by Irvine Welsh
— Goodbye . . .
Skinner stuck the receiver on the cradle. He didn’t even realise that he was vigorously rubbing his hands together until Bob Foy came into his office and remarked, — Somebody’s had some good news!
— Met a very sexy lady last night, Skinner said, — and she’s just got back to me.
Foy’s resultant gaze managed to encompass envy, contempt and admiration.
That Mr Skinner is a saint, Joyce reflected, as she put the phone down.
It’s so uplifting, in these selfish, amoral times that there are still some good people left in this world.
Joyce Kibby took Danny Skinner’s advice and headed for her kitchen, filling up the kettle.
What a genuinely nice, considerate young man. But why is Brian so hostile to him, recoiling every time his name’s mentioned? I can’t understand it. Yes, Brian was very put out when Mr Skinner was promoted instead of him, but why bear such a silly grudge when the man’s been so good to him?
I’m going to visit my old buddy Brian Kibby! It’s been over two weeks. The Balearic holiday was excellent, aye, but the consequences of it on Kibby’s health have eluded me. Knowing what you gained was delicious, but seeing what you escaped was utterly delectable.
I’ve got two site visits to undertake but these will now require some delegation. The personnel business to attend to at the Kibbys’ is far more pressing. It’s going to be strange seeing a stricken and vulnerable Kibby in his home environment. And stricken and vulnerable he surely will be, as I put a good few away last night, with Gary Traynor and Alex Shevlane. There was a fair bit of charlie flying around as well: Kibby’s sinuses would have taken one hell of a beating.
As it happens, Shannon’s happy to get out of the office and take on the visits. She’s cut her hair shorter, exposing her slender neck at the back. Normally I don’t like women with short hair but it sort of suits her. — New haircut. Does that mean new felly?
She gives me that I’m-getting-shagged grin as she picks up the folder. Then she puts her finger to her lips. — Shhhh, she says.
More bedroom secrets.
As well one of us is doing okay: I need cheering up somewhat. I’m still reeling from the shock of seeing Kay, those disclosures of hers about new boyfriends and miscarriages that I tried not to hear, but also feeling well disconcerted about the lot of Rab McKenzie, who’s simply fucking vanished of the face of the earth. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of the fat bastard in the chicken run of the trashy clubs and grotty pubs that are our stomping ground.
Poor Big Rab, suffering from cirrhosis of the liver, now never able to drink again. What a nightmare. That’s the problem with intoxication, it’s an immediate state, belonging in the present. You can’t live your life on the memory of previous consumption.
The idea of Rab being finished is too fuckin weird. It gets me thinking that we are roughly the same age and height, though not weight. Kibby’s an inch or two shorter than me and eighteen months or so our junior. Therefore he must be in, or rapidly approaching, the same state of health. That finite resource that was Kibby’s body – his nervous system, liver, kidneys, pancreas, heart – it must be well depreciated by now. At first my big consideration had been: what if Kibby died? Now this is becoming: surely Kibby will die. It’s inevitable. Everybody does, but thanks to my antics, his time is almost certainly running short. And I can’t – won’t – stop living my life this way. There’s no need, as Kibby is picking up the health tab. I’d be stopping simply to keep Kibby alive, which is a truly perverse notion.
But . . .
But it’s murder. Aye, murder of a bizarre, other-worldly and thankfully unprovable nature, but murder nonetheless. And, speculating further: what happens, if, or when, Kibby does pass away? What becomes of this marvellous arrangement I’ve been blessed with? Will I be able to transfer the burden of pain on to somebody else?
Maybe once Kibby pegs it the spell might work on that little fucker Busby!
Or will I bloat out instantly into a monstrous, sick, wheezing wreck, dying in the street while a pristine Kibby, like Superman, thrashes his way out of a coffin? That, of course, would be the just scenario, but this shit’s shown me far too much darkness, too much morbid fascination, to convince me of the possibility of any form of karma.
No.
The mundane and likely scenario is that I’ll just have to bear my own burdens. Face up to my mortality. So be it, I can’t complain, I’ve had enough of a head start.
But he can’t die, surely not. I can’t let him; it was never meant to be that way.
So I take a council van from the car pool and belt along the main Glasgow Road. I’ve never trusted myself with a motor, even though I passed my test years ago. Now, it’s a piece of cake. I turn into the small housing scheme where the Kibbys reside. It’s composed of old high-amenity council stock, in a good part of town. There are plenty of bungalows and the tenements are two or occasionally three storeys at the most. I soon locate their home; it has a new door with the number and a very strange wooden, almost gothic-style nameplate with the spindly branch-like letters somewhat hopefully spelling out kibby. I look at it for a second and feel my shoulders shake in nervous mirth.
I compose myself and ring the bell.
Mrs Kibby, or Joyce she said her name was, opens up. She’s a thin and spindly woman, her face all sharp angles. Her eyes are like his, big and haunted. I scarcely have time to take in the sights, smells and noises of the Kibby household, but my first impression is that I’m in some old public building, like a specialist library reading room, or a dentist’s waiting area. It’s your standard low-ceilinged inter-war council dwelling with lots of wood-panelled doors, the type where the white paint always seems to be slightly yellowing as if it’s magnolia but you know that it’s not. The wallpaper is a pastel blue with a yellow floral design, the sort some cunts call ‘rustic’. There’s a particularly tasteless blue-and-green patterned carpet on the floor, but it feels like reasonable quality under the feet.
Mrs Kibby ushers me through to the kitchen, and puts on the kettle, bidding me to sit down.
— How is he? I whisper in hushed tones.
— Of course . . . Mrs Kibby says. — Let’s pop upstairs for a minute. He might be a bit strange, you understand, he doesn’t like people seeing him in bed . . .
— No worries, I nod serenely, belying a heartbeat which is kicking up in anticipation. — I’m loath to embarrass him, so I’ll just briefly pop my head round the door.
Upstairs, Kibby’s room stinks of a rank decay the like of which I have never encountered before. It’s both manufactured and animal: a mixed aroma of stale chemicals and rotting flesh. I hear Kibby groan in the semi-darkness as his mother coos, — Mr Skinner’s here . . .
I feel so nauseous with discomfort and excitement, I’m compelled to marshal myself with aggressive thoughts, thinking how that lazy fat poof can just lie there in his scratcher while the real men get on with the fucking job at hand.
— Ah cannae talk . . . go away, please, Kibby half growls, half groans in the small, darkened bedroom as I gleefully scan the Star Trek posters and lampshade. A laptop computer is on the bed next to him. The dirty cunt was probably online looking at porn sites!
— Please don’t speak to Mr Skinner like that, son, he’s come to see you! his mother splutters, looking apologetically at me. If he was a dug we’d fuckin well shoot the cunt.
— Go away . . . Kibby pants.
Joyce Kibby starts to bubble and shake and I’m forced to grab both her trembling hands in mine and lead the poor woman out of the bedroom. But as we go through the door I turn back and whisper in breathless urgency, — I understand, Bri, buddy. But if there’s anything I can do, anything at all . . .
A low growl comes from the bed again. I remember now where I’d heard such a sound before. As a child I had a cat called Maxy. Maxy got hit by a car and had crawled, both back legs smashed, under a bush of shrubbery in the garden across the street. When I’d t
ried to retrieve the poor wee fucker it really let loose; not a cat’s hiss or spit, but a low, dog-like growl that shat me right up.
I guide the shaken Joyce Kibby back downstairs into the kitchen and sit her down, though she instantly springs back up and insists on making more tea. — I can’t understand it, Mr Skinner. He was such a nice boy as well. It’s really changed him, he even snapped at me the other night. And young Ian, who was his best friend, he fair sent him away with a flea in his ear. I was at the shops the other day when I saw the laddie and he wouldnae even stop and say hello!
— Maybe it’s the nature of the illness, I venture sympathetically, — a sort of behavioural change, a psychological degeneration to match the physical decline. People at work have noticed that he’s much touchier than he used to be.
— Behavioural change, Joyce Kibby considers, putting a cup of tea in front of me. — That’s a good way of describing it, Mr Skinner.
— Still nothing from the doctors?
— That Dr Craigmyre knows nothing, Joyce Kibby spits in bitterness. — I mean, he’s just a GP but we’ve tried every specialist known to man . . . she explains, but my attention is drifting in this warm kitchen until she gets it right back by dropping the bombshell, — You’ve all been so good, but it’s over now. He can’t carry on. We’re going to see the personnel people and take medical retirement on health grounds.
I instantly feel feeble and nauseous. There’s way too much milk in this tea. — But . . . he’s a young man . . . he can’t retire . . . he just can’t . . .
Joyce Kibby smiles and shakes her head sadly. She is looking right at me now and I can see that she believes I really care. Like I’m as upset as they all are . . . and the thing is . . . I fucking well am. — It’s the only way, I’m afraid, she sombrely replies.
— But how will you manage? I ask, and can hear my voice going high and fey in anticipation. I try to force some coolness into my demeanour. — I mean, you mentioned earlier that your daughter’s at the university . . . you were so worried over the phone.
— I’m sorry, I did panic a bit, didn’t I? Joyce Kibby concedes, smiling tentatively.
— No! I reply, loudly and abjectly.
But this woman carries on, oblivious to my pain, feeling the gloomily exhilarated liberation of somebody who’s just made a ter-rible decision that had to be taken. — The other night, we all sat down and discussed it rationally. I know Caroline’s at uni but she’s got herself a job waitressing at nights so she can move into a new flat with some other students next week. We’ve got a wee bit put by to cover her fees. I’ll be looking after Brian. I’m going up to social services this week to get leaflets to check out carers’ allowances and benefits.
I open my mouth and almost start to speak, but no words come: I just can’t think of anything to say.
— To be honest, I’m glad she’s moving out. This is no place for a young woman. Joyce Kibby shakes her head sadly. — It used to be such a happy house as well. When my Keith . . . She chokes and dabs a hanky at her eyes.
I feel a terrible urge, an ache, to help . . . or is it that I just want to make myself indispensable to her so I can gloat at Kibby’s demise? But I’m over at his mother’s side, perched on the arm of her chair, my arm round her thin, buckled shoulders. — There, there, it’s okay . . . I’m murmuring, although her posture irritates me, the way she’s all sort of bent in. I want to put my knee into her back and pull her shoulders towards me. There’s a strange scent from her and I wonder about her personal hygiene and I’m rising and breaking away.
— You’re so kind, Mr Skinner, she sobs with real belief.
Now I’m thinking about my own mum, how distant we’ve grown, how this need I have to know about my father is tearing us apart. And I won’t go and see her again, not until I’ve seen my dad first.
— I’m sorry, but I really should be making my way back to the office.
— Of course . . . Joyce Kibby finally lets my hand go. — I really appreciate you coming. Thank you so much, Mr Skinner.
— Danny, please, I say with a conviction so sincere and massive that it spooks me out.
So I leave the Kibbys’ small council house in the Featherhall district of Corstorphine feeling soured and uneasy in what should have been the hour of my victory. After all, Kibby is history; nobody will look at him, the fat diseased cunt, living at home alone with his mother. Never had a ride in his life, and now completely unemployable. All thanks to me! Result!
Yet I feel uneasy and despondent. Everything is changing. Kibby can’t do this to me! How will I be able to keep in touch, to see the effect of my powers on him? I . . . can’t lose him. I’ve lost everybody else, never even had my dad. For some reason I can’t lose Brian Kibby! But he surely won’t really go through with it and jack in the job! It’s all he’s got! He’s all I’ve got . . .
No, hopefully he’ll think again, and maybe I’ll help him by having some quiet evenings. The Filmhouse has a Fellini season coming up and I need to try and crack this MacDiarmid collection of verse I picked up last year; how shameful for a Scotsman not to have at least a working knowledge of that shit. I put it off when I found out the boy’s real name was different, there’s always something dodgy about cunts that change their name. Aye, maybe get some new DVDs, give poor Brian Kibby some respite.
24
Private Festivities
SUMMER ROLLED ALONG, the festival coming and going. Like many locals Skinner always hated the start of it. Enthusiastic amateurs irritated him; they got in the serious drinker’s way, taking up seats in pubs and blocking access to bars. Taxis one could normally flag down to take one speedily to the next drinking den hurtled by, full of incomers heading for a show. Yet he was always inclined to lament its passing, as the crowds meant plenty of late-night drinking and shagging opportunities.
But he’d missed all this, sitting alone, with his DVDs, the new Planet of the Apes making him buy and watch the originals in triple-boxed set. He went through the first three series of The Sopranos, almost tripping with sleep deprivation after one weekend marathon, and another Saturday he tried to watch the first complete series of 24 in normal time, passing out in the sixteenth hour. Aside from this, he had his poetry, finding himself particularly moved by the epic romantic verses of Byron and Shelley. Post-festival, he reasoned that if he ventured outside, he would be pushed back to the old bastions, the hardened bevvier’s enclaves, with all the petty feuding and squabbles that would entail.
Too many potential scars for Brian Kibby to bear.
The worst thing was that winter would inevitably spin in quickly. But Danny Skinner had resolved that he was staying indoors. He was eating more healthily, and having read that the liver was one organ that could repair itself, was taking regular doses of milk thistle, to assist in this process.
His discipline had been good; he’d even managed to assemble and fit new wardrobes with sliding doors in his bedroom. But as the days following Brian Kibby’s absence from work rolled on, Skinner was disconcerted that he heard nothing of his strange nemesis.
What was happening to that wee bastard? He should be fighting fit by now.
There was still no Kibby, although Skinner had abstained, stayed out of the pub and off the drink and drugs save for a few pathetic cans of beer one Sunday, when the Edinburgh football derby had been on Setanta.
Surely Kibby will be back soon!
Then, one terrible late afternoon, Bob Foy beckoned Skinner into his office and told him that it was official. Personnel had worked out a medical retirement package. Brian Kibby was leaving!
No!
This cannae fuckin well happen!
How could Kibby fucking well dae this tae me?
He had come to regard Kibby as his mirror, a road map of his own mortality. No, this surely couldn’t happen. But the glee on Foy’s face was telling its own story. Skinner could say nothing; he just nodded and went back to his office where he made a desperate call to Joyce, pleading for Brian to thin
k again.
— Oh . . . thanks so much for you support, Mr Skinner . . . Danny . . . but our minds are made up. Just making the decision’s taken a lot of the strain away. He’s been so much better over the last couple of weeks or so since he’s not been thinking about work.
No.
NO.
Everyone in the department was at a loss to understand why Danny Skinner, who constantly teased and harangued him, was so cut up about Brian Kibby’s early retirement. — Danny’s got a lot of hidden depth, Shannon McDowall explained to another new inspector, Liz Franklin. — He seems a joker, but underneath it all, he really does care.
And in his strange way he undoubtedly did, as Danny Skinner was plunged into a dark and grim despondency. His world was falling apart. It now seemed that there was no way that he could keep seeing Brian Kibby.
I need to see Kibby.
In the meantime, I’ll teach him tae fuck aboot with me. I’ll give that little shirker something to bleat about!
Thus Skinner headed round to a dealer called Davie Creed’s flat and bought two grams of cocaine. Creedo had also washed up a couple of g’s and they’d hit the pipe for a bit, Skinner capaciously icing out. As Skinner was an excellent customer, Creedo had flung in a few sweeties buckshee. Danny Skinner was soon rocking and ranting around town, and trawled several pubs before meeting some acquaintances and hitting a nightclub. Afterwards there was a private party up in Bruntsfield, where Skinner had never seen so much booze.
It’s probably all been coincidence; I’ve been gieing ma mind a treat . . .
He picked up a bottle of absinthe and slugged from it like it was water, to the incredulous stares and gasps from those around him.
Ann. The very name seemed to say dependability. Loyalty. Somebody you could rely on who would never, ever let you down. Yes, she was still the front runner. Muffy was dangerous.
Brian Kibby stayed in his room, almost constantly on his laptop; either at his games or online. The attacks had stopped, but they’d left him ill, depleted and depressed. He lay on his bed, propped up on a bank of pillows, his iBook by his side. He was in no shape to go out or to see anyone, and had banned all visits. Fat Gerald was undeterred by this and constantly called him on his mobile phone, gleefully disclosing Lucy’s supposed romantic adventures. These got so disturbing that Kibby stopped taking the calls, but then the texts started, and he couldn’t resist reading them. Through red eyes, which burned like hot coals in his skull, he read the latest gloating note: