Reheated Cabbage (11 page)

Tazak was still recovering from the gig when Ally, Denny and Bri came through a door into the craft's central Will propulsion temple. There was another human with the casual mob. Tazak, who had grown used to differentiating members of the species, thought he looked like Mikey. The Cyrastorian glanced over at his colleague. — What the fuck are these cunts daein here? They've no goat authorisation.

Mikey smiled. — Ah gied thum authorisation but, eh. That's ma brar. He nodded at Alan, who smiled at Tazak, showing a full set of Earth teeth like Mikey's.

— You dinnae fuckin gie nae cunt authorisation oan this fuckin ship, Mikey! Tazak pointed at himself.— Ah'm the only cunt that gies any cunt authorisation! Right?!

Mikey stood up. — Naw, it's no right, mate. Ye see, thaire's gaunny be some fuckin changes roond here. This is ma fuckin ship now.

— Fuck off, Piltonian, dinnae you start gittin wide oan ays, Tazak scoffed, as Mikey squared up to him.

— You're no the only cunt wi psychic powers, Tazak. Mind that, Mikey warned.

Tazak laughed like a drain. This would be fuckin sad if it wasn't so funny. It was time this so-called top boy was put in his place. — Huh, huh, huh! Ye saw what happened tae your psychic powers oot thaire! Tazak turned to the Hibs crew and pointed to the hull of the craft. — Eh loast the fuckin flair! He shook his head forlornly at Mikey. — Listen, Earth cunt, ah might have taught ye aw that you ken, bit ah nivir taught ye aw thit
ah
ken!

This was true. Despite his immersion into Cyrastorian culture, Tazak, with that show outside, had painfully demonstrated to Mikey that he had a repertoire and volume of psychic skills which the Hibs boy could never hope to emulate.

However, the ex-CCS man had one trick up his sleeve. — See that fuckin pill ah gied ye the now? Fir the snout cravin?

Tazak looked hestitant. Mikey flashed his teeth. Ally and the other boys looked lairy.

— Well, it wis nowt tae dae wi fags. It wis a jelly. Any minute now, aw your psychic powers'll be fuckin useless, eh. The only Will you'll be able tae access'll be the one ah hope yuv made oot fir yir next ay kin, ya cunt!

At these words Tazak felt his senses spinning out of control. He tried to orientate himself through the exercise of the Will, but he was unsteady on his long legs.—. . . Ughn . . . feel . . . suddenly . . . cunted . . . he gasped, staggering backwards against the glistening, encrusted hull of the ship.

The Hibs boy seized his chance and decked the gangling, foal-like alien with a chunky fist to the side of the creature's face, toppling the frail Cyrastorian like a stacked tower of playing cards. — No sae fuckin wide now, ya fuckin streak ay alien pish! Lesson in life: nae cunt fucks wi the Hibees boys! The cosmic thug grinned arrogantly as he sank the boot into his old intergalactic comrade's skinny ribcage.

Ally Masters and the boys moved in for the kill. — Nice one, Mikey! Lit's fuckin well stomp this cunt!

Mikey, though, halted the advancing Hibs boys. He looked down at his friend, who was shaking, making a high, agonised noise that he had never heard before, and his skin was losing its indigo-blue hue, becoming a sickly pink. — Leave um! The cunt's fucked!

Mikey backed away in horror from Tazak's high-pitched, resonant squeals which produced no intelligent words, although it was obvious the Cyrastorian was trying to speak them.

— What is it? Ally said.

— These cunts arenae used tae bein touched physically. That's how thir that weak-lookin. They cannae survive withoot their psychic shields! Ah've probably fuckin killed um! Mikey fell to his knees.— Tazak mate . . . ah'm fuckin sorry . . . ah didnae mean tae –

— Keep away from him!

Mikey turned to see an advancing Elder. He wore the white robes of the Appropriate Behaviour Compliance. Although this Cyrastorian looked the same as the rest of the race to the other top boys, Mikey had learned to distinguish them and he knew this one. — Gezra . . . he whispered.

— You've caused a fair bit ay bother, eh, Earth cunt . . .

— Ah didnae mean tae . . . Mikey stuttered.

The Appropriate Behaviour Compliance Elder had heard it all before. — Now it's time fir ye tae pey bit, eh.

The other Hibs boys tried to run the Cyrastorian Elder, but there was nothing the football thugs could do as light and sound burst and ripped all around them. They shut their eyes and held their ears to try to block out the shattering pain, but it seemed to be inside of them; twisting, ripping and splintering their bones. Unconsciousness mercifully took them, one by one, Ally Masters defiantly the last man to pass out.

Gezra had a lot of work to do. Firstly, Tazak had to be repaired, otherwise the youth would be reduced to the carrion phase, which was unacceptable. It had been centuries since any Cyrastorian had expired before their allocated time span. Death was not appropriate behaviour for one so young. Fortunately, the reparations proved non-problematic for such an experienced master of the Will.

The next phase he needed help with. He had to send for a Cyrastorian task force. This was unprecedented, but the behaviour of Mikey and Tazak meant that the entire inhabitants of Planet Earth needed memory-wiping. It was a big job, and the Principal Elders at the Foundation would not be amused at this state of affairs.

Shelley woke up feeling as if her head was going to explode. Her guts were in a turmoil, and she had shooting, stabbing pains in her abdomen. She made her way unsteadily to the toilet, unsure of which orifice to put towards the bowl. In the end she sat on it and felt a sickening shudder followed by a violent excretion of the life she had within her. She fell to the floor, her blood trailing across the bathroom lino. Before she slid into unconsciousness, the young woman had the strength to pull the flush, so that she would never have to look at the matter she had miscarried.

Lillian heard the screams and was quickly at her daughter's side. Ascertaining that Shelley was still breathing, she ran downstairs and called an ambulance. When she got back to the bathroom, the young girl was semi-conscious. She looked at her mother and said, — Sorry, Mum . . . I didnae even like the boy . . .

— It's okay, darlin, it's okay . . . Lillian wheezed in a soft mantra, mopping her sick child's brow, awaiting the ambulance's arrival.

They took Shelley into the hospital, where they kept her for a few days. The doctors told Lillian that she had had a miscarriage with some bad internal bleeding, but there would be no lasting damage. They advised her to put the girl on the pill. Lillian was too relieved to have strong words with her daughter; they would come later.

Sarah visited Shelley and told her that Jimmy was asking after her. Shelley was pleased to hear this. Jimmy was okay. Not as cool as Liam, but better than that Alan Devlin, who had just used her, getting her pregnant like that. She felt relieved. Whatever she told herself, she hadn't really wanted a baby.

Alan Devlin was upset. He had rediscovered his long-lost brother, only to find that Mikey had been sent to jail. The polis had finally caught up with him for that wounding offence at Waverley Station, all those years ago. Alan jacked in the garage job – there seemed little point in hanging around such a dump as Rosewell. These wee lassies from the school were fuckin jailbait and he wanted none of that; he saw what prison was doing to his brother.

Alan went back into the city. Working as a barman in a Rose Street hostelry, he met a trendy woman from London who was up for the Edinburgh Festival. Romance blossomed and he moved down to her place in Camden Town, and currently works behind a bar in Tufnell Park. He regularly returns to Edinburgh, to visit his brother Mikey in Saughton Prison, but he finds the visits very distressing. Mikey has lost his marbles a little, going on about aliens who come to his cell in the night and insert all sorts of probes into his orifices.

It hurts Alan to admit it, but he reckons that his brother has become a bit of a shirtlifter on the inside, and all this aliens stuff is just a form of denial.

But in the chilling silence of frozen Earth time, Mikey's anguished soul screams its mute pleas for assistance and clemency as Tazak's crew remove his immobilised body from his cell, and take it to their craft for further investigation.

Crooky and Calum sat in a spartan but popular pub on Leith Walk arguing about whether or not it was a good idea to put something on the jukebox.

— Pump up the jukey, Cal, your turn tae feed the beast, Crooky ventured. He'd just bunged in a quid and he knew that Calum had money.

— Waste ay fuckin dosh, Calum said.

Crooky grimaced. He hoped that this cunt wasn't going to be in one of his tight-arsed moods. — Ah bit c'moan, ya cunt, pump up the fuckin jukey! he implored. — Ah cannae handle this nae-sounds-in-a-pub shite, man.

— Hud yir hoarses. Some daft cunt'll pit something oan in a minute. Ah'm no wastin fuckin poppy oan a jukey.

— You're fuckin flush, ya cunt.

Calum was about to continue the argument but his attention was arrested by the presence of a figure who shambled over from the bar to the corner of the pub, tentatively clutching a soda water and lime. Reaching his destination, this apparition just let his legs collapse, slumping down onto the padded seat. He sat in a still trance, broken only by an intermittent twitch.

— Deek the cunt thaire, man. That's wee Boaby Preston. Boaby! Calum shouted over, but the small, grey-fleshed figure in the old leather jacket ignored him.

— Shut up, fir fuck sakes. That cunt's a fuckin junkie. Dinnae want somebody like that in tow. Paupin cunt, Crooky said. — Nae fuckin passengers the night, Cally, eh?

Calum scrutinised Boaby Preston. In the dirty, diminished figure staring at the glass, he caught sight of someone else, someone Boaby Preston had once been. Childhood and adolescent memories bounced around in his head. — Naw, man, you dinnae really ken the cunt. Sound fuckin guy. Boaby, Boaby Preston, he repeated. It was as if by saying his name often enough, Calum felt that he could somehow summon back the old incarnation. — The stories ah could tell ye aboot that cunt . . . BOABY!

Boaby Preston stared over at them. After straining for recall for a moment or two, he nodded a bemused half-acknowledgement. Calum experienced a depressing sadness at this lack of recognition and an embarrassment that, in front of Crooky, his familiarity had not been reciprocated by his old friend. Recovering from this setback, he rose and went over to Boaby. Crooky reluctantly joined them.

— Boaby . . . ya daft cunt . . . yir still no banging up, ur ye? Calum asked in weary compassion.

Boaby smiled slowly and made a non-committal gesture with one hand.

Uneasy at this reaction, Calum stormed into an anecdote. Surely, he thought, if he could whip up enough gusto, enough enthusiasm for bygone days, he might entice the old Boaby Preston to come out from his lair deep within the recesses of this parcel of jagged bone and gaunt, grey flesh which approximated him. — Ken whae ah saw the other day thaire, Boab? The boy thit stabbed ehs auld man cause eh widnae gie um the money fir a Mars bar. Mind ay him? Cunt fae doon the scheme: funny glesses, bit ay a spazzy cunt?

Boaby said nothing, but forced an inane grin.

Calum turned back to Crooky. — This wis whin we wir wee laddies like, back doon the scheme, eh. Thaire wis this cunt . . . cannae mind ay the boy's name, but eh stabbed ehs auld man cause eh widnae gie um the money for a Mars bar, fae the ice-cream van, ken? Well, one time we wis in the Marshall – this wis years later like – me, Boaby here n Tam McGovern. Tam clocks this wee cunt n goes: that's the cunt that stabbed ehs auld man cause eh widnae gie um the money for a Mars bar. Ah goes, naw, that's no the boy. Mind, Boaby? Calum appealed to his wasted old friend.

Boaby nodded, the smile stuck to his face like it had been painted on.

Calum continued. — Bit Tam's gaun: naw, that's the cunt. This boy's jist sittin oan ehs puff readin the
News
, ken? Bit me n Boaby, we wirnae sure, eh no, Boab? So Tam goes: ah'm jist gaun ower tae ask the cunt. Well, ah sais tae Tam: if it wis the boy, ye'd better watch oot cause the cunt's fuckin tapped. Well, Tam goes: fuck off, that wee specky cunt? n goes ower. Well, the next thing we ken is thit the wee cunt's glessed Tam, cut the side ay ays face open. It wisnae that bad, bit it looked it at the the time. So the boy runs oot ay the pub n we wir right ower n chasin efter the cunt, bit eh bombed up the road. Tae tell ye the truth, we wirnae gaun that fast, eh no, Boab? This wis donks ago now though. Bit ah saw that cunt the other day; oan the 16 comin doon the Walk, eh.

Crooky was starting to get bored. Junkies bored him. Pests, if in need, dull if their needs had been met. Certainly, they were to be avoided at all costs. What the fuck was Calum playing at here? Auld mates or no, you couldnae play the social worker tae a skag merchant, he thought in irritation. So Crooky was pleased when he noted a sallow-skinned guy with dirty black locks and a large hooked nose come into the pub and take a stance up at the bar.— Thaire's the Raven. Mibbe see if the cunt's goat any eckies, eh? Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa! He raised his thick eyebrows.

— Thaire's supposed tae be somethin happenin at the Citrus the night, eh, Calum told him, turning from the impassive Boaby.

— Ye wantin any Es if ehs goat thum? Crooky asked.

— Aye . . . no if it's they doves but. Ah hud yin in the Sub Club in Glesgay last week. Yir up fir an ooir then yir jist fucked. Buzz jist goes like that. He snapped his fingers. — Aw they Weedgie cunts wir oan the Malcolm Xs n aw, pure fuckin buzzin, n thaire's me aw frustrated n comin doon.

A concerned frown moulded Crooky's face. — Aye, right. No wantin nane ay that.

He made his way to the Raven. They briefly exchanged pleasantries, then hit the gents' toilet.

Calum turned back to Boaby. — Hi, Boab, listen, man, really great tae see ye again. Mind whin it wis you, me, Tam, Ian n Scooby? That wis some fuckin squad, eh? Dae anything, any time. Ah'm no bein a borin cunt or nowt like that, Boaby, bit it's, likes, ah've been wi Helen fir four years now, ken? Ah'm still intae gittin oot ay ma face n that, bit no the smack n that, ken? Look at perr Ian now: deid likes. The virus, Aids n that, ken?

— Yeah . . . Ian . . . Gilroy . . . said Boaby. — Nivir really liked the boy, ken? he mumbled, an old grievance briefly animating him through his smack apathy.

— Dinnae talk like that, Boab . . . fuck sake . . . the boy's deid! Dinnae talk like that.

— Ripped me oaf . . . Boaby slurred.

— Aye, bit ye cannae hud that against the boy, Boaby, ken? No whin the boy's deid, that's aw ah'm sayin. Like ah sais, ye cannae hud nowt against a boy that's deid.

Crooky came back from the toilets. — Goat some acid, eh. Microdot. Ye intae trippin?

— Naw, no really. Wantin an ecky, eh, Calum said uneasily. He was thinking of Ian Gilroy, of Boaby, as they once were. Boaby had put a lot of badness in his head. Then there was Helen, his girlfriend: things hadn't been going well between them. It would be stupid to trip in this frame of mind. Trips were best left to long, hot summer days, with the right vibe and the right company, preferably in a park or, better still, out in the country. Not in these circumstances.

— Moan, Cally, thaire's a perty oan the night, at this cunt Chizzie's. You ken Chizzie, eh?

— Aye . . . Chizzie, Calum replied blankly. He didn't really know Chizzie. He didn't feel so good. However, he wanted to get out of his face. This acid probably would just give a mild buzz; eighties acid rather than sixties acid, as some of the old sages might disdainfully say. There wasn't a lot that could happen to you on that kind of trip. — Like ah sais, ah'd rather huv an E, eh . . . but, well . . .

They swallowed the trips as surreptitiously as their haste allowed. Boaby, dictated to by distress signals from his pain centres, hauled himself up and went to the toilet. He was gone quite a long time anyway, but it could have been months for Crooky and Calum, for by the time he came back, they were seized by a massive trip.

The pub mirrors distorted, seeming to arc and form a strange bubble around them, cutting them off from the rest of the clientele who looked twisted, as their images reflected through these strange, warped lenses. The sense of isolation this gave them was briefly comforting, but it quickly grew suffocating and oppressive. They became aware of their body rhythms, the pounding of their hearts, the circulating of their blood. They had a sense of themselves as machines. Calum, a plumber, thought of himself as a plumbing system; this made him want to shit. Crooky had seen the video
Terminator
recently, and his vision became as through the Schwarzenegger robot's red-tinted viewfinder, the lettering spelling out alternatives which flashed up before his eyes.

ACID TRIP NO.
372 PSYCHOLOGICAL SURVIVAL PROGRAMME
ACTIVATED

— Fuckin hell . . . he gasped, — ah'm a fuckin robot, man . . .

— It's either the end ay the world or the start ay a new one, Calum said, turning away from a distorting grin that transformed Boaby into a cartoon wolf, to watch some creature crawl slowly across the floor of the pub.

It's only really a dug . . . or a cat . . . but ye dinnae get cats in
pubs, mibbe sometimes in country pubs in Ireland where they sit in
front ay the coal fire, but this yin must be a fuckin dug . . .

— These trips, man, how fuckin wild are they, eh? Crooky shook his head.

— Aye, said Calum, — n Boaby's jist fuckin banged up, the dirty wee cunt. In the bogs like. Look at um! Calum was grateful to Boaby for providing an external focus, before he felt a surge of blood course through fragile veins and he visualised these veins popping under the bubbling power of that blood, like a turbulent river bursting its banks. This was how you died, he thought, this was how life ended. — Goat tae git oot ay here, man!

— Aye, lit's git ootside, Crooky nervously agreed.

It took them a while to actually manage to stand up. The pub was spinning around them, people's faces were distorting wildly. At one moment all was light; at the next they seemed ready to black out, due to the awesome overload of the trip on their senses. Calum felt reality slipping away from him like a rope which was pulled through greased hands by an irresistible force. Crooky felt his psyche peeling away rapidly, like the skins on a multilayered banana, believing that this process was stripping him down, fundamentally altering him into some different form of life.

When they got outside they were immediately all but overwhelmed by a wall of sound and light. Crooky felt himself leaving his mortal flesh and shooting off into space, then snapping with great force back into his body. He glanced back down the street, a buzzing cacophony of strange but familiar sounds and a whizzing kaleidoscope of flashing neon; both producing a bizarre and overpowering interface which drenched their senses. Roughly tangible through this flood was the solitary figure of Boaby who they saw shuffling along behind them.

— C'moan, ya junkie cunt! Calum shouted, then turned to Crooky.— Fuckin waste ay space yon cunt! Despite his aggression Calum was glad that Boaby had tagged on as he did, providing a much-needed source of reality orientation.

They made their tentative way through an obviously familiar terrain, yet the drug had given it an alien hue. When Leith Walk did look like its old self, it was only for short bursts of time, which popped like bubbles to reveal a newer, different reality. Then they found themselves walking through Dresden after the bombings; the flame and smoke and smells of charred flesh around them. They stopped, looked back, and Boaby emerged from the fire, like, Crooky thought, the Terminator robot from the gasoline explosion. — Too fuckin risky . . .

Once again, Crooky and Calum felt themselves drift out of, then snap back into their bodies from a long way out in space. Reality briefly asserted itself as Calum gasped, — Ah cannae handle this, man . . . it's like thaire's some kind ay fuckin nuclear war gaun oan . . .

— Aye, right. They always droap the fuckin bomb whinivir you droap a tab. They dae it just tae fuckin spite ye. Nivir mind that Saddam-whit's-the-cunt's-face, Cally's jist droaped a fuckin tab, Crooky mocked.

Calum laughed loudly and therapeutically. It settled him down. Crooky was a sound cunt to trip with. No freakouts with Crooky. A cool cunt. This was fuckin brilliant.

They moved into a tunnel of golden light which pulsed and resonated as they looked on in bewilderment. — Fuckin no real, ya cunt. How good is this? Crooky commented, his mouth open.

Calum could not speak. Thoughts came into his head, but they were related to undefinable objects. It was if he was a baby again and had rediscovered pre-speech thought. The objects were distorted household artefacts; a lamp, a table, a chair, but they were the lamp, table and chair that had furnished the house he lived in as a baby, when he was trying to get to grips with his environment. He'd forgotten about them, never really consciously remembered them. Rhymes and rhythms flashed incessantly through his mind, but he couldn't say them, as these thoughts had no proximity to traditional spoken language. It would all be lost when he came down; this secret mental language, this pre-speech thought. He began to feel terrible, deflated at the prospect of losing this great insight. He was on the threshold of some superior knowledge, some great insight. If he could get even further back, beyond consciousness, birth, into past lives . . . but no, there was no way to break through. You could look, that was all, but you couldn't learn as there was no point of reference. He felt it slipping through his psyche like sand through his fingers. There was no way to break through, if you wanted to come back. And he did. — We ken nowt, we ken fuck all . . . nane ay us ken fuck all . . .

— Take it easy, Cal, c'moan, man, Crooky implored. — All hands on deck. Look, wir nearly at Chizzie's. Here's Boaby, fir fuck sakes. Boab! Stick in, ya cunt! Ye awright?

— Ah cannae speak . . . ah'm on heroin, man. Heroin, Boaby slurred.