with the green crêpe-paper hat that topped it. It was like she was trying to keep her breathing even but the action seemed to suck all the oxygen out off the small room. — How many fuckin times have I told you never tae mention –
— I’ve got a fuckin right tae know! Skinner snapped. — At least you ken who Kay is!
Beverly looked at her son in an expression that Skinner could only feel to be one of abhorrence. When she spoke, it was in a low hiss. — Ye want tae know whae yir father wis? Aye?
Danny Skinner looked at his mother. Her head was cocked to the side. He realised that after all those years, whoever his father was, her sheer hatred of him – complete, abject – it had never waned for a second. Worse, the look told him that he too could come to be as detested by her if he pushed it. He wanted to say it’s okay, forget it, let’s have our dinner, but no words would come from his lips.
— Me, Beverly pointed vigorously at herself. — Ah’m yir faither, and yir mother. Ah put the food on yir plate and ah cooked it. Ah took ye tae the fitba at the school and kicked a baw wi ye in the gairden. Ah knitted your skerf and ah took ye tae the fitba matches. Ah went doon tae the school when they were on your case. Ah built up a business soas ah could pit clathes oan yir back n food in yir gut. Ah washed and cut the hair oan every scabby auld heid in Leith soas that you could stey oan at school and git the qualifications ye needed tae git a decent job. Ah took ye oan holiday tae Spain every year. Ah bailed ye oot that bloody nick in the High Street when ye were involved in they stupid cairry-oans and ah peyed yir fines! Me! Ah did that! Naebody else!
Skinner fought to keep his mouth shut. But it was true. And he looked at this tough, bitter, loving and wonderful woman, who had devoted her life to his welfare. Thought about growing up with her and her pals Trina and Val, his surrogate punk aunties. Who looked after him and never talked down to him, valued his opinion and treated him like an adult even when he was just a boy. The only bad thing was when they tried to indoctrinate him into their music. The bands they went on about, the Rezillos, the Skids and the Old Boys. But this was a minor point because the crux of the matter was his mother ensured he got opportunities not only as good as, but better than the two-parent kids around him. He looked down at the food Beverly had made for him and he shut up and he ate.
8
Festivities
DOUGIE WINCHESTER PROFFERED some good advice during my first festive period in council employ. He told me that the worst time for a drinker to go on holiday is between Christmas and New Year. That’s cause it’s just one big piss-up anyway, and nobody sen-sible does a fucking stroke of work. The only ones left are the drinkers; most of the family-orientated people are at home, and they tend to be the bosses or the dinguls who disapprove of a peeve in the workplace, so you have carte blanche approval to get lashed up.
The vibe reminds you of the last day at school: that sense that something amazing is going to happen. Back then, for some reason, we’d all hang around my ma’s shop; me, McKenzie, Kinghorn and Traynor, just waiting. It was seldom that anything of note actually occurred, of course, but the anticipation was delicious.
As I stagger in around ten thirty, fucking stewed after a shite Christmas, I could do with something wonderful happening. I’m snowblind and my mouth is like the bottom of a budgie’s cage. Shannon’s gone to some meeting but is heading for the Housing Department do at lunchtime, but I think I’ll need a couple of pints in me before I check that one out. I’m thinking pish, pish and pish again. I’m wondering if Winchester is around or if Rab McKenzie’s working in the town. The only problem is that that sooky wee bastard Kibby is in, beavering away at his desk. Don’t know what the fuck he’s doing here: probably to grass up every fucker to Cooper or Foy!
The big strip lights, thankfully, haven’t been switched on, and Kibby fair cuts a Dickensian figure, sitting there alone, working in the lamplight. Suddenly inspired, I lift a manila folder off my desk, heading across to him. As I approach, I’m surprised to see that Kibby looks fucked; it’s like he’s about to burst into tears at any second. I slide into the vacant seat opposite his. — Alright, Brian?
— Yeah . . . he says warily, his back stiffening as he pats the sides of his hair.
My eyes squint in the harsh light coming from the lamp on his desk. — No on holiday this week?
— No, my dad’s no well and I need to keep my holiday time back, he says, and his nose wrinkles, probably under the smell of stale pish on my breath.
— No sae good, chief, I mumble, leaning back, thinking that the little bastard is lucky that he’s got a faither, before I go into businesslike mode. — Listen, Bri, I’m off a couple of days next week
and I hear that you’ve got to do some of my follow-ups.
Kibby nods in thoughtful acquiescence, and I push the file in front of him.
— I thought we’d just quickly go through them. My handwritten notes are a Spiderman job. I bend my wrist, shooting an imaginary web to the ceiling. Kibby looks blank, so I elaborate: — Dead ropy.
— Cool, Kibby says in a way that makes me I feel like I’ve just scraped my nails down a blackboard, as he rocks back in his chair. I wish I knew why that fucking wee fandan just bugs the shit out of me.
— It’s all quite straightforward, I explain, as I get my file and stick it down in front of him.
He opens the folder, giving the contents a rodent-like scan. He still has freckles, the fucking little retard. — What about this one? He points at Le Petit Jardin.
— De Fretais. A fucking midden, that kitchen, I explain.
The keen-eyed wee fucker looks carefully at me. If he goes down there that fat poof De Fretais will probably try and ram a load up his skinny white-boy ass. It’ll be him getting inspected: bum inspected. I doubt that wee sooky blouse here would have the baws tae stand up tae De Fretais, although he does seem to be a perversely conscientious little fucker. — But he’s, well . . . famous. Kibby looks painfully at me.
— I know that, Bri, but you just have to call it as you see it. We’re professionals and we’re here to serve the public, not some egotistical cook. Anyway, it still all goes up to Foy and it’s his decision as to how we proceed.
— But if I write anything too critical in the report, it’s down there in black and white . . . Kibby bleats like a spring lamb. Fuck me, De Fretais will probably sauté the little cunt and serve him up with a mint sauce.
— That’s why honesty is the best policy. If some poor fucker gets food poisoning, which is highly probable given the state of that gaff, and sues, and remember we live in a litigation era, I lecture, thinking about the possibilities, — then the powers that be will want to look at the officer’s report. If your report doesnae chime with mine, either one of us is a liar, and mine was countersigned by Aitken, or De Fretais has, in three months, spent a National Lottery jackpot on his kitchen.
You can see Kibby’s wheels turning; painfully slowly, mind you, but turning all the same.
— Telling you, Bri, I almost shat myself when I looked in this big filthy stockpot. I half expected the creature fae the black lagoon tae emerge. Ah pulls up this cook and goes: ‘What’s that then?’ The boy says: ‘Aw, it’s bean soup.’ Ah sais tae him: ‘Ah ken it’s been soup, ya cunt, but what the fuck is it now?’
Kibby stretches a weak smile across his doubt-ridden coupon. Even the most base humour is way above this dingul’s heid. I rise, slapping my arse with the file. — Cover it, Bri, cover it, my son, I say with a pally wink, then throw the file on his desk.
There’s something about him . . . I now find myself feeling sorry for him, as the poor wee fucker looks so lost. I see a copy of Game Informer on his desk. I pick it up and leaf through it. — What do you reckon to Psychonauts? I ask. — Supposed to be quite inventive. You know, not the usual nerd stuff about thwarting terrorist cells and rescuing beautiful princesses.
— Huvnae played it, Kibby says warily, then opens up a little. — My mate Ian, he’s got it but. It gets an 8.75 score in the review, he enthuses.
— Aye . . . right, I reply in unease. — Look . . . I’m going over to the Housing Department for a drink, there’s a wee party on. Shannon and Des Moir are there. You coming?
— No, I’m going to try and get through some of these inspections, he sniffs.
Fucking pompous little cunt. He’ll be welcome round the restaurants at this time of year.
As I head back across to my desk to call McKenzie, he asks, — Do you really think I should . . . with De Fretais . . .?
— Honesty is the best policy, I grin, collapsing into my chair and picking up the phone. — You know what they say, tae thine own self be true.
As he shuffled down the Royal Mile, the murky sky forming a dark canopy on the stone tenements on either side of him, the throwaway words of Danny Skinner resounded in Brian Kibby’s ears, making more of an impression than their perpetrator could ever have envisaged.
Danny’s right . . . it doesnae matter if it’s one of the best restaurants in Britain and one of its most famous chefs, it’s the same rules for everybody!
It was still morning when he got down to Le Petit Jardin, and they were preparing for lunch. A large party of suits had assembled outside, as the dark sky finally started to break up.
Kibby could tell it was an upscale restaurant as it was confident enough to make little concession to the festive season. Only one modest Christmas tree in the corner gave away the time of year. On entering the sedately lit mahogany-and-magnolia-decorated interior, Kibby relaxed somewhat as his feet sank into the lush brown carpet. The dining room was absolutely pristine, therefore he regarded it as completely inconceivable that the kitchen would be as bad as Skinner had contended. His induction period with Foy round some of the city’s varied eateries had confirmed what he had learned as a cub inspector over in Fife: if the dining area is looked after exceptionally well, then the kitchen is usually run to the highest standards of hygiene.
But for every rule there was always an exception.
Kibby showed his inspectorate pass to an unconcerned maître d’, who pouted as he nodded towards the swing doors. His heart sank as he went through them: he had braced himself for the blast of hot air, but still physically wilted under its assault, and the first thing that he could see was De Fretais himself, idly leaning against a worktop. The scents of various foods frying, grilling and baking danced in his nostrils, his brain scrambling with sense data as it tried to identify the myriad aromas. The huge chef was watching an overall-clad girl on her knees, who was unloading stuff from a pile of boxes balanced on a barrow on to a bottom wall shelf.
Kibby heard him shooting the breeze in those booming tones he knew from television, and could see the haughty self-conceit in the dark eyes and tight mouth of the Master Chef. For a brief second there was an unlocatable familiarity in that posture he struck, and the jokes, the foul language . . .
Brian Kibby approached the fat chef with an intense air of trepidation. The kitchen did not look in good shape. De Fretais seemed even less enamoured by the intrusion and gave Kibby a distracted once-over. — Oh, so you’re the new laddie from the council. How’s my old mate Bob Foy doing?
— Fine . . . Kibby squeaked uneasily, thinking again about both Foy’s wrath and Skinner’s words. But the kitchen was dirty and a dirty kitchen was a dangerous kitchen. Rule one. He couldn’t disregard that.
And it was very dirty. Perhaps not as bad as Skinner had made out in his report, but parts of the floor and some surfaces needed not just to be scrubbed but redone. Additionally, boxes and tins of stock were piled up blocking access, fire doors were wedged open and a lot of the staff seemed somewhat cavalier about their appearance. De Fretais himself looked sweaty and unkempt, like he’d just come out of bed or straight from the pub.
I suppose it’s the festive period . . . but it’s still a restaurant!
De Fretais was as huge and gross as Kibby was thin and frail and he moved uncomfortably close to the young man, making his intimidating mass count.— The council, eh? I seem to recall a rather attractive female kitchen inspector . . . or, sorry, environmental health officer, the fat man said, and Kibby could feel his scented breath as he focused on the black hairs growing from the chef’s nostrils. It was so hot and the back of his neck burned like he was on a tropical beach. — What would her name be . . .? De Fretais considered. — Sharon . . . no, Shannon. That’s it, Shannon. Is the lovely Shannon still there?
— Aye . . . Kibby croaked uncomfortably.
— They don’t send her any more . . . pity. A great pity. Is she seeing anyone? I wonder.
— Dunno . . . Kibby lied, sleazed up to the point of disorientation by the very proximity
of this man. To Kibby, the chef had the teardrop-shaped body of a clown, and while attempting to be superficially jocund, only succeeded in portraying a conceited, malevolent bombast. He knew that Shannon had a boyfriend but he was telling nobody her business, least of all De Fretais.
— Anyway, carry on at your convenience, the Master Chef said briskly, — or should I say our convenience, he added, looking over at two kitchen porters who were standing by a trolley, — BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT THIS FUCKING TOILET IS LIKE! GENTLEMEN! PLEASE!
The two men scrambled into action while Kibby, going diligently through his checklist, observed the full bins, the boxes of stock and produce piled up in the gangways. The kitchen was so hot now: a sapping, baking heat, blasting out from the ovens. No matter how often you experienced it, you were always forceably reminded that nothing prepared a visitor for the temperature and bustle of a busy restaurant kitchen. It was that extreme heat that made working in a kitchen one of the hardest jobs around. And the bodies, anonymous in their overalls: moving around like ants, shouting instructions at each other. The first orders were in, the big party outside, from the nearby Scottish Parliament, had taken their places for lunch.
Suddenly Kibby felt strong fingers grappling him in an almost shocking intimacy. De Fretais had his hands around the young officer’s waist. He commenced pulling him into corners and across walkways in a crazed, violent dance, as the cooks brought their stuff together and waiters passed to pick up orders; jostling him with rib-bruising power across the floor in a flimsy guise of benevolence.
And throughout this harassment, Brian Kibby was trying to look out for the signs, attempting to do his job.