Reheated Cabbage (5 page)

— Wir no watchin
Doctor No
, muh ma sais, — Come on, Francis!

— Ah'd awready picked it but, Ma, ah tells her.

She's standin thaire, wi her airms aw folded, the fuckin billy ay the wash-hoose, like she wants ays tae gie her the remote. Nae chance ay that. Sometimes ah think thit muh ma forgets thit this is as much ma hoose as it is hers. Ah might no huv steyed here fir years, bit this wis the hoose thit ah grew up in, so ye still eywis think ay it as your hoose. Ah think she sometimes firgets that. — Yuv seen it loads ay times! she moans.

— The wee yins might want tae watch the cartoon videos they goat fir Christmas!

—
Toy Story 2
. . . one ay the bairns goes. That wee Philip, a sneaky wee bastard, that yin. Takes eftir ehs ma.

Some cunts are that fuckin clueless thit ye huv tae explain everything. — Naw, cause that's the whole point ay gittin a fuckin video, ah goes tae thum, — thit ye kin watch it any time ye like. Ye cannae watch the Bond film any time ye like. Ye either watch it or ye dinnae, n yuv goat tae watch a Bond film at Christmas. Joe? Ah turns tae ma brar.

— Ah'm no bothered, Joe goes.

Sandra looks acroas at him, then at me, then at Kate. Ye jist ken that big cow's gaunny say somethin cause she goes aw that huffy, puffed-up wey. — So wi huv tae watch what Frank wants again, ah take it. Fine, she goes, aw sarcastic.

— Dinnae fuckin start, Joe goes, pointin at her.

— Ah'm jist sayin what yir ma's sayin, thit the bairns –

Joe cuts her oaf. — Ah sais dinnae fuckin start. Eh lowers ehs voice. — Ah've telt ye.

She sits bristlin away on the fuckin couch, bit she's no lookin at anybody n she's no sayin nowt.

Joe looks at me, n shakes ehs heid.

It wis aboot time eh wis gittin her telt.

Muh ma looks ower at Greg n Elspeth. They've been sittin oan thair ain; jist whisperin away, n laughin tae thumselves in the corner, aw antisocial. Meant tae be a fuckin faimlay Christmas wir huvin here. If the cunts wanted tae dae that, they could fuckin well dae it ootside.— What dae youse two want tae watch? muh ma asks thum.

They look at each other like thir no bothered, and this smarmy cunt, this Greg poof goes, — Well, ah'm with Frank. Ah think it would be a good laugh tae watch the Bond movie. Then the cunt goes in this posh voice, — Ah, Mr Bond, I've been expecting you . . . n muh ma laughs n ah even sees a wee smile oan the corner ay Joe's lips.

Of course, the bairns are aw laughin now, n every cunt suddenly thinks it's aw a fuckin great idea tae watch the Bond movie, now thit this fuckin Greg wanker's intae it.

Ruined ma fuckin enjoyment ay the film.

These cunts; that two, that Greg n Elspeth; thuv been whisperin tae each other aw the wey through the fuckin picture anywey. Eftir makin aw that fuss aboot it, that cunt wisnae even watchin the film, right. At the end ay it, the pair ay thum git up n stand in front ay the telly. Ah'm jist aboot tae tell thum tae sit the fuck doon cause ah want tae change channels tae see that fuckin
Snowman
cartoon, fir the sake ay the bairns, ken, n thir blockin the signal fae the remote.

— We've got a little announcement to make, this Greg cunt goes, and Elspeth moves close tae um and they hud hands. Muh ma's lookin aw excited. It's like she's waitin fir the last fuckin number oan her caird doon at the Mecca. The Greg cunt coughs. — It's difficult tae know how to say this, but, well, yesterday, I asked Elspeth if she would do me the great honour of becoming my wife, and I'm delighted tae say that she said yes.

Ma auld girl stands up, aw delirious, n stretches her airms oot like that Al Jolson cunt, aw ready tae burst intae song. But it's tears she bursts intae, n she's sayin how beautiful it is; her wee lassie n she cannae believe it, n aw that crap. What a fuckin fuss tae make ower nowt. It's like some cunt hud slipped an ecky intae her sherry. Ah widnae pit it past yon Greg. Slylookin gadge, ken? Aye, Sandra n Kate are aw excited n Joe's wee yin says, kin she be a bridesmaid? and they say, aye, of course ye kin, n aw that shite. Ah couldnae fuckin believe ma ears. Gittin mairried! Oor Elspeth n this fuckin nonce cunt in the suit!

Her heid's in the clouds. That's Elspeth but, eywis thinkin thit she's better thin any cunt else. Spoiled rotten by bein the youngest, n the only lassie, that's what it wis. Nivir hud it rough, no like me n Joe. Thinks thit she kin jist suit ehrsel. Some cunt should tell her: it disnae fuckin well work that wey, no in the real world.

So ah'm fuckin well sittin thaire, ma nut poundin, n thair aw shriekin away as she pills oot a ring n sticks it oan her finger, showin it oaf. — It's beautiful, muh ma goes.

— Very nice, that Sandra sais. — Did eh git doon oan the bended? Bet eh did, she goes, lookin at that Greg, then glancin doon at ma brar like eh's nowt.

Fuckin Elspeth but. Ah dinnae ken what she's playin at. Ah mind ay that last boy she wis gaun oot wi, he wis a good cunt. Keith, the boy's name wis. He hud a big motor n aw, and a no bad flat. They pit the perr fucker away though, jist fir dealin a wee bit ay bugle. It's fuckin well oot ay order, cause jist aboot every cunt's at that game these days. Ye cannae really class charlie as drugs, no in ma book. Ah mean, it's no like it's schemies fuckin killin thirsels wi smack. What it is, is a designer accessory fir the modern fuckin age. That's the problem wi this fuckin country though; too many cunts livin in the Dark Ages, no prepared tae move wi the times.

This Greg cunt vanishes for a bit, then eh comes back wi a huge boatil ay champagne n some glesses. The wey that Sandra's lookin at the boatil, ye'd think it wis a fuckin vibrator thit she wis gaunny stick up her fanny. So fuckin pretty boy pops the cork n it flies acroas the room, hittin the ceilin. Ah'm ower n checkin tae see if it's left a mark whaire it hit the paintwork, n if it hus, that cunt kin pey fir muh ma tae git her fuckin ceilin redone. Lucky fir him it husnae. Eh pours the drink intae the glesses. Joe takes a gless fae the cunt, but ah wave um away.— Dinnae like that stuff. That's crap, ah tell the boy.

— Stickin tae the beer, aye, eh goes.

— Aye, ah sais.

— Come on, son, it's a special occasion, yir sister's engagement, muh ma goes.

— Disnae bother me, ah dinnae like they fizzy bubbles, they git up ma nose, ah tell her, lookin ower at the Greg poof, wi ehs fuckin side partin n ehs suit n crew-neck shirt withoot a tie. Ah wanted tae tell her that
he
gits up ma fuckin nose, but ah kept quiet, Christmas n that.

Aye, it's no fir me tae say nowt, but ah'll run a check oan this cunt. Somethin fuckin right iffy aboot that radge. Eh looks the type ay cunt that's no too sure aboot whether tae catch the one or the six, if ye ken what ah mean. Probably one ay they fuckin bent shots that shag the young poofs up the Calton Hill. In the fuckin closet, n usin oor Elspeth as cover.

See, if that cunt gies her Aids, eh's fuckin well deid.

Well, that fuckin loudmoothed hoor Sandra goes, raisin her gless in a toast, — Tae Elspeth n Greg!

— Elspeth n Greg, every cunt sais.

Ah'm sayin nowt, but ah never take ma eyes oaf that cunt. Aye, pal, ah'm fuckin well wide fir you. Every cunt else's makin a big fuss, n even Joe shakes the boy's hand. Ah'm shakin nae cunt's hand, that's a fuckin cert.

— Well, ah'd best git the dinner served up, the auld lady sais. — This hus been the happiest Christmas I've hud in years. See, if yir faither wis here . . . she bubbles at Elspeth.

If oor faither wis here eh'd huv fuckin well done what eh eywis did – drunk us oot ay hoose n hame n made a fuckin exhibition ay ehsel.

This cunt Greg puts ehs hand oan muh ma's wrist n slides ehs other airm around oor Elspeth's waist. — Ah was just sayin tae Els last night, Val, it's my one big regret that I was never able tae meet John.

What's that cunt sayin aboot ma fuckin auld man? He didnae ken ma fuckin auld man! This fuckin cunt thinks eh kin jist come in here n take ower everything, jist cause eh caught oor Elspeth at a vulnerable time. Jist cause she wis oan the rebound so tae speak, wi that fuckin perr Keith boy gittin sent doon. Ah've seen smarmy cunts like this Greg before, seen thum in action. Eywis oan the lookoot fir some lassie tae take a len ay.

Naw, she's makin a big mistake n she hus tae be telt.

So wir sittin doon at the table tae oor dinner, n the auld lady's only went n arranged it soas thit ah'm sittin next tae this fuckin smarmy, side-partin child molester. Ah'm gled now thit that fuckin June took oor bairns tae her hoor ay a ma's hoose.

— So what line ay work are ye in, mate? Joe asks the Greg boy.

Elspeth butts in before the cunt kin speak. — Greg works fir the council.

— Huv a word wi the cunts aboot that council tax, fuckin well oot ay order, ah goes. Muh ma n Joe n Sandra nod away, agreein wi that, n ah've fuckin well goat the cunt thaire. The council's a fuckin waste ay money as far as ah kin see. They could shut the whole fuckin loat doon the morn n nae cunt wid notice any fuckin difference.

Elspeth gits aw snooty.— That's no Greg's department. He's in planning. A Principal Officer, she says, aw fill ay it.

So it's planning were gittin now, is it? Aye, n ye ken what that cunt's fuckin well plannin awright; plannin tae git ehs fuckin feet under the table. Well, no in this hoose eh's no.

Sittin thaire, drinkin ehs wine, chompin intae that dinner like eh's tae the fuckin manor born. The crawlin cunt goes, — You've really pulled oot aw the stops here, Val. Delicious. Cooked tae a treat.

Ah'm sittin next tae um, ragin, n ah swallays a moothfae ay grub. Thaire's somethin, a wee bone or the likes, stickin a bit in ma throat. Ah takes a sip ay wine.

— Ah'd like tae propose a wee toast, the Greg cunt goes, raisin ehs gless. — Tae family.

Ah tries tae cough up, but it's stuck fast. Ah cannae git any air, ma fuckin nostrils are aw blocked up wi that charlie fae last night . . . ma sinuses are packed solid wi crap . . .

Fuckin hell.

— Uncle Frank's no well, the wee boy says.

— Ye awright, Francis son? Somethin no gaun doon? muh ma goes. — Eh's gaun red . . .

Ah waves the cunts away, n ah stands up. That daft cow Sandra's tryin tae gie me a bit ay breed. — Force this doon, force it doon . . . she goes . . . but ah'm fuckin well chokin anywey, n she's fuckin tryin tae kill me . . .

Ah pushes her aside, n ah'm gaspin n chokin, n ma heid's spinnin n ah see the horror in thair faces roond the table. Ah cough, n this sick comes up n catches in ma fuckin throat n flies back doon, aw hoat n burnin, right back intae ma fuckin lungs . . .

YA CUNT

AH'M FUCKIN CHOKIN . . .

Ah'm grabbin the table, n bangin oan it, then grabbin at ma throat . . .

AW YA FUCKER . . .

Ah feels this bang oan the toap ay ma back; one dunt, then another, n ah feels somethin loosen n it aw comes up, that fuckin blockage is away n ah kin breathe . . .

Sweet fuckin air . . . ah kin breathe . . .

— Awright, Franco? Joe asks.

Ah nods.

— Well done, Greg, ye saved the day thaire, eh goes.

— Ye certainly did, that Sandra says.

Ah'm gittin ma puff back, tryin tae work oot what happened. Ah turns tae this Greg. — Some cunt battered ays oan the back thaire. Wis that you?

— Aye, ah think ye swallowed the wishbone, eh goes.

Ah smacks the nut oantae the cunt, n eh faws back, hudin ehs face. Thaire's screams fae the women n the bairns n Joe's ower n eh's goat a grip ay ma airm. — What ur ye fuckin daein, Franco? The boy helped ye! Eh saved yir fuckin life!

Fuckin baws tae aw that; ah brushes ehs hand oaf. — Eh battered ays oan the back in muh ma's hoose! Nae cunt lays thair hands oan me! In muh ma's hoose, oan Christmas Day! That'll be fuckin right!

Muh ma's screamin, callin ays an animal, n oor Elspeth's daein her nut. — That's it, that's us finished, she goes, lookin at me, shakin her heid. — We're gaun, she sais tae muh ma.

— Aw dinnae, please, hen, no the day! muh ma pleads.

— Sorry, Mum, we are off. She points at me.— He's ruined everything. Eh'll be happy now. Good. We'll leave yis to it. Merry fucking Christmas.

This Greg cunt's goat ehs heid up, wi a serviette oan ehs nose, tryin tae stem the blood. A bit ay it's goat oantae ehs shirt though. — It's awright, it's awright, eh laughs, tryin tae calm thum aw doon. — It wis nothing! Frank's hud a bad fright, eh's in shock, eh didnae ken what eh wis daein . . . it's nae bother, ah'm fine . . . it looks worse than it is . . .

Ah mind ays thinkin, ah'll gie ye a loat worse thin that, ya cunt. Ah sits doon, n ah'm still gittin ma breath back. Thir aw arguin like fuck. Elspeth's greetin n he's tryin tae calm her.

— It's awright, eh didnae mean it, darlin, let's just stay for a bit. For Val's sake, eh's gaun.

— You dinnae ken um! Eh hus tae spoil everything, she sobs. It's aw a big excuse fir her tae go aw greetin-faced n spoiled, as usual.

Joe n Sandra ur sortin oot muh ma n the bairns. She's moanin aw that usual shite aboot whaire did she go wrong n aw that. It's me thit fuckin well went wrong, comin here oan Christmas Day.

Ah jist heaps some mair sprouts oantae ma plate, n fills up ma gless. Ah feel like sayin tae thum, if yis are gaunny eat yir Christmas dinner, fuckin well sit doon n eat it. If yis urnae, git the fuck away n gie me peace tae finish mine.

Aye, mibbe ah should've cooled it, n goat a hud ay the cunt ootside, instead ay littin fly like that in muh ma's hoose. That cunt wis too wide fir ehs ain good, but. Far too wide. Awright, eh did try n help, but eh gie'd ma back a fuckin right dunt. Nae need fir that. N ah suppose thit what it aw boils doon tae is thit thaire's jist some cunts ye cannae take tae. Ye fuckin try, but ye ken deep doon thit yir nivir gaunny see eye tae eye, n that's that.

At the bus stop a paunchy gadge with a sweaty curry-and-lager-fart erse surreptitiously tweaks the head of his cock through the material of his sport-and-leisurewear trousers in response to the presence of several children who are hanging around outside the school gates by the newsagent's.

The guy reeks of stale sweat and his fleshy features hang slack and heavy, like saturated boiled chicken waiting to be scraped from the bone. It was a long day's night drinking yesterday. This boy's got the horn in a big way. He's positively alpine. A trip to the go-go's is certainly called for here. So he heads for the Bermuda Triangle of Tolcross where he's just one of the pubic lice that crawl into the bar in search of the big black bush. Outside the first pub he approaches, he notes with approval the sign on the blackboard: TANYA, 2:00.

Yeaaahhhsss, he thinks, the hoor wi the Caesarean scar is on. The gadge cannae take his eyes of that scar, that and the bruises on her arms and thighs which he knows has been inflicted by her dealer boyfriend. Seeker they call him, and nobody knows why. He often watches with furtive glances, Seeker's treatment of her, and he approves. Seeker knows how to control these slags. He knows how to hurt them. He fucks all those freaky junkie hoors and pays them in smack. That's a real man. He wishes he knew Seeker's secret. He could never master the hoors in that way. The nearest he came was with Julie, her with the two kids. She was feart. You could tell she was. Her last felly used to have heavy hands. Fast hands too. Always ready to let fly if the slag crossed him. He'd prepared her well. Once a slag got used to that sort of discipline she wanted it all her life.
Needed
it all her life. And the best part was kissing and making up. Always the best part.

But she left him too. Suddenly discovered a bit of bottle. Called his bluff. Those fuckin dykes at that fuckin refuge. Getting the polis involved in what was essentially a fuckin domestic dispute. That was what he told the polisman, a domestic dispute. The polisman was obviously sympathetic. He gave a look as if to say: sorry, mate, my hands are tied. Court fuckin order next. Scotland Yard, from coming within a mile of the fuckin slag. How's that supposed tae work with him in the next stair?

But that Julie. He'll fuck her again, polis or nae polis. Only he'll fuck her good next time. The thought makes him hard in his shellsuit troosers. He anticipates Tanya coming on.

He looks across at Seeker, sitting still with a gin and tonic in front of him. He flashes the odd coffin-plate smile at acquaintances. The smile is like a photographer's flash bulb, it explodes then is instantly gone leaving his face set in hard neutrality. A younger guy in a ponytail and a pretty, but haggard and bewildered-looking young woman join Seeker. The young guy shakes Seeker's hand and with a leery smile introduces the woman and Seeker theatrically kisses her hand and she smiles like a rabbit in the glare of headlights.

Then a cheer goes up and Tanya is on, gyrating on a raised platform in a flimsy two-piece which has gone through the washing machine ten times too many to be seen in public. Bronchitic old guys with half-pints stare intensely, imprinting Tanya's image on their tired minds, collecting wanking material for tonight's swift one of the wrist between the foostie sheets of a frozen flat.

The pub smells of nicotine and vomit. Someone puked over the carpet last night. They hadn't bothered cleaning it, just rearranged one of the tables to partially conceal it. Our boy looks at Tanya's bored face, studies where the acne has left her with scar tissue, that same acne that probably once made her grateful for male attention in spite of her streamlined curves, as if she was doing them all a big favour when it came to opening her legs. Then there's the scar. Phoah, that fuckin scar. He wonders where the brat is that caused that scar. At Tanya's – not that Tanya is her real name though it's possible – or at Tanya's ma's hoose or in care. Foster-parents. Like his wee laddie. Pit up for adoption. That was the stupid slag of a mother of his's fault of course. Incapable, they said. Incapable of looking eftir a bairn. Well, these social work cunts dinnae always ken what's best, and whae can say that
they're
capable of looking eftir bairns?

This thought fails to comfort him because although Tanya's on and the music has pumped up, it's that fuckin ravey shite and that nigger pish, what aboot country n western, that was his kind ay music, 'Stand by your Man' n that, but anywey Tanya's giein it big licks and she's closer to him and he can see that scar above her cheap, washed-out knickers, that thin scar just above the start of that bush, and his chest seems to be caving in and the blood is leaving his head and the smoky air is getting strangely thin and he sees his own hand going out and his index finger gently touching the scar and Tanya snaps away and shouts, — Fuck off! and there's a wee roar and she turns back into the dance.

Now our boy's a wee bit worried because you dinnae touch Seeker's women in that way. No fuckin chance of that. But Seeker flashes over a smile at him and say what you like aboot that cunt Seeker, he kens how to control these hoors and he's no a bad cunt, yuv goat tae gie the cunt that, he's alright, and our boy nods back at Seeker and we're all in this together, man. Our boy, Seeker, they ken each other's faces, they ken that each other are both alright, really sound cunts as a matter of fact. No mates perhaps, but sort of mates-in-waiting, guys who would lap each other up if they kent each other and may get tae sometime. Aye. Too right.

Tanya finishes her set and eftir a few more pints our boy makes an exit. He'll cut round the back of the pub, down the side lane and across the gap site to get his bus back hame. But he's aware of someone else in the side lane with him and he turns and it's Seeker; Seeker's in the side lane and he nods and says, — Awright, mate?

Our shellsuit-bottomed boy is about to say, — Aye, sound, and maybe wi a wee apology tae Seeker for pittin his finger on the boy's goods, ah mean, respect is called for, when Seeker's crash helmet smashes into his cheek. Our boy staggers against the wall, and turns to meet the second blow from the helmet which knocks two teeth out and slackens a further two. As he keels over, Seeker's boot comes down with force on his testicles, then into his head.

It's over. Twenty-two seconds.

Seeker retires to the bar, the business sorted out. He has not spoken another word to our boy. Awright, mate, is all he said. This in itself, he feels, was a little too much.

Our man in the shellsuit troosers stays down for a bit, then staggers to his feet. Supported by a wall he throws up some lager-vomit and dazedly makes his way across the site towards the bus stop. Angry our man certainly is. But it's no Seeker he's angry with; he understands Seeker, he would do the same in that position. He kens Seeker. It's that cunt, her with the scar that he hates; all these fuckin troublemaking bastards. Her and that fuckin Julie slag. Well, he'll pay that fuckin hoor a visit, and sort the cunt out for good.

Maybe they'll kiss and make up again; the best part, eywis the best part. Or maybe this time there'll be nothing left ay the hoor tae kiss and make up wi.