Reheated Cabbage (3 page)

Dirty fuckin . . .

I get up off the stool and have to sit down again for a bit cause I feel faint. My heartbeat's racing and there's a pain in my chest. I'll have to take things easier; drinking heavily in this heat always fucks me.

— You okay, Joe? Lucy asks.

— Never better, I smile, composing myself. But I'm thinking about how I had to sit down for a bit earlier today, over at Andy's. I picked up the sledgehammer and was itching to let fly at his wall. Then I felt this kind of spasm in my chest and I honestly thought I was going to pass out. I sat down for a bit and I was fine. Just been caning it a bit lately. That's what being single again does for you.

I get up and I'm a bit edgy in the next pub, but I concentrate on Lucy, blacking out all the queer goings-on around us. We have another couple of beers, then decide to go for a pizza at Pizza Express to soak up some of the booze. — It's weird that we haven't met before, you being one of Charlie's closest mates – Lucy considers.

— And you being his twin, I interject. — Tell ye what though, you're a lot better looking than him.

— So are you, she says, with a cool, evaluating stare. We look at each other across the table for a couple of seconds. Lucy's quite a skinny lassie, but she's got a bust on her. That never fails to impress, that one: substantial tits on a skinny bird. Never ceases to cause me to take a deep breath of admiration. She takes her shades from her head and sweeps her hair back out of her eyes in that Sloaney gesture which, for all its camp, let's face it, never fails to get the hormones racing. No that she's a posh bird or nowt like that, she's just a salt-of-the-earth type, like her brother.

Charlie's sister.

— I think that's what's called an awkward silence, I smile.

— I don't want to go to Lewisham, Lucy says to me with a toothy grin, as she stoops forward in the chair. She's sitting on her hands, to stop them flying about, I think. She's quite expressive that way – they were fairly swooping around in that last pub.

But aye, fuck south London the now. — Nah, I'm no that bothered either. I'm enjoying it with just the pair of us, to be honest.

Then she says to me,— You don't say very much but when you do it's really sweet.

I think of the smashed poof in the park and clench my teeth in a smile. Sweet talk. — You're sweet, I tell her.

Sweet talk.

— Where do you stay? she quizzes, raising her eyebrows.

— Tufnell Park, I tell her. I should say more, but there isnae any point. She's doing fine for the both of us, and I sense that I can only talk myself out of a shag right now, and I'm no about tae dae that. Not with the way my sex life's been lately.

It's a bummer sharing a gaff with two fit birds and no going oot wi anybody. Everybody says, lucky bastard, but it's sheer torture. But I find that the more you say that you're not shagging either of them, the less inclined people are to believe you. I feel like that
Man About the House
cunt.

Aye, ah could dae wi a ride.

So could she, by the sound ay things. — Let's get a cab, Lucy urges.

In the taxi I kiss her on the lips. In my celibate paranoia I'm expecting them to be cold and tight, like I've misread the signs, but they're open, warm and lush, and before I know it we're eating each other's faces. The snatches of conversation when we come up for air reveal that we're both in the process of getting over other people. We urgently rap out those monologues, both knowing that if we weren't so close to Charlie we wouldn't have bothered, but in the circumstances it seems only manners to be up to speed with each other's recent history. But whether we're really over our exes or not, it's nae bother: rebound rides are better than okay if celibacy is the only alternative.

I remember with satisfaction and relief that I recently visited the launderette and washed a new duvet, which I've got on my bed. So when we get back to mines I'm delighted that Selina and Yvette are both still out and I don't have to go through tiresome introductions. We shoot straight through to the bedroom and I'm fucking one of my best mate's twin sister. I'm on top of her and she's chewing her bottom lip, like . . . like Charlie when we were in Ibiza last year. We'd pulled these two lassies from York and we were riding them back in the room, and I looked over and saw Charlie biting his lower lip in concentration. Her eyes, her brows, so like his.

It's putting me off, I can feel myself going a bit soft.

I pull out and gasp, — From behind now.

She turns over, but she doesn't get up on her knees, just lies flat and smiles wickedly. I wonder for a second whether or not she wants it up her arse. I'm not into that. She looks good though, and I am rock hard again, the troubling Charlie associations all gone from my nut. All I can see is that long hair, slender body and peach of an arse, spread out before me. I struggle to push in to her fanny, trying to keep some of my weight on my arms as I thrust into her.

It's going in though, and soon we're fucking away again for all we're worth. Lucy gives the odd appreciative groan, without making a big fuss. I like that. I'm looking at a spot on the headboard to avoid getting too turned on and blowing early, it's been a while and I . . .

I'm feeling . . .

WHOOSH . . .

PHOAH . . .

OH. . .

OOOOHHH . . .

No . . .

I think I've blown it there for a bit, the room seems to darken and spin, but I come to my senses and we're still at it.

The strange thing is that I'm suddenly aware that her dimensions seem to have changed. Her body is like it's rounder and fuller. And she's quiet now, it's as if she's passed out.

And . . . there's somebody in the bed next to us!

It's Melissa! Charlie's wife, and she's asleep. I look at Lucy, but it
isn't
Lucy. It's Charlie: I am . . . I am. . . I am fucking Charlie up his arse . . .

I AM FUCK –

A spasm of horror shoots through me, the rigidness going from my erection to my body. My cock instantly goes limp, as God's my witness, and I pull out, sweating and trembling.

I realise, to my further shock, that I'm not at home any more. I am in Charlie's flat.

WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS . . . ?

I slide out of the bed. I look around. Charlie and Melissa seem to be in a deep sleep. There's no sign of Lucy. I can't find my clothes, all my gear has gone. Where the fuck is this? How the fuck did I get here?

I grab a smelly old Millwall top with
South London Press
on it and a pair of jogging trousers that lie in a heap on a laundry basket. Charlie likes to run, he's a fitness fanatic. I look at him back there, still dozing, out for the count.

I pull on the clothes and go through to the front room. This is Charlie and Melissa's place alright. I can't think straight, but I know I have to get out of there fast. I promptly leave the flat and I run like fuck through the streets of Bermondsey until I get to London Bridge. I head to the tube station but I realise that I have no money. So I trot over London Bridge towards the city.

My head is buzzing with the obvious questions. What the fuck has happened? How did I get to south London? To Charlie's bed? To Char – it's obvious that my drink was spiked in some way, but who the fuck set me up? I can't remember!

I CANNAE FUCKIN REMEMBER!

I'M NO AN ARSE BANDIT!

That fuckin Lucy. She's a weirdo. But no her brother, surely no. Me and Charlie . . . I can't believe it.

I can't . . .

But the strangest thing is that just when I ought to be fuckin suicidal, I am, in spite of myself, settling into this weird calmness. I feel tranquil, but strangely ethereal; somehow disassociated from the rest of the city. Although I'm still at a loss to work out what has happened, it all seems secondary, because I am cocooned in this floaty bubble of bliss. I must be daydreaming, as I cross the road at the Bishopsgate, because I don't see a cyclist come careering into me . . .

FUCKIN . . .

WHOOSH . . .

Then there's a flash and a ringing in my ears and miraculously I am standing at Camden Lock. There is absolutely no sense of any impact having taken place with the boy on the bike. Something is up here, but I'm not bothered. That is the thing. I feel fine, I don't care. I head up Kentish Town Road, towards Tufnell Park.

The door of my flat is locked and I have no keys. The girls might be in. I go to rap at the door, and bang – a whoosh of air in my ears and I am standing inside the living room. Yvette is ironing, while watching the television. Selina is sitting on the couch, skinning up a joint.

— I could handle some of that, I say. — You're no gaunny believe the night I've had . . .

They ignore me. I speak again. No reaction. I walk in front of them. No recognition.

They can't see or hear me!

I go to touch Selina, to see if I can elicit some response, but then I pull my hand away. It might break the spell. There is something exciting, something empowering, about this invisibility.

But there is something wrong with the pair of them. They seem in as much shock as I am. It must have been some night they've had as well. Aye, girls: we pay for our fun.

— I still can't believe it, Yvette says. — A bad heart. Nobody knew he had a bad heart. How can something like that not be picked up?

— Nobody knew he had
any
heart, Selina snorts. Then she shrugs, as if in guilt. — That's not fair . . . but . . .

Yvette looks sharply at her. — You fucking cold cow, she hisses in anger.

— Sorry, I . . . Selina starts, before slapping her forehead in confusion. — Oh fuck, I'm going to take a shower, she suddenly decides and leaves the room.

I opt to follow her into the bathroom, to watch her take her clothes off. Yes. I'm going to enjoy this invisibility lark. Just as she starts to undress . . .

WHOOSH . . .

I'm not in the bathroom any more. I am pumping away . . . yes . . . ye-es . . . I'm fucking somebody . . . they're starting to come into focus . . .

It must be Lucy, it was all some fuckin daft hallucination, some acid flashback or the like, it was all . . .

But no . . .

NO!

I am on top of my mate Ian Calder, shagging him up his arse. He is unconscious, and I am giving him one. I can see we are on the couch in his house back in Leith. I am back up in Scotland, shagging one of my oldest pals up his fuckin hole, like I'm some kind of queer rapist!

OH NO, MY GOD . . . NO IN FUCKIN SCOTLAND . . .

I feel as if I'm going to throw up all over him. I withdraw, as Ian starts to make those delirious sounds, like he's having a bad dream. There is blood on my cock. I pull up the bottoms on my tracksuit and run out the house into the street.

I am in Edinburgh, but nobody can see me. I am going mad as I run screaming, up Leith Walk, down Princes Street, trying to avoid people. But as I pick up speed on the corner of Castle Street I collide with this old woman and a Zimmer frame . . .

Then . . .

WHOOSH . . .

I am in a prison cell, but I am fuckin well shagging this guy up his arse. He lies unconscious on the bed underneath me.

OH FOR FUCK SAKE . . .

It's my old buddy Murdo. He's inside for dealing coke.

YUK . . .

I pull out and jump down from the top bunk. I am sick, but in dry, racking coughs, holding myself against the cell wall. Nothing will come up. I look about as Murdo comes to, his face twisted in pain and confusion. He turns round, touches his arse, sees the shit and blood on his fingers and starts screaming. He jumps down, and I start to shout, crippled with fear: — I can explain, mate . . . it's no what it seems . . .

But Murdo ignores me and moves over to his sleeping cell mate in the lower bunk, launching into a savage attack on the poor cunt. His fist thrashes into the startled jailbird's face. — YOU, AH KEN YOU! YOU DID SOMETHING TAE ME! AH KEN YOU! YA DIRTY FUCKIN SICK BUFTIE BASTARD! YA FUCKIN BEAST!

— AAGGHH! IT'S HOOSEBREKIN AH'M IN FIR – the boy protests through his shock.

WHOOSHHH . . . The guy's screams fade as I am . . .

I am standing in a chapel of rest, at the back of the hall. The crematorium; Warriston, or Monktonhall, or the Eastern. I dinnae ken, but they are all there; my ma n dad, my brother Alan and my wee sister Angela. In front of the coffin. And I know, straight away, just who is inside that coffin.

I am at my ain fuckin funeral.

I'm screaming at them: what is this, what's happening to me?

But again, nobody can hear me. No, that's no quite right. There's one fucker who seems to be able to; this fat old boy with white hair, who's wearing a dark blue suit. He gives me the thumbs up. The old cunt seems to have a glow about him, with shards of incandescent light emanating from him.

I move across to him, completely invisible to the rest of the congregation, just as he seems to be. — You . . . you can hear me. You ken the Hampden Roar here. What the fuck is this?

The old guy just smiles and points at the coffin at the front of the mourners. — Nearly late for yir ain fuckin funeral thaire, mate, he laughs.

— But how? What happened tae me?

— Aye, ye died when you were on the job with your mate's sister. Congenital heart problem you didn't even know about.

Fuck me. I wis mair ill than I thought. — But . . . who are you?

— Well, the old boy grins, — I'm what you'd call an angel. I'm here to assist you in your passage over to the other side. He coughs, raising his hand to his face, stifling a laugh. — Pardon the pun, he chuckles. — I've had all sorts of names in different cultures. It might help you tae think of me as one of the ones I'm least fond of: St Peter.

The confirmation ay my death induces in me a bizarre elation, and no small relief. — So I'm deid! Thank fuck for that! It means I never shagged my mates up the arse. Ye hud me worried for a bit there!

The old angel cunt shakes his heid slowly and grimly. — You're not over to the other side yet.

— What d'ye mean?

— You're a restless spirit, wandering the Earth.

— How come?

— Punishment. This is your penance.

I'm no having this. — Punishment? Me? What the fuck have ah done wrong? I ask the bastard.