Reheated Cabbage

  — Terry, the Kid goes, — she's working. Emotional labour. Doesnae mean she fancies ye. Ye shouldnae personalise those things.

  — Ah ken that, Ewart, but thaire's something in yon wee yin's look that is personal, ah explains tae the cunt. Naebody lectures me oan fanny; ah ken the score. So ah steams ower tae her. — Ah've hud plenty nosh the day, ah says tae her, — gittin the beef oan likes, n gies the belly a pat . . . Aye, this gut's coming back a bit, but she's no wantin tae hear aboot that, she wants tae hear what aw fit burds want tae hear aboot: her. — Youse Yanks can pit it away but, ah tells her. — No you though, you've got a great figure.

  Ah goes n braces masel fir signs ay offence taken, but her hand flies tae the hair. — Why thank you . . . where are you from?

  That wis game oan in ma fuckin book. — Edinburgh, Scotland. Ower here for the WMC but, eh, ah goes. She's gittin rode: baw-deep n rid raw. Ah turns tae the Milky Bar Kid.— Lit's pop in here fir yin then, ya cunt.

  Eh shakes ehs heid wi thon serious look oan ehs coupon. — I need tae get back tae the hotel.

  Wanker. Ye cannae tell thon cunt nowt whin ehs in that mood, n fair play, ehs peyed fir the trip, so ah turns back tae the bird, pittin oan a wee sad face. — Listen, doll, ah've got tae look eftir ma client here. That's management in the entertainment industry fir ye. We work when the rest ay youse play. But, ah adds, lookin deep intae the black bits ay hur eyes, — wi make up fir it n aw. What time dae ye finish the night? Ah'd like tae take ye oot fir a wee drink.

  Ah'm gittin thon doubtful, measured look back. — I dunno, I kinda gotta a boyfriend –

  — Hi! Never mind this boyfriend stuff, ah goes. — You speaka da foreign lingo. Ah'm jist in toon a few days fir the DJ conference.

  — You really in the dance-music business?

  — Too right. Some ay the biggest names in this game are oan ma books. N you're oan the VIP list for the Cameo the night, ah tells her, n goes, — Bet you're in the actin game. Yuv goat the looks fir it.

  — Why thank you! I'm trying to break into modelling, but I wanna take acting lessons too.

  — Knew it! Call it the sixth sense thit ye git in this business, but ye gied off that vibe. Well, loads ay film-industry punters'll be thaire, ah should ken, ah've goat the contacts. Stick wi me n the doors will open. Guaranteed. Kathryn Joyner, personal friend, ah sais, n she's lookin at me aw thon calculatin wey when ah turns tae Ewart n goes, — This is N-Sign, ken the DJ?

  — Wow, are you really N-Sign?

  Wir both pleasantly surprised by the bird's recognition. — Yeah. Ewart, aw embarrassed, squirms like a big poof.

  Ah never thoat the day would come whin Juice Terry used the Milky Bar Kid's rep tae git a ride.— Aye! Ah'm ehs manager! Terry's the name: Juice Terry. N-Sign Ewart, ah points at the Milky Bar Kid. — We'll git her oan the list but, eh, Carl?

  Ewart nods and smiles.

  — Cool. I'm Brandi . . .

  — Barry name, ah goes, thinking thit if this yin's ma wisnae a stripper, ah'll wear a Jambo's toap wi suzzies and stockins tae the East Stand at ER, and kiss the fuckin badge n aw, ya cunt!

  Then ahm jist seein this huge fuckin shadow cast and ah looks up at this big poof, aw sculpted by steroids n years ay tedious denial in the gym. Strides forward like eh's fuckin Clint Eastwood. — Is there a problem, Brandi?

  — No, it's okay, Gustave . . . she calls the boy, n ah'm nearly pishin masel, and Randy Brandi turns back tae me. — Yeah, tonight would be great. I'll meet you outside here at ten?

  — Ten bells it is, ah sais, looking at this Gustave blatt-baws here wi a wicked wee smirk. — You can come along n aw . . . darlin.

  Gustave pouts at ays like a big lassie, but he's no comin forward cause ah think eh kens that if eh does ehs baws'll be gittin tanned tae fuck by a size 11. Mind you, wi aw the steroids that cunt does, thaire willnae be much tae aim at so ah might huv tae go in wi the nut. So ah huds the stare till ehs eyes go watery n eh fucks off, before ah confirm ma appointment wi Brandi n head doon the road wi Carl. — She's gittin rode, that Brandi bird. Mark ma words.

  The Milky Bar Kid looks at ays n goes, — Ah've got tae hand it tae you, Terry, you've no got any sense ay embarrassment at aw. You just steam in, and you sometimes come away with the baw.

  — Goat tae, man, ah tells um, — it's the spice ay life.

  — Brandi but, Lawson! Fuck sake: that is certainly Hibs class. Entertainment-industry management my erse. Cannae wait tae see her face when she finds oot you're a Hobo peg seller who makes muck movies with munters.

  — Shut it, ya fuckin fud-faced Yam wankstain. Ah'd be drawin ma fuckin pension before you steamed in.

  — I'm no interested in other lassies, eh goes, aw snooty.

  — Aye, well, dinnae expect me tae be pinnin any fuckin medals tae yir chist, ah tells the cunt. Some high-n-mighty fuckers forget that one golden rule: a standing prick hath no conscience.

  7

  Albert Black, who from his seat at an adjacent table under a palm tree, was compelled to observe this scene, mirrored the bouncer's bemused rage. He had been moved to strategically pull the panama hat down over his eyes as Carl Ewart had scanned around in embarrassed response to Lawson's oafish behaviour. Why was somebody famous and successful like Ewart still friends with this fool?

  Settling his bill with haste, Black stealthily followed Lawson and Ewart through the crowds to a smart-looking boutique hotel a couple of blocks up Ocean Drive. As they disappeared into the lobby, the retired teacher felt a surge of euphoria, a bizarre sense of purpose. He tried to tell himself that he was pathetically stalking two ne'er-do-wells from his old school: the troublemaking malcontent and the promiscuous thug. But still the charge of excitement wouldn't leave him.

  Lawson was beyond redemption, he had nothing to offer anyone, except trouble. But Ewart, what had been the role of the school, of the Scottish education system, in his development?

  Albert Black decided that he had to confront Carl Ewart, to call him to account for his comments in those trashy music magazines. Comments that young people read and are influenced by! In his mind, Black was tracing a mental line back from a classroom in a west Edinburgh comprehensive school, almost thirty years ago, to the performance of fellatio by a young Latina on his only grandchild in Miami Beach.

  Tonight, Ewart is speaking at this Cameo place. Well, so too will Albert Black!

  But now it was time to go and make his peace with his family. Thinking of the sin committed so casually by Billy and his slut of a girlfriend made his guts ache. Well, he could do nothing but pray for them both.

  Hate the sin, love the sinner.

  8

  Ah could handle this fuckin heat aw year roond, eh. A lot ay cunts in Scotland would fuckin moan aboot aw this, n go: aw it's too hoat. They'd rather freeze thair fuckin baws oaf thin lap this up. Fuck that. So wir headin back tae the hotel n ah'm tellin the Kid aboot everything thit's wrong wi Scotland. Wi him kickin back n forward between London, Sydney n the likes ay here, eh nivir gits the chance tae keep up tae date wi what goes oan in the real world. Course, it brings it aw intae focus whin yir somewhaire like this: home thoughts fae abroad. — Scotland's too fuckin conservative, ah tells the cunt. That's the wey ower thaire; keep the movers n shakers doon, soas thi'll fuck off n leave the place tae the deadbeats. Ah've jist aboot hud it wi that doss masel, man.

  — Seriously?

  — Too right. A man ay ma talents wis meant fir the New World. Fuck Scotland.

  — Aye, that's gaunny fuck things right up back hame; the production ay gonzo porn fae Wester Hailes'll grind tae a halt. Surprised Alec Salmond n Gordon Broon huvnae been compelled tae take action.

  — Take action? In Scotland? That'll be the day.

  — Stop badmouthin Scotland, Terry. Ah dinnae want tae hear it, eh goes. — Thaire's nowt wrong wi it, eh contends.

  Aye, Scotland eywis looks better fae a Carribbean island or a boutique hotel in Miami or an apartment overlookin Sydney Harbour. — Thaire's f
uckin plenty wrong wi it!

  — Specifically?

  — Well, take oor national industry, whisky. Ah wrote tae some ay the big boys, Grouse, Dewar's, Bell's, n goes: what aboot whisky alcopops? Yis jist gaunny sit back n lit the Russkis huv it thair ain wey wi the fuckin voddy? Ah mean, whisky n lemonade, whisky n Coke, guaranteed successes wi the alcopop generation. But naw, ah jist gits they snooty letters back gaun oan aboot 'tradition' n aw that shite. What aboot fuckin choice but? Ye dinnae see they Smirnoff cunts hudin back n whingin oan aboot tradition.

  — So?

  — So, ah'm tellin um as wi gits tae the hotel, n ah gie the doorman a wee wink, — they whisky industry cunts'll be fucked in twenty years' time. You jist wait till thair auld cunt market's six fit under. They think thit vision's what ye git fae Specsavers. Vision isnae what ye git fae Specsavers. Nae good huvin these, ah taps ma eyebaw, — if yir no usin that, ah taps ma nut.

  Carl wanted tae git the heid doon cause ay the jet lag n wi us gaun right oot oan the pish yesterday, but ah clocks some ay they DJ boys fae Chicago through in the bar, the cunts thit eh introduced ays tae last night. — Thaire's yir buddies, ah tells um, — they black cunts. Lit's go ower n say hiya.

  — Terry, ah need tae hit the hay fir a bit. Yesterday was mental, n ah'm oan the night, mind.

  — Fuck that, ah sais tae the cunt, cause they boys look like thir huvin a good time. — Whatever happened tae N-Sign, the super caner? Pansy. Fuckin lightweight. That bunch ay black septics are huvin a proper perty. C'moan, one drink; nice tae be nice!

  Ah ken that callin Ewart a lightweight is like a rid rag tae a bull, so pretty soon the peeve's flyin doon again, they margaritas n aw . . . ya cunt, ah could git used tae this . . . n ah'm arguing wi this tall gadge called Lucas aboot sport. — Yuv goat tae admit but, mate, basketbaw's a game fir faggots.

  — Whaaat the fuck . . . the boy goes.

  — That Michael Jordan's a big fuckin poof, aw they cunts that play that game must be –

  — Bullshit, man, you are talkin outta your ass. That's the people's game in the ghetto, everybody shoots the hoops, every block in every 'hood has its courts, man . . .

  — Awright, ah admits tae the cunt, — but that's the likes ay America, whaire they ken nowt aboot sport.

  — What the fuck you talking about, Terry man?

  — Awright, ah explains tae the cunt, — take that World Series basebaw. Two fuckin countries, youse cunts n Canada. Now compare that tae the people's game, fitba, played everywhere, right roond the globe; that's how it's called the World Cup. Cannae be denied.

  Another gadge, a boy they call Royce, is pishing ehsel n shaking ehs heid. — Japan, Dominican Republic, Cuba . . .

  Then the big Lucas cunt goes, — But basketball's played all over the world, man, and we kick ass at basketball.

  — Cause it's a bufties' game, ah pits thum right, n turns tae Carl, but thaire's nae backup fae the Milky Bar Kid, the cunt's turned away n ehs resumed ehs discussion wi this DJ called Headstone, talking aboot thair old school influences, aw they DJs, whae wis the coolest motherfucker, the meanest dude, the fiercest honcho n aw this Americanied pish. So ah jist goes, — Ah'll tell ye the meanest mutherfucker fae the old school.

  — You gotta be talking Frankie Knuckles, Headstone goes, n Lucas nods tae back um up.

  — Naw, man, that's Chicago. In Edinburgh, the baddest fucker fae the old school was Blackie, eh, Carl?

  — Aye. Carl plays it deadpan, but wi a wee smile creasin ays lips. — That boy was fierce.

  Lucas goes aw thoughtful, then eh drops another couple ay DJ names. But ah'm gaun back tae ma main point here. — When we wir at school, whae played basketball? Carl? Eh's still no gittin intae this, no that it bothers me. Ah jist turns turns back tae big Lucas. — Wee fuckin lassies, only they called it netball. We kicked the fuckin baw, n only wee lassies picked it up and ran wi it n bounced it n threw it, ah explains, bendin muh wrist in a throwing motion. — Ooh, ducky, ah've flung ma wee baw intae the net, ah jist sortay lisps at the boy. — It's a game fir closet buftie boys, mate, cannae be denied.

  Fair play tae they Chicago boys but, they jist took it aw in good hert, eh.

  Then Carl, whae's been yawnin like a lightweight turns roond n goes, — I'm heading upstairs for a bit of kip. Before Helena gits here.

  — Awight, me n aw, ah agrees, cause the late nights n the jet lag ur kickin in big time, n thaire's shaggin tae be done; a new bird tae be inducted intae Club Lawson. — Catch yis later, boys, n they gie ays they high fives, n ah jist go along wi it; nice tae be nice but, eh. So we heads up the stairs, and ah'm telling the Milky Bar Kid, — Sound gadgies. Ye can crack on wi they boys n they ken yir takin the pish, but they dinnae take the strop like some cunts.

  — Probably cause they never understood a fuckin word ye said.

  — How dae you ken they nivir understood a word? So you're the expert oan black Americans now, eh, Ewart? A Jambo tryin tae be fuckin cosmopolitan, that's a fuckin laugh n a half!

  — Mibbe no, but mair thin you. Ah hing aboot wi they boys a lot. N it's got tae be said, Terry, that they came across as a lot mair dignified than you.

  — Dignity? Fuck dignity! Dignity's for poofs, ah tells the cunt. — Ah'm intae huvin a good time, n tae dae that ye need tae git yir hands dirty. Take that shite elsewhere, Ewart. Another track if you please, Mr DJ, cause that yin disnae play doon at Club Lawson.

  — Fair dos, Carl goes, yawnin n openin the door ay eh's fuckin suite, much bigger thin mine, by the way. Fair enough, he's peyed fir it n eh's goat ehs betrothed comin along, but ah've big shaggin plans ay ma ain, n ye kin fit mair fanny intae a king-sized bed thin a queen-sized yin. — See ye, Tez.

  — Aye, lit's hook up again eftir forty wanks. Pleasant dreams, ah goes, cause the Kid is one sound cunt gittin ays oan the ticket n oot tae Miami. Aye, it'll be nice tae hit the hay. Mibbe even git some sweet dreams in aboot that Brandi ride thit's gittin the pummellin later oan! Ya fucker!

  9

  It could never really work out; they were kidding themselves on. Her constantly in flight from their Sydney apartment back to Wellington: just to be closer to her mum. Since her father's illness and death, she needed her, would need her, till she got over it. And would she ever really get over it?

  Carl was off to London most of the time, then Edinburgh to see his own mother, in between travelling around the world with that box of records. How she'd grown to detest that gleaming metal box, to loathe watching him load it up, carefully selecting the tunes from his racks that took up a whole room in the apartment.

  It had been so good with him, but it couldn't last. They weren't able to make the sacrifices they needed to, in order to be together; couldn't make that commitment and the compromises it entailed that would enable them to move beyond a long-distance relationship, which was therefore doomed to fail. The engagement had been an empty romantic gesture, a triumph of hope over expectation. Alternatives to the current impractical status quo had never been discussed or negotiated around. He would eventually meet somebody else on the road.

  She owed telling him face to face that she wanted them to finish. Just like she owed telling him about her pregnancy and her termination of it. But could she really do either of these things? She looked at her engagement ring; thought about putting it in her purse. But she found that she couldn't bring herself to remove it.

  10

  As he walked home, Albert Black was moved to console himself by reminiscing about his life role as a Christian evangelist. But this was soured when he recalled his bitter conflict with the authorities at the Education Department. A scandal and a staff revolt against his discipline and methods. Under the hot, incessant sun, he considered his growing respect for Islam. How they didn't mess about with the satanists, how we'd lost the crusading zeal in the Christian world, and tolerated, even indulged blasphemers. He suddenly thought of Terry Lawson.

  His mouth cursing, with fraud, deceit, is filled abundantly; and underneath his ton
gue there is mischief and vanity.

  When Black arrived home he was surprised to find his grandson sitting with that shameless jezebel, and their sin apparently endorsed by his own parents! To all intents and purposes it was like a normal, cosy family scene!

  — Hi, Dad, William Black greeted his father.

  Albert nodded curtly at his son, who rose and beckoned him aside, guiding him through the conservatory and into the garden. — I understand there was a bit of embarrassment earlier.

  — So you were informed of the sin that was taking place under your own roof. Well, at least there was some sense of contrition. Satan has –

  William raised his hand to silence his father. Albert contemplated the indignant expression on his son's face. — Look, Dad, Billy and Valda are sensible and mature kids. They've been going out together for eighteen months, and they are in a committed relationship. They're doing what young people in love have always done and it isn't your or anybody else's business to interfere.

  — I see.

  — What exactly do you see, Dad? William challenged. — I really wonder.

  Albert Black bristled and looked witheringly at his son. It was an old expression that had never failed to induce deference in William as a boy. But his son was no longer that, and he met his father's stare with an even gaze, and a slow, contemptuous shake of the head that acknowledged the sadness of the game. It humiliated Black, who could hear his voice rising in a recalcitrant squeak, — I see that you've wanted to make this sort of speech to me for a long time!

  — Yes I have, and it was my mistake not doing so, William said. His voice jumped an octave and there was both wrath and scorn in the son's eyes. — And before you call me 'gutless' or 'yellow' like you used to when I lived at home, let me tell you now that I only kept quiet for Mum's sake. All your nonsense . . . he shook his head again, —. . . it was Victorian, fascist bullshit. It held me back, Dad, it embarrassed the crap outta me, he said, in an American voice.