by Irvine Welsh
— Aye, Kibby said meekly, fighting hard to stop his jaw going into a spasm.
— So where’s it you’re off tae then? Somewhere exotic?
— No sure yet, Kibby mumbled. In fact, he knew that he was going to another Star Trek convention, this time in Birmingham, but he didn’t want his workmates, especially Skinner, knowing his business. He was enough of a figure of fun, he thought, as his trembling hand grasped the Volvic bottle, raising it to a set of dry, cracked lips. Ian hadn’t called, hadn’t even returned the messages he’d left on his mobile. He’d not seen him in ages, since Newcastle, in fact. He was certain that he’d run into him at the Birmingham Convention, and they could pick up where they left off.
But in the here and now Brian Kibby felt absolutely terrible. That was the worse thing about this disease, the cruelty of the periods of remission, where you grasped at hope, then this . . .
They were running more tests at the hospital. They kept plugging the same lines: various unidentified and known diseases, psychosomatic depressive illness, a mystery virus. The insinuation of denial (he was a closet drunk), however veiled, never quite left the agenda, but to his mind it was all nonsense, because they were still as clueless now as they were when it all started.
He had been researching obsessively on the Internet, checking out everything from alternative medicines and obscure religious cults to alien possession, in an attempt to gain some insight into his condition. As he sat furtively at his desk, a pounding in his ears, his hands shaking, he heard Skinner’s throaty voice bellow across the office in a loud mockney accent: — I’M ORF TO IBEEFA AGAIN THIS SUMMAH EHND OIM AVIN IT LAWWRRGGG!! And as Kibby turned, he saw Skinner was staring right back at him as he spoke, as if in threat. He clicked off the Internet Explorer quickly, and dragged up an inspection file.
That lunchtime, Kibby made one of his customary visits to the National Library on George IV Bridge. In his personal attempt to explain the inexplicable, he continued his researches during his breaks in a compulsive, aberrant paranoia.
Scanning the newspapers on microfiche, something came to his attention. He noticed a feature on a woman named Mary McClintock, who had lived with seventeen cats in a minging caravan outside of Tranent until the authorities had intervened and stuck her in a sheltered housing complex. Mary referred to herself as a ‘white witch’ and was considered by some to be an expert on spells. This was all the encouragement Kibby needed and he was moved to obtain a contact number through a girl Shannon knew who worked for the Scotsman Publications in Holyrood.
After work, he set out to Tranent, catching an Eastern Scottish bus from St Andrew’s Square. He found the sheltered housing complex easy enough. Mary McClintock was grossly overweight but her eyes were sparkling and busy, seeming ill-fitting for her heavy, slothful body and pudding head. She wore what appeared to Kibby to be several layers of clothing and yet still seemed to shiver, although it was so hot in the complex that he’d had to remove his jacket and was still sweating uncomfortably.
Mary sat him down and listened to him explain his condition. — It sounds to me like you’ve been cursed, she said in earnest.
Kibby almost wanted to snort his contempt at her, but he held back. After all, nothing else had come close to explaining it. — But how can I be cursed? he entreated. — How . . . that’s silly . . .
— If it’s that silly then you’ll want tae hear nae mair fae me, she said, her head wavering imperiously.
— I can pay, if that’s what you want, Kibby wailed miserably.
Mary looked at him in some outrage. — Of course you’ll have to pay, and it’s no money I’m wanting either, son, that’s nae guid tae me at ma age, she explained, her mouth taking on a lecherous twist.
Kibby had seemed to suddenly grow very cold indeed. — What . . . eh . . . I . . .
— You say ye were thin before ye got ill . . .
— Aye . . .
— All prick and ribs, I’ll wager. Would I be right in saying that?
— What . . .? Kibby gasped, his hands gripping the armrests of the chair.
— Dae ye have a nice cock, son? A nice thick cock? Cause that’s what I want up me, Mary said, matter-of-factly. — Then I’ll give ye a detailed consultation.
Kibby stood up, made for the door. — I think, eh, I’ve come to the ehm wrong place, obviously. I’m sorry, he said, exiting in panicky haste from the flat.
As he got into the lobby he heard her voice following him, — You’re a dirty one, ah kin tell!
He pushed through the exit door, desperate to leave the rain-soaked streets of Tranent as soon as was humanly possible.
She’s a nutcase! She’s probably senile!
The rain was teeming down outside as he crushed into a busy bus shelter. A bus stopped soon after but he was too wrecked and nerve-shorn to jostle through the packed bodies to get on to it. He dejectedly trudged out into the cascading wet and flagged down a taxi instead, which took a longer time than he thought to pass the bus, enabling him to board it and get back to Edinburgh.
When he got home he had his tea and sat in wretched silence watching television as Joyce told him about her day. It was terrible. He was miserable, jittery, his head pounding in an ache, the source of which seemed to alternate between each temple, and he could hardly breathe. His nerves were like piano wire. Once he felt rested enough he’d go upstairs to Harvest Moon. But it was so dangerous . . .
Muffy . . . I want to fuck her so badly . . . no no no, but at least she’s not real like Lucy and . . . and that horrible old crone today . . . it’s no fair . . . please, no . . .
But a little TV would be nice, a little TV in total silence. But that simple pleasure . . . why can’t she be quiet? Why can’t she ever stop talking?
And Joyce continued, her words drilling through his skull, becoming another source of torment to his weary soul.
— . . . just some record tokens for Caroline’s birthday. I saw a lovely sweater that would have looked great on her, but she likes to buy her own clothes, she can be a proper madam when you try to get her something to wear . . . what do you think, Brian?
— Aye . . .
— . . . or maybe book tokens rather than record tokens. She’s enough CDs anyway and books will be far more useful to her in her studies . . . your father always liked books. What do you think then, Brian, book tokens or record tokens, what do you really think?
— I don’t care! Let me watch the telly in peace! Please! Kibby shouted.
Joyce buckled, looking at him like the last solitary puppy of the litter, left in a pet-store window. Kibby’s heart sank as he saw the distress in his mother’s eyes.
The silent impasse was broken by a shattering buzz, which almost caused Brian Kibby to jump out off his skin. Joyce also reacted with a start. Then, glad of the break, she quickly got to her feet to answer the door. When she came back, she had a sweatshirted, parka-clad figure with her. It was Ian.
He’s here to talk about Birmingham.
— Listen, Joyce said, — I’m just going to pop down the street to see Elspeth and her new baby. I’ll leave you lads to catch up.
— Great, Kibby said, flashing his mother a look of apology at his outburst. — And, Mum, I think the book token is a great idea.
— Right, son, Joyce said, flushed with love. The laddie was ill and she did go on. Never mind, Ian was here and he would cheer the boy up.
Ian and Brian stiffly and tensely looked at each other until they heard the living-room door close followed by the front one slamming shut.
— Ian . . . I . . . Kibby began. Ian waved him down. — Listen to me, Brian, please just listen to what I’ve got to say.
He was so insistent and grave that Brian Kibby could only nod in response.
— Growing up, around here, in a city like this . . . in a place like Scotland . . . it’s not easy for the likes of us.
Kibby thought about his years of lonely isolation at school. Being ignored, shunned or, worse than that, ridiculed and p
icked on. He nodded in slow agreement.
— It makes it hard to admit things about ourselves. When I saw you down in Newcastle, leaving with that sleazy guy . . . then when I got to the hotel, you were all beat up the next morning . . .
Kibby tried to speak but no words would come from his dry throat.
— . . . I thought, why does Brian have to go with somebody like that? Some dirty animal who doesn’t respect him and slaps him around?
Kibby felt an arresting shiver. His teeth began to chatter. — But . . . I . . .
— . . . when there’s somebody close to him who loves him, who always has . . . Ian moved forward in his seat and Kibby felt the blood drain from his face. — . . . that’s right, Brian, I’ve been doing so much thinking, so much agonising . . . I love you, Brian . . . there, I’ve said it, Ian spat, and looked up at the ceiling. — The heavens haven’t opened, I’ve not been struck by a bolt of lightning. I’ve always loved you. I never knew that you were like me . . . you always went on about girls like Lucy . . . God, every time you mentioned that bitch’s name was a nail in my heart . . . if only you could have told me! There was no need for this elaborate smokescreen, this living a lie!
— No! You’re wrong! Kibby squawked. — There was –
— No, Brian, no more deceit. Can’t you see? For years we were called ‘poofs’or ‘queers’at school by the likes of McGrillen and we’d done nothing! What can they do to us now? What can they do or say that they haven’t already? We can get a flat together –
— No! Kibby screamed.
— You think I worry about your disease? We’ll find a way. I’ll look after you! Ian implored.
— You’re mad! I’m not gay! I’m not!
— This is classic denial! Ian upturned his palms and shook his head. From Kibby’s point of view, his Adam’s apple bobbled monstrously like an alien was about to burst out of his throat. — I know that your mum’s into all that Church stuff and that some elements of Christianity are anti-gay but the Bible provides a lot of contradictory evidence . . .
All Kibby could do was to look his excited friend in the eye and say evenly, — Look, I don’t want to be with you . . . in that way . . .
Ian felt the wind being punched out of his sails. He sat for a second, feeling utterly dejected. Then he looked Kibby up and down witheringly as the bitterness of rejection flooded through him. — So you don’t fancy me, eh? Who the fucking hell do you think you are? You don’t fancy me? He sprung angrily to his feet and pointed at the mirror above the mantelpiece. — Take a look in that sometime, lardarse. Look in that and see what you are! I was doing you a favour! I’ll see myself out, he pouted in acrimony, then turned on his heels as a shocked and shattered Kibby heard first one, then a second door slam shut.
Shannon’s tied back her hair. It makes her look severe, but not unattractive. I ask her if she fancies a drink after work. She tells me that she’s got an inspection report but that she’ll meet me in the Café Royal about five thirty. I’ve decided that I’m going to tell her that I think my old man might be an American chef, living in California.
It’s almost six by the time she gets in, and instead of sliding into the booth beside me, she positions herself in a chair opposite. She’s making no effort to remove her jacket. — What are you drinking? I nervously offer.
— Nothing. I’m off home. Alone. It’s over between us, Danny, she says, with that detached but intense, stoical look dumpers always put on. I’m getting used to it.
While I nod in understanding, I can still feel the rancorous bile of rejection burning up my chest and guts, like a cheap, harsh spirit.
— It’s served its purpose, certainly for me, and I suspect for you as well, she says. — It’s time to move on.
A flood of emotion almost overwhelms me. She’s right, but I just need . . . somebody. Why is it girls always look at their most beautiful, most desirable, just as they’re telling you to fuck off? I feel my eyes moisten. — You’re right, I say, sliding my hand on top of hers and gripping it lightly. — You’re a brilliant lassie, one of the best people I’ve ever met, I tell her in utter sincerity, — it just came at the wrong time for both of us, I concede. — I know it’s the fashionable kind of thing people say in these circumstances without really meaning, but I really would like it if we could stay friends, and by that I mean proper friends.
— Goes without saying, she says, now a wee bit teary herself through a look of mild disappointment. You can see why; the chucker psyche is that they build themselves up to give you the elbow, going through all the lines in their head. So the very presence of the other party is by its nature disappointing, even before the other person speaks. She brushes her eyes and rises, kissing me on the cheek.
— Not staying for a drink? I ask, it coming out a bit desperate, but I need to talk to someone about this Yank chef.
— I can’t, Danny, she says sadly, but with an emphatic shake of the head. — I’ll see you at work tomorrow. Goodbye.
She heads across the bar, her shoes clicking on the marble-tiled floor.
Before I have another drink I’m going to go and see my mother. I’m going to ask her about chefs she worked with, mention some names, see how she responds. I doss back my pint and head down the Walk, catching a 16 bus when I get to the point that I don’t trust myself to pass another boozer.
I stop off at my place and look again at De Fretais’s book.
Compiling this book proved less straightforward than one might have supposed. When I approached my fellow Master Chefs to share with me their gourmet techniques, not merely of cookery, but of seduction, sex and love, there was understandably some disquiet in the ranks. Many thought that this was simply a joke: De Fretais again with his wacky, offbeat sense of humour. Staider spirits were actually affronted, dismissing me as a crank, or a publicity merchant interested only in smut-driven sales.
Yet there are a few bold libertines in my trade, and they were more than happy to share their secrets with us. And for that, I thank them all from the bottom of my heart. The bedroom of the Master Chef must be like his kitchen: an arena where dreams are manufactured and where exquisite art and sensual enlightenment pours forth out of the order, movement and inspiration we employ.
Fuck me, that cunt is so up himself. No self-obsessed, he says!
When I get round to my mother’s the front door’s open. I walk inside, down the narrow hall, over the Indian rug I’ve always admired. She’s in the front room at the kitchen area and Busby’s here. He’s sitting at the breakfast bar, his bulbous nose and cheeks glowing with a whisky hue. The cat glares at me from his lap. His at-home arrogance crumbles with my appearance and he folds up some documents and sticks them into a battered suitcase. — Hello, son, he says anxiously, obsequiously.
I stare at my Old Girl in accusation and she leans back against the kitchen worktops and stares back at me: mocking and sluttish as she blows some smoke from a cigarette. There’s a glass of whisky by her side. The song ‘Rag Doll’ plays on the radio.
What the fuck is going on here? When was the last time that old cunt ever sold insurance?
— Why, hu-low, stranger, my mother says to me, in a totally snidey way. It’s like she knows that she’s won cause I’ve come down here to see her, and she’s delighting in it.
Something in her behaviour gives the old insurance man confidence. A gleam comes into his eye and his lips twist wickedly as his cigarette rises to meet them. The cat continues to stare at me in solemn, unwavering judgement. The three of them seem like conspirators.
— I can see that you’re busy. I’ll see ye when yir better dressed, I say, and I can’t stop it coming out scornfully.
As I depart I hear my mother say, — Well, goodbye, stranger . . . and their laughter; hers raucous and his wheezily melodious, like an old accordion; it follows me out the house and down the stairs.
I emerge into the street and head across the cobblestones, cutting down to the Water of Leith. I seem to walk for a while withou
t knowing where I’m going till I’m consciously aware that I’m heading down the brae of Restalrig Road towards Canton’s Bar in Duke Street. Darkness is beginning to fall and the cold air scours my face.
That fucking cow, that great big fucking horrible sow, I only went round tae talk wi her and she’s got that little sleaze-bucket there . . .
Hello, son.
But everybody said that. Busby’s always said that to me.
In the pub I order a pint before I realise that for some reason the bar hasnae been fuckin well cleaned since yesterday. The barman tells me that somebody was stabbed in here last night, with the polis treating it as attempted murder. — We just got the all-clear tae open, he says. — Didnae huv time tae clean things up. Forensics n that.
I’m oppressed by the rancid residue of the alehouse’s recent drunken, violent past. The nauseous odour of vomit sticks in my nose, along with that stench of stale cigarette smoke and the alcohol, how it permeates into everything. It was obviously shut earlier today: ashtrays remain full and last night’s glasses still pile up on the tables. An old girl takes a mop and some Shake n’ Vac to the tartan carpet, which is black with blood underneath the jukebox. I think I should go but the barman is serving me drink, so I find a corner and sit, cursing my lot.
Rejection.
Kay, Shannon, my Old Girl, Kinghorn, McKenzie even. Looks like the absentee father set the fucking trend. And wouldn’t that be the ultimate fucking slap in the chops, if he wasn’t the athletic Californian, but nasty wee Busby.
Hello, son.
If I can do it to Kibby, I can do it to that wee slimeball. I’ve always hated him. Now I’m focusing my hate on Busby.
BUSBY.
I HATE THAT SNIVELLING, MANIPULATIVE LITTLE CUNT.
I HAVE THE POWER TO DESTROY THAT WEE FUCKER.
HATE BUSBY
HATE BUSBY
HATE HATE HATE . . .
HATE BUSBY
HATE BUSBY
HATE HATE HATE . . .
This spiteful mantra continues until I become drained, and my head throbs. A couple of old boys come into the bar, register my intense stare into space and nod at each other, tossing me an over-the-shoulder glance. — Spot the loony, one laughs.