But my sister’s better than that.
But up here, in the town I built with Dad, my place, I was safe. Even from Dad’s disapproval as it got so as that he couldn’t manage the steps. This was always my place, my world, and I feel that I need it more than ever now.
7
This Christmas
THE DAYS HAD worn down to thin bands of light, squeezed relentlessly by the murky darkness. Snow was unlikely, but a dusting of frost would glitter for hours and night would fall before the chill’s jab could be removed from the air.
It was the day of the office Christmas meal and Brian Kibby found himself in happier spirits. His father had enjoyed a relatively comfortable night and seemed perkier and more compos mentis than on his previous visit. There was an aura of contentment about him as he apologised for his behaviour the night before, saying that he had the best wife and family a man could ever hope for.
This partially restored Brian’s optimism. Maybe his father would get well, get strong again. Perhaps he was being too morbid. He was going to have to be strong himself, make more of an effort with the likes of Danny Skinner. Skinner, who looked at him with that expression of thinly veiled hostility, like he knew everything about him.
He doesn’t know me. He knows nothing about me. I’ll show him who I am; I’m as cool as him or anybody else! I know about music. I hear stuff.
So a buoyant Brian Kibby swaggered playfully into the office, his narrow hips swivelling as he deftly swerved past the corner of Shannon McDowall’s desk, nodding at her as he passed. Her response was a lenient smile. All the time Kibby air-drummed, making home-made sound effects by blowing air through his tightened lips. Danny Skinner was by the window, watching his entrance. An air drummer: that shows his mediocrity, he thought in crushing, savage contempt.
Kibby felt Skinner’s eyes on him. He turned and dispatched a weak smile, only to have it met with a terse nod. What have I done? Brian Kibby wondered fretfully. And Danny Skinner was wondering much the same thing, as shocked as Kibby by his increasingly hostile reactions to the new lad.
Why do I dislike Kibby so much? Probably because he’s a sooky little mummy’s boy who’d rim any ass to get on.
Ass . . . what a great word. Much better than arse. An arse sounded more like something you just shat out off, whereas an ass was definitely something sexy. The Yanks had class, no doubt about it. One day I’ll go to America.
Kay’s ass . . . tight as fuck, but soft as well. Until you’ve ran your hands over a pair of naked buttocks like that you can’t truly have said to have lived . . .
A hangover erection rose instantly, digging into the material of his pants and trousers. Skinner gasped a little at the discomfort, then watched Foy head into his office, thought about Christmas and the hard-on (to his relief) vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
When they arrived in a fleet of taxis at Ciro’s restaurant down on the South Side, Bob Foy immediately took it upon himself to choose the wine to accompany the lunch. Though a few soft grumblings were audible the staff seemed generally happy to defer to him in this foible. It was an in-joke that Foy was the ideal man for the job, as he certainly knew his way around a wine list. Various city restaurateurs allegedly benefited from his selectively lax enforcement of health regulations, and were subsequently quick to show their appreciation.
Foy sat back in his chair and scrutinised the list. His mouth was twisting in the petulant pout of the Hollywood Roman Emperor at the Colosseum games who has yet to decide whether or not what he is witnessing amuses him. — I think a couple of bottles of the Cabernet Sauvignon, he finally decided, with a satisfied air. — This particular Californian red is generally reliable.
Aitken gave a slow, tortured nod of approval, McGhee an enthusiastic puppy-like one. Nobody else moved. A deafening silence followed, broken by the only dissenting voice which was Danny Skinner’s. — I don’t agree with that, he said firmly, shaking his head slowly.
There was deathly hush at the table as Bob Foy’s face reddened slowly but steadily in anger and embarrassment, to the point that he almost asphyxiated with fury as he contemplated this young upstart.
In my section for about five bloody minutes. It’s the first works dinner this cheeky wee bastard has deigned to appear at! Who the hell does he think he is?
Composing himself, Bob Foy forced his features to mould into an avuncular smile. — It’s a wee tradition that we have here . . . Foy hesitated briefly, then elected to use Skinner’s Christian name, — . . . Danny, that for the Christmas meal, the section head chooses the wine, he explained, displaying a row of capped teeth, as he casually smoothed down one of the sleeves of his Harris tweed jacket, brushing off a non-existent crumb.
This ‘tradition’ had been both purely devised and solely enforced by Foy, but nobody was contradicting him as his gaze scrutinised every face around the table.
Except Danny Skinner. Far from being intimidated, Skinner was in his element. — Fair enough, Bob, he said, imitating the same grandiose manner Foy himself had employed, — but this is a social occasion and nothing to do with rank at work. Correct me if I’m wrong, but we all contributed the same amount to the meal, therefore it follows that we should all have the same rights. I’m perfectly willing to bow to your superior expertise in the wine field, but I don’t drink red wine. I don’t like it. I drink white wine. It’s as simple as that. Danny Skinner paused for a bit, saw Foy start to dissolve into apoplexy. Then he turned to the rest of the company at the table and added with a cold grin, — And I’m fucked if I’m paying for other people to drink red if I’m sitting drinking nothing!
As the eyebrows raised in involuntary concert around the table and breaths were sucked in with a quiet diplomacy, Bob Foy panicked. It was the first time he’d been confronted in this way. Skinner, moreover, had a reputation for mimicry, and Foy had been treated to an unflattering glimpse of himself mirrored back in the younger man’s disrespectful parody. His voice rose, becoming strident as he thumped the desk. — Right. Let’s have a vote then, he squeaked, as his pitch heightened. — Those who disagree with the choice of Cabernet Sauvignon?
Nobody moved.
McGhee was now nodding grimly, Aitken’s thin face girning in disgust, and Des Moir, another Foy loyalist in the section, was examining his Christmas cracker. Shannon was peering over towards another group, apparently from the Scottish Parliament, that had just come in and who were being seated at an adjacent table. Skinner pulled his eyes ceilingward in a gesture of derision at his colleagues’ craven acquiescence. Foy half shut one eye and, puffing himself up, prepared to speak.
Before he did, a small rasp of a voice said, — Ah agree wi Danny. We’ve all paid, Brian Kibby almost whispered, his eyes watering. — Eh . . . ah mean, it’s only fair.
— White’s fine by me, Shannon McDowall sang happily in chorus. — Maybe a couple of white, a couple of red, and see how we go? she suggested, looking to Bob Foy.
Foy completely ignored both her and Skinner. Turning towards Kibby with venom, he slapped the table again and sprang up. — Do what the fuck yis like, he half sang, half snapped, with an incongruously bright, open smile on his face. Then he vanished into the toilet where he wrenched the paper towel dispenser from its mountings on the wall.
THAT FUCKING CUNT SKINNER AND THAT FUCKING CRAWLING LITTLE BASTARD KIBBY!
Bob Foy picked a paper towel from the heap on the floor, wet it, and stuck it on the back of his neck. When he rejoined the nervous group of diners it was as if he didn’t even notice the bottles of white wine on the table.
Kibby was shocked by Foy’s barely repressed violence.
What have I done? Bob Foy . . . I thought he was okay. I’m going to have to try and get back into his good books . . .
Foy was not impressed with Skinner, a state that this challenge had done little to help. When in conference with his own boss, John Cooper, and also in the company of the council’s elected members on the committee, he often had been inclined to under
mine the younger man as a ne’er-do-well. These efforts would be intensified from now on.
As an unrepentant member of the sensualists’ club, I have long held the belief that the only pleasure to rival making love is the eating of good food. The twin arenas of the true sensualist must, by extension, be the bedroom and the kitchen, and such a person must strive to be the master of both those environments. After all, the arts of cookery and lovemaking must mutually involve patience, timing and a certain instinctive knowledge of one’s terrain.
Danny Skinner threw down the book he had been reading, Alan De Fretais’s Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs. He considered that it was the biggest pile of bullshit imaginable, but many of the recipes looked good. He resolved to try some of them out, as he felt the need to attempt to eat healthier.
Now he was in his kitchen, trying to cook a fried breakfast for Kay. He was soon lamenting that his breakfasts seemed designed for hangovers rather than seduction, as he scraped the burned eggs from the base of the pan, bursting a yolk in the process. Slapping them on to cold plates already congealing with grease of candlewax proportions from the sausage, black pudding, bacon and tomato that sat on them, he could feel his pores beginning to clog from the vapourised animal fat that hung heavily in the air. Kay was in bed, in a deep sleep, dealing with her far more modest hangover in a way he never could. He couldn’t sleep through it; he just writhed, sweated and fidgeted until he was forced to get up.
It was a raw, but surprisingly sunny Christmas Eve and tomorrow they were going to his mother’s for their Christmas dinner. His mother liked Kay, but Skinner always found Christmases hard going.
Today, however, Hibs had Rangers at Easter Road. There was sure to be some trouble, and if there wasn’t, he resolved that he’d make some. Noises from the bedroom and then the bathroom had told him that Kay had risen. She was unimpressed by the food he’d prepared, squeezing on to a stool in his galley kitchen and buttering a slice of cold toast, wondering why he couldn’t do them while they were warm. It was like chewing broken glass. — I can’t eat this shit, Danny, I’m a dancer. She screwed up her face. — You don’t live on black pudding and sausage and bacon and expect to get a job on Cats.
Skinner shrugged, scraping some butter on to his own toast. — That Lloyd Webber stuff is a load of shite.
— It’s what I do, she muttered darkly under her breath, her sharp, clear eyes staring pointedly at him. Having woken up in a testy mood, she was not happy that he was going to the football. — It’s Christmas, Danny. Go to the match if you want but don’t come back here drunk, or I won’t be going with you to your mum’s tomorrow.
— It’s Christmas Eve for fuck’s sakes, Kay! Entitled to a fucking drink at Christmas! Skinner gasped in outraged appeal, the hangover making him edgy.
Glancing up coolly from the breakfast bar, Kay made a token effort on his offerings by breaking the skin of the yolk with the edge of her toast. — That’s just it though. You think that you’re entitled to a drink every day.
— Well, you just go tae your ma’s then, Skinner snapped.
— Right, said Kay, and quickly rose, calling his bluff by heading into the bedroom and throwing her stuff into her backpack. Skinner felt something tighten in his chest but he forced it down like his black pudding, only feeling the need to pursue her when the front door loudly slammed. A cold Stella from the fridge took the edge off this impulse, although he picked up his mobile and called, only to get her answering service. He looked at her wasted breakfast and slopped it into his pedal bin.
Skinner decided that he’d call her again later, once she’d settled down and saw what a nippy cow she was being. Instead, he went to fridge and took out another can of Stella Artois. Then he picked up his mobile once more and pressed Rab McKenzie’s number. — Roberto, where’s the meet, ma man?
The game was being televised, and this fact, plus the general festive vibe, conspired to decrease the hoolie element on both sides. The mob scoured the grot bars of Tolcross for Rangers boys through for a day out eyeballing strippers, but all they found were some sagging-faced winos singing sectarian songs and renditions of an old Tina Turner number. After half-heartedly thumping a few civilian bigots out of boredom, they headed back down to Leith and the game but Skinner and McKenzie and some others left irked and wearied after twenty minutes and made their way back to the pub which they had made their pre- and post-match base.
In the bar, without realising what he was doing, Skinner found himself smoking a cigarette. He was supposed to have packed it in the other week but had lit up and taken two drags on a B&H before he figured out what was happening. — Cunt, he said, grinding his teeth together as he took a harsh hit of personal loathing in his chest.
The beers slipped down so easily, and Skinner was pleased that he was matching McKenzie drink for drink. Later on, Gary Traynor and his latest sidekick, a heavy-built guy Skinner knew in vague hostility from a youthful negative encounter as Andy McGrillen, suggested going up to a bar in town. Skinner meant to phone Kay but the alcohol and cocaine had kicked in on the way, distorting time, compressing hours into fifteen-minute blocks. — Whae wis the best obscure cartoon character ever? Traynor asked Skinner, running a hand over his shorn skull.
Skinner thought about this for a second. He couldn’t think of anyone, so he shrugged.
— Ah liked that cute wee duck oot ay Tom and Jerry, McKenzie said.
Skinner shot Traynor a look, both of them quite overwhelmed the big man could be that sentimental. McGrillen, in awe of McKenzie, kept studiously quiet. In order to avoid bursting out in a smirk, Traynor advanced a proposition: — Naw, fuck off, it hus tae be Sawtooth oot ay Wacky Races.
— Sawtooth? Whae the fuck’s that? Dinnae mind ay that cunt in Wacky Races, McKenzie looked doubtful.
— That’s cause the cunt’s obscure, Traynor explained. — Eh’s Rufus Ruffcut’s sidekick, mind, in the wooden car wi the circular sawblade wheels. Every cunt minds Dick Dastardly and Muttley, Penelope Pitstop, Peter Perfect, Professor Pat Pending and the Ant Hill Mob, but they aw forget aboot Rufus Ruffcut and Sawtooth.
— Aye! Right! Rufus Ruffcut wis the big lumberjack boy n Sawtooth wis the squirrel thit wis wi um in the motor. Got ye, said McKenzie.
— Naw-naw, Sawtooth wisnae a fuckin squirrel, Traynor shook his head. — Eh wis a fuckin beaver. Tell um, Skinner!
— Best cartoon American beaver since Pamela Anderson, Skinner laughed.
Later, as they were making their way out of the bar, Skinner saw McGrillen push some boy and there followed a flurry of blows between them. McKenzie and Traynor steamed in but something made Skinner step back into the shadows, and watch his three mates take on five guys. They didn’t need much help, but Skinner wasn’t going to offer any, not for McGrillen.
Afterwards he concocted a set of barely plausible lies, namely that he was having it in the doorway with one guy, but he realised from their silent disappointment that they knew, as much as he did, that he had bottled it. That one moment of fear, of hesitation, could cost you your credibility, he thought in self-contempt. But why? It was more than the fact that the row was instigated by McGrillen, whom he didn’t like and didn’t regard as one of them.
For a second, all I saw was Kay, my mother, my job, my Christmas and my whole fuckin life: all going down the tubes. I let it get into my head, all that stuff of real life that we row to get away fae. What the fuck am I –
When he got home there was no sign of Kay. Skinner sat up most of the night drinking, before crashing into an uneven sleep on the couch. A trip to the toilet helped orientate him, making him get into his bed. When he awoke, what seemed like only about fifteen minutes later, fully clothed and feeling battered and broken, he tried to phone Kay on her mobile but again he was greeted by her answering service. He fired off a text, wondering if he’d got the wording right:
K, call me. Dx
He showered and dressed, and headed out on to Duke Street and down Junction Street. — Merry Christmas,
son, a squat, white-haired woman said as he passed her. He recognised her as Mrs Carruthers, who lived in his mother’s stair.
Although he felt like a microwaved corpse, Skinner managed to cough out a gracious, — Aye, you n aw, doll.
When he got to his mother’s tenement flat, he found Busby, the old insurance man whom he heartily despised, just leaving.
That vile creature with the bandy walk and that nauseous cheery smile, heading out my mother’s stair! There’s six houses in my ma’s stair, but I ken which one Busby’s been visiting. What does that odious little fart want at this time . . .?
Skinner loathed Busby for reasons he could never bring himself to conceive. Thinking about this as he sat in his mother’s cosy, compact living room/kitchen, he started to laugh to himself as she produced two plates full of turkey and trimmings and put them on a table which she had pulled out from a recess and decorated especially for the occasion.
His mother was obviously well nipped, as she had also set a place for Kay. Danny Skinner watched her swollen hands, her fingers pink like uncooked sausages, slam the plates on to the table. Beverly Skinner had never been a big woman until she’d hit forty, then she had swollen up into obesity. She blamed an early hysterectomy, while Skinner attributed it to the wedges of pizza and the TV dinners she consumed. She always said it was pointless cooking for one.